He was tired, said he might take a nap, so she kissed the top of his head and told him she’d stop back in tomorrow, to hang out with him all day. It was her day off and she didn’t have any auditions. It would be a straight-up daddy-daughter day. He smiled at that as he drifted off.
The sun was still shining as Liz made her way down the avenue, deeper into Alphabet City. There was the same amount of trash on the sidewalks and streets, the same number of people asking for spare change, but the city seemed more beautiful than ever. She had come here with one purpose, and had nearly given up several times.
Nearly. But not quite.
Liz laughed as she reached the Dive Inn. She was only working the evening shift today, which was fine with her. She would head home afterward and hang out with Amanda, help her friend figure out her next steps.
But she was excited to see her regulars, to tell them the news. They were her family, too. More so than her blood relatives, if she was being honest with herself. Her mom’s family didn’t understand, told her she should give up acting and come home. She pushed them out of her mind. They never asked about her dad, either—hadn’t since the divorce, and then her mom’s death.
The joke would be on them, when she was starring in a movie that was shown at Sundance.
Unlocking the door, she turned the sign from CLOSED to OPEN. Not that she expected anyone to show up just yet. They didn’t serve food, so it wasn’t like anyone was going to be looking for a burger and a beer. Anyway, she welcomed the quiet. The casting director had slipped her a copy of the script, and she was excited to read it from beginning to end. Very carefully, taking in every single word she’d be saying on camera in just a couple of months.
She situated herself behind the bar and opened the script to the first page, then quickly reached into her purse and withdrew a yellow highlighter. She laughed again. She’d been highlighting her lines since the first play she’d done in middle school, and now here she was. Highlighting lines for her first—
The door opened.
Liz looked up, but the sunlight was reflecting off the window of a car parked on the street. The person standing in the doorway was just a silhouette, but she could tell it was a woman. Liz squinted, tried to see who it was. She was bummed that she couldn’t dive right into the script, but this might be one of her regulars. Maybe she would be the first person to hear Liz’s good news.
“Can I help you?” Liz said.
The woman walked forward, and Liz’s mouth fell open.
She wasn’t a regular, but Liz did know her.
* * *
MORBIUS AWOKE with a start, breathing in deeply, and dust filled his lungs.
He coughed and spit, a dirty mix of blood and saliva, and blinked rapidly, slowly coming to realize that he was lying face-down on packed dirt. He could hear voices murmuring above him… a lot of them. They echoed indistinctly, as if he were in a large chamber.
Slowly turning himself over, he squinted at the incredibly bright lights that greeted him, raising a clawed hand in an attempt to shield his eyes. After a moment his vision adjusted and he sat up, grunting in pain at the effort. There was something tight wrapped around his neck, and he reached up to touch it. A thick metal band had been affixed there. He tugged at it, but it was pointless—the metal was strong, and resisted his attempts to remove it.
I’ll deal with that later, he thought absently as he looked around. He was sitting in what could only be described as an arena, an oval-shaped expanse of packed dirt surrounded by high walls that were topped off by nasty-looking razor wire.
As he lurched to his feet, the unseen voices grew louder, morphing into excited shouts and even laughter. He tried to see through the shadows and could barely make out what looked like faces up there, dozens… maybe hundreds. He turned in a circle, trying to see past the lights, to see who these people were, but they were almost completely obscured by the brightness. Likely on purpose.
He could smell their blood. So close, yet…
Across the arena there was a banging sound, and he saw a metal door. That was what had made the sound, or something behind it. Morbius slowly came to understand what was happening.
The games, the man had said.
When the metal door began to rise, the voices became an uproar as the hidden crowd whipped itself into an ecstatic fury. The screams and cheers and laughter increased, and Morbius placed his hands over his ears. His enhanced auditory abilities intensified the headache that was pounding through his skull. Added to the many bruises and cuts on his body, the pain was almost unbearable.
He attempted to blink back his dizziness.
The metal made a screeching sound as it lifted, revealing darkness on the other side. Morbius couldn’t see what lay within, but he could smell it. It was a strange mix… almost like tar and burnt leaves and sulfur. And there was another smell beneath those, something familiar.
A low rumbling emitted from the darkness. Quiet, almost mournful, and Michael felt himself relax. Perhaps whatever opponent he was being forced to face was as reluctant and confused as he was. Perhaps there was a reasonable way out of this. He was already in so much pain…
A huge creature suddenly burst from the darkness, scuttling on six huge, hairy legs, bloody slobber falling from its jaws. Huge fangs glinted in the glaring light, multiple rows of them in a gaping mouth. The creature’s eyes were set deep in its misshapen head, but they were locked on Morbius. There was no question what the monster had in mind.
Its hunger was not mournful at all.
In addition to the razor-sharp teeth in its cavernous mouth, the thing also sported long claws on its bear-like paws, already caked in dried blood.
“Wonderful,” Morbius muttered as the creature barreled toward him.
The crowd roared.
It struck him head-on before he could even contemplate dodging. Morbius thought he felt several ribs crack as he was slammed into the concrete wall. He brought his hands up, pressing against the creature’s face, its rancid breath curling out and nearly suffocating him. The multitude of teeth were just inches away from his head. The creature pushed harder, and Morbius grunted, pressing back with all the strength he had left.
Which wasn’t much.
Suddenly Morbius let go, surprising his assailant, and slipped down beneath the leathery skin of its stomach, shimmying along the dirt floor. Thrown off-balance, the creature smashed hard into the concrete wall, resulting in an unnerving crunching sound.
Morbius rolled along the ground and got to his feet as quickly as possible. The crowd screamed louder, crying out for blood. And sure enough, the creature turned, revealing the ruined shell of an eye socket, mucous and dark red fluid pouring out of the open wound. It let loose with an insane roar, a clear mix of pain, anger, and hunger. Morbius tried to steady himself while glancing around the arena, desperate for an escape or anything that might give him an advantage.
By the time he looked back, the creature was almost on him. It was incredibly fast despite its size. Morbius leapt, even got a foot or so off the ground, but the creature caught him mid-ascent, its claws sinking into his leg, pulling him down to the ground in an excruciating burst of pain. Michael screamed and rolled away again, his own blood flowing out and mixing with the creature’s on the ground.
The crowd’s excitement only escalated.
The monster ran toward him, but Morbius surprised both of them by launching himself up again and catching the creature under what could only generously be described as its chin. He struck with both of his fists, sending the creature flying backward as it tumbled in a mass of muscle and short, bristly fur.
Morbius landed and tried to catch his breath, glancing down quickly at his leg. The wound was deep and was certain to become infected. Despite the momentary respite, this fight was not going his way.
The creature raised itself back up onto its six legs and made its way toward Morbius, slowly now, circling around the perimeter, eyeing its opponent cautiously. Morbius walked in th
e opposite direction, taking in his opponent as well. Staring into its one good eye, he suspected there was intelligence there, and briefly felt bad for the behemoth. It was most likely in the same situation as him, forced to fight for survival.
Quickly he shook the thought away. That kind of compassion would only get him killed.
The crowd grew quieter, and then someone began to boo. Others joined in, until it was a roar. Apparently they didn’t like these kinds of lulls in the action. The creature seemed to shudder at the sound—perhaps it had been trained to avoid displeasing its masters, whoever these sick bastards were.
Then it launched itself at Morbius, striking him squarely and knocking him down onto the ground, pinning him beneath its weight. Again the knife-like teeth were inches away from his face, and he pressed his forearm against them, his arms wobbling, almost all strength gone.
His arm slipped, and the creature’s teeth ripped a long gash across his skin. Blood flowed and fell against the monster’s tongue, which seemed to increase its fury. Or desperation.
Perhaps both.
Morbius shifted and placed one hand above the creature’s mouth, the other just below. He gripped as hard as he could, his fingers digging deep into the thick, leathery skin until it nearly broke open. A sound of pure rage bubbled up from the creature’s throat. Morbius did his best to ignore it, as well as the blood that was gushing from both his arm and his leg. There wasn’t much time left.
Unconsciousness was closing in yet again.
An image of Martine appeared in his mind, and it was all he needed. He summoned whatever reserves he had left, gripped the creature’s flesh even tighter, and pushed his arms apart, screaming with the effort.
Almost immediately, the jaws cracked violently open. There was a sudden spasm, and the creature went limp, collapsing at Morbius’ feet. Its huge body shuddered, and then finally went still. Blood poured from its dead, gaping maw. Morbius stared down at it. If things had gone only slightly differently, it would be him bleeding out on the dirt floor.
The crowd roared its approval.
Fighting to catch his breath, Morbius stared at the creature’s blood as it pooled at his feet. Its scent rose up and filled his nose, and then everything clicked. That strange blood that Liz had given him, the package Fabian had provided. It smelled almost exactly the same.
Without hesitating, Morbius fell on top of the monstrous corpse and sank his teeth into the thick flesh of its neck. It wasn’t easy to get through the fur and scaly skin, so Morbius redoubled his efforts, desperate for the creature’s blood. At last, he pierced the epidermis, and the dark liquid entered his mouth, flooding his mind and body with pleasure.
Just as he managed to gulp down a single mouthful, the metal device on his neck made a clicking noise and a blast of electricity shot through his body, many times stronger than he’d suffered in Fabian’s apartment. Crying out, he fell back, away from the monster’s corpse, and writhed in the sand.
The crowd cheered, jeered, and laughed.
A pair of cult members approached, one holding a device that clearly controlled the electronic collar. The other held one of the electrical devices that had incapacitated Michael previously.
Smiling, the first man shut off the neck device. The pain receded, gradually, and Morbius slowly came to his feet, a feeling of rage rippling through him. A tiny voice in the back of his head told him to stand down, to save his energy for when he would really need it.
He didn’t listen.
Morbius lunged at the man who held the remote control. He knew it was a stupid move, but he didn’t care. At this point, as far as he was concerned, it was all or nothing.
The man looked surprised at the vampire’s burst of speed, glanced back down at the device in his hands, and attempted to hit the button before his attacker could reach him. But the few drops of monster blood Morbius had managed to ingest energized him, and he leaned into the feeling, grabbing the man’s head and twisting.
The snapping noise was deeply satisfying, but it was followed quickly by a painful burst of electricity as the other man shoved his weapon into Morbius’ ribs. He screamed, fell to his knees, and collapsed into the dirt.
As unconsciousness claimed him yet again, he stared up into the lights. The roar of the crowd grew louder and then quieter, until it finally faded altogether.
CHAPTER EIGHT
AMANDA SAINT wanted answers.
After Liz had left, Amanda had taken her friend’s advice and spent a good part of the day doing more research on the Demon-Fire cult. There wasn’t much out there, but Amanda dug deeper than she ever had before.
Leaving the apartment, she headed to a small bookstore in the West Village that specialized in horror novels and non-fiction books about the occult. The small building looked as if it was falling apart. Even so, it was a treasure trove. In addition to all kinds of obscure, hard-to-find books, it had an impressive back-catalog of old newspapers from across the country, some that couldn’t be found anywhere else in the world, or so they claimed.
The old woman working there smiled as if she’d been expecting Amanda her entire life. She wore huge glasses that reflected what little light there was, making it impossible to see her eyes. Spooked, Amanda tried to smile at her but had difficulty making it happen.
The woman led Amanda down a short set of wooden stairs and showed her how to use the microfiche reader, a technology she had never used before. The machine seemed like a creature from another planet, but she found its quiet whirring sound to be almost peaceful, a Zen-like trip through some very dark history.
The woman explained in quiet tones that her deceased husband had been an avid traveler—“I barely ever saw him,” she murmured quietly—but he had sent home hundreds of newspapers from every trip, and brought dozens more back in stuffed suitcases. When he’d died in a private plane crash in Europe, he’d left her enough money to keep her small bookstore going, even if wasn’t generating enough revenue. Or any. That inheritance also enabled her to put the mountain of clippings on film, which she maintained for curious persons like Amanda who sought to delve into the unknown.
The woman eventually stopped talking and just stared. Amanda still hadn’t seen the old lady’s eyes.
“Um… thank you?” Amanda said kindly.
The woman simply nodded and then headed back upstairs to her empty shell of a bookstore. Amanda turned and opened her laptop next to the humming machine. She had enough details from previous research to know general topics and time periods to search. It took hours but slowly, page by page, she discovered more information about the cult that had ripped her and her family apart.
What Amanda found disturbed her deeply.
The Demon-Fire cult had its hands in crimes and sacrifices around the world. Clues in one story led to yet another, making Amanda realize that the cult was much larger than she had ever realized.
Her mind went back to the night she’d been kidnapped by the cultists, by its high priestess Poison-Lark, who turned out to be her own sister, Catherine. Poison-Lark had said words that Amanda had barely registered at the time, but now they filled her with dread.
“Demon-Fire is everywhere.”
There were news stories of stomach-churning murders, entire families tortured and mutilated, arcane writing found on victims’ walls. Claims of demonic creatures being summoned, something Amanda herself could verify after her run-in with the giant spider that the cult had called Arachne.
There were even reports of Demon-Fire having multiple cells in major metropolitan areas, including here New York. According to the accounts, some of which sounded more like fiction than fact, they had built an infrastructure that led throughout the underbelly of the city. Sewer systems, aqueducts, and subway tunnels. They made blood sacrifices in dingy basements and high-priced penthouses. Authorities called the claims “ludicrous” and “the work of overactive imaginations.”
But there was no denying it.
The cult’s reach was staggering.
Even so, actual eyewitness accounts were few and far between, relying on reports from the very few people who had managed to get out alive. They all said the same thing, however, mirroring the words Catherine had spoken on that horrific night, all those weeks ago. The Demon-Fire cult was looking to bring about the terrestrial victory of Satan.
A sudden noise grabbed Amanda’s attention. She blinked at the shadows that surrounded her, juxtaposed with the bright screen at which she’d been staring for…
She had no idea how long she’d been down in the basement. It was entirely silent upstairs. There were no windows down here and the overhead light had gone out, or been turned off at some point. The only light came from the machine in front of her.
“Hello…?” she called out.
Another noise reached her… a kind of shuffling sound.
She stood and looked around for a weapon, finally wrapping her fingers around an old stapler. It might not be much, but its weight felt good in her hand. Cautiously, Amanda walked around the basement, stepping into the shadows. There were stacks and stacks of books and magazines and newspapers down here, with narrow pathways between.
The silence was oppressive.
She fought an urge to run upstairs. No. She’d been running scared for too long. She was at the point where she’d resolved to face her fears, whether literal or figurative.
The noise sounded again. Close. She tightened her grip on the stapler, ready to bash whoever—or whatever—was down here. Holding her breath, she turned a corner and raised her arm up, ready to fight.
She let out a laugh that sounded more like a cough.
The light from the microfiche machine barely reached this far back into the basement, but there was enough to see the small cat that stood in the corner, looking just as scared as Amanda.
Morbius Page 8