The Demon Collector

by Erik Lynd

  "What? Anything happening?" Eris asked.

  She stood behind him at the kitchen counter, fixing them sandwiches. She wasn't really hungry after the fight with Chris, but she had to do something to keep herself busy. She put down the mayo after hearing the tone in Hamlin's voice.

  "Yes. Dear God, yes."

  "Well what? What the hell is going on?" She had come around the counter to look over his shoulder. She could see the video feeds filled with people running and screaming.

  "Chaos, pure chaos," Hamlin said.

  The scary thing was Hamlin didn't know the true extent of what had happened. A few minutes ago, it had been a quiet peaceful evening. He had started to entertain the thought that this Day of Chaos was just an internet hoax, maybe a gimmick to get them down here. He could focus on Christopher and his hunt. Not that the boy seemed to want them involved. Then it all started, and he watch with growing horror as is unfolded in real time across the internet.

  First the power went down; not everywhere, but in a few select infrastructure points. Prisons lost their alarms, hospitals lost primary, and in some cases, secondary power. The airport above lost power throughout the building and the runways. According to the news feeds, the air traffic controller computers were operational, but that was followed quickly by a tweet from the airport saying midair collisions had occurred and it appeared the software had been hacked; it could not be trusted.

  Police and fire stations went dark. He saw footage of an officer, his computer system in the car blank. He was yelling something into the mic on his portable radio.

  Buses were down. Some routes were operational, but according to Twitter, they had lost contact with dispatch. Cell service had also gone down, but not data service. And that was odd. The internet, cell data service, these things were still up. Social media was the only form of reliable communication. That meant something. This was intentional.

  "This is it, the big hack from the group. This is Days of Chaos," Hamlin said. "The extent of this hacking is unprecedented. I mean, it looks like it’s targeting every vital infrastructure component: transportation, emergency services, everything."

  They heard a distant boom and the lair shook slightly.

  "Jesus Christ! I think that was a plane crashing."

  "Is it everywhere, or just Mexico City?"

  "Just here, I think. I'm not seeing anything from any other country other than reaction to what is happening here. Just like they said, today was the first Day of Chaos and the target was Mexico City. I never thought they meant all of Mexico City."

  Eris pointed and Hamlin turned back the screen. The image of Guy Fawkes was popping up on social media feeds. Below the images were more symbols taken from the first language. And below, that more words in English. And they chilled Hamlin to the bone.

  NOW THE REAL HACKING BEGINS

  "That doesn't sound good," Eris said.

  Hamlin was frantically clicking with the mouse. More windows would open, capturing live video streams from people on the ground.

  "Dammit! I wish I knew how to work this thing. We need a computer guy!"

  "A computer guy?" Eris asked.

  "Yeah, you know. Some tech guy to run all this shit. Like in the movies."

  "No problem. I'll run a Craig's list ad. Wanted: computer guy like in the movies. Use the latest hacking and illegal tools in service to the gatekeeper of Hell. Team player needed. Must be okay working with demons and panthers made of shadows."

  Hamlin could tell he was now talking to Dark Eris. He ignored her.

  On the screen something changed. When the power went out as the chaos started, large groups of protesters out on the streets cheered—believing, Hamlin suspected, that this was all part of the protest. And it was. Just not in the way they thought. When the lights went out and the security systems failed, the crowd, already amped up, turned ugly.

  On the screen Hamlin watched as a window was smashed by a trash can. Then a car was smashed and stripped. The protests were turning into a riot. Most of this was captured on phone cameras. Some was captured by news cameras that were streaming directly to their websites.

  All around the city videos popped up with the same signs of destruction. The entire city was turning into a riot. But it was no natural riot.

  "They’re doing this," Hamlin said.

  "How?" Dark Eris asked. "I understand the hacking, but how are they escalating the riots?"

  "Riots, by their nature, are a gas-fire just waiting for a spark. You seed the protests with enough of your people—or real extremists—and that’s your match. Right now, it’s just a few sparks. My biggest concern is what they are going to use to stoke the flames. Riots will calm down as authorities start taking control."

  "But the authorities are crippled by the cyber-attack," Dark Eris said.

  "Exactly, but I have a horrible feeling there is something more about to happen, something to take all of this to another level."

  "The demon army," Dark Eris said.

  "I think we are going to see a sudden escalation in bloodshed."

  As if taking a cue from Hamlin on the screen, a phone camera caught a protester leaping onto a police officer in riot gear, driving him to the ground. Before the other officers could react and come to the assistance of their colleague, the protester screamed like a wild animal and bashed the officer’s head against the ground. The riot helmet split open from the impact, and the officer’s body went limp.

  "There," Dark Eris said and pointed at the screen. "That is no mortal. There’s a demon inside there, controlling him."

  As several officers swooped in to assist, the protester struck out, knocking the officer back into his colleagues. For a moment it was as though everyone was shocked by this sudden display of violence, everybody held their breath for a split second. Then it was all fear and anger.

  More protesters broke through and attacked the police. Police batons whipped through the air and more than a few pulled out guns. As more demon-possessed protesters charged the police, gunfire rang out into the crowd.

  "Jesus," Hamlin whispered. Similar scenes played out on other video feeds. Some news crews had set up and found a way to stream directly to the internet on battery power. Everywhere, police and protesters—instigated by demonic forces and, Hamlin suspected, paid mercenaries in disguise—clashed and violence erupted.

  The governor had brought in military troops to back up the limited police force, but standard riot procedure was soon abandoned and deadly weapons came out.

  "Whoever is responsible for this has a lot of money. Enough to hire an army of mercenaries or fund an extreme activist group, or both," he said.

  "And is well connected with the supernatural. Obviously, the Collector is a part of all this," Dark Eris said.

  "The Alliance, whatever that is exactly, they have to be behind this. And they went to extremes to make sure the world sees it."

  "By the way," Dark Eris said. "You have mail."

  "What?" Hamlin looked at the email program. It did indeed indicate he had one unopened email. The message was cryptic. A string of numbers and a note:

  Careful... this is obviously a trap.

  It was followed by a smiley face and a poop emoji.

  "What the fuck is that?" Hamlin asked.

  "That's called an emoji..."

  "I know what the fuck that is! I meant what are the numbers?"

  Hamlin thought for a moment and then it clicked. "They're coordinates."

  Quickly he copy-pasted the string of numbers and letters into Google Maps. A pin popped up in the middle of the slums.

  Dark Eris stood back. "It's got to be where Chris is going, right? It can't be a coincidence. He's walking into a trap. I knew it. We tried to tell him."

  "We don't even know who sent the email. It could have been anybody."

  "Not anybody. Somebody who knows who Christopher is and his fucking email, they obviously know more about what is going on than we do. Send the coordinates to my cell."

&nbs
p; Dark Eris turned to leave at a run.

  "What the hell are you doing?" Hamlin asked.

  "Going to save the asshole. Again."

  "And what the hell am I supposed to do?"

  "I don't know. Try to figure out who sent the email."

  Then she was gone. Hamlin just stared at the keyboard. He had never felt so helpless.

  21

  Christopher shaped the shadows once again into coat and hood. No point in hiding; they knew he was coming and there were no mortals around to shock. Then he leapt to the top of the home, shadows and dark energy billowing out from him, covering the roof as he landed.

  Still nothing. He was beginning to hope something would attack him. He was getting creeped out. When this sort of thing happened in the movies, it was a bad sign.

  There was a hatch, like a trapdoor, on the roof. He opened it up and gazed into the darkness below. There was nothing really to see, it was a simple empty room.

  He dropped down, Weapon out. It flared to life as a longsword, bright with power. The room he had dropped down into was dark, as though there were no windows. The light from the trap door in the ceiling cast a brick of light onto the ground where he stood. But just beyond his arm’s reach, the light died as though sucked up by the shadows.

  There was something wrong. It wasn't natural darkness, and his eyesight struggled to penetrate the shadows around him. Normally Christopher was at home in the dark, at least since he had taken up the Book and Weapon. But this was just wrong. The power arcing from his blade gave him some light. The walls seemed to be covered with some sort of lumpy substance, much thicker than mold.

  And the smell. The scent of rot filled the room. The place smelled more like a rendering factory than an old abandoned home. The scent of the slums outside were a rose garden compared to this place. The air was so heavy he could taste the decay on his tongue. He wanted to vomit. Not really the image he wanted to portray as the Lord of Damnation.

  He slowly became aware of a sound. Or perhaps many sounds. Rhythmic, but out of sync with each other. It was the sound of a breath. No, it was the sound of a hundred people breathing. Even as he realized what it was, it grew louder. Then there were other sounds. Moans and grunts from his right, whispered talking to his left.

  He spun, blade up, but nothing was there—just the horrid smell and lumpy walls. Then a scream, a wail, pierced through the breathing sound. The moans grew louder.

  And Christopher realized he was in the scariest haunted house of all time—which was saying a lot considering his job was dealing with what were technically ghosts.

  He heard a sickening wet, organic sound, like flesh tearing. He spun towards the disturbing noise, blade held high. A figure, vaguely humanoid, peeled itself away from the wall as though it had been attached. It was a pale, white thing with black veins, as though oil pumped through its body. As Christopher watched it jerked, its leg—the foot still attached to the wall—pulled free, leaving behind a moist, skin covered wallpaper. Then its eyes opened.

  Baleful red eyes glared at him. Suddenly there were eyes all around him, covering the walls. He could hear the same squishing sound as the room came alive with writhing bodies, pulling themselves from the walls. The first stood before Christopher and grinned, its large mouth stretched to fit dozens of sharp, glistening teeth.

  It had once been human, but now only shared a vague resemblance. Its face was split, its massive mouth covering the bottom half, while above, small, but brightly glowing red dots served as eyes. Its arms were long gangly things that ended in finger-like claws. It was nude; originally a woman, its breasts lay shriveled against its chest.

  Then it started to laugh and the others joined in as they detached from the wall. Sucking sounds mixed with giggles here, titters there.

  Now he could see the demon auras infesting these once-human beings. He could smell the evil like a thick and heavy blanket over the room. Somehow this house had hid them from him. But he had no time to try and figure out why.

  He raised the Weapon, and the demon in front of him screamed and charged. Its long arms caught him by surprise and its claws came within inches of his face before the blade found its mark to rip through the demon-infested human, tearing its human soul out.

  Christopher could almost hear the Weapon singing in joy as it harvested a new soul. He didn't give it time to revel. Christopher reversed the blade, slicing through the next one that charged at him. He reached out to the Hell power that sat just beneath the surface, and it leapt to fill him up.

  It burned through him and with it came the hunger, the need to harvest souls. The Weapon connected with the power inside him and the energy billowed out from him in an explosive flash of crackling energy and light.

  The flesh demons around him stepped back and shielded their eyes as he unleashed some of his power, but they recovered quickly. He had not done any real damage to them. But the brief light gave him a good view of the room around him before they swarmed back in. It seemed as though the entire upper floor of the house was one large room—perhaps originally intended as a ballroom back when this was a promising neighborhood, before the area changed to the slum it was now. Just before bringing his sword to bare on another demon, he spotted a staircase leading down in the back of the room, now filled with the flesh demons. The walls were a sticky mess where they had been attached moments before.

  A roar shook the house and, as though reading his thoughts, Hellcat shot out of the shadows and plunged into the group of demons between Christopher and the stairs. Christopher spun, blade cutting and cleaving in a circle. Souls dragged from the blade like strands of thick spider web, but the Weapon was insatiable and drew them all in.

  The Lord of Damnation cut through the flesh demons like chaff, the Weapon wailing a joyous song. In front of him, Hellcat pounced from demon to demon, ripping them apart with tooth and claw.

  As inexperienced as he was, Christopher was more than a match for any of these demons or even a smaller group. But the room was full of them, and more were coming out from the wall through some sort of perverse birthing process. Claws and teeth were getting through to him, even as the blade sung its deadly song.

  Just like on the streets in front of the hotel, he was going to lose by sheer, overwhelming force. He had to get out of this room; the space was too confined, there were too many of them. He made a run for the stairs, following Hellcat.

  Claws racked at his back and scored deep on his thigh and chest. He would never had made it if not for Hellcat. She cleared the way, using her own tooth and claw method. Her sheer size, which seemed to fluctuate depending on her anger and the amount of shadow she had to draw on, drove the flesh demons back. Here, though the darkness was not natural, she had found enough shadow to be at least twice the size of a normal panther, like a large tiger.

  The horde tried to close in behind her, separating the two of them. The blade in Christopher's hand shifted, and intuitively he grasped it with both hands as it morphed into two axes. Now, weapon in each hand, he was able to chop his way through, hack and slash style. Blood splattered everywhere, souls ripped free. The hunger inside of him absorbed all the bloodshed, all the killing and soul-stealing, and wanted more. Always more.

  Hatred and anger boiled over. He ignored the bites and claw slashes. He lost himself in the bloodshed, in the joy of killing. These were weak demons, no skill or tactics: simple violence was all they understood.

  Before he knew it, he was standing at the top of the stairs. And there he hesitated.

  His hunger wanted him to stay. He was shredded, severely injured and weakening, but there were still so many souls here. They were there for the taking. He could lose himself in this, the pleasure of damnation.

  A roar from Hellcat brought him back to reality. He snapped out of it. What was he thinking? He needed to find and stop the Collector. Christopher had no idea if he was in this house of horrors, but he had to find out.

  He jumped down the stairs to the large foyer below. This
floor of the house was significantly different than above. The walls on this level were not the fleshy thick ones of the upstairs. They were a cold, dark gray like the outside, and discolored with mold and water damage. But the smell was better than the rotting stench above, though not by much. It had a familiar scent; to Christopher's heightened senses it smelled almost metallic.

  His eyes also saw more down here. He did not see windows, but his night vision showed him everything.

  The floor was bright red, shiny, the color of fresh blood. As he moved he saw that it indeed was blood. The entire floor was covered with a thin layer of the stuff. It filled every spot like a giant, shallow pool. As he stepped, the hollows left behind by his feet filled. It was like standing in the aftermath of a gruesome flood.

  How many had been slaughtered to make this much blood? And why hadn't it dried yet? It should be coagulating, not a fresh, slick mess.

  Hellcat stood at the edge of the stairs looking up. He could hear the demons above making their way down. They were surging down in one fleshy blur. Christopher looked for an exit. There was the front door, but retreating now sort of defeated the purpose. A hallway led away from the foyer. It seemed like his best bet. He needed to stay alive long enough to find the Collector. That hallway was his only choice. Of course, he considered, that was probably exactly where they wanted him to go.

  He splashed through the room, sliding and limping down the hallway. Blood, kicked up from his running, splattered the gray stone walls making it look as though the walls bled black. He saw movement, a disturbance in the pool ahead.

  At the other end of the hallway a form rose from the blood pool. Ripples spread from it as it broke the surface. It was humanoid and covered in blood—drenched in fact: the red coated him from head to toe as though it was made from the stuff rather than just covered in it. And maybe it was, Christopher would put nothing past this house of horrors. The figure seemed to sprout straight from the floor.