Will exited the storefront, and after a visual sweep of the street, he crossed through traffic to the opposite sidewalk in front of a red brick building. Looking up, he spotted his surveillance camera. It was tiny, the shape and color of a brick. Just as he had suspected, it was still in place and more than likely had gone totally unnoticed. He would know soon enough whether someone—or something—had beaten him here.
The sun was just dipping down over the horizon when Will rappelled over the side of the building and retrieved the camera. He took it to the hotel room he’d rented for the day and carefully reviewed the data on the hard drive. His laptop was remote-linked to his mainframe, so he was able to access the latest recognition software programs he’d written.
Tearing open a bag of barbeque chips and popping open a coke he’d grabbed from the vending machine outside, he ate and drank as he fast-forwarded through the surveillance images. It didn’t take him long to drill down on a suspect. One porky guy came riding up on his Harley at the same time every day, and every day he went in and then came out empty-handed. Either he was one very unpopular dude or he was waiting for just the right piece of mail. Finally the guy came out tucking something into the pocket of his leather vest. Bingo.
Will logged on to his Demon Hunter game-creator program within his mainframe and pulled out a series of characters. He clicked on a couple of the chunkier ones, dropped down a sub-menu, and went into past game versions where those characters had appeared. He copied a section where a pig-like demon moved swiftly across a hallway before turning and snorting, piggy eyes red, snout enlarged, barbed tongue snaking out. Will overlaid the sequence on top of the surveillance clip and his deductive software quickly matched Harley Dude to Pig Demon. Double Bingo. No doubt about it, Will had found himself a three-hundred-pound pig demon in a human suit. It appeared as though the demon had retrieved the postcard—if that was what he’d retrieved—within the last couple of days. That meant Will had time. Not much, maybe, but hopefully some.
Freezing the image of the Harley, Will lifted the plate number, then hacked into the state’s database and retrieved the information necessary to find out where Harley Dude hung his helmet. In minutes he had the address and was in his car, ripping down the road.
The city gave way to suburbia, which in turn yielded to a rough-hewn rural landscape. Will found the farm at the end of a long gravel road. A dented old Airstream trailer, dulled to sickly pewter, was moored adjacent to a large pen where a dozen or so hogs wallowed in a trench of mud.
Will stepped out and was just able to take in the silent squalor of the place when the trailer door banged open and the pig demon dove out. He was wearing jeans and a torn Confederate flag T-shirt and came up firing a pump shotgun. Luckily Will was ready for the move, and as the buckshot raked across the Mitsubishi he tucked and rolled, coming up with a small sphere he’d dug from his pocket. With a flick of his wrist he threw the sphere, a Series 111 Cloaker. It hit Pig Demon square in the chest. He grunted, then oinked, then tossed aside the shotgun and resorted to his real weapon, his snout, which enlarged in seconds. Snorting, eyes wild with anger, the demon shot gobs of toxic snot at Will as the Cloaker quickly spread out across his torso and began to envelop his whole body. But the snout was still exposed, and he continued firing off burning goobers. Again, Will had anticipated. He’d seen the snout move before, so he leapt over the advancing demon, then bounded behind the trailer and waited for one . . . two . . . three . . . four seconds as he activated the Cloaker. The beautiful thing about the Cloaker was that Will could control it, making it cinch tighter or loosen up with the twist of a dial. By the time Will emerged from behind the Airstream, the pig man was shuddering and choking, only one eye and his mouth exposed. The rest of his body, snout included, was shrink-wrapped in the Cloaker.
“Where is it?” Will asked calmly.
“I don’t know what you’re—AHHHHHH!”
Will dialed the Cloaker tighter and the pig man’s eyes bulged out. A couple more turns and they’d burst right out of his skull. Will hoped he wouldn’t have to resort to that. Pig Demon brains stunk.
“The postcard? The one you stole from my box? Where is it? In the trailer?”
Pig man shook his head violently. Again, bingo. It had to be in the trailer because the mere thought of Will recovering it clearly scared the beans out of Porky. He knew he’d be called out by his peers, and what they did to those who failed was not pretty. Will could smell the bacon frying now.
Leaving the pig demon wrapped in the Cloaker, he stepped into the trailer and waded through piles of pizza and pastry boxes and crumpled cans of Red Bull. Will carefully surveyed the lair, then went to the refrigerator and opened the icebox. There it was: the postcard from his mother. As he noted the return address, he heard the faintest sound—it wasn’t a sound at all really, it was a feeling, a warning from his seventh sense—and without another thought Will dove through the window above the sink, just as the trailer exploded, flames arcing high in the air.
Will was hurled smack into the pigpen, his face slamming straight into mud thick as peanut butter. He yanked his head out of the muck just as the first angry swine tore into his thigh, its massive jaws shockingly powerful. The rest of the drove attacked as well as Will reached down to un-strap his Megashocker from his leg. As it powered up it made a zapping sound, and then he struck out in all directions, the shocker sizzling pig flesh. In seconds he had blinded, de-snouted, or dismembered the most aggressive of the attackers and earned himself a precious few moments to get to his feet and leap over the pen railing.
His thigh burning with pain, he ran and jumped into the front seat of his EVO and tore open a packet of the healing balm he’d chemically engineered, which sped up the healing process from days to mere minutes. He spread it on the torn flesh of his thigh, applied a bandage over the wound, and waited, catching his breath as the balm did its work. He closed his eyes for a few seconds and let the pain have its way with him; no sense fighting it, better to just welcome it into his body and deal with it.
As the pain started to fade, he opened his eyes and saw that the pigs who hadn’t been maimed or blinded were ramming against the pen fence. He figured he could do without any more crap from these swine, so he lifted the Short-Range Obliterator, jacked a multi-shell into the firing chamber, aimed, and pulled the trigger. The wide-range blast blew the pigs off their hooves and backward as the second-stage ordnance ignited and blew them to bacon bits.
Catching his breath and wiping the mud from his face, Will stared down at the postcard. It had a photograph of a kitschy-looking greasy spoon built like a log cabin, a tourist trap called the Squirrel Tree Inn set just off the highway, surrounded by towering pines. It was his ticket to his mother.
He just prayed that he hadn’t taken too long.
Chapter Six: Rescue
Will sped along Highway 2, the verdant forest rushing past. He would be reunited with his mother soon. But he had some heavy lifting to do to make it happen. The Squirrel Tree Inn postcard meant that April had taken refuge at the cabin near Lake Wenatchee that belonged to her uncle. Will had spent a couple of summers there during his childhood and had fond memories of the place. He and his mom used to joke about the funky, funny Squirrel Tree Inn, and they’d had more than one meal there. He hoped they’d have occasion to have another.
Will put the pedal to the metal and made the drive in just under two hours, and when he was close to the lake he pulled off the highway into the Squirrel Tree Inn parking lot. All he’d had to eat since that morning were the chips and coke, and he needed to fuel himself, so he went inside to the gift shop. It was tempting, but he managed to resist buying any squirrel nuts or squirrel key chains or squirrel outhouse signs or any of the other stupid “made in China” squirrel junk. He did, however, buy two PowerBars and a carton of chocolate milk that he took outside.
A breeze kicked up, carrying the scent of pine and lavender. Will gazed at the mountains as he ate the bars and chugged the chocol
ate milk. Then he popped his trunk and loaded charges into one of his newest inventions, the Spearzooka, which, like a traditional bazooka, was held on the shoulder like a missile launcher. However, the Spearzooka was much lighter and fired needle-sharp 200-centimeter spears tipped with paralyzing poison to immobilize the enemy while he interrogated them if necessary. He also powered up a Chaosglobe, another device he’d engineered, which, when lobbed, created blinding lights and a high-frequency radio-wave storm capable of knocking a T-Rex to its knees. With the Spearzooka and Chaosglobe, along with his trusty Megashocker and the Cloakers, he figured he was ready to kick some serious ass if need be.
He knew better than to just drive up to the cabin; he’d have to do some recon first. He tapped information into his computer, then pulled a small drone plane, equipped with a high-definition camera, out of the trunk and sent it skyward. He entered the exact coordinates and it sailed off into the sky toward the cabin where he hoped his mother was safe and sound.
But when he started up his car and took off following the drone, he felt an ugly weight in his stomach. Something told him his mom wasn’t kicking back and enjoying herself. He hoped his gut was wrong.
The cabin on Lake Wenatchee sat fifty yards back from the dock, across a broad expanse of rolling green grass framed by wild huckleberry and raspberry bushes. In the small stream that meandered through the property, trout fingerlings darted about in the shallows. Drawing to within a quarter-mile of the cabin, Will pulled over and tracked the drone on his laptop. Controlling it remotely, he had the plane slowly circle the nine-acre lot at six hundred feet. He was looking in the treetops, knowing that if this was a trap, demons might be hiding high in the evergreens. He saw none.
So he piloted the drone closer to the cabin. The HD camera captured images of the two clunky old Chevy pickups parked in the driveway and the small aluminum boat sitting on an unhitched trailer. Laundry hung outside on sagging lines. There was no movement on the small porch or in any of the windows. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary. Will pulled back onto the road and drove closer.
At the turnoff from the highway he slowed, then turned into the driveway, tires crunching on the gravel. Every nerve in his body was on high alert. For him, this was life at its most primitive. The hunt. It got him going, his blood racing, synapses firing, dopamine elevating. He tightened his hands on the steering wheel and drove for fifty feet, and when the gravel gave way to damp earth he slowed, carefully inspecting the ground. He braked to a halt and waited, counting down from five . . . four . . . three . . . two . . . one. Nothing. He sucked in a long breath through his nostrils. The forest smelled of pine and loamy moisture. And something else. A smell that caused Will’s nostrils to tighten.
It smelled of them.
The earth around him erupted in a series of dirt blasts as demons—they were very good at burying themselves and surviving for hours, even days—leapt up and attacked him from all sides. They were armed with sledgehammers, and he would have been beaten to death had he not spotted the perimeter dig marks and anticipated the trap. Before they could strike, he triggered his own blast, a charge he’d mounted under the rear axle—the kind used by stunt men—that fired a solid steel rod straight down, kicking the Mitsubishi ass-end up with such power that the car hurled skyward, flipped in mid-air, then landed back on all four tires. Wham!
Will grabbed the Spearzooka, leaped out of the car, and, setting his sights, fired four shots. Blam-swoosh-chock! Four times in quick succession. Perfect. He now had four adult male demons impaled in the bases of four evergreen trees. They writhed and hissed and spit, but soon the poison coursed through their ugly purple veins and they could no longer spit with any velocity.
He approached the first demon. “You think I grow weak,” Will said calmly, “but every day I grow stronger.”
“You are the walking dead, my friend,” slurred the demon.
“I am not your friend. But I will show you mercy should you show enough intelligence to tell me where my mother is.”
“And spoil your lesson? I think not, young Will. It’s too late for her and too late for you.”
The Spearzooka had worked beautifully, skewering and numbing the bastards like Novocain. He interrogated the other three with the same net result. He knew if he left them impaled, the poison would eventually wear off and they would work themselves free. So he turned the tiny dials on the ends of the spears. The beasts had two minutes until the embedded charges exploded. They hurled threats and curses at him with their slack mouths, and then, sensing that further aggression would yield them no clemency, they resorted to pleading. Will ignored that, too.
Will off-loaded his battle pack containing the Chaosglobe, Cloakers, and Megashocker. Though he appeared calm, inside he was a storm of jangled nerves. He looked at the cabin. Nothing. He walked over and stepped onto the porch. He thought he heard a whimper.
“Mom, are you in there?” he called.
Another whimper, this time definite. He couldn’t wait a moment longer, so he whipped on some Ray-Bans, kicked open the front door, and lobbed the Chaosglobe into the cabin. It detonated, washing the interior with a blinding light. Will smiled, impervious to the blast flash thanks to the blacked-out Ray-Bans. He had a Cloaker in one hand and his Megashocker in the other and was about to step inside when the floorboards on the porch cracked.
He felt them before he saw them. Hands blasting up from beneath the porch—right through the floorboards—grabbed his ankles. They were so strong, he thought the bones in his legs were going to be crushed like hard candy. He lashed down with the Megashocker and lopped off one clawed hand, then another. Demon blood splattered against the cabin wall, searing it. Once his feet were free, he lunged inside.
And stopped dead in his tracks.
The Chaosglobe’s light faded. Will yanked off his Ray-Bans and stared in pure horror.
April was hanging upside-down in a flesh web. A hooded demon stood mute in the shadows. Just then, Will heard three popping explosions behind him. Three of the impaled demons outside had bought it—but what of the fourth? The hooded demon held the answer in its hand: A spear. The fourth one.
Seeing his mother hanging like a side of beef in a butcher’s shop made Will’s heart thud. He spoke to her softly.
“Don’t worry, Mom, everything’s going to be okay.”
“Will . . . go . . . get out of here!” She shook her head back and forth and tears spilled from her eyes onto the cabin floor. Will’s jaw tightened.
“We’re leaving together, just you and me.”
“That’s doubtful,” said the hooded demon.
They hadn’t cut her that he could see, but her eyes were wild with fear. Another hooded demon revealed himself, and with catlike quickness had a blade to her throat. Will needed to do something, faster than fast. He was calculating his moves with the Megashocker when the first hooded demon threw the spear. It zinged through the air like a bullet and sank into Will’s left arm, pinning him against the doorframe. The pain was searing, a torrent of agony, and the poison spread like flames through his body, moving from left to right. He could still move the Megashocker, but unless his target was closer, he couldn’t use it. The hooded demon holding the blade to his mom’s neck barked out a command.
“Put the weapon down.”
Everything had gone wrong.
Will had no choice. He dropped the Megashocker. It made zapping noises as it clattered on the wooden floor.
“It’s over for you, Demon Hunter,” said the spear thrower. He approached Will in a blur, extracting something from his tunic. It was a claw-like torture device with six jagged talons.
“I’m not sure whether I should cut your dear mother to ribbons while you watch, or vice versa. What do you think, Will?”
The poison continued its numbing wave through Will’s body, reaching his right hand and rising up into his throat. He spoke in a rasp.
“I’m going to enjoy watching you die.”
The demon laughed and look
ed from April to Will and back again.
“Watch this closely. It’s going to be painful. Observe, and let the images burn into your brain for eternity.”
It was time for Will to bite the bullet. Or, more specifically, the capsule he had planted under tooth number nineteen, the lower left molar. Biting down hard, Will caused the capsule to burst, and the antidote to the numbing poison shot through his system. He shuddered, then pumped the fist of his right hand as the chemicals spread. The hooded demons had counted Will out and were circling April, chanting demon curses as they waved their weapons, ready to flay her.
Will reached over with his right hand and yanked the spear out of his arm, then flung it, back-handed. The spear rocketed across the room and entered the knife-wielding demon’s left eye, killing him instantly. Claw-demon whirled just in time to see the Megashocker in Will’s hand come thrusting up under his chin. It was not a pleasant final image, no doubt, and Will finished him off by plunging the Megashocker all the way up through his skull. The creature fell backward, and his body began to shake in a death dance. One half of his face remained intact, his yellow demon eye blinking in mute outrage.
With a dozen more deft strokes of the Megashocker, Will freed April and held her in his arms.
“Come on, Mom, let’s get you out of here.”
“Will . . . am I alive? Am I really alive?”
“Yeah, everything’s okay. We made it.”
But Will hadn’t paid close enough attention as he’d entered. If he had, he would have seen the charges the demons had placed at the interior perimeter of the cabin at floor level. Half-face managed a horrific, gnarled smile as he stared up at Will with his one eye, and then he pressed a button.
The Rising Page 5
