Paul Johnston - The Soul Collector

He was about to lean over the motorbike and see who was wrapped in the blankets when the van decelerated and took a left turn. Only a few seconds later, it pulled into the side and the engine was killed. Andy heard the driver’s door open, followed soon after by the rear doors. The interior lights came on in the cargo space. He was leaning forward, feigning unconsciousness and waiting until his captor came close. When he heard movement on the other side of the bike, he opened one eye slightly and saw the back of a figure wearing black leathers. He took a deep breath and decided to go for it, in case the person he assumed was Sara was about to harm the other captive.

Andy launched himself over the motorbike, one arm whipping around the biker’s neck. It was then that he realized he might have screwed up. Sara was still wearing her helmet. She was also in good shape, pushing back hard and almost loosening his grip. But he wasn’t standing for that. With his free hand, he raised the knife and jammed it into her upper arm. That brought a yell of pain, then an elbow in his chest. He concentrated on moving the knife as much as the leather would allow and forgot about the helmet for a few moments, during which his captor crashed it into his face. He felt his nose shatter, not for the first time in his life. That made him change tactics. He let go of the neck and dragged the woman over the bike. Then he picked her up by scruff and groin, and rammed her head repeatedly against the side of the van. When he judged her brain would be suitably scrambled, he dropped her, moved around the motorbike and picked up the shrouded figure.

As Andy leapt from the van, he was aware of another person standing nearby. He couldn’t understand why Doris Carlton-Jones was dressed so weirdly, but he wasn’t sticking around to ask as she was holding a silenced pistol. He shoved her backward with his spare hand and took the low hedge in a running jump. He heard the cough of the pistol a couple of times, but didn’t feel any hits. Then he was sprinting downhill, heading for a substantial wood beyond the field that was visible in the moonlight. His knees were creaking, but they didn’t give out.

When Andy got to the tree line, he burrowed into a heap of leaves, blowing like a walrus. There was no way Sara or her mother would find him now. Sure enough, the van started up and moved off a few minutes later. Then it struck him. He’d seen Doris Carlton-Jones’s face, but he hadn’t seen Sara’s. Maybe it hadn’t been her in the helmet after all.

There was a faint groan from the cocooned figure he had laid on the leaves. Andy tugged the blankets away and sat back in amazement as the silvery light fell on a dirty, tear-stained face; one that he knew very well, indeed.

I shone my torch down the dark stairway. It turned back on itself after ten steps. I stopped at the corner, one arm raised to restrain the others.

Rog sniffed. “What’s that smell?”

The air was filled with the unmistakable odor of burning flesh. I immediately thought of Andy. What were the lunatics doing to him?

I moved my head around the stone wall. The next flight of steps, about twenty, was clear. Light showed at the bottom. I beckoned the others forward and we went down as quietly as our boots allowed. An ornate doorway had been cut into the stone. It was covered in strange symbols.

When we reached the bottom, I became aware of a monotonous chanting. It sounded like there were dozens of people in the cavern ahead. I struggled to understand what was being said and then I realized it was in Latin. The only word I could make out was “diabolus.”

“Oh, great,” Pete whispered. “How many of them?”

I looked cautiously around the doorpost. I could hardly believe my eyes. The place was as ornate as the most baroque Catholic church, the walls covered in frescoes and light coming from gold chandeliers. Then I saw what the paintings depicted-demons tormenting the damned, monstrous beasts as foul as those spawned by the imagination of Hieronymus Bosch, and, in the center, a huge, black, bat-winged Lucifer rising out of the earth.

Then I heard a terrible scream. Over to the right stood two people in what looked like monks’ robes, the cowls raised. They had their backs to us and were watching the smoke billow from a raised altar. I tried to locate the people who were singing. There was no sign of anybody else and I realized that the chant was coming from speakers set in the rock walls. It was a recording, unless there was some choir loft nearby.

I pulled my head back. “Action, guys. Looks like they’re in the middle of a sacrifice.”

“Andy?” Pete asked, his eyes wide.

“I can’t see, but we have to go in now. There only seem to be two of them. My guess is that one is Sara.

“We’ll start with a couple of smoke grenades to mix things up,” I said. “Then, Rog, you go right, you left, Pete. I’ll head straight toward the bastards. Only fire if you’re sure you’re in danger. Okay, let’s do it.”

We clasped hands, then Rog took the grenades from Pete’s pack.

“One left, one right, Dodger. Try to leave some visibility for me in the middle.”

“Check.” Rog pulled the pins and released the catches. Then he tossed the grenades where I wanted. They went off with more of a thump than a bang.

I sprinted forward, Glock in my right hand. I’d removed the silencer as I wanted to scare the shit out of the targets. As the smoke began to billow up, the pair in robes turned toward me. My stomach somersaulted when I saw their faces. Both were white-one with a sick smile and a devil’s goatee and the other misshapen and pustular. Then I heard a crazed shrieking and some kind of ape came scurrying toward me, its red eyes crazed and its bared fangs yellow. I pointed the Glock at the roof and fired. The sound of the shot boomed around the cavern and the creature turned tail. I heard someone yelling the name Beelzebub.

I kept running, but the two figures had separated and disappeared into the smoke. Maybe the grenades hadn’t been such a good idea.

Then I heard shots and yelling from the left. Pete was in action. I made it to the altar and peered at the motionless object that was burning on a heap of wood. It was a sheep. So where was Andy?

High-pitched screams to my right distracted me. Moving closer, I saw the ape on top of one of the masked people, its colored rump wriggling as it tried to bite. Then there was a spitting sound and the creature crashed down on its victim, its back feet quivering briefly before it expired. I ran close and held the muzzle of my Glock to the side of the robed figure’s head.

“Let go of the gun and pull your hands out,” I said. “Slowly!”

Rog appeared and dragged the animal off the man. I grabbed the pistol that was on the pseudo-monk’s abdomen.

“Mission accomplished, Matt.” I looked over my shoulder and saw Pete arriving with company. He’d looped the other monk’s belt around his neck and was covering him with his Glock.

I pulled the person on the floor up. The pair of them stood with their heads hanging, like two masked kids on Halloween who’d been overzealous with the tricks. Except these two were killers, and one of them was Sara Robbins. Before I could confirm that, Pete’s prisoner started shrieking and trying to pull away.

“You killed Beelzebub!” came a high-pitched voice. “You killed my mandrill, my familiar…”

“Not us,” Rog said, pointing at the other prisoner. “This asshole did.”

Pete’s prisoner tried to leap forward, hands clawing the air. Boney elbowed the figure with the devil mask in the ribs. That stopped the movement, but the abuse and threats to the other mask-wearer continued.

I nodded to Pete and he pulled off the mask.

“Earl Sternwood,” I said, taking in the face disfigured by a prominent harelip.