Demon Road

by Derek Landy

  Abigail laughed again. “No, you ninny! Everything has changed! This isn’t the work of my enemies – this is Lautaro, one of my oldest, dearest, most recently departed friends.”

  “So … so you’ll let me go?”

  “Absolutely. So long as you deliver that Deathmark to someone else instead.”

  Glen’s eyes narrowed. “But … but I thought it’d only work on you.”

  “Nope, it’ll work on anyone.”

  “So I could have just given this away at any stage up until now?” Glen said, his voice rising. “Why didn’t anyone tell me that? Why didn’t the old man tell me that?”

  “Lautaro probably didn’t want you wasting it on some random person on the street,” Abigail said. “But the guy I want you to pass it on to, he really deserves it. His name’s Ralphie. He’s a complete meanie, Glen, he really is. Him and his brother. Ralphie and Ossie. Oh, they are meanies. Drug dealers, too, and they have been known to kill a person for money. They’re in on this for sure – they did everything Lautaro told them to. Make sure you kill Ralphie, though. He’s the smart one.” She paused. “Admittedly that’s not saying a lot.”

  “Why did they want to kill you?” Amber asked.

  Abigail shrugged. “Why does anyone want to kill anyone? It’s just a thought that occurs, isn’t it? Things happen and the thought occurs. They used to work for me, ages ago. Then they did something stupid, and I said things I regretted, but by then it was too late. They went and found God – I imagine He was between the sofa cushions, I’m always losing things there – and they hooked up with Lautaro. He was a preacher – he’d been after me for years. He was convinced I was the spawn of the Devil, which is just rude. Lautaro was the kind to look the other way when it came to Ralphie and Ossie dealing drugs and killing people, but still believe he was fighting the good fight when it came to me. Together they must have come to the conclusion that it would be a neat idea to kill me.”

  “So how did the old man end up in Ireland?” Glen asked.

  “Educated guess?” said Abigail. “They figured out the Deathmark would be the only thing that could kill me, but making one isn’t like reaching into a box of cereal and pulling out the cheap plastic toy, you know? Real, actual work is involved. Lautaro must have known someone in Ireland with the skill to do it, so over he goes, they make the Deathmark, and Lautaro intends to carry it back to America with him. Only he’s an old man, and old men are frail, and the Deathmark can wear you down and wear you out if you’re old and frail.” She shrugged. “They miscalculated. It happens. So, right before he dies, he finds a healthy young man like you, Glen, and he gets you to agree to carry it over the ocean and use it to kill me. To kill … me.”

  Abigail’s voice went very cold and very quiet.

  Then that happy smiled returned. “But look at us! We’re taking those meanies’ plan and we’re turning it back on them! How surprised are they going to be when you turn up on their doorstep, Glen? Can you imagine the look on their faces?”

  “I … I don’t know if I’m up to this,” said Glen.

  “Not on your own,” Milo said. “But with our help you can do it. We’ll make sure.”

  Glen blinked. “You’d … you’d do that for me?”

  “Of course.”

  Glen started to smile, then stopped. “It’s because you want me to go away, isn’t it?”

  “Of course.”

  Scowling, Glen turned back to Abigail. “I don’t think I can do this. I can’t kill someone. I thought I could, I thought I’d just pass it on to you, but … I can’t. A few days ago, I shot someone – a bad man. For a moment, I thought I’d killed him. It was dreadful. He was a serial killer, but I felt dreadful, anyway. I’m sorry, I just don’t have it in me. But you have lots of people here that work for you, right? I can pass the Deathmark on to them and they can kill your friend for you.”

  Abigail shook her head. “The Deathmark can be passed on once, and no more. Lautaro Soto passed it to you. Whoever you pass it to next – they die. No loopholes. No exceptions. And, by the looks of it, Glen, you don’t have an awful lot of time left.”

  Glen looked at his hand, at the black trail that was swirling faster. “I know.”

  “But, lucky for you, Ralphie and Ossie don’t live far. Isn’t that lucky?”

  Glen stood up, clutching his hand. “We have to go! We have to go now!”

  “Sit down, sit down,” said Abigail. “I don’t know where they’d be this early in the evening. I know where they’ll be tonight, though.”

  “We can’t wait that long,” Glen said.

  “Of course you can. You stay here and I’ll be back when I know more. This is a busy bar and I am a busy lady. Enjoy the atmosphere.”

  She gave them another smile, swung her feet off the chair, and hopped off and walked away.

  Glen hesitated, then sat back down, and Milo leaned in. “You accepted the Deathmark?”

  “Did I?” said Glen. “Oh right, yeah. Yeah, the old guy may have said something about … uh, what was it? In order to pass the Deathmark to another person, that other person has to willingly accept it. Or something.”

  Amber glared at Glen. “You said you were attacked.”

  Glen looked hurt. “I was!”

  “You said you were attacked by a creature.”

  Glen nodded. “Or a creature-like person, yes.”

  “I’m sorry? What? What’s a creature-like person?”

  “It’s a, I mean, it’s a person that looks like a creature, obviously. Like a, y’know … an old person.”

  “You said creature.”

  “I meant old person.”

  “And you accepted the Mark?” said Milo.

  “I didn’t know what it was!” Glen said. “This old guy comes out of the shadows and attacks me—”

  “Attacks you?”

  “—or talks to me, or whatever, and he says he’s about to die, will I take this Mark of Death to its intended target, a terrible person called Abigail who’s been hiding in this bar in America … What am I supposed to say? No?”

  “Yes,” said Amber. “You’re supposed to say no.”

  “Well, I’d say no now,” said Glen. “Obviously, I’d say no now. I’m in possession of all the facts now. But back then I wasn’t. And he seemed so harmless and he … he reminded me a little of my granddad.”

  “Oh, for God’s sake.”

  “What? My granddad was very important to me growing up.”

  “So just because he reminded you of your dearly departed grandfather—”

  “Oh no, granddad’s not dead. He’s just living in Cork.”

  Amber glared. “He told you to kill someone in America and you said yes.”

  “My granddad?”

  “Soto.”

  Glen paused. “I suppose I did say yes, yeah. But I’d never been to America and I’d always wanted to go. This seemed like the perfect opportunity.”

  “You,” said Milo, “are an incredibly stupid person.”

  Glen slumped in his seat. “Whatever.”

  Amber stood, and Glen’s mouth dropped open.

  “You’re abandoning me?”

  “I’m going to the restroom.”

  “Oh. Uh. Carry on.”

  Sighing, she walked away from the table. She found the restroom, which turned out to be delightfully clean, and on her return trip she passed the dance floor. She saw Abigail, flanked by two burly members of staff, pointing to a woman doing her best to avoid eye contact. The staff members walked up either side of the woman, said a few words. The woman shook her head stiffly. The people she’d been talking to, her friends, took their drinks and moved away. She watched them go, pleading with her eyes.

  The staff members took a firm grip of her elbows, led her to a room in the back. They nudged her gently through the open door and she immediately turned, tried to leave, tried to talk, but she was crying too much to get the words out.

  Abigail was joined by the other children. The way they
smiled sent actual shivers down Amber’s spine. Six of them, six beautiful little children, walking for the room now. The staff members moved away. The woman stepped back, hands up to keep the children at a distance. Her knees buckled. She was in hysterics now. The little boys took thin knives from their pockets and the little girls took thin knives from their purses, and they went into that room and the woman started screaming and the door closed.

  Amber hurried back to their table. “The kids are killers,” she said, interrupting whatever Glen was saying to Milo. “The kids,” she said again. “The children. Abigail. I just saw them go after a woman with knives in their hands.”

  Glen frowned. “Seriously?”

  “Yes, Glen. Seriously.”

  “They’re actual killers, like? Actual murderers?” The moment he said it, panic set in. “We have to get out of here. We have to leave. Don’t we? Who goes first? We can’t make it obvious that we’re leaving.”

  “We’re not going anywhere,” said Milo.

  “Did you not hear what she said?”

  “We’re waiting for Abigail’s instructions. What she does here in the privacy of her own bar is her own business. It’s got nothing to do with us.”

  “You don’t seem surprised,” Amber said to Milo. “About the killer kids.”

  “Of course not,” he replied. “I recognised her the moment I saw her.”

  “You know her?”

  “I’ve read about her. She’s Abigail Gateling. Killed her entire family when she was eight years old. She was shipped off to an insane asylum while the authorities were figuring out what to do with her. She escaped the asylum and knocked on the first door she came to. She was found the next morning, drenched in blood.”

  Glen gaped. “And she’s loose?”

  “She’s dead,” said Milo. “This all happened in 1932.”

  Amber stared at him. Glen started crying. It kind of ruined the moment.

  THE CHARGER WAS WAITING for them when they emerged from the bar. Night had fallen.

  Milo took one of the maps from the glove compartment, planning their route from the directions Abigail had given them. When he was satisfied, he folded the map and passed it to Amber, and they started driving.

  Glen sat in the back and didn’t say much. If everything went according to plan, he would be free of the Deathmark by the end of the night. If everything went according to plan, he would be responsible for somebody’s death.

  The further they moved from the city, the wider the spaces became. Houses had room to breathe, and they drew in big, deep breaths. Thirsty lawns became crabgrass and scrub bush. The landscape exploded outwards, rearing up into mountains that loomed dark against the night sky. The roads became wide trails of dust.

  They drove for another half an hour, until they had left all trace of civilisation behind, and Milo pulled over. Leaving the engine running, he opened up a map.

  “Are we lost?” Glen asked.

  “No, we are not,” said Milo. “Just figuring out where to go. They should be around here somewhere, I just can’t—”

  Headlights lit them up from behind and something rammed into them. Glen screamed and so did Amber, and Milo thrust the map at her and while the creased paper filled her vision the Charger was already leaping forward, roaring. The light from behind was blinding and all Amber could hear was the growl of engines, and Milo twisted the wheel and the car spun, and something thundered by, clipping the driver’s side mirror.

  The Charger spun full circle and came to a stop, trembling with suppressed violence. Amber shoved the map down to her feet and only then did she become aware of Glen’s curses. On the dusty road ahead of them, a dark-coloured pickup truck circled round, catching them with all of its many spotlights. Amber squinted.

  “Seat belts on,” Milo said in a quiet voice.

  Amber knew hers was already fastened, but she checked anyway.

  “There are no seat belts back here,” Glen said, panicking. “Why are there no seat belts?”

  “Lie on the floor,” Milo said.

  Glen whimpered, and slithered out of sight. He pulled the bags down on top of him.

  The pickup shot forward and Milo kicked the Charger into reverse. Amber held on. The pickup’s lights filled the windshield. Milo drove with one hand on the wheel, the other on Amber’s seat, looking over his shoulder.

  He braked suddenly, yanked the wheel, and the Charger spun again, throwing Amber against the door, but the pickup clipped them and the whole car jolted sideways. Milo’s hand worked the gears and his boot stomped on the gas, and the Charger spat up dirt and dust and it was back under control and back on the road, the pickup right behind it.

  “Who the hell is that?” Glen screeched from beneath all the bags.

  Amber braced one hand against the dash and pressed herself back into her seat. To look behind was to be blinded, so she kept her eyes on the road ahead, the dirt trail almost indistinguishable at this speed from the land through which it cut. The pickup hit them and the Charger jumped and Milo fought to keep it under control. They were hit again and Milo hissed under his breath and the rear of the car started to slide sideways. The pickup slammed into Amber’s side. She screamed, the scream barely audible over the roar of the engines and the shriek of twisting metal.

  The Charger spun to a rocking stop. The engine cut out.

  In the relative silence, Amber could hear Dacre Shanks, shouting from the trunk. His shouts were slowly muted.

  The pickup looped round. For some reason, that loop seemed so casual, so playful, that it made Amber’s anger rise in her throat.

  Milo turned the key. The Charger spluttered.

  “Oh God,” Glen said.

  The pickup came back at them, picking up speed.

  The Charger spluttered again.

  Amber pulled at the door handle, but the lock came down, sealing her inside.

  She whipped her head round to Milo as he turned the key a third time. The Charger roared, its headlights burning a devilish, hellish red.

  It lunged out of the pickup’s path a moment before impact, turned with a spray of pebbles and sand, and now they were speeding behind the pickup, closing in to slam into its tail lights. The pickup wobbled, almost hit a lonely tree, and Milo put his foot down. The Charger came up on the truck’s right side. The pickup swerved into it. Milo responded in kind. The two vehicles battered at each other for a quarter of a mile or more, and then the pickup pulled away in front as the trail narrowed between two hills.

  Milo commanded the Charger like he was a part of it. It was hard to see in the darkness and the quick bursts of light, but he seemed to be almost smiling. He looked darker, like the colour of the steering wheel was soaking into his hands and spreading through his skin. His jaw seemed more angular. The pickup’s tail lights somehow reflected in his eyes, making them glow red. And were those horns beginning to protrude through his hair?

  The pickup tried to get away and the Charger rammed into it once again. Milo’s smile broadened and, when he opened his mouth, red light shone out between his white teeth.

  Something bright arced in the sky. Amber tried to shout a warning, but it was too late, and the brightness exploded across the hood and flames covered the windshield.

  Milo twisted the wheel and there was a new noise, a rapid popping, like fireworks. It took Amber a moment to realise they were being shot at. The bullets punctured the side of the car and cracked the rear windshield and Milo grunted, twisted in his seat. The Charger hit something and bounced and suddenly the sound of the road beneath them vanished, and they dropped, and Amber screamed and Glen screamed, and they were nothing but a fireball dropping into darkness—

  —and then they crunched into the slope and Milo wrenched the wheel, using the brakes and gas pedal to propel them, slalom-like, round the trees and boulders that dotted the hillside.

  The slope flattened out and the Charger crunched into the scrub and the earth and then rolled to a stop on a narrow little road. The last of the
flames died on the hood.

  Milo turned his head to Amber. The red glow faded from his eyes, as whatever was lighting him from within slowly extinguished. She stared at him. Didn’t say anything.

  “Glen,” he said gruffly. “You okay?”

  “No,” said Glen, clambering slowly up. “Is it over? What happened?”

  “We were led into an ambush.”

  “They knew we were coming?” he asked, and peered out. “Are we safe?”

  Milo got out without answering. Amber unlocked her door, but had to lean back and kick it to get it open.

  The Charger was wrecked. The hood, where the Molotov cocktail had hit, was a blistered mess of crumpled metal. Both doors were badly dented, the frame on the passenger side buckled. The rear windshield had two bullet holes in it. The driver’s side had plenty more.

  “Sorry about your car,” Amber said dully.

  Milo circled it, limping. The left leg of his jeans was soaked in something dark.

  “You’ve been shot,” said Amber. Then, louder, “Oh my God, you’ve been shot!”

  “Just a graze,” Milo responded. “I’ll be all right by morning.”

  She ran over to him. “You’ve been shot, Milo! Look at the blood! You’re leaving bloody footprints behind you!”

  “I’ll be all right by morning,” he repeated, removed his arm from her grip, and got back behind the wheel.

  Amber would have stayed where she was, but the adrenaline was wearing off and now she was feeling the cold. She got back in the car.

  “What do we do now?” Glen asked.

  “Get the blankets out,” said Milo. “We’re spending the night here.”

  “What if they come for us? They have machine guns.”

  “The car’s not going anywhere,” said Milo, “and neither are we. If they come for us, they come for us.”

  “And you expect us to sleep?”

  “You do what you want,” said Milo. “But me, I’m tired, and I want to close my eyes.”

  And, for the first time since Amber had known him, Milo did just that behind the wheel of his car.

  There were moments, in the time it took her to fall asleep, where she thought death had claimed Milo without her noticing, and each time she’d freeze, coldness spreading from her heart until she heard, very faintly, the sound of his breathing.