by Erik Lynd
Father Deluca nodded and stood, pulling the boy up with him.
“I’ll take Michael to the shelter for now,” he said quietly.
“Sure, I’ll catch you later,” Silas said and headed down the alley.
“Silas?” Father Deluca called to him after he had taken a few steps. He turned just in time to catch the candy bar. Father Deluca patted his breast pocket, smiling. “I guess we know each other’s vices.”
Father Deluca chuckled as he opened the door and entered the shelter with the boy in tow. Silas had eaten the candy bar before he reached the end of the alley.
4
A man staggered out of the subway tunnel, passing from the gloomy dark into the pale florescence of the station. An unfortunately empty station.
“The people? Where are all the people?” cried the man.
He did not know what time it was. Days, minutes, and hours had no meaning in the Undercity.
“It must be late, that’s all. I will find people.” He just hoped it wouldn’t be too late.
He looked over his shoulder, but he could hear no pursuit.
“They’re coming though. Oh yes, they are after me,” he said in a harsh whisper.
Carefully avoiding the third rail he ran to the platform and climbed up. A train would come soon, a train to take him away. He clutched a satchel close to his body and the clink of glass rattled through the silence of the station. The vials were safe. They had not broken in the mad dash from his home. His clothes were dirty and ill fitting. Holes were ripped throughout the cloth and raw skin covered with welts and scrapes lay exposed. He was missing one shoe. He squinted up at the light trying to find a sign that might tell him when the next train would come. When he found it, he stood dumbly trying to read it. It had been so long since he had read anything.
Perhaps he should go up the stairs; there had to be people up there. But there were other things up there as well. Like big open spaces, loud noises all around even more people… even more confusion… His heart thumped and his stomach ached just thinking about the world above. No, he was not ready for that,. Not yet, no way.
He heard a sound from the tunnel and he jumped. It might have been the rattle of bones on brick, the slither of scales on mud. His mind worked at all the possibilities. He knew he was going mad, but these sounds were real. He knew that much.
Again he considered the stairs to the world above, but even as he watched, a shadow passed across the top of the steps. A large shadow, vaguely humanoid but misshapen with what the man knew would be boney protrusions ripping through clothes and flesh alike.
Sweat broke out on the man’s face and his skin went cold. He looked at the sign praying to a god he had long forgotten that the train would come now. A roar echoed down the tunnel. The man drew himself closer to the back wall of the station, trying to wedge himself as deep in an alcove as he could. He squeezed the satchel again and felt the precious round vials within. He considered for a second just throwing the satchel behind. Maybe that would stop them, maybe if they had this precious treasure they would let him go. But he knew that would not happen; he knew too much. No, Webb could not let him go now.
He could hear whatever was on the steps starting to make its way down. It grunted a bestial sound.
Another roar came from the tunnel, louder and closer, but this time as it faded it blended with the approaching sound of the train coming the other direction. The man almost gasped in relief. People, there would be people on the train. Safety in numbers. They would do nothing in front of the norms.
As if to prove it, when the man looked back at the stairs the shadow was gone. He had made it.
The train sped into the station kicking up a strong breeze and scattering a few pieces of paper trash. It kicked a little grit into the man’s sensitive eyes, and his vision blurred with tears of relief. The train slid to a halt. As the doors opened, he stumbled in and fell on the floor of the train. A young man jumped up to help him, but seemed to think better of it once he got a good look at the state of this clothes; perhaps he had also caught a whiff of his unwashed body. The man did not mind though, he giggled in relief as he pulled himself onto a bench seat. A few people had gotten off at that stop, but enough remained. He was safe.
The train rocked gently as it hurtled down the tunnels that had been his home for many years. He was free now, and he knew it would take time for him to get used to the world above, but he could do it; the path was clear to him now. And after selling the vials he would not have to worry about money.
“Woe to the man who forsakes family and the love of his lord and master.”
The voice echoed through the train car and the man jerked in his seat. His blood ran cold and he began to shiver all over. He knew the voice. It was the voice of his master, Mr. Webb.
The owner of the voice stood at the front of the car. There was no doubting it was him, even in the flickering light of the train. He was tall and slim, wearing an antique suit that was too small for him. As always, large aviator reflector sunglasses covered half his face and his head was topped with oil-slicked hair too long to stay in place. On anybody else such an outfit might have looked silly, but on Mr. Webb the look was menacing.
The man knew the sunglasses were only there to conceal the red rimmed eyes brimming with blood that spilled over in constant crimson tears. Mr. Webb’s right hand held the blood splattered white handkerchief that he used to dab away those tears. That same hand was covered in gold and silver rings, so many that it seemed impossible for him to make a fist. But he did make a fist, squeezing the other hand tightly. He was angry.
“Why Jeremy? Why have you forsaken me?”
“No,” Jeremy whispered, but he could hear the panic in his own voice. “I didn’t… I couldn’t. I never meant to forsake you.”
Jeremy looked around wildly. There had to be some escape, it couldn’t end like this, could it? But the train roared on.
“You took something precious from me, Jeremy. You took my blood--my essence--from me. If that is not a betrayal, I don’t know what is.”
Mr. Webb looked around at the handful of passengers, his arms spread slightly as though seeking their support. Most kept their heads down, the ingrained training of a New Yorker taking over when a drama unfolds on the subway.
“Whatever buddy, just sit down and shut up,” said a large burly man seated near the front of the car.
Mr. Webb chuckled and began walking toward Jeremy. He swayed with the movement of the car, gliding easily down the aisle as though floating.
Jeremy’s mind raced. He thought maybe he could run, maybe he could run out of the car door and try to keep away from Mr. Webb until the train came to a stop. Then he dismissed the idea. If he ran he might accidentally run into a deserted car and then Webb would have him exactly where he wanted. No, he had to hold it together until they arrived at a crowded station.
“You think I won’t act, don’t you? Because of all the other passengers?” Mr. Webb asked, as though reading his mind. “You think these ignorant slaves will save you by their presence?”
“Hey!” said the large man who had spoken earlier as he stood. “Who the hell are you calling ignorant?”
Mr. Webb ignored him. The other passengers were watching nervously as Mr. Webb made his way down the aisle.
“These people won’t stay my hand. Maybe before, while I gathered strength. Now, though, it is almost time for us, the faithful, to show ourselves to the world and the weak inhabitants of the upper city. No, these witnesses will not stop me this time. I will simply have to kill all of them.”
“You’re a terrorist!” screamed one woman. This caused several others to scream. Jeremy could see that in a moment this car would be in pandemonium.
“Terrorist? Mr. Webb asked to no one in particular. “No. Maybe terror though…”
“Okay, enough of this shit,” said the large man as he walked toward Mr. Webb. “I don’t know who the hell you are, but you are going to sit down and shut the fuck…�
�
He was interrupted as a long arm covered with boney plates punched through the ceiling of the car like it was made of foil and a hand twice the size of any normal human hand wrapped around the man’s neck and lower jaw. With a jerk the man was pulled up and through the hole in the ceiling, leaving bits of his flesh along the jagged rim.
Someone screamed. The lights went out, causing even more screaming. And soon wet tearing sounds added to the confusion. He could see nothing except as a strobe from the passing tunnel lights. Flashes of demonic visages, talon-like claws, ripping fangs. Bloodied, screaming human faces stretched in frozen moments and burned into his mind.
Jeremy felt the satchel he had carried from deep in the Undercity ripped from his hands. His treasure, lost forever.
“Poor Jeremy,” Mr. Webb said.
His breath touched Jeremy’s ear and his voice cut through the din of the slaughter.
“You were never truly one of the faithful. You always denied me. And for that Judas, you die.”
Jeremy felt the cold blade slip between his ribs--the cold searing pain of steel, not the claws and teeth that tore at the others on the train car. As oblivion took him, Jeremy thought that maybe he should be honored. The others were of no consequence. He was Mr. Webb’s kill.
The strobe flickered again and Mr. Webb was gone. The cold steel that seemed to suck his soul from his body was gone. The last thing he saw was the blood-washed train car and the fading image of one of the monsters that had slaughtered the people on the train. It was twice the size of a normal man.
Silas gripped the microphone tight enough to feel the metal creaking beneath his fingers. The bass thumped, and he belted the lyrics in a voice reminiscent of the screams of the damned--only he was in tune. A guitar dangled from a strap across his back, swinging as he swayed and coming within inches of hitting the microphone stand.
He didn’t fucking care.
The music had him. Walt, on rhythm guitar, pounded out power cords that shook the bar. Kitten, the drummer, threw sweat from her brow across the stage as she pounded the skins and thumped a double bass. Carl, one of the fattest and ugliest bass players Silas had ever seen, alternated between slapping the bass strings and smoothly grooving to the rhythm.
It was always like this. When he was on stage, he ruled the world. He wasn’t a demon, and his audience wasn’t a bunch of mindless humans. When he was on stage, he and his audience were the same. Just a bunch of assholes that wanted to rock. In the ages he had existed, he never had felt more alive than when he had a guitar in his hands and a microphone inches from his mouth. It wasn’t the fact that it was music--he had played instruments for centuries--it was rock and roll that called to him. He liked drugs as much as the next guy, but nothing beat a rock high.
Music, including rock and heavy metal, was scorned in Hell. It empowered the listener and empowering the damned was frowned upon below. So it was only when he walked the surface world that he got to indulge his passions.
The chorus had ended, and now Silas’ fingers flew across the fret board of his guitar in a searing solo. For a brief period in the eighties he had possessed Eddie Van Halen, so his hands flew confidently across the guitar with all the skill of a guitar god. He had also possessed Ozzy Osbourne, but it was only a couple of hours before he couldn’t take it anymore. That guy was a serious freak.
The audience was eating it up, screaming and rushing the stage. Occasionally a random bottle was thrown, once striking Silas in the head. He shrugged it off, taking it as a compliment.
Only one thing could put a damper on his high, and he was just walking into the bar. Across the mass of screaming sweat sacks pressing against the stage Silas saw Mort slip into the room. At least he didn’t immediately cover his ears as he had last time.
Probably wearing ear plugs, Silas thought.
Mort took a seat in a booth, as far from the stage and PA system as he could. Silas hoped he didn’t try to order milk again. For Christ’s sake, he had a reputation to protect.
The song ended and Silas threw the microphone stand down as he pulled free the mic.
“Gonna take a little break, be back in a minute,” he said and spit into the audience.
Walt walked over to Silas.
“What’s up Si? Why cut it short? It’s so fucking hot in here, I thought Carl was on his way to dropping a couple of pounds in this set alone,” he said.
They looked over at Carl. He had taken this opportunity to start eating nachos from a plate on top of his amplifier. He saw Silas and Walt looking at him and shrugged before going back to his cheesy snack.
“Maybe not,” Walt said.
“Got to meet with the missus,” Silas said and nodded towards Mort at the back of the room.
“Hmm… you ain’t going to disappear on us for a week or two like you did a couple of months ago are you?” Walt asked.
Silas hoped not, but to Walt he said, “Nah, probably wants me to beat the shit out of somebody.”
Silas took off his guitar and propped it up against his amplifier, then jumped off of the stage. There was an impromptu cheer and hands slapped him on the back. Girls reached out to touch his shoulders and arms. He was no superstar, but he could get used to this local fame, even if it didn’t extend further than the front door of the building. The pats and touches faded as he moved across the room. By the time he reached the booth that Mort had selected, somebody had turned on the iPod and recorded music blasted through the PA, albeit at a much lower volume than Silas’ band. His fifteen minutes of fame were over for now as the bar danced to the big-selling sell outs. Fickle bitches. He slid into the booth.
“See. This is much better than some sort of coffee shop,” said Silas.
Mort removed foam ear plugs from his ears. Silas noticed the cup of tea in front of Mort.
“Have you even tried beer? A shot maybe? I could get you one of those fruity girly drinks.” he said.
“Alcohol clouds the mind. Besides, one of us needs to stay sober,” Mort said.
A waitress set three shot glasses down and a pint of beer on the table.
“Brought your usual, Silas,” she said and winked at him.
“Thanks babe. Can you bring me another round? My friend Mr. Sunshine here thinks he’s the weather man. I get to get all cloudy.”
Silas looked over at Mort before continuing, “I have a feeling tonight I’m going to need a little extra anyway.”
“Sure thing,” she said and disappeared into the crowd.
Silas slammed a shot back and put the glass on the table.
“It might cloud the mind Mort, but it is the gut that feels the fire.”
As Silas took a generous swallow of beer Mort pulled out his laptop.
“Just don’t spill any beer on this,” Mort said.
Silas glowered at him, “What do you want Mort? I take it I have another job?”
“Yes, and this one is a biggie.”
Now Silas was interested; he leaned forward. He pulled a cigar from his jacket pocket. It was illegal to smoke in public bars like this one; however, he thought he’d smoke where ever the hell he wanted until told to put it out. Then he would put it out in the face of the person telling him. So far no one had told him to put it out.
“What’s got Moreales’ panties in a bunch this week?” Silas asked.
“Attacks in the city. Someone or something is singling out victims and, well, tearing them apart.”
Silas nodded, “Sounds like my kind of party.”
“The initial reports came from street people, the homeless.”
That caught Silas attention because of the conversation he had had with Father Deluca and that kid.
“They came as word of mouth reports up through the mission and soup kitchen system.”
“Was one of these reports from Father Deluca?”
“Yes, I believe so. Why? Do you know something?” Mort said and narrowed his eyes at Silas.
Silas ignored him, “Go on, tell me the full deal.�
�
“Well, it seems it started as a rumor of monsters stalking the backstreets and alleys of New York, also some told of sightings below the city, in the sewers and tunnels deep below. The reports were inconsistent at best and borderline incoherent at worst. You know, descriptions of hulking shapes, big teeth, violence, and boney protrusions.”
“Sounds like a family photo.”
“If it wasn’t for the fact that there were so many, the Vatican might still be ignoring it. At least until we got this.”
Mort slid a file folder out of his laptop bag and dropped it in front of Silas.
“That’s a report from a well-respected priest named of Delentante. In this report the description is a little more detailed and describes an encounter between one of these things and a Native American while the priest was in a tunnel beneath the city.”
“What the hell was an Injun doing in the sewers and dirty tunnels? Aren’t they tree huggers, preserving the forests and all that crap?”
“We don’t know what the Native American was doing down there since the priest lost consciousness, and you shouldn’t call them Injuns. You sound racist.”
“Mort. What a horrible thing to say. I’m hurt. I’m not racist--you know I hate all humans equally.”
“Anyway, apparently the Native American knocked Father Delentante unconscious. So we don’t even know what his intention was. The next thing Delentante knew he woke on a subway train a long way from his parish.”
“Well what was the priest doing beneath the city? Looking for the gates of hell?”
“Actually, he was down there with a friend. The friend was an anthropology student from the university and a long time parishioner of Father Delentante. The Father had known him since he was a kid.”
“What happened to the student?” Silas asked.
“He was killed by the creature.”
Silas sat back and said, “Perhaps you should tell me the whole story.”
“Ya think?” Mort said. “If you could refrain from interrupting me for more than a few seconds with a sarcastic remark or questions perhaps I could.”
