Douglas Preston - Brimstone

Grove had complained about a strange sensation of heat, too. That and the smell.

He tossed back the drink with a shaking hand. Don’t get paranoid, Nigel dear. He was getting sick, that was all. He hadn't had his flu shot, and it was hitting him early this year. Great timing, on the eve of his departure for Thailand.

"Fuck," he said out loud. The drink was gone. Should he mix himself yet another? Why the hell not? He reached for the bottle, grasped it, filled the glass, and set it back down on the bar.

I am coming.

Cutforth spun around. The apartment was empty.

Who the fuck had spoken? It was a low voice, lower than a whisper; more like a vibration, sensed rather than heard.

He swallowed, licked dry lips. "Who's there?" His tongue felt thick and foreign, and he could barely get out the words.

No answer.

He turned, his full drink slopping over the sides of the glass and running down his hand. He raised the glass and sucked at it greedily. It couldn't be. He'd never believed in anything and wasn't about to start now. God didn't exist, the devil didn't exist, life was just some random shitstorm, and when you were dead, you were dead.

Maledicat dominus.

He jerked his head up, drink sloshing wildly. What was that, Latin? Was this some kind of joke? Where was it coming from? One of his crazy rap clients, being an asshole? Or, more likely, former client? There was one Haitian rapper in particular who had threatened revenge. This was probably him or his boys, trying to goad him into a premature heart attack with some voodoo nonsense.

"All right!" he called out. "That's enough with the bullshit."

Silence.

His skin crawled, unnaturally hot and dry. Suddenly, it didn't feel like nonsense anymore. It felt real.

It was happening to him. It was happening, like Grove had said.

He raised the shaking glass to his lips, swallowing, tasting nothing.

But it couldn't really be happening, could it? This was the twenty-first century. Grove must have been crazy, he must have. But, oh dear Jesus, those things the newspapers had hinted at . The cops weren't really saying much about how Grove had died, but the tabloids had been full of gossip about the body, burned from the inside, the marks of Lucifer on the walls.

Was it really possible, after all this time?

He let the half-finished drink fall to the floor and began casting desperately about. His late mother had given him a crucifix, which he'd kept around more as a memento than anything else. He'd seen it just last month. Where? He rushed back into his bedroom, to the walk-in closet, drew out a drawer with savage tugs, felt in the back. Cuff links, buttons, tiepins, coins rained to the floor.

No crucifix. Where was it?

He jerked open another drawer, then another, pawing roughly through watches, jewelry, gold. A sob escaped him.

The crucifix! He grasped it tightly, sobbing with relief, held it to his breast, crossing himself.

The sensation of being covered with crawling bees began to grow worse. Now it felt as if the bees were really stinging him, billions of agonizing little pricks.

"Go away! Get away!" He sobbed.” Our Father, who art in heaven-" God, how did it go?

The crucifix felt hot in his hands. Now his ears were buzzing. His throat felt as if it was caked with ash, as if he was choking on the hot air.

I am coming now.

He held out the crucifix in his shaking arms, this way and that, as if warding off something invisible. "Get thee behind me, Satan!" he shrieked.

The crucifix felt very hot now. It was burning his fingers. Everything was hot: his nightclothes, even his eyebrows and the hairs on his arms, felt as if they were crisping.

"Get away!"

He dropped the crucifix with a cry. To his utter terror, smoke began curling from it, burning a mark into the rug. He gasped for breath, hands scrabbling at his throat, gagging in the sulfurous air.

He had to get out. He had to find sanctuary. If he could get to a chapel, a church, anything, maybe he'd be safe .

He rushed for the door, but just before he put his hand on the doorknob, there came a knocking.

Cutforth froze, suspended between relief and fear. Who was it?

Maybe there was a fire? Yes, of course, that was it: the building was on fire, and an evacuation was under way. Something must have gone wrong with the sprinkler system. "I'm in here!" He sobbed, half in pain and half in relief. "In here!"

He grasped the doorknob, felt the searing pain of red-hot metal, jerked his hand away." Fuck!"

He looked at his hand in disbelief. His palm was burned, smoking, and it cracked as he opened it, blood and clear matter welling from the fissure and running down his wrist. Left on the doorknob was a large piece of his skin, curling and frying in the heat like pork cracklings.

The knock came again: slow, steady, like the tolling of a bell.

"Help me!" Cutforth cried at the door. "There's a fire! Fire! "

He felt a sudden wave of pain along his skin, as if it was being peeled away, and then a grotesque feeling deep in his belly, as if someone had just stirred his guts for him. He lurched back. He was at the door. The feeling came again, a strange internal pressure, a terrible writhing of the intestines. He screamed, gripping his stomach, doubling over. He managed to stagger back into the bedroom. As he moved, little darts of pain raced across his skin and his eyes clouded with red mist. He could feel the terrible pressure mounting within him, and then all went black and the pressure became unbearable, and there was a sound like frying eggs and suddenly the pressure was gone and a hot wetness was running down his face.

He screamed, writhing on the floor, his legs beating a frenzied tattoo on the rug, his hands tearing at his nightclothes, his hair, trying to claw the skin from his own body because it was searingly hot, so unbearably hot .

Here I am here I am here.

{ 20 }

Letitia Dallbridge lay awake, motionless, rigid in her bed. At last, she arose in cool fury, slipped into a satin robe, flicked open her glasses, and put them on. Then she checked the time: 11:15. She compressed her lips. This was intolerable. Intolerable.

She picked up the building telephone and buzzed the desk; instantly a voice was on the line.

"May I help you, Mrs. Dallbridge?"

"You certainly may, Jason. The gentleman in the apartment directly above me, number 17B, has been thumping incessantly on the floor. Shouting as well. It's been going on and on, and I don't mind telling you, this is the second time this month I've had to complain. I am an old woman, and I simply cannot tolerate this kind of noise in the middle of the night."

"Yes, Mrs. Dallbridge, we'll take care of it immediately."

"I shall speak to the condominium board about this at the next meeting."

"I don't blame you, Mrs. Dallbridge."

"Thank you, Jason."

She laid down the phone and listened. True, the thumping was fainter now; more irregular. In fact, it seemed to have stopped, along with the shouting. But it would pick up again soon-it always did. That dreadfully coarse music producer was having another party, no doubt. With drinking, dancing, drugs, all kinds of carrying-on. And on a weeknight, no less. She pulled her robe tighter around her narrow frame. There was no point trying to go back to sleep now-at her age, it would be an exercise in futility.

She crossed the living room into the kitchen, put a kettle of water on to boil. She removed a silver teapot, put three bags of chamomile inside, and waited for the whistle. When it came, she removed the kettle from the heat, poured the water into the teapot, and slipped a tea cozy over the pot to keep it hot. A silver teaspoon and two slices of buttered toast completed her petit déjeuner . She lifted the tray and returned to the bedroom. She glanced up darkly at the ceiling. Then she propped up her satin pillows and poured her tea.