hold on
the cavalry's arrived," he whispered gruffly.
The commuter's head rolled back on his shoulders. His flesh was gray and covered in sores, his eyes sunken into their orbits. Save for a grotesquely distended belly, he looked more like a scarecrow than a human being.
A pained, gargling sound was all that came from the dying man's throat. Whatever had turned him from commuter to incubator had taken his tongue.
With a roar of anger and disgust, Hellboy reached into his coat and withdrew one of the flares he kept for emergencies and struck it against the crumbling brick wall. A flame as red and baleful as those of the lakes of his birthplace leapt forth, giving light to the darkness, while at the same time creating contorted shadows.
"That's it! I'm through pussyfooting around, you bargain-basement maleficent!" he bellowed, his throat sacs bulging like those of a bull ape. " I know you're here and you know I'm here! So show yourself!"
There was a hiss like a basket of angry cobras from high overhead and Hellboy looked up and saw the Cailleach standing on one of the exposed beams, flanked on either side by the stolen children.
"The mortals are mine, demon! Go find your own child-flesh to fill your gut!" growled the Cailleach.
"No thanks
I prefer Chef Boyardee, if it's all the same to you," he snarled in return. "By the way how
the hell did you get up there?"
In reply, the Cailleach launched itself at Hellboy, revealing a pair of semi-opaque membranous wings, like those of a wasp, growing from its back. The fairy struck Hellboy with surprising force, knocking him onto his back and snuffing the flare.
The Cailleach straddled Hellboy's broad chest, raking the rhino-like hide that covered his face and upper body with long, sharp talons. Now that it no longer had to worry about keeping up appearances, the fairy was showing a face that no mortal had ever lived to tell about.
Gone was the ephemeral beauty that was so important in luring its human prey away from the herd, and in its place was something straight out of an exterminator's nightmare. Within seconds the fairy metamorphosed from a delicate, sylph-like creature of fancy into a hideous humanoid insect.
In place of a mouth were ferocious, segmented, pincer-like appendages capped by fangs dripping venom. Its golden eyes ballooned into bulbous, compound orbs. The long, silken robin's-egg-blue hair quickly sprouted all over the rest of its body, like the fur of a tarantula. Long, whip-like antennae flailed atop its head.
Hissing in frustration, the Cailleach arched its lower body, and Hellboy quickly rolled out of the way just as a foot-long stinger stabbed where he had been less than a moment before.
"You'll have to do better than that, sister. I'm not some clueless commuter from Long Island," Hellboy growled, getting back onto his hooves, his tail lashing back and forth like that of a stalking tiger.
The Cailleach made an agitated, chattering sound, as if sounding an alarm, then sprayed viscous streams of silk from its mouth glands, catching Hellboy across the eyes.
"Damn it!" he snarled, staggering backward, clawing at the sticky mess covering his eyes. Caught off-balance, he staggered backward, colliding with the ensnared commuter.
The tongueless man made one last choked cry and spasmed as the obscene swelling in his belly trembled violently. A multitude of tiny winged creatures, none bigger than the tip of a baby's finger, swarmed forth, exiting from the dead man's mouth, nose, and ears in a great, stinging cloud.
"Oh
great! Just what I needed: Pixies!" Hellboy growled. Without thinking, he used his right hand to swat the nymph-stage fairies, squashing the majority of the bothersome hoard against the wall with the massive stone gauntlet. The impact shook the gutted building to its crumbling foundations like a bomb blast, knocking the hypnotized children from their deep trances.
Hellboy froze, unable to take his eyes off the children overhead. He cursed himself under his breath for his rashness. To come so far, only to nearly kill them with a single, thoughtless action!
The little girl was the first to stir. She blinked, as if wakened from a dream and began to tremble and whimper. The boy rubbed his eyes, like a sleepwalker wakened in mid-step, and looked around, disoriented.
"Kids! Whatever you do
don't move! Just stay put!" Hellboy called out.
The little boy looked down, following the sound of his voice, and promptly lost his balance, slipping from the beam.
Hellboy took a flying leap, hoping against hope he would make it in time. The Cailleach snarled and moved to block him, but Hellboy was too fast for it. He caught the child in his outstretched arms a split-second before he struck the ground
and then fell through the rotted floorboards into the darkened basement below.
Hellboy pulled the child close to his breast and curled himself around the boy, doing his best to protect him from the impact. He hit hard, sending up a small atom-cloud of dust, but was completely unscathed.
They landed in the basement, not far from the disused furnace, the door of which hung open like the mouth of a hungry god. He glanced up at the hole he'd made as he regained his footing and saw the Cailleach's compound eyes peering down at him, dripping venom from its fangs just before it leapt onto him.
Hellboy instinctively turned his back to the creature, cradling his tiny charge as tightly as he dared. As the fairy's stinger plunged into his flesh, he grimaced and looked down into the upturned face of the child in his arms. The little boy's thumb was in his mouth and his eyes were so wide with terror they seemed blank. For the first time, Hellboy felt fear
not for himself, but for the tiny mortal held in the crook of his arm.
The Cailleach's sting was painful, but did not have the same paralyzing effect it would have on a human.
Instead of shutting down his autonomic nerve center, it burned like someone had injected prussic acid into his spine.
"Get off my back!" he growled.
With surprising speed for his size, he reached behind himself with his right hand and grabbed the Cailleach's stinger as the creature struggled to plunge it home yet again. The Cailleach's shrill, insectile laughter quickly turned into shrieks of pain.
Hellboy spun around, using his tail to knock his opponent off its feet, then grabbed the wounded fairy's wings
in his rocky grasp, crushing them as easily as he would a balsa-wood airplane. Ignoring the pain in the base of his spine, he then hurled the Cailleach into the open maw of the disused furnace.
Carefully switching his precious burden to the crook of his right arm in order to free up his left hand, Hellboy reached into one of the leather pouches on his belt and removed a small metal sphere.
"Heads up, girlfriend!" he barked, lobbing the activated thermite bomb into the furnace as the Cailleach struggled to free itself, then promptly turned his back and hunkered down tight, wrapping his tail completely around himself. There was a bright flash, followed by intense, searing heat, and a last, dreadful scream from the Cailleach Bheuh, then the stink of burning hair and roasting flesh.
A second later Hellboy opened his eyes and stood up, frowning at the small inferno that surrounded himself and his young charge. He'd forgotten about the trash that filled the basement, which had instantly caught fire.
For the first time since awakening from his trance, the child in Hellboy's arms began to move, whimpering like a frightened baby animal.
"Hold on, kid," he said, trying his best to sound calm. "Hold on I'll get us out of this
somehow."
The flames surrounding Hellboy suddenly lowered, then snuffed themselves out as abruptly as the gas ring on a range.
"Your friendly neighborhood pyrokinetic, at your service," Liz Sherman said, poking her head through the hole in the basement roof. The attractive young fire-manipulator was kneeling on the ragged edge of the hole, shaking her head in mock dismay. "What would you do without me to save your big red tail, Hellboy?"
"Roast like a chicken on a s
pit, I guess," Hellboy replied with a wry smile. "I was beginning to wonder when you guys would get here."
"We'd have been here sooner, but you try and get a surveillance van out of mid-town this time of day," Liz said, snorting in disgust. A look of concern crossed her face as she noticed the child clutched in his arms for the first time. "Oh, Jesus
the kid? Is he
?"
"Alive? Yeah. But he's in shock."
Liz quickly motioned for a paramedic team which was hovering behind her to move forward. Hellboy held the child over his head, handing him off to the emergency rescue workers, who quickly whisked the boy out of sight.
"You need help getting out of there, big guy?" Liz asked.
"Naw
I'll be out of here in a jiffy
there are some stairs down here that look like they lead to the street.
They're padlocked
but that's not a problem."
Less than a minute and a strong shoulder later, Hellboy was standing on the sidewalk. There were several NYPD cruisers and ambulances lined up along the street, their red-and-blue emergency lights throwing garish-colored shadows in the gathering dark. The look on those well-seasoned professionals' faces as they saw the horrors that lay within was one Hellboy was all too familiar with.
"Hellboy!"
The Professor was standing on the curb by the BPRD's tracking van, an oversized thermos of espresso coffee in hand.
"I thought you might appreciate this," Bruttenholm said.
"You know me all too well, old man," Hellboy smiled. As he sipped the steaming, bitter brew, a paramedic emerged from the building, carrying the little girl wrapped in a shiny thermal blanket.
Despite her ordeal, the child seemed remarkably self-possessed. To Hellboy's surprise, the little girl smiled and waved at him as if he was a purple dinosaur.
"Mr. Beast!" she shouted excitedly. "Thank you for saving us!"
Hellboy frowned. "What did she call me?"
"She thinks you're The Beast," Liz explained matter-of-factly as she joined Hellboy and the Professor.
" What?"
"You know
from Beauty and the Beast. The monster that's really a handsome, heroic prince on the inside."
Hellboy grunted and returned the little girl's wave.
But he was smiling.
Scared Crows
Rick Hautala and Jim Connolly
Just after dark, the rainstorm swept across the mountains to the west and blew eastward, heading toward the cold, gray Atlantic Ocean. The small town of West Buxton, Maine, was just one of many small New England towns in its path. It was late October and already past peak foliage season this far north. The storm's powerful winds blew sheets of cold rain that shined like silver strings in the few streetlights that lined the all-but-deserted Main Street. Fast-running water, dead leaves, and blown-down branches choked the rapidly overflowing gutters. Nearly every resident of the town, at some point or another that evening, muttered some variation of: "Good thing this ain't snow, or else we'd be buried alive."
Moving perhaps a little too fast, a battered Chevy pulled into the rutted dirt parking lot outside a bar called The Crossing, which was located on the outskirts of town, just past the railroad crossing. Water and gravel from the muddy puddles splashed against the underside of the car, which sagged noticeably to the left because of the massive weight of the driver. Dark, wet leaves, looking like bloated leeches, stuck to the mud-splattered sides of the car as it lurched to a stop in the far corner of the parking lot where the red neon light of a beer sign didn't quite reach.
There were only two other vehicles in the parking lot that night a black, late model Ford pickup that was
pitted with rust and holes, and a mud-splattered Nissan Maxima sporting New York plates.
The driver of the Chevy killed the engine but didn't get out right away. For a minute or two, he sat there behind the steering wheel, listening to the sudden gusts of wind that punched against the side of the car like powerful, invisible fists. He focused on the rain that was pouring out of the rusted gutter above the bar door.
Finally, with a belly-deep grunt, he grabbed the travel cooler that rested on the seat beside him, took the key from the ignition and pocketed it, and opened the car door.
His long, tattered trench coat was soaked through the instant he stepped out into the storm. Rain ran in glistening streams down his face, making the deep red tone of his skin look like flayed meat. Taking long strides, with the travel cooler banging against his leg, he made his way to the front door of the bar and entered. A gust of wind slammed the door shut behind him, but even with the door closed, he could hear the high-pitched whistle of the wind and the splash and splatter of the rain outside.
The bartender, a man named Kyle Kelly who owned The Crossing bar and lived in the small apartment upstairs, glanced up. His eyes widened ever so slightly when he saw his new customer, but Kyle had been a bartender pretty near his whole life, so he knew not to show too much surprise.
" 'Evenin', Hellboy," he said with a quick nod.
He was about to follow this up with something on the order of Kinda surprised to see you 'round these parts again, but thought better of it.
"Damn good thing this ain't snow," he said as he watched Hellboy stride over to the booth at the back of the bar and sit down heavily, not bothering to remove his sodden trench coat.
There were only three other customers in The Crossing tonight. Two regulars brothers named Jed and
Tommy Farrow who did odd jobs around town whenever their welfare checks ran out were seated at the
far end of the bar, close to the jukebox, which was playing a sad-sounding song by Emmylou Harris. Also seated at the bar, closer to the door, was an attractive, dark-skinned woman. She'd already told Kyle that her name was Lorraine, even though Kyle wasn't one to pry. After ordering a beer, she'd gone on to inform him that she was on her way to North Conway to attend her sister's baby shower. Not finding any fast-food restaurants handy, she'd stopped in here for a quick bite to eat and a cold one. That 'cold one' had turned into a few more beers, and by the time Hellboy arrived, Lorraine was looking just a wee-bit tipsy.
Unlike Kyle, all three patrons
if a place like The Crossing can actually honor its customers by calling them
'patrons'
watched Hellboy with varying degrees of thinly veiled interest. Tommy, the younger of the Farrow brothers, couldn't help but hoot with laughter at the sight of the new customer.
"Whoo-ee," he said, slapping his brother on the back and smirking with a wide grin that made him look like even more of an idiot than he generally did. "Just when you think you've seen it all, huh, Jed?"
Jed, the older and slightly more level headed of the two brothers, simply sighed and shook his head before turning around and silently hoisting the beer he had in hand.
"How 'bout that, Big Bro?" Tommy went on, jabbing his brother's arm again, almost making him spill his beer.
"The things you see when you don't have a gun, huh?"
Jed snorted and kept drinking, his Adam's apple working rapidly up and down in his thin throat as he drained his glass.
"And
Christ on a cross
was that really a freakin' tail I saw sticking out from under his coat?"
"Just shuddap and drink," Jed said as he slammed his empty glass down on the counter and signaled to Kyle for another one.
But Kyle, ignoring Jed for the moment, called out, "What can I get for you, Hellboy?"
Resting his left hand lightly on top of the cooler, which he had placed on the table in front of him, Hellboy glanced over at Kyle with a deepening scowl, then said softly, "How 'bout a pitcher of beer ... and two glasses."
Lorraine's eyes were a bit unfocused as she leaned forward and whispered to Kyle, "Do you know him?"
Kyle glanced over at Hellboy again, then nodded slightly but said nothing before drawing a pitcher of draught. He was happy for the busin
ess. With the storm and all, it wasn't looking like tonight was exactly going to bust the bank. He grabbed a couple of clean glasses and walked over to the table without answering her.
Lorraine couldn't help herself. She spun around on her chair and stared at the man if this was, indeed, a
man
seated in the shadowy corner. She had never seen anything like him especially his huge right hand
that looked like it was made out of stone or something.
"Who the hell is he?" she whispered out of the corner of her mouth to Kyle once he was back behind the bar, drawing another glass of beer for Jed.
When Kyle didn't answer her right away, she leaned across the bar so far her ample breasts flattened against the smooth, water-stained surface.
"Does he live around here?"
Kyle ran his teeth over his lower lip, his eyes darting nervously back and forth between Lorraine and Hellboy.
"No," he finally said, his voice dropping to a whisper. "He's not from around here ... and neither are you, so it's just as well you don't ask. 'Kay?"
"Come on," Lorraine said, snagging Kyle's shirt sleeve and giving it a quick tug.
Kyle licked his lips, and when he spoke again, his voice was so low she could barely hear him above the sound of the storm outside and the jukebox, which was now playing an old Roy Orbison song.
"We had some ... ah, some trouble out this way 'bout a year ago, and he ... sorta helped fix it."
"It was exactly a year ago tonight."
Hellboy spoke so suddenly that Lorraine couldn't help but squeal as she wheeled around to look at him.
"He's got good hearin', too," Kyle added.
Now that she had her opening, Lorraine
never one to be shy
got up from the barstool and started
toward Hellboy's table. He looked like an illusion to her
a figment from some terrible nightmare made real.
His red skin was slick and still gleaming from the rain. On his forehead two huge circular bumps shadowed his eyes, which glowed dull orange with what seemed like their own internal light. His jutting lower jaw kept his thin lips in a straight, unsmiling line.
Halfway to the table, Lorraine's foot caught on something, and she almost fell, but she caught herself and quickly regained her composure. Tommy, who was still intently watching all of this, let out a sharp bray of laughter that cut off quickly when his brother elbowed him in the ribs. "Mind if I join you?" Lorraine asked.
Hellboy: Odd Jobs Page 14
