by M. K. Gibson
To Beat the Devil
by
M. K. Gibson
Copyright © 2016 by Michael K. Gibson
Published by
Amber Cove Publishing
PO Box 9605
Chesapeake, VA 23321
Cover design by Willie C. Cordy Jr.
Visit his online gallery at http://www.cordystudio.com/
Cover lettering by T.J. Salyers
Book design by Jim Bernheimer
All rights reserved.
This is a work of fiction. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author. The only exception is by a reviewer, who may quote short excerpts in a review.
Visit the author’s website at www.mkgibson.com
First Publication: March 2016
Dedication and Acknowledgments
Before I sat down to write this, I did an online search on the best acknowledgments and dedications pages for authors, and I read some incredible, funny, and far more impactful words than a hack like me could ever come up with. Then I saw an article from some jack-hole, an even hackier writer, on The Guardian. His article greatly expounded, ironically, on how writers tend to gush, thank, and generally ramble in these acknowledgments and dedications pages rather than keep things tight and minimal. He even advocated not having an acknowledgments and dedications page at all.
Fuck him.
There are people who help us in life, who give us the push we need. And if you don’t thank them, then you’re nothing but a self-centered asshole. I may be an asshole, but not a self-centered one.
So, with my obligatory swearing out of the way, and before I get into the bulk of the thanking, rambling, and gushing, I want to thank two special women.
First, my wife, Valerie. You are a never-ending pillar of support while I pound away at this like a semi-intelligent, semi-upright Neanderthal at a keyboard. But also, thank you for being my first-line editor. I feel zero shame in abusing your B.A. in English and M.A. in teaching! I love you, my broken bird! Chirp!
And to another special woman, my mother, Bonnie H. Mom, you will never understand how deeply those summers we spent writing knock-off “Choose Your Own Adventure” books meant to me. I love you, Mom!
Back in 2008, a buddy said, “Man, I wish someone would write a book that had heaven and hell, cyberpunk, and Cthulhu.” And that started my gears turning. So, Chris B., thank you for that push I needed. Granted, it took me almost four years to get off my ass and start writing it.
To Jim Bernheimer: Thank you and Amber Cove for taking a chance on me. One of the reasons I decided to actually take a shot at writing was because I read Confessions of a D-List Supervillain.
To Charles Phipps: Thank you for your help in setting all this in motion and for giving me honest feedback to help make this a better product. I’m still Magneto, though!
To Tim Marquitz: Thank you for giving my work a home, if only for a little while. You are a good man, no matter how scary you make your profile picture. Cheers, brother.
To Erik J: Thank you for listening to my idiotic ramblings and providing helpful thoughts and ideas. You are a true Dungeon Master.
To Rick U: Thanks to you and Chris B. for being my first beta readers and being my pseudo-science go-to guy!
To old man Jeff H: Thanks for giving me the kick in my ass to keep going when I was going through publisher kerfuffles.
Last, I want to say something to my step-dad. To the man who asked me what I wanted to be when I grew up, and I said “A writer.” To the man who said. “No. You can’t do that. People don’t become writers.”
Dad . . . fuck you.
M. K. Gibson
Foreword
Chapter One
A Faint Whiff of Decadence and Sulfur
Chapter Two
Sexual Desire and Booze Lubricant
Chapter Three
A Vinyl String Bikini and Booty Shorts
Chapter Four
Fucking with a Mechsquatch
Chapter Five
A Century of Re-runs Sucks Balls
Chapter Six
A Highly Metallic Plastic Protein Smoothie
Chapter Seven
An Odd Case of Pica
Chapter Eight
Blood, Oil, Death, and Cordite
Chapter Nine
Metal in Their Asses and Guns in Their Chests
Chapter Ten
I Hated
Chapter Eleven
Meet the Devil
Chapter Twelve
To Talk to Some Gods
Chapter Thirteen
The Origins of God at 180 mph
Chapter Fourteen
The Riders of Rohan Meet Delta Force
Chapter Fifteen
The Holy JC
Chapter Sixteen
Lightning Mixed with a Steroid Orgasm
Chapter Seventeen
To Toast and Brag and Exult and Live
Chapter Eighteen
Liquid Fire
Chapter Nineteen
Let the Burn Ignite Old Memories
Chapter Twenty
Always Absent the Light of Living
Chapter Twenty-One
Super Groovy Spooky Shuffle
Chapter Twenty-Two
The Old Days and Old Ways
Chapter Twenty-Three
Rocket-Propelled Explosive Toasters
Chapter Twenty-Four
Blood, Guts, and Demon Semen
Chapter Twenty-Five
Embers and Stone, Bile and Teeth
Chapter Twenty-Six
Take the Abuse
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Neither Living Nor Dead
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Paul Goddamn Atreides
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Slurp My Backwash
Chapter Thirty
Blowing Shit Up Is What We Do
Chapter Thirty-One
The Smell of Blood and Ozone
Chapter Thirty-Two
A Demonic 1970s Porno Jedi
Chapter Thirty-Three
Homicidal Poet and Threat Artist
Chapter Thirty-Four
Lazarus’s Dead Dick
Chapter Thirty-Five
Eleven Seconds
Chapter Thirty-Six
Löngutangar
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Blood and Fluid
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Land Baron Salem
Epilogue
About the Author
Foreword
I remember when I first met Michael Gibson and he asked me to read his book. It was just after he’d ended his relationship with a previous publisher and he was interested in getting a perspective on whether or not his work really had the potential he'd been told it had. I was leery, as Michael was my friend, and you never know whether your buddies are going to write something gold or lead. So I asked him what it was about.
“Oh, well, the apocalypse has happened. Demons have taken over and it's now a cyberpunk future where people struggle to survive under their corrupt decadent regime.”
“So, like Shadowrun with demons.”
“What's Shadowrun?”
I knew in that moment my friend was insufficiently versed in tabletop gaming, but the moment I described it as Bladerunner meets D&D, his eyes lit up and we agreed that would be a good way to describe what he was going for. Michael's work, of course, was entirely his own thing, and I found myself falling in love with it as soon as I finished the first volume. I then devoured his next book and the book after.
My response: “Michael, you have something special here.”
As the author of the James Bond-meets-Dresden Files Red Room series and the darkly comedic Supervillainy saga, I’m a big fan of genre-blending fiction. I love dinosaurs versus robots and gods vs. machines. In Michael Gibson’s Technomancer series, I loved the seedy post-apocalyptic world in which demons take over the Earth only to find God had already bugged out, so they might as well just enjoy the computerized, environmentally-devastated hellhole left behind.
The characters in the book are ones I came to greatly enjoy, and I think you, the reader, will find them as entertaining as I did. The protagonist isn’t out to save the world--that ship has long since sailed--but he’s doing his best to make do in a world where humans may be worse than demons. Michael has created a complicated setting which combines science fiction as well as a consistent-but-not-entirely-serious mythology.
It’s also funny as hell.
How much did I like it? After I read the books, I recommended them to my publisher.
C. T. Phipps
Chapter One
A Faint Whiff of Decadence and Sulfur
I was being followed by at least three demons. From the footfalls I guessed they had something else with them. Something big.
Shit.
I continued walking at a steady pace, trying not to let on that I was aware of the tail. Puddles of rainwater and piss splashed under my boots as I made my way through the night. Garbage littered the cheap side docks of Razor Bay. The garbage reek of the slums made it harder to separate the various smells. Walking made it worse. Stopping, I leaned against an old black steel rail overlooking the bay. I fumbled in my coat pockets for a smoke, lit up, and listened.
For the last couple minutes I had been altering my footsteps every few beats, intentionally aiming for puddles or stepping over trash. The footfalls mimicked mine, but just slightly out of time. Splashes and long pauses. Yeah, I was being followed.
Double shit.
I took a few drags of my smoke and stared off into what used to be old Baltimore’s Inner harbor, now a DMZ full of metal starlings and old sea mines left over from the wars. The Chesapeake isn’t what it used to be. But the ordnance and defenses serve a purpose. You can’t be too careful. Sometimes, the Lesser Deep Ones try to come up on shore. And the poor bastards who can’t afford to live further inland are always on guard. Trust me, a fast-moving tentacled bug beast from Lovecraft’s wet dreams is a great way to fuck up your day. But those are New Golgotha slums. Mostly just places to dump garbage while waiting to die. And the district of Razor Bay, the former Baltimore city and county, is one massive technological slum.
Hell, half the time we don’t even know who the local demon district lord is. Demon infighting ensures frequent assassination and ascension.
When I’m on a job, I usually take to the slums at night. It’s quiet. It’s dark. The streets are generally deserted, which lets me know when others are around. Sure, you get a few people who try and curry favor with the local bishop. But most poor people know to shut their mouths, stay indoors, look the other way, and never talk to the authorities. I heard a can clink against stone. Something was definitely out there coming my way.
Hmmm, am I becoming predictable? Did one of these dockside lowlifes sell me out? I looked around at the old, crumbling high-rise buildings. There were a few people closing their blinds and turning out lights just as I heard overt footfalls coming my way. Yeah. I got sold out. Eh, I can’t blame them.
I continued leaning on the railing and took a few more drags of my smoke. I closed my eyes, listened, breathed, and let my senses tell the story. Three sets of footfalls, one heavy and two lighter. And…a quadruped? I breathed in deep. Oh yeah, that stink isn’t from the slums or the harbor. That’s a kudja. A freaking hellhound. Triple shit. Oh, and that name isn’t a coincidence. Demons often inspire great writing. All you have to do is give up some of your soul.
Through the grimy gloom of dockside streetlights, I could see hellspawn coming my way. They were about fifty yards away and they didn’t seem to be in a rush. The tall one in back was the district’s local bishop and the enforcer of the district lord’s will. A bishop runs the district’s police force—well, what passes for one these days.
Shirtless, he wore an old gray raincoat and a black cloak of his office, complete with mantel, all cut in the demonic fashion to give freedom of movement for his wings. An inferium warblade sword hung by his side, which meant he was operating in official capacity and as an executioner. The Hell-wrought steel was necrotic to most living things and slightly radioactive. The best way to think of inferium was as purgatory plutonium.
The bishop’s hair hung long, lank, and black against his pureblood red skin and horns. Bishop Maz’Zael. The two smaller brown demons, hellion mutt mongrels, flanked the bishop. One hellion held the chains to the kudja, while the other held a flanged basalt mace. They all made their way toward me. I turned around with my back against the rail and watched them come.
“Evening.” I nodded toward them.
The group continued walking toward me—sauntering, actually. Seriously, they sauntered. Freaking demons. I already hated the cliché tough guy walk. But watching this group come at me almost made me laugh.
Demons and hellions learned most of their topside manner and pop culture from old human movies and TV. As they got closer, one of the hellions growled at me. The other grumbled, “Hey meat. Out late tonight?” His voice was high-pitched and grating.
“I got lost on my way to church.” I chuckled to myself. The bishop grinned a little while the hellions looked perplexed. Hellions, while good for muscle, were little more than demons’ inbred cousins. And you can’t fuck your cousin over and over and expect good things to come from it. They were barely more intelligent than the hellhound they had with them.
“Evening,” I repeated, nodding to the bishop directly, blatantly ignoring the hellions. They growled a little at the disrespect. I rolled my eyes.
“Evening,” he answered back. He stood a safe distance away, keeping the hellions in front of him. He was easily seven feet tall and the Hell Steel sword could make up the reach between us. But his body language said he was being “respectful.” His heartbeat was steady against the irregular rhythm of the lapping waves in the harbor behind me.
“You should know, good citizen, we have received reports of an unsavory type prowling the area. A possible smuggler. According to the reports, the individual in question frequents this route on an atypical basis.” The bishop crossed his arms and stood askance, staring me down.
Damn. I guess I have been getting predictable. It figures. After making this particular route to avoid moments like these for the last few years, I guess it was only a matter of time. And here I was thinking I was kicking back enough to the locals to keep me in their good graces.
The bishop’s goons were starting to salivate. They came here looking for pain and blood. They saw me as a lone human and an easy target. Good. Let’s see if we can have some fun with this.
“So, Bish, why would you bother a respectable citizen like me?” I said, continuing to lean against the railing. I took another puff of my smoke and slowly crossed my legs to look casual.
The bishop showed a mouthful of white pointed teeth. “The reports were of a human male, around six feet tall, buzzed hair, brown antique motorcycle jacket. Also, he appeared to be chain smoking.”
I raised my eyebrow at that last one, feigned surprise, and took another drag.
“Oh,” the bishop continued, “apparently he is a smart ass. You haven’t seen anyone matching that description this evening, have you?”
I shook my head “no” in response to the bishop’s question. Then I took my pack of smokes from my motorcycle jacket’s pocket, removed one deliberately, and lit it off the one I already had. I exhaled the smoke, rubbed my hand over the stubble of my buzzed hair, and flicked the old butt into the bay.
“Wow, they could tell that he was a smart ass from their window? Impressive. Maybe you should hire them, help with yo
ur police force and all,” I said to the bishop.
“Perhaps,” he said. He drew his sword and rested it point down. I could smell the venom of the weapon. “Will you submit to a search?”
“Nope,” I said. “I’m a good citizen in good standing. I pay my regular tithe to the order and my Lethality License is up to date.”
Yellow-eyed bastard didn’t seem to care. “Oh well.” He shrugged. The hellions were getting worked up. I could hear their heartbeats getting faster. They were on edge and just waiting for the signal. The hellions would charge in, letting the hellhound off its leash. I would have to be fast.
“Sic ’em,” the bishop said.
I quickly drew my pistol and popped three bursts of plasma into the first hellion. Two to the chest, one to the head. The heat cauterized the wounds almost instantly. Only minimal blood sprayed. The second came in and he was fast. Even holding back, I was much faster. I sidestepped, grabbed the hellion by the scruff, and bounced his skull off the metal railing. His skull cracked and his teeth broke. As an afterthought I heaved him into the harbor, launching him an easy fifteen yards.
In the few seconds it took me to deal with the two idiots, I had completely blanked on the hellhound. Over 300 pounds of leathery skin and teeth flanked me, driving me into the ground. The beast had a lock on my left forearm and was trying like hell to rip my arm off.
Good luck getting through this coat, asshole, I thought, as the beast was atop me. On both forearms I wore tech bracers of my own design. With a flick of my free arm, a wide collapsible eighteen-inch blade sprang out, and I drove it deep into the hellhound’s side between the ribs and twisted, gouging a deep, wide wound. The blade retracted and I reached into my coat pocket, found the antique pineapple grenade, thumbed the pin off, and shoved the explosive into the gaping wound.
My left tech bracer, which was wedged into the beast’s mouth, emitted an electric shock, and the hellhound roared, letting me go. I rolled away and balled up. Quickly I tapped a servo relay on my belt and the density of my coat turned from semi to max. The grenade went off in a muffled crump. I dialed back the coat and stood, dusting myself off. Hellhound guts painted the wet asphalt. Blood mingled with rain, and it all flowed into the harbor.
