Hellraisers

  Their smell. The stench of hell.

  “Twenty minutes, Pan,” Ostheim repeated, like she hadn’t heard him the first time.

  Twenty minutes. Twenty minutes between her, Forrest, and an eternity of agony. Twenty minutes before they dragged her kicking and screaming down to hell.

  “Those Lawyers better shift their asses,” she yelled at Ostheim, cursing herself—for the hundredth time at least—for ever accepting his offer.

  The Engine.

  The goddamned Devil’s Engine.

  She’d always known it would be the death of her.

  BREATHLESS

  Marlow had jogged a block and a half before he dared to slow down. Crossing the street, he tripped into the alley that ran down the back of the expressway, crashing against a fence. He took another couple of puffs of his inhaler for good measure, feeling the last of the blockage shift from his windpipe. His lungs still ached, though, like he’d breathed in a lungful of pepper spray and run a marathon, not a few hundred yards.

  He spat out a wad of phlegm and wiped the sweat from his brow. Only here, in the sudden quiet—just the distant rumble of the city and the eerie wail of a siren—did the events of the last few minutes sink in.

  What the hell were you thinking?

  He was screwed. Not only had he been expelled from the last school that would take him, he’d also committed vandalism and assault—on a cop. There was probably an APB out on him by now; the siren he could hear would be a squad car blazing up the street. This was Mariners Harbor, they’d shoot him on sight.

  His palms stung from where he’d pushed Yogi, and he rubbed them on his pants, trying to work out a plan. The best thing would be to turn around, head back to the school with his tail between his legs, offer to pay for the paintwork to be redone or something. He could get down on his hands and knees, kowtow his way back to his math class like nothing had ever happened.

  Yeah, right.

  There was more chance of him sprouting wings and flying into Harvard. He wiped the sweat from his face, sweat that had less to do with running and more to do with the terror of not being able to breathe. He’d been lucky this time. His asthma was a constant threat, always doing its best to kill him.

  When he’d been a kid, lying in his bed, writhing back and forth and going blue while his mom called for the ambulance, he’d seen it as a monster, something that wrapped invisible fingers around his throat, whose tongue wormed its way into his windpipe, sealing it tight. Even though he was fifteen now he still carried that beast around with him; it was always on his back, waiting to attack. When it was bad, really bad, it was a battle to the death. The inhaler lost its power. Even the nebulizer he had at home didn’t work. It had been close today. A couple more minutes, maybe, and the principal would have been calling 911 and giving him mouth to mouth.

  Maybe that would have been better. You couldn’t exactly expel somebody who was dying on your office floor.

  Marlow shook his head. What was he going to tell his mom? Please, Marlow, he heard her say, as clear as if she were standing next to him. There had been enough Bacardi on her breath that day to make his eyes sting. Please, just this once, be good. I can’t stand it, I can’t stand the trouble. I need you to do this for me, stay in school.

  And he had been, he’d been doing okay. It was just that douche bag principal, riding him every day. This was all Caputo’s fault. Maybe he should go back and teach the man a proper—

  Footsteps, hard and fast, rising up from the end of the alleyway. Marlow pushed himself off the wall, fists clenched. Please, not the school cop. He’d half turned, not sure if his lungs could stand another sprint, when Charlie’s face appeared. When he saw Marlow he flinched. Then he broke into a sweaty grin, skidding to a halt with his hands on his knees. Marlow swore.

  “Jesus, Charlie, where’d you come from?”

  “They were all so busy chasing after you, I couldn’t resist slipping out behind them.”

  Then they were both laughing, sniggering nervously, just in case somehow the cops could hear them half a mile away. “Man, you should have seen it back there, it was utter chaos. I can’t believe you punched Yogi!”

  “I didn’t punch him,” Marlow said. “His fat ass just fell over. What happened?”

  “It sounded like all hell had broken loose in there, I had to go look. Yogi was on the desk and the desk was on the floor; the whole thing had snapped in two. He was rolling around like a turtle, funniest thing I ever saw. Then they were after you.” Charlie had to stop to catch his breath he was laughing so hard. “Best part is, Yogi came out of the office so hard he nearly knocked me over, ran straight into one of his guys and ended up flat on his face. And he was rolling around all over again. Took the other cops and Caputo to pick him up. Man, I almost died laughing.”

  “They come after you too?” Marlow asked.

  Charlie shook his head. “Nah. Don’t exactly look like a threat, do I?”

  Understatement of the century. Charlie was a year older than Marlow but five foot three and stick thin. The phrase “can’t punch his way out of a wet paper bag” was invented for him, although anyone who thought that would be wrong. Charlie was a pit bull. He wouldn’t just tear his way out of a wet paper bag, he’d shred it, set fire to it, then stamp the ashes into oblivion. Spending three-quarters of your life in foster care would do that to you.

  “Besides, Caputo loves me. I’m one of his model students, turning my life around, getting back on track. They used me in the brochure, remember? You, though…” Charlie shook his head, sighing. “Pretty stupid thing to do, Marlow, even for you. What made you scratch that on the principal’s car?”

  “It was a rocket ship,” Marlow muttered.

  Charlie cracked a smile, but it slipped off his face after a second or two. “Seriously, dude, what are you going to do now?”

  Marlow didn’t answer, just turned and walked down the alley. Best thing to do to a question like that, turn your back on it.

  Charlie scampered after him, his feet kicking up gravel. “Marlow, I’m not kidding, you got to start facing up to things.”

  “I am,” Marlow said. “I hated that place anyway.”

  “So you’re bolting again? You’re running out of places to go. Gonna be prison or the army at this rate.”

  Not the army. No way. Marlow closed his eyes, thought of Danny. He barely even remembered his brother, but he saluted his yellowing, fading photo—full combat gear, bleached in desert sun—on the kitchen wall every single day. Had done ever since he was five years old and his brother hadn’t come home. Once upon a time all he’d ever wanted was to be a marine like Danny. Maybe that way his mom would look at him the same way she did that photo, with love.

  Then he thought of the empty coffin. The flag draped over it, folded by the honor guard and handed over to his mother at the funeral. Cowards can’t be soldiers, his brain said, and he stared up at the sun to try to burn the words away.

  “They’re hiring up at the concrete plant,” Charlie said, kicking a crushed can into a section of fence. “Not great but at least it’ll keep you out of trouble.” He snorted. “Though trouble always seems to find you.” He snorted. “Picking a fight with Yogi Bear.”

  “I’ve seen you do worse,” Marlow said, looking at his friend. The first time he’d met Charlie the kid had been in a fight with two college jocks over in Tottenville. He’d been outnumbered and outgunned but he’d been giving as good as he got. They’d both ended up bolting, holding their bloodied noses. Charlie probably would have chased them halfway across the state if Marlow hadn’t stepped in to hold him back. He’d almost gotten a black eye for his trouble.

  “I’m the very definition of sweetness and light,” Charlie said. “Where we going now?”

  Marlow pulled his cell from his pocket and checked the time. It was nearly eleven. He half thought about calling his mom, telling her on the phone. It was better than seeing her face crumple, watching the tears fall. But he couldn’t face her, not e
ven on the phone. It wasn’t the anger that worried him, he dealt with that all the time. No, it was the disappointment.

  He needed some Dutch courage before he spoke to her.

  “Gonna go celebrate my newfound freedom,” he said, flashing a bitter smile at Charlie. “No more school, man. Just sunshine and partying. Wanna join me?”

  “Getting hammered before lunch? That’s your big plan?”

  They exited the alleyway onto Park, a solid line of traffic bleating like robotic sheep and pumping out fumes. Marlow coughed, feeling the tickle again, the beast slipping its fingers around his throat. Man, he hated this city, hated the cars, hated the schools, hated the people.

  “Marlow?” Charlie said, reaching out and grabbing his shirt. “You don’t want to end up like your mom. Like my old man.”

  He shrugged loose, the anger burning up inside him like the sun.

  “I’ll be fine,” he said, walking off so that Charlie wouldn’t see the fire reach his face. “Just go back, do your thing, live your life.”

  Push, push, push. It’s all he seemed to do sometimes.

  “Yeah, real fine,” said Charlie. “Go have a morning cocktail, Marlow, run away like you always do.”

  There was the sound of scuffing heels as he made his way back into the alley, then his voice again.

  “You know, Caputo is right about one thing. You’re too scared to face up to anything. Do yourself a favor, Marlow, grow some cojones.”

  Then he was gone. Marlow stood there, wanting to chase after him but standing his ground.

  Sometimes people don’t push back. Sometimes you push them so hard they fall right out of your life.

  “Who cares,” he muttered to himself. “I’ll be fine.”

  But it was starting to dawn on him that maybe he wouldn’t.

  COLLATERAL DAMAGE

  00:00:22:21.

  Twenty-two minutes.

  Pan checked her watch again, swore time was going twice as fast as it should be. She even tapped the watch face, like it was broken.

  You wish. It was a custom model—waterproof, bombproof, bulletproof.

  The only thing it wasn’t was demonproof.

  The truck lurched, ripping her back into the real world. They were off the expressway and smashing through traffic like a demolition derby. Too many people watching them with eyes like pickled eggs, too many CCTV cameras picking them up. Pan could hear sirens rising over the growl of the engine. That was bad.

  Really bad.

  The driver reached the end of the road and wrenched up the hand brake like he was trying to rip it off. The truck skidded to the left, vibrating hard enough to shake them all to pieces. For a second it lifted onto two wheels, the whole thing on the verge of toppling. Pan swore, clutching her seat to stop herself from sliding into Forrest. The driver flicked the wheel and the truck leveled with a bump.

  They had to get into hiding, fast. The consequences of staying in plain sight were bad. Worse even than the thought of what would happen to her in twenty-two minutes.

  She checked her watch.

  Twenty-one.

  She swore, leaning forward, scanning the road ahead. There was nothing but apartment blocks, rising on both sides like tombstones. The truck was doing seventy, bludgeoning its way past the traffic.

  Come on, come on, give us a break.

  “They’re going to crack it, right?” asked Forrest. The kid was covered in his own puke and shaking hard. He was the same age as her—seventeen—but right now he looked half that, a little boy who’s suddenly found himself miles away from home with no idea how he got there. She didn’t know much about him, other than his name. It was the way she liked it. In this business, people died. Simple as that. It was easier if they were strangers.

  “You need to focus,” she said. “Let the Lawyers worry about the contract.”

  “Seriously,” Herc growled at the driver, “if you don’t get this hunk of junk into cover right now I’m gonna throw you out the door.”

  “Just remember, you’re a soldier, a Hellraiser,” Pan said to Forrest, “you can fight them, the demons. You traded for strength, right?”

  He nodded.

  “Then just punch the crap out of them.”

  It would be like fighting a tide. They’d keep coming. Nothing could stop them. But at least this way he’d have hope.

  She lifted her crossbow to check that it was ready to use. The weapon was over three hundred years old but it was still as good as new. The bolt in the chamber was iron, taken from the Engine itself. Not as intimidating as a shotgun, but it was loaded with something far older and more powerful than buckshot.

  The demons were coming to collect, sure. But that didn’t mean she was going to pay up without a fight.

  “You need me to … to speak to anyone?” Herc asked. It was the last thing she wanted to hear. Herc knew better than anyone that there was nobody for him to speak to. She ignored him, focusing on the road, on the endless barriers of buildings on either side. The truck was doing fifty now, slowed down by the thick stream of traffic clogging the street. The grille guard was doing its job but sooner or later it was going to run into something bigger than it and that would be that, they’d be stranded in the middle of America’s most densely populated city.

  “Pan? Your mom? I can find her. I can tell her—”

  She reached out and slapped her gloved hand over his mouth. There was no need, because the glare she shot at him would have shut him up by itself.

  “Herc, stop talking. I’m not planning on dying today.”

  00:00:19:23.

  Her watch had other plans.

  “What about you, kid?” Herc said to Forrest. The boy looked back, his wide eyes full of terror.

  “You told me this wouldn’t happen,” he said, his quiet voice almost lost beneath the roar of the engine. “You said the Lawyers could crack it.”

  “They will,” said Pan, trying to give him a reassuring look. She caught a glimpse of his watch. Less than ten minutes. She keyed the radio. “Ostheim, we could really do with some help right now.”

  “Not long, Pan, they’ve almost got it.”

  The truck thumped up onto the curb, somebody screaming as they dived out of its path. It rammed into a hydrant, water blasting up into the sun and filling the street with rainbows. Rainbows that flickered with red and blue light.

  Ah, crap.

  “Cops!” yelled the driver. Sure enough the rear window was filled with light, a blue-and-white squad car blazing up behind them.

  “Get the caltrops out!” Herc roared, and when nobody responded he plowed his way to the back of the truck. He grabbed a duffel bag and unzipped it, kicking open the rear doors and lobbing it out. The mechanism inside the bag activated, unleashing a string of razor wire and sending it spinning out across the asphalt. The cop car braked but not before it tore across the wire, all four tires exploding. Then it was on its side, rolling hard, bouncing into the parked cars along the edge of the road.

  Pan turned back to the front, part of her wondering if the cops inside were still alive, part of her trying not to care. Two lives are nothing compared to what might happen if the world finds out about us, she forced herself to think. Collateral damage, just collateral damage. If she kept saying it, then it had to be true.

  “We have to get off the road!” Herc said, his eyes almost popping out of his head. “We have to find—”

  The wall of buildings on the left-hand side of the road split, plunging them back into the sun. Pan squinted, seeing a bigger building behind a screen of trees. There was a gate there, and beyond it the road swept down into the mouth of a tunnel. An underground parking lot. It was their only shot.

  “There!” she said, pointing over the driver’s shoulder. He panicked, turning the wheel too early, blasting a gatepost to brick dust as the truck slammed through. Then they were in the shade, swallowed whole by the tunnel.

  Pan’s ears popped, a change in pressure that had nothing to do with being underg
round. A spark ripped across the inside of the truck, so bright that it left its mark on her retinas, made her short hair stand on end. The sulfurous smell was stronger here, a haze of smoke already pooling around their feet. The truck skidded down the spiral ramp, scraping the concrete walls, and spat out into the first level of the parking lot. The driver slammed on the brakes and they screeched to a halt.

  The lights on the ceiling were flickering wildly, more sparks tearing the air around them. The whole building shook and groaned like a sinking ship. The demons were always powerful, but this time there were two souls on the table, and they were hungry. They would demolish half of New York trying to collect.

  “Go go go!” she yelled.

  Herc kicked open the doors at the back of the truck and hopped down, his shotgun at the ready. Even though Pan had been in this situation countless times she still felt like screaming, fear turning her whole body hollow. She fought it, grabbing the seats and literally hauling herself toward the doors.

  The lights in the parking lot gave up, exploding into sparks and flooding the world with darkness.

  “Tubes!” she shouted, ripping a light stick from her belt and lobbing it out the doors. It flickered on, burning fiercely, making the parking lot swim like it was at the bottom of an ocean of blood.

  “You two,” said Herc, pointing a finger inside the van and flashing them both a warning look, “stay here.”

  He turned, slotting spare shells into the shotgun and pumping one into the barrel. It was getting hot down here—really hot—the air shimmering like they were inside a furnace. She glanced at her watch again, barely ten minutes left to live if the Lawyers didn’t get their asses in gear. Ten minutes, then she was worse than dead.

  Collateral damage.

  “Listen to Herc,” said Ostheim’s voice in her ear, the signal broken up by the layers of concrete overhead. “Do not leave that vehicle.”

  “Yes, sir,” she replied. Then she checked her crossbow, took a deep breath, and threw herself out of the doors into the nightmare of blood and fire.