Mephistopheles? he wondered. Good God, not…Lucifer?!
Suddenly she was on him. He tried to push her off, but the plaster dust had coated his hands and made paste of the holy water soaking him. A liquid sound, like the one that had come from The Jogger near the reservoir, slithered wetly at his ears. From beneath the skin of her forearm a scythe blade unfolded and reared up like a praying mantis claw. His eyes went wide and he raised his hands to shield himself, but she swung it sidearm. The blade plunged deep between his ribs. He gasped, blood spraying from his mouth. Bridget cackled and slowly withdrew, the blade grinding on the bone of his ribcage. Father Carroll sucked in air, and a gurgling told them both that the blade had nicked a lung, which was now slowly deflating. Her eyes lit. One corner of her tongue touched some of his blood that had splattered on her chalky skin.
“Can you help yourself, priest?”
***
Yarborough could wait no longer. The light had provided a glimpse of their situation and he knew they were not only surrounded, but the apocalyptic cult was closing in.
“Fire!”
As one the police force obeyed, weapons roaring, lighting the night with muzzle flashes and sparks of ricochet. Pistols, revolvers, shotguns, semi- and fully automatic rifles sprayed a storm of bullets into the cultists while empty steel and copper jackets rained around their feet. Those nearest the police, the ones most illuminated by the flashes and torchlight, sucked it up as conscripts put on the front lines to exhaust the enemy’s ammunition.
Clark watched figure after figure take more punishment than was humanly possible before withdrawing into the shadows. Whenever his hopes began to rise the gap was quickly filled by a fresh, evil grin. “Don’t waste your shots!” he ordered over the din. No one heard him, nor did the FBI man believe they would have obeyed. Everything they’d seen, the atrocities committed against their brethren, the desperation of their situation, had electrified the cops into a “take as many of them with you as you can” mindset. It was impossible to tell how many of the derelicts went down; the darkness hid their numbers and their movement, preventing the police from effectively using their dwindling reloads. Still they fired and still the cultists came closer, flickering in and out of the shadows with maddening irregularity. Targeting was next to impossible—they just weren’t visible for long enough. Cordite and hot steel spiced the foul air. For three full minutes the police fired, taking some cultists down but gaining neither ground nor an opening to escape.
“They’re keeping the motorcycles in reserve!” Yarborough pushed his way next to Clark. “We have to focus on one spot in their line! If we can create an opening we can get to the hostages!”
“Those people are civilians! We can’t throw them into the middle of this!”
“Not all of them,” Yarborough said. “What have these…cultists been chanting? ‘264’; that looks to be about as many of our people that are missing. If we free them we increase our numbers.” From one location on the East Side and another on the West sirens, screeching tires and gunfire blew into their conversation. The white flickers thinned as packs of cultists left to deal with the flank attacks from the collapsing perimeter. “Now’s our chance! They’re splitting up!”
“If we’re going to cut a path,” Clark’s eyes probed for an opening, “we’d be better off with a tactical withdrawal, to get reinforcements and more firepower.”
“The NYPD doesn’t leave its people behind, Special Agent, ha-evuh the FBI feels!” Yarborough glared at the FBI man for a second before turning. “Darenelli!”
Darenelli emptied his riot gun before falling back. “What’s going on?”
“Pass the word; we’re going for the hostages. Have the men ready for hand-to-hand.”
“About time. We stay here much longer we’re gonna run out of ammo and they’re gonna cut us to pieces. We’re almost down to nightsticks, switchblades and flares, and Emergency Services are the only ones with flares.” He wiped sweat from his forehead and reloaded. “I don’t suppose anyone thought to bring an iron spire like that guy Graham said?”
“We have flares? Why didn’t anyone—” Yarborough made an exasperated face. “Can you get me a few, Rich?”
Seconds later word came back that the police force was ready, with the most heavily armed Emergency Services men spearheading the way. Yarborough struck a flare to life, held it high and flung it ahead of them in the general direction of the hostage pen. The light showed slivers of the cultists, who scattered when the burning stick landed among them.
“Now! Go!”
The cultists fought but parted to allow the police to spread themselves out. Once they had, Top Hat rode an NYPD motorcycle directly into their path and dismounted. Others formed a phalanx behind him. The ESU men in the lead stopped short at his apparent fearlessness as he stood in their way, hands folded preacher-style in front of him. All around them, Clark and Yarborough heard juicy, wet splitting noises, like overripe fruit bursting, and suddenly the cultists all had some kind of sword.
“Kill the rest!”
The cultists tore into the police like Crusaders retaking the Holy City. From every inch of darkness they came, buckling the police force, crushing them with the bulk of their assault. More blood, too much to measure, spattered the already-saturated ground as the derelicts attacked. Captain Devine went down as a burly man leapt on his back and cleaved his ribcage apart. Top Hat bludgeoned his way through the chaos, muscular hands smashing the slightest resistance. The cultists poured it on, attacking with chain saw precision, their ferocity stunning the police. Some cops snapped; shell-shocked by the violence and the darkness they gave up and fell to their knees, heads lowered, ready for slaughter. Others, trying simultaneously to defend them and attack, were beaten down and butchered. About a third of the police force was lost by the time they made it to the hostage pen. Yarborough slammed against the gate in frustration. The pen looked to have been thrown together haphazardly but was deceptively solid. On the other side of it men and women pressed forward, some begging to be let out, others spoiling for a fight.
The surviving cops closed ranks, battling to give the captain precious seconds to free the captive officers and shift the odds back to their favor. “I’ve never seen anything like this!” he shouted to Clark. “This gate is locked tighter than a goddamn bank vault!”
The cultists ripped away the outer line of police as though peeling a massive onion. Yarborough hammered the entrance to no avail. Every scream, each officer dragged into the horrors that waited beyond the light dropped guilt on him like it was raining sandbags.
“Central, this is Chief of Detectives Hugh Yarborough!” Yarborough shouted into his radio over the din. “Call the National Guard! Call the military! Get us help here now!”
“They’ll never make it in time,” Darenelli said, resignation tightening his voice. “This is it; we’re fucked.”
That’s when they heard the siren.
***
“Donovan,” she said in a voice of honey and warmth. “We recognize you.”
His throat constricted. The possessed withdrew their scythes so Lucifer could approach him. A smile flickered over her full, dark purple-red lips as she pressed them softly to his. Holy water smoldered like dry ice yet Donovan felt no pain. Instead, deep, deep inside of himself, the very core of his soul trembled. Intellectually he knew he had to do everything he could to stop Lucifer, but his emotions ached to join with Joann, whatever the cost. The conflict paralyzed him until she finally broke the kiss, licking his lips.
“Joann, you have to fight it,” he pleaded. “You have to fight Lucifer—”
“Sssshhh.” She put a finger to his lips. “You did not summon Us.”
“I opened the Amaranthine Gateway.” Valdes climbed down from the altar and stepped quickly through the ring of fiery skulls. “I called you. I’m Cornelius Valdes.”
“Cornelius Valdes.”
Lucifer spoke his name but didn’t look at him. Instead she walked to the s
tage and up its steps, gaze lingering on the backdrop. A low-hanging man in a blood-soaked golf shirt shuddered. Crude steel hooks held him in place, and every time he tried to move he only embedded them deeper into his flesh. Lucifer’s smile broadened. Despite his agony the man drew back, tearing meat and cloth with gory little ripping sounds that were soon drowned by his shrieks. She leaned closer. He screamed a final, hoarse plea for salvation before shuddering and falling limp. For long moments she stared, absorbing every twitch, every whimper, every groan. Finally she spoke, bemusement a patina over threat.
“You have Our attention.”
Valdes surreptitiously wiped a hand on his shirt as he reached into his suit jacket and withdrew a pack of cigarettes. Although the darkness remained cool, almost cold, Donovan could see he was sweating. “I want to help you.”
“Help…Us?” It was as if a fly had offered to assist God.
“In a manner of speaking.” He tapped a cigarette out and lit up. “Forgive my poor phrasing. What I meant to say is the bargain I want to strike with you will benefit us both.”
“Valdes, listen to me,” Donovan said through gritted teeth. “You’re not talking to characters in a play. You don’t know what you’re dealing with!”
Valdes ignored him. “In exchange for your assistance, I believe I can offer you something you don’t have, something you will find extremely valuable.”
“You are no mage or scholar as was Faustus, yet you follow his path to Us. He offered his immortal soul. What, We wonder, can you offer to justify Our attention, let alone Our reciprocation?”
“You don’t have free passage to this world.”
“You think not?” Lucifer widened her eyes. “We believe others,” she glanced at the stage backdrop, “would disagree.”
“You obviously exert influence on this world,” Valdes acknowledged, “but I suspect the world would be a much different place if you had a free hand in it. I don’t understand why you can’t come and go as you please, only that you can’t.”
“And you believe you can…provide this?”
“I know I can. The specific incantations, magical gestures, whatever, you can teach me. If Faustus can learn it, no offense, Herr Doktor, I believe myself more than capable. I don’t think those are the most critical elements to the issue.”
Donovan pushed against the scythes, feeling a thin line of wetness seep into his t-shirt. “You won’t be able to repeat any of this, Valdes. If I don’t stop you, someone else will. The cops are—”
“The police are currently being massacred,” Valdes said, annoyed at the interruption. “The rest are in a holding pen, waiting to be sacrificed to His Majesty.” He gestured with his cigarette at the two possessed who held Donovan. “Why is he still alive? He has no further purpose. Decapitate him.”
“All of your lives continue at Our pleasure, Cornelius Valdes.” Lucifer’s tone remained as silk, but there was no mistaking her meaning. The possessed froze in place, eyes averted. “Not yours.”
Valdes looked at Mephistopheles, then Lucifer, and for a moment Donovan thought he’d gone completely insane by deciding to argue. Instead, he took another hit off his cigarette and remained silent.
“Your arrogance speaks loudly but Donovan Graham is correct—what you’ve accomplished this night will not be repeatable.”
“Why would I want to repeat tonight? I know how to do it better now.” Valdes ground the cigarette out beneath his heel. “As I was saying, I don’t believe the incantations and gestures are the problem with allowing you access to our world. I think the problem is the energy. It requires an enormous amount to open an Amaranthine Gateway, and very few people are able to marshal it. I’m one of them. Look around you: this is what I accomplished living in a hovel, among semi-literate addicts and lunatics. Given the proper circumstances, I can gather energy to power as many Amaranthine Gateways as you like.”
“The ‘ proper circumstances’?”
“Give me back my life! They lied to me and they screwed me and I wasted the best years of my life in prison and I want them back!” Madness burned in his face for just an instant. He realized it and took a breath, hiding it behind his charming smile. “I want to go back, with all the understanding and knowledge I’ve gained, to just before I joined the Christian Yeoman Association. I’ll be able to take my rightful place as CEO without any ridiculous blackmail plot, and I’ll grow the foundation into an organization with fingers in every bed of human misery on earth. I’ll build an empire of charity. No one will refuse such magnanimous assistance. I’ll take their misery and offer hope and change, and use it all to power your dreams. And mine.”
“And yours.”
“I have dreams now, too. You’ve given them to me.”
Lucifer stared at Valdes, arms folded. “And you would not prefer to be installed as the leader of this foundation now, without having to endure the struggles and uncertainties of ascent?”
“Where’s the fun in that?”
“You can’t bargain with Lucifer, Valdes!” Donovan shouted. One of the possessed pressed the edge of his scythe into his flesh. “Didn’t you learn that yet? You’re following the footsteps of Faustus straight to Hell.”
“I suspect,” Valdes said, “you’re less concerned with what happens to me than you are with what happens to your fiancée.”
Lucifer maintained an air of regal disinterest, but Donovan could tell by Joann’s mannerisms that Valdes had intrigued the King of Hell. “You come from…an interesting point of view, Cornelius Valdes. You simplify things beyond the telling. Your understanding of reality is absurdly limited. However.” Her amaranthine eyes glowed. “Your proposal…amuses Us.”
Mephistopheles shifted his stance subtly, moving just enough to alert Valdes. “Before I would even consider discussing specifics of our bargain,” Valdes reached into his pocket, “please accept this token of my esteem.”
Donovan’s eyes widened as Valdes took out Joann’s engagement ring. Lucifer cocked her head, and Donovan could see she was both admiring and curious. She reached for it with the same motion Joann had used to accept it from him, and a dagger lanced his heart.
“Well done, Cornelius Valdes. We are pleased.”
Next to the stage, Mephistopheles started to chuckle.
She slipped it onto her finger. “This is beautiful, and also…familiar.”
Mephistopheles continued to chuckle as he slowly raised his head and began to approach the two of them.
The ring reflected the light of the torches and sparkled white, almost as brightly as the Amaranthine Gateway. Lucifer stared at it curiously.
White light reflected through a prism—or a diamond—will diffuse into all the colors of the spectrum. Donovan watched the colors reflected through the ring begin to dim and dissipate, starting from the brighter end. As the remaining sparkle grew darker, the cold, black terror that he’d first felt grew more powerful.
Lucifer trembled and clutched at her hand, trying to remove the ring.
Mephistopheles drew nearer, his chuckle becoming more sinister.
Lucifer gasped as a cloud of darkness swirled about her.
Donovan pushed against the bone scythes. “Joann!”
She winced, obviously in great pain. “Mephistopheles, what is the meaning of this?”
“Forgive my impertinence, Your Highness.” He backhanded her, a vicious grin plastered across his face. Lucifer cried out and fell to her knees. “There’s been a change of plan. I won’t be answering to you anymore.”
He looked at the ring, then her.
“Entwine,” he said.
TWENTY-EIGHT
TO RULE IN HELL
Father Carroll had never experienced such pain. His legs sagged but he refused to go to his knees, to even seem to be kneeling in front of the heliophobic devil. The tightness in his chest screamed that he needed serious medical attention, but there were more pressing concerns to be dealt with.
God give me strength.
“Do you s
till feel a burning desire to help me?” Bridget growled, her voice raspy and warped. “Or maybe just a burning agony?” She raised her arm-scythe. “Let me help you.”
The priest dodged and rolled along the filthy hallway, a deep, agonized groan in his throat. Pain had him writhing, curling him into a ball as he battled the shock that he knew would kill him if he succumbed. Forget the rules of dealing with the possessed. “I want to help…all of you.”
“You can’t help yourself, so I guess you can’t help everyone else.” She stood over him, a prizefighter taunting a knockdown.
“You don’t understand—this is not about me. My pain is temporary. Yours won’t be, if you don’t seek forgiveness.” Something inside shifted, and his strength waned. “Please. Let me help you.”
“Stop asking me that!”
“Soon enough, I won’t have a choice.”
“Shut up, shut up, shut up!” Bridget whipped her arm-scythe up threateningly. “You won’t have a choice now!”
Lowering his head, Father Carroll whispered something.
“What? What did you say? Don’t you try to use no magic on me!” She started to shrink back on herself before she recognized what she was doing, and stopped.
“No…magic. That’s not…what I do.”
“Then what did you say?”
His head lolled back in semi-consciousness. Bridget shook him to full awareness. “I asked God,” he hacked up a wad of blood, “to forgive you, as I have. You know not what you’re doing.”
She thrust him away, flapping her hands. “Don’t you do that! Don’t you dare forgive me! I killed you! You’re going to die because of me! You can’t forgive me for that!”
In all his pain, lying in the filth of the abandoned Cancer Hospital, Father Carroll somehow managed to smile. “I already have.”
Faustus Resurrectus Page 31