by James Hunter
A good start, but probably not good enough.
I raised the M4 and prepared to engage. Deep breaths, I reminded myself, willing away a tremor running through my hands. One, two, in, out. Calm the mind. Shut away the fear, the worry. What will be, will be. I only had twenty-odd rounds and no extra mags, so I needed to make each shot count. Kill shots were damn near useless here since no one could die. What I needed was distance and distraction. In this game, knees, legs, and ankles were the best targets, since wounds like that would take the girls out of the race as effectively as a kill shot.
I wrapped my finger around the trigger—inhale, exhale—and squeezed a trio of times. Pop-pop-pop. The barrel lifted a hair as the muzzle belched fire, and the acrid, slightly sulfuric scent of gunpowder filled my nostrils. It was a sweet scent compared to all the rancid shit in Hell.
Blood sprayed, bone crunched, and two nearby speedsters dropped, their knees giving out. I was already moving on, though, picking new targets as the rifle reset naturally with my breath. Next came a trio of women on the right, wielding an assortment of handguns. They weren’t firing yet—pro tip, shooting while on the move is hard, shooting at a moving target while roller skating is even harder—but it was only a matter of time.
Inhale. Exhale. Pop-pop-pop. Slow is smooth, and smooth is fast. The familiar words ran through my head like a religious mantra.
I pulled one shot—the round went wide, smacking into a nearby building with a puff of dust—but the other two tore through legs and knees. All three went down in the resulting chaos; good work, but only a drop in the bucket. I couldn’t think about that, though. I needed to be present and in the moment, my mind clear and one with the rifle in my hands. With cold, mechanical efficiency I blasted a hefty Latina woman in Chernobyl-green spandex right in the groin.
Ouch.
She went down like a load of bricks, screaming as she clutched at her crotch, goopy black blood streaming down the inside of her thigh. She wasn’t an exceptionally fast skater, but there was a sizeable group of women directly behind her, and most of them went down too, caught in a tangle of waving limbs—a thing of beauty. But more woman surged forward to take their place while others converged on us from connecting side streets. I ran with the bulls in Spain once—this was way back in the day, mind you, when I’d been a younger, stupider man—and this reminded me a lot of that.
Except these bulls were wicked smart, hated men, and would gladly skin me alive.
I continued to work the crowd, but I was nearly out of bullets, and I knew it was only a matter of time before a swarm of Derby girls got ahead of us, and then? Then we were screwed to the max. That was Levi’s problem, though—he was driving this bus. I just needed to keep my head down, stay focused, and trust the ass-ugly bastard to get us out of here like he said he would. My job was to work the guns and lay down whatever suppressive fire I could muster. Deep breath. Inhale. Exhale. I pulled the trigger again, expecting to feel the familiar recoil and hear the whip-crack pop.
Instead, I heard a barely audible click.
Of course the M4 ran dry just as a new wave of Derby girls closed in.
The gun was worthless now—dead weight as far as I was concerned—so I hurled it right into the face of the closest skater, a rail-thin woman covered in brilliant tattoos. She stumbled, faltered, and toppled, taking another woman with her in a very satisfying twofer. Time for the big guns. I swept one hand out, calling up a gout of flame, and promptly sandblasted an encroaching posse of skaters wielding lead pipes and baseball bats. They went up like dryer lint, but it still wasn’t enough. There were so many of ’em, and no matter how many I crippled, more piled on.
This was a war of attrition, and eventually, their superior numbers would grind us to dust.
“Just hang in there a little longer,” Levi bellowed, his voice carrying over the din of battle. “We’re almost there.”
I braced myself and whipped up a hasty force construct—
Before I could unleash the thing, Levi hooked right, ushering us into an incredibly narrow alleyway between a pair of mud-sided buildings fortified with concrete cinder blocks, old car tires, and rusty chicken wire. A few gals managed to make the hairpin turn, but in these cramped confines, taking ’em out was as easy as swatting a fly. Instead of flame, I reached into the earth, connecting with the cinder blocks and old tires running along the base of the buildings to the left and right.
For someone like me, anything could become a weapon with a little effort.
I pumped raw Vis, pure will, and strands of molten fire into the concrete and rubber. The cinder blocks exploded out like Claymore mines under the intense heat and terrible pressure.
Chunks of stone, muddy debris, and flaming rubber smashed into calves and knees, hobbling anyone unfortunate enough to be in a ten-foot radius. And better yet, the mud-walled buildings let out a creaking groan as they leaned drunkenly inward, their foundations abruptly compromised. The buildings teetered that way for a few seconds, before finally crashing down with a thunderous boom that shook the ground beneath us and jettisoned a tremendous brown cloud of gritty debris into the air.
The swirling dust lashed at my face, crawled up into my nostrils, and made it damn near impossible to breathe.
A real pain in the ass—but one that gave me one helluva good idea. I wasn’t sure how Levi’s abilities worked, but they didn’t seem to be tied to physical sight. But the Derby girls? If they couldn’t find us, we might actually have a shot at getting outta this city in one piece. And though I couldn’t kill every Derby girl in the city, I might be able to hide us from ’em for a little while. Moving that much earth, that much air, might also kill me in my current condition, but I’m a gambler at heart, and this was the best possible play.
For the first time since waking up in Hell, I opened myself full-tilt to both Vis and Nox, and screw the consequences. With my mental barriers down, energy from two separate, endless wells of power—the forces of creation and destruction—flooded in unfiltered and unchecked, raging through me like a pride of rabid, ’roided-out lions. Melt-your-face-off magma swelled, threatening to consume me. But then, on the brink of burnout, that tsunami of lava hit a sheet of arctic ice, a glacier of death so vast and wide and deep not even the Vis could sear through it.
Those two forces, each powerful enough to pulverize a fleet of tanks to fine dust, waltzed inside my chest, pushing and pulling against one another. It was an unstoppable force battering futilely against an immovable object. Yin colliding and working against yang, the two churning and turning in an endless circle. There was a strange peace lingering in the center of those two forces like the eye of some uber-tornado. Death and destruction surrounded me on every side and one wrong step, one misplaced thought, could end me.
But, as long as I stayed in that eye, I’d be okay.
I clung to the center, clearing my head of every other thought as I pressed my eye shut and lifted my face skyward. Yeah, I could do this.
Maybe.
Probably.
Possibly.
I focused on the rock particles dancing and swirling like giant plumes of cigarette smoke, then pushed mammoth strands of earthen Vis and sickly Nox into the air, binding the dual forces together as I shaped the enormous working. Slowly, the stagnant brown dust moved high overhead, distorting and stretching like the tentacles of a Kaiju-sized kraken groping the entire city.
Awesome.
Sweat broke out across my forehead, my arms and legs quivered under the strain of holding the construct in place, and a wave of nausea racked my body, but I kept pushing. A headache came next—a slow throb pulsing in my temples as the world reeled around me and stars danced in my vision. Something wet and metallic dripped past my lip and onto my tongue. A nosebleed. Still, I held on. Pushed against the wall. I glanced down and noticed streaks of oily purple pulsing just beneath the surface of my skin like blood vessels as my fingers turned black.
A bad sign, that. A sign that I was straining the te
nuous bonds of Azazel’s prison.
But … this bastard construct was almost done. Getting the damned thing going was the hard part—it was like coaxing a force of nature into action—but once things got moving, they’d stay moving for a good long while. So, I ignored the pain. The throbbing headache. The pulsing lines that told me I was drawing far too much Nox.
And then, when I felt certain I couldn’t hold the construct in place for another second, everything clicked into place. The dust storm roared to life, and the whole world went brown. Hot, howling winds ripped through the narrow alley, slapping dirt and gravel against my face and plastering my blood-drenched jeans against my legs. But it wasn’t just here, I knew, it was everywhere. Satisfied, and on the verge of passing out, I pushed the power away and closed myself to both Vis and Nox.
“You do that?” Levi grunted, peering uncertainly into the blinding brownout.
“Yep,” I croaked, shivering maniacally, not wanting to say more and risk passing out altogether.
“Pretty good,” he conceded begrudgingly before resuming his trek.
TWENTY:
Powerhouse
With the massive dust cloud lingering in the air, dialing down the visibility to next to nothing, Levi managed to guide us through a twisting labyrinth of alleys and backstreets. He paused now and then, tracing his fingers along a muddy wall or on the stony ground. Listening. Feeling. We never saw another Derby girl, which was a damned impressive feat, considering the sheer magnitude of the search taking place all around the city. I can’t be sure, but I think Jim and his Skinless army probably played a role as well.
More than once I heard the manic burst of machine gun fire in the distance, returned in kind by the meaty booms of grenades.
Since the Skinless were the only other dissidents in Roller Nation, they had to be the cause of the commotion—either that or the Derby girls were having themselves a little coup d’état.
Eventually, Levi led us between a pair of squat mud houses near the edge of the city and to a narrow crack in the stony cavern wall. The MudMan had to put me down and transform into his diminutive, mustached alter ego to shimmy through the opening. My wounded leg hurt so bad, I could barely put an ounce of weight on the thing, but through grit and determination, I followed, fighting off the god-awful, eye-watering agony invading my body like a Biblical plague of locust. The crevice was tight, tight, tight, and had I been just a tad heftier, I’m not sure I would’ve managed the thing.
Jagged bits of rock scraped at my arms, pulled at my clothes, and jabbed uncomfortably into my gut as I inched my way along, trying to stomp down the claustrophobic fear eating me up inside. Ever since Beauvoir hit me with zombie powder and packed me up nice and tight in a friggin’ coffin, tight spaces seemed to be an issue. But just as I was starting to panic and hyperventilate, the walls opened up and dumped me into a rough tunnel, illuminated by patchy colonies of bioluminescent foxfire clinging to the ceiling and walls.
Suddenly, I could breathe again, and even though the air was hot and tasted faintly of sulfur, I gulped down a couple of huge lungfuls. Unfortunately, without the stone walls to help support my weight, my bad leg gave out, and I tumbled onto my ass. Gritty sand puffed into the air, swirling around me as I groaned and leaned back on my hands. I pressed my eye shut, drawing minutely on the Vis, wrapping my mind in earthen power and willing the screaming pain in my leg to go away. After a handful of long, agonizing seconds, the trick worked and the pain faded into the background.
I cracked my eye open at the sound of heavy feet shuffling over stone.
Levi was standing in front of the crevice, back in his ass-ugly golem form, one hand pressed almost tenderly against the wall. I glanced up and noticed his hand was in bad shape. Three of his fingers were missing, the holes covered by rough brown scabs, and copious amounts of golden ichor trailed down his forearm. The rest of him wasn’t in much better shape, either. His other hand was intact, but quarter-sized holes—gunshot wounds if I had to guess—peppered his body. Plus, there were several large divots in his legs and arms, almost like someone had taken an ice-cream scoop to him.
I watched on silently as he muttered under his breath, eyes pressed shut tight, and smeared golden blood along the surface of the rock face. Painting the edges. Then, astoundingly, the floor shook beneath me, gravel dancing, fist-sized chunks of stone breaking off and bouncing down as the crevice groaned, moaned, rumbled, and slowly slid shut like a door that had carelessly been left open. My jaw must’ve hit the floor. I’d seen Levi do some crazy shit so far—that whole shape-changing thing was groovy as hell, and the demon-blocking blood barrier wasn’t too shabby—but this?
This was some serious, next level shit. On the surface, the act looked small, but Levi must’ve moved ten tons of rock. Moving that much earth so effortlessly was as impressive as a jet-skiing gorilla with a Mohawk. I knew maybe a handful of magi who could pull off something like that, and as far as I could tell, this guy didn’t use the Vis. Heck, as far as I knew, he couldn’t even touch the stuff. Even more impressive than all that jazz combined? He didn’t kill us horribly in the process.
One wrong move could’ve brought a whole mountain right down on our heads like a falling meteor.
Satisfied with his handiwork, the MudMan lowered his hands, brushed his palms together, and ponderously turned, his movements slow and lethargic.
“I think it’s time we had a more detailed chat,” I said, eye narrowed in suspicion, flicking between him and the freshly sealed wall. “I don’t know a lot about golems, but that?” I nodded toward the wall. “That ain’t normal, man. We need to talk about it. You know that, right?”
He hesitated, canted his head to one side, then nodded, his massive, flabby body deflating in resignation. “Yeah. I suppose that conversation was unavoidable.” He turned his gaze on me, really looking at me, worry etched deep into the lines of his face. Whatever he’d been hiding, he was afraid to tell me, which sent shivers sprinting along my spine. What secret could be that terrible? That powerful?
He was silent for a long beat, carefully surveying my wounds with a furrowed brow and a frown that pulled down the corners of his lips. The worry in his face faded after a moment, replaced by something that might almost have been concern. Concern for me, if you can believe it. I mean it was hard to tell, what with his pronounced underbite, his sloping monkey forehead, and his beady brown eyes, but I’m pretty sure it was concern.
Fifty percent sure.
He sighed, then, and shook his head. “Yeah, we’ll talk,” he muttered, glancing back toward the crevice. “But priorities first. We need to get some distance, and you …” He fixated on my leg as though he could see through the gray clay bandage ringing my thigh. “You need medical attention.” He shambled over, scooping me up off the floor and cradling me in his fat arms again. Embarrassing, but oddly comforting, too. “Just play along for a little while, alright?” he grumbled, more statement than question. “Once I get us situated, I’ll tell you what you want to know.”
“Yeah, alright,” I replied, folding my arms across my chest. “But no holding out on me. I ask a question, you give me an answer. No games. No diversions. Just straight-up truth. You good with that?”
He grunted, shrugged, and nodded as he pushed himself into motion, coasting along the dusty tunnel floor on his stolen roller stakes. The whole situation was friggin’ ridiculous. Nothing I could do about it, though, so I curled up and settled in for the ride. The next thing I knew, Levi was setting me down in a natural alcove gouged into the side of the tunnel.
Don’t judge me, but apparently, I’d fallen asleep. Not my proudest moment, maybe, but it is what it is, okay? And if you ever find yourself in Hell, fighting your way past a war goddess, then battling an army of insane Derby girls, I won’t judge you if you catch a little extra shut-eye.
Levi propped me up against the wall, then crouched down, his fat lips pressed into a tight line as he regarded me. “You’re in worse shape than I thought.�
�� He touched the impromptu bandage. “Brace yourself, this might hurt.” The bandage quivered, wriggled, and unfurled, tugging gently at the wound.
A bright flare of terrible pain followed—like having a tooth pulled without anesthesia—and the clay fell away with a pop. Several fragments of tarnished metal clung to the makeshift bandage like magnets stuck to a fridge door. That stuff had somehow, miraculously, pulled out the bullet fragments lodged in my leg.
Damn. Still, even with that, the wound looked as heinous as month-old curry left out in the sun. Red-brown blood stained the skin, and the edges of the wound were puffy, red, and inflamed. It looked infected, and since we were in Hell—the land of all things vile and gross—I couldn’t envision a scenario where it wouldn’t be brimming with germs.
“Not good,” Levi said, rubbing thoughtfully at his blocky chin. “The bullet didn’t go through, though. Guess that’s a small answered prayer.” He frowned, then fished the familiar silver flask from his side, fat fingers unscrewing the lid with practiced ease. “This is gonna hurt even worse,” he said, taking one beefy finger and jamming it directly into the wound like a giant Q-tip.
I screamed in protest and lashed out without thinking, clocking the bastard right in the jaw. The hit didn’t even rock Levi back on his heels, and it almost certainly hurt my hand worse than his face. But, the pain radiating from my knuckles and up through my wrist helped distract me from what he was doing to my leg.
“Just clearing the channel and opening the wound,” he explained, wiggling his digit. “That’ll help the ichor do its work.” He pulled his finger out and tipped the drinking flask onto its side, feeding a steady stream of golden blood into the wound, then soaking the flesh around the injury, massaging it in like lotion. Surprisingly, the ichor brought almost immediate relief, spreading warm tendrils of numbing comfort into the torn flesh and surrounding area. I watched, completely fascinated, as a network of thread-thin golden strands knit the tissue back together.
