Strays

by Remy Wilkins

  He walked straight to the back where there was a counter that ran the length of the store. On one side were stools, and behind the bar a short-order diner. There was a pleasant looking lady in a light pink dress. She was rail thin with nut-brown skin. Her hair was up in a fat bun that dwarfed the rest of her head. She had her long nose planted in a paperback book with a floral cover and a grand, swooping title in gold.

  On the other side was the pharmacy, and tucked in the corner was a spinner rack of comic books. Behind the counter was a man in spectacles with a towering wave of silver hair. He looked up from a comic book as Rodney approached. He smiled, which signaled that Pinwheel, who walked behind, was unseen.

  “Hi there, youngster. Whatcha need?” His voice was startlingly low.

  Rodney cleared his throat. “I’m, uh, here to pick up my uncle’s comics. He said you keep them special for him.”

  “Eh?” He said, while putting down his reading material. “Yer Ray’s nephew then. Otis mentioned you was in town. I’m Jack Edison.”

  “Oh, you know Otis, too?”

  “Sure I do. Everybody knows Otis.” He stooped down and retrieved a brown paper bag. It looked like it held two inches of comic books. “He’ll be here for lunch in a bit.”

  Rodney accepted the bag and slung off his backpack. He slid the package in carefully and zipped it up. He withdrew his wallet and opened it. Inside were three crisp twenty dollar bills his mom had given him for the summer. “Uh, how much?” He held out his open wallet.

  Mr. Edison looked into it and shook his head. “How about I just put it on his tab?”

  “That sounds good.” Rodney was tucking his wallet into his pocket when he felt a tug at his sleeve.

  He turned to look at Pinwheel.

  Pinwheel was pointed to the other side of the bar. “Look,” he whispered. Rodney followed his finger and saw Otis climbing onto one of the stools. A moment later another figure emerged from the aisle and stood behind Otis. It was about five feet tall, black, and had long spindly fingers.

  “Speak of the devil,” cried Mr. Edison.

  “Hey there, Jack,” Otis replied without looking up.

  The demon looked over and saw Pinwheel. Its eyes flashed and he walked over. His bare feet clawing the tile. “Birthless, you snake. The diaboloi seek you.” His voice crackled like wood on fire.

  “I am no longer with the diaboloi, Cankersoot. And my name is Pinwheel.”

  Cankersoot stepped back alarmed. He looked at Rodney and then back to Pinwheel.

  “Did ya see your new friend?” Mr. Edison said, motioning toward Rodney. Rodney was easing backwards away from the two invisible demons.

  Otis looked around and saw Rodney. “Oh, didn’t see you, Rollie.”

  “Rodney,” Rodney said, hazarding a quick glance at Otis. The old mailman was staring up at the sign above the bar, looking over the menu.

  Cankersoot hunkered down to look at Pinwheel. “Have you come under the sway of this little meatsack?”

  Pinwheel inserted himself between Rodney and the demon. “You are not to be inside the city. You should run back to the Old Master before angeloi snatch you up.”

  A long thin tongue shot from Cankersoot’s mouth and tapped Pinwheel on the snout. “The diaboloi do not honor the deal any longer. We are taking the city; the bearded adam cannot stop us. If you stand against the army of Hell you will fall with this world.”

  Otis looked up at the lady across from him. “I’ll take the grilled cheese, Ava.”

  The woman with the mountainous hair slapped the book shut and walked to the back to prepare the food, raising a clamor before coming back and drawing a drink from the soda fountain for Otis. She placed it on the counter in front of him and returned to the back. All wordless.

  “Rodney and I will stop you.” The words of Pinwheel were a lot bolder than how he spoke them.

  Rodney gathered up his backpack. “I should get back.” Mr. Edison had already taken up his comic book.

  Otis was hunched to draw up his beverage through a straw.

  Cankersoot laughed. He walked backwards and leaned toward Otis’s ear. “Ray is not to be trusted,” he muttered.

  Otis turned and looked at Rodney as he began to leave. “Keep an eye on that uncle a’ yours.”

  Rodney turned and ran out of the store. Pinwheel followed more slowly to ensure Cankersoot stayed put.

  Rodney burst out into the rippling sunlight, gulping the moist air. He felt sweat run down his temples and he wiped both sleeves over his face before drawing out his bike.

  Pinwheel exited. “It is not safe here if the demons are entering the city. They would not break the vow if they feared the hand of Heaven.”

  Rodney hopped onto his seat and was about to shove off when Pinwheel grabbed him by the collar. “What?” Rodney asked, “What is it?”

  Pinwheel’s eyes were wide. Rodney looked out into the street. Scattered about, behind pedestrians, flying over the buildings, crouched in every shadow, were demons.

  “We should leave.” Pinwheel gave him a little push.

  Rodney stepped into his peddling, leaning as he increased speed. Pinwheel kept his hands to Rodney’s shoulders, pushing him along. Rodney ramped off the sidewalk into the empty street.

  “What are they doing?” he called over his shoulder.

  “They are doing tempters’ work. Inspiring malice and envy.”

  “Why did you say they weren’t supposed to be here?”

  “Uh-oh.”

  They were drawing attention. A cloud of demons had taken flight and was following them. Their jeers cut through the howling of the wind as they raced out of downtown Twin Rivers.

  The buildings decreased, and slowly the multitude of demons ceased their harassing. Pinwheel kept up their speed, Rodney struggling to keep his feet to the pedals. They zipped around the long curve out of town.

  They slowed. Pinwheel released his hold and sailed alongside. “The demons made a deal with Ray.”

  Rodney remembered the voice talking to Ray his first night here. He slammed on the brakes and pulled to the side of the road. Pinwheel landed in front of him.

  “What deal?”

  “Ray is well known in the Kingdom of Darkness. Many tempters would come from all over to speak to him. To cause such a one as him to stumble would win a demon much envy. But for years no demon could cause him to sway or mutter one false word toward Heaven. Until Murkpockets, that is.”

  Rodney scanned the road, east and west, to make sure they were still alone. No cars or creature were within sight. “Who is Murkpockets?”

  Pinwheel suppressed a shiver. “Years ago he was nothing, a lowly tempter not much bigger than I. He was too insignificant to be allowed to approach and tempt someone like Ray, but he was assigned to one of Ray’s friends.”

  “Gerald,” Rodney said, thinking of the beaming boy next to Otis in so many pictures.

  “I did not know his name, but Murkpockets was his tempter. He had gained his ear and burdened him with guilt and turned his heart, and Ray was stricken over it.”

  “So what happened?”

  “Ray made a deal. If demons would stay out of the town Ray would make his home a shield from Heaven and build a gateway into the world.”

  “The Malaficky thing.”

  Pinwheel nodded. “The Alvarium Maleficorum. Murkpockets has risen in the ranks of Hell; he has grown mighty, and there is word that even the Old Master has come.”

  “The Old Master?”

  Pinwheel looked nervously about. There was a buzzing in the cotton field next to them, but not a single leaf moved. “We should get back to the rabbits.”

  “Yeah, okay.” Rodney walked his bike back onto the blacktop and stood atop the pedals. He coasted until Pinwheel flapped ahead of him and then began pumping his legs to keep up.

 
Rodney slowed as they approached Ray’s driveway. A pillar of warm air flowed out of the dark tunnel like a great breath exhaled. Rodney turned and pumped hard to get through the thick gravel at the mouth of the driveway. Pinwheel angled down, but his dive was brought up short when a seven-foot demon dropped in front of them.

  The great demon swatted Pinwheel aside. Rodney screamed and slammed on his brakes. The demon caught his handlebars and slung him off on the opposite side. Rodney hit gravel and slid. He coughed and scrambled to his feet. The demon was lumbering and flexing his muscles. Smoke rose off him like the sun was searing him. He lifted his great wings above him and made a canopy of shade.

  He made a horrible retching sound, like he was clearing his throat. He looked at Pinwheel and spoke, “Foolish diabolos, do you think the outer darkness had not noticed your cowardice?”

  Pinwheel climbed to his feet. “I am not diabolos, I am angelos.”

  “Your master has need of you.”

  “I serve the Name.”

  The creature’s eyes flinched. “The Old Master has not allowed it.”

  Rodney started to say something, but as he opened his mouth the demon spun to face him and shrieked. It was a piercing and deafening howl. His mouth hung open as he glared at Rodney.

  Rodney tried again to speak, but the demon shrieked a second time to silence him. Rodney and Pinwheel both recoiled a step at the horrible scream. The sound made Rodney’s skin rattle, like glass had shattered in his veins. The creature heaved and flecks of spittle hung from his gaping maw. When the creature saw that Rodney had decided against speaking, he continued addressing Pinwheel. “Return, or be taken by force.”

  Pinwheel took a timid step forward. “Heaven would not allow it. The diaboloi cannot act freely.”

  There was another retching sound, like a chain being pulled through old nails. Apparently the demon was laughing. “What would heaven want with a worthless accuser?”

  Rodney looked to Pinwheel to see his response. Pinwheel merely shivered. Finally he responded, “The adam will speak the Name, and the Old Master will be powerless again.”

  The monster’s mouth split to show his teeth. “No ears will hear again; the diaboloi have made sure of that. But go. Go cry to heaven and see if she risks her remade world for a failed tempter.” The demon turned to point at Rodney and continued, “And you, foolish adam, your role will not be lost.”

  Before he could respond the demon puffed out his chest and stretched out his wings to their full length, his clawed feet dug into the earth. Rodney realized too late what the demon was doing. He shielded his eyes as the creature crouched and swung his wings with such force that the wind swept them off their feet. They were thrown to the gravel and were driven back. Pebbles stung his skin, and he had to shield his face with a hand. He sputtered and brushed back the dirt from his eyes to see that the creature was gone.

  Pinwheel stood and said, “That was Murkpockets, architect of the Alvarium Maleficorum.” He paused, before explaining, “The beehive of wickedness.”

  “What was that all about?” Rodney couldn’t stop the panic rising in his voice.

  Pinwheel looked at him. “They will come after me, then you, and then the entire world.”

  Chapter Nine

  THE PRINCE OF DARKNESS GRIM

  Beneath the Corleonis, deep underground in a dank web of tunnels, crawling like ants in complete darkness, were the cruentated army of Hell. The demons scurried, able to see in the lightlessness more clearly than in day. They cursed as they worked, their words forming glyphs of air that their infernal eyes could decipher. At the apex of the underground edifice, suspended from the roof, was the Alvarium Maleficorum, a throbbing, bulbous structure like a warty tongue. There was a hum as a cloud of bees cycled through the Alvarium. They were black, bigger and hairier than normal bees, sticky with ichor.

  A demon standing on a raised platform poured out the contents of a bucket into a trough that led into the Alvarium. This drove the bees into a frenzy, and their hum and buzz peaked. A signal was made, and the structure heaved and undulated as if a wave were passing through it. With a sound like a wet mouth opening, the Alvarium emitted a gory demon.

  A writhing lump flopped into a tepid pool of muck. A demon standing at the wall stepped closer and grabbed a quivering wing to pull the cruentated demon to his feet. “What’s your name, diabolos?”

  “Smugbog,” he sputtered between the spitting of goo. He wiped his face clear of the muck and flung it into the dark.

  “Go to the draining station, next alcove.” The demon gave Smugbog a kick to the haunches.

  The bulbous hive suspended from the ceiling stopped throbbing, but thick cords of ooze continued to drain from it. The demon attending it hoisted another bucket full of black ichor and poured it in.

  The disoriented Smugbog managed to stumble into the next room. He was directed to a bench and, without a word from the demon before him, his side was pierced with a sharp claw and a tube was roughly inserted in the wound.

  “Damnation,” he blurted.

  “Verily,” replied the demon as he monitored the flow of ichor into the bucket held beneath the tube. “The Alvarium needs ichor for the cruentation.”

  “How much?” Smugbog inquired while poking his belly. Ichor sputtered from the tube.

  “All that is to be gotten.”

  Smugbog whimpered.

  “The process is slow,” said the demon. “The army grows but a little. Impatience is boundless.”

  Smugbog watched the bucket fill. “How much will come through the blood of Smugbog?”

  The attendant revealed his teeth and frowned. “A half of a runt, you insipid fool! Your bleeding is nothing. From this point onward, you will not be full, not till the army of the Outer Darkness is complete.” He ripped the tube from Smugbog’s arm and grabbed his ears. “Begone, foul thing. Blisterteeth hopes to never smell your rot again!”

  Smugbog stood, “Vengeance is mine, Blisterteeth.” He hobbled to the door.

  “Vengeance is mine!” Blisterteeth shouted in response.

  Smugbog joined the line of demons shuffling down the slick spiral ramp deeper into the earth. Notches had been cut into the ceiling of the tunnel so that the claws at the joints of their wings could catch and prevent slipping. The cruentated demons felt slow and dense; the transition from spirits to physical beings had made them heavy and dull.

  There was grumbling from all the descending demons. Indignation and complaints were blurted from the demons lined in front and behind Smugbog. He flicked the demon’s head that lumbered before him. “Where do the diaboloi go?”

  “To be cerated,” the demon snapped back at him.

  “Why must the diaboloi be cerated?”

  The demon before him looked back and snarled, “To protect against the Name, blighted fool. And that Grubcough might be spared your yammer!”

  Above the din of the demon’s disgruntled burble was the sound of pain. It grew louder: howls, screeches, long-bellowed notes of suffering poured out of the place they were heading.

  Smugbog trudged on in the black muck till they arrived at the bottom of the pit, opening into a large cavern. There were several rails before which the diaboloi knelt. Behind the rails were demons pouring molten wax into the ears of the newly cruentated.

  A demon shoved him forward to a rail. He knelt and his head was wrenched to the side. The demon spoke, “Have torment, diabolos.” At that he poured a dagger of scalding, dark wax into his ear.

  Smugbog shrieked in pain. The demon roughly turned his head over and repeated the process in the other ear. The last thing Smugbog heard was the screams of the infernal host around him. Then the world went stone quiet.

  In the grooves of the dark Smugbog saw the lips of the demon move, and black motes of sound flurried the air before him. He focused on the visual heft of language, the billow of air, and
read the darkness. It was antimusic, an atonal alphabet, and he knew the command to join the ranks of the rabble outside the ceration room.

  “Vengeance is mine,” said the demon.

  Smugbog repeated bitterly, “Vengeance is mine.”

  * * *

  A huge, bloody lump landed in the dirt of the underground chamber. The lump stretched and its arms and legs moved to a kneeling position. The creature vomited thick black liquid.

  “That was wretched.” He stood in the stench and soggy mess of the room.

  Another figure beside the wall drew near. “What is your name, filth?”

  “Itchpot,” he said and drew himself to near full height. The seven-foot ceiling was not high enough for him to stand unbent. His back and folded wings scraped dirt from the top and sides of the tunnel as he moved.

  The other figure stiffened and stepped back.

  Itchpot drew his lips back to reveal his daggerlike teeth. “Take me to Murkpockets.”

  * * *

  Murkpockets surveyed the building of another hive. His aide, Yuckjoy, drew a map in the mud before them. “Here and here,” he said indicating two points at opposites and above a large X in the center. “The bearded one foils the hives along the river.”

  “Without the racket of water, he will hear the hum,” responded Murkpockets.

  “The Old Master is impatient.”

  “Build the new on the ashes of the old. The adam will sound an alarm if the diaboloi move too fast.”

  At that moment Itchpot entered behind them. “The adam will be taken care of. Do not fear him.”

  Murkpockets spun around to face the well fed and resplendently hairy accuser. “Itchpot? What need the diaboloi of you? Do you not rule the rat kingdom across the sea?”