Page 27 of Hellraisers


  Night dived to one side as the creature pounded their way. Marlow threw himself in the other direction but not quick enough, the beast’s ass-ugly face butting him as it passed. It was like being hit by a subway train and the world flipped in wild circles until he thumped back down again.

  It took him a second to work out where he was, the world so dark that he thought the impact might have blinded him. Then he looked up to see a sliver of firelight, and the panic was drenched by a wave of relief. He groaned into a sitting position, noticing that he was inside a shop—he’d been thrown right through the wall. He offered thanks to the Engine for keeping him alive—please, please, please don’t stop now—and pulled himself up.

  The street was a war zone. The fire from the cathedral was spreading, gushing out like lava. The other side of Fifth Avenue wasn’t faring much better, the statue of Atlas crushed and a massive hole torn into the lobby of Rockefeller Center’s International Building. Truck was running toward it, Pan too. She scanned the street and saw him.

  “Any chance of you actually helping?” she yelled.

  He clambered out, brushing dust and rubble from his hair. Farther down the street the cops had formed a perimeter, mobilizing fast. There was still no sign of Patrick but the douche bag had to be around here somewhere. Marlow broke into a run, then stopped, clamping a hand to his ribs. Something was grinding around in there and every time he took a breath he felt like he’d been stabbed. He limped toward Rockefeller Center.

  “What was that?” he asked Pan.

  “A wormbag,” she replied, rubbing her blackened hands on her pants. “A nasty one. That’s what happens when you bring people back from hell.”

  Something exploded inside the building, and a fire alarm was blaring too. Screams fluttered out of the hole in the wall, first one or two, then so many that it was like a second alarm ringing into the night.

  “Where’s Night?” asked Pan. Marlow glanced around, shrugged.

  “Think she’s inside,” said Truck. “Think it’s gunning for her.”

  Pan swore, taking a deep breath, then climbing through the demolished wall. Marlow followed her, seeing a ruined lobby, cables sparking and water pipes spraying. There were what looked like torn sacks on the floor, but as they scrabbled over the rubble Marlow saw that they were people, trampled into mush against the marble. He put a hand to his mouth, his nose full of the stench of the dead.

  “There,” said Truck, pointing. Not that he needed to, the creature had put a hole in the other side of the lobby, and the wall after that, a tunnel of destruction that cut through to the street on the other side. Marlow could hear the building above him rumbling in outrage, struggling to stay standing with its legs cut out from beneath it. There was another noise, too, a thundering of giant footsteps, getting louder, closer.

  Night suddenly streaked into sight. She slowed to a jog and then collapsed onto her knees. She was bleeding heavily from a cut on her head and she looked so pale she might have been halfway drained. She looked up and saw them.

  “It’s—”

  Coming, Marlow guessed, but she didn’t have time to finish before a second hole appeared in the far wall and a tsunami of flesh tumbled through. The beast seemed to have doubled in size, as big as a subway car, its cavernous mouth vast enough to swallow them all whole. It charged like a rhino, roaring, those fish eyes bulging wildly.

  Pan unleashed an arc of lightning that hit it in the neck but it didn’t even seem to notice, lowering its head like a bull and carving a path through the lobby. Truck put his shoulder down and charged, hitting the beast with a bone-jarring crack that deflected it right toward Marlow.

  Oh sh—

  He sidestepped at the last second, reaching out and grabbing hold of the first thing he could. It was a fistful of soccer-ball-sized eye and it popped in his grip, warm gunk exploding over his fingers. He was jerked off his feet and he clung on to the socket, punching at the creature with his other hand, each blow leaving craters in its shell. It roared, trying to shake him off, bursting back out through the front wall of the building. Bricks detonated against Marlow’s face and he let go, spinning back to earth. It felt like a hand grenade had been set off inside his chest.

  The thing that had once been Brianna skidded to a halt, its hand-claws gouging trenches into Fifth Avenue. It was still expanding, swelling. It turned back to Marlow and snorted, looked like it was going to charge again. There was a series of pops and its skin rippled, gunfire tearing into it. Police were moving down the street, dozens of them opening fire.

  They didn’t stand a chance.

  The beast moved again, its whole body trembling as it threw itself at them. Marlow watched the first two cops pounded to meat before he turned away, fury igniting inside him. He felt a hand on his shoulder, saw Pan there, a face like grim death.

  “What the hell do we do?” he said.

  “I don’t know,” she replied. “I’ve never fought anything like this. Damn thing is invincible. I can’t even get through to Herc or Ostheim, something has taken down the comm.”

  “We’ve got to do something,” Marlow said, hearing the screams of the cops, the sick glee of the beast as it howled into the night.

  “Yeah?” she snapped back. “And what, Marlow? What do you suggest?”

  She was looking at him like he was the world’s biggest idiot, and he didn’t disappoint her, letting his gaze drop to the floor like he might be able to find an answer in the dirt.

  “Nothing we can do,” said Truck. “Just hope it stays distracted long enough for us to get away, find some help.”

  There was a flash in the middle of the ruined street, Patrick standing there inside a cyclone of dust. He struggled to stay upright, a trickle of vomit leaking between his lips. Then he turned and looked their way.

  “Brianna!” he yelled weakly. He took a breath. “Brianna! They’re here!”

  “Not good,” said Truck.

  Patrick called out again and this time the beast that had once been his twin sister answered with a bellow. The wormbag bouldered down the street, each footstep like a gunshot, that train wreck of a face zeroing in on Marlow.

  “Run,” said Pan as it charged toward them. Marlow didn’t need to be told twice, ignoring the pain in his ribs as he turned and sprinted. The world slowed into blissful stillness and silence, but only for a moment. Then he ran out of steam, his system completely drained, plunging him back into the chaos. He stumbled along the side of the building, ducking around the corner onto Fiftieth Street. He barely had time to catch his breath before the wall next to him erupted outward in a hail of stone and glass, the beast howling past him, shaking pieces of Rockefeller Center from its bulk.

  There were people here, Marlow noticed, streaming from the buildings—tourists and staff and late-night workers. The wormbag tore into them like a fox in a chicken coop, its car-sized paw-claws grinding them into the dirt. It uttered another sound, one that was even more terrifying than its howl—a deep, throaty uh-uh-uh that could only be laughter. It was unbearable.

  No more.

  Marlow sucked in a breath and leaped onto its back, grabbing fistfuls of its flesh to haul himself up. It bucked beneath him like a giant bull but he clung on, balling his fist and punching through the skin. It was like a bag full of sewage, bursting at his touch, a flood of rancid black gunk splashing into his face, into his mouth. He ignored it, reaching in, grabbing anything he could and wrenching it out.

  The creature roared, the noise a dragon might have made, loud enough to shatter the windows in the building opposite. It shook itself and Marlow lost his footing, grabbing onto the wound he’d made, swinging in midair as the creature bucked and twitched. It was too much, though, his fingers slipping out of the mess. He dropped, managing to land on his feet, his arms wheeling to keep him balanced.

  Truck appeared, armed with the metal pole from a streetlight. The big guy swung it, the makeshift club cracking into one of the creature’s arms. The wormbag recoiled, whimpering,
and Truck swung the pole a second time, smacking it hard in the face, again, and again, driving it back.

  There was a blast of light as Night streaked up the creature’s back, one of the beast’s eyeballs erupting in a fountain of pus. She was moving too fast up there for Marlow to see her but she was making a mess of its face, more of those eyes popping out, gallons of fluid splashing to the asphalt. It lifted one of its hands to knock her away but she was too quick, throwing herself to the ground and rolling. The creature towered above her, above all of them, stamping down hard enough to split the street in half.

  Pan was right. It was indestructible.

  Truck jabbed the pole into the creature’s flank like a spear. He fought to pull it free but Marlow stopped him.

  “No! Leave it!”

  He ran to the sidewalk, grabbed another streetlight, and wrenched it out, taking a run-up and launching it like a javelin at the creature’s torso. It wasn’t a straight shot, and the streetlight wasn’t exactly sharp, but the force of the throw punched it into the beast’s side. It howled like a speared mammoth, tumbling onto its side, writhing there. Marlow had already pulled another post free and threw this one just as hard, puncturing its throat.

  “Pan!” he shouted, looking around. Where the hell was she?

  A blinding flash of light blistered the air, fingers of lightning crackling into the beast. Pan strode out of the side of the demolished Rockefeller Center, grimacing as she unleashed hell. She must have read Marlow’s mind because she was aiming the attack at the spikes in the creature’s skin, millions of volts burning their way through its guts like it was a skewered chicken.

  The beast shuddered, trembling so hard that its skin was splitting, more of that rancid dark water flooding out. Marlow hopped onto the sidewalk to avoid it, hearing it gush down the drains. Smoke was billowing from its wounds, great clouds of it boiling into the sky.

  Pan stumbled and the stream of lightning cut out. She took a breath then lifted her hands, firing again. The light was weaker, duller, like she was running out of charge. Marlow noticed that her shirt was soaked with blood. He had no idea how she was even standing.

  The wormbag was on its belly, its claws scratching at the ground, at the air, its blind eyes blinking wetly. It uttered a soft, pathetic whine, one that almost made Marlow feel sorry for it.

  Not sorry enough, though.

  He ran to the next streetlight and uprooted it like a tree, a root-ball of solid concrete. Then he doubled back, ready to perform the coup de grâce, ready to splatter its infernal brain all over Fiftieth Street.

  No …

  The wormbag was pushing itself up, grunting with the effort, hauling itself onto its feet. It wrapped a claw around one of the poles in its flesh and wrenched it free, pulling out blackened chunks of organ and muscle. It tore out the other two, then broke into a run, retreating down the street, bulldozing its way through the wall of the Rockefeller tower.

  Pan flexed her fingers but she was too weak, producing nothing but a fistful of sparks. She dropped onto all fours, breathing hard. Marlow jogged to her side, Truck and Night arriving at the same time. They were all bleeding from a number of different wounds, panting, swaying like the whole of New York was a boat sinking fast. The power of the Engine was holding them together, but for how much longer?

  “What now?” Marlow asked.

  “Bitch is … too strong,” Pan said, her voice the sound of dry leaves kicked down the street.

  A dozen windows in the tower shattered, dust pouring out of them. People streamed from it, a tide of screams and sobs.

  “Can’t we cancel its contract or something?” Marlow said. “Get the demons after it?”

  “It’s not an Engineer,” Pan said, spitting out a bitter laugh. “It made no contract. That thing’s escaped hell, and there’s nothing…”

  She cocked her head, her eyes scrolling back and forth, thinking hard. She held out a hand and let Marlow pull her up, then she leaned over and kissed him on the cheek. Of all the injuries he’d suffered, this was the thing that almost stopped his heart dead.

  “That’s it, that’s what we need to do.” She was grinning. “For a stupid guy, you’re a genius.”

  “What?” Marlow said as she set off, limping down the street. “I don’t get it. What did I say?”

  More crunches from inside the Rock, the groan of a sinking ship. Marlow set off after her, clutching his ribs.

  “What?” he repeated.

  “We can kill it,” Pan shouted back. “We can send that gal right back to hell.”

  And Marlow almost had time to smile before she added, “But one of us will have to go with it.”

  FINISH HER!

  Pan was running on fumes. She felt like she was dissolving, like the electrostatic energy she’d been blasting out all night had hollowed her out inside, left her an empty husk. She knew she couldn’t go on much longer—the Engine could work miracles, but even it had its limits. Much more and she’d lightning herself right out of existence.

  But she couldn’t stop now. That wormbag would turn the city into a ruin of bone and blood.

  She limped on, feeling a hand under her arm. Marlow. The kid looked in a bad way, wincing every time he took a step. But he’d fought well, there was no denying it. She started to shake him off, then realized she’d be on the floor. She leaned on him instead, the four of them crossing the street to the Rock, following the path of carnage.

  “Anyone got a line to Herc?” she said. She’d tried her radio twice since leaving the cathedral but it was dead. No sign of Herc, no sign of Ostheim.

  “Everything’s down,” said Truck. “Haven’t heard anything since we entered St. Patrick’s. Probably the satellite feed.”

  She hoped that was all it was—they’d never lost connection before.

  “If you’re listening, Herc, you owe us one hell of a pay raise after tonight.”

  Not to mention a retirement party.

  They reached the gaping wall of the Rock. The skyscraper was living up to its name, the tower scratching the heavens. She focused on the hole in the wall, like the mouth of a cave. The lights inside flickered, strobing on and off, revealing bodies plastered to the floor. There was no sign of the Brianna-bag, but Pan could hear it, those demonic howls shaking the building to its foundations.

  “What did you mean?” Marlow asked as they clambered over the wreckage. “Why does somebody need to go to hell with it? Who?”

  That was a good question, and the answer was inevitable. Me, she thought, and suddenly stopped, looking back into the night, aware that this might be the last time she felt fresh air on her skin, saw the moonlight. Her heart was suddenly a ton weight slipping loose in her chest, sinking fast.

  You knew it would happen one day. You play the game, you take the pain.

  Yeah.

  She took a long, shuddering breath and carried on, slipping and tripping on the loose stone, on the blood-slicked ground. At one point she lost her footing, her hand plunging into something warm and wet. She snatched it loose, a snarl throbbing in her throat at the horror of it. And for a moment she didn’t think she had it in her to get up again. Better to just lie here, listen to the dying night.

  Then Marlow and Truck were there, grabbing an arm each and hauling her to her feet.

  “What’s the plan, Pan?” Truck said. “Better let us in on it just in case next time you fall you drop right out of life.”

  She opened her mouth to answer but was cut off by a howl from farther up inside the building. The wormbag sounded hurt. Pan thought she could hear something else, too, a voice above the storm. The next time she spoke it was in a whisper.

  “Herc told me once that there’s only one thing the demons want more than an owed soul, and that’s an escaped one.” Something ran out from behind a mound of rubble, a woman covered in blood, her eyes full of madness. One of her arms was missing, the other hand clamped over the gushing wound as she shuffled toward the street. “That wormbag got free,” Pan went
on. “Patrick pulled his sister’s soul right out of hell, and that pisses the demons off big-time.”

  “So you’re saying we need to get the demons here,” said Night. “Show them where to find their missing prisoner.”

  Pan nodded.

  “And therein lies the problem,” Truck said. “Because the only way of getting them here…”

  “Is for one of our contracts to expire,” Marlow said, and Pan could see the understanding blossoming in his expression. “Or for one of us to die.”

  Bingo.

  The ceiling of the lobby had been torn away, a drooping hole that stretched up for what must have been four or five stories. Dust and debris rained down, and when the wormbag bellowed again it came from somewhere up there. This time Pan could definitely hear a voice, although it was too soft for her to make out what it was saying. She flexed her fingers, trying to drum up a little more juice. She didn’t even know if the plan would work. The demons were pretty single-minded when they came for you. Who’s to say they would even notice that Brianna was there.

  What was the alternative, though? Let it rampage across Manhattan? And then what? A wormbag like that could take out the whole East Coast if it wanted to. How many would die? She couldn’t live with that on her conscience, in her soul.

  Not that it would be her soul for much longer.

  She kicked her way through the chaos to the stairwell, clattering up to the third floor and peeking out the door. There was a hole in the ceiling here and she climbed again, reaching the next level. This time, when she opened the fire door, she could see movement up ahead in the darkness of the tower. She held up her hand, motioning for the others to be quiet.

  “… do it, I had to.” That voice was up ahead, and she was pretty sure it belonged to Patrick. “They deserved it, we need…”

  A roar, like the wormbag was answering back. How much of Brianna was still in there? Pan wondered. How much was her, and how much was the festering madness of hell?