Over his shoulder he saw one of the monsters dart in and stab his mother in the side with a knife. Olga screamed and dropped the stretcher.
Mom!
Suddenly a shriveled, gray-skinned female creature swung at MoSteel with a sword as long as her own body.
The blade sliced across his chest, cut through the rotted clothing, and cut into the flesh.
MoSteel yelped in pain and surprise. The little demon giggled and ran. MoSteel dove after her, grabbed her by the neck, twisted her around, and yanked the sword from her bony hand.
A dozen demons piled onto him and he was smothered by flesh human, animal, and none-of-the-above.
Now the pain and fear combined to generate a rage like nothing MoSteel had ever felt in his easygoing life. His mind went black. He seemed to be staring through a veil of blood. Fear was gone, nothing but rage, screaming fury.
You want to hurt my mom! he screamed again and again, as his fists punched and legs kicked at anything within reach. He stabbed blindly with the sword, unable to swing because there was no room, no room for anything but stabbing and kicking and screaming into the reeking, horrible faces pressed in all around him.
All at once he rolled free, gasping for breath, each breath causing a red-hot stab of pain from his chest wound. The muscles of his chest felt like they were burning.
His head was swimming. He saw his mother on her knees, surrounded by demons. Jobs was waving something and yelling in a shrill voice. Billy Weir had rolled into the dirt, facedown in filth. Violet was shrieking, flailing away at a pair of rats as big as she was.
It had all happened in a heartbeat.
MoSteel staggered to his feet, ran, jumped feetfirst into one of the demons tormenting his mother, and knocked the creature sprawling.
They had Violet down on the ground, spread-eagled, one on each hand, each foot. A crone with the legs of a frog was holding a long, sharp pole. She was going to impale Violet. A huge swollen bird played its horn of a beak, wild, discordant music.
Violet was screaming, screaming, screaming, like an ambulance siren.
MoSteel swung his sword and sliced the head from the demon hed knocked over. He ran full tilt at the frog-woman and hacked at her neck. He caught her in the hump of her back and the blade stuck. The frog-woman barely seemed to notice. She shrugged and steadied the aim of her stick. She drew back and thrust as MoSteel yanked ineffectually at the sword blade.
The Blue Meanie stepped between the crone and Violet. With one leg he snapped the sharpened pole. He whirled with impressive speed and slapped the crone with a hind leg. The crone flew ten feet and crashed into the mass of demons.
The letters on the Meanies chest read: MUST DESTROY THE NODE .
Where? MoSteel rasped.
The Meanie understood the question without Billys interpretation. It pointed. There.
MoSteel glanced and saw a forge. The coals glowed yellow and red.
That?
THE NODE .
Something hit MoSteel from behind. He staggered, blind and whirling. He fell hard. His head was swimming. He saw dream shapes: demons and monsters and his friends. His mother.
He tried to get up, collapsed, tried again, and gained his feet woozily. He was beyond rational thought now, his brain too rattled to think clearly. He kicked a monster in the leg and laughed when it fell. He bumped into another and toppled it.
He fell again, headlong, too dizzy. He fell beside Billy Weir. Billys face was in the dirt; he was breathing worm-wiggly mud. MoSteel gently pushed Billys head, freeing his mouth and nose.
Could use some help here, migo, he said to the blank eyes.
Mo! Mo! Are you okay? Can you hear me?
MoSteel rolled onto his back and saw Jobss face looking down at him. MoSteel smiled sweetly. Hey, Duck.
Oh, man, Mo, I thought you were dead.
Me? Nah, man. When I die I wont be coming here.
Slowly his head cleared. He got to his knees and threw up. He felt weak all over, shaky. He felt gingerly for the lump at the back of his head. It wasnt big, not yet anyway, though he suspected it would be in time. Hed had concussions before: He knew what they felt like.
My mom?
Shes okay, Jobs said. But we have to move. We have to move. Something is coming.
Even in his near delirium MoSteel didnt like the look on Jobss face. Whats coming?
I think its why the demons backed off.
Oh, man.
I think their boss is coming.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO FEED A FREAK TO THE FREAK.
Yago was ready for most anything that would allow him to seize power. He was not sure he was ready to designate a victim to be fed to the baby.
What? he said.
Tamara shrugged. The baby is hungry.
So feed it, Wylson said.
Tamara looked embarrassed. It wont feed that way. It doesnt want milk. Ive tried.
Well, try again, Yago snapped.
The baby leered at him and made little popping sounds with its mouth. It had a mouth full of teeth.
There are limits, T.R. said, as though he wasnt sure he believed it.
The Riders are coming, Burroway snapped.
Are you volunteering? Wylson yelled, turning angrily on him.
I hardly think I should be the one to . . . to be sacrificed, Burroway said. I have knowledge and skills that are vital to the . . . to . . . to this mission, he ended lamely.
No, no, no, Yago said. We go this way this time, itll be eating us one after another.
The baby laughed as if confirming this.
Theyre on the ramp! a voice cried from outside. The Riders are on the ramp!
Theyll be here in a few minutes, Burroway said. We have to do something.
Excuse us, would you, Tamara? Wylson said with exaggerated politeness.
Wylson, Yago, Burroway, and T.R. huddled and spoke in frantic whispers.
Its some kind of sick game, Yago said. I dont think they mean it. The baby is just
The needs of the many outweigh the needs of
How would we decide who is Not one of us, were all needed!
Yago saw a blur of movement, a rush of people backing away. 2Face and Edward came racing through the arch.
Do you people know there are Riders coming? 2Face demanded.
Her, Yago hissed. Feed a freak to the freak.
Its the only way, Burroway said. Its terrible, but we cant sacrifice everyone for the sake of one life.
Burroway is right, Yago said quickly. I didnt want it to be, but it is the right thing, Wylson, we have to. No choice.
Wylson gulped. She shook her head. No. Ill talk to Tamara.
No time! T.R. hissed. He grabbed Wylsons arm.
She shook loose, stared at him like she was seeing a monster, and stalked off.
Shell come around, Yago said. We have to be ready.
What do you mean? Burroway asked, frowning.
I mean, we need to have 2Face ready to be served up. Let me get D-Caf and Anamull. Theyll help.
Ask me, it ought to be D-Caf we give her, Burroway grumbled. Hes the killer.
Yago knew Burroway would do nothing more, but it gave him an idea. He grabbed D-Caf. You know whats going on?
D-Caf nodded fearfully.
They all wanted it to be you, Twitch. They all said we should feed you to the baby. I stopped them. You remember that, someday. You remember youre alive because of me.
D-Caf swallowed hard and nodded, still fearful.
Its going to be 2Face, Yago said grimly. Go get Anamull. Keep your mouths shut, both of you. But I want you both near 2Face, you got me? When I give the word, you guys grab her, knock her out or something.
D-Caf ran off and Yago fought down the queasiness in his stomach. This was way off the charts. This wasnt politics, this wasnt anything but messed up and wrong.
Still, it was working out for him. He would get rid of 2Face and make D-Caf and Anamull his guilty accomplices. Hed own D-Caf from here on in, and Anamull,
too. Maybe he should see who else he could use to his advantage.
He caught sight of Wylson arguing with Tamara. Wylsons hands were waving, chopping the air. Tamara slouched, bored, while the baby seemed to stare at Wylsons throat.
Sick. All of it sick. But this was a sick place and a man had to do what a man had to do to make it. 2Faces return had been like a gift. She was already an outsider. After all, hadnt she abandoned everyone and run off with Edward? Shed already been a traitor.
He should remind everyone of that. No one would stop to wonder why shed run off to begin with.
D-Caf, with Anamull in tow, lurked within arms reach of her. It was almost over for the freak, Yago thought. Almost over and she doesnt even know it.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE SING TO MY PEOPLE OF MY DEATH.
As artwork, Satan didnt impress Violet very much. Bosch had used all his imagination to invent every conceivable variation on the creepy, startling, disturbingly funny demons and denizens of this hell that when it came time to reveal the demon of all demons, the ultimate evil, he had little new.
Not that the oversized monstrosity of whipping tail and blazing eyes of fire wasnt enough to make the flesh creep. But aside from the deference paid to it by the other demons, it seemed like nothing special.
On the other hand, the monster seemed to be rallying his troops to a final, all-out assault on the interlopers.
Is that supposed to be Satan? I thought hed be redder, MoSteel said. I thought red.
Violet was relieved that MoSteel had, at least for the moment, conquered his fear. He was not the type of male Violet preferred, but he was strong and brave and those two attributes were paramount in this place.
The Meanies saying something, Jobs said. Look.
THE NODE . TIME IS SHORT .
The alien pointed with his one remaining facial tentacle. He pointed at the blasted, burned-out, half-collapsed building where the demonic Vulcan was feeding another of the damned into the roaring flames.
Four Sacred Streams started to move more quickly, impatient. Violet and the others fell into step behind him, glad to have anyone to follow.
Satan there was no other way to think of him moved on spindly rat legs to cut them off. His minions came at a rush to join him. Demons who had been busy torturing the doomed now dropped what they were doing and came at a run or a crawl or a scurry.
The ship has figured it out, Jobs yelled above the rising cries of demonic alarm. It knows were after the node!
Even as he spoke, an arrow flew, a bolt from a crossbow, and struck in one of the stretcher poles.
Four Sacred Streams broke into a run. It was easy enough now to see that it was hampered by the damaged armor. It was meant to fly and no longer could. And Violet was sure it was meant to be able to run more quickly and evenly than this. The alien barely kept pace with the running humans.
Violet stumbled over broken stony ground, running despite the burning in her chest. She cursed the long dress and useless shoes that stabbed her ankles with each step.
Jane Austen, meet Dante, she muttered, giggling insanely at the witticism, anything to keep from crying and collapsing.
Something leaped at her from the side. She felt claws rip at her, tearing at her hair. She screamed and the demon fell away and she forgot the pain in her feet and hand and ran in all-out panic.
A thing made of amputated body parts rushed at her. Faces were thrust close to her from all around, hands and claws grabbed, mouths snapped, all in a swirl, all around, touching her, grabbing, pushing, trying to trip.
She ran, heedless, pushing back, slapping wildly, kicking awkwardly.
She ran straight into an open pit filled with tar. Faces contorted in pain and disbelief stared up at her. She fell in, sank into the hot tar, felt it against her flesh, felt it clog her clothing.
She screamed in shock and heard her scream echoed from a disembodied head floating beside her. She slapped her hands on the edge of the pit and tried to haul herself up, but the pull of the tar was too strong. Like a fly trying to climb out of cold molasses.
She sagged, held on with her elbows. She was crying freely now, tears blurring everything into a crazy carnival of fantastic faces and weird, impossible forms.
She slipped and held her head free only by virtue of sticking her arms straight out in front of her. She was holding on by her armpits as the faces of the tormented souls bobbed around her, rising to scream, sliding down with a gurgle.
A bird-man, a bird with an impossibly long, razor-sharp beak walking erect on booted feet pecked at her arms.
No! she cried. Leave me alone. Leave me alone. Please, please, please just leave me alone.
A gray-skinned gargoyle with a hideous fright-mask grin laughed at her, laughed in her face and began to pry her fingers up from the ground. She slipped farther.
No, no, no. Please dont hurt me. Please stop. Please.
Violet lost her hold and slid backward, inexorably sucked into the pit. She saw demons dancing jigs around the edge of the pit and then her face slid under the tar.
Wheres Miss Blake? Jobs cried. He looked but there was nothing to see, nothing but the mob of taunting demons, the foul fantasy creatures all around.
One stabbed at him with a short spear and he felt a jolt of pain in his behind. He clapped a hand on the wound and dropped the stretcher.
He felt the spear still protruding and with a desperate cry pulled it free. He swung the spear awkwardly and hit nothing. He searched for the stretcher but somehow he had been swept past it. The tide of evil creatures hid everyone and everything from sight.
Mo! he yelled. Mo! Mo!
A stunning blow caught him from behind and he fell hard, facedown. The wind was gone from his lungs. Hands were everywhere, holding him, lifting him up. He cried out as he rose, carried aloft like some kind of prize.
Mo! Help me! Help me!
Demons carried him high, then turned him over, facedown. Facedown they stretched him, pulling at his legs and arms, pulling him till he thought he might be torn apart. They carried him at a run and then Jobs saw what they planned.
The knifes blade was turned up, the knife horizontal, four feet off the ground. It was ten feet long.
They carried Jobs till he was suspended directly over the knife, lengthwise, so that dropping him would slice him in half.
Jobs wanted to scream but his voice was gone. He tried but no sound emerged.
The demons did not drop him. They lowered him with extravagant care and gently laid him on the knifes edge. He lay there with hands hanging, legs hanging, the blade creasing his belly and chest and lips and nose.
One move and he would die. One slight increase in pressure and the blade would cut him.
And now the demons turned a crank that rattled and creaked and slowly raised the knife point high. Jobs was facing downhill and in a few eternal seconds he would begin to slide down the length of the knife blade.
MoSteel was alone, no Jobs, his mother gone, surrounded and attacked from all sides, cut and bruised and slashed. He glimpsed Four Sacred Streams, the only familiar sight in a landscape of evil.
He heard Jobss scream.
Jobs! he yelled. But he couldnt see his friend. Could do nothing at all, nothing but slap aside a spear thrust and keep running after the Blue Meanie.
The alien was under sustained attack, but the spears did not penetrate his armor, and the claws that snatched at him slid off the deep blue Mylar, unable to gain a hold.
The Blue Meanie pressed forward, pushing now against the sheer physical weight of a howling mob. Pushing his low-slung head into the belly of the devil himself.
MoSteel ripped a spear from a demons hand and threw it. Threw it straight at the eyes that glowed bright red from beneath a turban.
The spear hit the devil a glancing blow, and in return, for taking his attention away from self-defense, MoSteel was punished with a raking, skin-scoring slash from a talon like a hawks.
The Meanie pushed on and MoSteel could do n
othing but follow, nothing but try and keep going forward. Where was his mother? His best friend?
The Blue Meanie stopped, unable to go any farther.
He twisted around and faced MoSteel. There were words scrolling across his chest. MoSteel could barely make sense of them. Nonsense words.
SING TO MY PEOPLE OF MY DEATH .
What?
The blow that knocked MoSteel down made his ears ring. He felt himself flying, flying low, with his face just above the ground.
A fire. He could feel its heat.
A huge round pan, sizzling hot, held over the fire by a reptilian crone.
The demons swung him back, forth, back, building up momentum, and then threw him, tumbling, through the air.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR MMM, BABY WANT SOME NUM NUM.
2Face felt as much as saw the presence of Anamull and D-Caf. She knew they were watching her. She knew they were tensed, ready to spring, waiting for a signal.
But she didnt know why until her father came to her and embraced her awkwardly.
Im glad youre back, Shy Hwang said. But this may be a bad time.
Its always a bad time now, she answered warily.
Its the baby, he said with a significant look.
What about the baby?
Its hungry. It wants to eat. And if we dont feed it, then Tamara wont fight the Riders, and theyre coming, a lot this time.
So feed it. She searched his face for some deeper meaning. He looked away.
2Face shook him but he didnt say anything. She looked up, mystified, and saw Yago. Yago didnt look happy. He looked haunted, ragged. He met her eyes and then shifted focus to just past her. He nodded.
Anamull grabbed her upper arm in an iron grip. He still had his dagger. He put the tip near her throat.
No! Shy Hwang cried. No, you cant do this.
D-Caf said, Yago said. Yago said. Tentatively he grabbed 2Faces free arm.
This is wrong. You cant do this! Shy yelled, but he didnt move. Not my daughter, too. Ive already lost my wife. No!
Move, Anamull whispered in 2Faces ear.
She felt herself propelled forward, passing faces that first looked in horror and then turned away.