Hellwalkers

by Alexander Gordon Smith

  “Ostheim,” she said, surprised at the strength in her voice.

  “Careful, Pan,” said Herc, standing by her side, the cop’s gun clenched in his hand.

  The sound of the Devil was growing weaker as it chased its heart, but it was still like standing in a storm, the wind tugging at her clothes, her hair. The beast before her groaned, the movements becoming more frenzied. The leechlike components of it twisted around each other and a circle of flesh peeled open to reveal a single piggy eye. There was a mouth, too, but when it opened the only thing that fell out was a spew of liquid filth, one that reeked of forgotten food, of rot, of death. One of its working limbs spasmed into the air but fell flat again almost immediately. Pan stood her ground, wondering if the look in her eyes was enough to finish Ostheim off.

  “You bastard,” she said. “You bastard. You did this.”

  She stepped forward, slammed the heel of her bare foot into Ostheim’s flesh. It cracked like an old egg, more of that rancid gunk flowing out, steaming over her bare skin. She scraped her foot on the ground, using every ounce of restraint she had not to throw herself on him, finish off what the Devil had started.

  “Not so cocky now though, huh?” she said. “You happy? All this time, everything you did, and this is your reward, bleeding out in the mud.”

  Ostheim groaned, the noise of a thousand men dying in sync.

  “You didn’t see this coming, did you?” She noticed one of his tentacles, flopping limply. There was a blade on the end of it, as dark and as sharp as flint. She stamped on it, crushing the jelly out of it until it was almost completely severed.

  “Thank you,” she spat, grabbing it. It was surprisingly heavy, like an oversized baseball bat, great drops of blood falling from it, thumping when they hit the ground. But that blade was lethal. She’d seen dozens just like it slide into Mammon, reducing him to so much mince. Ostheim’s face had been sucked back in again, like he was hiding in there. The stump of his arm twitched, brushed over her face, leaving a trail of slime.

  She hawked up a ball of spit, launched it at him.

  “You’d better look at me. I’m going to kill you, so you’d better look at me.”

  He loosed another demonic growl, one that formed guttural, bestial words. They fell from him in clumps of meat and blood, more liquid than sound.

  “Hell is loose … and everything will die … It’s over.”

  “For you,” said Pan. “Your master saw to that.”

  “No,” he groaned, his body shuddering, slipping farther into the river. His last remaining limb poked at the ground, trying to find purchase. “I was made from him … It was always his blood. I will … live on … in him.”

  “You tell yourself that,” said Herc, joining her. “Then watch as we crush its ass.”

  Ostheim laughed, a sound that quickly became a cough. Pieces of him were literally dropping away, hitting the ground like rotten carcasses. He was decomposing as they watched. Pan put a hand to her mouth against the smell of it.

  “There is no … way to … fight it,” he vomited. “It has already … begun … and it has already ended. Once he has his heart, there is nothing … nothing left to do but fall … to your knees … embrace him.”

  “It won’t get the heart,” said Herc. “Marlow will destroy it.”

  Ostheim just laughed.

  “It cannot be destroyed,” he said. “Even if the body dies … the heart lives on. It will find … a new home, new flesh. Marlow … Marlow is the biggest fool … of all … blind to it … How can he not see … the truth? How can he not see…?”

  “What?” asked Pan.

  “It does … not matter,” Ostheim said. “Something as holy as this … can never die.”

  “You sure about that?” Pan said. “Mammon sure died. Meridiana died. How are you any different from them?”

  Ostheim’s face fell, his mouth grinding on some unthinkable truth. His body was collapsing into itself like a bounce house after a party, corrupting instantly, blossoming into mold. He looked at her through the rotten hole of his eye, his face growing slack.

  “I will never die … hell is coming … and I will be—”

  Pan rammed the blade into Ostheim’s head, her body acting without her permission, without her even knowing it was happening. She felt the thick bone of his scalp give, and when she tried to tug the weapon loose it was stuck fast. A spasm passed along Ostheim’s entire body, shaking him down the bank and farther still into the river.

  “You could have waited, Pan,” said Herc. “He could have told us how to destroy the heart.”

  She didn’t care. She kept her eyes on Ostheim as his face dissolved into a nest of vipers, squirming into nothing. Then gravity took hold, dragging his bulk beneath the waters.

  She should have felt some sense of victory, she should have been laughing. Ostheim was dead, they’d never have to hear his lies again, never have to follow his orders. But she felt hollow inside, a doll. Ostheim was dead, yes, but his job was done, he’d birthed something so much worse.

  A demon screamed from nearby, but the sound of it didn’t even shake her. She’d just killed Ostheim, after all, and this was just a demon—mindless, stupid.

  “So,” she said, wiping the blood from her hands. “The plan.”

  “Remind me never to piss you off,” said Herc. “Come on, we need to find something—”

  He cocked his head, listening.

  “Chopper.”

  She could hear it, too, above the grind and roar of the Devil, over the screams, over the sirens. She couldn’t pinpoint where it was coming from, but Herc obviously had better ears than she did because he was running along the river, heading for a pontoon that jutted out into the water. There was a warehouse there, and once they’d cleared it Pan saw a helicopter rocking on its landing pad, a handful of suited men climbing inside.

  “Move!” roared Herc, shoving through the crowd. They protested and he bunched his fist, smashing a big guy in the nose and dropping him like a sack of bricks. The pilot was panicking, the chopper’s runners thumping out a rhythm on the pad as it struggled to rise. Herc lifted the cop’s gun, pointing it inside.

  “What’s happening over there is bad,” he said. “But I’m worse.”

  He gave them one of his specials, a glower that had scared Pan half to death more than once. It did the trick, the chopper emptying. Herc aimed the gun at the pilot.

  “You, too.”

  Herc took his place, squeezing into the pilot’s seat. Pan jumped in next to him.

  “You know how to fly this?” she asked.

  He smiled. “How hard can it be?”

  Suddenly the chopper was lifting, wobbling like a spinning top at the end of its spin.

  “Where are we going?” she asked.

  They were high enough now to be able to look down on Jersey. The land was filled with smoke but she could still make out a trail of devastation that led away from the river. There was a pulse of black light there, a hole in the world. The sight of it made Pan giddy, made her dig her fingers into her seat until the tips of them burned. She wondered if it already had Marlow, if it had turned him to fire and ash like everyone else.

  “To get a little surprise,” said Herc.

  “A nuke?” she said, and she saw his face fall.

  “It was supposed to be a surprise,” he said, pouting.

  “Bloody hell, Herc, how many of those things do you have?”

  “More than you’d think,” he said, spinning the helicopter around. “I just hope there’s time.”

  JERSEY DEVILS

  There was no time.

  They weren’t moving fast enough. They couldn’t move fast enough, the canister was just too heavy. It was getting heavier, too, Marlow was sure of it, like the heart inside was a black hole, anchoring itself with its own gravity. It knew its master was close and it wanted out of its cage.

  Marlow risked a look back, through the trees, past the gridlocked cars, to see that evil cloud of shrie
king death rising behind them, swallowing the sky whole. Inside it he could just about make out that flickering mass of antimatter, the holes in its head staring right back at him.

  IT IS MINE.

  He almost threw the canister to the ground, almost screamed “Take it!” Instead he gripped it even harder, lumbering across the road. Behind them came a scream, then that awful pop as someone exploded. Marlow felt the shock wave billow against his back and he picked up speed, running into the street just as an SUV barreled past.

  “Hey!” Charlie yelled at the driver. “Stop!”

  Marlow swore, staring back into the chaos, almost blinded by it. The Devil was closer now, gaining fast. He shook the shadows from his head, stumbling down the street. It was choked with trucks, one semi straddling the road where the driver had left it. Cars had been abandoned, too, the drivers fleeing on foot rather than risking the gridlocked roads.

  “There,” he said, steering Charlie to the nearest car.

  “A Honda?” Charlie said. “Do you want to die? Try that one.”

  He set off so fast that Marlow lost his grip on the canister. He scooped it up again, his fingers cramping with the effort, following Charlie to an eighteen-wheeler, driver’s door open, the engine still running.

  “A truck?” Marlow yelled. Together, they hefted the heart inside, Marlow climbing the steps into the passenger seat. Charlie clambered in next to him, staring at the giant wheel, at the complicated gearshift. “Please tell me you can drive this?”

  Charlie stomped the clutch and grated the transmission into gear, the truck groaning, protesting like a stubborn mule.

  “Charlie,” said Marlow, staring out the windshield at the storm that swept toward them. The Devil was a pocket of absolute darkness in the day, radiating inverse light. It had shed almost all of the machinery that had accompanied it out of hell, powered by the blood that it had stolen from its child. It was still struggling, but it was a different kind of struggle—like it was learning to use its body again.

  “Are you nuts!” he screamed at Charlie. “Go!”

  “I’m trying!”

  Charlie wrestled with the wheel, the truck lurching forward, turning as slowly as a tanker. The Devil closed in, its voice shaking the street, shaking the sky. But the truck was picking up speed, the darkness swimming from the windshield and replaced with what was left of the day. The road was a fortress of metal, dense with cars, but Charlie floored it, the truck thumping its way down the center lane. Marlow checked the rearview mirror to see the Devil giving chase, scattering cars with its too-long arms, turning everyone it passed into creatures of fire and ash.

  “Faster!” Marlow yelled.

  “It’s on the floor!” Charlie replied, the semi growling, shuddering as they plowed past a smaller truck. “Just try to get that thing open, yeah?”

  Marlow wrestled the canister upright between his legs. Inside, the heart beat faster than ever, squelching grotesquely against the sides of the jar. The top of the canister was like something that had been pulled from the Engine, a mess of clockwork parts. He pulled at them, poked at them, but nothing seemed like it was designed to move. The glass was one solid tube, smeared with gore. There wasn’t even a mark where Herc had shot it.

  Charlie steered right, hard, accelerating through a chorus of horns. The truck hit a railroad crossing and almost took off, tilting wildly as they accelerated around a bend.

  “Damn thing’s indestructible,” Marlow said. “We need a bomb to get it open.”

  “Can’t help,” said Charlie.

  IT IS MINE.

  Marlow looked back again, even though he knew it was a bad idea. It was like a tornado there, a churning vortex of darkness that picked up cars and hurled them against the buildings.

  “Go!” yelled Marlow. Charlie kept his foot on the floor, the semi cleaving past cars as they smashed through the sign for the 440 and wobbled onto the highway. Marlow grabbed his seat with both hands, screaming “Go! Go! Go!” He looked in the mirror again as they built up speed, hoping to see the storm recede, but if anything the sky back there was darker, that hideous shard of negative light reaching out for them.

  IT IS MINE.

  Marlow grabbed the canister, held it to his chest. What the hell were they supposed to do with it? At this rate the only option open to them was finding a place to steer the truck off the road and into the harbor. With any luck they might be able to sink without a trace, at least long enough for Herc and Pan to come up with something to fight the Devil.

  IT IS MINE.

  The voice was a hurricane and this time Marlow felt the words hit the back of the truck. Charlie swore, struggling with the wheel. By the time he’d gotten control again it was too late, the truck demolishing the barricade and slamming into a parking lot. Charlie kept his foot on the pedal, knocking cars aside like they were toys. But there was nowhere left to go, a Walmart looming up in front of them.

  “Hang on!” Charlie screamed. Marlow waited for the brakes to kick in but if anything the truck seemed to be going faster.

  “Wait!” Marlow tried to say, but before the word was even out of his mouth they hit. The semi plowed through the wall, Marlow’s head ringing off the canister. Bricks and dust rained down on the windshield, the truck demolishing aisle after aisle until it hissed to a halt.

  For a second he didn’t dare move, then the pain started to creep in. His face felt like it had been held to a blowtorch and he grabbed his nose, feeling the broken cartilage.

  “Ow,” he said, his thoughts settling like falling snow. He turned to Charlie, the boy wrapped around the steering wheel. He wasn’t moving.

  “Hey,” Marlow said, grabbing his friend’s arm. “Charlie?”

  “I,” he replied, lifting his head. His face was a mask of blood, but his eyes were clear and somehow he managed a smile. “I’ve always wanted to do that.”

  Marlow smiled back—or at least he tried to, the pain straitjacketing his face. He reached for the canister, disappointed to see that the crash hadn’t so much as dented it. He wedged his feet against the door and kicked it open. The canister fell to the floor and he followed, the whole world spinning. Only part of that was concussion—the store was shaking like there was a tornado overhead, people streaming toward the main door.

  It wouldn’t do them much good. The darkness that greeted them there was worse than any storm. The Devil was outside in the parking lot, turning flesh to ash with just a thought.

  “Where do we go?” said Charlie, jumping down from the cab.

  Marlow had no idea. They couldn’t run, the Devil was too fast. He wasn’t even sure they could hide, because the heart was pounding against the walls of the canister, hammering out a pulse that seemed louder than sound, that seemed like it triggered some different sense. He got the feeling the Devil could track that noise from the other side of the world.

  It was his heart, after all.

  They could always wait until the Devil just died, until its blood ran dry like last time. There was nothing left for it to feed on. But how long would that take? Minutes? Hours? Centuries?

  The desperation hollowed him out, made him feel like every limb was a paper shell. He didn’t think he’d even be able to pick the canister up again. It was too much. He looked around him, the aisle full of kids’ toys, nothing they could use as a weapon. There would be chain saws here, he knew, maybe even guns, but they’d need an atomic bomb like the one they’d had in Paris if they wanted to win this war, and he was pretty sure not even Walmart carried them.

  Marlow dug deep, both of them dragging the canister down the aisle. He could hear that awful pop pop pop as the Devil closed in on the hole they’d made in the front of the building, the ash riding on the current of its subsonic voice.

  IT IS MINE.

  It was too much. Marlow dropped the canister. It landed with a clang, rolling back like it was going to find the Devil by itself. Charlie collapsed, looked as if he was about to faint.

  “What do we do?”
Charlie said. “How do we break it?”

  Marlow didn’t know. And what if they did break it? All they’d be doing was handing the heart back to its master.

  “You should go,” he said to Charlie. “This is my mess, let me handle it.”

  Charlie smudged the blood from his face, his teeth the brightest thing in the room as he flashed a smile.

  “No way,” he said. “Did you learn nothing last time? You ain’t leaving me, Marlow. I’m part of this as much as you.” He looked toward the front of the store, the aisle gradually darkening as that evil cloud of death drew closer. “Whatever happens next, it happens to both of us.”

  He grabbed Marlow’s shoulder, squeezing, and Marlow had almost managed to smile when the Devil stepped into Walmart.

  ENOUGH.

  It’s over, he thought. We’ve lost.

  A different sound, a thunderous roar, and the front of the building exploded. A hammer of noise and heat slammed into Marlow, shunting him back across the floor on a wave of glass and shrapnel.

  He tried to sit up, found that he couldn’t. He looked for Charlie, looked for the Devil, but there was only smoke, seen through a red haze. If his face had been bad before it was a mess now, blood flowing freely from his scalp, his shirt sodden with it.

  He swore, rolling onto his side. The canister was there, almost close enough to touch, and he squirmed toward it. He couldn’t see the Devil through the carnage, but it was still there—waves of dark energy pulsing from it, churning the smoke and fire into a frenzy. Something had slowed it down, though.

  Not that it mattered.

  It was over, he knew. In seconds the Devil would simply do its thing and turn him into a sculpture of fire, then he’d explode into ash and everything he ever was or could be would drift into the day, up into the warmth. There was something almost peaceful about the thought.

  No.

  He managed to get a fingertip to the glass, leaving a smudge of blood there.