Demon 4- God Squad 0

by David Dwan

  “No,” he muttered as the realisation of his predicament finally forced its way through the fog of fear and into his consciousness. “Just me.”

  He reached for the small box holding the charm which he kept in his inside jacket pocket. “Fuck no!” The whole left hand side of his jacket had a long jagged rip in it and the pocket was gone. His hand came away bloody from a wound on his side he hadn’t even noticed taking whilst being flung around the room. Bloody and empty.

  The prefabricated structure shuddered violently again, at first he barely registered it but then gradually he became vaguely away of the sound of violent hammering from outside the door. The mob were just outside now, Minx’s army come to deliver him into the wizened hands of their new God.

  At least Dexter had stopped screaming he thought absently. He let his gaze fall through the cracked Perspex window and down to what was left of Dexter’s body. The crowd had literally torn him limb from limb and worst still they were throwing his arms, legs and what must have been his crushed head into the air, passing them from one to another like an obscene game of human volleyball.

  A fate he was sure to follow, or worse still when he was at the mercy of the creature he himself had tortured so unsparingly these long months. Unless.

  Davis turned to take in the room around him which was in chaos. Miller the director was sprawled unconscious or dead on the floor half crushed by his beloved bank of large monitors. Many of the others were clinging onto anything they could to stop themselves being pitched forwards into the rapidly weakening observation window.

  Davis didn’t care about any of them, Christ he could hardly remember half their names. He didn’t even flinch when he saw Tiff his long suffering assistant laid awkwardly amongst the debris covered in blood. No, it was the figure leant over her trying in vain to stem the flow of blood from what he could now see was a vicious looking wound on her neck that he needed.

  He needed Nico Gorodetsky, he needed the Russian and not because the big man had sworn to protect him. The producer knew it was too late for that now. No, it was because Nico had a gun.

  He staggered over to him twice nearly falling as he tripped over a body here a piece of smashed electronics there. “Nico!” He shouted above the din coming from just outside.

  “Nico,” he said again and half knelt half fell next to him.

  The Russian had his hands clasped over Tiff’s throat, thick blood was seeping through his fingers, and his face was set in grin determination as he tried to keep the young woman alive.

  “Nico, I need your gun,” he said softly.

  Nico barely glanced at him. “You’re not shooting anyone Davis,” he said through gritted teeth. “It’s too late for that now. These people, these people cannot help what they are doing.”

  “I know that,” Davis replied as a strange sense of calm came over him. “And I don’t want to shoot just anyone... Just me.”

  Gorodetsky looked at him in disbelief.

  “If that creature gets a hold of me...” His voice trailed off as he contemplated that nightmare scenario.

  The two men held each other’s gaze for the longest moment and after an age the Russian’s face softened in realization. He gave a slight nod of the head and motioned to his side.

  Davis reached into Gorodetsky’s jacket and pulled out the small pistol. And despite the sweltering atmosphere it felt ice cold in his hand.

  THIRTY-NINE

  Father Ross turned away from the scene of horror outside and slumped down with his back against the door. The crowd had taken to throwing Dexter’s dismembered limbs, entrails and God only knew what else, onto the stage as if in offering to the demon, and he didn’t need to see that.

  The object of their devotion was still in the living room doorway. It’s once ruined face now almost back to ‘normal’ if still covered in its dark viscous blood. The creature straightened seeing the young priest’s deflated expression. Its cat like eyes shining brighter still in the gloom.

  “It was no more than that parasite deserved,” Minx said in anticipation of the accusation to come.

  “Please, stop this,” Ross said close to total despair. “Those poor people out there. How will they live with themselves?”

  “Some won’t,” Minx replied with a little mischief in its strange voice.

  So many ruined lives, Ross thought with dejection. Of all the possible scenarios of how he had imagined tonight playing out. This was not one of them. This was a waking nightmare and he wondered as he sat there if he was to suffer the same fate as the hapless Dex Dexter.

  “I’m a demon,” Minx suddenly said as if in way of explanation. But then it paused for a moment as it studied the defeated priest. “But I mean you no harm holy man. You have been the one human I have encountered that has shown me anything other than hate, scorn or like those outside, blind uncomprehending obedience. You tried to help end my suffering and not for your own altruistic reasons. And despite yourself I believe you have finally helped end it.”

  “You are not what I expected at all,” Ross told it and could feel the first chill of shock begin take hold.

  “Nor you I,” Minx replied. “Know that none of this was your fault, just as none of it was mine. We are just pawns in some great sick game. But it is a game I will now gladly end.”

  Michael Davis turned the pistol over in his hands. It was the first time he had actually held one that was not a child’s plaything and it felt alien to the touch. Death in a metal and plastic casing. He cocked back the hammer with a quiet almost serene sense of calm. Suicide, although it was not his style at all was far more preferable to the horrors Minx would visit upon him if it could.

  It would be a victory of sorts he mused. To rob the little shit of its one and only reason for being.

  He glanced from the pistol to the door, although it was shaking violently from the onslaught from those outside it was holding firm, for now. More than enough time to end it all...

  Then the world literally turned upside down as the whole structure pitched forwards with the sound of harsh screeching metal. Davis was sent tumbling through the air as the scaffolding legs at the front of the prefabricated office buckled and the building came crashing down.

  The whole front crumpled in on itself as it hit the ground with a deafening explosion as the structure shattered on impact.

  Davis was flung through the already half shattered perplex observation window and fell hard amongst the jagged debris which spilled out onto the field crushing many of those who had helped pull the building down. He saw stars and bells rang as something struck him on the side of the head.

  A moment later blood was pouring down his face and into his eyes blinding him, he tried to cry out but got a mouthful of blood which made him choke and vomit. He turned onto his side and was rewarded with the pain of half a dozen white hot knives in his chest and ribs.

  He forced himself through the pain to get onto all fours so the blood, which was still pumping from the wound on his head, was no longer running into his eyes or down his throat.

  He spat up an alarming amount of it and thankfully gulped in a lungful of much needed copper tinged oxygen as his airway cleared somewhat.

  He could hear screaming and shouting through the ringing in his ears, and he somehow managed to sit down awkwardly and tilting his head to one side so the blood didn’t go into his eyes again, he took in in his surroundings, and it was like being in the middle of a bloody medieval battle.

  There was pandemonium all around him, the broken and ruined bodies of the crowd and his team alike were strewn as far as he could see amongst the smashed building.

  And worse still, several were still crawling towards him, despite horrendous injuries clawing at the ground dragging themselves through the mayhem. Still intent on carrying out their master’s command. ‘Bring him to me...’

  Davis screamed and tried in vain to back away. He desperately searched around him but the gun was lost. He kicked out as a young man tried to grab a hold
of his legs. His lacerated face set in a grim determination and seemed oblivious to the fact that the reason he couldn’t get a good hold of Davis’ trouser leg was due to the fact that he was missing several fingers on both hands.

  Davis’ heel caught his would be attacker hard in the bridge of his already broken nose snapping his head back, he slumped forwards but still his ruined hands clawed blindly on.

  “Christ, Christ!” Davis cried out and shuffled backwards as best he could. There were many, many shadowy, ragged figures looming over him now, fighting amongst themselves arms outstretched, grasping claw-like fingers eager to get at him. He let out a shriek of terror as he was set upon from behind. Hands pulling at his clothes and grabbing violently at his hair.

  The frenzied mob had him by the arms and legs now and he was hoisted high above their heads. And just like Dexter before him they passed the helpless man from one to another eager to offer him up for execution. Some holding him lost their footing as they surged on and were trampled underfoot as he was carried onwards towards the house and the hell that awaited him there.

  Mister Minx tilted its head to one side and let out a gasp of pure emotion. Its burning eyes welled with red tinted tears and it brought its hand up to its mouth almost in shock.

  From the look of it Ross first thought that Davis had somehow gotten away or perhaps was already dead and thus denying the creature its much sought after revenge.

  But this was a look of genuine joy, of a realization it could finally put an end to the torment. Or as much of such a look that its twisted face could portray.

  It looked past Ross and to the door he was leant against as the sound of the approaching crowd grew in volume.

  ‘Minx, Minx, Minx!’ They chanted. Louder and louder. Ross could feel the door vibrate as they over ran the stage on mass and came up onto the porch just outside. Two hundred odd feet stomping on as one entity.

  The young priest instinctively rolled out of the way and against the wall as the door rattled violently on its hinges then burst open hitting him hard on the legs and he just about managed to bring his arms up to protect his head as the door slammed against his side.

  A battered and naked body was flung into the hallway. It lay only a few feet from him steaming in the night air. Ross could feel rather than see the seething mass of people outside. He could hear their hissing breath as they waited just outside for further instruction. Or perhaps to best witness the unholy end of Michael Davis.

  It took the dazed producer a few moments to realise where he was, he looked uncertainly at what looked like a priest sitting jammed with his knees up under his chin between the wall and the open door and the faceless mob gathered at the threshold.

  He was in the house he realised with a jolt of terror. “Father?” He rasped. But all the priest could do was numbly shake his head.

  Davis felt a chill on his sweat soaked naked back. Something was moving down the hallway towards him. He choked back a sob. This was it, the oft repeated nightmare of that fateful night in an anonymous hotel room where, by rights, he should have met his end in the most hideous of ways.

  A fate he had thought he had not only escaped from, but profited from too. Then in the cold reality of an otherwise mild Spanish evening he knew all he had done, perhaps in truth had always known he had done, was simply to postpone the inevitable execution.

  There was no German here to save him this time, just a terrified priest and a mindless mob. It was strange, as he turned to face the creature Michael Davis was hit with the overwhelming sense that the whole scene had a sweet inevitability about it.

  “Hello Michael,” Minx said as he turned stiffly to face the demon.

  “Hello Minx,” Davis replied with resignation.

  Despite the new found acceptance of his fate, Davis fair yelped in terror as Minx leapt towards him. The creature seemed to double in size as it flew at him and he was hit with a jolt of sickening dark energy that radiated from the demon now that it was close. He felt the sweat on his naked flesh evaporate, then the skin itself began to burn as it slammed into him. He was sent sprawling onto his back and a moment later Minx was squatting on his chest. It leant down close to his face and said what they were both thinking.

  “Déjà vu?”

  Then the demon looked up at the priest, any hint of that meek and defeated creature he had first encountered was now gone. Minx was once again at the height of its full horrifying power. And it was terrifying.

  “Get out,” it hissed.

  Ross didn’t need to be told twice, there was nothing he could do here but get gone and let this play out the way it always should have, out of sight of the real world.

  He scrambled to his feet and into the open doorway, he stumbled out onto the porch as the door slammed shut behind him.

  He was met by a sea of grief stricken faces. Many of the crowd, especially those at the front seemed to finally snap out of their collective fugue as if the door shutting had somehow broken off the psychic hold Minx had on them.

  Suddenly one by one they realized where they were, who they were and worse still, what they had done. A chorus of wails and cries of utter lamentation followed as that wave of realization washed over them all.

  Some fell to their knees screaming and pulled at their hair in horror, others began beating their heads on the ground as if trying to dislodge the memory of their part in the slaughter.

  Most ran, anywhere, everywhere just to get away from the scene of the crime, shrieking as they went.

  As the crowd cleared, Ross finally began to see the full extent of the devastation. The dead and dying were laid all around the field, dozens of them. To his right the collapsed observation office had caught fire and was now slowly being engulfed in flames.

  It was like a scene out of Dante, a little slice of hell spewed up from the pit in stark contrast to the surrounding Spanish countryside.

  Then Ross was suddenly pitched forwards as the porch seemed to ripple under his feet. He fell next to a young woman on her knees who was screaming and clawing at her bloody face in blind lunacy. The priest was about to go to her and make an attempt to stop her self-assault when the sound of ear shattering screeching metal and splintering wood came from the house at his back.

  The whole theatrically wrought building was collapsing in on itself, like a child’s doll house made of cardboard being crushed by some massive invisible hand.

  As the roof caved in the whole front of the house split open and for the briefest of moments Ross caught sight of the demon inside as it tore into the prone producer. Its face was a picture of twisted bliss until finally the walls came down obscuring the scene of execution from view.

  Moments later the once impressive house was little more than a smouldering heap of twisted rubble. Then finally that too was crushed smaller still until little remained but a deep smouldering hole in the ground, its occupants supernatural and all too human alike were gone. One to a blessed release the other to God only knew what hell.

  FORTY

  Father Ross sat in shock with his knees tucked up under his chin as he watched the destruction come to an end. Time was a nonsense as he sat there for what could have been seconds or hours for all his shocked brain could comprehend.

  Although the house, Minx and Davis were gone from sight he was sure he could still hear the producer screaming and that sickening cackling laugh from the creature. Gradually the voices faded at last as did the searing heat from the hole that had claimed them. And Ross thanked Christ for it.

  “Father!” A woman’s voice shouted over the sound of a distant gunning diesel engine.

  At first Ross thought it was the crazed woman at his side, but when he turned she was gone. He looked around in a daze through the thick acrid smoke that was now engulfing the whole sorry scene, until he saw a large tour bus with tinted windows pull up alongside the half demolished grandstand at the perimeter of the clearing.

  Of all things, a zombie appeared to be hanging out of the bus’s side door w
aving at him from across the chaos and for a moment Ross thought that maybe this whole damned event had actually sparked off the apocalypse.

  “Father,” the zombie woman shouted. “Father, come on!”

  Ross got unsteadily to his feet and made his way numbly through the surreal scene around him in a stupor, barely registering the nightmare he was walking through. Those able to run, walk or crawl away had long since vacated the field leaving only the twisted dead and dying behind as a testament to the horrors they had caused.

  As he approached the bus he realised the zombie was in fact one of the show’s demonettes, the girl who had led him to the stage, what seemed like a lifetime ago now.

  “Canadian, not American,” he said hoarsely, which won a smile from the cheerleader.

  “That’s right, Father! Come on get in, we need to get the hell out of here. The cops and probably the whole Spanish army are on their way.”

  She held out a hand and as Ross took it she pulled him inside.

  The doors hissed shut behind him and the bus lurched off, winding its way through the mayhem.

  “Sit down before you fall down, Father,” the girl told him and he slumped down into a seat next to her. “Thought you were dead in there,” she said and hugged his arm.

  “Me too,” Ross said vacantly. He took in the other passengers on the bus. He recognised the driver straight away. It was his Russian minder from the hotel, Rubin if he remembered correctly. The big man’s face was set in grim concentration as he drove.

  He counted five other Demonettes huddled together near the back of the bus. Several others, production staff he assumed were sitting either in groups or on their own, some staring blankly out of the tinted windows half catatonic with shock like refuges from a war zone.

  What looked like a small triage area had been set up by the bus’s kitchen. Where Ross could see a large man tending to a young woman who from where he was sat seemed to have what looked like a bloody towel wrapped around her neck.