Where We Live and Die (13 page)

All three men shivered.

“Yo,” Terrell whispered, “we can’t keep hiding behind this pile of dead bodies. If that thing—whatever it was—don’t get us, then the damn garbage trolls will.”

“He’s right,” Michaels said. “They’ll be along to load these corpses into a Meat Truck any time now.”

Terrell nodded. “We need to get the fuck inside those barracks.”

“Not yet,” Adam cautioned. “We can’t do shit until they send a squad out. If we go in there before the Ushers leave, we’ll be outnumbered—toast.”

Three more heads exploded across the pavement. Michaels wished for an umbrella.

“We’re going to be toast anyway,” he said. “So why don’t you fucking answer your own question while we wait, Adam? What’s the worst thing
you’ve
ever done?”

Adam paused. When he spoke again, they had to strain to hear him over the constant wails of the damned. His eyes were wet and red.

“I killed my wife. She was pregnant. The kid...wasn’t mine. I lost my mind. Made it look like an accident, pushed her out of the attic window. That’s what got me here.”

“Jesus Christ...”

Terrell flinched. “Michaels! You know you ain’t supposed to say that name here. The fuck is wrong with you? Want to lead them right to us? You’ll bring all of Hell down on us.”

“Sorry.”

Adam wiped away his tears. “How about you guys? What did you do to wind up here?”

“I shot a baby,” Terrell said. “My crew was at the zoo, tracking down this bitch that ripped us off. Found her with this baby. Boss-man told me to shoot the baby. I hesitated, but you know how it is. Peer pressure and shit. If I hadn’t done it, that would have been it for my ass. So I did. And then the bitch we were chasing shot me and I woke up here.”

Michaels shook his head, disgusted and speechless.

“What?” Terrell glared at him. “You too good to be here, Michaels? You an innocent man? You here by mistake?”

“I don’t
know
why I’m here,” Michaels said, “but it’s certainly not because I killed somebody. I just lived my life. I’m not an evil person.”

Adam started to respond, but a wailing siren cut him off. All three men risked another peek at the Usher barracks. Red lights flashed inside as the alarm continued to blare. Sulfurous smoke belched from the tall, crooked chimney on top of the building. In the alley, the pavement rumbled beneath their feet.

Michaels gasped. “Feel that?”

“Fuck,” Terrell whispered, “it’s a stampede.”

“It’s not a stampede,” Adam said. “It’s our chance. Cross your fingers.”

Frightened, Terrell grabbed Michaels’s hand and squeezed. Michaels returned the gesture. Terrell’s ulcerated skin burst, squirting pus between Michaels’s fingers, but Michaels didn’t mind. In truth, he barely noticed. His attention was focused on the House of Ushers. Even though he didn’t need to anymore, he forgot to breathe.

Adam leaned forward, watching intently. “Here we go. They’re sending out a squad. Soon as they leave, the barracks will be empty—just a few Ushers and a skeleton crew. All we have to do is make it past them, find the basement, and go through the Deadpass. Then we’re home free.”

Michaels rolled his eyes. “Oh, yeah, no problem—easy as pie.”

“Do you want to back out? Because now is the time.”

“No. But these are fucking Ushers, Adam. They fuck and they kill and they fuck what they kill. That’s what they’re bred for—pain and mutilation and rape. It’s like trying to kill a bull with a toothpick.”

Adam shook his head. “They’re not invincible.”

“Shit,” Terrell said, “they’re damn close. Can’t kill the fuckers on Earth.”

“No, we can’t,” Adam agreed, “but we
can
kill them here. Ushers can die in Hell. Blow their heads off, chop them up, cut out their hearts—and the benevolent damned can cast spells on them here, too.”

“Except,” Michaels reminded him, “none of us are benevolent damned.”

“No,” Adam said, “we aren’t. But we do have weapons. And they’ll work.”

“They better,” Terrell said. “I had to suck the pus out of a thousand infected clits just to score these things.”

“You’d have done that anyway.”

“Fuck you, Adam. I didn’t like eating pussy when I was alive, and I sure as shit don’t like it now.”

Ignoring him, Adam lifted the legs of a corpse and pulled out a large sack. He’d stashed it beneath the bodies when they arrived, safeguarding it from discovery in case they were captured. He opened the sack and reached inside. Michaels and Terrell crowded around him. The first thing Adam pulled out was a sword. The blade was long and thin and very sharp—forged in the Mephistopolis. The metal held a reddish tint, and glinted in the firelight. The hilt was fashioned to depict a mockery of the crucifixion; Christ hung upside down, nailed through the eyes as well as the wrists and feet, his face leering with a madman’s grin, his penis replaced with a crude gaping vagina. Michaels shuddered as he accepted the weapon from Adam. It felt unclean.

Adam produced a second weapon from the sack; a pistol, remarkably similar to a Wilson Combat 1911, but it was manufactured from the black bones of a Great Wyrm. The magazine held ghoul talons instead of bullets. The deadly projectiles had hollow centers, and each one contained a corrosive, acidic center. Terrell held the pistol sideways, so that the sights were pointing to the left.

“That’s what I’m talking about.” He nodded in satisfaction.

“You’re holding it wrong,” Michaels told him.

“That’s how they do it in the movies.”

“Fire it like that and the acid’s gonna splash back on you.”

“Shit.” Terrell sneered, and more of his face fell off. “Ain’t no brass flying out of this thing. Acid gonna go out the front. And besides, you see my motherfucking skin? Acid burns would be an improvement on that shit.”

Michaels shrugged. “Suit yourself.”

Adam pulled out a collapsible shotgun, the twin-barrels folded over the stock. He snapped it into place and locked the hinge with a cotter pin carved from the fang of a Vamphyr. Then he reached into his coat pocket and smiled.

“What kind of ammo does that thing take?” Terrell asked.

Still smiling, Adam pulled his hand from his pocket and opened his fingers. Rough lumps of melted silver lay in his palm. Michaels and Terrell both gasped in surprise. Adam dropped the loads down both barrels.

“Yo,” Terrell asked, “where the fuck did you get silver?”

“You don’t want to know. Let’s just say I paid a price and leave it at that.”

Michaels studied the weapon. “How’s it going to fire? Don’t you need some kind of primer or powder?”

“Nope,” Adam said. “Trust me, it’ll work just fine. Remember that angel they captured last month? Before it died, I snuck into the dungeons and had the angel bless the shotgun. It shoots spells, and never runs out of ammo. The silver is just an extra measure.”

Michaels whistled with appreciation. “You thought ahead.”

“That’s right,” Adam said. “Every step of the way. Soon as I found out there was a Deadpass inside the House of Ushers’ basement, I started planning. So relax. I’m telling you, this will work.”

“It better.”

“What you got back on Earth, anyway?” Terrell asked. “What’s so important, Michaels?”

“You mean escaping from Hell isn’t reason enough?”

“For me and Adam, sure. But you’re different. Could be you don’t belong here, like you say. But whether you do or don’t, I ain’t never met a man that wanted out of here more than you do. I can tell. I read people like books.”

“Is that so?” Michaels raised his middle finger. “Here. Can you read sign language?”

The barracks’ doors flew open and an Usher battalion poured out into the street. Adam, Terrell, and Michaels hugged the pavement, biting their lips and praying to the God who’d condemned them here that they wouldn’t be spotted. The Ushers were dressed for urban riot control—studded leather armor with blood-stained, razor-sharp spikes and edges; great, curved weapons with sigils etched into the blades; firearms that could disintegrate a body with one fiery blast; massive clubs that could pulp the heads of a dozen men with one blow. But the armament was more for psychological use than practical. The Ushers didn’t even need it. Their inhuman design was one of Hell’s most enduring and efficient legacies. An Usher’s claws could rend steel and their jaws and teeth were powerful enough to chew through bedrock. They would lay waste at random, decimating a city block and slaying all who dwelled there. They would rape, dismember, torture, and kill—then do it all over again to anything that was left, regardless of whether it was still recognizable or even intact, all in the name of civil obedience and of keeping the populace on its toes.

All to retain the status quo.

Trembling, Michaels dared to peek over the corpses and watched the battalion march out of sight. The Ushers moved like a column of ants. There were hundreds of them and their stench was terrible. Cloven feet pounded the pavement. The buildings swayed from the vibration. The damned stopped wailing, terrified into silence.

Michaels didn’t notice that both Adam and Terrell had pissed themselves because he was too busy doing the same.

After the column had marched out of sight, the three men stood up. Still concealed in the alley, they peered out at the House of Ushers. The barracks were silent. The two guards were still positioned at the door, but their attention was focused farther down the street, where a baby vendor was serving up roasted infants on hot buns and loading them with ketchup, mustard, onions and relish. The vendor handed the treats to three minor demons, who greedily devoured them. Watching, the Ushers drooled, but did not leave their post.

“They’re distracted.” Adam readied the shotgun, holding it slightly upright so the silver wouldn’t slip out of the barrels. “You guys ready?”

“Let’s do this shit,” Terrell said.

Michaels gripped the sword and nodded. He was too afraid to speak.

Adam strode out of the alley and quickly crossed the street. After a moment’s hesitation, Michaels and Terrell followed. As they drew closer, one of the Ushers turned toward them, broad nostrils flaring, catching their scent. It grunted, more out of annoyance than surprise. Snorting, it took a single step in their direction. The pavement grew black where it trod. Adam faltered. Behind him, Michaels and Terrell prepared to run.

Then Adam shot the Usher in the face.

The shotgun belched greenish-white flame. The creature reared backward, clawing at its eyes. Crackling energy clung to its head. Its mottled flesh sizzled, sloughing off in sheets. Michaels sniffed the air. Above the stench of sulfur and shit and his own piss, he smelled cooked meat. His stomach grumbled. He hadn’t eaten in a year.

Bellowing, the wounded Usher collapsed to its knees, and then tottered forward, dead. Its flesh continued to bubble and fizz. The other guard rushed toward them. It made no sound, but its eyes said all they needed to know. Michaels raised his sword with trembling hands and braced himself for the charge. He shut his eyes and whimpered. Adam’s shotgun rang out again. Michaels heard the second Usher fall. He opened his eyes and stared in disbelief. Both creatures had been dispatched.

“Holy shit.”

“Indeed,” Adam said. “Now let’s keep moving.”

They dashed up the steps and halted in front of the closed door. This close to the barracks, the building’s aura nauseated them. Michaels fought to keep from puking. He didn’t need to, of course. There was nothing in his stomach
to
puke up. But the old habits of living died hard.

“What the fuck we waiting for?” Terrell reached for the handle.

“Don’t,” Adam warned him, but it was too late.

Terrell’s hand wrapped around the door handle. Immediately, the brass twisted, coming to life. Metallic tendrils coiled around his fingers and squeezed. His bones snapped. Terrell screamed. The tendrils climbed higher, racing up his wrist and forearm, pulling him closer.

“The sword,” Adam yelled. “Michaels, cut him loose.”

“I can’t just—”

“Do it, motherfucker,” Terrell shrieked. His eyes rolled into the back of his head and his teeth chattered with pain and shock. “It ain’t like the shit ain’t gonna grow back again. Cut it off, man!”

Michaels raised the sword, hesitating.

Adam shoved him. “What are you waiting for?”

Terrell moaned. The coils had reached his elbow. More bones snapped. Blood flowed. Cursing, Michaels brought the sword down, cleaving Terrell’s arm just above the elbow. The hilt grew warm in his hands, and the carved figure of Christ sighed against his palm. Disgusted, Michaels almost dropped the sword.

Terrell stared at his stump. Blood jetted from the wound. The tentacles crushed the severed appendage into paste. Then they slowly reformed into a doorknob.

“I’m sorry, man,” Michaels apologized. “There wasn’t anything else we could do.”

Terrell grinned. “Shit, it don’t matter. Like I said, it’ll grow back. They always do in this place. Long as I can still hold this pistol, it ain’t no thing.”

He demonstrated, posing like Wesley Snipes in
New Jack City
.