Hellwalkers

by Alexander Gordon Smith

  She leaned forward, pushed her lips against his. He kissed her, and the universe ground to a halt—the storm, the shaking earth, the roar of the Devil, it all dissolved into stillness and silence until she pulled away.

  “You’re the realest thing I know,” she said.

  Whether she was right or wrong, it was working. The earth-shattering call of the heart was quieter now, he was sure. Maybe because it knew the lie it had told was disintegrating, unspooling like tissue paper in water. Or maybe Pan was right. Maybe it didn’t matter. Human or devil. When it came down to it, what was the difference?

  “Come on,” said Pan, struggling up and offering him a hand. “Let’s end this.”

  “Yeah,” Marlow said, hauling himself to his feet. His voice was his again, but he could still hear the power of it, bubbling just beneath the surface. “Ending it seems like a really good idea.”

  She let go of him, running across the ruined street and snatching up something there. It was a metal bar, almost as tall as she was. She hefted it toward him, the look in her eye so crazed that even with the power of the Devil inside him he still took a step back.

  “Pan, wait!”

  “Too late,” she said, swinging the bar at him. Her aim was true, the tip of the bar slamming into the gristled mess that clung to his torso. It was like she’d pummeled every single pain receptor inside him, the agony like a magnesium flare. By the time it had burned away he was lying on his back, and Pan was standing over him, bar raised for another strike.

  She hit hard, and this time the world went dark. Marlow roared, sinking inside himself, sinking into that comforting beat of the heart. He slammed a fist onto the ground, his vision full once again of ruin, of death, of ruptured universes.

  “Whoa! Marlow!”

  Her hands were on his face and it was like she was reaching for him through black water. He sat up, groaning, fighting to find himself in the fury, in the hate. He grabbed Pan’s face, feeling her to make sure she was real. She had abandoned the bar and she pulled him close, muttering, “Sorry, sorry, sorry.”

  “It’s no good. It’s inside me. It won’t let me go.”

  “There must be a way,” she said. “A knife, a chain saw, we—”

  “We can’t destroy it,” he said. The blood pounded in his ears, in his skull, drumming the sense from him. The heart was patient, because it knew that sooner or later he would succumb. “I can’t fight it. It’s going to use me to end everything.”

  He touched it, this piece of filth that had crawled through space and time, that had crossed star systems, that had created hell once already—at this entity that had somehow ended up right here, on the streets of Mariners Harbor. It moved beneath his touch, feeding him, nurturing him, whispering promises of eternity.

  “Then what?” asked Pan.

  It would overpower him, he knew, it would use him. So long as it was free, it would burn a hole in reality.

  So long as it was free.

  “I know what we have to do,” he said, and Pan almost had a smile on her face before he finished. “We have to go back. We have to go back to hell.”

  JUST DON’T LOOK BACK

  The biggest surprise of all was that Marlow’s words didn’t surprise her one bit.

  Pan looked at him, at this thing that stood before her. The blood-slicked skin of his face rippled like it was trying to pull itself from the bone beneath, his eyes spitting out a light that was so dense she could feel it. He looked somehow less solid, the edges of him bleeding into the world around him as if his presence here was shredding the muslin-thin veil of reality. How long before he broke through completely, before he punched a hole in the universe and drained everything into oblivion?

  The Devil’s heart still clung to his chest, arteries as thick as fingers puncturing his skin, feeding him with poison. His flesh had been torn in a dozen places where the organ had fastened itself, and where he’d tried to gouge it free. Only the heart, and the blood that flowed from it, was keeping him alive. He needed it now, as much as it needed him. It would cling to him forever, and sooner or later they would be one.

  The Devil is dead, she thought. Long live the Devil.

  “We have to go back,” she echoed, her words lost in the maelstrom that churned overhead. The ground was also moving, shifting, like an ocean. Marlow didn’t even have to do anything and the world would disintegrate around him.

  Because he’s not real, she thought, remembering her vision then shaking it from her head. Whatever she’d seen in the madness of Marlow’s thoughts, whatever the Devil had told him, it didn’t matter now.

  “We have to go back,” she said again, nodding. Marlow shook his head, one hand grabbing the heart, pulling at it. In response it slid its roots even deeper, she could see them coiling around his ribs. He growled, almost lost himself again, and she cupped his face, whispering his name, bringing him back.

  “Just … me,” he said in a voice that was barely his, a voice that sounded like a hundred voices. The terror roiled inside her and she was so close to losing herself to it, but she clung on, teetering.

  “Yeah, sure,” she said. “As much as I would love to leave you here, I trust you with this about as much as I trust Truck with my breakfast.”

  She let go of his face, took his hand. She could feel the power there, it was like holding on to an electric charge or a live grenade. But she didn’t let go, she just led him across the ruined earth. There were no landmarks anymore, too much smoke to see more than a hundred yards or so. How were they supposed to find their way off the island?

  Something moved in the corner of her vision and she braced herself, waiting for a demon, or something worse. But when she turned she caught a glimpse of fur, shaggy and blood-spotted. There was a dog there, doing its best to walk with an injured leg. It was looking at her as if she could save it, and she shooed it away. Hanging around here, with her, would only get the dog killed.

  Then Marlow spoke, his voice cracked with emotion. “Donovan?”

  The dog whined, taking a step toward him, its head bowed, its eyes turned longingly upward. Marlow dropped to his knees, calling the dog’s name again, and this time it bounded unsteadily toward him, its tail wagging so hard she thought it might take off. It ran into his legs, collapsing against him. Marlow stroked its head, its neck, its belly, and great oil-black tears squeezed from his eyes.

  Right now, he looked as far from a devil as it was possible to be.

  Then he groaned, the heart contracting, squeezing his chest in warning. The veins jerked as the blood flowed through them, trying to scrub away everything Marlow was, everything he ever had been. The blood would kill him first, and then it would kill them all.

  But maybe it was the one thing that could save them.

  “Go,” Marlow said, growling at the dog. He looked at Pan. The not-light from his eyes made her feel like she had a hand inside her skull, cupping the flesh of her brain, but she gritted her teeth against it, calling to him.

  “You can take us there,” she said.

  He shook his head, growled her words away.

  “Seriously, y—”

  Something shrieked, close enough that she flinched. To her side, a demon scrabbled over a mound of rubble. It shook its head, spraying a fan of blood. A long pink tongue slid out, licking its lipless mouth. It sniffed the air, angling its head toward her.

  “Seriously, Marlow,” she said. “The blood, it’s his blood. It’s the same stuff that was in the Black Pool, it’s the same stuff that we used to make every single contract.”

  Another demon bounded up, stopping next to the first, snapping at it. A third announced itself with a scream, closing in from another direction. It cocked its head and she understood it was listening for something—it was listening for the heart. Its beat was a bell that pealed impossibly loud, a clarion call that drew the forces of hell toward it.

  It knew, she realized. It knew that Marlow was fighting it, it knew she was a threat, and it had called for help. Even
with no eyes, even though it was just a football-size parasite of meat and machine, she could feel it watching her, she could feel the icy depths of its hatred.

  “Marlow,” she said softly, her hands on his face again. The demons were running now, their clawed feet kicking up dust and ash—five of them, seven, then too many to count as they stampeded, as they screamed. “Marlow, please. Get us out of here.”

  He tilted his head, the tendons in his neck bulging like steel cables. He grabbed the heart with both hands, trying again to pull it free. The demons were almost on them and Pan let go of him, scanning the ground for the metal bar, knowing it wouldn’t do her any good. She bunched her fists instead, turned to the nearest one.

  “Come on then, you—”

  The monster detonated like it had been packed with explosives, blasting out a shock wave of rendered flesh. The second ruptured with such force that its top half was catapulted over Pan’s head, its legs spasming in the dirt.

  Then she felt arms around her, Marlow’s arms, and suddenly the world burned away in a flurry of embers. Pan’s stomach lurched so hard she thought she’d been disemboweled, the air punched from her lungs. There was an instant of nothing, of utter emptiness, then there was a gunshot pop and she was back.

  The ground, though, had gone. She was airborne and falling, falling into the threadbare carpet of clouds, the world laid out beneath her like a map. Her stomach flipped again and she tumbled through the freezing air, the wind roaring, faster, faster. She turned, saw Marlow next to her, just as shocked as she was. She reached for him, saw him reach for her, too.

  Their fingertips touched and Pan felt the thump as she was kicked out of herself again, reality reclaiming her with a sickening strength, as if it were furious that she had managed to escape. She fell onto solid ground, her head spinning. She pushed her hands into the dirt, into the sand, and only when she felt like she had rooted her fingers deep enough did she dare look up.

  Marlow was there, surrounded by a halo of burning ash. He was standing, but only just.

  “Little warning,” she muttered, somehow making it back to her feet. She looked at the river, at the warehouses, then at the Red Door, which stood open on its hinges. “You ported.”

  He nodded, then moved his hands to his stomach. If he’d looked sick before he looked half dead now.

  “Never again,” he said.

  He wouldn’t need to do it again. Pan sucked in a breath, noticed how quiet it was. The heart was still hammering its demonic tune against Marlow’s ribs but they’d left the storm behind. It was catching up with them already, the ground beginning to shake, a ring of debris and sand and water rising up, spinning lazily.

  “You sure?” she asked.

  “About hell?” Marlow winced, then nodded. “Bastard’s in every thought, it’s pummeling the crap out of me. Don’t know how much longer I can hold it.”

  He screwed his eyes shut, staggering, and she grabbed his hand, leading him to the door. The Devil had obviously exited at some speed, and with force—the corridor beyond was cracked, the walls fractured, the ground cratered—but the Red Door was undamaged, not even a scratch. Some things were more powerful than all of hell. It just stared back like it was defying her to cross the threshold.

  She paused. Whatever happened next, this was a one-way ticket. Once she crossed over into hell there would be no way home, not this time. Behind her was the world, was freedom, was the joy of knowing that she could leave this all to Marlow. She could push him through the Red Door, close it, and pray that he made it to the Black Pool before the heart took full control.

  Yeah, right.

  “Just don’t look back,” she whispered to herself as they walked through together, ignoring the acid-bath sensation that always came with crossing the Liminal. “Don’t look back. Don’t look back.”

  She didn’t, she just reached behind her, grabbed the Red Door, and slammed it shut.

  The sound of it echoed down the corridor like an explosion, Marlow clamping his hands to his ears, then to the heart as it squirmed against him. It almost looked like it was starting to panic, like it knew where they were going. More of those finger-fat arteries were sliding from it, pushing their way into Marlow’s skin. Black blood streamed to the ground from the wounds. He took hold of a vein with shaking hands, tried to pull it free. Pan snatched at it as well, the tube too slick for her to get a grip.

  “Come on,” she said, taking his arm instead, pulling him after her.

  Marlow growled, lashing out and hitting her. She flew back like she’d been struck by a moving car, bouncing off the wall and rolling across the broken ground. Marlow was turning, stumbling to the Red Door.

  “Hey!” Pan yelled, somehow pushing herself to her feet. “Marlow Green, don’t you dare.”

  He was fighting it, one fist punching through the concrete wall. He screamed and more of the ceiling fell away. Pan limped through the dust, grabbing him, inching him down the corridor. The heart boomed, but it was just a heart, just an ancient, crumbling ruin.

  “You can beat it,” she said. “You’re stronger than it is, than it ever was.”

  The door to the stairwell was open but it would take too long. She guided Marlow to the elevator, the cabin missing, the shaft yawning up at them like a demon’s muzzle.

  “Pan, what are you—”

  She pushed them into it, grabbing hold of him as best she could as the ground fell out from under them. She screamed, Marlow grunting as he hit the side, breaking into a spin. Then he had her and she felt the air balloon around them, felt them start to slow.

  They still hit hard, the force of it blasting out the doors at the bottom of the shaft, filling the vault room with dust. Pan felt something wet against her face, something probing, and she peeled away from Marlow’s chest to see some of those twisted heart veins pushing against her, the tips of them flexing like mouths. She pushed away from him, hauling herself up into the room.

  “Little … warning…” said Marlow from the darkness. She offered him a hand and he struggled up after her. He looked pale, he looked drained, and when he opened his eyes some of that awful darkness had faded from them. The heart was still there but it was doing something new, its arteries flailing through the air like spider legs, spraying a mist of black blood over his face, over his neck.

  “You’ve got a bit of … something on you,” she said, smudging it away.

  “Thanks,” he said, just a whisper.

  He struggled onward, crossing the room. She held his arm, pushing through the door by his side. The Engine sat there, dead. The Black Pool lay quiet, too, but she was fairly sure the gateway was still open. It had to be, because this was their only hope.

  “There’s no other way,” she said, and she couldn’t be sure whether it was a question or not.

  “No,” said Marlow, waiting until they were at the bottom of the steps before saying, “Not for me, Pan. I have to do this. You don’t.”

  “Marlow—”

  “You got me here,” he said, clutching the heart again. More of it had come loose and she could see the gleam of ribs there, the wet contraction of his lungs. The blood was trying its best to patch him up but there was only so much it could do. Marlow was right, if they cut the heart from him then surely he would die.

  “Better this way,” he said. “Better to be sure. And…” Another vein popped free and the heart bulged outward. Marlow collapsed onto the rim of the pool, blood trickling from his lips. “I belong there. I belong on the other side. It can’t kill me there. I’ll just … I’ll keep coming back. I can hold it.”

  “You’re nothing like it,” Pan said, kneeling in front of him. “You’re not a devil, Marlow. Come on, if you were a devil would you be covered in dog hair right now? If you were a devil do you think I would have…”

  He smiled.

  “You kissed me,” he said, as if he’d only just realized. “Again.”

  “Yeah, but only because you were freaking out,” she said, and even though
there wasn’t much blood left in her it still managed to rush to her cheeks. “Again.”

  The heart juddered, fought.

  “You need to go,” he said, not trying to free it now, but trying to hold it to him.

  “And leave you to sort this out by yourself? Nuh-uh, Marlow, you’ll just screw it up.”

  “That’s exactly why,” he said. “Everything else I’ve done, it’s all been for the Devil. It felt … it felt so real, my life. But it was all for the Devil.”

  “No,” Pan said. “It wasn’t. What did it tell you, that you were made? That it made you? That’s bull, Marlow. Everything you’ve done, it’s only ever been because you’re real. Think about it, just think about it. Your decisions were human, they were stupid and idiotic and wrong, half the time, but they were human.”

  The cavern creaked like a boat in a storm, the light fixtures swinging. Pan gripped Marlow even harder, looked him in the eye.

  “Come on, Marlow,” she said. “Do you honestly think that if the Devil was trying to make the perfect soldier, the perfect machine, it would have turned out like you?”

  Something burst from the Black Pool, a twisted muzzle that snarled in panic. The demon was trying to swim to the edge, its bulk almost dragging it under. Marlow winced as he held out a hand and unleashed a stream of invisible energy. The creature had time for a squeal of pain before it was ripped into ribbons, the force of the explosion sending a plume of dark water up into the air. It rained down on them, the drops squirming like they had a life of their own.

  “This is where we say goodbye,” said Marlow.

  Pan shook her head, holding him even tighter, hearing his skin tear as the heart fought to free itself.

  “It’s been a hell of a ride, Marlow Green,” she said, ready to push him into the pool, ready to throw herself in as well. “Let’s at least end it together.”

  Marlow nodded, then his face creased and he doubled over, screaming into his knees. Pan heard something crack inside his chest, a rib. She grabbed him, calling his name as he rolled onto his back. Then she let go, scrabbling away, refusing to believe what she was seeing.