Hellraisers

by Alexander Gordon Smith

  He was there now, standing outside his room looking like somebody had just dragged him from his grave.

  “No rest for the wicked,” he mumbled, rubbing at his stubble. “Any idea?”

  She shook her head, running to the elevator, bundling in alongside Herc and Night and Hope. It was an uncomfortable ride down to the bearpit, and when she opened the gates she saw Hanson there, wearing a new pair of sunglasses. He looked pissed and he jabbed a hand at Herc.

  “You happen to know where your latest mongrel is?” he said.

  Oh crap.

  “Herc, you have Marlow, right?” blasted a voice from hidden speakers. Pan straightened to attention when she recognized Ostheim’s accent. “Tell me he’s inside the complex.”

  “He’s inside the complex,” Herc said.

  “No, Herc, he’s not,” said Ostheim. “He breached the door.”

  Double crap.

  Herc stormed across the room to one of the monitors. It was the security feed from outside the door, but it wasn’t the courtyard entrance. A streak of light burned across the image, just a second.

  “Again,” Hanson said. “Slower.”

  The clip replayed at a fraction of the speed and Pan saw Marlow running across the street, a goofy grin plastered over his face. The tape ran on and Pan saw Marlow reappear next to Hanson’s shiny blue BMW—the same one he kept in every city connected to the Red Door. He looked like he was scratching something into the hood with a rock.

  “What is that?” Pan said. “Looks like a rocket ship.”

  “Why the hell wasn’t anyone watching him?” Hanson said.

  “I left him with Seth,” Pan said. “He—”

  “That old git wouldn’t know where to find a turd if he’d just laid it,” Hanson said. “Jesus Christ, Herc, this is a total clusterf—”

  “Keep your knickers on,” Herc interrupted. “We’ll just go get him.”

  “You’d better make it fast,” said Ostheim. “And I mean fast, Herc.”

  “Why?” he said. “What’s the hurry, all he’ll do is mess around for a bit. How much damage can he do?”

  Hanson sucked his teeth, pointing at another monitor. It was filled with data, the type used to identify fluctuations in the code, and at the moment it was going wild. Herc stared at it for a second and turned three shades paler.

  “Because we’ve got Engineers in the city, Herc,” said Ostheim. “Enemy Engineers.”

  “In Prague?” Pan asked.

  “The door didn’t let him out in Prague,” said Hanson. “It dumped him in Budapest. That’s where we’re watching him.”

  Double double crap.

  “For the love of…” Herc said, his cheeks blazing. “So there are Engineers in Prague, right?”

  “No, Herc,” said Ostheim. “Wake up, they’re in Budapest, five hundred clicks from Prague. And if they get to your boy before we do, then he could lead them right back here.”

  Double double double crap.

  HOW THE HELL DID WE GET TO BUDAPEST?

  This. Is. Awesome.

  Marlow couldn’t stop grinning as he ran into the night. He didn’t feel like he was going particularly fast, but as soon as he started to run everything else dissolved into slow motion. The raindrops falling from the sky became almost stationary, defying gravity, hanging like jeweled ornaments. Cars slowed from silver bullets to snails, slow enough that he could climb over their hoods, could look in through the windshields and see the drivers, oblivious to him. Every time he ran a shock wave rippled out from him like a gunshot, kicking up dust and dirt and making windows rattle in their frames.

  I want to run faster than sound.

  The Engine had given him what he wanted.

  There weren’t many people out at this time of night, in this weather. And to those who had braved the streets Marlow was a ghost. He ran up to them, the slow-motion world only starting to spin again when he stopped. It must have looked like he’d appeared out of nowhere because they always jumped back, screaming, scared out of their skins. Then he’d bolt and the world would grind almost to a halt, turning the people into statues with startled faces. He laughed at the sheer joy of it, the impossibility of it, as he broke into a run once again.

  He had no idea where he was. He hadn’t emerged in the same courtyard he’d entered through but rather on a quiet road facing a river. He’d had a sack over his head en route to the Engine so none of the streets were familiar, but he didn’t care where he was going. It just felt so good to be moving, to be the fastest thing in the night.

  He sped around a corner, dodging a slow-moving couple and careening across a cobbled street. He slipped on the wet asphalt, momentum throwing him toward a parked car. He reached out to stop himself and his hand left a crater in the metal side panel of the vehicle, the window glass shattering. The vehicle rocked hard on its suspension, the alarm sounding like it was drenched in syrup—slow and deep—until time pinged back to normal.

  Whoa. He looked at the dent in the car, then back across the road to the startled couple. They stared back, jaws almost on the floor, eyes bulging, trying to figure out what had happened.

  Marlow ran, everything blurring, stretching, like he was entering warp speed. He crossed the street in a heartbeat and stopped again, seeing the couple stagger away, shouting to each other in shock. In their eyes he must have just blinked out of existence. He left them to it, sprinting down the street, over a moving car. He kept thinking he’d have to stop soon, kept reaching down to his pocket to make sure his inhaler was still there, but his lungs were working at what felt like 200 percent of their capacity, like someone had ripped them out and replaced them with a carburetor.

  He sped up, just a blur as he crossed onto the sidewalk and wove his way between the streetlights. He couldn’t remember a single time in his life, not one moment, where he’d felt this exhilarated, this free. Every time he opened his mouth the laughter spilled out, cool and golden. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d laughed like this either. It felt like it might never have happened before.

  He ran through a group of guys, all of them drunk, specks of their spittle hanging in the air like dewdrops. He was close enough to one that he grabbed the bottle of beer from his hand, zipping around a corner before slowing. He peeked back, seeing the man lift his hand to his face, the moment he realized his drink had gone, the confusion as he studied his hands and the concrete behind him. Marlow collapsed against the wall, snorting with laughter.

  The beer was cool in his hand and he lifted it to his lips. The smell hit him hard, made him think of his mom, sitting at home cradling her Bacardi. It was a world away from this moment, tearing through the streets, faster than time. He pulled back his arm and lobbed the bottle down the street, watching it spin in a perfect arc, dropping earthward. Then he ran, catching up with it in an instant, snatching it out of the air. Man, if he could keep these powers he’d be a millionaire, a football star, the only person ever to play as quarterback and wide receiver on the same team—for the same pass.

  He slam-dunked the bottle and darted into a park, sprinting between the trees, leaves dancing weightlessly in his wake. Taking a deep breath, he jumped onto the roof of a van, using it like a springboard, crossing the whole street in one bound before crunching down on the opposite side. Facing him was a hill, covered in green. He bounded up a set of stone stairs, climbing, climbing, climbing, feeling like he was scaling a mountain, feeling like he was running right into the heavens.

  Only when he ran out of stairs did he collapse onto his ass, out of breath but not in the clutching-his-throat-feeling-like-he-was-about-to-die kind of way that he was used to. He had no idea where he was but a city was laid out beneath him, studded with light, a fat, lazy, moon-drenched river splitting it in two. He sat there for a moment, the cool, fresh air rushing into his lungs like they were bellows. This was insane, totally insane. It couldn’t be real. But he could smell the city, dust and grease and the faint aroma of the river. The warm touch of a summer n
ight prickled his skin, the stone beneath him was cool and damp. The air was full of distant engines, a siren, and the hesitant chatter of the first birds who dared break the silence of the night. It was real. It was all perfectly, beautifully real.

  “Marlow?”

  The voice came from nowhere and his scream lodged in his throat like a fish bone. He jumped up, just trees behind him, the darkness in between them so profound that nothing might have been there at all, like you could step between those trunks and find yourself obliterated from existence.

  “Who’s there?” he asked. Probably Herc or Truck, right? Come to bring him back. Maybe it was Pan. Maybe she missed him.

  “Marlow, don’t run, please.”

  He suddenly recognized the voice, but it couldn’t be.

  “Charlie?” he asked.

  The foliage rustled, a shape gliding from the gloom twenty yards away. Charlie stepped into a pocket of moonlight, looking like a ghost. His clothes were torn, his face pale and smudged with bruises and blood. His nose was bent at a strange angle, like it had been broken. Marlow moved toward him but Charlie held up his hands, a set of handcuffs rattling.

  “Don’t,” Charlie said, sounding like he was chewing toffee. “Please. Move and they’ll kill me.”

  Marlow’s heart went into overdrive. He looked to the side, trying to make sense of the darkness between the trees.

  “Who, Charlie?”

  Somebody else emerged from the shadows, treading carefully, keeping Charlie between himself and Marlow. It was the guy from the school, Patrick.

  “Who do you think?” he said. “You figure we’d just pack up and go home? I told you I’d come for you.”

  Patrick wrapped a fist around Charlie’s throat, squeezing. Charlie struggled.

  “Let him go,” Marlow said, taking a step forward, ready to run at them. He was fast now, could reach Charlie, could knock Patrick’s head off with a single punch. But before he could take another step a third figure strolled from the trees. It was a young woman dressed all in black, like a cat burglar. She had red hair and she brushed it out of her eyes with one hand. In the other she was holding a pistol, pointed right at Charlie’s head.

  “You’re fast,” she said. “We’ve been chasing you all over the city. But you’re not faster than a bullet. Go for me and Patrick snaps your friend’s neck. Go for him and I pull the trigger.”

  “They will,” said Charlie. “They beat the crap out of me trying to find out where you went.”

  “But you didn’t know,” Marlow said. “I didn’t tell you.”

  “No, you left me.”

  “I wanted to protect you,” Marlow said, trying to ignore Charlie’s bitter smile.

  “Yeah, Marlow, that worked out great.”

  “So how did you know we were in Prague?” Marlow asked.

  “Prague?” Charlie gasped for air. “This is Budapest.”

  How the hell did we end up in Budapest?

  “You’ve got one chance to save your friend’s life,” said Patrick, lifting Charlie off the ground. He kicked at the air like a hanged man, batting pathetically at the vise-like grip around his throat. “Where’s the Engine?”

  “I don’t know what—”

  “You’ve seen it,” said the girl. “You’ve used it. Where is it?”

  “I don’t know,” Marlow said. “Please, I don’t … They put a bag over my head, wouldn’t let me see.”

  “And what about tonight?” Patrick said, lifting Charlie higher. “Where’s the door?”

  Marlow desperately thought back, seeing a street, cars, a river. He’d been running so fast he hadn’t been paying any attention to where he was or where he was going.

  “No idea. It was just a street,” he said. “But the door, it’s red, like bright red. That’s all I know, I promise.”

  Patrick and the girl shared a look. Charlie’s face was a mottled shade of purple, his eyes starting to roll back in their sockets. Do I go? Do I stay? Marlow bounced on his heels, the panic like a straitjacket.

  “Please,” he said. “Let him go. He’s dying.”

  “Like you let my sister go?” Patrick said. “How long did you torture her for?”

  “I didn’t. We didn’t,” Marlow said, wondering when he’d become part of the “we.” “Her contract expired, we never got the chance. She didn’t tell us anything. Please.”

  “He’s useless to us,” said the girl. She put her hand to her ear. “Negative on the new fish, tell the scouts to search for red doors, east of the river.” She listened for a second, then nodded. “Disposal authorized.”

  Disposal?

  She pulled the trigger before Marlow could so much as blink, the bullet thudding into Charlie’s stomach. He groaned, his chained hands dropping to the wound, trying to hold himself in.

  No!

  Marlow started to move but he was too slow. Patrick grinned at him, then pulled back his arm and launched Charlie into the air. His strength was phenomenal, his friend spinning up and over the edge of the hill, a fan of blood trailing after him toward the city below.

  “That’s for Brianna,” Patrick said, moving in. “And this is for you.”

  FREE FALL

  Marlow watched Charlie spin over the edge of the hill, dropping toward the river. He couldn’t let him die, not like this. There was still time.

  He ran, the world slowing to a crawl—slow enough that he could see droplets of Charlie’s blood suspended in the air, almost perfectly still. He’d only taken a few steps before something materialized in the air before him, scraps of bone and skin winding themselves around the rain, flesh knitting itself together until Patrick was standing there.

  Marlow skidded to a halt, ducking beneath Patrick’s swinging fist. He managed to straighten in time to see the boy fire off an uppercut. This one connected with his ribs, the force of the punch lifting him off the ground in an explosion of pain. He spun head over heels, landing on his back. Patrick ’ported again, reappearing right next to him.

  A gunshot tore through the night, a bullet gouging the rock next to his head. He rolled up, scrabbling into a run as the girl fired off another shot. A slow-motion plume of fire crawled from the barrel of the gun, the bullet sailing out after it, carving a path through the air.

  Marlow sensed a shape pop into existence beside him, Patrick there again, his face feral. Marlow lashed out, a lucky shot that connected with the boy’s chin, catapulting him toward the trees. He didn’t stop to see where he’d landed, just turned and ran through the frozen night, a shock wave of sound pulsing out before him like a cannon blast. It was too dark to see much, even with the moon grinning down at him, but wasn’t that Charlie there, a silhouette against the city, falling in slow motion?

  He propelled himself off the side of the cliff, leapfrogging rocks and railings, almost losing his footing in the dark. He was fast, yes, and strong, but he knew that if he fell here, if he tumbled over the rocks to the streets below, he’d be as dead as any mortal. He slowed a fraction, seeing Charlie’s flailing body drop toward the river. He could still reach—

  Something thumped into his back, as hard and fast as a train, and he tumbled. He rolled down the hill, Patrick next to him, pounding at him with fists of concrete. One connected with his nose and the world went white, a supernova of light detonating right in the middle of his head. The pain followed almost instantly, an inferno inside his broken nose. He tried to fight back but they were rolling too fast, bouncing off rocks, their fall out of control.

  There was a sudden lurch, then nothing at all—no rocks, no steps, just free fall. Marlow’s stomach exploded and he saw the ground rush up at him, a parked car. He landed on the roof, crushing it, groaning as he rolled off. There was a sudden rush of air behind him as Patrick ’ported onto the street, but Marlow ignored it, running faster than he’d ever run, the world almost stationary around him. The river was up ahead, a bridge, buildings. Marlow scoured the sky, no sign of Charlie. Was he too late? Was his friend smeared over a street s
omewhere?

  There, level with the rooftops, a dark shape dropping. Marlow leaped over a fence, then onto a car, propelling himself into the river. He prepared himself for the cold, but when his foot hit the water it was spongy, almost solid. He ran across it, Charlie almost in reach, so close, hanging in the air like a phantom. Marlow jumped, reaching out for his friend, tackling him in midair. His momentum punched them both toward the riverbank and they rolled to a halt on the grass.

  Marlow snatched in a breath, leaning over his friend. Charlie was in shock, his eyes open but unseeing, blood dripping from his mouth. His T-shirt was drenched and when Marlow pulled it back he saw a gaping hole. He pushed his hands against it but the blood leaked through his fingers, as hot as boiling water.

  He was going to die.

  “Oh god, Charlie,” Marlow said, tears burning his eyes. “Man, I’m so sorry. I never should have left you.”

  Charlie opened his mouth but all that came out was a bubble of blood. Marlow looked around, the windows dark and lifeless, the street empty. He wanted to call for help but it would bring Patrick much more quickly than an ambulance. He had to carry him, get him to a hospital. Marlow reached down to scoop up his friend but something big smashed into the grass a couple of yards away, showering him with dirt. It was a bollard, rooted in a half ton of concrete, rolling past him like a wrecking ball before crunching into the side of a building.

  He scanned the sky, saw another one sailing across the river like it had been launched by a catapult. Patrick was on the other bank, ripping a third bollard from the ground.

  Marlow managed to get to his feet, the slab of concrete hurtling right toward him. He threw a punch at it and it exploded into shrapnel, a bolt of pain lancing from his fist to his armpit. He blinked the dust from his eyes, only just managing to get his hands up before the next bollard struck. He caught it, the impact driving him back, his heels gouging trenches in the dirt. He recovered his balance and lobbed the bollard across the river, as easy as if it were a beach ball.

  It was a wild shot, nowhere near its target, thumping into the side of the bridge with a sound like a church bell. Patrick vanished, reappearing almost instantly on this side of the river. But Marlow was already running right for him, everything slowing. He slammed into the boy, both of them dropping into the river.