by Darren Shan
I manage a small chuckle when I realise how simple it is to place myself. That gives me confidence and I turn to the other problems more positively. I can dig through rubbish bins for food. Not very nice, but I’m sure I’ll scavenge enough to keep myself from starving.
Finding somewhere to sleep is harder. Hide in a library or museum? Or maybe in a shop that sells furniture? Keep low while they’re closing, then come out when it’s deserted, sleep on a couch or bed.
Not a bad plan, except all the shops have already closed. I might be able to do it tomorrow, but it won’t work now. Maybe I’ll have to sleep in the open tonight, over a street grille or on a park bench. Collect newspapers to wrap round myself. Hope I’m not discovered by a policeman. Look for somewhere better in the morning.
As I’m thinking that over, I catch sight of a pulsing light out of the corner of my left eye. My head jerks towards it. This isn’t the first time it’s happened. I’ve been reacting to every flashing light in shops or on street corners, hopes rising, thinking for a second that they’re one of the magical pulsing patches.
I scowl at myself, feeling stupid for falling for the same trick for the hundredth time. I start to look away, telling myself to behave more sensibly next time, when it strikes me—
There’s no shop or street corner where the flash came from.
I look left again, but slowly, not letting myself get excited. It’s probably somebody on a bicycle, or a bird with a strip of foil in its beak, or…
But it isn’t. It’s a yellow patch of triangular light, drifting through the park, attached to nothing.
I’m on my feet immediately, thoughts of food and shelter forgotten, hurrying after the light. I catch up to it, reach for it like a baby reaching for its dummy, then stop. There’s no point interfering with it, since there are no other pulsing patches for me to add it to. Better to follow, see where it leads and hope that luck is with me.
* * * * *
The light passes through the bars at the rear of the park. I clamber over them, almost spearing myself on the spikes at the top, ripping the back of my T-shirt. I start to follow it across the road behind the park, but the driver of an approaching car blows his horn, warning me back. I wait impatiently for him to pass, then hurry after the light. Luckily, it’s not moving very fast, so I soon catch up.
I walk along beside the patch until it passes through the wall of a building. I stare at the wall for a moment, lost, then look backwards, judging the path of the light. It’s come at an angled line from the park. If it continues in that direction, it should come out again at some point to my right on the other side of the building.
I race round the building to the back. Advance to the point where I think the light will emerge, then stand, clenching my hands into fists, waiting, counting the seconds off inside my head. Five… eight… ten… fifteen… twenty-one…
The light reappears on the count of twenty-three, further to my right than I’d calculated. Grinning, I jog over, catch up with it, walk with it to the wall of another building, then quickly make my way to the rear, to wait for it again.
I eventually lose the light at a collection of warehouses. There’s no way for me to get to the rear before the light re-emerges. But that’s not a worry. Because I’ve spotted other lights, floating through the air from different directions, all angling towards the same spot several hundred yards ahead of me. I can’t see where they meet because of the buildings, but I have a good sense of where it is, so I weave through the streets. There’s no need to bother with the lights anymore, just head for the point of intersection.
Ten minutes later I round a corner and see a handful of lights penetrating the walls and roof of a large building in the middle of a row of restaurants, pubs and shops. There are people in front of the building, waiting to get in. As I edge closer I see that they’re mostly teenagers dressed in leather jackets, ripped jeans, fishnet stockings. Many have spiky, coloured hair and chains dangling from their ears, noses and lips. They look quite frightening. Not as frightening as demons, but pretty scary as humans go.
I hear music coming from inside the building and realise this is a concert. It’s harsh, ugly music, loud and unpleasant, very fast. It sets my ears ringing, even from this far outside.
I stop close to the crowd. There are a couple of men at the front door, dressed differently. They’re the ones in charge, taking money from the people who want to go to the concert, letting in a few at a time. As I watch, the doormen turn away a girl and three boys. A row develops. I hear the girl shouting that they’re over eighteen. One of the doormen laughs and tells them to produce ID or leave.
This isn’t going to be easy. If they won’t let those four in, they certainly won’t let in someone like me. I’ll have to try a bluff, say that my dad—maybe an older brother would be better—is in there. It probably won’t work, but I’ve got to give it a go.
I listen to the teenagers chatting about the concert, gathering as much info as I can. They call it a punk concert. There are several bands on the bill. Names like the Clamps, Thunderballs, the Damnable. When I’m ready, I walk boldly to the front of the line and smile at the doormen. “Excuse me,” I say politely. “Is this where the Clamps are playing?”
The doormen squint at me. One grunts, “Yeah. But it’s over-eighteens.”
“I know,” I reply. “But my brother’s in there. I need to find him. Mum and Dad have gone out for the night. He was supposed to leave the key to the back door for me, but he must have taken it with him. I can’t get in without it. Can I pop in and get the key off him? I’d leave again immediately.”
The doormen look at each other, then one of them says, “What’s his name?”
I’m about to say Art, but that’s not a common name. So I say “John” instead.
“John what?” the doorman asks.
Again, Fleck isn’t common, so I say the first name that comes to me. “Smith.”
“John Smith.” The doormen laugh.
“You’ve got to admire his nerve,” one of them says.
“Yeah, but not enough to let him in,” the other chuckles, then jerks his thumb at me. “Nice try. Now clear off.”
“You don’t understand,” I gasp. “I can’t get in without the key. I have to—”
“I can look for him if he really exists,” the first doorman cuts in. “But if I go in there and call for a John Smith and don’t find one—or find a few who aren’t your brother—I’m going to be very angry. So have a good long think about it, then tell me—do I stay or do I go?”
“You don’t have to do that. I’ll look for him. He’s a bit… he’s slightly deaf. He wouldn’t hear you calling. I need to go in myself, to look for…”
The doorman takes a step forward, crouches and in a low, foul curse tells me to go away. Then he returns to his post and waves forward the next few punks in line.
I’ve blown it. Defeated, I slink away, ignoring the catcalls of the punks, and find a quiet spot where I can think up my next approach.
More lights are floating into the building, faster now. I could wait until the concert’s over, then break in, but I don’t think I have much time. So I go looking for another entrance, figuring there must be a fire door at the rear.
A narrow, dirty alley runs behind the shops and pubs. Rubbish bags all over the place, empty cardboard boxes, bottles and cans. Dried blood, vomit and dog crap. I wade through the mess, trying to find the building where the concert’s taking place. The noise guides me and a minute later, I’m standing outside a pair of large doors, which are rattling from the vibrations of the music.
I try opening the doors, but they’re locked from the other side. I push and pull, kick and punch, to no effect. I look for windows to sneak through, but there are only a couple and they’re both bricked over.
Back to the doors. They can’t remain shut all night. People will have to come through eventually. I’m sure they’ll be opened at the end of the concert, but that might be too late—the lights ma
y have stopped by then. I just have to hope that someone comes through before that, for fresh air or to be sick.
There are a few rubbish bins to the right of the doors. I crouch behind them and wait, planning on sneaking in if the doors open. Not a great plan, but in the absence of anything better, it’s my only hope.
Ten minutes pass. Fifteen. Twenty. Thirty. I’m truly cold now. I don’t think the sun has ever shone directly on this horrible hole of an alley. My nose is running. I wipe the back of my hand across it, but that doesn’t do much good.
The lights are moving very quickly, in greater numbers, powering through the walls and roof. I think a window is going to open soon. Maybe there’s a witch like Mrs. Egin inside, or perhaps the music is summoning the demons—this is the sort of din I imagine the Demonata would love.
Maybe some of them are coming to check out the concert.
I grin as I picture Cadaver and the vulture-headed demon slipping through a window between the two universes to dance with the punks. As I’m grinning, the doors open and two men step out into the alley, a wave of metallic music bursting through with them. I’m immediately alert, praying for them to turn left so I can duck in without them seeing.
But they stand where they are, looking around. One is a punk, with jeans, a leather jacket, no T-shirt, a thin black scarf knotted around his throat, spiky purple hair, a ring through his nose. Scrawny. Not much older than me. The other is wearing an army-type uniform, boots and a beret. A bit older than the punk and much bigger. There are letters tattooed on his knuckles, but I can’t read them from here.
“This will be our getaway route if we have to run,” the man in the army clothes says, letting the doors half close, cutting out the worst of the noise. “We’ll split up if we’re chased. You go left. I’ll take the right. Meet again at the hotel.”
“Can we outrun it?” the punk asks.
“Depends on what it is. Some are slow, some fast. If we can’t stop it crossing, we’ll try to fight, but if it’s too strong, we’ll have to run like hell.”
“I don’t like running,” the punk says.
“Me neither,” the army guy grunts, “but sometimes it’s the only option. These demons are fierce mothers. We can whup some of them, but others…”
At the mention of demons, a shudder of relief churns through me. In a rush, I scuttle out from behind the rubbish bins. The army guy takes a step back, fists coming up protectively. The punk puts out a hand to calm him. “Relax. It’s only a kid.”
The army guy scowls. “What are you doing here? Trying to sneak in to the concert without paying? It won’t work. Scram, you no-good—”
“Excuse me,” I interrupt, “but are you… this might sound crazy… but I heard you talking about demons and I—”
“You heard nothing!” the army guy shouts. “Now beat it, quick, before I—”
“Wait a minute,” the punk says, squinting at me with pale blue eyes. He nods for me to continue.
“Well… like I said… I heard you talking and… well… are you two guys… by any chance… I mean… are you Disciples?”
The pair stare at me dumbly. Then the army guy looks round, picks up a piece of metal, lets the doors swing almost fully closed, sticks the metal between them to keep them ajar. Strides over, the punk a couple of paces behind him.
“Who are you?” he growls.
“My name’s Kernel Fleck. I was with Beranabus. I want to get back to him. I… Do you know who I mean? Are you…?”
The pair exchange silent glances. I start to think I got it wrong, that I misheard, or maybe the Demons are just another band. But then the army guy shrugs and the punk sticks out a hand. “Yes,” the punk says as we shake hands. “We’re Disciples. This is Shark. And my name’s Dervish. Dervish Grady. But don’t ask me to whirl,” he says warningly. And smiles.
THE MONSTER MASH
Dervish starts to question me, to find out why I’m here, how I know Beranabus. But Shark cuts in. “The attack could come at any minute. We need to prepare for it.”
He pulls the doors open and gestures me inside. It’s dark and incredibly noisy. The room’s quite large, but packed with punks. Mostly guys, Dervish’s age or a bit older. A band is playing on a small stage to our right. Thrashing away at their guitars and drum kit as though the world is about to end and they’re determined to finish their song before it does. The singer screams into his microphone, mostly swear words, sticking his middle fingers up at the crowd and bellowing at them.
The punks love it. They’re dancing like crazy, leaping up and down or holding on to each other and spinning wildly. Some are fighting, but it’s good natured. They’re drawing blood, but they don’t care—that just adds colour.
There are more studs, piercings and tattoos than I’ve ever seen. That reminds me of Shark’s knuckles and I look down at his hands. His name is tattooed on both sets, a letter per finger, with a black and white shark’s head filling the flesh between both thumbs and index fingers, jaws wide, teeth glistening.
“It sounds like a dentist’s drill,” Shark yells at Dervish, scowling at the noise. “You really like this crap?”
“It’s the new wave,” Dervish grins. “The music of change. An-ar-cheeeeeee!” He punches the air with his fist.
“Grow up,” Shark snorts, then looks down at me. “You like this?”
“I’ve never heard anything like it,” I tell him. “It’s giving me a headache.”
Shark laughs. “The kid’s got more sense than you, Grady.”
The song ends and the band takes a short break so that one of the guitarists can replace the guitar which he’s just broken. Dervish uses the lull to fill me in.
“Somebody’s summoning a demon. We’ve been trying to stop him for the last couple of weeks. We don’t know who the summoner is, but we know the crossing’s going to happen here, tonight. If we can’t stop it, we plan to kill the demon or push it back.”
“We won’t be able to kill it,” Shark says. “We’re not strong enough to destroy a demon. In the Demonata’s universe, maybe—but driving it back is the best we can hope for here.”
“Have you done this a lot?” I ask.
“I have. This is Grady’s first taste of action.” He punches Dervish’s arm. “I’m not sure he’s up to it.”
“Don’t worry about me,” Dervish growls. “I’ll do what I have to.”
“I know you will,” Shark chuckles. “Now, let’s try and find the demon-loving scumbag, though I guess we won’t know who it is until—”
“He’s over there,” I interrupt, pointing at a middle-aged man near the stage. He’s dressed like a punk, but doesn’t really fit the part. Lean and muscular, with a thick Mohican haircut. His lips are moving steadily. He’s the focus for the patches of light. They’re pulsing round him in an almost fully formed window.
“How do you know?” Shark asks suspiciously.
“Never mind. That’s him. He’s almost done. Another few minutes and the window will open.”
Shark curses, then starts towards the man with the Mohican. Dervish pushes after Shark, and I head after Dervish. As we’re nudging through the crowd, the band howls into a new, faster song and the place goes wild. Suddenly, punks are leaping all around me, bashing into one another, falling over, kicking and punching everyone in sight.
I’m knocked to the floor. Someone stamps on my right hand. I yell with pain. Try to get up, but I’m knocked down again. Struggling, panting, afraid I’m going to be crushed to death by a sea of punks.
Then Shark is beside me, lashing out with his fists, pounding the punks away. Dervish picks me up and gives me a fireman’s lift. He’s stronger than he looks. “Hold on tight,” he says, and we push forward again, Shark clearing a path.
I hit out at a few of the punks, taking advantage of my position, trying to smash a few noses in revenge. Then I remember I’ve a more important mission and turn my attention to the stage. I have a better view of the demon summoner from here. I see him start to
tremble. He froths at the mouth. The lights in the window pulse at the same time.
“Too late!” I shout. “It’s going to open.”
“No!” Shark roars, shouldering an especially large punk out of his way. “We can make it! I’m not going to—”
An explosion. Part of the stage erupts, showering the people closest to it with splinters and nails. Agonised screams. One of the guitarists falls to his knees, face a pulped, bloody mess. The singer doesn’t stop. He’s so caught up in his song, he doesn’t hear anything except his own voice.
There’s a violet coloured window of light next to the Mohican man. He’s standing by it proudly, unharmed. He smiles at the chaos. Puts a couple of fingers between his lips and whistles shrilly.
A demon bounds through the window. The body of a large chicken. Three pig-like heads. It looks ridiculous, almost laughable, until it opens a mouth and spits at a nearby punk. The spit hits him squarely in the face, then bubbles and burns his flesh away. He falls, trying to scream, but unable to.
Dervish called for anarchy a few minutes ago—now he gets it. The room was wild with dancing, writhing and fighting before this, but when the punks see the demon in action they go completely mental. Panic sweeps the crowd. Shrieking, they surge for the exit doors. The man with the Mohican laughs and steps up next to the demon.
“Now we’ll see who has power!” he shouts over the chaotic screams. “All these years of having to lick somebody else’s boots and bow down. No more! Now you’ll learn to fear me. This is my world now. All of you—”
He gets no further. The demon, displaying no sense of gratitude, spits at the man. He’s flung backwards, the acidic spit already setting to work on his face, dissolving his flesh and cartilage, eating through to sizzle his brain. Who said there was no justice in the world?
