Notes & Disclaimer: Marvel Comics and Dimension
Films control the rights to many of the characters
herein - no challenge to existing copyrights is intended.
This story was not written for children; it contains adult
language, disturbing images and mature themes. The
previous chapters are collected at the Fonts of Wisdom
(home.att.net/~lubakmetyk), at the Itty Bitty Archives
(ontheroad.hispeed.com), and at fanfiction.net.
_____________________________________________
H E L L R A I S E R : H E L L F I R E
by
XanderDig
_____________________________________________
4
A base drum attacked the back of my skull with three
staccato blasts. I knew it wanted to pull me from
safety, that the assault was close to being effective. A
soft whimper grew in the back of my throat and I curled
my toes in my attempt to bite consciousness back.
Mossy earth bunched beneath my feet rather than the
uncomfortable heat inside my loafers, and the result
was calming. I knew where I was. I knew where I was.
"Mr. Shaw?" asked the majorette responsible for the
cacophony. She blared her drum again, but this time I
was on the move. I didn't want to hear the insistent
woman's mousy voice, so I ran desperately away from
it. It was peaceful and dark where I was, and the voice
was only a receding echo. The chemical stench from
the blue fluid in the toilet was virtually undetectable
here. Free of the cell, free of the prison, I was away
and the girl could bang all she wanted.
The wood is lit by gentle moonlight, a soft breeze
causing the thin mist to swirl. I breathe in deeply,
smiling, power coursing through my veins. The scent
of grass, of pine and jasmine overwhelm me. So does
the smell of meat.
I look around in the darkness, turning a full circle
before I take note of the faint orange glow coming from
deeper in the forest. With the exception of the noodles
back in (the real world) Bangkok, I haven't eaten a real
meal in days. The food smell on the breeze sets my
teeth on edge, an uncontrolled wave of predatory
hunger cinching in my stomach. The saliva comes so
quickly that I have to reach up and wipe my forearm
across my wet mouth. Then I laugh, loud and long.
Why go through the motions of being anything other
than an animal here? This is my forest, after all.
I'm God here.
"Mr. Shaw? Are you all right?" whines the majorette,
banging her drum. Then, in another, throatier voice:
"you're mine, Sebastian." I nearly turn around to see
who is speaking, but the nonsense is taken away by the
breeze before it can weigh too heavily. I run away
towards the orange glow, the fire, the cooking. Tonight
I will feast.
The path through the dark is muddy and warm beneath
me. It runs parallel to the edge of a reflective lake, and
it is only when I glance down into it that I realize I am
nude. I stare at my body for a moment, marveling at its
perfection. If Leonardo only had me to model, he
might have gotten man right. I'm not man at all
though, am I? I'm better than man, newer, superior in
every way. I am (more delicious by far, we must string
it out for eternity) . . .
The ghost of a memory shocks me away from my
reflection. It's only hunger. The solution to that little
problem only lies on the other side of the next rise. I
run from the water, my reflection left to ponder my
back. I bound over the perfectly green hill, drool
flowing freely now, the cooking meat maddening.
When I finally come to the roaring fire I stop short of
the stone circle, a bonfire roaring in the center.
There are steps that cannot be taken back. I am no fool.
I know this. As I stare down at the perfectly white
stones, so pale that they almost seem to be cut out of
the fabric of reality itself, I'm aware that there is
something final about stepping into the circle. Even as
I debate, though, my hunger urges me forward. The
*need* to gorge myself on the flesh perfuming the
night is overpowering. I wipe my mouth again and step
into the circle.
Only when I've crossed over do I notice the woman.
She stands across the fire, looking at me with
something like a smile. Bathing in the orange-red glow
of the flames, her naked skin seems alive. I feel myself
growing as I stare at her. Her hair is impossibly long
and black, and for a moment it seems that she is a
photo negative of Botticelli's Venus, dark and hungry
where the other is a creature of the light. The woman's
smile widens. Her incisors are long and sharp.
Something mews and whines plaintively, and the
woman smiles more broadly. She leans down, and
when she stands she holds a small, gray beast in her
arms. Shifting in the fire light, she cocks her head at
me in a look that would be seductive in any other
circumstance. Now it means something altogether
different.
"You remember, don't you darling?" she asks. Then
she raises the mewling wolf cub to her bosom. The
golden-eyed creature suckles voraciously. "Bad from
the breast. It's in the blood of all my children."
I step backward when I hear the lower noise, heavy
steps on the brittle earth. The woman looks at me sadly
as she nurses her infant. Enormous wolves walk slowly
around either side of the bonfire, light reflecting off
their teeth. Gore covers their glistening snouts, and
rivers of saliva drip down from their gaping maws.
Impossibly, I couldn't move any farther away. The
stone circle holds me as fast as the (walls of the boxcar)
bars of a jail cell. Panic grabs me as the creatures
approach, and it only now occurs to me that I am not
the hungry beast in search of sustenance. I am the
cooking meat.
"Yes, my child," says the woman. My heart is a bomb
in my chest and I try to shrink away from the monsters
slinking toward me. "You have always been mine."
The beasts begin growling then, a bass sound that
seems to come from deep beneath the ground. I know
their hunt is over when one of the wolves speaks:
"I'm going to come in, Mr. Shaw."
***
The stainless steel of the toilet seat was cold against my
face. When I tried to lift my head and peel my sticky
face off the rim, my stiff neck cried out, so I gave up
the attempt and laid back down. I was almost
immediately pulled back into sleep, though there was
nothing pleasant about the land of my dreams anymore.
"I'm coming in, sir," said the stewardess.
"No!" I shouted, but all that emerged from my lips was
a choked whisper that the drone of the engines
smothered mercilessly. The woman's keys jangled as
she fumbled with the lock to the cramped bathroom.
"No," I managed. "I'm fine."
"Are you sure?"
"Fine." There was a pause, and beneath the jet's
rumble I thought I heard a hushed exchange. I could
almost see the blonde, perky girl quietly conferring
with one of her coworkers.
"He's been in there for a long time," one of them might
have said.
"And have you seen the way he looks? The way he
*smells*?" the other probably asked. My eyes lolled
open and I winced at the bright light in the bathroom. I
was curled around the commode like a spooning lover.
"Okay, Mr. Shaw. I'll check back in a few minutes."
"Fine," I said. "Fine."
I breathed for a moment, summoning my strength.
How long had I been here? It was sure to have been
more than an hour in this very position. Though I was
alive, it felt like the paralysis of the grave had decided
to make an early appearance in my muscles. The plane
rocked, dropping in the sky slightly, then righting itself.
My stomach folded over, but the scent from the toilet
told me clearly that there was nothing left to lose.
The electronic tone of a bell rang, and a small light
above the toilet advising me to return to my seat
illuminated. I would try to comply. I reached up with
my stiff right arm to flush, then leaned up on the toilet,
getting my bearings. Standing would be quite a chore
on legs fully asleep. I lifted my other hand, placed it on
the edge of the seat and summoned all my strength to
push myself up.
My left hand exploded when I put my weight on it.
White sparks popped before my eyes and I cried out,
jerking my hand back. When I did, my body slumped
forward and I cracked my chin against the toilet seat,
power blessedly flowing into my limbs from the force
of the blow. All the preternatural strength in the world
would not dull the pain in my hand, though. I rolled so
my back was against the wall and clutched my hand to
my chest while tears rose reflexively in my eyes.
Gritting my teeth, I could feel my heart pound through
my shirt.
In London, the boy cut my hand deeply, but that wasn't
the worst insult it received. There was the hook, too.
The hook.
I shook my head, clearing it, chasing off that particular
ghost before it had time to make itself at home. I was
free now, five thousand miles away from Bangkok over
the clear blue Pacific. Scarred, wounded, but free. The
plane undulated in the sky again, and I pushed back
against the wall, sliding to my feet on wobbly legs.
Against my better judgement I pulled my hand away
and looked down at the damage. I hissed at the sight.
The makeshift bandage I cobbled together from
supplies at the Bangkok duty-free had come mostly
undone. Brownish blood and a more insidious fluid
had soaked through the gauze, and the tape that held
the covering in place came loose. The swelling made it
look as though I had somehow attached a large walnut
to the back of my hand. More frightening, thin red
lines were beginning to bloom out from beneath the
edge - infection, warm to the touch. I was in bad shape.
I took a deep breath and took the edge of the dressing
between my thumb and forefinger. Slowly, I began to
peel it away. After only a moment, it met painful
resistance as the wound glued it to my skin. Breathing
in through my nose and out through my mouth, I tried
to calm myself for what I had to do. The cut felt hot
and alive beneath the curdled covering. I looked up to
the ceiling and jerked the bandage away.
A whimper escaped my throat, though not from the
pain. As soon as the dressing tore away I felt warm
fluid drip down my fingers. I didn't want to see, but I
had to. Cursing Buckman for ever telling me about
LeMarchand's Box, I looked down.
A heavily lidded eye, blind and bloodshot, might have
taken residence on my hand. The skin had been sliced
on a diagonal from the bottom knuckle of my pinky to
the soft flesh between thumb and index finger. It had
swollen badly from underneath, and the edges of the
laceration had been pushed apart, revealing the milky
white tissue below. Infection spread from the oozing
wound, crawling up my fingers and nearly back to my
wrist. Tearing away the bandage had aggravated the
cut, and it bled heavily enough that it dripped to
speckle dark crimson on the faux-tile floor. The
aircraft dipped in the sky and I clutched at my stomach.
I would need a hospital when I returned to New York.
And sleep. Good sleep. I reached down to grab a roll
of tissue and began wrapping it around the hole in my
hand, and as I did, I looked into the small mirror above
the sink. My face might have shocked me more than
infected fissure. Was I really the same man who had
walked out of Studio 54 less than five days ago?
Leaning forward, I took careful note of my drawn
features. The circles under my eyes were heavy and
dark, and the eyes themselves were nearly devoid of
white. My shirt was soaked with sweat and stained
with other relics from four days of travel. My skin was
pale, almost bluish, and for the first time in my life I
found colonies of gray in my hair. It was impossible.
Sick or not, I was a young man. Handsome after a
fashion and certainly not enfeebled and old. I
deliberately reached up and plucked out one of the
hairs. Then another, and another, obsessively removing
any trace of this false age.
Good God, had I come to this? Impaired and mad
before my time? I jerked out the hairs by twos and
bunches when I noticed it sitting on the pump above the
toilet. My hand froze in my hair.
"No. No. No," I whispered, denying the reality in the
mirror. But it was reality, cold and real regardless of its
impossibility. Sitting atop the toilet, its golden filigree
playing in the bright flourescent light, was
LeMarchand's Box. I had left it behind, of course. I
had run for all I was worth. Yet here it was.
"No. No. No," I continued reasonably. I did not want
to think about what had really brought me to this place.
No thought of the boxcar would be useful, for such
things were not for the waking mind to ponder. Even in
this world of superhuman mutation and heroes in
masks, there were puzzles best left unopened. The box,
my prize won through arduous journey, sat behind me.
It was ripe for the plucking, a key to untold pleasures
and infinite power if only it could be mastered. All that
remained was to turn around and grab it.
To leave the reflection in the mirror would be to
remember, though. It would mean looking back inside
the open box. It would mean admitting that my
affliction was caught from something more than a
knife-wielding boy in England. It would mean
recalling *them* again.
My gaze at the puzzle box in the mirror was fixed. I
hadn't breathed since I spied it, and my hand was still
grasping a white hair. I let it drop to my side and
allowed my eyes to fall into the sink. A nest of hair
lied waiting only for a bird to make its home. I turned
back to the mirror.
"I am not easily defeated," I said. For I had escaped
from the dragon's layer, had I not? Even as I stood in
this bathroom at thirty-five thousand feet, was I not
proving myself more than equal than the forces allayed
against me? Buckman, the Rook, Constantine - they
had all insisted that I not open the box. I had done so
anyway, and I had managed to walk away. I was the
hero of this tale, and I had already won the day.
I nodded to myself, summoning my courage. Then I
looked to the box, to the devil's own door key, and
smiled. Then I turned around to grab my brass ring . . .
. . . and I was back in the boxcar. I was facing the
Gashes again.
***
"You ache for the purity of suffering. You cry out for
the absolution of pain. You have called us, Shaw," said
the Gash with nails driven into his skull. "We have
come."
The dead eyed creature stared at me with an expression
that hovered on the border between apathy and sublime
contempt. I moved involuntarily backwards, heedless
of the rhythmic clopping of the chopping block behind
me. Though the leader gave no reaction to my
movement, the legless thing took three darting steps
forward on its sinewy arms. Its steel fingernails
squealed as they scraped along the floor.
Raising my hands to defend myself, the grinning thing
was stopped by the obese Gash before it could set upon
me. It stroked the legless thing's head like a pet,
calming it. The rolls of fat from its forearm lolled
down over the other creature.
"Do you see how it backs away?" whispered the female
Gash, her pregnant belly moving slightly. "It trembles
so."
"Yes," responded the leader. "In its blindness it fears
even the enlightenment it seeks. You will not wait
long, Shaw. Soon you will see the light."
I raised my hands with the palms forward, trying to
explain: "I, I," I said. My vocal cords felt paralyzed. It
was as though a stone were lodged in my throat, my
terror tasting of bile.
The woman breathed in deeply through her nose, a
connoisseur at a tasting. Then she smiled and laughed,
a sound more frightening than even her glass-breaking
voice.
"Oh, yes," she said. "I know your kind. I remember
your sweet taste." Then her distended belly moved
with inner life. Something dark peered out into the
world.
"So long," the thing in the woman's torn womb intoned
in an innocent child's voice. Ichor flowed freely from
the Caesarian cut.
"I think there's been a mistake." It came out at last.
Perhaps if I explained about Buckman. If I blamed the
White King . . .
"So long since we have tasted his like," said the thing
in the belly.
"Yes, but we will make it last," the mother said in a
loving voice. She stepped forward, a Mona Lisa smile
playing on her black, chapped mouth. "It is strong. It
will last."
"There has been an error. It's not me you want. I
didn't mean to open the box . . ."
"There has been no error, Shaw," spat the leader. "No
mistake. Only once before in history have we tasted
your kind, and that one's pain was so sweet that it
nurtured even the innocent. Yours will be greater still."
"But. But."
"More delicious by far," said the woman.
"We must play it out for eternity," said the stillborn
child.
"You don't understand," I pleaded. "It wasn't me! I'm
only on an errand!"
"Always excuses, always lies. You will find the truth
within yourself soon enough." The leader held up the
Puzzle Box, and it dissolved. A small diamond was all
that was left in its place. "We will burn it free."
"You will find clarity in our pleasures . . ." breathed the
woman. She licked her necrotic lips.
"You will find illumination in our pain . . ." added the
unborn.
"You will know the truth in your own endless
suffering."
"No. No. I didn't want this. I didn't want . . ."
"All you have done is want, Shaw. Now . . . you shall
have." The leader looked above me to the left and I
heard the jangling of chains for an instant before the
back of my hand was torn skyward. A barbed fishhook
tore a hole into reality, slicing through the ether as it
did the back of my hand. It bored through where the
boy in London had cut me and then pulled taut, jerking
my arm into the air. I screamed both in pain and at the
maddening impossibility of it all.
But I was deep within impossibility now, wasn't I?
"What are you?" I cried.
"We?" asked the woman. The fat creature gently
removed his hand from the legless one, and the grin on
its hungry face spread. It raked its talons across the
floor and began to slowly circle me, clicking its teeth as
it moved.
"We are the shadows at the edge of perception," said
womb-thing.
"We are the guides at the precipice of eternity. We are
the guardians of the divine," said the leader. He
reached up to his breast and slowly extracted one of the
brass sickles. He looked at it for a moment, then turned
back to me. The blade reflected light into his
nightmare face, and the nails driven into his skull
formed a peculiar halo. "What you have dreamt, we
know."
Panic set in when the legless thing began to lightly run
a single fingernail down my bare back, creating a thin
zipper of blood. I screamed as the leader began moving
toward me with the knife extended. All I could think of
was the chopping block. I jerked my arm against the
chain, the pain providing a kind of clarity.
"Your will is strong, Sebastian," giggled the voice from
within the female's birth wound.
"More the delicacy when it lies broken." The
pincushion leader raised the blade and I yanked my arm
with all my strength. The chain snapped, but I didn't
try to fight them. I whirled and ran straight at the wall
of the compartment. All of the fear and pain had
dropped great amounts of strength into my muscles, but
I was beyond calculating.
I charged forward blind with fear. When I hit the wall,
it gave way and I fell to the gravel of the rail yard. The
sun was low in the sky and I ran toward the light
heedless of the stones tearing at my feet. I was sure
that the legless thing was sprinting behind me, that any
second I would be pulled to the ground and devoured.
Instead of the sounds of chase, though, all I heard from
behind me was laughter. It was dark and melodic, the
laughter of a parent with an unduly precocious child.
The Gash with nails in his skull was laughing back in
the boxcar, but he was also laughing in my head.
"Run, Shaw. Run," he said. "You will find what you
seek."
I did run. I ran out of the train yard. I ran past a group
of workers who grinned at the shirtless, panting white
man. I ran all the way to the banks of the Luk Luang
but still I heard the laughter deeper in my skull than the
nails were in his.
Bringing my hands to the side of my head to drown out
my internal noise, I waded into the water. It was a
ritual of the lizard brain, of course, a faint attempt at
purification or baptism. Despite my usual contempt for
such displays, though, I slogged deeper into the muddy
water, dunking my head. Clearing it.
My hand smarted in the cold, so I pulled it from the
water to have a look. The hook was still there, gored
deep into the soft flesh between the bones. Though my
mind was already defensively trying to block the
boxcar, here was tangible evidence. It had to come out.
It was rusty and large, the barb at the end sharp and
mean. The hook hurt even when I took it between my
fingers. When I slowly began to pull it around and out,
the pain was excruciating. The metal almost felt
textured, every moment I pulled was agony. Then the
barb tore into my skin as I tried to bring it through, and
the blood began to flow in earnest. It made a plopping
sound as it fell into the water, more and more steady.
Finally, I began to lose a steady stream.
Two fishermen in an ancient boat floated by in front of
me. The men on board stared at me apathetically,
apparently unmoved by the kabuki mask of pain and
concentration tattooed onto my face. At last, it seemed
that the hook was nearly free. I could see the edge of
the barb clearing the bloody hole in my hand - only
another moment. I shut my eyes and pulled.
At once, the metal grew soft and slick in my grasp. It
slipped from between my fingers. My eyes popped
open and I screamed. What had been a fish hook, sharp
and painful to be sure, but a fixture of the every day,
had become something else again. A thick black worm
squirmed into my hand, boring deeper, deeper.
"No!" I screamed. I fumbled desperately to grab hold
of the larva as it wriggled into my flesh, but its skin
was oily and viscous. Finally, I got the maggot in my
opposite fist and began to pull it free. I felt the thing
come out a fraction of an inch, a moment of triumph.
Then it began to dig in, incredibly tenacious. The oily
monstrosity slid through the inside of my fist like a
lover's tongue. When I felt it slip past, I held my hand
out to see the very end of the worm disappear into the
gaping wound. Even after it was gone, I held my hand
before my face. It trembled as blood flowed into the
water.
I began to cry then, weeping openly for the first time
since I was a child.
"Yes, Shaw. Run. Cover. Hide," said the demon's
bass voice inside my own head. "When the hunt has
finally ended, we will have all of eternity to know your
flesh." And I knew he was right.
***
But he wasn't, was he? I had escaped, and if I had to
go to a doctor back in New York to clear up an
infection, that was all right. Whatever supernatural
forces I had unleashed left me with scars. They *had*
left me, though. Thousands of miles ago. And with a
gift, apparently.
I picked up the Box and turned back to the sink. Being
careful of my hand, I splashed some cold water on my
face. It had been nearly four days since my last
significant sleep, close to the point of hallucinations. I
didn't have far to go, though.
"Miles to go before we sleep," I said to my pallid
reflection.
From the river, it hadn't been hard to take a shirt from a
passing fisherman. It was ill-fitting over my large
frame, but covered me well enough. At the airport I
explained that I had been mugged and made a great
deal of noise about international incidents. The airline
made a few perfunctory calls and after confirming my
identity, all was well. They gave me a pilot's jacket
without the little eagle for my lapel.
Pushing my hair from my face with wet fingertips, I
made myself look as presentable as possible. I wrapped
my hand in paper towels and shoved it into the pocket.
Then I picked up the Box and stared at it for a moment.
"Fuck it," I said. I would figure out a way to deal with
Buckman. I tossed the accursed thing into the waste
basket, then threw a bunch of towels on top of it. Let it
molder in the Staten Island landfill.
When I opened the door, I discovered the stewardess
close enough that she had to be eavesdropping. I gave
her my most charming smile, a look that often gave
women pause between their legs, but she averted her
eyes.
"I hope you're feeling better, Mr. Shaw," she said, and
she scurried away. Though it might not have looked it,
I was. I watched the girl move away down the aisle, at
the way she moved under her clothes. If I weren't in
such pain, if I were not delusional with sleeplessness, I
might have cleaned myself up a bit more and made a
play. Regardless, it was good to be feeling like myself.
***
Customs was impossible, of course. The officer took
one look at me and decided to pull me from the line. I
suspect that the other travelers could not have been
more pleased. They placed me in a small room whose
greenish light did nothing to improve my complexion.
They made me undress, an insult that would have
demanded a small army of lawyers at any other time.
Now, though, I wanted to make no calls that would
alert the attention of the White King. I would deal with
him soon enough. I would handle him when my mind
was sharp again.
They asked questions. Questions and questions and
questions.
"I have nothing to declare," I said.
"Business," I said.
"I am not carrying drugs; three days; 217 Park Avenue;
I'm in construction; I am not carrying firearms; I am
not now nor have I ever been a member of the
communist party," though they did not get the joke.
"I'm infected by a bot fly," I lied when they asked
about my hand. The agents eyed each other and I
realized that I should have said something earlier. The
very word has a talismanic power: "infect."
Particularly something not on the quarantine list.
While they did not fork the sign of the evil eye at me,
they did the next best thing. Twenty minutes later I
was walking across JFK
All that remained was to call my driver and head for
home. I moved across the brightly lit concourse at a
speed barely beyond crawling. Wearing a captain's
uniform was a cause for private amusement. The
sidelong glances of passengers heading toward
international were laden with concern and trepidation.
My pale countenance and sallow appearance worried
them endlessly. How much money did the airlines lose
that day from people canceling their flights due to my
unsteady gait?
The room grew momentarily unsteady so I shifted over
to the side to lean on a wall. Customers wandered in
and out of a newsstand up ahead. They had not a care
in the world. I shook my head and moved on, "to bed,
to sleep, perchance to dream." Though everything was
already dreamlike.
When I finally passed into the chaos of the central
terminal, any attention on me evaporated. It was a city
within a city at this time of the early evening, and
everyone appeared to be late for their appointed place.
I looked around for a moment before I saw a long
phone bank along the wall.
With the speed of a 97-year-old man I approached an
open phone and was cut off by a spiky-haired punk
rocker. Any other time, I would have hung up for him
and sent the boy on his way. Now I was too tired. I
moved up to the end of the line and found an opening.
I stepped forward and sat down on the small, stainless
steel bench Ma Bell obligingly provided. Once, when I
was very young, my dad and I had gone to the
Greyhound station in downtown Philly. We were
picking somebody up - my grandmother I think - and
were walking with a sense of excitement. On the way
inside we walked by a phone kiosk with a bench very
like this one.
An obviously homeless man was curled up on the child-
sized seat, sound asleep. My father shook his head at
the hobo (for all homeless people were hobos to me
then), and I expected him to tell me for the thousandth
time that only hard work and dedication stood between
a man and the street. Instead, he winked at me and
pulled out his wallet.
He pulled out a five-dollar-bill, a 1960 five, and tucked
it into the man's open hand. Then he patted me on the
head and walked on. On the way out, I was toting a bag
nearly as big as myself. Father and the person we had
come to pick up were walking up ahead, and when we
passed the unconscious man in the nook, I paused.
I stepped close to the hobo and caught a deep smell of
the hooch on his breath. Hooch. He would not be
awakening any time soon. For a moment I only stood
there, my blood boiling that my father had given the
man money simply for lying asleep while I had to haul
trash and carry bricks for my pittance. Then I put down
the bag and reached forward.
"Where'd you disappear to, hoss?" asked my father
when I caught up to him in the parking lot.
"Nowhere," I answered. "Just dropped the suitcase."
Shaking the vision off, I dug through the pockets of my
navy blue outfit until I found a dime. I popped it into
the coin slot and reached forward to pick up the
receiver. Thoughts of a real sleep were so heavy that
when the phone rang my first thought was that the
alarm beside my bed was already going off.
It rang again, my hand paused above the cradle. Pick it
up. It was obviously only a wrong number - there was
nobody standing by the phone expectantly waiting for a
call. Just pick it up.
By the fifth ring, my mind was made up. I moved my
hand from the phone to the coin return, toggled it and
retrieved my dime. I slowly stood up, found the next
open phone and sat back down. The phone was still
ringing where I had been sitting - take the hint, you
damn fool. No one's home. I reached to drop in the
dime when the phone before me rang.
Butterflies swarmed in my empty stomach and I stood
bolt. I backed away, moving down the line of phones.
Another began to ring as I passed it, then another. I
turned and began to walk quickly away. When I passed
the punk, his phone blared out despite the fact that he
was on it. When a banker in a Brooks Brothers' suit
suffered the same noisy calamity, I began to run. I ran
until I was outside in the cold.
Though I could see my breath as leaned forward, my
elbows on my knees outside the massive double doors,
I still felt hot. I was burning up.
"Excuse me, sir." I looked up at a red jacketed man
pushing an enormous luggage cart. He stared at me
impatiently. "Wanna move, buddy?"
My mouth worked for an answer but nothing came. I
walked away from him, away from the crowd, from the
cabs, from everything.
Between the terminals, neither entrance nor exit, there
was a single payphone. Most of the full kiosks in New
York had been replaced - they even joked about it in
the "Superman" movie. One wondered where the real
life spandex heroes changed their gear. As I knew it
would from the moment I saw it, the phone began to
ring as I approached. Despite the lump in my throat, I
walked forward.
I stepped into the dark compartment and closed the
folding door behind me. There was a buzzing pause
before the light flickered on. The phone rang. I
answered. Simple as that.
"Don't let me go," said a forgotten voice.
"Dad?"
"Hold on, Hiram. I've almost got it," he said. His
breathing was strained.
"I got you, dad," I said.
"Don't let go, boy."
"I won't," I said. "I got you, daddy. I've got you now."
My hand was shaking as I touched it to my closed
mouth. How could someone have heard that
conversation - we were the only ones on the roof. We
were alone.
"I got you, daddy. I've got you now."
I let the phone go. It hung on the end of its cord,
swinging too and fro like a fisherman's prize. Whirling
maniacally, I tried to open the door and it wouldn't
give. It was jammed. I shook it, tore at it, but it would
not budge.
"I've got you now."
A thin sound was escaping my throat. I bashed my
elbow into the plexiglass, cracking it. Spinning around,
I cracked my injured hand against the iron phone itself
and pain shot up my arm. I cried out, attacking the
inside of the booth in a paroxysm of rage.
"I've got you now."
I tore the phone from its cord, silencing the voice.
Silencing my voice. I ripped the box half-way off its
moorings, kicked out the lower pane of plastic, tore the
yellow pages from their plastic protection. With each
action my exhaustion grew, as did my strength. I was
blinded by anger, so sightless that it was moments
before I realized that I had destroyed the light in the
vestibule. Before I realized that I could see the
concourse drive. Cabs were speeding by. Back at the
entrance to international, a limo had pulled up.
A familiar driver opened the door, and the Rook
emerged. I stopped my assault on the phone company,
my self-loathing quelled by fear. For a moment I
actually held my breath.
Fifty yards away, the Rook walked to the terminal's
sliding doors. Just as I began to wonder how he could
possibly have discovered that I was returning on a flight
I never booked, he stopped. He stood in the entryway
for a time, the crowd parting around him as if he were a
natural obstacle. Then he slowly turned his head and
met my frightened eyes.
He began walking toward the kiosk. I wrenched at the
door as he came for me. Pulling. I pulled with all my
might and the door came free of its hinges. I lunged
out and the incensed kiosk decided it would pay me
back for the damage I caused. The broken skeleton of
the enclosure snagged my ankle, sending me sprawling.
The Rook continued toward me, his pace unhurried.
When he passed under a light, I could see that his eyes
were totally black. I leapt to my feet and took only a
step before I realized that my foot was badly hurt. I
looked over my shoulder to find the Rook had a smile
on his mouth - I knew this was no call to collect an
item. If he caught me, he would kill me. The limo
paced him in the parking lane. There was only a
chance.
I ran into the street as fast as my broken body would
carry me. A Holiday Inn shuttle slammed on its breaks
and jumped the curb to avoid me, and two cabs
squealed into other lanes. I barely avoided a red
passenger van careening by close enough that I
understood the driver's curses. A yellow taxi hit its
breaks too late and I thought the end would come.
He tapped my thighs with his bumper. The driver and I
looked at each other in thankful disbelief. I looked to
the curb and saw the Rook was continuing on his
unhurried way. He stepped off the sidewalk with none
of the hubbub that accompanied my perilous endeavor.
The cars speeding past simply weren't anywhere near
him.
Keeping my hands on the cab to still the man inside, I
hobbled around the side of the car. Just as I put my
hand on the handle of the back door, the driver dropped
the lock. The Rook was only a lane away, a distorted
smile stretching his face. My oily hair blew in the
wake left by a passing bus, and I caught the eye of the
frightened cabbie.
"Please," I mouthed. He blinked in the mirror, then
looked forward. The lock popped and I dove into the
back seat. I looked up to find that the Rook was at the
window. He tilted his head at me, heedless of the
honking vehicles speeding by. Then the monster
smiled.
"Drive!" I screamed when the small man reached for
the door handle. Miracle of miracles, the driver did
just that. When I looked out the rear window, the Rook
stood in the middle of the lane we were speeding away
in. Cars simply changed lanes to avoid him.
"Where to, crazy mister," asked the cabby. I turned to
the front to find that he might also have come from
Bangkok.
"I wish I knew."
_______________________________________________________
To be concluded ...
Many apologies, dear readers, for the horrendous time
between chapters. This began as a three-part quickie, but
our globetrotting antihero just wouldn't have a short trip.
Trust that the end of the tunnel will be reached in the next
episode. Provided that world events do not again distract me
from the writing of fanfiction, the heartwarming conclusion
will arrive just in time for Christmas. Thanks for hanging in.
Remember: Xander digs feedback.
Read more nonsense at livejournal.com/~xanderdg
Films control the rights to many of the characters
herein - no challenge to existing copyrights is intended.
This story was not written for children; it contains adult
language, disturbing images and mature themes. The
previous chapters are collected at the Fonts of Wisdom
(home.att.net/~lubakmetyk), at the Itty Bitty Archives
(ontheroad.hispeed.com), and at fanfiction.net.
_____________________________________________
H E L L R A I S E R : H E L L F I R E
by
XanderDig
_____________________________________________
4
A base drum attacked the back of my skull with three
staccato blasts. I knew it wanted to pull me from
safety, that the assault was close to being effective. A
soft whimper grew in the back of my throat and I curled
my toes in my attempt to bite consciousness back.
Mossy earth bunched beneath my feet rather than the
uncomfortable heat inside my loafers, and the result
was calming. I knew where I was. I knew where I was.
"Mr. Shaw?" asked the majorette responsible for the
cacophony. She blared her drum again, but this time I
was on the move. I didn't want to hear the insistent
woman's mousy voice, so I ran desperately away from
it. It was peaceful and dark where I was, and the voice
was only a receding echo. The chemical stench from
the blue fluid in the toilet was virtually undetectable
here. Free of the cell, free of the prison, I was away
and the girl could bang all she wanted.
The wood is lit by gentle moonlight, a soft breeze
causing the thin mist to swirl. I breathe in deeply,
smiling, power coursing through my veins. The scent
of grass, of pine and jasmine overwhelm me. So does
the smell of meat.
I look around in the darkness, turning a full circle
before I take note of the faint orange glow coming from
deeper in the forest. With the exception of the noodles
back in (the real world) Bangkok, I haven't eaten a real
meal in days. The food smell on the breeze sets my
teeth on edge, an uncontrolled wave of predatory
hunger cinching in my stomach. The saliva comes so
quickly that I have to reach up and wipe my forearm
across my wet mouth. Then I laugh, loud and long.
Why go through the motions of being anything other
than an animal here? This is my forest, after all.
I'm God here.
"Mr. Shaw? Are you all right?" whines the majorette,
banging her drum. Then, in another, throatier voice:
"you're mine, Sebastian." I nearly turn around to see
who is speaking, but the nonsense is taken away by the
breeze before it can weigh too heavily. I run away
towards the orange glow, the fire, the cooking. Tonight
I will feast.
The path through the dark is muddy and warm beneath
me. It runs parallel to the edge of a reflective lake, and
it is only when I glance down into it that I realize I am
nude. I stare at my body for a moment, marveling at its
perfection. If Leonardo only had me to model, he
might have gotten man right. I'm not man at all
though, am I? I'm better than man, newer, superior in
every way. I am (more delicious by far, we must string
it out for eternity) . . .
The ghost of a memory shocks me away from my
reflection. It's only hunger. The solution to that little
problem only lies on the other side of the next rise. I
run from the water, my reflection left to ponder my
back. I bound over the perfectly green hill, drool
flowing freely now, the cooking meat maddening.
When I finally come to the roaring fire I stop short of
the stone circle, a bonfire roaring in the center.
There are steps that cannot be taken back. I am no fool.
I know this. As I stare down at the perfectly white
stones, so pale that they almost seem to be cut out of
the fabric of reality itself, I'm aware that there is
something final about stepping into the circle. Even as
I debate, though, my hunger urges me forward. The
*need* to gorge myself on the flesh perfuming the
night is overpowering. I wipe my mouth again and step
into the circle.
Only when I've crossed over do I notice the woman.
She stands across the fire, looking at me with
something like a smile. Bathing in the orange-red glow
of the flames, her naked skin seems alive. I feel myself
growing as I stare at her. Her hair is impossibly long
and black, and for a moment it seems that she is a
photo negative of Botticelli's Venus, dark and hungry
where the other is a creature of the light. The woman's
smile widens. Her incisors are long and sharp.
Something mews and whines plaintively, and the
woman smiles more broadly. She leans down, and
when she stands she holds a small, gray beast in her
arms. Shifting in the fire light, she cocks her head at
me in a look that would be seductive in any other
circumstance. Now it means something altogether
different.
"You remember, don't you darling?" she asks. Then
she raises the mewling wolf cub to her bosom. The
golden-eyed creature suckles voraciously. "Bad from
the breast. It's in the blood of all my children."
I step backward when I hear the lower noise, heavy
steps on the brittle earth. The woman looks at me sadly
as she nurses her infant. Enormous wolves walk slowly
around either side of the bonfire, light reflecting off
their teeth. Gore covers their glistening snouts, and
rivers of saliva drip down from their gaping maws.
Impossibly, I couldn't move any farther away. The
stone circle holds me as fast as the (walls of the boxcar)
bars of a jail cell. Panic grabs me as the creatures
approach, and it only now occurs to me that I am not
the hungry beast in search of sustenance. I am the
cooking meat.
"Yes, my child," says the woman. My heart is a bomb
in my chest and I try to shrink away from the monsters
slinking toward me. "You have always been mine."
The beasts begin growling then, a bass sound that
seems to come from deep beneath the ground. I know
their hunt is over when one of the wolves speaks:
"I'm going to come in, Mr. Shaw."
***
The stainless steel of the toilet seat was cold against my
face. When I tried to lift my head and peel my sticky
face off the rim, my stiff neck cried out, so I gave up
the attempt and laid back down. I was almost
immediately pulled back into sleep, though there was
nothing pleasant about the land of my dreams anymore.
"I'm coming in, sir," said the stewardess.
"No!" I shouted, but all that emerged from my lips was
a choked whisper that the drone of the engines
smothered mercilessly. The woman's keys jangled as
she fumbled with the lock to the cramped bathroom.
"No," I managed. "I'm fine."
"Are you sure?"
"Fine." There was a pause, and beneath the jet's
rumble I thought I heard a hushed exchange. I could
almost see the blonde, perky girl quietly conferring
with one of her coworkers.
"He's been in there for a long time," one of them might
have said.
"And have you seen the way he looks? The way he
*smells*?" the other probably asked. My eyes lolled
open and I winced at the bright light in the bathroom. I
was curled around the commode like a spooning lover.
"Okay, Mr. Shaw. I'll check back in a few minutes."
"Fine," I said. "Fine."
I breathed for a moment, summoning my strength.
How long had I been here? It was sure to have been
more than an hour in this very position. Though I was
alive, it felt like the paralysis of the grave had decided
to make an early appearance in my muscles. The plane
rocked, dropping in the sky slightly, then righting itself.
My stomach folded over, but the scent from the toilet
told me clearly that there was nothing left to lose.
The electronic tone of a bell rang, and a small light
above the toilet advising me to return to my seat
illuminated. I would try to comply. I reached up with
my stiff right arm to flush, then leaned up on the toilet,
getting my bearings. Standing would be quite a chore
on legs fully asleep. I lifted my other hand, placed it on
the edge of the seat and summoned all my strength to
push myself up.
My left hand exploded when I put my weight on it.
White sparks popped before my eyes and I cried out,
jerking my hand back. When I did, my body slumped
forward and I cracked my chin against the toilet seat,
power blessedly flowing into my limbs from the force
of the blow. All the preternatural strength in the world
would not dull the pain in my hand, though. I rolled so
my back was against the wall and clutched my hand to
my chest while tears rose reflexively in my eyes.
Gritting my teeth, I could feel my heart pound through
my shirt.
In London, the boy cut my hand deeply, but that wasn't
the worst insult it received. There was the hook, too.
The hook.
I shook my head, clearing it, chasing off that particular
ghost before it had time to make itself at home. I was
free now, five thousand miles away from Bangkok over
the clear blue Pacific. Scarred, wounded, but free. The
plane undulated in the sky again, and I pushed back
against the wall, sliding to my feet on wobbly legs.
Against my better judgement I pulled my hand away
and looked down at the damage. I hissed at the sight.
The makeshift bandage I cobbled together from
supplies at the Bangkok duty-free had come mostly
undone. Brownish blood and a more insidious fluid
had soaked through the gauze, and the tape that held
the covering in place came loose. The swelling made it
look as though I had somehow attached a large walnut
to the back of my hand. More frightening, thin red
lines were beginning to bloom out from beneath the
edge - infection, warm to the touch. I was in bad shape.
I took a deep breath and took the edge of the dressing
between my thumb and forefinger. Slowly, I began to
peel it away. After only a moment, it met painful
resistance as the wound glued it to my skin. Breathing
in through my nose and out through my mouth, I tried
to calm myself for what I had to do. The cut felt hot
and alive beneath the curdled covering. I looked up to
the ceiling and jerked the bandage away.
A whimper escaped my throat, though not from the
pain. As soon as the dressing tore away I felt warm
fluid drip down my fingers. I didn't want to see, but I
had to. Cursing Buckman for ever telling me about
LeMarchand's Box, I looked down.
A heavily lidded eye, blind and bloodshot, might have
taken residence on my hand. The skin had been sliced
on a diagonal from the bottom knuckle of my pinky to
the soft flesh between thumb and index finger. It had
swollen badly from underneath, and the edges of the
laceration had been pushed apart, revealing the milky
white tissue below. Infection spread from the oozing
wound, crawling up my fingers and nearly back to my
wrist. Tearing away the bandage had aggravated the
cut, and it bled heavily enough that it dripped to
speckle dark crimson on the faux-tile floor. The
aircraft dipped in the sky and I clutched at my stomach.
I would need a hospital when I returned to New York.
And sleep. Good sleep. I reached down to grab a roll
of tissue and began wrapping it around the hole in my
hand, and as I did, I looked into the small mirror above
the sink. My face might have shocked me more than
infected fissure. Was I really the same man who had
walked out of Studio 54 less than five days ago?
Leaning forward, I took careful note of my drawn
features. The circles under my eyes were heavy and
dark, and the eyes themselves were nearly devoid of
white. My shirt was soaked with sweat and stained
with other relics from four days of travel. My skin was
pale, almost bluish, and for the first time in my life I
found colonies of gray in my hair. It was impossible.
Sick or not, I was a young man. Handsome after a
fashion and certainly not enfeebled and old. I
deliberately reached up and plucked out one of the
hairs. Then another, and another, obsessively removing
any trace of this false age.
Good God, had I come to this? Impaired and mad
before my time? I jerked out the hairs by twos and
bunches when I noticed it sitting on the pump above the
toilet. My hand froze in my hair.
"No. No. No," I whispered, denying the reality in the
mirror. But it was reality, cold and real regardless of its
impossibility. Sitting atop the toilet, its golden filigree
playing in the bright flourescent light, was
LeMarchand's Box. I had left it behind, of course. I
had run for all I was worth. Yet here it was.
"No. No. No," I continued reasonably. I did not want
to think about what had really brought me to this place.
No thought of the boxcar would be useful, for such
things were not for the waking mind to ponder. Even in
this world of superhuman mutation and heroes in
masks, there were puzzles best left unopened. The box,
my prize won through arduous journey, sat behind me.
It was ripe for the plucking, a key to untold pleasures
and infinite power if only it could be mastered. All that
remained was to turn around and grab it.
To leave the reflection in the mirror would be to
remember, though. It would mean looking back inside
the open box. It would mean admitting that my
affliction was caught from something more than a
knife-wielding boy in England. It would mean
recalling *them* again.
My gaze at the puzzle box in the mirror was fixed. I
hadn't breathed since I spied it, and my hand was still
grasping a white hair. I let it drop to my side and
allowed my eyes to fall into the sink. A nest of hair
lied waiting only for a bird to make its home. I turned
back to the mirror.
"I am not easily defeated," I said. For I had escaped
from the dragon's layer, had I not? Even as I stood in
this bathroom at thirty-five thousand feet, was I not
proving myself more than equal than the forces allayed
against me? Buckman, the Rook, Constantine - they
had all insisted that I not open the box. I had done so
anyway, and I had managed to walk away. I was the
hero of this tale, and I had already won the day.
I nodded to myself, summoning my courage. Then I
looked to the box, to the devil's own door key, and
smiled. Then I turned around to grab my brass ring . . .
. . . and I was back in the boxcar. I was facing the
Gashes again.
***
"You ache for the purity of suffering. You cry out for
the absolution of pain. You have called us, Shaw," said
the Gash with nails driven into his skull. "We have
come."
The dead eyed creature stared at me with an expression
that hovered on the border between apathy and sublime
contempt. I moved involuntarily backwards, heedless
of the rhythmic clopping of the chopping block behind
me. Though the leader gave no reaction to my
movement, the legless thing took three darting steps
forward on its sinewy arms. Its steel fingernails
squealed as they scraped along the floor.
Raising my hands to defend myself, the grinning thing
was stopped by the obese Gash before it could set upon
me. It stroked the legless thing's head like a pet,
calming it. The rolls of fat from its forearm lolled
down over the other creature.
"Do you see how it backs away?" whispered the female
Gash, her pregnant belly moving slightly. "It trembles
so."
"Yes," responded the leader. "In its blindness it fears
even the enlightenment it seeks. You will not wait
long, Shaw. Soon you will see the light."
I raised my hands with the palms forward, trying to
explain: "I, I," I said. My vocal cords felt paralyzed. It
was as though a stone were lodged in my throat, my
terror tasting of bile.
The woman breathed in deeply through her nose, a
connoisseur at a tasting. Then she smiled and laughed,
a sound more frightening than even her glass-breaking
voice.
"Oh, yes," she said. "I know your kind. I remember
your sweet taste." Then her distended belly moved
with inner life. Something dark peered out into the
world.
"So long," the thing in the woman's torn womb intoned
in an innocent child's voice. Ichor flowed freely from
the Caesarian cut.
"I think there's been a mistake." It came out at last.
Perhaps if I explained about Buckman. If I blamed the
White King . . .
"So long since we have tasted his like," said the thing
in the belly.
"Yes, but we will make it last," the mother said in a
loving voice. She stepped forward, a Mona Lisa smile
playing on her black, chapped mouth. "It is strong. It
will last."
"There has been an error. It's not me you want. I
didn't mean to open the box . . ."
"There has been no error, Shaw," spat the leader. "No
mistake. Only once before in history have we tasted
your kind, and that one's pain was so sweet that it
nurtured even the innocent. Yours will be greater still."
"But. But."
"More delicious by far," said the woman.
"We must play it out for eternity," said the stillborn
child.
"You don't understand," I pleaded. "It wasn't me! I'm
only on an errand!"
"Always excuses, always lies. You will find the truth
within yourself soon enough." The leader held up the
Puzzle Box, and it dissolved. A small diamond was all
that was left in its place. "We will burn it free."
"You will find clarity in our pleasures . . ." breathed the
woman. She licked her necrotic lips.
"You will find illumination in our pain . . ." added the
unborn.
"You will know the truth in your own endless
suffering."
"No. No. I didn't want this. I didn't want . . ."
"All you have done is want, Shaw. Now . . . you shall
have." The leader looked above me to the left and I
heard the jangling of chains for an instant before the
back of my hand was torn skyward. A barbed fishhook
tore a hole into reality, slicing through the ether as it
did the back of my hand. It bored through where the
boy in London had cut me and then pulled taut, jerking
my arm into the air. I screamed both in pain and at the
maddening impossibility of it all.
But I was deep within impossibility now, wasn't I?
"What are you?" I cried.
"We?" asked the woman. The fat creature gently
removed his hand from the legless one, and the grin on
its hungry face spread. It raked its talons across the
floor and began to slowly circle me, clicking its teeth as
it moved.
"We are the shadows at the edge of perception," said
womb-thing.
"We are the guides at the precipice of eternity. We are
the guardians of the divine," said the leader. He
reached up to his breast and slowly extracted one of the
brass sickles. He looked at it for a moment, then turned
back to me. The blade reflected light into his
nightmare face, and the nails driven into his skull
formed a peculiar halo. "What you have dreamt, we
know."
Panic set in when the legless thing began to lightly run
a single fingernail down my bare back, creating a thin
zipper of blood. I screamed as the leader began moving
toward me with the knife extended. All I could think of
was the chopping block. I jerked my arm against the
chain, the pain providing a kind of clarity.
"Your will is strong, Sebastian," giggled the voice from
within the female's birth wound.
"More the delicacy when it lies broken." The
pincushion leader raised the blade and I yanked my arm
with all my strength. The chain snapped, but I didn't
try to fight them. I whirled and ran straight at the wall
of the compartment. All of the fear and pain had
dropped great amounts of strength into my muscles, but
I was beyond calculating.
I charged forward blind with fear. When I hit the wall,
it gave way and I fell to the gravel of the rail yard. The
sun was low in the sky and I ran toward the light
heedless of the stones tearing at my feet. I was sure
that the legless thing was sprinting behind me, that any
second I would be pulled to the ground and devoured.
Instead of the sounds of chase, though, all I heard from
behind me was laughter. It was dark and melodic, the
laughter of a parent with an unduly precocious child.
The Gash with nails in his skull was laughing back in
the boxcar, but he was also laughing in my head.
"Run, Shaw. Run," he said. "You will find what you
seek."
I did run. I ran out of the train yard. I ran past a group
of workers who grinned at the shirtless, panting white
man. I ran all the way to the banks of the Luk Luang
but still I heard the laughter deeper in my skull than the
nails were in his.
Bringing my hands to the side of my head to drown out
my internal noise, I waded into the water. It was a
ritual of the lizard brain, of course, a faint attempt at
purification or baptism. Despite my usual contempt for
such displays, though, I slogged deeper into the muddy
water, dunking my head. Clearing it.
My hand smarted in the cold, so I pulled it from the
water to have a look. The hook was still there, gored
deep into the soft flesh between the bones. Though my
mind was already defensively trying to block the
boxcar, here was tangible evidence. It had to come out.
It was rusty and large, the barb at the end sharp and
mean. The hook hurt even when I took it between my
fingers. When I slowly began to pull it around and out,
the pain was excruciating. The metal almost felt
textured, every moment I pulled was agony. Then the
barb tore into my skin as I tried to bring it through, and
the blood began to flow in earnest. It made a plopping
sound as it fell into the water, more and more steady.
Finally, I began to lose a steady stream.
Two fishermen in an ancient boat floated by in front of
me. The men on board stared at me apathetically,
apparently unmoved by the kabuki mask of pain and
concentration tattooed onto my face. At last, it seemed
that the hook was nearly free. I could see the edge of
the barb clearing the bloody hole in my hand - only
another moment. I shut my eyes and pulled.
At once, the metal grew soft and slick in my grasp. It
slipped from between my fingers. My eyes popped
open and I screamed. What had been a fish hook, sharp
and painful to be sure, but a fixture of the every day,
had become something else again. A thick black worm
squirmed into my hand, boring deeper, deeper.
"No!" I screamed. I fumbled desperately to grab hold
of the larva as it wriggled into my flesh, but its skin
was oily and viscous. Finally, I got the maggot in my
opposite fist and began to pull it free. I felt the thing
come out a fraction of an inch, a moment of triumph.
Then it began to dig in, incredibly tenacious. The oily
monstrosity slid through the inside of my fist like a
lover's tongue. When I felt it slip past, I held my hand
out to see the very end of the worm disappear into the
gaping wound. Even after it was gone, I held my hand
before my face. It trembled as blood flowed into the
water.
I began to cry then, weeping openly for the first time
since I was a child.
"Yes, Shaw. Run. Cover. Hide," said the demon's
bass voice inside my own head. "When the hunt has
finally ended, we will have all of eternity to know your
flesh." And I knew he was right.
***
But he wasn't, was he? I had escaped, and if I had to
go to a doctor back in New York to clear up an
infection, that was all right. Whatever supernatural
forces I had unleashed left me with scars. They *had*
left me, though. Thousands of miles ago. And with a
gift, apparently.
I picked up the Box and turned back to the sink. Being
careful of my hand, I splashed some cold water on my
face. It had been nearly four days since my last
significant sleep, close to the point of hallucinations. I
didn't have far to go, though.
"Miles to go before we sleep," I said to my pallid
reflection.
From the river, it hadn't been hard to take a shirt from a
passing fisherman. It was ill-fitting over my large
frame, but covered me well enough. At the airport I
explained that I had been mugged and made a great
deal of noise about international incidents. The airline
made a few perfunctory calls and after confirming my
identity, all was well. They gave me a pilot's jacket
without the little eagle for my lapel.
Pushing my hair from my face with wet fingertips, I
made myself look as presentable as possible. I wrapped
my hand in paper towels and shoved it into the pocket.
Then I picked up the Box and stared at it for a moment.
"Fuck it," I said. I would figure out a way to deal with
Buckman. I tossed the accursed thing into the waste
basket, then threw a bunch of towels on top of it. Let it
molder in the Staten Island landfill.
When I opened the door, I discovered the stewardess
close enough that she had to be eavesdropping. I gave
her my most charming smile, a look that often gave
women pause between their legs, but she averted her
eyes.
"I hope you're feeling better, Mr. Shaw," she said, and
she scurried away. Though it might not have looked it,
I was. I watched the girl move away down the aisle, at
the way she moved under her clothes. If I weren't in
such pain, if I were not delusional with sleeplessness, I
might have cleaned myself up a bit more and made a
play. Regardless, it was good to be feeling like myself.
***
Customs was impossible, of course. The officer took
one look at me and decided to pull me from the line. I
suspect that the other travelers could not have been
more pleased. They placed me in a small room whose
greenish light did nothing to improve my complexion.
They made me undress, an insult that would have
demanded a small army of lawyers at any other time.
Now, though, I wanted to make no calls that would
alert the attention of the White King. I would deal with
him soon enough. I would handle him when my mind
was sharp again.
They asked questions. Questions and questions and
questions.
"I have nothing to declare," I said.
"Business," I said.
"I am not carrying drugs; three days; 217 Park Avenue;
I'm in construction; I am not carrying firearms; I am
not now nor have I ever been a member of the
communist party," though they did not get the joke.
"I'm infected by a bot fly," I lied when they asked
about my hand. The agents eyed each other and I
realized that I should have said something earlier. The
very word has a talismanic power: "infect."
Particularly something not on the quarantine list.
While they did not fork the sign of the evil eye at me,
they did the next best thing. Twenty minutes later I
was walking across JFK
All that remained was to call my driver and head for
home. I moved across the brightly lit concourse at a
speed barely beyond crawling. Wearing a captain's
uniform was a cause for private amusement. The
sidelong glances of passengers heading toward
international were laden with concern and trepidation.
My pale countenance and sallow appearance worried
them endlessly. How much money did the airlines lose
that day from people canceling their flights due to my
unsteady gait?
The room grew momentarily unsteady so I shifted over
to the side to lean on a wall. Customers wandered in
and out of a newsstand up ahead. They had not a care
in the world. I shook my head and moved on, "to bed,
to sleep, perchance to dream." Though everything was
already dreamlike.
When I finally passed into the chaos of the central
terminal, any attention on me evaporated. It was a city
within a city at this time of the early evening, and
everyone appeared to be late for their appointed place.
I looked around for a moment before I saw a long
phone bank along the wall.
With the speed of a 97-year-old man I approached an
open phone and was cut off by a spiky-haired punk
rocker. Any other time, I would have hung up for him
and sent the boy on his way. Now I was too tired. I
moved up to the end of the line and found an opening.
I stepped forward and sat down on the small, stainless
steel bench Ma Bell obligingly provided. Once, when I
was very young, my dad and I had gone to the
Greyhound station in downtown Philly. We were
picking somebody up - my grandmother I think - and
were walking with a sense of excitement. On the way
inside we walked by a phone kiosk with a bench very
like this one.
An obviously homeless man was curled up on the child-
sized seat, sound asleep. My father shook his head at
the hobo (for all homeless people were hobos to me
then), and I expected him to tell me for the thousandth
time that only hard work and dedication stood between
a man and the street. Instead, he winked at me and
pulled out his wallet.
He pulled out a five-dollar-bill, a 1960 five, and tucked
it into the man's open hand. Then he patted me on the
head and walked on. On the way out, I was toting a bag
nearly as big as myself. Father and the person we had
come to pick up were walking up ahead, and when we
passed the unconscious man in the nook, I paused.
I stepped close to the hobo and caught a deep smell of
the hooch on his breath. Hooch. He would not be
awakening any time soon. For a moment I only stood
there, my blood boiling that my father had given the
man money simply for lying asleep while I had to haul
trash and carry bricks for my pittance. Then I put down
the bag and reached forward.
"Where'd you disappear to, hoss?" asked my father
when I caught up to him in the parking lot.
"Nowhere," I answered. "Just dropped the suitcase."
Shaking the vision off, I dug through the pockets of my
navy blue outfit until I found a dime. I popped it into
the coin slot and reached forward to pick up the
receiver. Thoughts of a real sleep were so heavy that
when the phone rang my first thought was that the
alarm beside my bed was already going off.
It rang again, my hand paused above the cradle. Pick it
up. It was obviously only a wrong number - there was
nobody standing by the phone expectantly waiting for a
call. Just pick it up.
By the fifth ring, my mind was made up. I moved my
hand from the phone to the coin return, toggled it and
retrieved my dime. I slowly stood up, found the next
open phone and sat back down. The phone was still
ringing where I had been sitting - take the hint, you
damn fool. No one's home. I reached to drop in the
dime when the phone before me rang.
Butterflies swarmed in my empty stomach and I stood
bolt. I backed away, moving down the line of phones.
Another began to ring as I passed it, then another. I
turned and began to walk quickly away. When I passed
the punk, his phone blared out despite the fact that he
was on it. When a banker in a Brooks Brothers' suit
suffered the same noisy calamity, I began to run. I ran
until I was outside in the cold.
Though I could see my breath as leaned forward, my
elbows on my knees outside the massive double doors,
I still felt hot. I was burning up.
"Excuse me, sir." I looked up at a red jacketed man
pushing an enormous luggage cart. He stared at me
impatiently. "Wanna move, buddy?"
My mouth worked for an answer but nothing came. I
walked away from him, away from the crowd, from the
cabs, from everything.
Between the terminals, neither entrance nor exit, there
was a single payphone. Most of the full kiosks in New
York had been replaced - they even joked about it in
the "Superman" movie. One wondered where the real
life spandex heroes changed their gear. As I knew it
would from the moment I saw it, the phone began to
ring as I approached. Despite the lump in my throat, I
walked forward.
I stepped into the dark compartment and closed the
folding door behind me. There was a buzzing pause
before the light flickered on. The phone rang. I
answered. Simple as that.
"Don't let me go," said a forgotten voice.
"Dad?"
"Hold on, Hiram. I've almost got it," he said. His
breathing was strained.
"I got you, dad," I said.
"Don't let go, boy."
"I won't," I said. "I got you, daddy. I've got you now."
My hand was shaking as I touched it to my closed
mouth. How could someone have heard that
conversation - we were the only ones on the roof. We
were alone.
"I got you, daddy. I've got you now."
I let the phone go. It hung on the end of its cord,
swinging too and fro like a fisherman's prize. Whirling
maniacally, I tried to open the door and it wouldn't
give. It was jammed. I shook it, tore at it, but it would
not budge.
"I've got you now."
A thin sound was escaping my throat. I bashed my
elbow into the plexiglass, cracking it. Spinning around,
I cracked my injured hand against the iron phone itself
and pain shot up my arm. I cried out, attacking the
inside of the booth in a paroxysm of rage.
"I've got you now."
I tore the phone from its cord, silencing the voice.
Silencing my voice. I ripped the box half-way off its
moorings, kicked out the lower pane of plastic, tore the
yellow pages from their plastic protection. With each
action my exhaustion grew, as did my strength. I was
blinded by anger, so sightless that it was moments
before I realized that I had destroyed the light in the
vestibule. Before I realized that I could see the
concourse drive. Cabs were speeding by. Back at the
entrance to international, a limo had pulled up.
A familiar driver opened the door, and the Rook
emerged. I stopped my assault on the phone company,
my self-loathing quelled by fear. For a moment I
actually held my breath.
Fifty yards away, the Rook walked to the terminal's
sliding doors. Just as I began to wonder how he could
possibly have discovered that I was returning on a flight
I never booked, he stopped. He stood in the entryway
for a time, the crowd parting around him as if he were a
natural obstacle. Then he slowly turned his head and
met my frightened eyes.
He began walking toward the kiosk. I wrenched at the
door as he came for me. Pulling. I pulled with all my
might and the door came free of its hinges. I lunged
out and the incensed kiosk decided it would pay me
back for the damage I caused. The broken skeleton of
the enclosure snagged my ankle, sending me sprawling.
The Rook continued toward me, his pace unhurried.
When he passed under a light, I could see that his eyes
were totally black. I leapt to my feet and took only a
step before I realized that my foot was badly hurt. I
looked over my shoulder to find the Rook had a smile
on his mouth - I knew this was no call to collect an
item. If he caught me, he would kill me. The limo
paced him in the parking lane. There was only a
chance.
I ran into the street as fast as my broken body would
carry me. A Holiday Inn shuttle slammed on its breaks
and jumped the curb to avoid me, and two cabs
squealed into other lanes. I barely avoided a red
passenger van careening by close enough that I
understood the driver's curses. A yellow taxi hit its
breaks too late and I thought the end would come.
He tapped my thighs with his bumper. The driver and I
looked at each other in thankful disbelief. I looked to
the curb and saw the Rook was continuing on his
unhurried way. He stepped off the sidewalk with none
of the hubbub that accompanied my perilous endeavor.
The cars speeding past simply weren't anywhere near
him.
Keeping my hands on the cab to still the man inside, I
hobbled around the side of the car. Just as I put my
hand on the handle of the back door, the driver dropped
the lock. The Rook was only a lane away, a distorted
smile stretching his face. My oily hair blew in the
wake left by a passing bus, and I caught the eye of the
frightened cabbie.
"Please," I mouthed. He blinked in the mirror, then
looked forward. The lock popped and I dove into the
back seat. I looked up to find that the Rook was at the
window. He tilted his head at me, heedless of the
honking vehicles speeding by. Then the monster
smiled.
"Drive!" I screamed when the small man reached for
the door handle. Miracle of miracles, the driver did
just that. When I looked out the rear window, the Rook
stood in the middle of the lane we were speeding away
in. Cars simply changed lanes to avoid him.
"Where to, crazy mister," asked the cabby. I turned to
the front to find that he might also have come from
Bangkok.
"I wish I knew."
_______________________________________________________
To be concluded ...
Many apologies, dear readers, for the horrendous time
between chapters. This began as a three-part quickie, but
our globetrotting antihero just wouldn't have a short trip.
Trust that the end of the tunnel will be reached in the next
episode. Provided that world events do not again distract me
from the writing of fanfiction, the heartwarming conclusion
will arrive just in time for Christmas. Thanks for hanging in.
Remember: Xander digs feedback.
Read more nonsense at livejournal.com/~xanderdg