The Book of Doom (21 page)

The demons in the surgeon outfits chittered excitedly behind their masks. Their dark eyes swept over Angelo, appraising him even as their gnarled hands rubbed together with glee.

“The book.”

Zac tore his eyes from Angelo. The Dark Lord stood beside him, a heavy leather-bound book balanced on the palm of one hand. A small padlock and strap fastened the pages closed. On the cover, the words:
THY BOOK OF EVERYTHING
glowed faintly in shades of gold.

“What, you’re just giving it to me?” he asked.

Satan shrugged. “I don’t want it. It has served its purpose. Keeping it would start a war, and that’s the last thing anyone needs.”

“You’ve already started a war,” Zac told him. “If you don’t let Angelo go, they’ll send an army.”

“Will they indeed?” said Satan. “We’ll see.”

He walked behind Zac and unzipped the backpack. The book was shoved roughly inside before the zip was fastened once more. Zac looked back at Angelo. Something like an oxygen mask had been slipped over his face, but the gas flowing in through his mouth and nostrils was a dark, brooding red. Angelo’s eyes were bulging, staring up at the ceiling, but he was no longer fighting against the straps.

Satan appeared in front of Zac again. “Don’t worry. We’ll take good care of your friend.” He tapped himself on the forehead. “Wait, I forgot – he isn’t your friend, he’s your
colleague
. Isn’t that right?”

Zac didn’t reply, just kept watching the boy in the chair.

“You have what you came for, Zac Corgan. You can return a hero and have all your sins washed away. Play your cards right and you’ll never have to see me again.” He smiled thinly. “And won’t your grandfather be pleased to have you home?”

The mention of his grandfather made Zac look Satan’s way. The Dark Lord’s face became solemn. “Anyway, he was miserable up there. No friends. All alone. And that tattoo? Horrible. Who’s to say he won’t be happier down here with us? With his daddy and all his aunts and uncles and brothers and sisters.”

Zac could feel the demon inside his head, twisting his thoughts and fogging his brain. “I’m... I’m not leaving without him,” he hissed. “I’m not leaving him here.”

The Dark Lord Satan, Father of All Lies, Angel of the Bottomless Pit, nodded. “Oh, but the thing is,” he said, “you don’t have any choice.”

Then he smiled and snapped his fingers. The room around Zac began to fade. He saw Angelo’s head loll sideways to look at him. “Don’t go,” the boy wheezed. “P-please.”

“I’ll come back!” Zac shouted. “I’ll get help and come back. I promise!”

Then the room faded completely, and Angelo was abandoned to all the demons of Hell.

AC FELL FORWARD,
the chains no longer round his ankles and wrist, and so no longer holding him up. He landed awkwardly on hard-packed sand and lay there, face down, until the inside of his head stopped spinning.

When he finally got up, Zac found himself standing beneath a pale blue sky. The sand stretched out around him in all directions, flat on his left, hills and dunes to his right.

There was no wind. Not a breath of air moved across the desert. He turned in a slow circle, sweeping his gaze out over the sand. There were no demons, no Angelo, no chair and no straps. He was, as far as he could tell, completely alone.

“Great,” he muttered. “Now what?”

He walked a few paces in one direction, stopped and walked back. He looked around again, but the landscape was still devoid of life.

Then he remembered the watch. Gabriel had said he could use it to contact Heaven once he had the book. He looked at the little screen. Where the time should have been was a question mark, and a basic animation of a stick man shrugging his shoulders.

Zac studied the watch more closely. It had four buttons along one side and two on the other. One of them, he imagined, would allow him to call for a rescue party. But which one?

There was a flash of light and a puff of smoke and the hunchbacked demon, Eliza, popped out of thin air. She stuck her tongue out at him, then smashed a little pointed hammer against the watch face. With a sharp giggle she vanished again, leaving Zac staring blankly at the broken timepiece on his wrist.

“Well, that’s just great,” he sighed, before a tennis ball hit him hard on the back of the head.

He turned, fists raised, head throbbing. The ball had come from the direction of the dunes. And now he was paying closer attention he could hear noises – voices, maybe – from behind the closest hill. He listened, and soon the voices were joined by the sound of heavy footsteps on the compacted sand.

A large man with a long, flame-coloured beard trudged into view at the top of the dune. He stopped when he saw Zac. There was a long moment in which he and Zac just stared at each other in silence, but then the man cupped his huge hands round his mouth and shouted, “Chuck us the ball back!”

Zac looked down at the tennis ball by his feet. It was grubby and weather-beaten. Someone had scribbled a large number 4 on it in black marker pen. Zac picked it up, then approached the man on the hill.

The closer he got, the bigger the man seemed. He stood almost as tall as Haures had. His beard was easily a metre long itself, and his muscles bulged beneath the leather armour he wore. The giant watched Zac impassively as he trudged up the hill.

“Who are you?” Zac demanded, stopping in front of the man.

“Who are
you
?” he replied in a thick Scottish accent.

“I asked you first.”

The man reached over his shoulder. His fingers wrapped round a long handle, and there was a
shnink
of a blade being unsheathed.

“Well, I’ve got a big sword,” the man scowled. “And it’s dead sharp.”

Zac weighed up his chances. He’d taken down plenty of adults before, but none as big as this one. He was holding the sword like he meant it too. It was not a fight Zac wanted to have.

“Zac Corgan,” he said. “Now your turn.”

The big man glowered down at him. “War,” he said.

“War?”

“Aye,” said the giant. “War.”

“As in... battles and fighting and stuff?”

“As in the Horsemen of the Apocalypse.”

Zac considered this. He looked War up and down. “Yeah,” he said, willing to accept pretty much anything at this point. “Course you are. Where’re the other three, then?”

“Coo-ee!” came a voice from beyond the brow of the hill. “Get a move on. We haven’t got all day, you know?”

War sighed and closed his eyes. “You had to bloody ask.”

A skinny man dressed all in white scurried the last few steps up the dune. He wore a floppy sunhat on his head and thin rubber gloves on each hand. He gave a soft gasp when he spotted Zac. “Oh, hello,” he said. “Who are you, then?”

“Zac Corgan, Pestilence,” growled War. “Pestilence, Zac Corgan.”

“Lovely to meet you,” beamed Pestilence. “And I love the whole black-outfit look. Very mysterious.”

War sighed. “Right, give us the ball back.”

Zac handed it over. “What is this place?” he asked.

“It’s Limbo,” said War.

“Limbo?”

“Which probably means you’ve died, I’m afraid,” added Pestilence. “So please accept our condolences.”

“What’s keeping you?” asked a voice a little way down the dune. A boy just a year or two younger than Zac marched to the top of the hill. He had an oversized plastic baseball bat in one hand. “I need to get back home soon or my mum’s going to...”

The boy’s voice trailed off. “Who’s this?” he asked.

“Drake, this is Zac,” Pestilence said. “Zac, Drake here is our latest Death.”

“Latest?”

War grunted. “Long, boring story.”

“Zac has recently died,” Pestilence continued. “Isn’t that a shame?”

“No, I haven’t.”

Pestilence smiled gently. “Yes, you have,” he said. “I know it’s hard, but the sooner you accept it, the sooner you can move on.”

Zac shook his head. “No, I haven’t. I was sent on a mission to find a stolen book. I was in Hell a minute ago, and now I’m here.”

War and Pestilence exchanged a glance. “The
Book of Everything
?” Pestilence asked in a hushed voice.

“
Book of Everything
,
Book of Doom
– take your pick,” Zac said. “I found it, but they kept my... colleague. It was all a trick to get him down there.”

Pestilence’s mouth tightened. “That’s them all over, that is,” he said. “Always up to something. I’m sure he’ll be OK, though.”

A snort of laughter came from War. “Oh aye, I’m sure he’ll be just dandy. They’re a right fun bunch down there, just ask anyone.”

There was a moment of uncomfortable silence.

“That was sarcasm, by the way,” War pointed out.

“Still, at least you found the book,” said Pestilence. He clapped his hands. “Yay!”

“You brought it back to them yet?” War asked.

“No. I got stranded here. I’ve got no way of contacting them.” He looked at the Horsemen in turn. “Unless you’ve got some way of getting in touch with Heaven?”

“We’ll go one better,” said Drake. “We’ll take you there ourselves.” He looked from Pestilence to War. “Um... we can do that, right?”

Zac stood in the shadow of a small wooden shed and gazed up at its jolly red roof. There was a
creak
from the door as Drake pushed it open. Zac hung back as War and Pestilence stepped inside.

“A shed?” he asked. “Why are we getting in a shed?”

Drake smiled. “Just trust me.”

“No.”

“Oh,” said Drake, a little deflated. “Right. Well, the shed can travel across dimensions or... or something like that. It can fly you to Heaven.”

“But it’s a
shed
.”

Drake shrugged. “Yeah, I said that at first too.”

War’s beard appeared round the doorframe, followed by the rest of his face. “You getting in or what?”

Zac looked from the giant to Drake, and then into the dark interior of the shed. He shrugged, sighed, then stepped inside. Drake pulled the door closed and they all squeezed into the narrow space.

“This is cosy, isn’t it,” breathed Pestilence.

Zac was too stunned to reply. He was looking beyond the Horseman at the chair behind him.

Something immensely fat slouched on the seat, wearing nothing but a sleeveless vest and a distressingly tight pair of flannel shorts. Sweat soaked his skin and dripped down on to the wooden floor. His face was red and blotchy and his breathing came in big, heavy gulps. Something brown was smeared across his blubbery lips.

Chocolate
, Zac thought.
Let it be chocolate
.

“That’s Famine,” Drake explained. “He’s, uh, having a rest.”

Zac watched the fat man’s chest wheezing up and down. “The game must’ve taken a lot out of him.”

“What? Oh, no,” Drake said. “That’s just from getting changed. He hadn’t started playing yet.”

“Right,” said War. “We’re here.”

Zac looked up at him. “We’re where?”

The door swung open and Zac found himself gazing out at the vast palace Gabriel had taken him to earlier.

“How... how did you do that?” he asked.

“Techno-magic mumbo jumbo,” War grunted, and then he shoved Zac out of the shed and slammed the door behind him. There was a muttering from inside it, then a
whoosh
. By the time Zac looked round, the shed was gone.

He waited a moment to see if it came back. When it didn’t, he turned, pulled the straps of the backpack higher on his shoulders and strode purposefully towards the house that God built.

HE ORNATE FRONT
door opened without a whisper and Zac stepped on to a marble floor.

“Gabriel?” he called, and his voice echoed around the cavernous hall. “Gabriel, you there?”

Almost immediately there came the sound of hard footsteps clopping across the polished floor. Gabriel entered through one of the many arched doorways at the back of the room. He appeared surprised to see Zac there, but his politician smile didn’t waiver once.

“Ah, there you are,” he said, spreading his arms wide. “We lost track of you and rather feared the worst. It is good to see you are in one piece.” He stopped in front of Zac and the smile grew larger. “I trust you were able to retrieve the book?”

“I’ve got it. But they’ve kept Angelo.”

Gabriel’s smile slipped smoothly into a frown. “Have they? Have they indeed?” He gave a solemn nod, then the smile returned. “May I see it?”

“See what?”

“The book. May I see it?”

“Didn’t you hear what I said? They’ve got Angelo. We have to do something.”

Gabriel’s eyes twitched. “All in good time. The book, please, Zac.”

The force of the sudden realisation made Zac take a step back. “Wait... you knew. You knew they were going to keep him,” he mumbled. “You made him wait outside the door. You knew I’d choose him over Michael. You knew I’d take him with me.”

“The book,” said Gabriel, his smile falling away completely. “Give me the book.”

“So... what? You
swapped
him?”

“We made a deal,” the archangel replied. “The boy for the book. His life for the lives of countless billion others. It was the right thing to do. It was the
good
thing to do.”

“The
good
thing? You’ve sent him to Hell, and who knows what they’re going to do to him? That’s not good, that’s evil! I thought you lot were supposed to know the difference.”

Gabriel held out a hand. “The book, Zacharias. Give me the book.”

“No,” Zac said. “I want to see the Metatron.”

The archangel’s eyebrows arched, but he said nothing.

“The voice of God. He’s in charge now, right? Angelo told me all about it. I want to see him.”

Gabriel chuckled. “What a strange thing to say. You don’t see voices, Zac. You hear them.”

“Well, I want to hear him, then. I want to talk to him.”

“I’m afraid that’s not possible,” Gabriel said. “Now, while I appreciate your concern for Angelo, I am going to say this one final time.
Give me the book
.”

Zac shook his head. “No,” he said. He turned back towards the door. He barely caught a glimpse of Michael standing there before the fiery blade of the archangel’s sword was across his throat. Michael’s flawless features fixed into an ugly snarl.

“Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t cut you down,” Michael growled.

Zac felt his strength leave him. His shoulders sagged and his spirit sagged with them. “I promised him,” he said quietly. “I promised him I’d get help.”

Gabriel fished inside the backpack. He pulled out a small cloth bag filled with thirty or more little round balls. “Been playing marbles?” he asked, and Zac could hear the smirk on his face. Gabriel returned the bag to the backpack. A moment later, he took out the book.

There was a long moment of silence, broken eventually by Gabriel’s clipped tones.

“Is this some sort of joke?” he demanded, catching Zac by the shoulder and spinning the boy round to face him. Gabriel’s blue eyes were dark, his chiselled nostrils flared wide. “What is this?” he asked, holding up the leather-bound volume.

“The book,” Zac replied.

“No, it isn’t! This isn’t the book. Look!”

He broke the clasp and padlock without any effort and the book fell open. Zac watched as the archangel flipped through the pages.

“See? Blank. There’s nothing there. This isn’t the
Book of Everything
it’s a book of
nothing
.” He turned and hurled the book across the room. It struck a pillar and sprayed plain white paper in all directions. Gabriel stepped in closer to Zac, visibly shaking with rage. “Where is it? Where is the real book?”

Zac shrugged. “That’s the one they gave me.”

“And you accepted it?” Gabriel snorted. “You’re a bigger idiot than I thought.”

“Send me back down,” Zac suggested. “I’ll get the real book and get Angelo at the same time.”

“Oh,
Angelo, Angelo, Angelo
,” Gabriel cried. “Stop talking about Angelo. Nobody cares about Angelo! Least of all you, if I remember correctly. The book is all that matters. Besides, for all we know they don’t even have it. We’re back to square one. This whole thing may have been a trick right from the start.”

“Right,” said Zac. “Which would make
you
the idiot.”

Gabriel glared down at him. His jaw moved from side to side, as if chewing over his next few words. At last, he glanced at Michael. “Dispose of him,” he said.

Michael’s face cracked into a smile. “Now you’re talking.”

“Do whatever you feel necessary,” said Gabriel. He turned and walked back towards the archway. “Just be sure to have someone clean up afterwards.”

“By the time I’m finished there won’t be anything left to clean up,” Michael said.

Gabriel paused, but didn’t look back. “I don’t want to know,” he said, then he continued walking. He was almost at the archway when a voice made him stop for a second time.

“Problems, Gabriel?”

Zac looked for the owner of the voice, but found no one. Then he remembered. You didn’t see the Metatron, you only heard him.

Gabriel cleared his throat. Zac heard the silken rustle of Michael’s sword sliding back into its sheath.

“Uh, no, sir,” Gabriel said. “Or rather, yes, sir. We retrieved the book, but it was a fake.”

“Bless it all,” said the disembodied voice. It sounded to Zac like an old British military general. It was the type of voice that had a moustache and drank brandy and knew a lot about horses and cricket and impaling foreigners on bayonets. “So, what do we do now, then?” it asked.

Gabriel hesitated. “I... do not know, sir. We begin the search anew. Try to determine where the book is, then formulate a plan for getting it back.”

Zac stepped away from Michael and looked into the centre of the room, as if that was where the voice was emanating from. “They’re leaving someone down there in Hell,” he said. “The boy, Angelo. Hell has him and they won’t do anything about it.”

Silence followed. Zac got the feeling he was being scrutinised. He stood his ground, waiting for a reply.

“Really?” said the Metatron at last. “Gabriel, is this true?”

“Yes, sir,” Gabriel said.

“Was that your intention all along? Why wasn’t I informed?”

“We, uh, thought it best to leave that part out, sir,” Gabriel oozed. “In order to protect you from any fall-out. They wanted Angelo. We wanted the book. It seemed like a minor sacrifice to make.”

“Ah, a sacrifice, eh? Haven’t had a sacrifice in a long time. Ah well. Shame for the poor chap, of course, but these things have to be done, what?”

Gabriel’s politician grin crept across his face. “My sentiments exactly, sir.”

Zac shook his head in disgust. “You’re just as bad as they are.”

“Come on now, lad,” spoke the Metatron. “The needs of the many and whatnot. Can’t make an omelette without breaking some eggs.” The voice addressed Gabriel. “What about him? What do you plan on doing with him?”

Gabriel glanced sideways at Michael. “We... weren’t sure, sir. We had yet to decide.”

“Send him back home.”

“Sir?”

“You heard. Send him back home. Wasn’t his fault the book was a fake. You know what they’re like down there. Shower of wrong ’uns, the lot of them. Always up to no good. Not the lad’s fault.”

“But, sir, our concern was that—”

“I believe I gave an instruction, Gabriel,” said the Metatron, and Zac felt the temperature in the room drop several degrees. “The boy completed his part of the deal, so he shall be returned home just as he was. Is that clear?”

Gabriel nodded. “Crystal, sir.”

“Good. And you, lad. I believe the arrangement was that your sins would be wiped clean. Is that correct?”

“Yes,” said Zac. “But I don’t want it.”

The Metatron snorted. “Pardon?”

“If being sin-free means coming here when I die, I want to keep them.” He glared at Michael and Gabriel. “At least in Hell they don’t pretend to be something they’re not.”

“Well... as you wish,” conceded the Metatron. “Gabriel?”

Gabriel gestured to his fellow archangel. “Michael.”

Zac recoiled as Michael’s hand grabbed him roughly by the shoulder. He heard the man in the golden armour mutter, and then a burst of white exploded behind his eyes.

And then he was in his bedroom, sitting on the end of his bed, looking out through the open curtains at the bright summer’s day just beyond the glass. He blinked. There had been a thought right there in his head, but it was gone, floating just out of reach.

He looked down at his clothes. They were filthy, stained with dust and soot and something dark and treacle-like. He was wearing a backpack he didn’t recognise. He slipped it off and let it fall on to his bed, then he stood up, opened his bedroom door and went downstairs.

“Ah, Zac, you’re back!” said Phillip as Zac shuffled into the kitchen. The old man smiled and gave his grandson a hug. “How was the trip?”

“Trip?”

“Yes, you know,” said his granddad. “Your trip. You... you went on a trip.”

Zac shook his head. “No, I didn’t.”

Phillip hesitated. His fingers pressed his stress ball against the palm of his hand. “Oh,” he mumbled, his eyes glazing over, “didn’t you? I’m... I’m sure you said something about a trip.”

“No,” replied Zac. “I don’t think so.”

His head felt full of fog, as if he’d just been woken from a deep sleep. His memory of the last few days was sketchy, but he’d have remembered going away. Wouldn’t he?

“Sit down, Granddad, and I’ll make you a cup of tea,” he said, crossing to the kettle.

“Coffee would be nice,” Phillip replied. “I was up half the night. I thought you’d come back. I was sure I heard that Albert’s voice.”

Zac flicked the kettle’s switch. “Albert?”

“That is his name, isn’t it?” Phillip said. “I forget sometimes.”

A spoon of instant coffee went into a mug. “I don’t know any Albert.”

“Oh, maybe not Albert, then,” fretted Phillip. “Angus? Adam?”

“Not ringing any bells.”

Phillip squeezed his stress ball. “No, but... Oh, I wish I could remember. Kept hearing him all night. Sounded in a right panic. Scared too, very scared.”

Zac smiled. “Don’t worry about it, Granddad. It was just a dream or something, I wouldn’t—”

“Angelo!”

Zac felt his legs turn to lead, but he didn’t know why.

“Angelo, that was it,” Phillip beamed. “I knew I’d remember.”

“I... I don’t know any Angelo,” Zac said. A breeze blew around inside his head, swirling the fog that filled it.

His granddad tutted. “Course you do. Angelo. You had him here last night. Or was it the night before?”

Zac poured hot water into his grandfather’s mug, and gave it a stir. “I’m telling you, I don’t know anyone called Angelo.”

“You do!”

“I don’t,” Zac insisted, picking up the mug.

“Don’t be silly, Zac,” Phillip sighed. “Stop trying to confuse me, I’m bad enough as it is. You remember. Angelo. Your friend.”

Zac’s lips moved instinctively. “He’s not my friend, he’s my colleague,” he said.

The mug slipped from his hand and smashed on the kitchen floor. The fog in his head thinned, offering glimpses of the memories that lay beyond.

He charged out of the kitchen and took the stairs two at a time. He tore at the zip of the backpack, then thrust his hand inside until he found the velvet bag. Cupping a hand, he tipped a few of the marble-sized balls out into his palm. He stared down at them, and they all stared right back.

“Eyes,” he whispered. “Argus.”

He looked down at the carpet and saw an inky black stain. He searched his bookcase until he spotted a slim, battered volume on the fourth shelf down.
The Strange Case of Dr Jekyll & Mr Hyde
, by Robert Louis Stevenson.