Demonworld Book 2: The Pig Devils

by Kyle B. Stiff

  Udo nodded, relieved. Another person would worry about things from now on.

  “You’re not the one who has to die,” said Wodan.

  * * *

  The great dragon tore up the avenue as it sidestepped Yarek, eyeing him, mouth pouring superheated air. Gunfire and rockets poured down onto its back, but the powerful armor deflected everything. Yarek sidestepped, hunched over. Focused. Breathed in, breathed out. At his core, he knew that his whole life was focused on this moment - to come face to face with the most powerful force this evil world could throw at him. And whether he lived or died, he would know that he had fought with everything he had.

  Suddenly the dragon charged and roared such that the earth shook under his great clawed feet. Yarek dived to the side, rotated, slammed into the buckling concrete on his back, sliding on his armor. He saw the horns tear into the earth where he had been, saw stone peel up under the beast’s head. Yarek reached back, tore his grappling gun from its sheath, and fired. The hook bit into the scales of its neck. Yarek drew the line taut, lifted himself onto his feet, prepared to make his move - but the dragon whipped its head about and lifted him from the ground, jerking the gun from his hand as he went flying.

  He crashed into the ground and his head was jarred, knocking him senseless. He was barely aware of the dragon charging again, impossibly fast. He rose to his feet, then fell back onto his knees. Just then the commandeered tank shot forward and blasted the dragon in the side of its face, staggering it; the tank fired again and the monster crashed into a building. Concrete poured down onto the monster, burying it. The Reaver in the tank fired again, then again. Yarek forced himself to stand, then made his way toward a building with unsteady, lurching steps. Amazingly, the armor of the beast was scorched, but unscathed. It shifted under the concrete and flexed its limbs. Its tail whipped up, thrashing furiously.

  Yarek ran into an apartment building and flew up the stairs. Head ringing, ribs burning with each breath. He realized, around the third floor, that he was running on a sprained ankle. He ignored the pain and focused on the battle.

  He saw Reavers on the fifth-floor roof firing massive machineguns, loading belt after belt. Yarek leaned over the side. He saw the dragon rising despite the shells of the tank slamming into it. Yarek tapped a comrade on the shoulder. The man lifted his visor.

  “Tell them to stop firing for a moment,” said Yarek.

  The man nodded and clicked his visor back into place.

  Yarek took a deep breathe, braced a foot on the edge of the roof, then pushed himself off and into the air.

  Wind whipped about him and pulled back his face. Time slowed down in a wash of adrenaline. He slammed onto the neck of the dragon and grabbed whatever he could. Whipped a leg around, then braced himself against the scales. The dragon shuddered under the tank’s assault, then lurched forward and almost threw Yarek free. Yarek held onto the impenetrable scales as the dragon head-butted the tank again and again, grinding it against concrete. Between each assault, he hauled himself forward.

  The squeal of bending metal was sickening, the motion of the dragon nauseating. Yarek pushed himself forward, higher, grasping handholds and gripping with his legs. Finally the dragon left the tank and spun around the avenue. Yarek pulled himself over the crest of the dragon’s head, saw the long horns coiling far above him.

  The dragon roared and it slammed its clawed hand into a building, tearing concrete and scattering Reavers. With an incredible effort Yarek hauled himself over the monster’s head and found himself holding onto its brow. He peered over the side and felt his stomach lurch as the thing whirled about again. But he had seen it - the dragon’s eyeball.

  He hardened his will, focused his strength, tightened into a coil - then launched up and over and jammed his open palm fingers-first into the center of the eyeball. In an instant of horror he realized that the eyeball of the thing was as hard as pure diamond - but as his hand slid to the side, he followed through with the motion, forced his hand between eyeball and socket, drove it in past the wrist, then up to the elbow. The dragon shrieked horribly, a high-pitched squeal from Hell itself, and slammed its eyelid shut, nearly crushing Yarek’s thick arm. It whipped its head about and Yarek was thrown wildly. He fell against the dragon’s face, shaking like a ragdoll. But his arm was held secure, trapped, and with a tremendous cry he slammed his other arm into the flesh beside the other side of the eyeball.

  He felt hot breath blasting against his dangling feet as he grasped the round ball in his hands. He held on as tightly as he could, then lifted his feet up and braced them against the dragon’s cheek. Felt an incredible shock as the dragon slammed its head into a building and buried the horns within, nearly crushed him between skull and concrete. The dragon freed its head, backed away, and whirled. Yarek’s hair, drenched in sweat, whipped about his face. The dragon froze for a moment, blinded. Yarek arched his back, heaved, cried out, shook, then felt the great orb come free with a tremendous wet popping sound. Yarek pushed off with his feet and pulled until several feet of dripping wet cord hung between the eyeball and the dragon’s head. Suddenly the thing lifted onto its hind feet, howling in fury, and Yarek desperately held onto the slick eyeball as the buildings disappeared beneath him.

  The dragon arched its back and beat its wings. Yarek gave one last look at the red, hate-filled eyeball, then released and pushed off into the air. Time slowed around him. He reached to his side, seized his massive handgun Teufelmorder, and aimed into the hole where the eye had been. The great wings spread outwards. Yarek fired one shot straight into the brain of the dragon. The empty shell spun free in a rush of smoke.

  Felt himself falling, falling, slowly. The dragon’s head arced away from him. He heard the bullet ricochet within the skull, tearing a trail of destruction through the monster’s brains. The wings began to move inward, slowly - then they rushed as time sped up, Yarek felt gravity take hold and he picked up speed as he fell. Kicked up his foot, grabbed his wicked combat knife, and twisted about as a wing came towards him. As he fell he stabbed into the hard leather of a wing, cutting a line all the way down, slowing his fall. He came to the end of the wing, fell free, slammed into the ground, then felt and even heard several bones shatter. The air was knocked out of him and replaced with searing pain.

  The dragon fell backwards and crashed into the earth. Yarek Clash, the dragon slayer, passed out as the great flesh dragon died.

  * * *

  The black fog heaved and rolled in the trees ahead of the gunships. Mevrik glanced below, saw fields of devastation, pools of red, chunks of filthy armor, tanks crushed or impaled by long, wide black spears, some so thick and powerful that they held the smoking machines off the ground. Row upon row of wasted artillery, pieces smashed into rubble. Reports of two dragons running wild in the area, wounded but seemingly unstoppable.

  Other reports told of legions of invaders pounding the training grounds. The footsteps of doom were upon the Command Center, with no backup possible.

  “FL-Six Artillery!” the radio screamed. “We’re in the woods, mile or so north of Com-Center... hell, lost track of where we are, we keep moving, but those dragons are almost on top of us! How the shit can they see us?”

  “They can smell you,” said Mevrik. “They’re animals. Just lay low, dig in. Backup is here.”

  She tucked the gunship’s nose and flew hard right over the roiling cloud. She streamed over it and whipped the gunk about in her wake. The six behind her divided and flew around, hoping to get a shot at something, anything. Mevrik turned in a wide curve and saw the gunships swooping by.

  “Fire into it!” she screamed.

  Just as the sunglasses Guardian blasted into the cloud, she saw the blur of the great spikes rushing by the gunships, light glinting off their trajectory. Heard a deep rumble, a growl, even over the noise of the engine. She swooped low and curved about the thing. Clouds whipped apart, and she saw the armored face of one of the beasts, wide spears curving about like a mane, glaring sulf
ur-yellow orbs full of malevolence. The dragon screamed, mouth open impossibly wide, and dove forward. She couldn’t believe how fast the dragon was, something so big shouldn’t move so fast - she tucked her nose and drove the gunship forward in a suicidal dodge. Felt the wake of the dragon’s wings pushing from behind; she turned and raised the gunship awkwardly, nearly scraping the treetops. The great black dragon hovered just above the trees, wings spread out in what seemed to be a hundred yards at least.

  “It’s out!” she screamed. “Hit it!”

  Before anyone could react, the beast hunched forward in the air and blades launched from all sides. A pilot on the radio screamed, “I’m hit!” She followed through with her turn, saw a gunship smoking, spinning, falling. Mevrik saw two gunships flying about the dragon, guns flashing, with the others moving in from behind them.

  The dragon rose slowly into the air. She turned to join the circle, said, “Don’t let it get back in that smoke!” as the noxious cloud moved toward the battle. Felt the vibrations of a gun at her port opening up. Bullets flashed off the dragon’s blades, bouncing them and sending up sparks. But some penetrated, sending clouds of pink mist exploding in little puffs about the monster’s chest, shoulders, and neck. The dragon raised a clawed hand and flexed; in a blur of spears, one gunship jerked off-course as it was run through with massive blades of black and blue. The gunships continued circling, firing continually. Torrents of blood ran down the blades and poured down into the black mist rolling just below them. The dragon flipped in the air. The tail flew above its head, then arced downward and slammed into a gunship, shattering steel and glass. The ship was flung down and tore through trees as it crashed violently.

  “Ah’m ’bout outta ammo!” shouted the country boy behind her.

  “Hit those wings!” she said, coming around to the dragon’s back.

  She slowed, nearly coming to a dead hover. The beast quivered in agony as sparks and blood flew from the great tendons at its back, then one wing jerked. The dragon gave vent to an overpowering cry, hunched over, and shot quills in every direction. Mevrik was showered with glass in an impact that sent the gunship reeling; one giant blade was run through the front of the ship, sideways, and embedded itself so close that she could have touched it. The gunship jerked and rolled about and she fought to stop its spin. The black dragon crashed into the trees and flung up a shower of black mist as it rolled downhill.

  She finally righted the gunship. The controls wobbled loosely, but were still responsive. The engine was alive, but the fuel meter was dropping fast. She shouted behind her, “Everyone okay?”

  “No!” shouted the country boy.

  She turned and saw that a giant spear was lodged in the ship. Saw the bottom half of the sunglasses Guardian, still strapped to the seat, blood splashing onto the deck and on his gun. The country boy was staring at the sight, flecks of blood splashing onto his face.

  “Get his goddamned ammo!” she screamed. “Do it, soldier!”

  The country boy sprang to action, unbuckled his harness, and hung onto his seat as he fumbled his way across the wobbling gunship.

  Mevrik wondered how her heartlessness must have seemed to him. She was surprised at how little the awful sight affected her; the only thing she felt was an intense, desperate need to throw herself at the demons, to kill them, to not give in until either she or they were dead.

  “I cain’t get at his ammo,” said the country boy. “Why don’t I just take his seat?” He unloosed his comrade’s harness and kicked the lower half off into the blue. He pushed the spear to the side as much as he could, then plopped down into the blood-drenched seat.

  “Glad we’re on the same page,” said Mevrik, turning the ship about for another pass.

  She saw the beast lurching through the forest, tearing up trees, three gunships circling it, blood streaming down its face. It flapped one wing in a warding gesture and shot quills all around. It was making for the mist, desperate to hide in the sanctuary its companion provided. Mevrik reached the thing just as it fell into the spreading blackness.

  “No! No!” she shrieked. “God dammit!”

  A pilot’s voice came over the radio. “Keep firing into that fog, we’ll draw it out again.”

  “Who has enough ammo for that?!” she spat.

  There was silence.

  An unknown voice came over the radio. “Attention all Guardian units. This is Reaver Number Nine. Reaver Yarek Clash has just killed a dragon. Repeat - Yarek Clash just killed a dragon. They are not immortal. They-” The voice continued on.

  “Gunships, hold your fire,” she said, teeth flashing psychotically. “I’m going in!”

  She swooped low and slowed down. Air whipped about her. Black gunk gathered on her skin, choking her.

  “Hell is dis shit?” the country boy grunted behind her.

  She maneuvered about until they were within total darkness. It was nearly impossible to breathe, the stench overwhelming, like rotten fruit, sulfur, burnt hair. She had no idea how close the trees were. Glanced at the fuel meter – it was bouncing on empty.

  Suddenly she saw spears bouncing, then the fog was pushed back and she saw neckline, jaw, teeth, all moving parallel to her. She hovered, swung about, and shouted, “Fire! Don’t aim - fire!”

  The country boy unloaded round after round. Blood splattered into the gunship and hosed down both gunner and pilot. The monster wailed and staggered out of view. Total blackness enveloped her. Conscious thought fled her mind; she intuited direction, how the beast staggered, position of its head, where it had been – and where it was going.

  “Hang on!” she screamed, then pushed the gunship forward, angled left, and tucked the nose until the thing was nearly vertical. They slammed into something and felt a terrible shriek fill the gunship, the shrill cry of metal grinding on metal. A river of blood poured in through the open windshield as the gunship slammed into the dragon’s head, impaling itself on spikes and chopping into the thing’s neck with its blades. Mevrik felt herself flipping upside down, then they slammed into the earth with giant demon-bones shattering all around them.

  Mevrik never passed out from the impact, only rested against her harness, upside down. Waited for her stomach to relax. Opened her eyes and saw spikes lodged all around her. She strained against her harness and saw the country boy pressed to the back of the gunship, body run through, dripping blood upwards from her perspective. She coughed on the black mist, unlatched her belts, and braced against the shattered cockpit. It took many long minutes to climb out of the ruined ship.

  The black mist departed and the air grew clean. She was a mess, covered in black, smeared with blood, uniform torn beyond recognition. She fell, exhausted. Then, towering above her, she saw the body of the flesh dragon, mouth hanging open, head bent and caved in, the gunship resting below, lodged in its ruined neck, smoking and covered in gore. She heard rumbling in the distance as the dragon’s companion took flight and abandoned it.

  * * *

  Wodan approached the gaping hole in the center of the Memory House. He looked over the side and saw lights flickering below. Water splashed onto his shoulders. Aegis Vachs peered up at him from the rubble. The man yelped, then scurried down a tunnel.

  Wodan motioned to Udo. Udo bent down and cradled Cramer in his arms. The young man was limp, completely lost in a dream.

  “Get down there,” said Wodan, nodding to the hole.

  Shem Udo scrambled down a thick, broken girder. Wodan leapt easily from surface to surface, without hurry, then bounced off a chunk of granite and landed in the pool below. He sloshed through the pool and entered a stone tunnel, then waited for Udo.

  They continued on until they came to a dark stone chamber lined with dying bulbs. A generator hummed nearby. Prime Minister Aegis Vachs sat in a chair in the center of the chamber, staring at the arrivals with careful poise, chin resting thoughtfully in his hand. Wodan recognized the carefully selected pose as a ploy to help him forget the ridiculous position he’d seen the
man in only moments before.

  “Well,” he said, dramatically. “So good of you to join-”

  Wodan raised the rifle and blasted a hole in the wall near Vachs. The chamber echoed with the passage of thunder as dust and plaster rained down onto the Prime Minister’s fine suit.

  “Cut that silly tone and sit on the floor,” said Wodan.

  Shaking, eyes wide and watery, Vachs rolled off the chair and plopped down on the cold floor. Wodan saw a computer nearby running on its own power. It was connected to a radio set. Wodan turned the device away from Vachs, then opened programs while Udo sat on the floor away from Vachs. He avoided Vachs’s eyes and concentrated on holding Cramer near his breast.

  They waited a while, then Vachs said, “Young man, what are you doing over there?”

  The radio clicked off, then the computer produced a sound of gentle stringed instruments. A song in minor key. Wodan turned the volume down.

  “Just some relaxing music,” said Wodan, standing. “While you make your confession.”

  “Why would I confess to anything?” said Vachs. Wodan saw by the man’s eyes, his upturned brow, that his question was genuine. He wanted to talk, but was unsure why he should.

  “If Haven survives this,” said Wodan, “then I’m going right back into the hole I came out of. I’m still scheduled for an execution. If Haven doesn’t survive... then none of us do. We’ll wait for the hangman together.”

  Aegis blinked his huge eyes. Finally, he nodded slowly.

  “Aegis Vachs, did you mastermind the exile of the seven citizens of Haven?”

  “Yes,” said Vachs, almost before Wodan could finish. He breathed in deep, said, “Yes!”

  Wodan nodded. Vachs continued. “You would understand, if you ever climbed beyond the lowest rung of the social ladder, that life’s problems do not disappear the higher you go. In fact, they get worse. The higher you go, the fewer people you can trust. The air thins out... some nights, it becomes nearly impossible to breathe. I know how it is with you labor types. Your dreams are simple. A decent home, a nice automobile, some status, a woman who won’t cheat on you too much. Let’s be honest, boy, that’s the extent of a simpleton’s ambition. And the paths he can take to get those things are clearly defined, well-trodden, and completely understood by the people surrounding you. You don’t have to go far to learn what you need in order to get what you want. But as you go higher… who do you think I had to go to in order to learn how to become Prime Minister? Is there a class one can take, a counselor one can ask? I had to figure it all out on my own, and to do that I had to rub elbows with other people dreaming of prestige and accomplishment. Can you even imagine? Just the shallowest, hungriest people, the most base sort of hangers-on clinging to you, demanding incessantly...”