Demonworld Book 2: The Pig Devils

by Kyle B. Stiff

  “This court,” said the Judge, “deems that you are to be hanged by the neck until you are dead.”

  The outcry from the crowd was so mixed as to be unintelligible. Wodan faced front. A thousand eyes raced along every inch of his body, but saw absolutely no reaction. He decided that he had already washed his hands of Haven. There was nothing in the entire land that he cared for. He was gone.

  It was at that moment that he picked out the faces of his mother and his father in the crowd. Wailing, clasping one another, faces melting like in a nightmare. Wodan stumbled back. His father crying, “Son! Son!”

  Wodan remembered his father’s gentle knee, how he balanced on it as a child, how his father’s strong arms held him while Wodan pretended to ride a horse. Warm laughter, his home, mother wiping away his tears after his first day of school, telling him that he could make it through. He knew that all those moments would be wiped away, sterilized, dead forever, and then anguish rose up and overcame him and he cried out, “Papa! Mama!” and stumbled forward, pulling against the chains, then Guardian hands grasped him and hauled him away.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Battle of the Black Snow

  Wodan did pull-ups on a bar that the Reavers installed in his cell. He considered the conspiratorial web of death that limited all living things. He dropped to the floor and flexed the small, tight muscles in his arms and chest. He might not be an unstoppable warrior, but today he was stronger than he’d ever been before. Today was the day he was going to die.

  He had spent much of the night before talking with the Reavers, near insanity. Today they said little.

  Suddenly one of them received a transmission. The topknot-wearing Reaver stepped forward and extended his hand into the cell.

  “It’s time,” he said. “I’m sorry, man. I hate this shit.”

  Wodan shook his hand and felt his throat tighten unmercifully. He nodded at the man. They left him.

  Minutes later two Third Force Guardians and a priest arrived. The Guardians were armed with long rifles. They stared at him coldly.

  “No deus ex machina for you,” said one of the Guardians, his voice muffled by his mask.

  Wodan’s sadness fled as soon as the man spoke. “You better call for backup,” said Wodan.

  “Oh ho ho! You hear this shit? The mouth on this cocksucker.”

  “Stop that!” said the priest. “You boys are forgetting that you have a solemn duty to uphold. The way a man conducts himself in the face of evil shows the true measure of his character.”

  “You know what, Padre?” said one of the Guardians. “How ’bout you take a walk for ten minutes so we can, uh, adjust this little asshole’s character.”

  The second Guardian laughed as he inserted a key into the lock. Wodan stood back, preparing himself for the worst. The key turned in the lock – then the entire dungeon shook. Wodan felt himself rise, as if by magic. He rotated slightly. Dust and mist shot from the walls on either side and kissed his skin, then the floor leaped in a dance of violence and Wodan was cast onto the ground.

  * * *

  One of the Guardians propped himself up on his elbows, coughing on the dust that filled the hall and clogged his mask. “What the hell?” he muttered. “The hell just happened?” He saw the priest facedown beside him. Something tapped his helmet. He looked up - and saw the boy pointing a rifle at him. He stared, trying to make sense of it. He felt about for his own rifle, but couldn’t seem to find it. He saw his buddy getting up slowly, legs shaking. He was still armed.

  He pointed at the boy so that his buddy could waste him. It took nearly a full minute for his buddy to wipe the dust from his visor and finally remove his mask entirely. He saw the boy, saw the rifle. He ran like mad back down the hall. The first Guardian joined him, accidentally kicking the unconscious priest in the head as he made his escape.

  As they ran up the spiral staircase shouting themselves hoarse for reinforcements, the lights flickered, then went out.

  * * *

  Wodan felt his way through the darkness of the dank hallway. The walls vibrated, groaned, deep heartbeats like some beast rising from the earth. He walked into an open door and felt about until he found a spiral staircase. As he climbed out of the Lower Depths, he heard the screams and cries for help from prisoners abandoned in the dark. He found a block of pale light full of dust motes.

  He came to a door with a square window. Peeked inside, saw no one. He entered. The room was dark save for three flashlights standing on their ends, shining upwards. Desks, papers scattered on the floor, chairs upturned. Rows of cabinets along a wall. Wodan leveled his rifle at the far door, grabbed a flashlight, and backed up to the cabinets. He found one marked with a K, opened it, and sifted through the items inside. He found a bag with his name on it, then pocketed the audio recorder his mother had given him. He took a flashlight and sidestepped to another room. The screams of the prisoners above and below were overwhelming, but he saw no one. His light bounced harshly as he searched the rooms. He found a room built like a cage full of Guardian armor and guns. The door was shut tight.

  This is it, he thought, heart racing. There’s no reason to hold back now. They were going to kill me anyway.

  He aimed the rifle at the door’s heavy bolt, covered one ear, and fired. There was a terrific explosion and the high-pitched whine of sheared metal. The door clattered open and Wodan entered. He kicked off his prisoner’s sandals and put on the smallest pair of heavy Guardian boots he could find. He donned a heavy black cloak. He found a rifle that was shorter than his own and decided it was probably some sort of automatic rifle. He slung it onto his back. He looked at the rifle he already had; it was exceptionally long, and the clip was so short that he assumed it was a single-shot deal, most likely a high-powered armor piercing weapon. In a flash, he knew that the Guardian escorting him to his death had brought the thing only because it looked imposing, as it would have been completely impractical within the confines of a narrow hallway. This realization did little to help his opinion of Third Force Guardians. Wodan found clips of ammunition that might fit both guns, stuffed them into a bag, then slung it onto his back. Any armor pieces he found were far too big for him, but the idea of wearing Guardian armor seemed repulsive to him anyway.

  He ran from the room and followed his bouncing flashlight through an abandoned hallway. The endless screams slowly receded into a shrill echo on the edge of his awareness. They haven’t stopped me yet, he thought. This is my chance!

  He came to a door with a flashing yellow light on the other side of a window. Hints of red shone through. There was too much dust for him to see through the glass. He cracked the door open, peered within, and reeled at what he saw.

  The doorway led to a scene of ruin. He was almost sure it was noon, but a great darkness had enveloped the world outside the prison. He saw fallen concrete, bent steel girders, men climbing on the ruin and shouting to one another as they passed debris back and forth. Much of the dungeon was gone, demolished, knocked over. He saw a Guardian haul a man from under the wreckage, body limp, limbs bouncing. Wodan stepped outside and looked around. Saw darkness above, yellow light peeking through tears in black clouds. A cold wind kicked up, carrying dust that caught in his eyes. In the distance he saw a flare of red, then heard a concussive blast. Another blast struck nearer, and the earth trembled as the wave passed. He heard a man far above shouting, “Under attack! Under atta-a-a-ack!” Wodan trudged through filthy black snow and sidestepped away from the scene. No one paid him any attention.

  While the rest of Haven was probably scratching their heads, Wodan knew exactly what was happening. He knew that the wasteland had come to his rescue.

  * * *

  Minutes Ago

  Sevrik Clash stomped into the Guardian Command Center, barking orders before he was in the room. Rows of communications personnel spoke into headsets, read computer displays, typed and sent data nuggets all at once. White-uniformed Guardians at radar displays ran back and forth, shouting at c
omm men. Sevrik had been called back from the hanging at Debate Focus to see the greater noose descending.

  An Aide ran to him with a bundle of printouts, said, “Sir! We picked up blips to the south, points S-7, S-8, S-9, uh, through S-54, moving north. We sent scout ships, but lost them all! Photographs got us this.” Sevrik grabbed the printouts, saw a black cloud hovering over the sea. It drew nearer in each printout. Saw stills of flashes, arcs of lightning. In the next to last, saw a great blur. Was he looking at wings? In the last printout he saw the unmistakable image of something reptilian, jaws open, teeth flashing in a jagged blur of motion.

  “Demons!” shouted Sevrik. “Get me a line to the Secundus. Now! Get another line to Yarek, any line. I want all my commanders talking to me now!”

  A comm man screamed at a radar man who screamed at another radar man who screamed to Sevrik, “Blips are spreading northeast, northwest, others north-”

  Sevrik pointed to the flat table-comp in the center of the room, said, “Bring it all up on the holomap!”

  “Sir, I’ve got the Secundus on a line!”

  “Speaker-phone!” Sevrik shouted to the side. He snapped his fingers at an aide, said, “I want every unit scrambled, all commanders contacted at once and I want them to prep their units for Invasion Situation One!” The aide rushed off.

  Lights shone over the table, then formed into a vertically-projected map of Haven with floating red dots superimposed. Rushing from the south, dividing, forming three sweeping tentacles.

  A deep voice crackled on an open line, said, “Sevrik! What’s all this chatter going on?!”

  “Secundus Udo, we are under attack. We have visuals of aerial demons, and countless more radar blips spreading from the south. I need you to prep your boys for Invasion Situation One!”

  Silence over the line.

  “Inv-Sit One means your Third mans the south and I take the rest! We form a ring of defense!”

  “I know that!” Udo shouted, lying.

  “How far are you from your Command Center?”

  “I... I don’t know, I’m on, uh, let me just-”

  “Give me control of your communications people until you get there,” said Sevrik. “I need them up and going now.”

  “A-a-ah, I’ll have them up, just give me a second to get out of here and-”

  Sevrik snapped at a comm man to close the line, then said, “Open a line to the Secundus’s Command Center.”

  “Units taking fire! Points W-”

  Sevrik glanced at the map, saw red blips hovering over the western mountains, flashes from reported firefights. More units joining those, others sweeping around to the northwest. There were units rushing in from the east almost as quickly.

  “Sir!” shouted a communications man. “Units taking fire from... from zeppelins!”

  “What?!” said Sevrik.

  “Th-that’s what they’re saying!”

  “What kind of armaments?”

  “Heavy bombs, uh, long range explosives. Medium-sized arms, machineguns. They’re... okay, we’re dropping them almost as fast as they can send them. There’s just so many of them!”

  “What about demons? Any reports?”

  “None, sir!”

  The lights in the room flickered, dimmed, then went black. Cries in the darkness, then dim red back-up lights bled into the room. The holomap remained black.

  Sevrik saw comm men staring at their dead monitors, mouths agape. “What the hell just happened?”

  “Sir!” shouted a comm man on a telephone. “They just blew up the nuclear plant in the northwest. And... their bombers are getting through to other plants in the west.”

  Sevrik broke the terrible silence. “I need a hard line to all of my commanders. I need... get me Tarius, my man in the north. Top priority!”

  “He’s calling now,” said an aide, and Sevrik rushed to pick up the phone.

  “Listen, Tarius,” said Sevrik. “They just took out the nuclear plant near you.”

  “Sir, I’m sorry,” said the tinny voice on the other end. “I had my boys all over it, it’s just that-”

  “Don’t worry about that now,” said Sevrik. “You did what you could. Listen, I don’t know which way the wind is blowing, but I don’t think you’re going to come under much fire in that area. I need you on population control. Get those people deep in the mountains, as far underground as you can get ’em. I have no idea what condition the plant is in, but we might have radiation to worry about. They knew exactly where to hit us. Just keep your people safe, but be ready to move if I call.”

  “Yes, sir!” the voice hissed through the static.

  Sevrik hung up, saw the aides standing all around him. The shouting, the stench of panic.

  Against men and demons, he thought. And they knew exactly where to hit us.

  * * *

  Minutes Before That

  Barkus flew over the mountains in his massive troop transport zeppelin. Ugly all about him chanted war cries, buckled on heavy armor, and passed around rifles and shotguns and grenade launchers. Ugly and Smith warriors at all perimeters slapped belts of ammunition into heavy machineguns. A Smith warmaster kneeled below him and shouted to a Smith navigator as he marked their progress on a map at his knees. Barkus looked to either side, saw the air thick with zeppelins swooping in from the east.

  For the first time in weeks, Barkus was filled with a lightness of heart, the sure knowledge of the fact that he and all those around him were going to die. His face stretched of its own volition, accentuating the smile carved into his face. Finally, his troubles would be over. What a relief!

  It was true that the onslaught of the flesh dragons had been impressive. In his first foolish assault on Haven, he had seen the terrible black airships, wings like blades of steel whipping above them... he shuddered at the memory. Seeing the handful of airships that, somehow, knew they were coming in from the south had brought back that old fear. But the dragons had dispatched them easily - how the dragons dwarfed those helicopters, and even moved faster than them! But Barkus knew, by data gained from demonic scouts, that the Havenders had more airships sleeping on concrete beds all along the eastern front. Barkus knew that those things could easily outfly their silly zeppelins, legion that they were. How foolish this whole invasion seemed. It gave him hope that, at last, his laughable existence would be put to rest.

  A great cloud of darkness roiled beneath his fleet; two dragons, the coiling serpent who produced the sickly fog of war, and the one covered in long projectile spikes, would assist him. He thought of their plan to race across the mountains, bomb the airfields, and destroy as many of their armored gunships as they could. Whether or not they succeeded in blasting the enemy airships – and, really, he was betting on absolute failure - he would land as many of his ground troops as possible, would hit as many of their armories as he could, and would even assault their main encampment of troops, if he could. How foolish, he thought; the very idea that they could knock out a superior enemy’s command center.

  He laughed aloud and stepped on the Smith’s map as he stalked about, furred wolf-cloak whirling about in the wind. Mistaking his fatalistic amor fati for overwhelming confidence, his troops mimicked his laughter and raked knives across their own faces and arms to produce the adrenal battle-chemical hidden within all bodies. What fools!

  He thought of Heffer flying up from the south. Heffer had with him the berserker elite of the Right Leg and the two dragons which seemed the more powerful. That, combined with his own troops and his Smith bombers, gave him an insufferable confidence. He actually thought he was going to walk away from this alive. Barkus knew that he had a big surprise in store.

  Barkus and his forces raced over the foothills on the far side of the ring of mountains. He wondered why they had met with no resistance. Could it be that, despite the advanced technology and weapons of the enemy, they had... grown soft? Had six hundred years outside the cycle of death and survival in the wasteland reduced them to fat, blubbering chi
ldren? Were the wheels of their bureaucracy grinding against one another? Barkus frowned a little. If they had to be provoked before they would rise up, so be it. He would push them to the very edge. Then he would leap into the abyss himself. The last thing he wanted to do was conquer Haven, then spend the rest of his miserable existence worrying about the Smiths or the Coil or the Law taking what he had rightfully stolen.

  “Barkus!” shouted a Smith communicator perched over his radio apparatus. “Our boys in the west just annihilated their main energy producer! The mystery plant has been destroyed!” A great cheer tore through the command zeppelin. They heard tiny echoes in the wind as the information spread.

  Barkus turned away and glared down at his boots. Just moments before, he was getting reports that Body Ugly and the Smiths in the west were taking incredible losses... the guns and rockets of the enemy were dropping zeppelin after zeppelin. Men were dying by the dozens. Reports were coming in every few seconds with death tolls that had to be in the hundreds.

  “We’ve dropped one of their coal plants!” cried the young Smith. “Wait, wait… two of them! We just took another!” Energy coursed through the zeppelin at a wild fever pitch.

  Barkus stomped about and looked for someone he could take his rage out on.

  The Smith navigator shouted some code to the Smith at the map, who turned to Barkus, shouted, “Approaching main enemy airfield, seconds from arrival!”

  “Bombs ready!” Barkus cried, so loud that he felt his throat would burst. He turned on an Ugly warrior, screamed, “Get those bombs ready now, dogs, before they can launch their ships! Kill in the name of the Lords of the Earth!”

  He leaned against the front of ship and glared at the opening valley below. He shook with anger and stabbed his eyes into the hateful landscape so that he would not have to see the buffoonish animals all around him.

  Dying might not be as easy as he thought.

  * * *

  Now.

  Joe Heffer ran down the stone hill cradling a large automatic rifle, armor clanging heavily. Scarred troops ran on either side and behind him. Wild shirtless berserkers with submachine guns in either hand and axes strapped to their tattooed backs raced ahead, screaming mindlessly, voices torn raw by the drugs coursing through them. A young Smith near him lumbered under the weight of the massive radio set, antennae shivering overhead, the squawking sound of victory blaring from it.