Strays

by Remy Wilkins

  “Get up, Rod.”

  Rodney groaned as his body ached for wind. He held himself up with his arms as he refilled his lungs with shallow scoops of air. He looked up and saw the honey glow of the bat on the other side of him. The demons were careful to step over it as they approached him.

  One of the demons put his foot on Rodney and pushed him down onto his back. His feet and legs were resplendently hairy. “What did Murkpockets call this one?” he asked.

  Another demon with fingers like tree roots answered, “This shineworm is called Rodney.”

  The hairy-legged demon crouched down by Rodney and cupped his prickly hands under Rodney’s chin. “And what did Murkpockets say to do with Rodney?” He spoke his name as if it were a knife, stabbing the air with it.

  “Bind them so that they can see the defeat of earth,” said the crooked-fingered demon.

  Rodney saw a smaller demon creep behind the others. It picked up the still glowing bat. The light revealed Pinwheel’s face slanted with anger.

  “Defeat this,” he said and struck the nearest demon in the back.

  The demons spun to see who assaulted them from behind.

  “The stray!” another cried.

  Pinwheel swung, and the demons jumped back and circled. He kept the bat in front of him and moved to stand between Rodney and their attackers. “Go!” he yelled. “Get Ray out of here.”

  Pinwheel stepped forward and leveled the bat at the approaching demons. They were three times as tall as he was.

  “The stray returns,” rasped the hairy demon.

  “He heard that Hell was coming for him and saved them the trip,” spoke the other.

  Pinwheel ignored them and yelled at Rodney over his shoulder. “Take off the rope and tie it to Ray.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  Over the growls and mutterings of the demons, Pinwheel said, “I’m going to send these simpering fools back to the fire that birthed them.” Without another word he lunged forward with a bone-rattling shriek, swinging madly. The demons dodged and howled, slashed and leaped about. Whenever Pinwheel struck a demon with the illuminated bat, they burst into dust.

  Rodney heard more demons ascending the ramp. “Pinwheel, block the ramp with the hive!”

  Pinwheel looked up at the Alvarium leaning toward the tunnel’s mouth. He jumped up and bit through the single rope that held it to the frame. The top-heavy beehive rolled off the slanted wood platform toward the tunnel. It reached the sloping ramp and rolled down it. They’d misjudged the size of the tunnel and it swallowed the Alvarium whole. The beehive rumbled down, boards breaking, followed by more screams and curses.

  Pinwheel struck at the remaining demons, each swing sending up a spume of dust. “Go!” he yelled over his shoulder.

  Rodney pulled his eyes away from the fray. He tied the rope around Ray’s feet, following the rope back up the steps. He felt the rope move as he climbed the slippery stairs.

  He fell out of the stairway, tripping over the last step. Someone moved in front of him. He froze. It must be Otis or Al. They’d grab him, and then the demons would come bubbling up from below, and they’d all die, or at least get wrapped up in stiff black gunk till kingdom come. Whose kingdom he was too afraid to ask.

  He was surprised to hear a woman’s voice. “Grab the rope and help me pull.”

  “Lucasta?” Rodney squinted at the dark figure as his eyes adjusted. His sight lost the fuzziness and he saw silver-haired Lucasta in a long blue dress. “What are you doing here?”

  “Quick, child.” She had untied the rope from the beam and was winding it around her arm. She bent the rope around her waist and leaned back, using the beam as an elbow so that she could pull toward the front door.

  Rodney stood and grabbed the rope in front of Lucasta. They pulled until they were two steps out the front door. With one last heave they fell back as Ray popped out with Pinwheel at his head helping.

  “We don’t have much time,” he said as he hauled Ray out of the way and shut the door.

  Rodney ran past them into the library saying, “We have to block the door with something.” He grabbed Ray’s chair and dragged it into the stair room and pushed it over. On its back, it could just squeeze between the center beam and the wall, its wood legs against the stair door. He looked up to see Pinwheel and Lucasta staring down at him skeptically. “This is not going to do much is it?”

  “No,” said Pinwheel.

  “It will give us just enough time to get Ray out of his binds and skadoodle,” said Lucasta as she went into the kitchen. She came back with a knife and a bottle of honey. She knelt down by Ray, who still squirmed against the ropey goop.

  “I tried a knife. It’s too tough.”

  He watched Lucasta dip the blade in honey and then run it gently over the top of Ray’s struggling form. The black ropes snapped and sprung back from the honey-drenched blade.

  Ray kicked out of the cut gunk. “Whew, thanks loads, Lucy.”

  Pinwheel fidgeted at the door. “We should leave.”

  Rodney grabbed his bat and followed Ray and Lucasta out the door. They climbed into a white pickup truck that presumably belonged to Lucasta, who was at the wheel. Ray hobbled to the passenger side while Rodney and Pinwheel jumped into the truck bed.

  There was a great crash behind them as the door splintered. Lucasta backed the truck out and rammed it into gear as several demons leaped out of the house. Rodney heard the engine growl and thunder as it spun gravel into the air.

  Rodney lifted his bat and stood as a demon, still cringing in the bright sunlight, tried to grab the tailgate. Rodney brought the bat down like an ax, causing the demon’s hand to disintegrate.

  They rattled off the driveway down the forest path that led straight to Lucasta’s house. Tree limbs brushed against the truck. The truck whined and lost paint. The demons had fallen in behind them, some running, some leaping, some flying, but all screaming and cursing and smoldering in the sun.

  Rodney knocked the arms off two more demons and the jaw off a third. He was nearly launched from the truck when a root sent a quake through the speeding vehicle. Pinwheel seized his jacket to keep him from flying out of the truck bed.

  Another demon swooped in and Rodney stood to fend it off, but there was a heavy thunk sound that was driven deep into his skull. He fell forward into a black space. He heard screaming and the roar of the truck growing fainter and farther away.

  Chapter Fourteen

  A BULWARK

  Murkpockets surveyed the wreckage of the great dome. The scaffold rising in the center to the Scorpio room had collapsed. Its fall had caused much disarray amongst the draining tables. Ichor had been spilled, and the floor was a soupy mess. The tumbling Alvarium had destroyed much of the ramp that circled the dome’s walls, now crumbling and slumping to bury the demons below. Eventually, the Alvarium itself had rolled off the ramp and exploded on the floor, bees and gore slung against the walls.

  Murkpockets appraised the remains of the crushed Alvarium, a useless pile of wood and viscera. The demons were too incensed to curse, and kicked themselves free from the debris. Many of them leapt into the air in pursuit of the enemies with no need of orders from Murkpockets.

  The great Alvarium was finished. New ones would have to be built, but without the help of Ray, they could never build one of such size. Its dimensions and measurements, its balance of wax and gore, wood and bones, were lost.

  Itchpot came waddling in. The alarm had spread rapidly through the den, and Murkpockets was expecting the gassy toad. He spread his arms out indicating the ruins. “Do you see what happens when enemies are allowed to roam?” He was going to continue his rant, but the fear on Itchpot’s face stopped him cold.

  “The—the—hurkle—the Old Master,” Itchpot shivered and shook his head. “En-ki Ab-zu rises.”

  At the sight of the na
me of the Prince of Darkness coursing in the black, his demon eyes reading the cruel swirl of sounds, Murkpockets fell. He trembled on the ground. What could be the cause of his rising but this failure that he was surely to be blamed for? He swallowed a groan.

  Itchpot continued through his stammering. “The . . . the . . . En-ki Ab-zu demands—higauff—t-to s-speak with you.”

  A cold tremor sliced down the core of Murkpockets’s spine. He scrambled to his feet and ran, stumbling, to the pit of the newly risen Prince. Midway to the Prince’s abode he passed the two guards far from their station, quivering with fear. Murkpockets’ legs seized, and he collapsed. He flailed in the dirt, his stomach boiling with the mud and bugs he’d wolfed down earlier to anchor his matter. His body convulsed, and he emptied the contents of his stomach onto the ground before him. Slick mud was ejected through his nose as his body rolled again and again with the disease of terror.

  Without bothering to wipe his face, he staggered to his feet and continued to the pit of the Prince. He arrived at the hole. A damp heat climbed out. He dropped down to the hovel below, but his jelly legs were unable to hold him, and he ended up as a pile of bent wings and bones.

  “My servant Murkpockets, how delicious.” The voice of the Prince had the look of boiling water, of cracking wind. The distant screams of the far off Lake of Fire were carried in his tremendous tone, and the air snapped at the heat of his voice.

  Murkpockets covered his ears, despite being deaf to those sounds, and curled into a ball. He felt nausea roll through his body again, tears sprang to his eyes. “Yes, Prince? What is your bidding?” He was too timid to recite his master’s name.

  The Prince laughed, and the laughter was trembling blades cutting into Murkpockets. “What is it, Murkpockets? Do you fear me now that I speak?”

  Murkpockets opened his eyes and responded as firmly as he could. “If Murkpockets may ask, what is the cause of the Prince’s speaking?”

  “Your Prince has rested these long years until the time came for Hell to rise again. Now is that time.” The Old Master still lay on his back, but he seemed transformed into a more powerful creature than the one Murkpockets had reported to these last four years.

  “But Prince, have you not seen? When the young adam and the stray found that Ray was captured, they came to free him and destroyed the Alvarium. They have set the cause of Hell back decades.”

  “Fool!” he roared. Murkpockets collapsed again and cowered. The Prince sat up and moved his legs to stand. Seeing him move after years of only small movements sent Murkpockets scrambling and shrieking into the farthest corner of the pit.

  The Prince broke through the low roof, smashing into the room above them with his twelve-foot frame. Dirt rained down. The Prince flexed his muscles and climbed out of the pit where he’d lain.

  The rooms were too small for him to stand, but the Prince of Darkness lounged back against the wall and waited for Murkpockets to dig himself out of the rubble.

  “Your Prince told you to leave them alone. Their meddling would do nothing.”

  “No, Prince. Your message was ‘no strays.’ Ray, Heaven’s last rogue, was taken and a plot to take the stray from Hell was laid.”

  Murkpockets flinched as the Prince unfolded an arm and reached into the pit to snag the half-buried stack of papers next to his pallet. He brought them up. On the top was the sheet that read “no strays.”

  “Whose house has Hell overrun?”

  Murkpockets did not know where this was going. He answered warily, “Ray’s.”

  The Prince of Darkness grinned, his razor sharp teeth bristling like thorns. “What would you call him if you weren’t blinded by ignorance?”

  Murkpockets frowned. “In the kingdom of the enemy, he would be called St. Ray . . . ?”

  The Lord of Hell raised the paper.

  Murkpockets’ eyes bulged. Shame flooded his face.

  “What was the question you asked your prince?”

  “Murkpockets asked if Hell should go after the straying tempter.”

  The Prince paused, releasing a long sigh. “Read the answer for me, Murkpockets.”

  “No,” he read. “Saint. Ray’s.”

  “Does that mean you should take the lost tempter?”

  Murkpockets shoulders caved in. “No.”

  “Does it mean you should leave insignificant vermin alone?”

  “Yes,” Murkpockets grunted.

  “Do you really think a child, a failed tempter, and a compromised saint could stop what the Prince of Darkness has wrought? Heaven herself is ignorant, how could these three derail what Heaven tacitly allows?”

  Murkpockets kept his head lowered. “The enemy has tricked the diaboloi again with words.”

  The Lord of Hell continued, “Heaven mocks Hell, but is petty whenever the windblown dirtbags are threatened.” He reached out slowly and stabbed a finger into Murkpockets’ chest. “Only that could possibly derail the plan.”

  Murkpockets prepared to flee. He was almost certainly to be struck down and eaten by the Old Master, whose feebleness had disappeared. There would be little chance of escape, but flight was preferable to standing like some blithe lamb. He stared at the claws that corkscrewed out of the Prince’s feet.

  “But your incompetence extended also to timing, and your inability to act sooner has given En-ki Ab-zu enough time to bring the plan to fruition.”

  Murkpockets looked up startled. “Fruition?” he said tentatively.

  “Yes, Murkpockets. Enough sons of Hell are present, not in your plan, but in your Prince’s plan.”

  The Old Master stretched out his hand and took Murkpockets about the neck. He was too petrified to move. He clutched the Old Master’s hands as he was pulled nearer. The Master opened his mouth, and Murkpockets felt the singed air brush the rot of death upon his face. Murkpockets squirmed and snarled.

  The Prince laughed. “That your fear is so quick to anger is worthy of envy, Murkpockets. There is loathing for you at the root of the Outer Darkness.”

  Murkpockets accepted the compliment with gritted teeth.

  “Choose three hundred of the most vindictive to torment and kill the rebels. Send the rest back to the house above.”

  “A battalion? Why take thousands for an empty house, but leave a pittance for the taking of Hell’s enemies?”

  The Old Master slammed Murkpockets into the wall. “Do as the Prince of Darkness commands, or be eaten!” he roared. He let Murkpockets fall to the ground. At the foot of the Prince, Murkpockets groveled, not daring to rise.

  He continued, “It will take time for all of Hell to muster. Do not kill the enemies until dawn. Heaven must not be roused to bloodlust till then. Let her prayers be too late.”

  Murkpockets let his voice sink into the dirt before him, the curl of his words in the darkness was a wispy fog. “Kill them all? St. Ray? Lucasta?”

  “All!” the Prince howled in response. “The boy, the stray! Kill every beast that walks on the earth and that flies above the face of the earth. Kill anything that has breath. Be a harbinger for the coming destruction, but do not shed blood till dawn.”

  Murkpockets rose to his feet. “It will be done.”

  “Go forth and do evil.”

  Murkpockets raised his eyes and matched his fire with the fire of the Master’s eyes. “Amen.”

  * * *

  Lucasta’s truck burst from the trees into her backyard. The branches, trapped beneath the belly of the truck, were snagged and snapped by the ground. The high whine of the engine, singing its stripped gears and loose belts, sputtered and heaved into a stony silence.

  Lucasta was out before the truck was fully still and lifted Rodney from the bed of the truck. He was out cold; the branch to the back of his head had knocked him full of black dreams.

  Pinwheel leapt out of the truck and landed in front of Ray, hobbl
ing toward him. Ray knelt and grabbed Pinwheel around the shoulders.

  “Bless ya, my fellow,” he said, and finished the hug.

  Pinwheel stumbled back in surprise. “What? Why?”

  Ray grinned. “I don’t know the plan, but I can see a good playing of it.” He patted him one last time on the furry shoulder and stood. “Come on, let’s get Rod to the armory. The hordes of Hell should be here soon.”

  Lucasta had already pulled open the shed door. Ray hopped toward it. Pinwheel paused to listen to the cursing from the forest, his former cobelligerents racing toward them. The time for outright evil had come: no more hiding from the eye of Heaven. The warriors of Hell had decided to sin boldly.

  It was twilight. Already the gold sky was tarnished with dusk. Clouds knuckled up as the roar of demons drew nearer.

  “Pinwheel!” Lucasta called.

  He turned to go into the shed when a pain pierced his shoulder. He felt himself pulled back. He felt the heat of a mouth, the wet of saliva mixed with ichor. He screamed and then fell to the grass. Mordecai pinned him and bared his teeth.

  “The envy belongs to Toadglue,” spoke the demon in the dog. He lunged again to sink his teeth into Pinwheel, but Lucasta caught him up by the chain.

  “Mordecai,” she called. “Down, Mordecai. Good dog.” The dog struggled against the chain and unleashed deep ululations of rage. She kept pulling until they both entered the shed. Pinwheel followed at a safe distance. Once inside Ray pulled the sliding door shut.

  A silver glow illuminated the shed: florescent lights from two rows of refrigerated shelves filled with eggs. Ray was kneeling over Rodney, tilting his head up. Pinwheel saw that his eyes were beginning to open.

  Mordecai continued to bark as Toadglue, the demon that possessed him, mocked and taunted Pinwheel. “Little stray! Come nearer, let me grind you to the dust you want to be.” Lucasta kept a firm grip on the chain.