Hellraisers (28 page)

Only when he ran out of stairs did he collapse onto his ass, out of breath but not in the
clutching-his-throat-feeling-like-he-was-about-to-die
kind of way that he was used to. He had no idea where he was but a city was laid out beneath him, studded with light, a fat, lazy, moon-drenched river splitting it in two. He sat there for a moment, the cool, fresh air rushing into his lungs like they were bellows. This was insane, totally insane. It couldn't be real. But he could smell the city, dust and grease and the faint aroma of the river. The warm touch of a summer night prickled his skin, the stone beneath him was cool and damp. The air was full of distant engines, a siren, and the hesitant chatter of the first birds who dared break the silence of the night. It was real. It was all perfectly, beautifully real.

“Marlow?”

The voice came from nowhere and his scream lodged in his throat like a fish bone. He jumped up, just trees behind him, the darkness in between them so profound that nothing might have been there at all, like you could step between those trunks and find yourself obliterated from existence.

“Who's there?” he asked. Probably Herc or Truck, right? Come to bring him back. Maybe it was Pan. Maybe she missed him.

“Marlow, don't run, please.”

He suddenly recognized the voice, but it couldn't be.

“Charlie?” he asked.

The foliage rustled, a shape gliding from the gloom twenty yards away. Charlie stepped into a pocket of moonlight, looking like a ghost. His clothes were torn, his face pale and smudged with bruises and blood. His nose was bent at a strange angle, like it had been broken. Marlow moved toward him but Charlie held up his hands, a set of handcuffs rattling.

“Don't,” Charlie said, sounding like he was chewing toffee. “Please. Move and they'll kill me.”

Marlow's heart went into overdrive. He looked to the side, trying to make sense of the darkness between the trees.

“Who, Charlie?”

Somebody else emerged from the shadows, treading carefully, keeping Charlie between himself and Marlow. It was the guy from the school, Patrick.

“Who do you think?” he said. “You figure we'd just pack up and go home? I told you I'd come for you.”

Patrick wrapped a fist around Charlie's throat, squeezing. Charlie struggled.

“Let him go,” Marlow said, taking a step forward, ready to run at them. He was fast now, could reach Charlie, could knock Patrick's head off with a single punch. But before he could take another step a third figure strolled from the trees. It was a young woman dressed all in black, like a cat burglar. She had red hair and she brushed it out of her eyes with one hand. In the other she was holding a pistol, pointed right at Charlie's head.

“You're fast,” she said. “We've been chasing you all over the city. But you're not faster than a bullet. Go for me and Patrick snaps your friend's neck. Go for him and I pull the trigger.”

“They will,” said Charlie. “They beat the crap out of me trying to find out where you went.”

“But you didn't know,” Marlow said. “I didn't tell you.”

“No, you left me.”

“I wanted to
protect
you,” Marlow said, trying to ignore Charlie's bitter smile.

“Yeah, Marlow, that worked out great.”

“So how did you know we were in Prague?” Marlow asked.

“Prague?” Charlie gasped for air. “This is Budapest.”

How the hell did we end up in Budapest?

“You've got one chance to save your friend's life,” said Patrick, lifting Charlie off the ground. He kicked at the air like a hanged man, batting pathetically at the vise-like grip around his throat. “Where's the Engine?”

“I don't know what—”

“You've seen it,” said the girl. “You've
used
it. Where is it?”

“I don't know,” Marlow said. “Please, I don't … They put a bag over my head, wouldn't let me see.”

“And what about tonight?” Patrick said, lifting Charlie higher. “Where's the door?”

Marlow desperately thought back, seeing a street, cars, a river. He'd been running so fast he hadn't been paying any attention to where he was or where he was going.

“No idea. It was just a street,” he said. “But the door, it's red, like bright red. That's all I know, I promise.”

Patrick and the girl shared a look. Charlie's face was a mottled shade of purple, his eyes starting to roll back in their sockets.
Do I go? Do I stay?
Marlow bounced on his heels, the panic like a straitjacket.

“Please,” he said. “Let him go. He's dying.”

“Like you let my sister go?” Patrick said. “How long did you torture her for?”

“I didn't.
We
didn't,” Marlow said, wondering when he'd become part of the “we.” “Her contract expired, we never got the chance. She didn't tell us anything.
Please.
”

“He's useless to us,” said the girl. She put her hand to her ear. “Negative on the new fish, tell the scouts to search for red doors, east of the river.” She listened for a second, then nodded. “Disposal authorized.”

Disposal?

She pulled the trigger before Marlow could so much as blink, the bullet thudding into Charlie's stomach. He groaned, his chained hands dropping to the wound, trying to hold himself in.

No!

Marlow started to move but he was too slow. Patrick grinned at him, then pulled back his arm and launched Charlie into the air. His strength was phenomenal, his friend spinning up and over the edge of the hill, a fan of blood trailing after him toward the city below.

“That's for Brianna,” Patrick said, moving in. “And this is for you.”

 

FREE FALL

Marlow watched Charlie spin over the edge of the hill, dropping toward the river. He couldn't let him die, not like this. There was still time.

He ran, the world slowing to a crawl—slow enough that he could see droplets of Charlie's blood suspended in the air, almost perfectly still. He'd only taken a few steps before something materialized in the air before him, scraps of bone and skin winding themselves around the rain, flesh knitting itself together until Patrick was standing there.

Marlow skidded to a halt, ducking beneath Patrick's swinging fist. He managed to straighten in time to see the boy fire off an uppercut. This one connected with his ribs, the force of the punch lifting him off the ground in an explosion of pain. He spun head over heels, landing on his back. Patrick 'ported again, reappearing right next to him.

A gunshot tore through the night, a bullet gouging the rock next to his head. He rolled up, scrabbling into a run as the girl fired off another shot. A slow-motion plume of fire crawled from the barrel of the gun, the bullet sailing out after it, carving a path through the air.

Marlow sensed a shape pop into existence beside him, Patrick there again, his face feral. Marlow lashed out, a lucky shot that connected with the boy's chin, catapulting him toward the trees. He didn't stop to see where he'd landed, just turned and ran through the frozen night, a shock wave of sound pulsing out before him like a cannon blast. It was too dark to see much, even with the moon grinning down at him, but wasn't that Charlie there, a silhouette against the city, falling in slow motion?

He propelled himself off the side of the cliff, leapfrogging rocks and railings, almost losing his footing in the dark. He was fast, yes, and strong, but he knew that if he fell here, if he tumbled over the rocks to the streets below, he'd be as dead as any mortal. He slowed a fraction, seeing Charlie's flailing body drop toward the river. He could still reach—

Something thumped into his back, as hard and fast as a train, and he tumbled. He rolled down the hill, Patrick next to him, pounding at him with fists of concrete. One connected with his nose and the world went white, a supernova of light detonating right in the middle of his head. The pain followed almost instantly, an inferno inside his broken nose. He tried to fight back but they were rolling too fast, bouncing off rocks, their fall out of control.

There was a sudden lurch, then nothing at all—no rocks, no steps, just free fall. Marlow's stomach exploded and he saw the ground rush up at him, a parked car. He landed on the roof, crushing it, groaning as he rolled off. There was a sudden rush of air behind him as Patrick 'ported onto the street, but Marlow ignored it, running faster than he'd ever run, the world almost stationary around him. The river was up ahead, a bridge, buildings. Marlow scoured the sky, no sign of Charlie. Was he too late? Was his friend smeared over a street somewhere?

There, level with the rooftops, a dark shape dropping. Marlow leaped over a fence, then onto a car, propelling himself into the river. He prepared himself for the cold, but when his foot hit the water it was spongy, almost solid. He ran across it, Charlie almost in reach, so close, hanging in the air like a phantom. Marlow jumped, reaching out for his friend, tackling him in midair. His momentum punched them both toward the riverbank and they rolled to a halt on the grass.

Marlow snatched in a breath, leaning over his friend. Charlie was in shock, his eyes open but unseeing, blood dripping from his mouth. His T-shirt was drenched and when Marlow pulled it back he saw a gaping hole. He pushed his hands against it but the blood leaked through his fingers, as hot as boiling water.

He was going to die.

“Oh god, Charlie,” Marlow said, tears burning his eyes. “Man, I'm so sorry. I never should have left you.”

Charlie opened his mouth but all that came out was a bubble of blood. Marlow looked around, the windows dark and lifeless, the street empty. He wanted to call for help but it would bring Patrick much more quickly than an ambulance. He had to carry him, get him to a hospital. Marlow reached down to scoop up his friend but something big smashed into the grass a couple of yards away, showering him with dirt. It was a bollard, rooted in a half ton of concrete, rolling past him like a wrecking ball before crunching into the side of a building.

He scanned the sky, saw another one sailing across the river like it had been launched by a catapult. Patrick was on the other bank, ripping a third bollard from the ground.

Marlow managed to get to his feet, the slab of concrete hurtling right toward him. He threw a punch at it and it exploded into shrapnel, a bolt of pain lancing from his fist to his armpit. He blinked the dust from his eyes, only just managing to get his hands up before the next bollard struck. He caught it, the impact driving him back, his heels gouging trenches in the dirt. He recovered his balance and lobbed the bollard across the river, as easy as if it were a beach ball.

It was a wild shot, nowhere near its target, thumping into the side of the bridge with a sound like a church bell. Patrick vanished, reappearing almost instantly on this side of the river. But Marlow was already running right for him, everything slowing. He slammed into the boy, both of them dropping into the river.

Time snapped back and he hit hard, sinking, the cold like a kick to the gut. Marlow tried to breathe and inhaled a lungful of freezing water. He kicked upward, bursting out of the surface in time to see Patrick swing a punch. It connected with his temple and for an instant there was nothing but black. When the world swam back he realized he was beneath the water again, hands on his head, pushing him down.

Something dark and cold was creeping into the edge of his mind—nothing to do with the river. He choked, lashing out, but the water slowed him down, made it impossible to see where to punch. The hands on his head were squeezing so hard he felt his skull creaking, about to splinter, his vision sparking. He would have screamed if there was anything left in his lungs.

Distant pops, then something streaked through the water like a shaft of sunlight. More followed, one coming so close to Marlow that he felt a cold burn on his skin. He heard a thud, then the grip on his head came loose. He clawed his way to the surface, snatching in as much air as he could. Patrick was there, clutching his shoulder with one hand, looking like he was struggling to stay afloat.

More gunshots, bullets tearing through the water, too close. Marlow looked toward the bank to see a cop there, an old guy, a pistol in his shaking hands. He was yelling something that Marlow couldn't make any sense of. He fired again and Marlow heard the whistle as the bullet seared the air beside his ear.

He swam, trying to make the world speed up again. But he couldn't get his feet on the ground, couldn't
run.
Patrick was panicking too, too tired to 'port, both of them trying to get to the opposite side of the river. The guy was hurt, though, blood oozing from the wound in his shoulder.

The cop was shouting, over and over, squeezing off more rounds. Then his head erupted into a fan of crimson and he crumpled to the ground. The girl with red hair dropped casually from the bridge, turning her gun out into the river.

“Patrick?” she yelled, barely audible over the rush of water. “Where are you?”

“Here!” came a reply from the darkness. “He's that way, by the bridge.”

Pop pop pop
, more bullets tearing into the water. Marlow snatched in a breath and dived into the murk, paddling manically, the current dragging him along. He was a sitting duck out here. He swam for as long as he could, until he felt the slimy riverbank. Bursting back out he clung to it, choking, snatching at anything he could to try to root himself in place.

A hand. He snatched at it, holding as tight as he could, silently yelling,
Please please please, pull me up!
Because there was nothing left in him.

Then Patrick's head appeared above the hand, pale and exhausted but still smiling.

“Beat you,” he said, then he pushed Marlow back beneath the surface.

 

PROTOCOL CAN KISS MY ASS