Hellraisers

by Alexander Gordon Smith

  She didn’t look away. She didn’t blink. Not even when she felt Herc’s hands on her, trying to pull her around. The demon’s head snapped forward like a viper’s and Forrest’s head exploded, scraps of bone and brain skittering across the molten ground. But she could still hear those screams as the boy’s twitching body started to sink into the ground.

  He’d be screaming for the rest of time.

  Forrest vanished slowly, as if he had fallen into a tar pit. Then the demon crumpled to the floor, like its batteries had run out. Through the smoke and the haze Pan watched the ground start to heal, cooling.

  Not for long, though.

  She looked at her watch. Less than a minute and she’d be pulled under too, the fast track to hell. She felt Herc’s hands on her again, pulling her close.

  “We’ll do what we can, Pan,” he said, his voice shaking like a leaf. “I … I’ll try.”

  She shrugged him away. She didn’t need his pity. She knew what she was getting into. You play the game, you take the pain. She checked her crossbow, choking on that gut-churning stench of sulfur seeping out between the cracks in reality. There was another smell too. She looked back at the Ford, seeing gasoline spurting from the ruptured tank, pooling around the tires.

  She checked her watch.

  Five, four, three, two, one …

  It emitted a soft, chirping alarm. Somehow it didn’t quite have the gravity she expected it to—an air-raid Klaxon would have been more appropriate. She lifted the crossbow, the whole thing shaking.

  Here they come.

  “The wall!” Herc yelled, and she followed the barrel of his gun to see a shape pull itself free from a pillar. This one was bigger, almost human shaped, exploding outward in a plume of dust. The whole parking lot groaned, cracks appearing in the ceiling, the weight of the building above threatening to crash down, bury them all alive.

  Herc lifted his gun and fired, the demon pushing through a hail of buckshot. It swiped a huge fist before Herc could reload, sending him flying. Pan fought her panic, lifting the crossbow and firing. The creature twisted at the last second, the bolt burying itself in the wall behind. Pan swore, slamming down the crossbow and winding the handle.

  It pounced, its fingers gouging trenches in her armor, knocking the air from her lungs and the crossbow from her fingers. Herc appeared by her side, shoulder charging the demon, forcing it back. He raised his gun and fired, again, again, each blast punching the demon across the parking lot. Too late Pan noticed where they were heading.

  “Herc, no!”

  The demon slipped and fell into the puddle of gasoline from a car’s ruptured fuel tank, Herc firing one last shot. The world went white, burning like a supernova, a silent explosion that lifted Pan up and hurled her backward. By the time she’d hit the floor the noise had caught up, a wave of rolling thunder that felt thick enough to drown in. She fought against the heat, against the boiling tide of smoke and vaporized blood, feeling like she was drowning.

  “… zzzttt … okay?… ing hell, Pan!”

  She tried to push herself up onto her elbows, her whole body made of pain. Everything was red, glowing, and she realized her eyes were closed. It seemed to take an age for her to remember how to open them. The parking lot was a lake of fire. Everything danced in the heat, nothing quite real. It was almost as if the fire were a living thing, lumbering toward her …

  Oh no.

  The burning demon was made up partly of a charred corpse, partly of something that might once have been a car seat. The whole thing was an inferno, but it wasn’t slowing it down. These were demons, after all. Fire was like silk to them. It lurched through the wreckage, bounding right for her.

  Pan grunted, ignoring the agony as she lifted herself up. Her leg wasn’t working properly, and when she looked down she saw a shard of bone poking from her shin. She stumbled, crunching against a pillar. Where the hell was the crossbow? The demon was halfway across the lot when another parked car exploded, the force of it lifting the Corvette up and crunching it against the ceiling. Pan ducked behind the pillar, feeling the fist of the shock wave buffet past her.

  She hobbled around, flanking the demon. There, a dozen yards away, her crossbow. She pushed herself away from the pillar, limping toward it, hearing the howl of the demon on her tail. She collapsed next to the weapon, swinging it around just as the creature was reaching for her. The wire twanged and the bolt buried itself in the creature’s eyeless face. It had time to grunt, almost like it couldn’t believe its luck, then it exploded into dust.

  A shotgun blast behind her. Herc calling out a word that might have been her name. Pan turned to see him limping her way, clouds of smoke billowing around him. His face was a mess, smeared with angry burns. She couldn’t see what he was shooting at, the truck was in the way. At least part of the truck.

  Part of the truck that unfolded into a demon the size of a grizzly; which opened its mouth and roared.

  Pan swore, lifting the crossbow even though it wasn’t loaded. One of the demon’s long front legs curled around her chest. It squeezed and she heard a rib snap, a supernova of pain detonating inside her. The crossbow fell, clattering to the floor.

  Herc’s gun roared again, the creature’s head tinkling like a tuneless music box. Clouds of shot tore past her, stinging her skin. The demon didn’t even seem to feel it, lifting another leg, angling its bladed foot in her direction. Its head was made up of part of the bumper and the license plate—SKI UTAH!—serrated teeth still pushing themselves free of the metal. Even though it had no eyes it seemed to look at her, and she knew exactly what it was thinking.

  Finally, after all these years, we can collect.

  She almost felt the relief of it, until she remembered what would happen next.

  “Pan!” Herc cried out, too far away, too slow. The creature squeezed again, her bones splintering. Pan closed her eyes, hoping it wouldn’t be as bad as they told her, hoping that Ostheim had been wrong when he’d said she’d be begging for death if they ever caught her. She’d be begging for death for the rest of eternity.

  “Go on, then,” she spat, half words, half blood. “Do your worst.”

  And it did.

  COWARD’S WAY OUT

  First he was expelled. Now the world was ending.

  Talk about a day from hell.

  Another dull explosion shook the bodega, hard enough to rattle Marlow’s bones. He grabbed the door handle, sucking in a lungful of hot, smoky air. The shotgun was heavy, threatening to slide out of his sweaty hand, and he gripped it hard enough to make his fingers ache.

  What was he doing?

  Sirens rose up over the echo of the explosion, wailing like mourners at a funeral. There was a smell in the air like nothing he’d ever experienced, something that was almost volcanic. He wondered if it actually was the end of the world out there, if he’d step out of the store to see lava running down the streets of Mariners Harbor.

  Staying here, though, wasn’t an option. The rest of the ceiling was coming loose, threatening to crush him like it had crushed the cashier.

  He eased open the door, squinting. There was no lava but plenty of people, all of them panicking. A few looked his way, double-taking when they saw the shotgun clenched in his hand. The guys hanging out in front of the store had scattered.

  He half thought about dropping the gun but he had no idea what was out there. Could have been a terrorist attack or a full-on gang war, in which case he might need it. Not that he was planning on shooting anyone, but it might give him the time to run. The air outside was thick with smoke, tendrils that snaked into his lungs, choking him. He coughed them out as best he could, reaching for his inhaler with his free hand, sucking in a couple of blasts until the pressure on his chest loosened.

  Where was he? He didn’t recognize any of the buildings but every window in sight had been shattered. The explosions were coming from behind him, which meant the best way to move was forward.

  He jogged across the street, clutching the s
hotgun to his chest, hoping the thing wouldn’t self-detonate and blow off his head. He’d only made it a few paces when he saw a shimmer of light up ahead, a cop car screeching around the corner.

  “Hey!” he yelled, then suddenly pictured himself charging down the street with a lethal weapon. Great move, Marlow. The cops around here shot first and asked questions never. He turned and bolted the other way, in the direction of the smoke and thunder.

  Are you insane?

  All that mattered was not being caught. He was in enough trouble as it was.

  He was wheezing bad by the time he passed the store, seeing what looked like a hospital up ahead. There was a ramp for an underground parking lot, smoke churning out of it like an upturned waterfall. It rose up into a sky that was too dark for this time of day, the sun just a greasy smudge. The air was full of something sharp, almost electric, that same charge that made his hair stand on end, which pricked his skin with gooseflesh.

  A car engine behind him, revving hard. He glanced over his shoulder to see the cop car looming up. Another cop car was approaching from the right, a couple of hospital security guards to the left. He heard the squeal of tires behind him and the pop of a car door being opened. Putting his head down, he went the only way he could, right toward the ramp. Whatever was going on down there, he might be able to find a way out. If they arrested him now, god knows what they’d charge him with.

  He ran, tripping over the soft ground, the weapon rattling in his grip. The cops were yelling, the guards pushing their way past the flocks of people in pastel scrubs and billowing hospital gowns that were scattering from the building. Marlow ignored them, pushing forward into the darkness of the ramp and doing everything he could to catch his breath.

  He peeked down, seeing a whole lot of nothing through the smoke. Something was glowing there, though, like the heart of a volcano. Pop pop, then a scream that didn’t sound human, that sounded more like shredding metal. He tried to take a step but his body wouldn’t obey, locked tight in protest. Maybe he should just surrender, try to explain himself.

  Yeah, and what’s the going rate for a weapons charge? Five years? Ten?

  He took as deep a breath as his crappy lungs would let him, then he set off, propelling himself down the ramp. He ducked low but the smoke still found him, clawing its way down his throat, as solid as a dead man’s fingers. He coughed, again and again, each time feeling like he was going to spit up a lung. The glowing embers up ahead grew brighter and he saw the passage leading into the first level of the parking lot. It looked like it had been sculpted out of clay by a child—the floor covered in huge bumps, the ceiling drooping. The parking lot beyond was framed by fire, and through the shimmering haze he could see at least two cars blazing, the floor a lake of flame and the ceiling a storm of smoke.

  The bark of a gun rang out from somewhere in the chaos, startling him. He squinted into the flames. Was that somebody up there? A man dressed in black, his hair singed away. He was holding a rifle of some kind, or a shotgun maybe, firing it into the churning heat of one of the exploded cars. Marlow raised his own gun, so much heavier than it had any right to be. Was the man one of the good guys or the bad guys? Should he pull the trigger now, cut him down? What if he called out and the guy turned around, shot back before Marlow had a chance to defend himself?

  Marlow had taken half a dozen steps into the garage when he heard a crunch behind him. He swung around to see something that had to be an illusion caused by the heat, that couldn’t be real.

  The armored truck that stood at the end of the ramp was coming to life.

  Literally coming to life. Something was pulling itself out of the vehicle, a shape made up of the wide grille and the license plate. One of the tires exploded, a shard of lightning slicing up from the floor into the ceiling hard enough to knock loose chunks of concrete. Still that shape came, looking like a bear, its legs made of long strips of metal, its huge, bulky body half engine, half chassis, its face a twisted knot of license plate, the Ford medallion where one eye might have been.

  It’s not real, it’s a trick of the light, it’s something poisonous in the smoke, it’s …

  The creature slipped free, crunching to the ground, shaking itself like a wet dog and spraying sparks across the garage. Then it started to run on all fours, its clumsy feet slipping, claws churning up concrete like the floor was made of butter. Marlow had swung the gun up before he even knew what he was doing, wrenching at the triggers, both of them, as the creature loomed up before him.

  Nothing happened.

  The creature slammed into him as hard and fast as a truck. He was thrown back, spinning, landing hard enough to knock away the last scraps of oxygen. He rolled onto his back, seeing the lumbering metal shape canter away into the smoke, heading for a pillar, toward a silhouette there. And surely that had to be another hallucination, because even though Marlow had no air left to give, the girl he saw there still managed to take his breath away. She was beautiful, despite the blood and bruises on her face. It was a hard kind of beauty, her brow folded into a frown, her lips a thin, grim line, her eyes chips of flint, utterly focused, like she was ready to head-butt her way through a stone wall and not give a damn about the consequences. And as for her body …

  Are you serious? Focus!

  He shook his head. The girl was carrying an old-fashioned wooden weapon—a crossbow?—but she was obviously hurt bad because she was struggling to lift it. A bone jutted from a broken leg. The guy with the shotgun was advancing, firing shot after shot, but the truck-thing was relentless, crunching forward, heading right for the girl. It reached out for her with a long, metal limb, curling it around her chest, lifting her up. She screamed, the crossbow falling from her hand.

  Marlow pushed himself to his feet, ignoring the pain as he searched the floor for his gun. By the time he’d picked it up the creature had raised another limb, this one tipped with a wicked shard of steel. He still didn’t know who the good guys were, but out of a guy and a girl and a monster he figured the odds had to be on his side. He sprinted toward them, this time remembering to slide off the safety catch. He reached the girl at the same time as the man in black. The guy flicked him a glance—his face half scar and half grimace—then he lifted his weapon and fired.

  They were ten feet away from the creature, and the blast from the man’s shotgun was so fierce that it made its metal flesh ripple. Marlow gritted his teeth, pulled both triggers on his own gun. It barked, bucking hard enough to rip itself free of his fingers. A bolt of pain licked up his shoulder into his neck, making him cry out. The creature didn’t react, bringing its limb back like a scorpion tail, the girl hanging before it, kicking pathetically.

  “Pan!” the man cried, pumping the mag, firing again. He threw the weapon aside and leaped, grabbing the creature around the neck, trying to wrench it away. Maybe two hundred pounds of flesh against half a ton of metal. It didn’t end well, the creature lashing out with another of its metal limbs and sending him spinning away. He slid across the floor, groaning wetly, lying still.

  Marlow scrabbled for his gun, working shells from his pocket, dropping them, panicking, unable to breathe, the air too thick. The darkness that was creeping into his vision had nothing to do with the smoke.

  “Go on then,” he heard the girl say, her words choked with anger. “Do your worst.”

  A scream, maybe human, maybe not, so full of violent glee that Marlow fell on his ass. He looked up, saw the creature’s limb flick back, then dart forward. It punched through the very center of the girl’s chest, right through her heart, appearing from her back in an eruption of blood and bone.

  Her face knotted up in agony and defiance, her teeth gritted, like she was trying to hold back death with sheer force of will. Then everything went slack, her legs dangling, her arms slapping against her sides, her face falling, like meat sliding off the bone. Her eyes were the last, flicking away from the creature, finding Marlow, holding him for an instant that could have been an eternity. He could
n’t move, couldn’t have drawn a breath even if he had been physically able to. He just sat there on the warm concrete, the heat of the fire on his skin, until the last trickle of life drained away and her gaze moved off toward some different horizon, some place that only the dead could see.

  No.

  There was still time to save her. He grabbed the gun, snapping it open and ejecting the used shells. The creature slid its limb free from the girl, flicking it hard enough to spray blood into the fire, sending jets of pink steam into the air. Marlow jammed shells into the barrels, cranked the gun shut, walked right up behind it, and pulled one trigger. This time he kept a solid hold, bracing the stock against his shoulder, shifting his weight against the recoil. The force of the explosion shattered the back of the creature’s head, scattering lethal shrapnel. It dropped the girl, turning. Marlow didn’t wait, just pulled the second trigger, ripping another chunk of metal away from the creature’s body.

  It staggered, weakening, its metal limbs squealing as it flailed. Marlow retreated, reloading, each attempt at a breath like he was trying to lift a dead weight off his chest. He clawed them in, his wheezes even louder than the roar of the fire, even louder than the crunch of the beast’s feet as it advanced. He shunted two more shells into the holes, held his ground until the creature was close enough to touch. Then he pulled both triggers, blowing a hole right through the center of the thing. It stood still for a moment, as if trying to figure out what was wrong, before collapsing.

  Marlow reached for his pockets, the world suddenly spinning, not enough oxygen. He reeled, glancing off a pillar, dropping like a ton weight. And it hit him, just as hard, the knowledge that he was going to die in here. He tried to breathe, his windpipe no wider than a hair, refusing to let anything in or out. Kicking at the ground, grasping at his pockets, finding his inhaler and bringing it to his lips. Where was the damn end of it?

  Something loomed up in front of him, the truck beast with its ragged wound of cables and splinters. There was another shape to the side, Marlow’s vision so blurred that he could almost convince himself that what he saw there wasn’t a living creature made of concrete, its mouth a jagged, saw-toothed scar across its body, big enough to swallow him whole. They closed in, smelling his fear, his blood.