Hellraisers (20 page)

Marlow gagged, reaching for his cell so he could call him, sighing when he remembered it was gone.

“I'm so sorry, Charlie,” he said. “Be okay, yeah?”

He took another couple of deep breaths, then unlocked the door, squeezing through. A curtain separated him from the main cabin and he pulled it open to see everyone looking at him. They all managed to hold a straight face for a second or two, then Truck cracked—spluttering out a deep, booming laugh—and the others followed him into meltdown. They howled together, Night actually crying with laughter, slapping her own legs in an attempt to stop herself. Even Pan had a smile on her face, although she was doing her best to conceal it. Betty, the woman who'd patched him up back in the tower, wore a wry smile. Only Bullwinkle and Hope—the guys he'd fought back in the elevator—sat quiet, still wearing the bruises he'd given them.

Marlow's cheeks ignited and he had to force himself to stand there, teeth clenched, rather than run wailing back into the restroom.

“It's…” Herc said, wiping a tear from his eye, “it's not you. I promise.”

“No, man,” said Truck. “No way we'd ever laugh at you. You're one of us now, a member of the team, got a key to the company bathroom and everything.”

They erupted again and Marlow sighed, traipsing to a spare chair and collapsing into it. He'd just about gotten his seat belt on when the plane bucked, shuddering violently for what felt like forever. It was as if nobody else even noticed it, and he chewed his knuckles to try to conceal his terror.

“How about Captain Vomit?” said Night.

“Huh?” Marlow asked.

“Nah, I reckon Crapper,” said Herc. “It's got a nice
ring
to it. No pun intended.”

“What are you guys talking about?” Marlow said, although nobody could hear him over the new round of giggles. He blew out another sigh and looked away, trying to pretend he wasn't bothered. This felt like the first day of school all over again, everyone mocking him about his asthma, pretending to wheeze and choke. Next they'd be taking turns to give him a wedgie. Now, just like then, he wished Danny was here to kick their asses.

The only other thing to look at was the window, giving him a view of the moon-streaked clouds below, the vast blanket of stars overhead. His stomach did a backflip and he had to stare at the floor for a moment to avoid the rush and roar of vertigo.

“I've got it,” said Truck, clicking his giant fingers. “Oh man, I've got it. Elvis.”

“Elvis?” said Herc, looking about as confused as Marlow felt. “Why Elvis?”

“Because he was in there so long I thought he'd died on the can.”

Nobody laughed.

“You know,” Truck said. “Because Elvis died on the toilet.”

“Too far,” said Herc, stony faced. “You don't make jokes about the King.”

“Would somebody please tell me what the hell you're going on about?” Marlow said, wondering how much more his credibility would be dented if he just gave in and started crying.

“
Su nombre,
” said Night. “Your nickname. We're trying to decide what it should be.”

“What's wrong with Marlow?” he said, feeling the plane dip a little more, making his head spin. How could there be all that space beneath him and nothing holding them up?

“To be honest, Marlow fits just fine,” said Herc. “You know, the writer.”

“The what?” said Truck.

“Wri-
ter
,” he said, obviously disgusted. “The author. You know, Christopher Marlowe, with an
e
. He wrote a story about somebody selling his soul to the devil.”

Truck shrugged. “Like Harry Potter or something?”

“For the love of … You guys embarrass me.”

There was a soft chime and the seat belt lights pinged on. Marlow grabbed his belt to make sure it was buckled up, pulling it so tight it could have acted as a gastric band. The plane descended, making Marlow's ears ache, and he swallowed to pop them. They sank into the clouds like they were a submarine plunging into an ocean of cotton wool. The plane shook until they dropped out of the bottom, and for a moment Marlow thought they must have been flipped upside down because the world below was a canvas of black felt studded with stars. Then he realized they were lights—houses, streets, cars—and even though the terror still gripped him he couldn't stop himself putting his nose to the glass in fascination.

“Quite something, right?” said Herc.

“Where are we?” he asked as the ground rose up to meet them.

“Prague,” said Night.

“Prague?” Marlow had never heard of it.

“It's in the Czech Republic.”

“Okay…” He wished he'd spent more time paying attention in geography. “Prague. That's where the Engine is, right?”

There was silence behind him and he turned.

“Kind of,” said Truck. “Not where it is, but how we get to it. It's complicated.”

Marlow returned his attention to the window, the ground close enough now that he could make out trees and individual cars. Were they supposed to be going this fast? He gripped the armrests of his chair, swallowing hard to stop whatever was left in his stomach from finding a way up his throat.

“Don't worry, kid,” said Herc. “Landing's not the most dangerous bit.” He snorted a laugh. “Just the second most dangerous. We'll probably be fine. You'll be on the ground in no time. Then we head to the Engine.”

“Cool,” he said, his words steaming up the glass. He closed his eyes, waiting for the crash, for the explosion, for the fire. “I just might need to use the restroom again first.”

He was almost grateful that the sound of the plane screeching down was drowned out by another chorus of laughter.

 

ANOTHER WORLD

It was less like he'd flown to another continent and more like he'd arrived in a whole new world.

Everything felt different the moment he stepped out of the plane door. The sky was bigger, the stars were so numerous and so bright that it was as if the sun had exploded into a billion burning pieces. He took a breath and even that felt strange, the air so crisp, so clean, so cool, that it was like he'd just had a blast on his inhaler.
This must be what it's like not to have asthma,
he thought, and he felt a sudden, deeper rush of hatred for it, knowing that the monster still sat on his back, its fingers hovering next to his throat. The plane powered down, the engines whining, and then it hit him—how quiet it was here. Where were the revving cars, the horns, the shouts, the sirens?

“Gonna stand there all night?” said Pan, barging past him and clattering down the stairs. He followed her.

“No, it's just … I'm not used to being away from home.”

“First time abroad?” she asked over her shoulder.

“First time abroad, first time out of
state
. Apart from Jersey, obviously.”

“Jersey doesn't count,” she said, walking across the floodlit tarmac. This couldn't have been the city's main airport because there was only one hangar, a silhouette against the sky, and a cluster of smaller buildings. Not unless things were just smaller in Europe. There were three cars at the side of the runway, two black Land Rover Defenders and a bright blue BMW M6 Hurricane, all with their engines running. Figures stood beside them, shielded by the blazing headlights, just ghosts in the dark. It was so surreal. He rubbed his gut to try to settle it.

“Nothing to worry about,” said Truck, rolling up beside him and planting a huge hand on his shoulder. It weighed a ton and Marlow grunted in surprise. “I remember the first time I got here, I freaked. I wouldn't even get on the plane, they had to dope me, Mr. T style.”

“How long ago was that?” Marlow asked, grateful to know he wasn't the only one.

“Couple of years now,” he said. “Herc pulled me out of an illegal boxing ring in Chicago. Told me I'd be better off fighting for something that might make a difference. And here I am.”

Truck lifted his hand and Marlow felt about twenty pounds lighter, stretching the kinks out of his back.

“This is so weird,” he said. “Feel like I'm dreaming.”

“Believe me,” Truck replied, laughing so deeply that it was almost subsonic. “Weird doesn't cut it. Doesn't come close. You haven't seen anything yet.”

Truck sashayed across the runway, replaced by Herc. The older man was carrying half a dozen huge bags and he looked pissed.

“Any of you lazy bastards want to help?” he yelled after the others. Nobody replied. Herc swung two of the bags off his shoulder and handed them to Marlow. “Here, make yourself useful.”

They walked toward the SUVs and gradually the figures there came into focus. A couple of guys a little older than him, midtwenties he guessed. One of them was so tall and thin and perfectly manicured that he looked like a store mannequin. He was dressed in a sharp suit and was wearing sunglasses even though it was the middle of the night.

“Herc,” he said in a voice he could have stolen from Sherlock Holmes. “You're late.”

“Got held up,” he replied gruffly. “Tends to happen when Mammon chases you down the street.”

“Yes, Ostheim told me. He wants to talk.”

“He's had all night to talk to me,” Herc said, slinging the bags to the other guy, who stuffed them into the back of one of the Land Rovers. “It's late and I'm tired.”

The man wearing shades turned to Marlow, an unpleasant sneer creasing his face.

“Another stray dog for your pack?” he asked, and Marlow felt his hackles rising. He took a step forward, trying to make himself look as big as possible. The man just shook his head. “So bloody predictable. Aggressive, impatient, troubled, undisciplined. This one smells, too. A mongrel even by your standards.”

“Hey,” said Marlow, but Herc rested a hand on his arm, shaking his head. Sunglasses guy turned and climbed into the driver's seat of the blue BMW, slamming the door shut and revving the engine. Herc steered Marlow toward the Defender, speaking in a whisper.

“Ignore Douche Bag there. His name's Hanson, and he's British.”

“That explains it,” said Marlow. He climbed onto the back seat, asking, “Where are we going?”

“Straight to the Engine, kiddo. Just sit back and enjoy the sights. This particular sack has some of my favorite shades of black.”

“What?” asked Marlow. Herc lifted a piece of cloth that looked like it might once have served as a diaper in medieval times.

“Rules is rules,” Herc said. “You need to put this on.”

“No way,” Marlow said. “It's got … stains on it.”

“Yeah, all adds to the flavor.” He opened it up and offered it again. “It's either this, or I knock you out.”

Marlow still wasn't sure which was worse, but he took the hood and gingerly lowered it over his head.

“It smells of ass,” he said, his voice muffled.

“Yeah, sorry about that,” said Herc. “I think Truck was sitting on it on the plane.”

Great.

Marlow heard the door shut, then the engine gunned and they were moving, fast. Herc clapped him on the back, making him jump.

“Just close your eyes and enjoy the ride.”

*   *   *

It wasn't exactly enjoyable, but a trip on the back of a drunk, three-legged donkey would have been smooth compared to the experience he'd just had on the jet. The Land Rover took to the streets like a racing car, accelerating and braking with equal force, screeching wildly around the corners. Marlow would have been worried, but not being able to see anything took some of the fear out of the experience. He just settled back in his chair, closed his eyes, and listened to Herc droning on.

“I'd like to take this opportunity to fill in a few of the details,” he said. “I'm sure you have quite a few questions. I'm going to do my best to preempt them. First, who we are. We're an organization called the Hellraisers. I don't know where it comes from, we've always been called that. I guess because we raise hell wherever we go. But it's kind of ironic, too, really, given what our purpose here is.”

Right
 … Marlow thought. It sounded more like a bad eighties rock group. Lloyd Cole and the Hellraisers, coming to a venue near you.

“Two, how long have we been around? Well, it's complicated. The Engines are old,
very
old. Nobody knows for sure but it might be centuries. Millennia maybe. Our organization, the Hellraisers, has existed for almost as long, but in its current form only since the last century, since the war. There's a lot of history there, kid, that I don't want to bore you with. But for a while the Engines were lost, only rediscovered in the thirties when…”

Marlow tuned out, lulled into a stupor by the warmth and motion of the car. He'd not slept on the plane—it was hard to sleep when you were too busy screaming and puking in a tiny room—and the exhaustion was like another hood pulled down over his consciousness. He dozed, waking when he sensed that the vehicle had stopped. The world was a pit of silence, only the sound of his breathing echoing back from the sack. He reached up and pulled it off, seeing that the car was empty. There was nothing but darkness out of the windows, like they'd driven right off the edge of the planet.

“Hello?” he said. “Herc? Pan?”

He fumbled with his seat belt but his fingers didn't work properly, everything moving like he was underwater.

“Hey? Guys?”

“They're lying to you,” said a voice from the front of the car, a whisper. Marlow jumped, his heart almost stalling. Somebody had materialized in the passenger seat, staring out of the windshield at the darkness beyond, a face shrouded in shadow. Even his reflection in the rearview mirror was inscrutable, two eyes as black as pitch, unblinking. A crawling sense of unease skittered down Marlow's spine.