Hellraisers (8 page)

When you die.
He didn't need to say it, it was right there in the way his eyes never left the floor.

“I'll pass, thanks,” Marlow said. “Whatever you guys are into, you're welcome to it. I don't want any part of it.”

The hum of the MRI machine faded, making the room seem deathly quiet. Marlow looked over as the tray slid free from the machine. Pan rolled off, as graceful as water, dressed in her underwear, her hands fluffing up her short hair. There was still a scar over her heart but it looked ancient now, like it had healed years ago. She caught him staring and scowled, snatching up a dressing gown and marching behind a curtain.

“You sure?” Herc said, reminding Marlow that he and Pan weren't the only two people in the world. “
She's
behind door number one.”

“I thought you said don't go there?”

“Just saying,” Herc said. “There are other perks too.”

“Yeah? Like what?”

“Like anything you want,” Herc said with another gruesome smile. “
Literally
anything.”

Marlow shook his head, trying to shuffle his thoughts into some kind of order. He snatched in a breath, caught the stench of smoke wafting off Herc. And suddenly he was right there again, in the heat of it, his lungs full of fire and burning flesh. He closed his eyes and all he could see was the world tearing itself apart, a creature made of concrete and metal rearing above him, ready to stamp him into mud.

“No,” he said before he even knew he was talking. “No way. Door number two. I'll take it.”

“Door number two,” said Herc, almost sadly. “Door number two and you'll never know. Door number two and you'll always wonder about what happened. That's the thing about secrets. They're like a hole in your life.”

“Yeah? Better a hole in my life than a hole in my heart.”

He shrugged his arms beneath the straps, waiting for Herc to release him. Herc showed no sign of moving, though.

“You fought well, kid. Came outta nowhere, shotgun blazing. What were you doing down there anyway? Pretty heroic.”

Ha!
Marlow grinned without humor. Yeah, real heroic. Taking a gun to save himself, trying to run away. The only reason he'd been down there was because the cops had herded him that way. Yeah, Marlow Green, real hero.

“Just … just thought I could help,” was what he said, staring at the ceiling.

“Well,” Herc said, “that's a rare thing, kid. And you saved our asses in there, whatever
she
might say.”

Marlow glanced over to the curtain, disappointed that Pan was still out of sight. He took the time to chew on Herc's words. A soldier. Like Danny. So he could be dead, like Danny. But there was
something
about these guys, something that tugged at him.

“Who are you anyway?”

“Need to know,” Herc replied, tapping the side of his nose with one finger. “Pick that first door and you get to find out.”

There
was
an itch inside his skull, the need to know. After all, it wasn't every day that everything you thought you knew about the world turned out to be a lie.

No. Better to forget. Better to run.
It's what he did best.

“Look,” he said, “it was just a fluke. I wasn't thinking. If I could do it all again I'd have run the other way, okay? Just get me the hell out of these things and let me go.”

“Let you go?” said Herc.

“Yeah, door number two, I just wanna go home.”

Herc shook his head.

“Sorry, kid, if only it were that simple. Door number two is … Like I said, you've seen things. Things the world can't know.”

Marlow let his head crash down onto the pillow. Herc didn't have to say any more. It was pretty clear what he was driving at.

“So, door number one, I join you, fight those things, probably get my head ripped off. Door number two, I never leave this building, right?”

Herc shrugged. Marlow swore beneath his breath.

“And you call them choices?”

 

YOU GOTTA LAUGH

No sooner had Herc left his bedside, a guy and a girl took his place. They were young, maybe early twenties, both dressed in black Kevlar bodysuits with a big, black pistol holstered on one hip and a bowie knife on the other. Their expressions looked just as lethal, each of them wearing a scowl that made the big guy look like the happiest man on the planet. Marlow tugged and strained but the plastic straps did their job well.

“Wait,” he said. “What are you going to do?”

They didn't answer, the man popping the stud and sliding the bowie knife free of its sheath. It glinted in the blinding glare from the windows, stabbing Marlow's eyes with sunlight. He winced, wanting to shut his eyes but too afraid that if he did so he would never get the chance to open them again.

“Wait!” he grunted, struggling, his whole body held tight. His windpipe was shrinking, fast, and he had to suck in his next breath, so little air that he could barely get the words out. “Wait, I'll go for door number one. Door number one, dammit.”

“Too late for that,” said the guy. He had a long face that reminded Marlow of a moose. “You had your chance. No room here for maybes, buddy. Hold him.”

The girl moved in, pressing down on his chest and head. She was freakishly strong, his ribs feeling like they might snap beneath her fingers. Marlow snarled, a noise from deep inside his throat. It was the sound a dog made when it was cornered, knowing it was about to die. He swore at them, curse after curse. The knife rose, hanging there, then it plunged down like a guillotine blade. Marlow winced, every muscle tensing, waiting for the fire. But the blade simply sliced through the first plastic strap.

“Wait,
what
?” wheezed Marlow. The guy did the same with the other straps and suddenly the only things holding him down were hands. He took as big a breath as he could manage, his throat the size of a juice carton straw. The guy slid the knife away, then pulled on the sheet, lifting it up. Marlow's body lay beneath, so many bruises and bandages there that it took him a second to realize he was only wearing his boxers.

“You gonna make this difficult?” the knife guy asked. Marlow shook his head. “Then get up. Slowly.”

They stepped back to let him past. Marlow snatched in a thimbleful of air, struggling to sit up, every muscle creaking. He hopped down onto the cold floor, flexing, the joints in his neck and back sounding like somebody popping bubble wrap.

“What now?” he said, still alert. Herc had given the impression that it was either sign up or sign out—
permanently
—but the knife guy just gave him a gentle nudge, steering him toward the middle of the giant room.

“Now we show you out,” he said. “And we never see your scrawny ass again. Clear?”

Marlow didn't reply. There was no sign of Herc, or Pan, but there were a couple of other people in the room and they looked at him like he'd just spat in their coffee. The fear he'd felt seconds ago was fast becoming something else, something much worse. Shame. They all knew what he was. They could see right through the skin of his chest into his cowardly heart. He hated them for it.

He hated himself more.

He lifted a hand and chewed on his knuckles as he walked, keeping his eyes on the floor.
Screw them.
What the hell was he supposed to have done? Joined up with a bunch of weirdos to fight against things that couldn't possibly be real?

There was an elevator in the middle of the room, the doors open.

“Get in,” the girl snapped. The moose man shunted him forward and he staggered into the car, the whole thing wobbling. He spun around, doing his best to look angry, to look tough, feeling like a sheep that's suddenly found itself in a room full of wolves. The girl and guy walked in beside him. The man grabbed the outer set of metal doors and hauled them shut, then did the same with the inner ones. The girl stood there, her eyes running up and down, making Marlow feel more self-conscious than ever. His knuckles hurt from where he'd bitten them.

“When do I get my clothes back?” he said, coughing out phlegm. Each breath was a struggle. “My inhaler.”

Neither of them answered. The man pressed one of the big brass buttons and the elevator began rattling slowly downward.

“Hey,” he said. “Clothes?”

They didn't answer, just glanced at each other. He almost didn't see the mutual nod, it was so subtle. But it was there, and when they both suddenly lunged at him he was ready. He stepped back, spinning his body to avoid the flailing hands. The man tripped on his own feet and Marlow gave him a powerful shove, sending him clattering into the wall. The elevator rocked, groaning, and Marlow staggered. By the time he'd found his balance the girl was coming right for him, something shining in her hand.

A knife.

“Wait!”

She stabbed the blade toward him and he only just managed to get a hand up, slapping her arm away. It felt like he'd deflected a baseball bat in full swing. He lashed out with his fist, hit thin air as the girl ducked beneath him. The blade flashed as it slashed his way again, scraping his skin. He let loose a gargled scream, backing away.

Something grabbed him from behind, a bear hug that could have popped his rib cage. The guy and the girl were closing in and Marlow tried to look over his shoulder to see who was holding him.

There was nothing there.

What?

The invisible arms tightened, lifting him up and slamming him into the ceiling. Then they were gone and he fell, crashing back to the floor. He kicked out with his legs, not aiming for anything in particular, just trying to keep them both away. There was a meaty crunch as the heel of his right foot connected with the guy's face, a gargled scream. Marlow propelled himself up, seeing the man on his knees, hands to his face, blood pouring through his fingers like somebody had turned on a faucet. The girl had gone two shades paler, the knife gripped in shaking fingers. They all stood there for a moment, catching their breath, nobody sure what should happen next, the elevator grumbling steadily downward.

“I don't want any trouble,” said Marlow, his voice paper-thin. “Just let me go, okay? You'll never see me again, I promise. I won't tell a soul.”

Neither of them responded, the girl looking nervously at the man, the man on his knees, clutching his broken face like he was worried it might slip right off. Marlow sucked in an airless breath, coughed it out again, his lungs feeling like they were full of water, like he was drowning. It didn't make any sense. Why didn't they just kill him when he was trussed up like a turkey? Why wait until he could fight back? The elevator counted down the floors,
ding
,
ding
,
ding.

The man's hand darted forward, so fast that it sprayed a line of blood across the wall and floor. An invisible force connected with Marlow's chest and he thumped back against the side of the elevator, the breath snatched from his lungs. He tried to push himself away but the force was too strong, pinning him there.

“Do it!” the guy yelled.

The girl moved, that blade flashing as she stabbed it down toward his neck. Marlow twisted but he still felt it punch into his flesh, no pain just a cold heat. He screamed, threw himself at the guy, his fist catching the man in the middle of his face, crunching broken nose bones. Moose guy dropped like a ton of bricks, the girl stepping away, hands in the air.

Empty
hands.

Marlow lifted a trembling finger, felt something sticking out of his neck. He plucked it free, his eyes swimming, the whole elevator starting to spin around him. It wasn't a knife after all. It was a hypodermic needle, empty, the tip slick with his blood. It came loose and he threw it to the floor. Everything was swinging back and forth like he was on a ship.

“'Chu do to me?” Marlow said, trying to remember how to form a sentence. He jammed himself into the corner of the elevator to stop himself falling over. The girl showed no sign of moving, the guy shuffling back across the floor holding his face.

He heard the slowing of gears, felt his stomach sucked into his feet as the elevator slowed. There was a final
ding
and they came to a halt—although it felt like the elevator was still moving in every direction at once. He had to feel his way across the cab, unable to take his hands off the wall for fear of falling flat on his face. All the while he waited for a shot behind him, a bullet in the back, or those phantom hands. But he didn't care anymore. He couldn't even recall why he'd been in the elevator in the first place.

Something about monsters,
he thought, and it was so absurd that he was laughing as he tugged and wrestled with the doors. He managed to get them open, swaying out into a small lobby, all marble and bronze. It was empty, and he weaved his way left and right toward the doors. It was like being on a fairground ride, one of those ones where the floor lurches back and forth. That thought made him laugh even harder, great whooping snorts.

He moved toward the light, barging into the doors, spilling through them and onto the busy street. He was in a canyon of tall buildings. The people around him were a blur, yelling and shrieking as he stumbled through them. He caught a glimpse of himself in a window—nothing on but his underpants—and he was howling with laughter now. He spun, crashing back and forth, car horns blaring at him as he fell onto the street. He slapped the hood of a cab, blurting out meaningless curses. Then he tripped on his own bare feet, sprawled onto his face.

And there he lay, lips against the warm asphalt, laughing, laughing, laughing.

 

LOOK AT HIM GO

“Christ on a bike, what the hell happened?”

Herc's voice boomed across the giant space like thunder. Pan twisted her head around, a bolt of pain dancing through the tendons, to see him striding toward the elevator. Bullwinkle and Hope were walking out. Staggering might have been a better word for it, though. They looked like they'd just fought ten rounds against a rhino in there. Bullwinkle's face—never a pretty sight at the best of times—was stained red, his nose twisted at a funny angle. Hope was as pale as he was bloody, teetering across the room with a limp.