Chastity nodded. “I understand. Be my guest.”
Christine picked up the sheathed dagger. It felt like a well-balanced piece of metal. No vibes, no sense of evil or foreboding. Her hand closed over the handle or hilt or whatever. It was cool to the touch. No Outsider energy leaped out and tried to take over her soul. Of all her powers, her ability to see on multiple spectra and perceive the flow of power in all things had been the most important one, she realized now that she’d lost it. Without it, she wouldn’t have been able to save Mark, or herself, when they had been at death’s door, or maybe even at death’s living room. She desperately wanted her powers back.
Well, it wouldn’t hurt to try, would it? Christine concentrated, still holding on to the dagger. She tried to let her Christine-vision come online, just the way it had so many times before. Some of the time, it’d just happened, often at very inconvenient times, but eventually she’d learned to call it at will. Not lately, though. All her attempts ended with nothing but cold disappointment, or at most a nasty headache.
Relax, meditate, go full Zen. She’d tried all that stuff before, but she tried it yet again. After several moments, she felt a trickle of something, a ghost of a tingling sensation where her skin was touching the blade’s hilt. At first she thought she was just imagining it, but she kept concentrating. Finally, a brief image flashed through her mind: an Asian man with a shaven head and a green tunic, convulsing as dark energies ravaged his body.
“Holy crap!”
Christine opened her eyes as the dagger clattered on the table. Chastity was watching her intently, probably getting ready to knock Christine out if she started going all Exorcist IX: Electric Boogaloo.
“Oh my God, I got something. Nothing major, just a little flash, but I got something.” I can see again! She hadn’t burned out her powers after all, or at least not permanently. They might have been there all along, lying dormant. Or not so dormant; she’d had that premonition about the Genocide, hadn’t she? And that wasn’t the only ESP thingy she’d experienced, was it?
What if her dreams about Mark were something more than just dreams? His body was still out there. How about his mind, his soul?
What if...?
“Oh, no, Mark,” Christine said, and threw up again.
Chapter Nineteen
Face-Off
The Darkling Plains, Time Undetermined
“Thank you! Thank you so much!”
The latest addition to our gang won’t stop babbling. Can’t blame the guy; what the hungry ghosts had been doing to him when we broke up their party just wasn’t right, even for Hell. The newbie – some blogger named Peter Fowler – is going to need some major psychotherapy if we ever manage to get out of here.
There’s six of us now. Besides Fowler, we’ve picked up a couple more people along the way. Annie is a little girl that ended up here after some hideous sacrificial ritual in the 1930s. She’s our secret weapon; she has psychic powers, and they’re still working here in Hell. We also rescued a quiet guy who goes by the name Jeffrey and hasn’t volunteered a last name. Jeffrey worries me a little. Not as much as Medved, who is trying to become top dog in the gang, but the guy creeps me out. For one, he hasn’t told us how he ended up here. For another, I don’t like the way he looks at us, especially when he thinks nobody’s paying attention. Just because Mr. Night fucked him over doesn’t make him a good guy.
Then again, when we found Jeffrey three ghosts were eating him alive. Maybe he’s too traumatized by his time in Hell. We’ll see.
“All right,” I tell the gang. “We’ve got some time before dark, so let’s try to make one more sweep and see if we can pick up someone else.” We can tell the passage of time by the way light changes, from the twilight dark during the ‘day’ to pitch black at night. We’ve got no idea how it corresponds to time out in the real world, though. So far we’ve managed to make it through a dozen nights in one piece.
We lost a fight one time, and it was bad. We ran into a gang of hungry ghosts, too many for us to handle, and they killed us all. We came back, of course, but it took us days to find each other again, and in that time a few of us got killed a couple more times. What they did to us… Defeat is not a good outcome in here.
Medved objects to the plan, just as I expected. “It’s already getting darker,” he grumbles. “What if we are caught in the open when night falls?”
“That’d be bad,” Fowler says. “Bad, bad.”
“Mark is right,” Wanda says. Annie is by her side; the two have adopted each other. “We’ve still got time. Even if we can’t rescue anybody else, we might find someone we can go after tomorrow.” We’ve discovered that the ghosts and their victims tend to stick to the same locations, on some sort of schedule. Hell means being stuck in a rut. A painful, horrible rut.
Jeffrey stays silent, looking at Medved and me, back and forth, trying to decide which big dog is worth following.
“We go on,” I say.
“Who says you are the boss here?”
I give him one of my gruesome smiles. “I say, Russki. If you think you deserve to be top dog, you know how it works.”
Medved nods and then comes at me. No warning, no hesitation, just the way you should start a fight. Most people act instinctively, like monkeys, hollering and waving their arms and working themselves into a frenzy. The Russian knows the way to do it is to strike the first blow before the other guy knows the fight has started.
Unfortunately for him, I know the same tricks.
He moves fast for a big guy. He’s going for a grapple and takedown. Once he has me on the ground, I’m meat. He can sit on me and hammer me to a pulp. Been there, done that, a hell of a lot more often of late, courtesy of the ghosts. So I sidestep his grab and kick one of his knees out. That sends him facedown into the dirt, and I crush his skull with two stomps of my boots. His body dissolves into shadow. It looks bad, but he’ll be back tomorrow, hopefully with a better attitude.
Wanda rushes to my side, Annie tagging along. “You okay?” she asks me, and puts a hand on my shoulder.
I nod, and wish I could make a face so I can give her a smile she might want to look at. I turn to the other two members of our gang. “Anyone else got something to say?”
“Fuck, no,” Fowler says. “You’re Mr. Badass. You’re like fucking Alexis Machine in those George Stark novels.”
I don’t read crime novels – it’d be pretty redundant, given my line of work – but I’ve seen the Stark movies, so I know Fowler is comparing me with a sociopathic murderous monster as his way to kiss my ass. I decide to take it as a compliment. “That’s right, fucko. What’s his line? Oh, yeah: ‘When you fuck with me, you’re fucking with the best.’” It’s not bad at all, actually. I’d steal it, but plagiarism isn’t one of my many sins.
Fowler nods, an almost-worshipful look in his face. “Man, if you can get us out of here, I’ll do anything, okay?”
Jeffrey licks his lips but remains quiet. I’ll take that as an endorsement.
“All right, let’s move on.” We gather our improvised weapons and wander through the ruins, looking for trouble.
“I wish you’d watch your language around Annie,” Wanda tells me. “She’s just a kid.”
Damn, she’s right. I don’t deal with children very often, which is best for everyone concerned. “Hey, kid,” I tell her. “Hey, Annie,” I say when Wanda gives me a look. “I didn’t mean to scare you, okay?”
She nods and gives me a very serious look. “I know.”
“Good. Now you stick close to Wanda, and do what she tells you to.” I really don’t want to bring a kid into a fight, but leaving her alone is a nonstarter: the ghosts will find her. They gravitate toward anybody who is alone. Besides, Annie is no good in a fight but her psychic skills have been a huge help. Which means that if we lose, she gets to be tortured along with us, and we get to watch.
The one time it happened was a time too many. I’ve told Wanda what to do if it looks like we’re going
to lose a fight, so she can make a quick end of it. Death is temporary, but the memories go on, possibly forever.
Soon enough, we hear the familiar sound of a human being screaming in endless agony. We’ve learned that sound doesn’t carry very far in Hell, so whatever is happening is fairly close by. I gesture to the others to halt, and nod to Annie. The little girl concentrates, and links our minds together.
It’s a funny feeling, a little bit like my special connection with Christine, but not as deep and personal. I can sense everyone in the mental network, so I know their positions and can send them brief mental commands. Nothing deeper than that, which means I still know dick about Jeffrey, and I learn very little about Peter, other than he’s shocked when he’s plugged into the psychic network, and I catch a little burst of loathing when it happens. I think he’s got some prejudices about Neos. The psychic network isn’t very powerful, but it lets us coordinate our actions, and coordination is the key to making our tactics work.
Now that I know where everybody is, I head on out. I can move quietly when I have to, and I reach the spot where the screams are coming from without being noticed.
The party is taking place in the remains of a car wash. An Asian guy is being slowly dismembered by five ghosts I haven’t seen before: they all look like teenage Asian girls. My guess is the victim brought this on himself – I can think of plenty of reasons a gaggle of girls might want some payback from somebody – but beggars can’t be choosers and we might need him, so I call out to the gang as I formulate a plan of attack. There’s five of them, so there’s no margin for error, I tell them, and send them a little map of the area. I’m going in first. Fowler, come along; our job it to keep them busy. Jeffrey and Wanda, you circle around and come up behind them when their attention is on us two. That’s our usual routine: it’s a race between my pals and the assholes. If my buddies can bushwhack them before the assholes kill me, we win. Fowler hefts his metal club – a length of copper pipe – and nods. I’m not expecting miracles from the guy, just that he stays in play long enough for the other two to spring their ambush. So far the ghosts don’t believe in holding back a tactical reserve; they just swarm me and whoever else I bring along, usually Medved; if the Russian asshole hadn’t decided to play games today, this fight would be as good as won already.
We’ll see how this goes. This is going to be Fowler’s first fight, and the guy’s a blogger, for fuck’s sake. Probably hasn’t thrown a punch in anger since the fourth grade, if ever. But if he can keep one of the ghosts off my back for a few seconds, we’re golden.
We crawl as close as we can and get ready behind a burned-out delivery truck. The Asian ladies all have razor blades in their hands, and from the way they’re taking bits off the guy with each slice, they know how to use them. We better get in there before he drops dead.
The first moves go off pretty much the as we planned. Things happen fast: the rushing charge, the scream that freezes the ghosts for just a moment, the jabs with the rebar spear. These girls are as quick as I feared, though. I try to drive my spear right into the skull of the nearest one, but she twists away and I only score a ragged wound on her face. I shift my grip and use the rebar like a staff, deflecting her counter slash, and crush her head on the back swing, but that takes time, too much time. Fowler screams when two girls go after him, leaving me with two dance partners.
Fowler panics when he finds himself outnumbered. He tries to run, and they pounce on him from behind. Meanwhile, I have my own problems. The two girls score deep slashes on my arm and back. I’ve got reach on them, but they move quickly and spread out so I can only face one of them. I take several cuts before I get lucky and impale one of them with a back thrust before she can leap away, but that costs me my weapon when she falls and drags it away, and as that happens I feel Fowler die through Annie’s connection.
Now it’s three to one; Fowler is already dissolving into shadowy goo and her dance partners have joined in the fun. I pull my secondary weapon, a shiv I made with a piece of mirror and some duct tape, and shout a few insults in Cantonese I learned from a hard case from Chinatown. They come at me in a semicircle, moving sinuously like cats, razor blades spinning in their hands. This isn’t going as well as I hoped.
The second ambush goes off as planned, though.
Jeffrey creeps quietly behind one of the girls, pulls her head back by the hair, and slits her throat with a swift economical motion that tells me this isn’t his first rodeo. Wanda isn’t quite as lucky: her spear thrust isn’t immediately fatal, and the chick whirls around and starts slashing at her. I can’t see how that fight goes, though, because I have one on me. I brute-force it, taking a slash on a shoulder that was aimed at my neck for the chance to grapple and stab her with my shiv, over and over, my arm working like a sewing machine needle. By the time she goes down, Jeffrey has cut the last girl’s throat while Wanda fends her off with her spear.
It’s victory of sorts, but we’re going to have to make camp here or risk losing Fowler when he wakes up the next day. The guy’s probably not going to be thrilled with us, but at least he didn’t get tortured to death, just cut up a bit and killed. The way things are, that’s an above-average day in Hell. Finding Medved is going to take days, though. Hopefully the Russian will learn not to fuck with me.
We walk over to the Chinese guy. He’s been nailed to the ground with railroad spikes. “We’ll get you out of those as soon as we can,” I tell him, and he nods, his eyes glazed over with pain.
“Hold on,” Wanda tells me. “Let me fix you up first or you’re going to drop dead halfway through.” I stop and let her check on me while Jeffrey goes over to help the new rescue. I idly notice that he lingers a few moments too long while examining the sight, as if he’s savoring it. Yep, Jeffrey wasn’t a good guy long before he ended up in here.
“They really got you,” Wanda comments, and it’s only when she puts pressure on the wound that I notice the deep slash right around where my ear would be if I had any. I hadn’t felt anything, but when Wanda takes the flap of skin and flesh hanging off the side of my head, and pushes it back into place I feel it, alright. I try not to howl like a monkey in a wood chipper while she plasters duct tape on the wound – that one roll we found at this morning has been a godsend; we’ll miss it when it’s gone – but the burst of agony almost makes me black out.
What happens next makes the pain worth it.
I don’t care. I know I didn’t imagine it. My connection with Christine is coming back. It may be weak and intermittent, but it’s coming back.
She’s out there. I’m going to figure out a way out.
I’m going to find her.
The Freedom Legion
Miami, Florida/Freedom Island, Caribbean Sea, December 13, 2013
A freak malfunction in a SpaceX orbital shuttle had sent the vessel and its cargo – over three thousand tons of valuable off-Earth imports – into an uncontrolled fall towards Miami. The lives of thousands were at stake.
Never fear, boys and girls. Ultimate’s here!
The uncharacteristically sarcastic thought flashed through John’s head as he flew towards the massive burning missile the shuttle had become. He grimaced angrily as he matched speeds with the plunging craft, grabbed hold of it, and then began to slow it down, carefully making sure the stress didn’t shred the shuttle. Just another day in his life, saving people, expecting no gratitude or reward. Just doin’ my job, ma’am. Aw-shucks, yer welcome. I’m just a big lug performing for you, just like a trained monkey at the circus.
He was in a savage mood today, and he knew exactly why.
Face-Off might still be alive.
Chastity Baal’s discov
ery that Mr. Night had survived and taken over Face-Off’s body had been a shock to everyone. Bad enough John’d had to compete on an almost daily basis with the idealized ghost of the dead vigilante. John had known that a part of Christine would always be silently comparing him with her former lover. He hadn’t minded, much; after all, he was doing the same thing. Linda’s memories would always linger within him. One of the reasons they’d grown fond of each other was their common grief over dead lovers. He would always draw comparisons between Christine and Linda, so he could understand her doing the same.
The difference, of course, was that Linda wasn’t about to make a comeback. Mark Martinez might just do that. Chances were the vigilante was dead and gone, of course. All that remained was a shell inhabited by Mr. Night. Still, that meant Christine would end up experiencing loss and devastation yet again, especially after they finally put Mr. Night down, which would require destroying Face-Off’s body.
Goddammit. Goddammit to Hell.
John held the shuttle above his head, keeping the massive weight aloft through the force of his will – no combination of muscle and bone could do what he did – and after he bled off the last of the ship’s excess speed, he changed course. He flew the vessel to its destination point at Cape Canaveral, where its cargo of rare metals and bottled Helium-3 would be offloaded for transshipment. At his current speed, he would reach Canaveral in five minutes, plenty of time for the local press to show up and immortalize the rescue in photos and video. He would have to smile for the cameras and say a few words, something pleasant and innocuous. Normally he didn’t mind any of it.
Today he minded. He hadn’t been this short-tempered since…
Since Daedalus’ gaslight project started.
That thought sobered him. Am I losing my mind again? There was no way his cochlear implants had been tampered with. Now that they knew what to look for, the Legion’s psychics had scoured every inch of the Legion’s homes and equipment looking for any traces of Outsider energy. They’d found some, not a lot of it, thankfully, and cleansed it all off. If anything was going wrong, it wasn’t coming from an outside source.
New Olympus Saga (Book 3): Apocalypse Dance Page 28
