by Ryland Thorn
“What in all of Hell?” Lennox mutters. She has managed to get the ball of glowing fire in her hands to be self sustainable, at least for a moment. Her tone is filled with disgust and loathing, and she takes an unconscious, fearful step back.
“Demon spawn,” Jack spits. He now understands why there is so much of the slippery sludge on the ground. These vile Hell creatures secrete it, like slugs secrete the slime that helps them to move. The tar man has set the trap that Jack and Lennox have sprung. He has been conjuring these loathsome things as he hid in the dark. And the cry of fear Jack and Lennox heard had heard was the worm on the hook.
The realization is enough to turn Jack’s anger into rage. Without hesitation, his finger tightens on the trigger.
Bang!
But something must have warned the tar man of his intent. He is already moving. Jack’s bullet finds nothing but empty space before plowing into a wall. The tar man is gone, leaving behind only echoes of laughter that has little to do with real joy and a road filled with spawn.
Jack mutters a curse under his breath. He wants nothing more than to chase after the tar man, to catch him and see if he can outrun a bullet fired straight into his chest. Jack wants to find out who the tar man is and if he had anything to do with the events with the Brotherhood. Although that already seems unlikely. There was no sign of demon spawn at the Lair.
And yet, this is the third demonic disturbance in a single day. In Jack’s mind, there must be a connection.
But he cannot focus on the tar man as yet. The demon spawn on the road are a more urgent problem. They are vile and loathsome and slow, but they are relentless and dangerous as well. Jack and Lennox cannot leave them for others to find.
“Revolting things!” says Lennox. Then, before Jack can warn her against it, she begins pronouncing words in the same, ugly language as before.
“Wait!” Jack shouts, but it is already too late. A tongue of liquid red Hellfire arcs out from the center of the ball of energy Lennox is still holding toward the demon spawn. Jack utters a curse as the Hellfire engulfs half a dozen of the vile, amorphous shapes. There is a strong odor of ozone and the air crackles with power. It is like lightning, bright enough to cast a glare over the road, over the walls of the buildings looming over them, and over the stacked piles of garbage that line the pavement.
For an instant, Jack can see the expression of gleeful anticipation on Lennox’s face. She expects her fire to turn the demon spawn into knee-high balls of flame, or to boil them where they stand. Either way, she expects her use of magic to be effective.
But Jack knows better. He has faced the likes of these before.
“Stop it!” he shouts.
The demon spawn caught in Lennox’s fire produce a high-pitched squeal like some plastics make when burning in a grate. At first, it looks as if Lennox’s magic is working. The demon spawn start to bubble like they are boiling in acid.
Even so, Lennox respects Jack’s command. She looks at him in confusion as she cuts the tongue of fire off.
“Why? It’s working! Look at them!” Lennox says, her voice filled with accusations and uncertainty at the same time.
“Wait,” Jack says. “And watch.”
They do so. The demon spawn continue to squeal and bubble as if they are in pain. They spit out pseudopods in every direction. It seems as if they are coming apart, as if their substance is failing them. It looks as if they are dying.
But the squealing continues. The pseudopods that the afflicted demon spawn have ejected fade along much of their length, leaving shapeless globules of their hideous flesh behind. It is like what the viscous, oozy slime sold to children as a toy would look like after being smashed by a hammer.
Still, it appears as if Lennox’s attack has been successful. She has broken the demon spawn into pieces.
Then the smaller pieces start to grow. In moments, they are half the size of their parents. Seconds later, they are the same size, and the squealing has stopped.
Jack and Lennox are now surrounded by nearly twice as many of the demon spawn as they had been facing before.
Lennox stifles a gasp of shock mixed with revulsion. “Son of a…” she begins, and takes another involuntary step backwards. She looks left and right. “How do we kill these disgusting things?” she asks, breathing hard. Jack can hear the first hint of real fear in her voice.
As for himself, he is angry. He despises creatures like this. Hates them with such passion that it makes his blood boil. If he could, he would grab them in his bare hands and tear them to pieces, then stomp those pieces into the road until nothing is left.
But he cannot. Instead, he puts his gun away and draws the pair of inward-curving knives that he has sheathed at his back.
“The old-fashioned way,” he snarls in answer to Lennox’s question. His knives have been inscribed with occult symbols on both blade and handle. The only reason that the same symbols don’t hurt Jack’s hands is that the handles have been bound in black leather. “Don’t let them touch you,” he says. “They will drain your vitality if they do.”
“Great,” Lennox replies. “Any other good news?” She launches the ball of demon fire into the air with a muttered word that makes Jack feel slightly nauseous, then draws her own knives. They are straighter than his, and have also been etched with occult symbols. She holds them with the confidence and ease that comes with many hours of practice.
The ball of demon fire hangs in the air like a glitter ball in a club, casting reddish light in every direction.
“Yeah,” Jack grunts. “Cutting these things into pieces will have the same effect as your Hellfire. Use the flat of your blades. The symbols will burn them.”
With that, Jack grits his teeth in suppressed fury and gets to work, laying about himself with the enthusiasm borne of hate mixed with disgust.
Chapter Six: Clouds of Putrescence
Everywhere Jack’s blade touches the vile, oily, wet-looking flesh, he is rewarded with a sound like the sizzling of bacon and a cloud of noxious vapor. The demon spawn squeal once again, but this time there is no corresponding bubbling or spontaneous ejection of pseudopods. This time, the squealing seems more like that of agony, if these vile things can feel such a human sensation.
This time, instead of spawning others of their own kind, the foul Hell creatures writhe in pain.
But they do not die easily. Jack has to burn each one for some seconds with the flat of both blades together before they begin to fester and collapse in on themselves.
Jack starts to swear in frustration under his breath. He can sense Lennox beside him getting frustrated as well as she lays about herself with her own knives. Neither of them is in serious danger, not yet, but the sheer number of the demon spawn is enough to make this a difficult task.
Nor is it entirely safe. More than once, Jack feels the grotesque, slimy burn of a pseudopod striking his hands as he seeks to keep his knives pressed against their vile flesh.
It stings like the venom of a bee at the same time as making his muscles feel numb. How many times a pseudopod slaps against his trenchcoat or trousers, Jack doesn’t know. He knows only that he cannot withstand the vitality-sucking strikes of these monsters forever.
Nor is it just himself that he has to worry about. Lennox is also spitting occasional curses that sound like winces of pain.
“Don’t these foul, miserable monstrosities ever give up?” she snarls. “And how many of them are there?”
Jack can hear the anger in her voice and can feel his blood boiling as well. They have been fighting for some minutes now, and the number of demon spawn seems undiminished. With a howl of rage, Jack winds up and kicks one of the spawn with his purple sneaker.
It is a mistake. His wounded leg buckles under the strain. Jack is barely able to stay upright. If he falls amongst these vile beings from Hell, it could go very badly. But that is not the worst of it.
The worst is that the spawn he kicked has latched onto his sneaker and lower leg. It is
like he has stepped into a vat of molasses that has wrapped itself around his trousers. As he stomps on the road to try and dislodge it, Jack feels the vile creature extend its tendrils up his trouser leg. Within moments, his calf muscle starts to burn and his leg feels leaden.
Jack gives voice to an inarticulate snarl of rage and hate. He is incredulous, beyond furious that this thing would touch his flesh in this way. It is like a defilement, and Jack feels instantly unclean. He lays the flats of his blades against the demon spawn on his leg and presses into its flesh so that clouds of putrid vapor burst into the air. He presses down with all of his strength and feels the moment when the spawn gives up the fight and dissolves.
Then, limping, he steps back from the fight.
It seems that there are just as many spawn now as there had been to start with. Lennox is lost in the madness of battle. She is partly obscured by the cloud of vapor that is erupting around her, but the demon spawn are not diminishing.
Lennox is a wild woman, howling in fury as she lashes about, but her efforts are more hopeful than effective. She is not taking the time to ensure that those she strikes are done.
Even so, Jack cannot help but admire her vengeful enthusiasm. She fights with fluidity and grace to complement the strength and ferociousness of her attacks. Even without her magic, she is formidable. It is a joy to watch, but Jack would not want to face her one-on-one.
He has to accept that there are too many of the spawn for them to deal with in this way.
Jack sheathes his knives. As well as them, he has his handgun, but that isn’t his first choice of weapon against so many foes. Instead, he reaches into an inner pocket of his trenchcoat and withdraws a vial of clear liquid. Unsure if it is enough to do the job or not, he removes the rubber stopper at the end and does his best to spray the holy water within over as many of the demon spawn as he can.
Chapter Seven: Demon Blood
It works. The demon spawn erupt into a chorus of ear-piercing squeals. Foul clouds of noxious steam fill the air, through which Jack can see the spawn writhe and shiver as if they are in pain. He watches with grim satisfaction as they start to dissolve into the sludge they have left on the road.
He has cleared about a third of them. Most of the rest surround Lennox.
“Lex,” Jack says. Lennox is so consumed by the need to defeat these vile monstrosities that she doesn’t respond. She hasn’t noticed his success with the holy water and is still laying about herself with her knives. She spins about, spits a curse that is close to a scream of pure rage, then flinches as she is brushed by an extended pseudopod. At once, she expresses her fury in a wordless growl and slashes at the spawn that brushed her.
There is no fear or hesitation in anything that she does. She is an elemental being made of vengeance and determination to match Jack’s own, and he can’t help but admire her.
“Lex!” Jack repeats, more loudly. At the same time, he reaches for a second vial. He had only three in his pocket, and hopes that the two he has left will suffice.
Lennox pauses in her fighting and looks at Jack with an expression that is close to madness. “What?” she demands, her voice filled with annoyance at the interruption. Jack can see that the demon blood in her veins is close to the surface and experiences a moment of worry.
He tries to judge how much of a hold the demon blood has on her, but doesn’t mention it. Instead, he holds the vial up so she can see. “Holy water works better,” he grates.
Lennox isn’t too far gone into the madness of her blood. She understands what Jack is saying, and wades through the demon spawn toward him, slashing left and right out of pure spite as she goes.
The demon spawn surge after her like a wave of living molasses that is tainted by Hell. It is revolting to look at and awful to smell.
Once she is clear, Jack takes a moment to assess her. She is breathing hard and seems full of excitement and zeal that is barely held in check. It is like she is giving off waves of demonic energy that are almost palpable. Yet she is still Lennox, still human. She wants to see the demon spawn vanquished rather than join them.
It is reassurance enough. Jack doesn’t need to reach for the dose of her suppressant he carries in his pouch, at least not at the moment.
He steps forward and sprays the contents of the second vial about. This time, he manages to douse an even greater number of them. Together, he and Lennox watch in satisfaction as the demon spawn sizzle and squeal. In moments, only a handful of the foul creatures remain.
“It would have been nice if you’d thought of that earlier,” says Lennox as the steam from the demon spawn starts to disperse.
Jack grunts in response. “Are you okay?” he asks. He is anxious about how close she had seemed to letting her demon escape.
Lennox looks at her hands, both of which are still holding knives. Even in the dim, reddish light of the Hellfire orb that still floats in the air above them, Jack can see the angry welts on her skin and the way that her hands are shaking slightly.
“I’ll live,” she says, unaware that the welts on her hands are not what Jack is asking about. Then she shivers. She breathes deeply, as if making a conscious effort to calm down. For a moment, her eyes are closed as she lets go of her rage. Then she breaks into a grin. “What about you, old man? How are you holding up? Are those ancient bones of yours proof against these things as well?”
Jack is relieved by her playful tone, by the knowledge that she is still in control of herself. “I wish,” he says gruffly. He is glaring at the few remaining demon spawn with lingering hate. He judges them too far apart for the remaining vial of holy water to be effective, and draws his knives once again.
“Come on,” he snarls. “There are still more of these things that need to be sent back to Hell.”
Chapter Eight: The Tar Man’s Return
Lennox’s Hellfire orb is starting to fade by the time they clear the alley of the last few demon spawn. Jack stands back, a grimace combining satisfaction with revulsion on his face, and surveys the results of their efforts.
The adrenaline that has sustained him throughout the battle is fading. He feels weary, as if he hasn’t slept for a week. The wound in his thigh is throbbing painfully, and his hands feel swollen and thick. He feels as if a gentle nudge might topple him over and grimly acknowledges that the demon blood in his veins doesn’t protect him from everything.
He is durable far beyond what is normal for most. He has withstood punishments that should have killed him and walked away with nothing more than the occasional bruise. Yet even he has his limits. Jack has learned through painful experience that he still has to fear teeth and claws, and fire and acids burn him just like they would any other.
Three times in the past, he has been wounded to the point where death seemed inevitable. In each of these times, he had closed his eyes with a sense of relief that he could finally relax, expecting either the torments of Hell or the comfort of oblivion.
But each time, to his surprise and disappointment, he survived. It had taken days or weeks, but he’d woken with his vitality restored, his own death rejected.
Jack understands that he is not immune to the draining effects of the demon spawn’s touch. Perhaps one day he will use that knowledge to test the limits of his immortality. But for now, there is still work to be done.
“Take that, you repulsive, oil-slick amoeba!” Lennox spits as the very last of the demon spawn disintegrates under her blades. Panting, she steps back from the sulfur-smelling explosion of steam that it releases and looks around for another target.
Finding none, she favors Jack with a broad grin that mixes savagery with a joy that is akin to elation. The demon in her is once again close to the surface, but it seems to be under control. As Jack watches, she visibly calms herself.
“That was almost fun!” she says cheerfully. “Kinda satisfying, you know? Like lancing a boil or picking a scab.” She wipes her blades clean on her jeans, and her expression twists in revulsion. “And about as disg
usting,” she adds. “Although I have to admit, I’m not a fan of how they suck the strength out of you.” She flexes her fingers, testing them, making sure they are still functional.
Jack gives a non-committal grunt in response. He cannot help but notice that she is as covered in grime as he is. It is the remnants of the demon spawn, and it stinks of sulfur and rot. Jack knows that he has the same filth on his trenchcoat and trousers. Their efforts have even left a buildup of putrescent sludge on his purple sneakers.
On him, it adds to his rumpled, slovenly appearance. It is just another piece of evidence that he is homeless and a bum. But somehow, Lennox is able to transcend it. On her it is an anomaly that is easily disregarded. Even the smudges on her face are little more than a distraction from the perfection of her skin.
This difference in their perceived appearance is a mystery that he has noticed before but has never understood. Nor does it worry him overly much.
“We are not done yet,” he says grimly. “There is the tar man to deal with.” While Lennox seems perfectly able to enjoy their moment of victory, Jack’s anger still smolders. Despite his weariness, he will push himself to continue. The tar man is dangerous, and Jack will not tolerate such danger in his city.
Lennox raises an eyebrow and favors him with a wry half-grin. “You really know how to show a girl a good time, don’t you?” she says teasingly.
Jack just grunts. He holds her gaze.
Lennox’s grin grows broader. She sticks her tongue out at him like a six-year-old girl teasing the boys in a playground. She might have gone as far as to wiggle her fingers by the side of her head if she wasn’t still holding her knives. But Jack is in no mood for frivolity. His expression hardens into a glare.
Eventually, Lennox lets her playfulness fade away. She sighs out loud, disappointed.
“Fine. Be like that, then, you old Grinch. But don’t be surprised if I’m a bit slower to agree to a date with you next time around.” She softens her words with another quick grin and becomes more serious. “How do you propose we find this tar man, anyway?”
