by Tim Marquitz
Collateral Damage
Book Eight in the Demon Squad Series
Tim Marquitz
Copyright 2015
Edited by Tyson Mauermann
Cover art and design by Carter Reid
Created in the United States of America
Worldwide Rights
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any form, including digital, electronic, or mechanical, to include photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the prior written consent of the author, except for brief quotes used in reviews.
This book is a work of fiction. All characters, names, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events or locales, is entirely coincidental.
Collateral Damage
Demon Squad 8
Also Available in the Demon Squad Series
From Hell (Novella)
DS1 - Armageddon Bound
DS2 - Resurrection
DS3 - At the Gates
DS4 - Echoes of the Past
DS5 - Beyond the Veil
DS6 - The Best of Enemies
DS7 - Exit Wounds
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Table of Contents
Acknowledgments
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Epilogue
Trials of the Morning Star (Bonus Short)
The Great Brain Robbery (Bonus Short)
About the Author
Acknowledgments
It’s such a weird feeling being able to say that I’ve managed to write eight of these damn Demon Squad books over the years, not counting all the shorts in between. Even weirder is that I still love the world I’m writing in, love the characters—no matter how depraved or damaged—and still love seeing how people react to the stories, whether it be good or bad. It still thrills me to know people are reading my words and being moved enough by them to applaud or jeer. I couldn’t have a better job, and trust me, I’ve tried a whole bunch of them. You, the reader, make this possible, and I’m eternally grateful to you.
Closer to home, I need to thank Bastard…again. Why? Because he lives up to his name and keeps me on my toes when it comes to my writing. He questions every choice I make and offers up his invaluable insight as well as never letting me pretend I’m important. That’s a good friend to have. He keeps me grounded with his shit talk and honesty, and I’m glad to have stumbled across him.
Ryan Lawler is another friend whose assistance on my books cannot be overlooked. He’s read every damn thing I’ve ever written and he’s not afraid to tell me when it sucks or I’ve gotten too wordy or simply lost the flow. Like Bastard, he’s been around since my career was just starting, and he’s been instrumental in my success, providing a sounding board for my every whine, gripe, and complaint, and yet he’s never given up on me.
And then there’s Tyson Mauermann. Here’s another gentleman who’s been helping me forever. He drops everything he’s got going on to help edit the Demon Squad books, and I can’t appreciate that enough. Ty’s been a champion of my writing since the early days, reading, reviewing, and offering up his assistance freely. That’s a true friend.
Without these guys (and more: Mihir, Bryce, Maja, Vix, to only name a few), the Demon Squad wouldn’t be what it is.
I’ve also been fortunate to have a bunch of people in my corner who’ve rallied behind me and helped me make a real go of writing and publishing. I’d name them all but the list would be longer than the book. Still, though I don’t want to leave anyone out, those of you who’ve stood with me through thick and thin, give yourselves a hand. You’re awesome, and I wake up every day feeling I’ve won the lottery of friends.
Lastly, to the Ragnarok family—of which all of them fit into the category above—lithen! You’ve made life more amazing than I could ever have imagined. Thank you for being you.
Dedication
This book is a bit special. Back in January, a couple of young girls lost their mother after only having recently lost their dad to cancer. I couldn’t help but be moved by what happened to these poor kids so when Tracey Fitzgerald Poist asked for items she could auction off to help them, I offered up what I could and that included a Tuckerization of one of the characters in this book.
The winner of that auction ended up being Tim Feely, to whom much gratitude is owed. Thanks for helping these young ladies out, Tim. Your act of kindness is very much appreciated.
However, his name being Tim made the task a little more difficult because I felt it would be strange having a character with the same name as me in a book I’m writing. As such, I cheated just a little. For this book, Tim is Styg, one of the antagonists battling against Frank and the DRAC team.
Tim most definitely gets his mention though, connecting him to the character, but if y’all can help out by calling Styg Tim every so often, both of us Tims would be grateful.
Collateral Damage
Demon Squad 8
One
Never before had I faced such a horrific beast.
It wailed and howled, limbs thrashing, claws at the ready to rip and shred anyone who dared approach. I circled, wary, fearful of getting too close to its razor sharp talons. Foul odors pecked at my nose like a murder of rotten crows on an all-bean diet. My stomach knotted in revulsion. I’d sniffed better corpses.
Still, there was no escaping what had to be done.
I crept forward, heart thundering against my ribs. It was now or never but yet I couldn’t bring my leaden feet to carry me closer. The creature let loose an e`ardrum-shattering screech at my obvious hesitance, sensing weakness. The gurgled sound morphed into a laugh, spittle flung about with casual disregard while rainbows of spew glistened in the air. The thing stared with wide, brown eyes, amusement sparkling in their depths. It knew it had the better of me, and it reveled in the moment as the stench grew with every shallow breath. I could taste its rankness in the air as it soured on my tongue. It was only getting worse, so with trembling hands I inched forward at last, daring the creature’s wrath. The time had come.
“Have you changed the baby yet?” Karra’s voice drifted to me from the other room.
“Damn it, woman,” I shouted back. “I’m working on it.”
The beast giggled.
“You think this is funny, don’t you?”
Abigail, my daughter, just grinned, her gaping maw oozing with a sheen of baby juice that ran down her dimpled chin. I couldn’t help but regret my decision to leave my snorkel and goggles in the other room, but the remnant Jell-O stains made me self-conscious.
A fresh diaper in one hand and Saran Wrapped-tongs clutched in the other, I moved in. Abby was having none of it. She squirmed and wiggled, doing all she could do to ensure the rancid funk that had escaped her butt coated as much of the changing table as possible. Green-black smears turned the white canvas into a swamp art project that would have grossed out G
G Allin in his glory days. Abby, however, was content to writhe in it.
I swallowed back a bile-tinged burp and plucked the tape loose on the diaper, freeing the madness within. While there weren’t any tentacles or elder gods waiting to escape, there was more than enough darkness to satisfy even the bleakest of Black Metal aficionados.
Ia! Ia! Cthulhu Poohtagn!
“How about now?”
I ignored Karra’s nagging and snatched at the soiled diaper with the tongs, tugging it across the table. It slipped off the edge and fell into the trash can with a moist splat. The resulting stink was worse than all of the SyFy Channel’s original programming lineup wrapped into a single season.
Now came the hard part.
I tossed the tongs aside and grabbed a handful of baby wipes, putting them between me and the kid like a cucumber-scented shield. Abby grinned as I approached, tiny fingers extended as if looking for an opening in my defenses. Her eyes narrowed and she waited, cooing innocently, but I knew better than to fall for her demonic wiles. I feinted high, then dove in low, remembering in my haste to wipe downward, but the sharp screech of a harpy stopped me before I could engage.
“Seriously?”
Karra shook her head and snatched the crumpled bundle of wipes from my hand, stuffing all but one back into the box. “Come here, baby girl,” she cooed as she leaned over Abigail. For a moment there I feared for Karra’s life, but the kid just burbled happily while Karra went to work. I scratched at my scruffy beard as she did, amazed by the sight before me. Two seconds later, a shiny baby appeared out of the murk and a neatly folded wipe thumped into the trash. “See how easy it is, Frankie?” The gleam of the clean changing table mocked me.
“Has to be voodoo.” I made the sign of the cross and tossed the new diaper to Karra. She chuckled and put it on Abby without effort. I glared at the little beast who grinned as though we hadn’t just been in a desperate battle for life and limb. “Can you check her scalp and see if she has 666 tattooed somewhere on there?”
“That’d be a little redundant, don’t you think?”
They never made movies about the granddaughter of the Devil, and after spending the last four months catering to her majesty’s every gurgled whim, I had begun to realize why. Even the great Wizard of Gerber couldn’t tame the wretched evil hiding within the creature’s cherubic shell. There’d be no happy ending to that flick.
“Here,” Karra said, holding Abigail out to me. “Take your daughter so I can finish dinner.”
I gingerly plucked Abby from her mother’s hands. My reward was a baby fist to the nose and a splatter of giggled spit that dotted my cheek. “There will come a reckoning, little demon. Of that, you can be assured.” Karra laughed and left the hell spawn and me alone in the nursery with the lingering odors of baby butt and shame.
“I’m guessing you’ll want to refill that little ooze factory of yours,” I said, poking Abby gently in the belly. She grinned like a toothless hobo I’d offered the liquor store keys to, so I carried her over to the recliner set alongside the crib. It creaked a welcome as we dropped into it. I sighed in comfort. It had been the only piece of furniture Karra had let me bring from my old house to the new one we’d bought together after Abby was born. Surrounded by knickknacks and fancy art and Feng Shui finery that was supposed to make a guy regular or something, the recliner was the only thing I had left from my old life. And Karra had tactically hidden it away in the nursery where it was almost certain to be a victim of fecal homicide.
The woman was devious I had to admit.
I grabbed a bottle of formula from the nearby end table and shook it. Abby’s hungry gaze followed its every movement, and I was half-tempted to keep shaking it to see how long the kid would play along.
Eh, who am I kidding?
She lasted a good two minutes before getting fussy.
She grabbed at the bottle when I finally guided it to her mouth, closing her eyes in contentment as she latched onto the nipple. She melted into my arms a moment later, a warm bundle of happiness. Peace settled over the room, only the quiet slurps of Abby’s nursing to be heard.
If ever there was a great time to be father, this had to be it. There were no worries about boyfriends or college funds or driving lessons or algebra homework. No, right then it was all about snuggles and bonding, all punctuated by the tiny little baby farts that vibrated my thigh. I let one rip to give her something to work toward, and she smiled.
She was so daddy’s little girl.
Right then Chatterbox rolled into the room, bumping the door aside, his maggots pinned to the insides of his corneas. He came to stop at my feet and wobbled himself upright so he could see both me and Abby from where he landed.
“Lulllllaby?” he asked.
The ease at which he managed to get the word out startled me. Ever since Karra imbued him with a piece of her own essence he’d become more and more animated but the past several months I’d seen massive leaps in his development. I suspected Karra was pumping him fuller and fuller of necromantic energy every day—zombie steroids—because of the baby. She’d mentioned once that he wasn’t exactly the model of a child-friendly companion, and I had to agree despite how much I liked the awkward metalhead. We’d even given the old boy a bath and slathered his neck hole with deodorizers. He smelled like a new car in a pet cemetery, but it was still better than his usual pungency.
“Sure.”
CB grinned with abandon when Abigail grunted her approval, and then he ripped into an elegiac rendition of Fates Warning’s “Prelude to Ruin.” The head’s stutter completely gone, it was as if John Arch himself had graced us with his presence. Abby blinked sleepily a few times while she nursed the bottle, CB’s soaring melodies filling the air, and I found myself easing back into the recliner, my own eyes fluttering.
I don’t know how long I lay there in my ‘80s metal stupor, remembering the good old days before hairspray and androgynous rockers and those gloomy assholes from Seattle stole the limelight, but my eyes creaked open to the sound of thunder. Abby snored quietly in my lap, bottle emptied and discarded, nestled between my legs, but CB had gone silent. He stared off down the hall.
“What is it, boy?” I asked groggily. “Timmy’s caught in a well?”
Chatterbox growled, setting the wild, unkempt hair at my neck on edge. I bolted upright as another boom rumbled overhead, shaking the house. My senses slipped loose of their own accord. They rang out like sonar an instant later, three distinct and ominous pings bouncing back, and I barely had enough time to form a cocoon of magical energy about us before the nearby wall exploded. Shards of wood and plaster buffeted the shield, obscuring my vision, swirls of gray dust billowing.
I stood my ground, stunned, while Abigail awoke with a start. Wide eyes stared up at me as her little lizard brain recognized something was wrong. She let out a pitiful wail and erupted into tears before I could do anything to calm her.
“Frank?”
Karra’s garbled shout scythed through my ears. My stomach leapt into my throat, and I charged forward, clearing the air with a swipe of a mystical hand. The ruin of the hallway came into focus, bringing me to stumbling halt just a few steps later. Karra lay in the middle of the hall, struggling to get to her feet, Longinus’s sword lying beside her. The roof was gone, the night sky yawning open above us. I clutched to Abby and willed more juice into the shield when the temperature dropped twenty degrees without warning. A shadow fell over us then.
I reached out to defend Karra but my magic fizzled at my fingertips as a darkened shape swooped in through the hole above us and landed in a crouch, out of sight behind her. There was a muffled scrape and steel burst from her chest before she even realized someone was there, silver glimmering in the weak starlight. Blood spilled from between her lips, and she slipped to her knees. She stared at me with tears welling, shock already setting in as her fingers unconsciously crept up to caress the blade protruding from her flesh. Through the haze she must have recognized the weapon
just as I had.
It was her father’s.
“No!” I roared, my cheeks stinging with my fury, and lashed out, but I’d forgotten something.
The assailant wasn’t alone.
My rage screamed pathetically into the night as a mystical bolt slammed into my defenses, knocking me sideways and throwing off my aim. I tucked my arms about Abigail as we hit the wall to absorb the blow and keep her safe. As confident as I was that my shield would hold up, I couldn’t stop the fear that laid spider eggs of doubt inside my skull. She screamed her terror while I scrambled for balance.
“’If I whet my glittering sword, and mine hand take hold on judgment; I will render vengeance to mine enemies…’ so sayeth the Lord,” quoted the guy who rose slowly from behind Karra, his hand entangled in her hair, pulling her up with him to keep me from blasting him.
Young, barely out of his teens, his smirk gleamed with Brad Pitt charm. I wanted to make love to his face with a hammer. Short blond hair gleamed like straw on his head, and he stood with confidence, wiggling the blade inside Karra without a hint of remorse for the agony he was causing her. Her teeth were barred against her screams, rivulets of red oozing between the white.
“And just as our Savior declared, the first of the abominations shall fall before the rest.”
My gaze snapped upward to see the other two home wreckers hovering above. The one who’d spoken was the polar opposite of the kid. Father Time had shit all over his beard, the great snowy whiteness flowing down his chest like an avalanche, standing out in sharp contrast to the burgundy of his robes. Dark eyes peered coldly out of sunken sockets as deep as wells. A sick little smile played across his thin lips.
