Hellraisers (36 page)

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?

“I want you to do it, Truck,” she said, looking up at the big guy. It took him a moment to understand what she was saying and he shook his head.

“No way, no way, Pan. I'm gonna take the bullet on this one.”

“Truck, you couldn't take the bullet because you'd just try to eat it,” she said, managing a half smile. “Just do it, okay? I'm tired of it all, anyway. Crush my head. One punch. I don't want to see it coming.”

“Pan…”

She rested her hand on his arm, met his eye, gently shook her head.

“It's okay, I'm ready for this.”

“Nobody's ready for this,” he said.

Marlow reached them, both hands wrapped around his stomach. Even though his asthma had been canceled he was still wheezing.

“Don't feel too good,” he said.

“Poor diddums,” Pan spat back. “You wanna stay here while I call your mommy?”

She didn't wait for an answer, just walked through the door into the shattered remains of an office. The noises were coming from the other side of the space, behind the wall of the elevator shaft. She clenched her fist, feeling the energy building up, bracing herself for another fight. Truck could do the deed now but she wanted to make sure it was definitely Brianna up ahead. Nothing would suck quite as much as being dragged to hell, then realizing that the wormbag was nowhere nearby.

She eased her way around a desk, hearing Patrick more clearly now.

“… be okay, I'll look after you, we can still do this, just—”

Something crashed to the ground behind her and a scream slipped between her lips before she could stop it. She spun, ducking down, seeing Marlow standing beside a desk, a computer monitor lying in pieces by his feet.

“That wasn't my fault,” he said, his words almost drowned out by a bone-shaking roar from the other side of the room. There was the sound of galloping feet, then the elevator shaft detonated like it had been packed with C-4. The wormbag pile-drived through, its mouth the size of a house, its fleshy back dragging against the ceiling, its eyes hanging loose and useless.

“Ah, screw this,” she heard Truck say, seeing the big guy running at it. He bent low like he was going in for the tackle, slamming into the beast like two trains crunching into each other. They careened into the outside wall together, punching right through it, both of them tumbling out into the night.

“No!” Pan yelled, running to the edge of the building in time to see them hit the ground. The Brianna thing burst, its rotten guts exploding over Rockefeller Plaza. There was no sign of Truck.

“Brianna!”

Patrick shuffled around the ruined elevator shaft. He moved like the living dead, limping, bleeding heavily, his eyes still full of lunatic hope. Pan had her hand up, ready to unleash a burst of energy, to fry the asshole for good, but he passed her like she didn't exist, moving to the window. For a second she thought he was going to fall out too. Instead he looked down, the wind snatching at him like it was trying to finish the job.

“Brianna,” he was sobbing. “Nonono.” He spun, jabbing his finger at her. “You did—”

Pan flinched against his attack, a burst of electrostatic burning from her fingers, whip-cracking against him. Too late she realized that he wasn't attacking but
'porting
, half of him already erased, like he was a phantom. The lightning snapped around his ghost-like body, leaving just a coil of smoke where he had been standing.

Something fizzed in the plaza, an echo of her strike, a crackle of lightning down below. Then Patrick screamed—a noise so shrill and so full of pain that Pan had to clamp her hands to her ears.

“Come on!” yelled Night, heading back the way they'd come. Pan started to follow but felt herself scooped up, Marlow's arms beneath her like he was carrying her over the threshold on their wedding day. He stepped through the window and they dropped, Pan clamping her mouth shut to stop her stomach flying out of her throat. They landed hard but Marlow cushioned her, putting her down gently. She braced herself, building up another charge, ready to fight.

The wormbag was lumbering to its feet, its sides literally split, tar-colored organs slopping out of it and splashing on the ground. Truck was underneath and Pan almost cried with relief when she saw the big guy sit up. Patrick screamed again and the Brianna thing cocked its butt-ugly head, whining. Pan scanned the plaza, found Patrick. And even after everything else she'd witnessed tonight, this was the thing that made her double over, made her empty her stomach over the ground.