Matthew Fryer

EVEN HELL BREEDS MARTYRS

by Matthew Fryer

Frank crawled from the manhole and rolled onto his anaemic back in the alleyway, gasping for breath.

He lay in the darkness, waiting for his heart to calm. His naked skin was a patchwork of welts and electrode burns, and his head rolled with nausea. But despite the beauty of the open sky above him – something Frank had been dreaming about for years – he didn’t have time to savour it.

Above the bang of blood in his skull, he heard nothing but the grind of distant traffic. If they were still in pursuit, then they were relying on stealth.

The thought of his sulphur-eyed stalkers moved him to action. Frank rose, glass jabbing at his bare feet, but scarcely noticed the pain. He staggered through the moonlit garbage to the end of the alleyway. The street beyond was deserted, just the jaundiced glow of street lamps, the windows of the buildings shadowed and silent.

Somebody was coming.

He sank back into the murk as a young man walked into view, boots scuffing the ground, head hung low. Frank held his breath, trying to massage some feeling back into his aching fingers.

The man yelped as Frank leapt from the alleyway and dragged him backward, slapping one hand across his mouth. His victim struggled briefly, but Frank spun him around and slammed his skull against the wall. He dropped like a sack.

The young man wore jeans, vest and a biker jacket. He moaned gently but didn’t resist as Frank stripped him down to his underwear, roughly tugging the clothes from his body. He felt a twinge of guilt; what he had been through over the last few years made him never want to see pain again, but the threat of being torn back down to Hell was more than enough to spur him to violence.

He dressed quickly, laced up the boots, and checked the pockets of the jacket. There was a wallet, fat with money and credit cards. He took the cash and tossed the wallet back onto the man.

Frank was just about to leave, when something made him turn back to the alleyway. Dark, malevolent shapes began to emerge from the ink-black circle of the manhole.

He turned and bolted, his footsteps echoing through the night.

The deserted street soon came to a junction and Frank glanced left and right, dread pounding in his throat. The shops and businesses were closed, graffiti-smeared shutters down for the night. He had no idea what city this was, not even which country, although the chain stores and rusted road-signs were vaguely familiar. Nostalgia tingled his heart, but he swallowed it. There would be time for that later, once he was safe.

Would he ever be safe?

Frank turned left and hurried towards a neon sign, a beacon of crimson in the gloom. Two black-clad men were standing beneath it. Looking over his shoulder, he wondered if the demons had found the man he’d attacked, and tried not to wonder what they might be doing to him.

Just get the off the streets. Lose yourself in a crowd.

He arrived at the entrance to a nightclub. It was called The Killing Floor, barbed wire coiled around the door. The bouncers were built like professional wrestlers and eyed him suspiciously. He realised that with his unkempt hair, wild gaze and the brutal scars around his neck – the legacy of countless decapitations and surgical reattachments – he must look like a fight waiting to happen.

“Evening,” Frank said casually. The bouncers grunted in response, but didn’t intercept. He checked the street behind him. It was empty.

Not daring to allow himself to be relieved, he stepped inside. Heavy, somnambulant music pulsed through the walls as he approached the ticket booth. A dread-locked girl with a steel bullring through her nose peered at him through the glass.

“You’ve been through the wars,” she frowned.

“Tell me about it. Just got out of hospital. Car crash. Wanted to let my hair down.”

That seemed to assuage her. “Good for you. That’s a fiver.”

Frank took the money from the wad in his pocket and paid the girl.

“Cheers. Have a good night. Just be careful, okay. Lively crowd tonight.”

“Thanks.”

He passed through the black-painted door beside the booth and entered the Killing Floor.

The room shimmied with a sea of bodies as they moved in time to the music: buzzsaw guitars and dungeon drums. Frank edged through the crowd to the bar, restless and out of practice. It was a long time since he’d been so close to people, and this crowd had attitude. They wore their hair long or buzzed down to the scalp, their skin decorated with tattoos and piercings. Several wore tee-shirts displaying Satanic imagery.

If only they knew.

He bought a beer and leaned on the bar, taking a deep swig. His arid throat sighed with gratitude; he couldn’t remember the last time he’d had so much as a sip of water.

“Hi!”

Frank turned to see a young woman standing beside him. She had big racoon eyes and a cute smile. Her hair was tied up in streaked pigtails and she wore camouflage combats and a tee-shirt emblazoned with the slogan “I will ruin your life”.

“Hi,” he said, keeping one restless eye on the entrance to the club.

“Avoiding someone?”

“Yeah. Kind of.”

She took a sip of her drink, a bottle of evil looking green. “So, do you come here often?” she asked with a mischievous smile.

“No. In fact, I don’t even know where I am.”

“Really?” she grinned, and Frank felt something stir inside; feelings squirming in his heart and groin that he hadn’t felt since he was alive. “Who are you running from?”

“Demons.”

“You seen Hell or something?”

“Yes.”

“Haven’t we all,” she shrugged.

Something shimmered in the doorway of the club. Frank’s heart thudded against his ribs, but then a couple of teenagers stepped inside, monochrome beauties of black lipstick and pale cleavage.

“No. You don’t understand.” He turned back to the woman. A cloud of dry ice billowed around their ankles with a mechanical hiss. It reminded him of the insidious fog that crept Hell’s darkest corners. “I wasn’t speaking metaphorically.”

She raised her eyebrows. “So you’ve really seen Hell?”

Frank nodded.

“Flames and pitchforks, and all that?”

“Something like that.” He regarded her face. There was no mockery in her glittering eyes, and he found himself becoming intoxicated by her presence.

She leaned on the bar beside him, watching the crowd.

Frank eyed the door again, but dry ice had engulfed the back wall and he could see nothing through the smog. He cursed and took another gulp of beer.

“What’s wrong?” the woman asked. Then before he could reply: “Oh yeah, the demons. You can’t see if they’re coming.”  

“Exactly.”

“What’s your name?”

“Frank.”

“I’m Alisha. Alisha Cave.”

She extended a hand and he shook it. Her touch was warm and tender. He smiled, something else he hadn’t done in a long time, and it felt good. His wired heart mellowed slightly.

“So Alisha,” he said. “Are you going to ruin my life?”

She looked down at her tee-shirt and giggled. The sound was utterly endearing. “No. In fact, I could help you save it.”

“Thanks,” he said. “But… there are things happening that…”

“That I wouldn’t understand?”

“Yes.” Frank drained his bottle and set it down on the bar. The cloud of dry ice had ebbed, but the door had been obscured for some time. The demons could be anywhere. He peered at the people nearby. Some were windmilling their long hair in time to the pounding music, others chatted and laughed. A bearded man in a Slayer hoody swaggered past, and eyed Frank with menace. He didn’t look like a demon, but Frank didn’t know if Hell’s torturers had developed a talent for espionage.

“The demons won’t chase you forever,” Alisha said.

He felt a pang of attraction for this woman. Most people would run a mile from a twitchy, scarred bloke who claimed he was on the Devil’s shitlist. But not her. Even if she didn’t know what he really meant, her heart was genuine. But then what if she did know? Perhaps she too had escaped? Licking his dry lips, Frank ordered another beer.

“I love this club,” Alisha smiled. “It reminds me of when I was alive.” She closed her eyes. The guitars vibrated through Frank’s guts and he wished he could fully appreciate the music, the beer in his hand and the company of this girl.

“You look pretty much alive to me, Alisha Cave.”

“So do you.” She winked at him. “So where do you live?”

“I don’t,” was all he could say.

He noticed a man standing further down the bar behind Alisha. His bald head gleamed like a pool ball beneath the lights as he carefully surveyed the crowd. He licked his lips with a narrow tongue, and Frank noticed that his teeth were too long. Although standing at the bar, he didn’t have a drink.

“Shit,” he breathed, crouching down slightly behind Alisha.

“Are you alright?”

“No. Listen, I’m gonna take a walk.”

“Okay.” Alisha’s humour evaporated, replaced with concern. “If you want to find me, go to the cemetery behind the club.”

“You live in a cemetery?”

“Where else? Through the main gates, fourth tomb on the left.” With that, she disappeared on to the dance floor.

Frank blinked, but didn’t have time to ponder her strange revelation. He slunk along the bar away from the demon, trying to immerse himself in the crowd and the drifts of smoke. Icy sweat prickled his brow, despite the heat.

Someone shoved past him and he realised he was standing by the toilets. He could just see the entrance to the club from here and as he watched, a figure seemed to glide inside. The new arrival - a lanky and rawboned man - looked towards the bar, his vulpine gaze unblinking. The demon standing there lowered his head and nodded almost imperceptibly. They both began to scan to the club.

Frank stepped back, bile filling his throat as the new demon glanced in his direction.

Someone emerged from the door behind him, and he ducked inside. The smell of marijuana mixed with stale urine burned his eyes as he strode down a short corridor and into the men’s room.

He quickly shut the door behind him, and the bass from the club was muted, rumbling through the dirty, tiled walls like some kind of hideous heartbeat. Frank checked the two cubicles, but there was nobody else in here, and no fire exit or windows. He was cornered, and alone.

You fucking idiot.

The volume of music briefly rose as someone entered the short passageway outside. It was a demon; Frank could feel it in his Hell-weary bones. He darted inside the nearest cubicle to hide, his hands trembling as he engaged the flimsy lock.

The door of the men’s room creaked open and a presence immediately fouled the air: a familiar, invisible evil.

Frank shrieked as the cubicle door burst open, smashing against the wall. A demon filled the doorframe, its controlled façade gone without a trace. Its yellow eyes bulged, mouth opening wide to reveal teeth that glistened like wet, splintered bones.

There was a bang and the cubicle filled with shattered fragments. The demon’s face contorted with pure rage, green liquid and glass raining from its skull as it turned to face its assailant.

Alisha stood there, clutching the end of the smashed bottle in her fist. The demon bellowed and lunged. She danced back, avoiding its sweeping arms, then turned and bolted through the doorway. The demon reared and tore after her.

“Run!” she cried as they disappeared.

Frank emerged from the cubicle on jellied legs, through the door, staggered down the empty passageway and re-entered the club.  

He gasped.

Before him on the floor, one of the bouncers was wrestling with a demon. They fought clumsily but sickeningly hard, a startled circle clearing around them. All over the club, reinforcements from both sides were coming. Bouncers barged people aside with practised ease, shouting into their head-mikes. Demons, slick as living oil, oozed swiftly through the crowd.

As Frank gaped around for Alisha, the brawling bouncer at his feet howled, arterial blood jetting across the floor. The demon swayed majestically to its feet. Blood poured from its victim, his whole body sodden with dark crimson as though he’d been dipped in an abattoir drain.

The crowd turned pale, blinking up at the figure who stood triumphant as slayer. His hands flexed with the kill, his grin stretching impossibly wide.

As the other bouncers and demons burst into the space, the panic began. Frank was jostled, almost knocked off his feet as people began to push in different directions. They knew in their drunken hearts that Hell itself was in their presence. Screams rose above the chugging soundtrack as Frank took his chance and ploughed towards the exit. Above the heads of the fleeing clubbers, a demon loomed to the left of the door, scouring the crowd with blast-furnace eyes.

Frank grabbed a baseball cap from the head of some reeling kid and pulled it on. He fought across to the right side of the stampede, as far away from the sentinel demon as possible. A young girl fell in front of him with a squeal and Frank grimaced as the crowds surged over her flailing form, boots trampling her arms and legs, glancing her skull, breaking her nose.

He was carried through the exit, no longer able to control his direction, trying to worm his head down to avoid the demon’s scrutiny. The warmth of the club evaporated and the cold night air bathed his face. Terror-struck clubbers were spilling in different directions. Some fell to the ground in tears, some sprinted down the street, others cried out for their lost friends.  

Frank instantly remembered Alisha. She said she lived in the cemetery behind the club.

Hoping she had escaped, he saw a narrow alleyway beside the building and plunged into the darkness. Kicking through litter and discarded bottles, he soon emerged into a narrow road.

The cemetery stretched before him, a tangle of tombstones and mausoleums, bone grey beneath the night sky. Frank rushed across the road and through an open gate in the perimeter fence. He cringed as the gravel path crunched beneath his boots, loud in the reverent calm.

He glanced back at the alleyway, his vision dancing with exhaustion. No demons.

Yet.

He hurried past crooked graves and the first tomb. Stone angels watched blindly from its roof, their eyes green with lichen.

Through the gate, fourth tomb on the left.

Carefully counting the mausoleums, he stopped at the fourth. There was a solid iron door in the entrance, hanging ajar. Frank stumbled across the cold grass, pushed open the door and collapsed inside onto dusty paving slabs. Sirens swirled out in the night, no doubt heading for the carnage in the Killing Floor. This would be headline news.

And it’s all my fault.

As his vision adjusted, he saw that there were three coffins in the tomb. He rose to his feet, legs burning with the effort. Other than sobbing for mercy and straining against white-hot chains and clamps, he’d had very little exercise over the last couple of years. Leaning on the nearest coffin, he saw a metal plaque.

“Alisha Cave. Died aged 23. In our hearts forever,” read the simple epitaph.

Driven by ghoulish curiosity, Frank undid the brass catches and hoisted the coffin lid.

At first he wondered if Alisha had made it back to the tomb before him, but quickly realised that this was nothing but a corpse. Her dead body was perfectly preserved, dressed in linen grave clothes. Her arms were folded across her chest, hair immaculately styled, countenance peaceful and undaunted. This was not the Alisha he had met in the nightclub; this was the body of a soul long since departed.

“So now you know.”

He whirled to see Alisha standing in the doorway.

“Sorry.” She pulled a face. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”

Frank exhaled, looking back at the corpse, then to Alisha again. They were the same person, but one an abandoned shell, the other a living, breathing woman. “So you’re AWOL from the abyss too?”

She nodded, stepping inside.

“How long ago?”

“A few weeks.”

“And you’ve lived here since?”

“I couldn’t think of anywhere else to go. Something drew me back to this tomb. It might sound stupid, but it kind of feels like home.”

“So what are we? Ghosts or something?”

“I’ve no idea.” She shrugged. “Theology and the physics of death isn’t my specialist subject, but I suppose we must be. How long have you been dead?”

“Years…” Frank shuddered.

Alisha peered at the clumsy scars climbing his neck, the dark circles beneath his eyes as though reading Hell’s torture like a book. “Oh God Frank….” she breathed, stepped forward, and hugged him tight.

He hugged her back, and the feeling of this woman in his arms reawakened his soul. “Thanks for saving me back there.”

“You’re welcome.”

“Is there anyone else who’s escaped?”

“Not that I know of, but I guess there must be others.”

They disentangled and stood face to face. Frank regarded her gravely. “So now what? Are we safe in here?”

“I don’t know. I think they’d given up on me, but I guess smashing bottles over demon’s heads kind of re-ignites their interest.” She smiled “At least now I’ve got a friend.”

Sirens and distant screams rose on a midnight breeze. Frank closed his eyes.

“It’s not your fault,” Alisha said, reading his guilt. “It’s some kind of mess up at a divine level that’s allowed this to happen. Blame God, Lucifer, whoever’s supposed to be in control of the demons.”

They froze as a hiss echoed through the cemetery outside, too brittle to be the sighing breeze. Furtive footsteps disturbed the gravel path.

“They followed us,” Alisha whispered, shrinking back into the shadows of the tomb.

Frank swallowed as his long-empty stomach cramped and sour beer bubbled in his throat. The serpentine sounds oozed closer.

Turning to Alisha’s open coffin, he reached down and gripped her corpse underneath the arms and dragged the dead weight out onto the floor.

“What are you doing?”

Frank lay the body on the cold stone floor. “Quick. Take off your clothes.”

Alisha blinked. A moment later she realised his intention. “No. I can’t let you do this.”

“You can and you will. You saved me earlier tonight, and in doing so, got the demons back on your trail. It’s my turn now. I’m trapped, but there’s a chance you can get away.”

Alisha gazed into his eyes, leaned forward and kissed him gently on the lips. The touch was beautiful, and spoke an immeasurable gratitude. “Thank you.”

“I’ll be okay. Hurry.” Frank looked through the doorway. Jagged black phantoms were stalking between the gravestones towards the tomb, the moonlight catching their lidless eyes. “They’re coming…”

He tore the mouldering grave clothes from the corpse as Alisha stripped down to her underwear. Her body was furrowed with vicious scars and lacerations, and Frank wondered what the poor girl had done in life that was so bad. Together, they awkwardly dressed the corpse in her combats and tee-shirt, desperately pulling the clothes over its limp arms and legs. It was a surreal moment.

“Get in the coffin.”

Alisha’s cheeks were slick with tears. “I can’t leave you to them.”

“There’s no time for this, Alisha. You’ve got a chance, please don’t waste it. Quick!”

Even as he spoke, an insectile snicker drifted in from right outside the tomb.

Alisha jumped into the coffin and lay down.

“When we’ve gone, you run. I’ll see you again one day. I promise.”

Her wet, unblinking eyes implored him, but there was nothing to say, no words to do justice to his sacrifice. Frank closed the lid, and turned back to the corpse just as a spindly silhouette loomed in the doorway.

He dropped down beside Alisha’s corpse and wrapped his arms around it, breathing in the scent of formaldehyde and decay.

The demon bayed in victory, a metallic sound that jangled Frank’s spine, and the rest of the horde bounded hungrily across the grass and into the tomb. Sharp-nailed hands grasped him tight. He pressed Alisha’s head into the hollow of his throat to disguise the empty lifelessness of her face. Cold lips pressed his neck.

Clinging on with every ounce of strength, Frank was hoisted along with the corpse, and carried from the tomb.

They swept through the cemetery and out of the gate, sharp footfalls skittering on the road. Helpless, Frank buried his face in Alisha’s musty hair, hoping, praying, that she would escape the tomb before the demons realised the deception and went tearing back for revenge.

Dank coldness pressed in, and he glimpsed brick walls, felt the throbbing engine of the city weighing down from above. The horde was descending a flight of filthy, cellar steps. Just one of the many portals to Hell. Perhaps they were everywhere; manholes, storm-drains, shafts…

The demons stopped. Frank was roughly pulled from Alisha’s corpse and flung hard onto the stairs. He cried out as his knees and face cracked against the stone, a vicious reminder of the agony he was now condemned to suffer again. He threw up down the front of his stolen jacket.

The demons howled in unison as they realised what they had captured: nothing but the empty skin of a girl. Her ghost, her soul, whatever it might be, was somewhere behind them, hopefully out of the coffin and away into the night.

Frank allowed himself a lop-sided, bloody smile as the enraged shrieks of the demons rattled off the narrow walls. Their brimstone eyes blazed and he savoured the brief sensation of victory, guessing it would be his last chance.

He was right. It took the demons a split-second to rip the smile off his face, and replace it with an expression more fitting to the eternity of torment that awaited.

And this time, there would no escape.

(c) Matthew Fryer

 

First published in Damned Nation (c) Hellbound Books Publishing     

 

Edited by David T. Wilbanks and Robert N. Lee          

 

Art and Design (c) Robert N. Lee