If that happened, it happened. In the meantime, it sure wouldn’t hurt to ask for a little help.
“Find anything?”
Moss grunted and managed to force the filing cabinet he was pushing to move another foot out from the wall. He scooted forward and peered behind it before answering Quarry’s question. Nothing but more solid wall. “Nah.”
“Me neither.” Agent Quarry grabbed a box and lifted it; there was a wet-sounding rip and the bottom gave out, sending moldering, water-stained papers to join the rest of the litter on the floor.
“Jesus,” said Moss, but before he could complain further, they heard a set of simultaneous beeps and the blue light on each of their locator belts blinked to life. It was a double set of shockingly bright blue spots in the near darkness.
Quarry jerked. “Abe!”
Something crunched at the far end of the storeroom.
Both agents spun and jerked their flashlights in the direction of the noise; there was nothing to see but the moving shadows cast on the columns by their searching flashlight beams. “Moss, what the hell was that?” Quarry’s voice was tight with anxiety.
Before the other agent could answer, two long shapes moved out of the blackness, each casting stretched, ominous shadows. It was impossible to get a good look at them, but their footsteps sounded like heavy thunderclaps—unrelenting and huge. Whatever the shapes were, they were headed straight for the FBI agents.
Quarry wasn’t wasting any more time or words. He raised his gun and fired at the things coming toward them, round after round, until the clip was empty. The room filled with the booming noise of the gunshots and the muzzle flashes left little red streaks in front of their eyes, but it was useless—bullets weren’t going to stop the creatures.
Gritting his teeth, Moss pulled the flamethrower from his shoulder and turned to face the advancing shadows, careful not to let the weight of the tanks strapped to his back throw him off balance. A quick flip of the ignition valve rewarded him with a spark at the end of the nozzle; that was followed by the oh-so-comforting sound of the ignition flame. Moss grinned. It was time to even the odds between man and monster.
He aimed and gave the fuel release trigger a firm squeeze. The nozzle vomited a spectacular thirty-foot gout of flame at the approaching blackness.
Moss held it for five seconds, long enough to fry an elephant, then released the trigger. For a long moment as they stood there and squinted through the readjustment of their eyes, there was no noise beyond their own ragged breathing. Finally, Quarry lifted his arm and pointed his flashlight in front of them. Nothing.
“Whatever it was,” Quarry began, “it’s—”
He never got the chance to finish his sentence.
Sammael’s tongue slapped around his face with a sound like a wet sheet snapping in the wind; the agent couldn’t even scream as he was pulled into the darkness. Before it fell out of his hand, Quarry’s flashlight bobbed up and down frantically, flickering like a strobe light over the nightmarish truth.
There were two Sammaels.
The first one had Agent Quarry solidly in its grip and, with a hideous parody of a gleeful smile, it drew the man’s head into its oversized mouth and covered it with moist, fleshy lips. Quarry tried to scream but his mouth was covered; what came out was an insane, petrified grunting sound that went on way too long.
Instinctively, Moss turned to run. He made it about twenty feet, but he could feel the other creature right behind him, gaining, and he knew he wasn’t going to make it. The fight part kicked in over the flight, and he turned clumsily, the tanks making him wobble, but at least he had his hand on the fuel trigger. The flame was just starting to spurt from the nozzle when the second Sammael came down on him from overhead. The beast landed with all his weight on Moss’s left shoulder and drove his body down hard on that side, folding him in half and snapping his spine neatly in two.
As he fell into oblivion, his hand released the flamethrower’s fuel trigger and the flame fizzled and ran out.
Hellboy had only been looking for Abe about five minutes when he found him, and that, Hellboy decided, was about five minutes too long. The instant Abe’s light had gone off on his locator belt, Hellboy had focused on following the guidance system; when he’d gotten really close, he hadn’t needed it any longer—his extrasensitive nose picked up not only the faint and not unpleasant scent of the sea that was an integral part of Abe, but the more startling and unwelcome scent of blood…lots of blood. For the first time since he’d come down into the tunnels on this mission, Hellboy actually felt a stab of fear about something, and seeing Abe crumpled against the wall in this filthy, blue-blood filled shower, wasn’t doing much to make the sensation go away.
Automatically Hellboy’s hand went for his own locator switch. He flipped it on but it had taken one too many whacks in his battle with Sammael—he got one weak spark and that was all, not even so much as a flicker from the red light. Fine, he could be flexible and go the person-to-person route. When he thumbed the Talk button on his walkie-talkie, he was almost sappily happy that the thing actually worked. “We need medics down here!” he barked into it. “Now! Over.”
Hellboy released the button, then held it up to his ear.
Static.
Clay was utterly lost.
He turned in the nearly complete darkness, shining his flashlight beam all around him. He could go for his locator belt, but did he really want to admit that the only reason he’d flipped the panic button was because he’d lost his sense of direction down here? That he’d lost track of Hellboy? Yeah, some FBI sharpie he’d look like then.
No, it was better to keep his trap shut and find his own way out, but boy, when he got back to the B.P.R.D., he was going to ream Hellboy out good. Red knew he wasn’t supposed to just take off like that, especially when they were in someplace like this maze. They could be a block apart, or a mile—there was just no way to tell. And the walkie-talkies? Half the time they wouldn’t work; as if having concrete walls between everyone wasn’t bad enough, the metal reinforcing rods placed in most of them completely fouled up any signal, acting as signal blockers rather than conductors.
So where was he? Clay scowled up at a grate in the ceiling through which an extremely thin light shone. Standing down here and craning his neck upward toward a metal-covered hole really ticked him off—it was way too much like being in a dungeon. Still, there were two things that dungeons and subways always had in common: you went up to get out.
Clay rubbed his hands together, then started to reach up. Suddenly Hellboy’s voice sputtered through the walkie-talkie’s speakers. “Who’s there? Clay? Come in—someone!”
At the sound of Hellboy’s urgent voice, the agent lowered his hands and grabbed for his radio instead. “Clay, Code 30. This is Clay. Over.”
With his attention focused intently on the walkie-talkie, Clay didn’t see Kroenen as the zombie Nazi let go of an overhead pipe and dropped lightly to the ground behind him. There was a snick as he unsheathed one of the long blades he always seemed to have secreted somewhere on his wire-thin body. Such a tiny sound, and yet something in Agent Clay’s senses registered it; he yanked his gun out, turned, and fired just as Kroenen leaped forward, blade extended. The flash from the gun’s dark muzzle glimmered on the silver edge of Kroenen’s blade right before it sunk into Clay’s body. It seemed to take twice as long for Kroenen to pull the blade out of his flesh.
The walkie-talkie squawked again, this time more loudly—Hellboy had obviously heard the sound of the gunfire. Clay had gotten off at least three shots, but incredibly, Kroenen was still standing. At least he’d retreated a few feet away, and taken that damnable sword with him. Something wet tickled beneath his nose and Clay reached up to wipe it away, trying foggily to decide what to do next; his arm felt as heavy as a log, hard to lift, and when he ran his fingers across the cleft between his upper lip and his nose, it came away heavily smeared with blood.
Clay didn’t feel it when he toppled
over.
Kroenen tilted his head and watched dispassionately as the FBI man fell. Dust poured out of the holes in his chest, making neat little hills at his feet. That was of no consequence—there was always more where that came from; what did annoy him was that there was no time to ensure this troublesome government man was out of the game permanently. Kroenen could hear Hellboy’s footsteps reverberating off the tunnel walls. He would be here in moments and when faced with the prospect of dealing with someone of Hellboy’s size and ugly temperament, Kroenen wisely decided it was best to take the silent way out.
For authenticity’s sake, he gave up his weapon, placing it at a believable angle between himself and the prone FBI agent. Then he quickly stretched out on the grubby floor, choosing a spot that would make it seem credible that he had gone down under the other man’s volley of shots. As an added bonus, Kroenen would be able to see everything that went on, get a nice, good look at the kid as he discovered his friend’s unfortunate condition. Indeed, life was good.
As Kroenen had expected, he barely had time to arrange himself in a death pose before Hellboy’s arrival. Golden eyes glittering with loathing, Hellboy barely glanced at what he thought was Kroenen’s corpse before heading over to kneel by the agent’s side. He felt for a pulse, then tried again. And again.
And each time the expression on Hellboy’s face became bleaker, while in Kroenen’s twisted mind, he listened to the sounds of a Wagner aria as he waited for his next chance to rise.
16
NEWARK
THE MUSIC BLARING FROM THE CAB’S RADIO WAS AT eardrum-shattering levels, Janet Jackson screaming about what someone had done or not done for her lately. In the backseat, Myers watched Liz Sherman poke her head out of the window on her side of the cab, scan the passing scenery for a moment, then bring up her Polaroid and snap off a shot. Without so much as looking at it, she passed it over to Myers to hold while it developed. “It feels good to be outside!” She had to practically shout to be heard over the singing. “It’s been so long!”
Myers heard her, but just barely. This was ridiculous—Jesus, he really hated overly loud music. Leaning forward, he rapped on the bullet-proof piece of acrylic that separated the front from the backseat. The driver glanced at him in the rearview mirror and gave the agent what was probably intended as a congenial smile; Myers just thought it looked sharp and full of teeth badly in need of a brushing. “Hey!” he shouted. “The music—turn down the music!”
The driver’s head bobbed up and down enthusiastically and his grin got even wider. “Yeah, yeah—music!” He reached for the radio knob and Myers sighed in relief. That sigh turned into a wince when the driver merely changed the station; now the speakers—four of the wretched things embedded in the back dashboard, of course—were blaring techno, and Myers hated techno more than he hated loud music. The guy hadn’t acquiesced to lowering it a single decibel.
Aggravated, he sat back on the seat and looked over at Liz. The sight of her—or rather, her legs—made him forget his anger, the cabdriver, even the horrid techno band yowling out of the sound system. Liz had hoisted herself up and out of the open window, and now she was sitting with her feet inside the cab and the rest of her outside and blowing in the wind.
“Jesus!” he managed. “That’s not—that’s not safe, Miss Sherman!” He tried again, louder, desperate to be heard over the music. “Miss Sherman?”
She couldn’t hear him, of course. Hell, he couldn’t hear himself thanks to all this racket. Before he could decide what to do, her hand snaked back through the window and offered him another slowly developing Polaroid picture. He twisted around and placed it next to the other one on the back dashboard, then smiled in spite of himself. He was supposed to escort her, right? Keep an eye on her? So what the hell…why not?
Myers turned sideways on the seat, then pulled himself up and out of the window on his side.
When she saw him over the roof of the car, she masked it quickly, but he saw a flicker of surprise dance across her eyes. “Nice view,” he commented. Impulsively, he waved at her, and in return, for the first time, Liz Sherman actually smiled at him.
“A smile, huh?” His own mouth turned up at the edges. Without warning, she raised the camera and snapped off yet another Polaroid, this time of him. With her dark hair blowing in the wind and the sun on her flawless skin, it was startling how beautiful she looked.
“Don’t get used to it,” she said, and Myers had to blink. Don’t get used to what? He’d been lost in his own thoughts for a moment there, and he had to go through a mental rebriefing before he could figure out his place in the way the world was currently running. The music was thundering around his legs, and while he didn’t like it, Myers found himself inadvertently tapping along with the main beat of it. Right now, he couldn’t take his eyes off Liz Sherman, but that was okay—he was just doing his job, making sure she left that hospital and got safely back to the B.P.R.D. Nothing more, nothing less. He was only being loyal.
And on the heels of that, he thought, Yeah, Myers. You just keep telling yourself that.
In the medical lab, the unconscious Abe Sapien floated serenely inside a special tank. No normal hospital had ever seen anything like this—in fact, no normal doctor had any clue that there was a need for such a thing to exist in the first place. Affixed to the inside of the Plexiglas were LED strips that monitored the water temperature, pH level, body toxins, waste, and a hundred other top-secret things which the B.P.R.D. doctors were well paid to analyze. Abe’s normally blue skin was slightly gray, and Hellboy wanted to believe that was because of the way the way light reflected through the water. He knew damned well that the truth had more to do with blood loss and how severely his friend was injured.
Wrapped all the way around Abe’s torso and right arm was a biocast, a cybernetic healing unit that would, hopefully, speed Abe along the road to recovery. Hellboy had once been given a rubber ball with a couple dozen long black rubber “hairs” running out of it, some kind of movie promotion giveaway that someone had thought his cats would enjoy (they’d ignored it). Right now Abe looked like that ball: rounded out because of the biocast, with a web of tubes and hoses holding him in place, waving in the air like multicolored octopus arms or your garden variety Lovecraftian monster.
Sitting shirtless on a nearby exam table, swathed in a bunch of bandages all his own, Hellboy sat and studied his pal, not really thinking so much as…concentrating. If focus could actually make something happen—and wasn’t that sort of what Liz was all about?—then he was going to focus Abe along a little faster.
“He’ll make it,” a voice said from behind him. Hellboy turned and saw Dr. Manning standing there in his GQ-quality suit. The overall impression was ruined by the sour look on the man’s face. “But not everyone was so lucky.” Manning’s expression went even darker. “Two agents died today. Clay probably won’t survive the night. You were reckless.”
Hellboy’s yellow eyes narrowed. “I knew those men better than you did.”
Manning’s eyebrows raised. “Ah, I see. That makes it all right, then.” He shrugged a little too carelessly and turned to leave. It was an invitation and Hellboy knew it, knew he should leave things alone and not take the bait.
Fat chance.
He stood, muscles bunching painfully around his bruises and the stitched-up gashes beneath the bandages. “No, it doesn’t make it ‘all right.’ But I stopped that creature, didn’t I?” He didn’t need vindication or support from this jerk, but for once, after all he and everyone else had been through tonight, it would be nice to hear an acknowledgment of how important their work, their sacrifices, were. Did this guy even have a clue? Or was he still so wrapped up in his cloak of disbelief that he couldn’t see that?
Manning paused and looked back. “That’s what you do,” he said, and for a moment Hellboy thought the guy was actually going to wear the white hat for a change, even if only temporarily. But, of course, Manning had to keep running his mouth. “That’s wh
y we need you,” he continued. “You have an insight.” He paused, just long enough to build a little power for his next words. “You know monsters.”
Hellboy felt his face grow thunderous, welcomed the tension riding along the curves of his muscles like static electricity. “What are you trying to say?”
This time Manning turned and faced him fully, crossing his arms and lifting his chin. “In the end, after you’ve killed and captured every freak out there, there’s still one left. You.”
Hellboy could feel a double pulse beating unpleasantly in his head, one behind each horn. Manning let out a deep sigh. “I wish I could be more gracious, but—”
WHAM!
On the theory that actions really do speak louder than words, Hellboy finished his sentence by smashing a metal locker with his stone hand, then grabbing it and hefting it high above his head with only one hand, clearly aimed in the other man’s direction. Manning’s face paled as the sound of metal crunching reverberated around the room; he couldn’t stop himself from automatically ducking when Hellboy’s elbow bent in preparation for a throw. Without another word, he turned and ran out of the medical bay.
It was hard to believe that this whole area was underground, especially when all the public could see were the rather nondescript offices of a waste management company. What was in front of Liz now was, at least by government standards (which usually meant gray filing cabinets, cluttered desks, and lots of electronic equipment that didn’t work but couldn’t be thrown out because it was government property), blatantly decadent. They were in a large central area with the B.P.R.D. logo inset into the floor in solid brass. Evenly spaced at strategic points, guards were monitoring computer stations while others tracked blips on tactical glass boards. All very high tech and big money.
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