Hellraisers (30 page)

Marlow wasn't sure where the others were now—he hadn't exactly been Mr. Popular on his return—but he knew they'd taken Charlie down to the Engine. Hanson had thrown a hissy fit but he'd been overruled. Not that there was much point, of course—Charlie had been unconscious for the last thirty minutes of the journey, and, as Pan had pointed out, the Engine didn't work unless you were awake.

“Come on, Charlie,” he said. “Please be okay.”

He sat on his bed, chewing his knuckles. He'd spent over an hour in the shower—most of which curled up beneath the spray sobbing his eyes out—but he could still smell blood on his hands. He pushed himself to his feet again, pacing like a caged animal. That wasn't too far from the truth, he supposed. He'd been ordered not to leave the room. Truck had been left to watch over him and Marlow supposed he could sneak out now, just run for it—he was faster than sound, after all—but where would he go? And who would he get killed this time? No, better he just stayed here, that way nothing else would turn to crap.

Truck farted extravagantly, rolling over in his sleep, muttering something about a monkey. The bullet that had struck the big guy had gone straight through, in and out, and he'd been patched up. It was already close to healing, the contract seeing to that.

The sound of footsteps rose up outside and the dorm door opened. He was hoping to see Pan but it was Hanson who entered. He strode forward holding a cell phone.

“How's he doing?” Marlow asked.

“Do I look like I care?” Hanson said. “He never should have been allowed in. For all we know he could be working for them.”

Marlow scoffed. “Yeah, sure, and I'm Hugh Hefner's jockstrap. Please, tell me how he is.”

“I take it you're the one who gouged a rocket on my pretty little BMW?”

“Me?” said Marlow. “No way, man, I'd never deface something that belonged to such a nice guy. Anyway, it looked like a penis to me.”

Hanson squared up, close enough for Marlow to see those gaping sockets behind the tinted lenses. He smelled of something sweet—too sweet, like fruit that had started to rot.

“You know how long I've been doing this?” he said. “Over forty years.”

Marlow frowned. There was no way he could be that old, he looked like he was still in his twenties—haggard, yes, but young.

“I've seen more people die than you could imagine. Friends. Enemies. It doesn't matter. Death is death. And I do what I do because it matters. Because we save more lives than we destroy. If it wasn't for us, this world would be hell, literally. You have no bloody idea how stupid you were tonight, leaving the complex. If you knew the danger you'd put us in, if you knew what was at stake, you'd put a gun to your head right now and blow your brains out.”

Marlow knew the Brit was right, but he still felt his hackles rise, felt the fury pounding in his stomach, like something trying to claw its way out. He shrugged like he didn't have a care in the world.

“Maybe you should put some windows in, then,” he said, hating himself for it but unable to stop the words spilling out of his mouth. “Get an Xbox or something. It's as
boring
as hell in here.”

Hanson ignored Marlow and shoved the phone at him.

“Ostheim wants to speak to you.”

Marlow took the cell. He wasn't sure if he wanted to speak to the man, he knew he'd only get another shellacking. Hanson walked out the door, turning back to say, “And,
dog
, don't talk to him like you talk to the rest of us. He will end you.”

Marlow swallowed, waiting for the sound of footsteps to fade before lifting the phone. For a second he thought the call must have dropped because there was no sound there, not even the static hum of background noise. There was just a profound silence, like he'd gone deaf in one ear. He flexed his jaw, the deafness seeming to spread into his skull, making the side of his head feel numb.

“Marlow,” said a voice, and he almost screamed. It sounded like the man was inside the room, whispering. His voice was high-pitched, his accent unfamiliar, European. The silence dropped back over him like a weight and Marlow opened his mouth to reply, only so he wouldn't feel smothered by it.

“Hi,” he said, his own voice so weak, so insignificant. He coughed, speaking louder. “Ostheim, right?”

“At your service,” said Ostheim. “And call me Sheppel, please. It's nice to finally meet you. I hear you almost got us all in a heap of trouble tonight.”

“It wasn't my fault,” Marlow said. “I didn't know I wasn't supposed to leave the Nest.” The lie seemed to hang in the air like a bad smell and he paced away so that he wouldn't have to breathe it back in. “Look, I—”

“All's well that ends well,” Ostheim interrupted. “Truth is, there's no real danger, it's just protocol. They can't get inside our Engine, we can't get inside theirs. They only open from the inside. It's just a dance we do, each side trying to weaken the other. Do you know what a war of attrition is?”

Marlow shook his head, and Ostheim must have guessed.

“It's a prolonged period of conflict where each side gradually seeks to wear out their enemy through a series of small-scale actions. In other words, it's tit for tat, we kill one of yours, you kill one of ours, over and over and over. For a long, long time, Marlow. For hundreds of years. Two of the most powerful machines ever created and we use them to slap each other around the face.”

“But why?” Marlow asked. “Why don't you work together. Man, you could rule the world, could, like, be rich and stuff. You could be the most powerful people on the planet. I don't get it.”

“Power and riches. You sound like them, Marlow. Is that what you want?”

Duh,
he almost said, but bit his tongue. Ostheim's voice was quiet, gentle, almost soothing, but there was something there right beneath the surface, something dark and dangerous, like the shark-filled depths of a quiet ocean.

“No,” Marlow said. “I mean, it would be cool. But what else is there? What are you fighting for?”

“We're fighting for everything. And I mean everything.”

“The world,” Marlow said.

“More than that,” Ostheim said. “Much more. If the Circulus Inferni have their way, then they will open up the gates of hell, fill the world with demons. Do you have any idea how thin the walls are between our worlds? Do you have any idea how close we are to the other side, and to what inhabits it? They are there now, all around us, dimensions separated by the merest fraction of space, the stitches held together by old magic, by the first laws of the universe. All it takes is one snip and the whole thing will unravel. Demons will flood our world, and we will all be prey.”

Marlow rubbed at the gooseflesh on his arms, sitting down on his bed. His legs didn't feel quite strong enough to hold him. He pictured it, those things peeling themselves from walls, from the floor. The world would be an island of sundered flesh in an ocean of blood.

“Not just that,” said Ostheim. “It's not just death that we're talking about. Demons don't care about blood and bone. It's your soul that feeds them. Do you understand, Marlow? If the gates are opened, then every single person on Earth will lose their inner self, their essence. They will burn for the rest of time.”

Marlow wiped the sweat from his forehead, had to close his eyes against the sudden wave of nausea and vertigo. Every single person—his mom, Charlie, Pan,
him.

“Do you understand now why it's important to listen?” Ostheim asked. “Why we have rules?”

“Yes.”

“Good. But as I said, no harm, no foul. I also heard that you fought well tonight, that you nearly took out an enemy Engineer.”

“No,” Marlow said. “Not unless ‘nearly taking out' is the same thing as almost being drowned by.”

“But you're still here to tell the tale, and that's no mean feat when you're fighting somebody like Patrick Rebarre. Herc did well recruiting you. He saw something in you. He saw that you are a brave man. Yes?”

Marlow felt his cheeks burn, stared at the floor. A brave man? No, he was the opposite of that. How many times had he tried to run? How many times had he abandoned and betrayed the ones he loved to save his own ass? He was Marlow Green, and he was a coward.

“You may not know it,” Ostheim said, once more seeming to pick the thoughts right out of Marlow's head. “But it's there inside you, and I need it. I need brave men, Marlow. Can you help me?”

“I guess…”

“Good. Then I have something I need you to do. A mission. We think we've managed to track Patrick. He's running but he's hurt. We need you to go after him.”

“Okay,” said Marlow, his pulse drumming in his ears.

“Pan, Truck, and Night will be going with you. Marlow, I don't need to tell you how important this is. If we get to Patrick, then we may have a way into their Engine.”

“Okay,” Marlow said. “What happens then? If we get inside?”

“We destroy it,” Ostheim said. “We take it to pieces and sink them at the bottom of the ocean.”

“Then we win,” Marlow said, nodding. “Is that what they want to do, too? Destroy our Engine?”

“No,” said Ostheim. “They need our Engine. If the two Engines are united, then they will possess the key to tearing down the barriers between our worlds.”

A bolt of fear tore through him, followed by a sudden rush of emotion, too powerful to identify. It was almost
excitement.

“Then can't we just, y'know, destroy our Engine? Stop them getting it?”

Ostheim breathed out a laugh, the sound as soft and sharp as a knife through steak. “We could, but that would be like giving up your nuclear weapons in the hope your enemy will do the same.”

Marlow nodded, still feeling that itch, that unbearable tickle of excitement in his chest.

“Ignore that sensation, if you can,” said Ostheim. “It's easy to forget that this is why the Engines were designed—to bring about a union of worlds. Can you hear it? It's what the Engine wants you to do, unite it with the other infernal machine. Do not listen to it, and it will fade.”

Marlow
could
hear it, a soft whisper that seemed to be coming from inside him, scratching at his skull.

“Go now,” Ostheim said. “Be brave. Return when your mission is done and know that you played a part in keeping this world safe. You are an Engineer. The fate of this world lies in your hands.”

Marlow nodded. He could be brave.

He
could
be brave.

“Now, go see your friend. He's out of the Engine and he's still alive, but only just. His fight is far from over, but he is on the right path.”

“Thank you,” he said, a wave of cold relief washing over him, but the call had ended, that immense silence cutting out and replaced with the quiet hiss of an empty line. He kept the phone to his ear for a moment more, then tossed it onto the bed.

An Engineer.
He still had so many questions, there was so much he didn't understand. But at least he had a better idea of his role in the war, and what he was fighting for. And at least Charlie was out of the woods.

He jogged from the room, out into the corridor. Hanson was waiting inside the elevator and he closed the gates behind Marlow before pressing the button.

“What did he say?” Hanson asked as they rumbled down.

“He told me to tell you you're fired,” Marlow said.

Hanson bristled but didn't reply, just waited for the elevator to come to a halt before opening the gates. Marlow walked out into a corridor he hadn't had a chance to explore yet. Only one of the doors was open and he walked toward it, turning into a room that could have belonged inside a hospital. There were six medical beds, and in one of them lay his only friend—battered, bruised, and asleep.

“Charlie?” he said, running to him. He noticed Pan sitting beside the bed. “Is he okay?”

She shrugged.

“We managed to wake him up with a shot of adrenaline to the heart,” Pan said. “He was conscious, and aware, when he went in. He knew what to do. Ask me, it was a stupid move. He could have dealt for anything.”

“What did he deal for?” Marlow asked, sitting on the edge of the bed. Charlie was looking better than the last time he'd seen him, which was one good thing. He still resembled a sculpture of bruises and broken bones, sure, but he was breathing evenly, and the heart monitor that bleeped by his bedside held a strong rhythm.

“To stay alive,” Pan said. “He repeated it back to me a dozen times before we let him in.”

“So why is he still out?”

“I don't know.” She sighed. “He was right there, on the edge of death. He might have been too close. Bad things can happen when you use the Engine to prolong life. He might have been better off dying.”

Marlow started to argue, then understood what she was saying.

“The Lawyers can break it, right?” he said. She didn't reply. “
Right?
”

“They're looking at the Engine now,” she said. “They're doing their best. This is a tough one to break, and they don't even know if it's all he brokered for. It could be anything, they don't know where to start.”

Marlow swore. Not only had he dragged Charlie into this crapstorm, not only had he nearly gotten him killed, he'd also damned his soul to hell for all eternity. He took Charlie's hand, the boy's skin cold, clammy, like he was already a corpse.

I'm so sorry,
he said without saying.

“You spoke to Ostheim?” Pan asked. He nodded. “Then you know we have to go.”

“I can't leave him.”

“There's nothing you can do for him,” she said, standing up. “They'll do everything they can.”

“Just give me a sec, okay?” Marlow asked. Pan nodded and walked out of the room.