Hellraisers (35 page)

Then Patrick was there, 'porting out of thin air. He swiped his arm and the cop went flying. Patrick grabbed the squad car and hefted it over his head, his fingers gouging holes in the metal like it was made of butter. Marlow rolled out of the way just as the car came down, crumpling next to him, cratering the asphalt. He scrambled to his feet and bolted past another cop—this one falling back in slow-motion shock, looking like he was sitting on thin air.

The pain in his ribs was too great and he had to stop, time snapping back. There was a grinding crunch of metal as Patrick lobbed the same car across the street. Marlow raised his arms just in time to deflect it, the impact knocking him back. By the time he'd recovered, Patrick was gone.

“Where'd he go?” Night said, materializing next to him. She looked exhausted, putting her hands on her knees to catch her breath. “Oh, there he is.”

Marlow looked to see a fire truck grating toward them on a wave of sparks. Marlow threw himself on Night, pulling them both to the ground as it bounced over their heads, close enough to touch, uprooting trees and signs before slamming into the side of the Banana Republic store. Patrick flashed into sight next to it, relentless, grabbing the truck and spinning it around in a wide, deadly arc. Marlow tried to move but he wasn't quick enough, the truck driving into him and catapulting him over the street. He lay there, everything spinning.

“Get up, lazy ass!” Truck yelled, barreling past and grabbing Patrick in a bear hug. Night was there too, laying into him like he was a speedball in the gym. Patrick grunted and popped away, appearing again in an instant on the opposite sidewalk. He staggered, bracing his arm on the cathedral wall, looking about three steps away from death. Then Truck was on him again, launching the fire truck like a spear. Patrick didn't 'port this time, just threw himself to the side as the truck hit the cathedral. It was like a wrecking ball, too much for the burning building, half of St. Patrick's falling into itself like a wave-washed sand castle.

“Don't let him out of your sight,” said Truck, his whole body jiggling as he crossed the street. But it was too late, the dust clearing to reveal an empty space where Patrick had been.

Marlow's head snapped left and right as he tried to pinpoint where he'd 'ported to.
There
, movement to the side of the cathedral, something creeping out of the smoke. He squinted into the dark. Whatever it was, it wasn't Patrick. It couldn't even be human, could it? The space where its head should have been was just a ragged hole, something grotesque bulging from the stump.

“What
is
that?” said Night, leaning on him for support.

The creature crawled onto the street, a mangled mess of skin and bone that looked as if it had lost a battle with a wood chipper, a blast furnace, and a steamroller all at once. It was shaking, struggling to stay upright on its severed limbs. And something was definitely happening inside it, impossible shapes pressing against the remaining scraps of skin.

“I don't know,” said Marlow, trying to swallow his stomach back inside. “But we should probably kill it.”

The bulge of the creature's neck stump was ballooning outward, a mass of leathery flesh mottled with dark veins. There were eyes there, a whole bunch of them, as big and as watery as cracked eggs. A hole opened beneath them, a gaping, toothless maw that snatched at the air. It uttered a foghorn groan so loud and so low that Marlow didn't so much hear it as feel it in the soles of his feet.

“Yeah, we should
really
kill it,” he said, gritting his teeth against the pain. “You do it.”

Something burst out of the creature. It was a fat, jointed limb that had to be six or seven feet long, sliding loose alongside a gout of black blood. At the end of it was a hand that looked half human and half reptile, topped with a mix of stumpy fingers and blade-like claws, dozens of them. Another followed, tearing out of the jelly of Brianna's demolished rib cage, a limb of muscle and sinew. They were expanding impossibly fast, swelling, the skin stretching to accommodate them.

The creature's torso was growing too, like something had hatched inside the corpse of the girl. It bulged out, as black and shiny as a tick's shell. It was as big as a horse now, even more limbs sprouting from it. The beast tottered unsteadily, unable to control its bulk, its mouth lolling open, gumming the sky, its eyes straining, bulging.

“No, it's okay,” said Night. “You can do it.”

“No, really, it's all yours,” Marlow said.

The world burned white and he threw his hands up against the force of it. Bolts of lightning scorched their way from the cathedral, turning the air to cold fire as they sliced into the beast. Its insect hide crackled and spat and it reared up on its stunted back limbs. Black hairs—no,
spikes
, as big as javelins—were erupting from its hide, bristling like a porcupine's.

Another burst of electrostatic discharge, forks of lightning slicing through the night. They whip-cracked against the creature's rear end and it howled, a cannon shot of sound that tore into the air. It broke into a run, the whole street trembling with the force of it.

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.