Hellfighters by Alexander Gordon Smith
Marlow opened his lips and started to snore.
Pan pulled back in surprise. Marlow was fast asleep, his mouth hanging open, his nose flaring. She gave him a gentle nudge, then a firmer one, but he didn’t so much as stir. She wasn’t sure whether to be angry or humiliated, but in the end she laughed, returning her face to his chest. His breaths were like the soft whisper of ocean waves and when she closed her eyes that’s what she saw—sunlight and surf, golden sands in every direction and the gulls wheeling overhead. She lay there, in the warmth, in the quiet. She just lay there next to him, and she slept.
BREATHLESS
The first thing Marlow noticed when he woke was that he wasn’t alone.
There was somebody else in the bed, somebody warm, somebody practically naked. Pan lay on her back next to him, almost drowning in the downy piles of soft sheets and duvets and pillows. She was wearing a dressing gown and it had untangled in her sleep to reveal a glimpse of stomach, curving up. It rose and fell gently, and Marlow might have stared a little longer if he hadn’t become aware of the second thing.
He couldn’t breathe.
He tried to inhale, and nothing happened. The panic of it made him sit bolt upright, his fingers clawing at his chest, his neck. He tried again, sounding like a kazoo as he wrenched in a thimbleful of oxygen.
Pan was awake now, her eyes wide in alarm as she scrabbled from the bed. She spun around, surveying the room, her fists bunched and ready to fight. When she looked back at Marlow her dressing gown hung open.
He did his best not to look, then looked.
If his asthma had been bad before, it was seriously bad now.
“Marlow!” Pan yelled, following his eyes and pulling the gown closed. “What the hell?”
Can’t. Breathe. He couldn’t get the words out. Lurching onto his knees, he coughed as hard as he could, the blockage like industrial glue in his lungs.
“For God’s sake.” Pan jumped back onto the bed and slapped him on the back, hard enough to send him sprawling.
I’m not choking! he tried to say, rolling off the bed, winded now as well as wheezing. He made for the door, his accordion lungs turning him into a one-man band. Wrenching it open, he ran down the corridor and around the corner, jamming a hand on the elevator button.
“Marlow, where are you going?” Pan shouted as she followed, knotting her dressing gown cord. They entered the elevator together.
“In … ha … ler,” Marlow stuttered, snatching in a breath between each syllable. He was awake enough now for it to have sunk in: Ostheim had canceled his contract.
“Oh,” said Pan. “Hang on.”
The journey down to the lobby seemed to take a hundred years. He didn’t wait for the doors to open fully, just squeezed through them and ran for reception. There were two women and a man there and they all saw him coming, one of them reaching for a phone. Marlow slapped his hands on the desk, pointing to his chest.
Not that he needed to, he was pretty sure he was turning blue.
He hauled in a couple of shallow breaths and it was like trying to douse a house fire with a water pistol, the fear an inferno inside him. His vision was turning charcoal black at the edges. Nobody was moving.
“He needs help,” said Pan. “Asthma. An inhaler.”
The receptionists stared at one another, but still nobody budged. Pan leaped over the desk, scattering paper. Marlow tried to follow but he didn’t have the energy for the jump. He ran around the side, ignoring the protests. Pan was already through the back door and he tailed her into an office. His legs were fast running out of steam and he crashed into a chair, each breath like there was a boulder on his chest.
Pan grabbed a green first-aid case off the wall, its contents flying as she opened it up. She dug among the Band-Aids and the painkillers, and it seemed like a million years later that she held up a small turquoise inhaler.
“This?” she said. He had no idea, but he nodded and she threw it at him.
He reached for it, missed, and it bounced off his face.
“Sorry,” said Pan, picking it up and handing it over.
He put the end in his mouth and pressed, and again—please please please—until the pressure began to ease. He sucked in air, everything crackling like his respiratory system was made of popping candy.
By the time he’d calmed down, the receptionists were hovering in the doorway, yelling at them in Italian.
“Better?” Pan said, ignoring them.
He wasn’t sure if he could speak yet so he nodded, wiping the foam from his lips.
“Good,” she said, grabbing his hand and lifting him out of the seat. Together they walked back out into the hotel lobby. There was a small crowd of people there, all of them watching. One of them was Herc, sipping coffee from a china mug. He’d done his best to clean himself up but the old guy still looked like a bear that had wandered in from the forest. He did a double take when he spotted them.
“For the love of…” he started to say, putting the cup down and beckoning to them. He flashed an apologetic smile to the receptionists. “Bambini, eh? Kids today are always up to something.”
He waited until Pan and Marlow were close enough before grabbing them each by the upper arm and steering them back toward the elevators. Only when they were safely inside did he let them go.
“You wanna tell me how that can be classed as keeping a low profile?” he said. “No fuss, no drama. I thought we’d agreed.”
They had, on the agonizingly slow ice cream truck ride over. Paris had been nuked; it was all over the news. Nobody had the slightest idea who was behind it, but it didn’t take much to get people talking.
“His contract was canceled,” said Pan. “He woke up and he couldn’t breathe. What was I supposed to do?”
“Use the phone, maybe?” he replied as the elevator dinged its way up. “Dammit. Charlie’s contract’s been canceled, too. Told me this … Wait, how did you know he woke up like that?”
Pan turned away, focusing on the wall like there was a TV screen. Herc looked at Marlow, one eyebrow conducting a lone foraging mission on his forehead.
“Uh…” was the only thing Marlow could think of to say.
“For the love of everything holy,” Herc muttered. The elevator stopped and the door slid open. “We leave in fifteen minutes,” he said, stepping out. “Meet me in the lobby. Don’t be late. And, guys, put some clothes on? What is it with you young ones and running around naked?”
He threw them another look then disappeared. Marlow glanced down at himself, realizing he was wearing nothing but his jockey shorts. He covered himself up while Pan pressed the button for their floor.
She didn’t so much as glance at him, her attention firmly fixed on the numbers as they flicked up. Marlow thought back, trying to remember anything from last night. He’d just been so exhausted. He could recall her knocking at the door, waking him up, then climbing into bed with him.
Wait, she climbed into bed with me?
“What happened last night?” he said. “Did we…?”
Pan spluttered a laugh. “You were upset, I couldn’t face you blubbering all night. End of.”
He could still feel her there, though, her body pressed against his. He had to angle himself against the wall, yelling, Think of something else, think of something else. But all he could picture was her, lying there beside him. And something else, too, her lips pressed against his as he drifted into sleep.
“Wait, you kissed me,” he said, grinning. He put his fingers to his lips. “You totally kissed me.”
“What? No way, Marlow. You must have dreamed it.”
But she still hadn’t turned to face him. He could just about feel the heat radiating from her cheeks.
“You did!” he said. “Last night, you kissed me.”
“Whatever,” she said.
The elevator slowed to a halt, the doors sliding open. Pan walked out so quickly she bumped her arm on the way, lurching into the corridor.
“You kissed
“Thirteen minutes, Marlow!” she yelled.
He gave her a head start then walked back to his room, letting himself in. He must have slept nine hours straight but all he wanted to do was throw himself back beneath the covers, back into the sweet shampoo smell of her. After yesterday he could have been unconscious for a week solid and still woken up tired.
But the thought of Herc dragging him from his bed in twelve minutes was enough to keep him standing.
He used the restroom and slung on the clothes he’d bought from a gas station somewhere in the Alps—Truck had stopped the truck after a few hours and declared that the smell was so bad he couldn’t focus on the road. They weren’t exactly fashionable—a pair of green combat pants and a black T-shirt that claimed SKI YOU AGAIN SOON!—but at least they didn’t reek of violence and death.
He pocketed the inhaler, giving it a shake first to gauge how much was left. Enough, he thought. Although if the world really was about to end then it might be wise to stock up. Nothing was guaranteed to bring on an asthma attack like a demon chasing you down the street.
The thought brought him home, to where he kept his spares. The memory was so vivid it had the effect of a punch to the solar plexus, and he had to sit on the bed before another attack came on. He could see the cupboard beside his bed, always buried beneath soda bottles and candy wrappers and the glasses of water he took to bed each night. His bed, too, never made unless his mom was having a good day and she did it for him. He lay back and closed his eyes and for a moment, for a blissful moment, he was right back there on Staten Island, horns blaring outside and the smell of the city drifting in through the open window, about to head to school or go hang out with Charlie.
For those few seconds he was right there.
And it broke his heart.
He snapped his eyes open, reality rushing back—all the more powerful for having been momentarily forgotten. It seemed utterly ridiculous. No, it seemed impossible, that just one day ago he had been waging a war beneath the streets of Paris, fighting in a battle that would decide the fate of the planet. He laughed at the absurdity of it, but the laughter was hollow, and it ended in a sob.
He sat up, knuckling his eyes, everything flashing white. He thought about the last time he’d seen his mom, her chasing him from the house, the dog trying to chew his face off. She hadn’t even recognized him. She’d have no idea where he was, no idea if he was even alive.
There was a monitor on the desk in his room, the hotel logo spinning lazily on the screen. A keyboard sat next to it and Marlow walked over, prodding the mouse to wake it up. It took him a moment to work out how to access the Web browser, then another five minutes to remember the password for his Gmail before it finally loaded.
Twelve pages of junk, insurance claims, injury compensation, online degrees, a notification that his X-Box Gold membership was about to expire—sadly nothing about dealing with demons. He found an old e-mail from his mom—Hey Marlow I got my phone working can u tell me if u get this momx—and clicked REPLY.
Hey Mom, he typed, popping his lips, the cursor blinking impatiently at him. Sorry I haven’t been in touch, been real busy. Got a new job, was a mad rush. Nothing bad, don’t worry. All legit. You could even say I was saving the world.
Saving it? He’d pretty much single-handedly destroyed it.
So, yeah, he typed as he thought. Things are cool. But Mom, I think something bad might be coming. Something really bad.
Hell is coming, he thought, clamping his mouth shut so he wouldn’t spew all over the keyboard.
Just make sure you stay safe, promise? Lock the doors, get some bottled water and flashlight batteries.
Yeah, that would really help.
I love you, he wrote, his eyes burning, the type suddenly blurry. I really do. I’ll be back soon, okay? Just don’t worry.
He read it back, touching the cold screen with the tips of his fingers as if he could send a thought alongside it, send something of himself.
“I’ll be back soon,” he said, as if by speaking the lie aloud he would somehow make it true. Then he clicked SEND.
There was nothing else for him to pack.
Logging out of the computer, he left his room and slogged back down to the lobby. There was nobody else there, but when he looked through the big glass doors he saw them all in front of the hotel, basking in the sunlight. Herc, Pan, Truck, and Charlie stood to one side, Claire and Jaime on the other.
They all looked over at him, and their collective grins seemed brighter than the shimmering white walls of the hotel.
All except for Pan, who looked like she’d just swallowed a cheese grater.
“Morning, lover boy!” said Truck, his laughter like the distant rumble of a storm.
Oh God.
“I warned you!” Pan said, jabbing a finger at Truck.
“Sorry,” Truck said, holding up his hands. “Just hate to see you fight. Can’t you kiss and make up?”
Pan stormed at him, ready to swing. Herc stepped between them like a boxing referee, pushing her away.
“Cool it, Pan,” he said.
She turned away, glaring at Marlow like it was all his fault.
“Okay,” said Herc. “You guys had enough? Let’s go.”
He walked off the forecourt, heading around the side of the hotel and into a parking lot. It was sweltering even though it wasn’t quite seven in the morning. The concrete swam in a heat haze and Marlow half expected to see demons dragging themselves from the molten earth. Charlie cleared his throat.
“So, like I was saying, Mammon told me that’s what it meant, Circulus Inferni. Not the Circle of Hell, like a group of devil worshippers or something. More circle like, I don’t know, like a wall, like a prison. That’s what they meant, they wanted to lock hell inside a circle, to stop the bad things getting out.”
“Bit late to be finding that out,” muttered Herc.
“And the Fist,” Charlie went on. “It’s not so much a fist that strikes hell but one that strikes with the force of hell.”
“Who the hell thought these names up?” said Truck. “And in Latin, too. Why didn’t they just have the Good Guys and the Evil Mothers? Would have saved us a bit of heartache.”
“It doesn’t matter,” said Herc, leading them past the parked cars. “Fist, Circle, none of that means anything anymore. You just have to know one thing: we’re Hellraisers. Raising hell to save the world. That’s us. Okay?”
Nobody replied, and Herc tutted loudly as he led them toward a minibus with British license plates.
“Saint Agatha’s Convent of the Sacred Heart?” Charlie said, reading the elaborate script on the side of the bus.
“Let’s just say Saint Agatha doesn’t want us riding in the cab of an ice cream truck anymore,” Herc said, sliding open the door.
“You’re stealing a bus that belongs to a bunch of nuns, aren’t you?” Marlow asked.
“They’re lending it,” he said. “Without knowledge or consent. Not like I ain’t going to hell already. Hang on.”
He held out a hand to stop Charlie from entering the bus.
“Look, I’m not gonna lie to you,” he said, squinting into the sun. He sighed, rubbing a hand over his gray stubble. “Ostheim has taken the Engines. I don’t know how long it will take him, but he will find a way of bringing them together and opening the gates. Of that, there is absolutely no doubt. An hour, a day, a week, a month, then this, all of this, becomes a wasteland, a feeding ground for hell’s worst.”
Marlow looked across the parking lot, seeing a couple strolling from their car, the mom carrying a wide-eyed toddler. Past them, an old couple, the man in a wheelchair, in the shade of the hotel awning waiting for a taxi. Past them, a valley town, buildings glittering, looking like they carried the mountains on their shoulders. How many people there? How many in this country? T
“I honestly don’t know if there’s anything we can do to stop it,” Herc said. “We’ve got no powers, no contracts, no weapons. We only—” He swallowed, something dark boiling in his eyes. “We only found out what side we were fighting on a day ago. We don’t even know if this woman, Meridiana, can help us.”
“Herc,” said Pan, “you really need to work on your motivational speeches.”
“Yeah, watch Braveheart, dude,” said Truck. “‘Freedom!’”
“All I’m saying,” Herc continued, “is that I won’t blame any of you if you decide you don’t want to get on this bus. Some of you have family, friends, people you might want to … to say goodbye to. You turn around and walk away then I won’t hate you for it. I’ll even get you home. If the world’s ending, then there’s nothing wrong with wanting to see it out with the ones you love.”
“Who the hell are you and what have you done with Herc?” said Pan.
“I’m not—”
“Are you going soft on us, old man?” Truck said.
“Maybe we should take him back inside,” said Marlow, smiling. “I think the hotel has a babysitting service for toddlers.”
“Hey—”
“Just get out of the way,” said Charlie, nudging Herc to the side. “It’s hot out here.”
“Yeah,” said Truck, rustling his pockets. “I got half my minibar in here and it’s losing its cool.”
“How you guys managed to evade Mammon so long, I have no idea,” muttered Jaime, stomping up the steps. “Dictionary definition of unprofessional.”
Claire followed her, still rubbing her gut and looking like she’d eaten a pound of out-of-date shrimp. Pan put a hand on Herc’s chest.
“Got nowhere else to go,” she said. “And even if I did, I’m here for the ride.” She started up the steps then dropped back down. “One more word about last night, though, and you’re on your own.”
She disappeared into the shade of the bus.