The Angel of the Abyss

by Hank Schwaeble

  Chapter 43

  “You don't have to do this! He's just a child!”

  Hatcher was still struggling against the hand clutching him, though it wasn't accomplishing anything. It managed to be both hard as stone and soft as gelatin. Hard whenever he strained, soft whenever he tried to punch at it. His arms were smeared and caked with blood, he assumed his head was, too. Some of it he knew to be his.

  They wanted him to watch. Or at least Raum did. Before it was his blood they were spilling, whether the ritual called for it or not.

  Sahara ignored him. She'd spent the last ten minutes or so uttering an incantation of some kind, words Hatcher couldn't begin to place. Now she held the dagger Bartlett had used – old looking, if not ancient; ceremonial – and was standing over the boy, pulling the robe back to expose her arm.

  “You were the one mounting the coup from the very beginning,” he said, trying to engage her, distract her. Maybe goad her into giving him something, anything, to work with. “Only not for yourself. For him.”

  He pointed at Raum, or the blood creature he assumed was Raum. The thing smiled.

  “What did he promise you? You know he'll never come through, don't you? Deals with the Devil never work out, remember? Never.”

  No reaction. She continued her chants, words tripping off her tongue that sounded like a mix of Latin and Swahili. She drew the tip of the dagger along her forearm, let the blood drip over the boy. He began bucking against his restraints, having as much success as Hatcher.

  She paused to watch the blood, careful of where it dripped, drawing some sort of symbol with it on the boy's chest.

  Something scratched at his mind, wanting to be let in. Had been scratching for a while now, calling for him to find the right door.

  Blood, he thought.

  Blood is the lubricant, she had said.

  Now the thoughts started rushing in, almost too fast to sort. Micah, telling him to get the demon's name.

  Sahara, telling him not to worry about an accidental conjuring. There would have to be blood, she said. A ritual, underground. A summoning spell to open a path.

  The cave, Sahara's temple in her office, Raum's phony stage set. Blood, blood, blood.

  The blood-ritual apparently complete, the psychic let down the sleeve of her robe. Gripping the dagger in both hands, one fisted over the other, she uttered a final series of words, these most definitely Latin.

  “In finitis... evocatio... spiritualis... de diabolus.”

  The whirlpool was enormous now, a spinning hole in the blood several feet wide. The floating bowls of flame had been swept into it, pinned to the perimeter of the vortex by the centrifugal motion, their light pointed at the center, circling it faster and faster until they formed an unbroken ring of fire.

  Upon the final word passing her lips, a shadow, formless as a cloud – black as coal smoke – erupted from the vortex. It was a darkness beyond dark, as black as the abyss Hatcher had confronted, a complete absence of everything. It shot up through the fire ring, encircling the wrapped body hanging from the cable, tornadoing around. A blood spout rose, drenching the white cloth, turning it crimson, and a piece of the amorphous shape of nothingness stretched out and burrowed into the wrappings near the face, pushing into it, the bulk of the shadow following, dark light into a black hole.

  Sahara jerked the knife high above her head, both hands squeezing tightly, arms extending, tip of the blade aimed directly at the boy's heart.

  He could think of only one play. Blood. Summoning spell. Name.

  God, I hope this works.

  Hatcher sucked in a breath and threw the word out with as loud a voice as he could muster. “GLASYALABOLAS!”

  The woman stopped mid-lurch, arms still high in the air. She looked up at Hatcher, eyes stretched, mouth almost slack. Hatcher felt himself get yanked back and Raum, blood-golem Raum, was staring at him, those prehistoric eyes running him up and down. It looked at him with a hellish anger, a chew-your-bones hate, but something else, too. A bemused look, something like a reassessment. Maybe, it occurred to Hatcher, a grudging tip of the hat.

  The demon slid its gaze down to look as Sahara, who shook her head, eyes pleading. Her lips moved as if she were about to speak, but before she could, a shape bubbled out of the blood behind her, grabbing her attention, a loud burp of gas, and then the shape landed on the platform and filled with blood that flowed into it like the stream rising and dumping out of a gushing fountain. The blood hardened into the same creature Hatcher had seen days earlier in a Kentucky cave.

  The thing snapped a few glances, studying Raum for an instant, then the boy, then the whirlpool of blood. It made eye contact with Hatcher for the briefest of moments and seemed to understand. It tilted its head forward and let out a snort.

  It moved faster than Hatcher could see, same as before, like super slo-mo on film. All that seemed to register in Hatcher's vision was Sahara Doyle being snatched from the platform, eyes like a fish, mouth opening, a scream of protest starting to form, then she was gone, a cannon ball splash of blood in her wake. The echo of that scream all that he heard, audible in a blurp of blood that popped at the surface.

  The vortex was roaring now, the shadow sucking into the body rapidly. As the final spin of blackness spiraled around the wrappings, other, cast-off shadows, shadows of shadows, raced around the silo and disappeared. Grotesque shapes, silhouettes of long lost creatures, predators with sharp-angled wings, animals with teeth too large, heads too bizarre. The shadows whipped around the room and vanished with the last of the lightless void.

  Other than the boy, only one remained on the platform. He pulled his hood back and revealed his face, eyes jumping about as he tried to figure out what he should do. He was an older man, graying, with the weathered, craggy face of someone who'd spent too much time in the sun. He had ropy limbs and an angular build and he stood there for several seconds looking uncertain until he seemed to realize he was staring at the bloody dagger on the platform where Sahara had been standing. He lunged for it, scooping it up, and Hatcher found himself hoisted higher, Raum now pointing at the boy with his other blood hand, appearing anxious for the ritual to finish.

  The man wasted no time, springing up, drawing the dagger back and throwing himself forward.

  A loud crack shattered the air, slapping the man's head back. He stumbled another step, head tilted up, and another crack followed, this one taking off the man's nose. He dropped the dagger, then crumbled to the metal flooring beneath him.

  On the access platform, four levels up, Calvin stood at the railing, pistol still aimed and holding steady.

  Raum roared, rearing back to look, glaring, eyes flashing in anger. Hatcher yelled for Calvin to run as the demon thrust his arm toward the upper platform, the giant limb stretching, King Kong hand reaching out. Impossibly fast, like a blur. Calvin managed to stumble back, falling through the access door, just out of reach, the hand having been slowed just enough by the railing between them for him to make it.

  The gargantuan blood skull of Raum swiveled back to Hatcher, retracting its arm. It cast a glance at the wrapped body, the cloth now soaked bright red, and watched as it swelled and quivered. Raum lowered his eyes again to Hatcher, that face, sculpted as if from crimson stone, showing a hint of satisfaction, almost a smile. It raised Hatcher higher, extending white teeth, fangs like sabers, and brought its other hand close. The hand shifted and spread until it was shaped like a double-headed ax.

  It drew that arm back, blade ready to fall, and narrowed its eyes.

  A scrape of metal pierced through the silo, sharp, violent, almost a scream. It grew in pitch, echoing, kept growing as a line of light spread from one wall toward the other. Raum looked up, let out a noise like a growl, and leveled his gaze at Hatcher before swinging the bladed extremity toward Hatcher's neck.

  The line of light crossed over Hatcher's head just as th
e edge arrived. He dropped in a splash of blood, landing on the platform. Raum stood over him, arms sliced off near the elbow, dripping. The line of light continued toward him, forcing the creature back. He glowered, seething, his limbs reforming in the shrinking shadow. The demon shot one more look at the red mummy, then back at Hatcher. The light reached the wrapped body, and it started to sizzle. Raum threw up his arms, rearing back his head, and shouted something toward the Heavens that sounded like a primal curse. Just before the light reached him, the demon sank into the blood, his eyes catching Hatcher's a final time before disappearing beneath the surface.

  Hatcher lay on the platform, letting his head drop back against the metal. Clanging steps, feet racing down the silo. Hatcher pushed himself up, got to a knee and steadied himself. After a few shaky attempts at standing, Calvin appeared on the platform and helped him to his feet.

  “We need to go. Like, right now.”

  Hatcher started to say the boy, raised a hand to point, but Calvin was already moving that way. Undoing the child's restraints and pulling him off the make-shift altar.

  “Can you make it?”

  Hatcher nodded, still bent over. He straightened and followed Calvin to the ladder. He thought the man might have trouble climbing with the boy over his shoulder, but saw he was plenty strong enough. The boy was alert, wary and curious, apparently aware he was being rescued and not offering any resistance.

  “How long?” Hatcher asked as they climbed from level to level.

  “Maybe ten minutes.” As if reading Hatcher's mind, he added, “But once we get to the surface, we still have to get clear.”

  No more explanation was needed. The thermobaric device was armed and ready to blow, the timer counting down.

  They reached the fourth level and Calvin moved quickly through the access portal, not slowing until they reached the stairs. Hatcher lagged a bit, but was able to muster enough energy to not fall too far behind. Calvin pushed through the doors and Hatcher staggered out behind him a few seconds later.

  He looked up to see Amy running toward him. She crashed into him, arms wrapping tightly. “Thank God you made it.”

  “We need to double-time it out of here,” Calvin said. “I'm not kidding.”

  Still carrying the boy, Calvin started to run. He looked over his shoulder and shouted for them to get going as Hatcher tried to get his legs to cooperate.

  Another shout from Calvin, but they'd already broken into a run, Amy pulling on one arm, his other cradling his ribs. They'd made it about a hundred yards, faster than a jog but not quite reaching a sprint, when the ground rattled and Hatcher felt his ears pop.

  The explosion sent a pulse rolling beneath the ground, the earth collapsing in an expanding circle, the edge of it racing outward toward them. A column of fire blasted through the silo opening, torching the sky. They dove forward, the dirt crumbling beneath their feet. They landed in a cloud of sand. They coughed and fanned the air, waiting for the dust and dirt to clear. When it did, they saw they were at the edge of a blast ring. Inside of it, but not by much. Calvin was a dozen yards away, on higher ground, boy still in his arms, looking down at them, shaking his head.

  Hatcher lowered his head and rolled onto his back, feeling like he'd never catch his breath.

  “Don't you ever scare me like that again,” Amy said, settling next to him.

  “I take it that was you who pulled open the top?”

  “That Humvee? It was dead! They'd disabled it. I had to run and go get the camper truck. Then I had to use it to push the Humvee out of the way and hook up the towline. And the wheels wouldn't catch! They were spinning, just throwing up sand. I put it in low-gear and kept trying and trying. Cursing and cursing.”

  Hatcher swiveled his head to look at her. “Amazing doesn't even cover it. You really saved my neck back there. And I'm not saying that figuratively.”

  “At least I finally proved I can come through. You have to admit taking me with you turned out to be a good idea.”

  “Aw, jeez. Are you ever going to let it go? It's over. Quit living in the past. I mean, sheesh. You redheads are always so difficult.”

  She punched him in the shoulder and he said ow! He rubbed the spot and they stared at each other for several seconds before the laughter snorted out, her first, then him.

  Damn, he told himself, kneading his shoulder muscle. She really can punch.

  “Hey, Detective,” Calvin said, the concern in his voice coming through, his words projecting at them from above, the boy standing next to him. “Where's Vivian? She did make it to the surface, didn’t she?”

  Hatcher pushed himself up on his elbows. He shifted his gaze from Calvin to Amy. “Did he just ask about Vivian?”

  “I can explain,” she said, retrieving a small, dog-eared notebook from the back pocket of her jeans. She dusted it off and looked at it. “Sort of.”

  Chapter 44

  “Well, the good news is, the MRI looked clear. Which, given the amount of scar tissue on your body, surprises the heck out of me. So, whatever lumps your head took, I see no indication they reached the brain. I do think your lady here was right to insist on the test, despite your objections. Better safe than sorry.”

  Hatcher cast a glance at Amy and popped his eyebrows. Told you.

  “Thanks, Doc.”

  “Now, the bad news.” The doctor was a small man, maybe fifty, with olive skin and thick, coarse hair the color of tar. His beard was a thin black line that followed the curve of his jaw. Hatcher couldn't pronounce his name without hearing it first.

  “I'm pretty sure you have a fractured rib,” the doctor continued. “X-rays were inconclusive, but I can tell by the way your breathing sounds, the wincing. It's not unusual to have to rely on a clinical diagnosis when it's the ribcage. And I didn't like some of the results of your urinalysis. So just to make sure you're not bleeding internally from your spleen or somewhere, I'd like to admit you. Maybe you can go home tonight, but a few more tests and another examination would be prudent. And I'll want to check those lacerations again, change the dressing, make sure you don't need stitches. The last thing you need are even more scars. At least eight hours. Like I said, better safe than sorry.”

  Now it was Amy's turn to give him a look. Told you so.

  “Can I stay with him, Doctor? We'll pay for a private room.”

  The doctor stroked the line of hair on his jaw. “I don't see why not. We'll need to discharge him from the ER and admit him, but visiting hours won't end until this evening. If we need to keep him longer... well, private rooms can be pretty private. Someone will be with you shortly to take care of all that.”

  He tucked his clipboard beneath his arm and left the examining room, sliding the curtain shut behind him.

  “How are you feeling?”

  “Fine. I told you, a bit of a headache. Sore gut. It's no big deal. The meds should kick in soon and I'll probably feel like hitting the gym.”

  Amy shook her head. “You were splattered with enough blood to paint a barn. You had three gashes on your throat and so many contusions and abrasions I wouldn't know how to count them. Hell, Hatcher, I couldn't even tell you how many fights you've been in in just the last two days. I'm not even sure if 'fights' is the right word. More like mortal combat. Sitting there, cleaned up, you still look like you just got worked over with barbed wire and a baseball bat. Don't tell me it's no big deal, you big dope.”

  Hatcher didn't feel like arguing. Partly because she was right, partly because he was tired, mostly because she was so sexy when she talked that way. That breathy tone, the raspy, controlled exasperation. She really was an amazing woman, beautiful and smart – more than smart, wise – and he was incredibly lucky to have her. Lucky to be loved by her. And she really had saved his ass, no doubt.

  “How's the boy?” he asked.

  “Social services took him. He said his name is Gabr
iel. Calvin said they cleaned him up and put some butterfly stitches over his wrist. Apparently, he's a smart kid. Articulate. A bit awkward, but very inquisitive. He was about to talk to the police, last I heard. Calvin, I mean. Not the boy.” She held up Hatcher's cell phone. “He's supposed to call back after he's done.”

  “I guess we have that to look forward to.”

  “I don't think so. They both agreed – Calvin and Gabriel, that is – to leave us out of the story. Us, and all the demons. He said Gabriel understood completely. Told Calvin he'd read some novels where people had to do that, and that he didn't think the police would understand. He also suggested to Calvin they should tell the police he found him wandering the side of the road after escaping from the camper.”

  Hatcher gave her a quizzical look, and she shrugged. He'd heard some of the discussion during the car ride, sitting in the back seat of the rental car. But once the adrenaline had burned off he all but passed out, Amy stroking his bloody hair. Calvin had dropped them off and driven the boy to an urgent care facility a few miles away, deciding Hatcher's injuries were far more severe and believing separate facilities were in order. Now it made more sense.

  Glancing over her shoulder, more a gesture than an actual look, she said, “Speaking of the police, do you think they'll find anything? Back there, I mean?”

  “No,” he said, shaking his head. “That kind of explosion, the heat of a thermobaric blast, the collapse. Whatever they do find, they won't be able to make any sense of it. If they even want to dig to look, which I doubt they will.”

  “So, it was Sahara Doyle all along? She was the one behind it?”

  “It's complicated,” he said. “But yes. The simple answer is yes. Best I can figure, she was in league with Raum. But she let Bartlett think he was in control, that it was all him. He saw it as his chance to be more than a hero, more than a martyr, even. He saw a chance to seize a destiny, to defeat the Devil himself. He was delusional.”