by Hazel Holmes
When the blare ended, the horn was replaced by a unified thunder; it was the demons. They stomped, each quake louder than the first, growing so powerful that it fractured the rocks beneath Dell’s feet.
He curled his hands into fists and stepped all the way toward the ledge, followed by the other six hundred and sixty-five souls, looking down on the demons below. And while he exuded confidence and bravery, he whispered a silent prayer in his own thoughts.
Sarah, if you can hear me, then please, hurry.
While it went against every fiber in Brent’s body, he stuck to the woods on his trek back toward the GTO, and every step reinforced his hatred of nature. He batted away the branches that scraped at his cheeks and kicked the shrubs that ruined and stained his nice shoes.
Blisters had already formed on the sides of his feet, and his cheeks were flushed from the exertion of the hike. And the longer he was forced to walk, hidden among the trees like an animal, the more rage that bubbled to the surface of his consciousness.
He imagined every possible way to kill Sarah. Guns, knives, fire, baseball bat, tree branch, rock, pencil, his bare hands, just a handful of thousands of murder weapons that could do the job, though it was the method of his attack that he wanted to iron out.
Variables such as pain and suffering were high on the list, and he wanted to ensure that he was able to prolong them before her death as much as possible. He would bring her right to the edge and have her look over the side to the skeletons that riddled the valley and then pull her back, wait until she regained some strength, and then start it all over again until she couldn’t take it anymore.
Though, he had to remember that all of this would have to wait until after her trial for murder, but he smiled, knowing that it would only give him more time to figure out just exactly how he was going to enact his revenge.
The woman’s voice echoed in his mind, and he couldn’t rid himself of the image of her face. Though he couldn’t quite remember the details of the woman who set him free. They shifted and morphed like sand after a windstorm in the desert.
But the one consistent quality was her beauty. The kind of looks a man like himself would kill to have in his bed, and one of the rare few that actually had the resolve to do it.
Lost in his own thoughts, Brent nearly passed the mangled remains of his GTO in the ditch. He approached wearily, on the lookout for any troopers or cops that might be camping out. From the looks of the wreck, it hadn’t been touched by the cops yet. They were probably too busy searching for Sarah. And him.
Brent emerged from the trees, the rage that was simmering just below the surface now at a full-blown boil, looking at the sight of his car. It had taken him years to refurbish the GTO, and it all came undone in the blink of an eye.
The chassis had been twisted, the front and back were crumpled, and all of the windows were either broken or completely shattered. Three of the tires were flat, two of the rims bent, and one wheel was completely missing altogether. Oil leaked down the driver side door, the black goo blending nicely with the dark paint job.
With the vehicle upside down, Brent had to get on his hands and knees to crawl inside through the window. He would have just opened the door, but the wreck had sealed the doors shut. Glass shards scraped against his jacket and jeans, and blood rushed to his head as he ducked his head into the cab.
He reached across the seat. The ceiling, now beneath his knees, buckled from his weight and he outstretched his arm, his fingertips grazing the handle of the glovebox. “Come on, you fucker.” He inched forward again, only a single boot sticking out of the cab, when he noticed flashing red and blue lights back on the road. “Shit.”
The sound of cars zoomed past, and Brent finally managed to open the glovebox, sending its contents spilling onto the ground, the extra case of ammunition among the droppings. He pushed aside the papers and opened the box just as he heard one of the cars slow down and stop near the wreck.
Quickly, Brent loaded the weapon, shutting the revolver’s barrel and pocketing the weapon just as the trooper stepped out of his vehicle.
“Sir, I need you to exit the vehicle slowly and place your hands on top of your head, now!” The trooper had the high ground, service pistol already drawn and aimed at Brent’s head by the time he turned around.
“I’m a cop! This is my car!” The last thing he wanted was to take a bullet to the head, so he placed his hands on his head as he turned around, but he didn’t stop talking. “This is my car—”
“Get down on your knees!”
“I’m a detective with New York’s—”
“I said get down on your knees!”
“Hey!” Brent briefly raised his hands off his head, which allowed his jacket to open and expose his badge. “Would you just look? See? My badge, on my right hip.”
The trooper kept his eyes locked with Brent’s, but then finally lowered his eyes toward the badge. After another moment, the trooper lowered his weapon. “You mind telling me what the hell you’re doing in that car, Detective?”
Brent removed his hands from his head. “I told you it’s mine. I was working a murder case that brought me north. An officer with the Redford department flagged a suspect I’ve been trying to hunt down.” He stepped up the embankment, and the trooper extended a hand to help him up.
The trooper grabbed hold of Brent’s arm and then heaved him up the last few steps, planting him close to his side.
“Thanks,” Brent said, dusting off his jeans.
“You all right?” the trooper asked, giving Brent the once over before looking down at the wreck. “Looks like you went through quite the number.”
“Brother, you have no idea.” Brent laughed, and then slicked back his hair with his hands. “Listen, you think you could give me a ride back to Redford?” He gestured down to his shoes. “These boots ain’t exactly made for walkin’.”
“No can do,” The trooper said. “We’ve got a report of two suspects we’re looking for heading south. You can tag along and I can drop you off after if you want. Or you’re welcome to wait it out here.”
“I’ve had enough of the outdoors for one day,” Brent answered. “I’ll just tag along with you if that’s all right.”
“Hop in.”
Brent slid his left hand into his pocket, wrapping his fingers around the revolver’s pistol in the same motion as his right hand reached for the passenger side door. And when the trooper turned his back to Brent, he removed the pistol, aimed for the back of the trooper’s skull, and then pulled the trigger.
The pop and the harsh snap of the trooper’s head forward were simultaneous as his fall to the ground.
With the barrel still smoking, Brent lowered the weapon and quickly patted down the cop, taking his service pistol and extra ammunition. He pocketed both, and then dragged the trooper’s body to the edge of the ditch and kicked him over, the trooper’s arms and legs flailing wildly as he rolled down the hill and crashed into the car, landing face up.
The bullet went straight through, leaving a large hole in the middle of the trooper’s forehead. His eyes had gone cross, but they were still open, and his mouth hung open with his jaw slack and mouth askew. His arms were tangled over his body, and the tendons in his knee had snapped from the fall, leaving it bent at a harsh ninety degrees. He looked like a rag doll that some kid had tossed in his room.
The radio chatter pulled Brent’s attention from the trooper and back to the car. He checked down both lanes of the highway, finding it clear. There wasn’t anyone in the area that would have heard that shot, and even if they did, Brent would be long gone by the time they came around.
Brent climbed behind the wheel, the cruiser still running, and he turned up the volume on the radio. If they had spotted Sarah and that dipshit cop heading south, then he needed to know.
“Dispatch, this is unit fifty-nine, we’re about a mile north of Millington, and we haven’t seen anybody on the road. Suspects might be using the woods as cover. We’ll head a li
ttle farther, but we might need air support to assist.”
“Copy that, fifty-nine, we’ll get on air to—”
Brent turned it down and tapped his finger on the steering wheel. “Where would you go, Sarah?” He chewed the inside of his cheek. She already had several chances to leave, but she’d chosen to stick around. Which meant that there was something here that she wanted, or needed.
Brent’s thoughts turned to the house. She had lived there during her stint in this godforsaken portion of the world.
Brent shifted into drive and turned north, heading back to Bell Mansion.
86
Despite Iris’s attempts, she couldn’t get out of bed. The invisible weight on her chest kept her pinned to the mattress. She wanted to speak, she wanted to scream, but her voice had been cut off. The only movement that she was able to muster was her eyes, which she used to scan the cracks and the water stains on the ceiling.
The door to Iris’s room opened, and while she couldn’t turn her head to see who entered, she didn’t have to wait long to find out.
The witch hovered over her in bed and grabbed her jaw, forcing Iris’s eyes to lock with her own. Anger flashed across her face, her upper lip curved in snarl, which was accentuated by the red of her lipstick. She was still naked, and the witch’s long locks descended from her face like strands of moss, which brushed Iris’s nose and cheek.
“I don’t know what little game you’re trying to play, but you can consider our deal dissolved,” the witch said, hissing through her teeth. “Your daughter will be the first soul tortured in Satan’s new world order. And I will ensure that you have a front row seat to her pain.” She tightened her grip. “You will hear every scream, you will feel every ache, and the only relief from the flames of hell will be the splatters of her blood against flesh.”
With one flick of her wrist, she tossed Iris’s chin aside, the sudden motion twisting Iris’s neck, which elicited a groan of pain.
The witch glided to the end of the bed, and with Iris’s head propped up by the pillow, the pair again locked eyes.
“Perhaps you just need a reminder of what I can do,” the witch said, then raised her hands and snapped her fingers. Kegan entered the room, his eyes rolled back into his sockets, exposing only white. He stopped once he reached the witch’s side.
Iris wiggled her mouth, her voice trying to break through the wall holding her back, and it started to crack. She mumbled, her lips writhing with incredible effort. The witch laughed, tossing her head back with a reckless gaiety that only increased Iris’s fury.
“Time finally caught up with you, Iris?” the witch asked, digging her claws into Kegan’s shoulder, who remained motionless in his zombie-like state. “All those years rattling around this house, your bones and innards aching, all of those lives you took?” She removed her hand from Kegan and crawled onto the bed, her movements slow and seductive. “Have they finally caught up with you? Have they worn down that hardened resolve?”
Iris continued to move her lips, still unable to produce any sound other than primitive noises, and held the object that Sarah had retrieved from her dresser beneath the sheets.
“With the dark lord coming, my powers have grown.” The witch was right on top of Iris, her hands planted on the outsides of each arm, her body naked and exposed. “I know you must envy me.” She smiled seductively. “My youth. My body.” She lowered her breasts and gently touched them against Iris’s flattened chest. “Has desire completely left you?” She pushed her groin against Iris’s and smiled, eyes rolling back into her eyes as she gave a seductive grind. “Oh, you must miss it.” She sat up, shaking her head to and fro, sending her hair waving in locks back and forth, and laughed. “You’re nothing but a dried-up hag, Iris. One breath away from joining your daughter.” The playfulness ran from her face. “But I’ll make sure you hold onto that one breath. I’ll force you to live for the next few hours, because I want you to see it. I want you to feel your failure.”
The door slammed on her exit and the fire extinguished in the hearth, ending the light and the warmth in the room.
Exhausted, Iris rested her head back down on her pillow, though she felt better.
As her eyes adjusted to the darkness, Iris noticed that Kegan was still in the room, standing at the foot of the bed, that zombie-like stare still plastered on his face.
“Kegan,” Iris said, a strength returning to her voice. “I know you’re in there, somewhere. You have to fight it, do you hear me? Whatever control she’s cast over you, you have to fight it.”
Kegan remained quiet and still, and Iris lay her head back onto the pillows, shifting her body from side to side. Joints cracked and bones ached from the limited motion, though the movement triggered a rush of endorphins, which elicited a groan of relief.
Iris turned her attention back to Kegan, who has moved from the foot of the bed and to her side in the blink of an eye. The sudden motion startled her and she retreated from Kegan’s side of the bed.
It was the face where she noticed the most change. Despite his efforts, he’d always had a kind face, which lessened his physical appearance. But with those attributes gone, all that was left was size and muscle. And Kegan had both to spare.
“Kegan,” Iris said, still whispering. “Kegan, you have to fight it.”
He grunted, the noise primal and guttural, but it was the only response that he gave.
Iris covered her mouth, her lips trembling as the tears returned. She sobbed silently to herself, staring up at her grandson. The same man who she had pushed so hard, the young boy whose mother was taken away and his father sent to an early grave from the drink. He was so little when Mary died, he was still breastfeeding. She knew how much of an impact that Mary would have had on his life. She could have shown him what it took to be strong, and kind.
Iris never had that skillset. She was strong, but she was too calculated, too efficient. It was her husband who showed their children how to be sociable.
But Iris had been so hard on him, and she knew why. It was because he reminded her so much of Mary. It was the eyes. They both had the same inquisitive stare that could cut you down with one look. It undressed you until there was nothing left but your soul. And Iris had never handled vulnerability well. So she lashed back at him. And while he had grown strong, he had also grown weak.
Kegan was strong because he was afraid of the alternative. And that kind of strength always grew brittle over time. Now he was nearly gone, his mind and soul controlled by that devil woman, and soon to be consumed by the fires of hell, as would she.
Iris understood the consequences should Sarah fail, but what she couldn’t comprehend was the level of pain and torture that was just around the corner. She had done that to him. She had done this to her family.
“I’m so sorry,” Iris said, blurting out the words between sobs. She inhaled quick, sharp breaths, trying to regain her composure, but unable to find the grit that made it necessary. “Forgive me. Please.” She lifted her arm, her hand shaking as it stretched toward Kegan, who stared at it with no connection. “Please, Kegan.”
Another guttural cry left his throat, and then he turned away and walked toward the door, leaving Iris to sob alone in the dark.
Despite the pain and the heat, a rush of adrenaline still surged through Dell’s veins on the sprint toward the demons. Wild screams erupted from the over six hundred souls at his back, and Dell was sure that this was the most alive the dead had been in years.
And while Dell’s small band of rebels charged toward the demons with a focused intensity, their cries of war were quickly muted by the thunderous sounds of brass horns and drums that vibrated rocks that splintered beneath their feet.
Armed with sharp rocks that they scavenged from the hell that surrounded them, Dell leading the charge, the two forces clashed together in a symphonic climax that ended the haughty bellows of war on both sides.
The force that hammered against Dell felt the equivalent of a freight train, and
while the first blast of contact stole his breath and thunder, the heat of battle forced him to swallow the pain.
Up close, the demons were even uglier than Dell could have imagined. Their features were carved out of stone with molten rock. Their only weapons were the sharp, jagged features of their limbs, which they swung in savage, quick motions on their attack.
Heat radiated off the demons and scorched Dell’s flesh, which only amplified his anger. He dodged the vicious swings and countered with his own, smashing the rock in his hand against the demon’s skull, knocking it to the ground, and then moved on to the next.
A never-ending wave of molten rock swept over Dell and the other souls as they penetrated demon after demon. Dell worked himself into a rhythm but after the eighth demon that he attacked, his hand suddenly ached.
He examined it and discovered the rock that he’d been using had been destroyed.
While his attention was only diverted for a moment, it was enough to lower his guard and leave him vulnerable to attack. Dell managed to turn his eyes away from his hand just in time to see the heavy piece of granite slam into his face.
The contact flattened Dell to the ground, which delivered just a powerful a blow as the punch, and greeted him with another blast of scorching heat. His back took another vicious pounding, the crunch so hard that he could have sworn his spine had busted in two. But then the feeling was repeated, over and over like a broken record player that skipped the same beat.
And what was more, the intensity of the pain never wavered. It was fresh and new with every blow.
Finally, after a lull in the bashing, Dell stood, forced to dodge another blow before he even had his footing ready. He swung at the demon and cracked it across the side of its misshapen, geo-formed skull. And when he felt no pain from the contact, he smiled.
But then as his vision adjusted to the sight of his hand, the smile faded. The scales had spread, reaching up to his chest and already spreading down both arms. The scales shimmered against the orange and reds that shone off the demon’s skulls, reflecting the same color. It gave the impression that Dell himself was on fire, smoldering into oblivion.
