Darren Shan - Demon Apocalypse

“Soon,” Beranabus mutters. “We’ll catch some sleep first, then—”

“Sleep?” I explode. “We can’t waste time—”

“Let me make this as clear as I can,” Beranabus cuts in. “Mankind is in its death throes. The war has come and gone—we lost. We’re going to give it one last try, hit Carcery Vale with all we have, go down fighting. But go down we certainly will, bar a miracle. And while I believe in miracles, I don’t think we’re going to experience one this time. When we go to the Vale, we go to die. And once we’re dead, the rest of humanity will soon follow.

“But we have to pretend that we do stand a chance. For the sake of our sanity, we must act like we believe we can pull this off. That means going in fresh and feisty, at our physical and mental best. So I’m going to sleep, fully aware that it will probably be my last ever snooze—bar the never-ending slumber—but desperately hoping it will make the blindest bit of difference. I highly recommend that the rest of you follow suit.”

With that he stumbles to the rug which serves as his bed, lies down, closes his eyes, mutters a spell and falls asleep.

“He is right,” Sharmila says softly. She looks at me and I see nothing except negativity in her eyes. “I hoped he would be able to offer hope, that he knew some secret way to stop this. But I could not believe it. We should sleep. Once we start, there might not be any later opportunities for rest.”

“I’ll find a blanket for you,” Kernel says.

“My thanks.”

While Kernel searches for a spare rug, Sharmila studies me. “What I said earlier about your uncle… I did not mean it. I just wanted someone to blame. I am sure it was not his fault. There are some things you cannot stop.”

“No worries,” I mutter, though part of me doesn’t agree with her. Dervish had been hoodwinked by Juni. He was probably frantic with worry about me. His mind was elsewhere. He wouldn’t have been focusing, doing his job. Maybe part of this is his fault—and mine—for not seeing through Juni Swan in the first place.

Kernel prepares a bed for Sharmila. She lies down as soon as it’s ready and repeats Beranabus’s sleeping spell.

Her face goes smooth and I can tell she’s having pleasant dreams.

“How about you?” Kernel asks. “Want me to teach you the spell?”

“I don’t think so. It doesn’t feel right, sleeping at a time like this.”

Kernel shrugs. “If you don’t, you’ll only brood about what’s happened and what lies ahead.”

I think about that, then sigh wearily. “OK. Tell me.” Moments later magic sends me under and I tumble gratefully into the arms of a deliberately dreamless sleep.

In Sharmila’s personal jet, streaking through the skies. I’d think that was cool any other time, but I’m hard to impress right now. Versatile Sharmila is the pilot. There are six other seats. Beranabus has taken up the rear pair and is making a series of phone calls—we could have used a window to get to Carcery Vale and saved some time, but he wanted to talk with the Disciples first and manoeuvre them into position. Kernel is on the middle left, staring down at the clouds. I’m on the front right, flicking through newspapers.

Tales of mayhem and terror. Splash photos of demons and their victims. An array of monsters never dreamt of by most people until now. Long, sprawling lists of victims. First-hand accounts from survivors. Speculation and theories—where are the Demonata from? What are their motives? How can we kill them?

That’s the most burning question—how to destroy the invaders. Mankind’s never had to face an unstoppable enemy before. There have been countless movies and books about such encounters, and the aliens or monsters have always had a weak spot, an Achilles’ heel which some clean-cut champion has discovered and exploited in the nick of time. But that’s not the case here. The reports are from the early days of the invasion and there’s a hint of optimism in them. But even in these columns I can sense desperation as the realisation seeps in— we can’t kill them!

There are a few reports about the Disciples, but they’re vague and patchy. Rumours of a group of experts with knowledge and experience of demons, but no mention of magic or names.

Some of the older papers still have ordinary sections, sports coverage and gossip columns, the usual padding. An attempt to maintain normality. But the later editions focus solely on the Demonata. Nothing else, just page after page of horror and catastrophe.

I stop reading after half an hour. I’ve had enough. Humanity has hit a brick wall. We’re facing our end, like the dinosaurs millions of years before us. The only difference is we’ve got journalists on hand to document every blow and setback, cataloguing our rapid, painful downfall in vibrant, vicious detail. Personally, I think the dinosaurs had the better deal. When it comes to impending, unavoidable extinction, ignorance is bliss.

We set down hours later on a private landing strip outside a small town close to the border where humans and demons are locked in battle. There are several other planes and helicopters parked at the sides of the strip. A large, grey, square building occupies one corner. We head for it once we’ve disembarked, Beranabus leading the way with the stride of a confident, commanding general.

Inside the building are eleven men and women, a mix of races. A couple aren’t much older than me, a few look to be in their seventies or eighties, while the others fall into the thirty-to-sixty bracket. Most are neatly dressed, though one or two could compete with Beranabus in the scruffiness stakes. They all look tired and drained.

“Hail to the chief!” a large man in military fatigues shouts ironically, saluting Beranabus as he enters. There are letters tattooed on his knuckles and a shark’s head covers the flesh between knuckles and thumb. Like when Sharmila turned up at the cave, I know his face and name, even though we’ve never really met.

“Shark?” Beranabus scowls. “Sharmila thought you were dead.”

“When you broke contact, I feared the worst,” Sharmila says, shuffling around Beranabus.

“Couldn’t wait for the Messiah forever,” Shark grunts. “There was fighting to be done. I was going to summon you back, but I knew you wouldn’t return without our regal leader.”

“I had to wait,” Sharmila says stiffly. “Beranabus is our best hope.”

Shark snorts. “Hope? What’s that? I heard about it once, in a fairy tale.”

“Be quiet,” Beranabus says softly and the larger man obeys, though he eyes Beranabus accusingly, as though he blames the magician for our dire predicament. “Any more to join us?” Beranabus asks, addressing the question to the room in general.

“Two, maybe three,” a small, dark-skinned woman answers.

“Then I’ll start.” Beranabus looks around, meeting everybody’s gaze in turn. “I won’t offer false hope. We’re in deep trouble and I doubt we’ll be able to wade out. But the war isn’t lost yet. If we can destroy the tunnel linking the two universes, the demons will be sucked back to their own realm.”

There are excited mutterings. “Are you sure?” Shark asks suspiciously. “You’re not just saying that to rally our spirits?”

“Have I ever lied to any of you?” Beranabus retorts sharply. He waits a moment. When nobody responds, he continues. “One of Lord Loss’s human allies killed a person in the cave, to prime the tunnel opening. The killer later joined with the rock where the mouth of the tunnel was originally situated—he or she has become a living part of the opening. If we dismantle the tunnel walls, the killer dies, the demons get sucked back to their own universe and all will be well with the world.”