The Book of Doom

AC FELL FORWARD, the chains no longer round his ankles and wrist, and so no longer holding him up. He landed awkwardly on hard-packed sand and lay there, face down, until the inside of his head stopped spinning.

When he finally got up, Zac found himself standing beneath a pale blue sky. The sand stretched out around him in all directions, flat on his left, hills and dunes to his right.

There was no wind. Not a breath of air moved across the desert. He turned in a slow circle, sweeping his gaze out over the sand. There were no demons, no Angelo, no chair and no straps. He was, as far as he could tell, completely alone.

“Great,” he muttered. “Now what?”

He walked a few paces in one direction, stopped and walked back. He looked around again, but the landscape was still devoid of life.

Then he remembered the watch. Gabriel had said he could use it to contact Heaven once he had the book. He looked at the little screen. Where the time should have been was a question mark, and a basic animation of a stick man shrugging his shoulders.

Zac studied the watch more closely. It had four buttons along one side and two on the other. One of them, he imagined, would allow him to call for a rescue party. But which one?

There was a flash of light and a puff of smoke and the hunchbacked demon, Eliza, popped out of thin air. She stuck her tongue out at him, then smashed a little pointed hammer against the watch face. With a sharp giggle she vanished again, leaving Zac staring blankly at the broken timepiece on his wrist.

“Well, that’s just great,” he sighed, before a tennis ball hit him hard on the back of the head.

He turned, fists raised, head throbbing. The ball had come from the direction of the dunes. And now he was paying closer attention he could hear noises – voices, maybe – from behind the closest hill. He listened, and soon the voices were joined by the sound of heavy footsteps on the compacted sand.

A large man with a long, flame-coloured beard trudged into view at the top of the dune. He stopped when he saw Zac. There was a long moment in which he and Zac just stared at each other in silence, but then the man cupped his huge hands round his mouth and shouted, “Chuck us the ball back!”

Zac looked down at the tennis ball by his feet. It was grubby and weather-beaten. Someone had scribbled a large number 4 on it in black marker pen. Zac picked it up, then approached the man on the hill.

The closer he got, the bigger the man seemed. He stood almost as tall as Haures had. His beard was easily a metre long itself, and his muscles bulged beneath the leather armour he wore. The giant watched Zac impassively as he trudged up the hill.

“Who are you?” Zac demanded, stopping in front of the man.

“Who are you?” he replied in a thick Scottish accent.

“I asked you first.”

The man reached over his shoulder. His fingers wrapped round a long handle, and there was a shnink of a blade being unsheathed.

“Well, I’ve got a big sword,” the man scowled. “And it’s dead sharp.”

Zac weighed up his chances. He’d taken down plenty of adults before, but none as big as this one. He was holding the sword like he meant it too. It was not a fight Zac wanted to have.

“Zac Corgan,” he said. “Now your turn.”

The big man glowered down at him. “War,” he said.

“War?”

“Aye,” said the giant. “War.”

“As in... battles and fighting and stuff?”

“As in the Horsemen of the Apocalypse.”

Zac considered this. He looked War up and down. “Yeah,” he said, willing to accept pretty much anything at this point. “Course you are. Where’re the other three, then?”

“Coo-ee!” came a voice from beyond the brow of the hill. “Get a move on. We haven’t got all day, you know?”

War sighed and closed his eyes. “You had to bloody ask.”

A skinny man dressed all in white scurried the last few steps up the dune. He wore a floppy sunhat on his head and thin rubber gloves on each hand. He gave a soft gasp when he spotted Zac. “Oh, hello,” he said. “Who are you, then?”

“Zac Corgan, Pestilence,” growled War. “Pestilence, Zac Corgan.”

“Lovely to meet you,” beamed Pestilence. “And I love the whole black-outfit look. Very mysterious.”

War sighed. “Right, give us the ball back.”

Zac handed it over. “What is this place?” he asked.

“It’s Limbo,” said War.

“Limbo?”

“Which probably means you’ve died, I’m afraid,” added Pestilence. “So please accept our condolences.”

“What’s keeping you?” asked a voice a little way down the dune. A boy just a year or two younger than Zac marched to the top of the hill. He had an oversized plastic baseball bat in one hand. “I need to get back home soon or my mum’s going to...”

The boy’s voice trailed off. “Who’s this?” he asked.

“Drake, this is Zac,” Pestilence said. “Zac, Drake here is our latest Death.”

“Latest?”

War grunted. “Long, boring story.”

“Zac has recently died,” Pestilence continued. “Isn’t that a shame?”

“No, I haven’t.”

Pestilence smiled gently. “Yes, you have,” he said. “I know it’s hard, but the sooner you accept it, the sooner you can move on.”

Zac shook his head. “No, I haven’t. I was sent on a mission to find a stolen book. I was in Hell a minute ago, and now I’m here.”

War and Pestilence exchanged a glance. “The Book of Everything?” Pestilence asked in a hushed voice.

“Book of Everything, Book of Doom – take your pick,” Zac said. “I found it, but they kept my... colleague. It was all a trick to get him down there.”

Pestilence’s mouth tightened. “That’s them all over, that is,” he said. “Always up to something. I’m sure he’ll be OK, though.”

A snort of laughter came from War. “Oh aye, I’m sure he’ll be just dandy. They’re a right fun bunch down there, just ask anyone.”

There was a moment of uncomfortable silence.

“That was sarcasm, by the way,” War pointed out.

“Still, at least you found the book,” said Pestilence. He clapped his hands. “Yay!”

“You brought it back to them yet?” War asked.

“No. I got stranded here. I’ve got no way of contacting them.” He looked at the Horsemen in turn. “Unless you’ve got some way of getting in touch with Heaven?”

“We’ll go one better,” said Drake. “We’ll take you there ourselves.” He looked from Pestilence to War. “Um... we can do that, right?”

Zac stood in the shadow of a small wooden shed and gazed up at its jolly red roof. There was a creak from the door as Drake pushed it open. Zac hung back as War and Pestilence stepped inside.

“A shed?” he asked. “Why are we getting in a shed?”

Drake smiled. “Just trust me.”

“No.”

“Oh,” said Drake, a little deflated. “Right. Well, the shed can travel across dimensions or... or something like that. It can fly you to Heaven.”

“But it’s a shed.”

Drake shrugged. “Yeah, I said that at first too.”

War’s beard appeared round the doorframe, followed by the rest of his face. “You getting in or what?”

Zac looked from the giant to Drake, and then into the dark interior of the shed. He shrugged, sighed, then stepped inside. Drake pulled the door closed and they all squeezed into the narrow space.

“This is cosy, isn’t it,” breathed Pestilence.

Zac was too stunned to reply. He was looking beyond the Horseman at the chair behind him.

Something immensely fat slouched on the seat, wearing nothing but a sleeveless vest and a distressingly tight pair of flannel shorts. Sweat soaked his skin and dripped down on to the wooden floor. His face was red and blotchy and his breathing came in big, heavy gulps. Something brown was smeared across his blubbery lips.

Chocolate, Zac thought. Let it be chocolate.

“That’s Famine,” Drake explained. “He’s, uh, having a rest.”

Zac watched the fat man’s chest wheezing up and down. “The game must’ve taken a lot out of him.”

“What? Oh, no,” Drake said. “That’s just from getting changed. He hadn’t started playing yet.”

“Right,” said War. “We’re here.”

Zac looked up at him. “We’re where?”

The door swung open and Zac found himself gazing out at the vast palace Gabriel had taken him to earlier.

“How... how did you do that?” he asked.

“Techno-magic mumbo jumbo,” War grunted, and then he shoved Zac out of the shed and slammed the door behind him. There was a muttering from inside it, then a whoosh. By the time Zac looked round, the shed was gone.

He waited a moment to see if it came back. When it didn’t, he turned, pulled the straps of the backpack higher on his shoulders and strode purposefully towards the house that God built.





HE ORNATE FRONT door opened without a whisper and Zac stepped on to a marble floor.

“Gabriel?” he called, and his voice echoed around the cavernous hall. “Gabriel, you there?”

Almost immediately there came the sound of hard footsteps clopping across the polished floor. Gabriel entered through one of the many arched doorways at the back of the room. He appeared surprised to see Zac there, but his politician smile didn’t waiver once.

“Ah, there you are,” he said, spreading his arms wide. “We lost track of you and rather feared the worst. It is good to see you are in one piece.” He stopped in front of Zac and the smile grew larger. “I trust you were able to retrieve the book?”

“I’ve got it. But they’ve kept Angelo.”

Gabriel’s smile slipped smoothly into a frown. “Have they? Have they indeed?” He gave a solemn nod, then the smile returned. “May I see it?”

“See what?”

“The book. May I see it?”

“Didn’t you hear what I said? They’ve got Angelo. We have to do something.”

Gabriel’s eyes twitched. “All in good time. The book, please, Zac.”

The force of the sudden realisation made Zac take a step back. “Wait... you knew. You knew they were going to keep him,” he mumbled. “You made him wait outside the door. You knew I’d choose him over Michael. You knew I’d take him with me.”

“The book,” said Gabriel, his smile falling away completely. “Give me the book.”

“So... what? You swapped him?”

“We made a deal,” the archangel replied. “The boy for the book. His life for the lives of countless billion others. It was the right thing to do. It was the good thing to do.”

“The good thing? You’ve sent him to Hell, and who knows what they’re going to do to him? That’s not good, that’s evil! I thought you lot were supposed to know the difference.”

Gabriel held out a hand. “The book, Zacharias. Give me the book.”

“No,” Zac said. “I want to see the Metatron.”

The archangel’s eyebrows arched, but he said nothing.

“The voice of God. He’s in charge now, right? Angelo told me all about it. I want to see him.”

Gabriel chuckled. “What a strange thing to say. You don’t see voices, Zac. You hear them.”

“Well, I want to hear him, then. I want to talk to him.”

“I’m afraid that’s not possible,” Gabriel said. “Now, while I appreciate your concern for Angelo, I am going to say this one final time. Give me the book.”

Zac shook his head. “No,” he said. He turned back towards the door. He barely caught a glimpse of Michael standing there before the fiery blade of the archangel’s sword was across his throat. Michael’s flawless features fixed into an ugly snarl.

“Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t cut you down,” Michael growled.

Zac felt his strength leave him. His shoulders sagged and his spirit sagged with them. “I promised him,” he said quietly. “I promised him I’d get help.”

Gabriel fished inside the backpack. He pulled out a small cloth bag filled with thirty or more little round balls. “Been playing marbles?” he asked, and Zac could hear the smirk on his face. Gabriel returned the bag to the backpack. A moment later, he took out the book.

There was a long moment of silence, broken eventually by Gabriel’s clipped tones.

“Is this some sort of joke?” he demanded, catching Zac by the shoulder and spinning the boy round to face him. Gabriel’s blue eyes were dark, his chiselled nostrils flared wide. “What is this?” he asked, holding up the leather-bound volume.

“The book,” Zac replied.

“No, it isn’t! This isn’t the book. Look!”

He broke the clasp and padlock without any effort and the book fell open. Zac watched as the archangel flipped through the pages.

“See? Blank. There’s nothing there. This isn’t the Book of Everything it’s a book of nothing.” He turned and hurled the book across the room. It struck a pillar and sprayed plain white paper in all directions. Gabriel stepped in closer to Zac, visibly shaking with rage. “Where is it? Where is the real book?”

Zac shrugged. “That’s the one they gave me.”

“And you accepted it?” Gabriel snorted. “You’re a bigger idiot than I thought.”

“Send me back down,” Zac suggested. “I’ll get the real book and get Angelo at the same time.”

“Oh, Angelo, Angelo, Angelo,” Gabriel cried. “Stop talking about Angelo. Nobody cares about Angelo! Least of all you, if I remember correctly. The book is all that matters. Besides, for all we know they don’t even have it. We’re back to square one. This whole thing may have been a trick right from the start.”

“Right,” said Zac. “Which would make you the idiot.”

Gabriel glared down at him. His jaw moved from side to side, as if chewing over his next few words. At last, he glanced at Michael. “Dispose of him,” he said.

Michael’s face cracked into a smile. “Now you’re talking.”

“Do whatever you feel necessary,” said Gabriel. He turned and walked back towards the archway. “Just be sure to have someone clean up afterwards.”

“By the time I’m finished there won’t be anything left to clean up,” Michael said.

Gabriel paused, but didn’t look back. “I don’t want to know,” he said, then he continued walking. He was almost at the archway when a voice made him stop for a second time.

“Problems, Gabriel?”

Zac looked for the owner of the voice, but found no one. Then he remembered. You didn’t see the Metatron, you only heard him.

Gabriel cleared his throat. Zac heard the silken rustle of Michael’s sword sliding back into its sheath.

“Uh, no, sir,” Gabriel said. “Or rather, yes, sir. We retrieved the book, but it was a fake.”

“Bless it all,” said the disembodied voice. It sounded to Zac like an old British military general. It was the type of voice that had a moustache and drank brandy and knew a lot about horses and cricket and impaling foreigners on bayonets. “So, what do we do now, then?” it asked.

Gabriel hesitated. “I... do not know, sir. We begin the search anew. Try to determine where the book is, then formulate a plan for getting it back.”

Zac stepped away from Michael and looked into the centre of the room, as if that was where the voice was emanating from. “They’re leaving someone down there in Hell,” he said. “The boy, Angelo. Hell has him and they won’t do anything about it.”

Silence followed. Zac got the feeling he was being scrutinised. He stood his ground, waiting for a reply.

“Really?” said the Metatron at last. “Gabriel, is this true?”

“Yes, sir,” Gabriel said.

“Was that your intention all along? Why wasn’t I informed?”

“We, uh, thought it best to leave that part out, sir,” Gabriel oozed. “In order to protect you from any fall-out. They wanted Angelo. We wanted the book. It seemed like a minor sacrifice to make.”

“Ah, a sacrifice, eh? Haven’t had a sacrifice in a long time. Ah well. Shame for the poor chap, of course, but these things have to be done, what?”

Gabriel’s politician grin crept across his face. “My sentiments exactly, sir.”

Zac shook his head in disgust. “You’re just as bad as they are.”

“Come on now, lad,” spoke the Metatron. “The needs of the many and whatnot. Can’t make an omelette without breaking some eggs.” The voice addressed Gabriel. “What about him? What do you plan on doing with him?”

Gabriel glanced sideways at Michael. “We... weren’t sure, sir. We had yet to decide.”

“Send him back home.”

“Sir?”

“You heard. Send him back home. Wasn’t his fault the book was a fake. You know what they’re like down there. Shower of wrong ’uns, the lot of them. Always up to no good. Not the lad’s fault.”

“But, sir, our concern was that—”

“I believe I gave an instruction, Gabriel,” said the Metatron, and Zac felt the temperature in the room drop several degrees. “The boy completed his part of the deal, so he shall be returned home just as he was. Is that clear?”

Gabriel nodded. “Crystal, sir.”

“Good. And you, lad. I believe the arrangement was that your sins would be wiped clean. Is that correct?”

“Yes,” said Zac. “But I don’t want it.”

The Metatron snorted. “Pardon?”

“If being sin-free means coming here when I die, I want to keep them.” He glared at Michael and Gabriel. “At least in Hell they don’t pretend to be something they’re not.”

“Well... as you wish,” conceded the Metatron. “Gabriel?”

Gabriel gestured to his fellow archangel. “Michael.”

Zac recoiled as Michael’s hand grabbed him roughly by the shoulder. He heard the man in the golden armour mutter, and then a burst of white exploded behind his eyes.

And then he was in his bedroom, sitting on the end of his bed, looking out through the open curtains at the bright summer’s day just beyond the glass. He blinked. There had been a thought right there in his head, but it was gone, floating just out of reach.

He looked down at his clothes. They were filthy, stained with dust and soot and something dark and treacle-like. He was wearing a backpack he didn’t recognise. He slipped it off and let it fall on to his bed, then he stood up, opened his bedroom door and went downstairs.

“Ah, Zac, you’re back!” said Phillip as Zac shuffled into the kitchen. The old man smiled and gave his grandson a hug. “How was the trip?”

“Trip?”

“Yes, you know,” said his granddad. “Your trip. You... you went on a trip.”

Zac shook his head. “No, I didn’t.”

Phillip hesitated. His fingers pressed his stress ball against the palm of his hand. “Oh,” he mumbled, his eyes glazing over, “didn’t you? I’m... I’m sure you said something about a trip.”

“No,” replied Zac. “I don’t think so.”

His head felt full of fog, as if he’d just been woken from a deep sleep. His memory of the last few days was sketchy, but he’d have remembered going away. Wouldn’t he?

“Sit down, Granddad, and I’ll make you a cup of tea,” he said, crossing to the kettle.

“Coffee would be nice,” Phillip replied. “I was up half the night. I thought you’d come back. I was sure I heard that Albert’s voice.”

Zac flicked the kettle’s switch. “Albert?”

“That is his name, isn’t it?” Phillip said. “I forget sometimes.”

A spoon of instant coffee went into a mug. “I don’t know any Albert.”

“Oh, maybe not Albert, then,” fretted Phillip. “Angus? Adam?”

“Not ringing any bells.”

Phillip squeezed his stress ball. “No, but... Oh, I wish I could remember. Kept hearing him all night. Sounded in a right panic. Scared too, very scared.”

Zac smiled. “Don’t worry about it, Granddad. It was just a dream or something, I wouldn’t—”

“Angelo!”

Zac felt his legs turn to lead, but he didn’t know why.

“Angelo, that was it,” Phillip beamed. “I knew I’d remember.”

“I... I don’t know any Angelo,” Zac said. A breeze blew around inside his head, swirling the fog that filled it.

His granddad tutted. “Course you do. Angelo. You had him here last night. Or was it the night before?”

Zac poured hot water into his grandfather’s mug, and gave it a stir. “I’m telling you, I don’t know anyone called Angelo.”

“You do!”

“I don’t,” Zac insisted, picking up the mug.

“Don’t be silly, Zac,” Phillip sighed. “Stop trying to confuse me, I’m bad enough as it is. You remember. Angelo. Your friend.”

Zac’s lips moved instinctively. “He’s not my friend, he’s my colleague,” he said.

The mug slipped from his hand and smashed on the kitchen floor. The fog in his head thinned, offering glimpses of the memories that lay beyond.

He charged out of the kitchen and took the stairs two at a time. He tore at the zip of the backpack, then thrust his hand inside until he found the velvet bag. Cupping a hand, he tipped a few of the marble-sized balls out into his palm. He stared down at them, and they all stared right back.

“Eyes,” he whispered. “Argus.”

He looked down at the carpet and saw an inky black stain. He searched his bookcase until he spotted a slim, battered volume on the fourth shelf down. The Strange Case of Dr Jekyll & Mr Hyde, by Robert Louis Stevenson.

He remembered.

He remembered Heaven and Hell and everything else in between.

He remembered Angelo.

And he remembered leaving him down there, all alone with the demons and the monsters and who knew what else? He had told him he’d go back. He had promised.

He poured the eyes back in the bag, put the bag back in the backpack, pulled the backpack over his shoulders.

He’s not my friend, he’s my colleague.

Yeah, right. Who was he trying to kid?

Zac rummaged in his wastepaper bin and pulled out two small torn pieces of card. Then, with a final look around the room, he left, pulling the door firmly closed behind him.





AC HURRIED DOWN the stairs, along the hallway, where the goldfish was still splashing furiously in its bowl, and into the kitchen once more. His grandfather was mopping up the spilled coffee and looked up as Zac entered.

“Listen, Granddad, I have to go away again.”

Phillip stopped mopping. He leaned on the handle and gave his grandson a withering look. “Again? I thought you said you hadn’t been anywhere?”

“I know that’s what I said,” Zac admitted. “But I... forgot that I had.”

The old man thought about this, then nodded. “Happens to the best of us,” he said. “Will you be long?”

Zac nodded, and as he did he felt tears pricking the back of his eyes.

Phillip straightened up. “But... you’re coming back.”

It took all Zac’s strength to shake his head.

“Oh,” said his granddad. He rested the mop handle against the table. “What, never?”

“I... I don’t know. I’m not sure, but there’s a good chance I won’t be.”

Phillip nodded, as if not entirely surprised. “It’s something to do with this Angelo,” he said. “Isn’t it?”

Zac nodded again. He knew if he spoke now his voice would betray him and tears would surely follow.

“You’re going to help him,” Phillip said. “Aren’t you?”

“I’m the only one who can,” said Zac croakily.

Phillip reached over and rested a hand on his grandson’s shoulder. “You know, Zac, wherever they are, your parents would be very proud,” he said. He smiled away tears of his own. “But not as proud as I am.”

Zac put his arms round the old man and buried his face against his shoulder. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I shouldn’t be leaving you.”

Phillip stepped back. “We all have to do what we have to do, Zac,” he said, smiling again for his grandson’s sake. “I’ll be just fine. Right now Angelo needs you more. He’s scared, Zac. He’s so very, very scared.”

Zac looked into his granddad’s eyes. “How do you know?”

Phillip frowned. “I... I don’t know. I hear him sometimes. Crying out. So very afraid. Help him, Zac. You have to help him.”

“I’m going to. I will.”

“But... but he seems so far away. How will you get to him?”

Zac’s jaw clenched. “That bit I’ve got covered. I just have to make a couple of stops before I go.”

Zac sat on a wall, his feet dangling over the edge. He tried not to think of his granddad. If he thought of his granddad there was a chance he’d turn back, and how could he turn back knowing everything he knew? How could he live with himself if he did?

The backpack was heavier now. He could feel it pulling him, holding him back. It had been a struggle to fit everything inside, and even more difficult getting the zip closed afterwards. But the man from the toyshop had been very helpful, and between them they’d got the job done.

The people in the church hadn’t been quite so eager to assist. They’d been annoyed. Furious, even. But then religious people seemed to get furious at most things he did, and he’d long since decided not to care.

It was windy up there on the wall. He’d expected that. It was often windy up on the rooftops. The higher you went, the less cover there was from other buildings, and so the more the wind blew. Right now the wind was blowing very hard indeed.

He wished he could just jump. It would be easy if he could just jump. But he knew he never could. His instinct for survival would never allow him. That was why he’d had to make other arrangements.

“Hey, kid,” said a voice behind him. Right on time.

Zac swung himself back up on to the roof and saw his reflection in the Monk’s mirrored sunglasses. “You came.”

“You called. I gotta be honest, kid, I’ve offed a lot of folks in my time. Not one of them ever phoned me up afterwards. That really takes the cake.”

The Monk reached into his robe. A moment later, the gun came out. “You sure you wanna do this? You know what you’re giving up, right?”

Zac clipped the straps of the backpack together across his chest. “I have to,” he said. “I can’t leave him alone down there. And he’d do it for me. He’s... he’s a good kid.”

The Monk nodded. “That he is. Better than you an’ me, anyhow.”

“Better than you and me,” agreed Zac. He straightened his back and held his head high. “Do it.”

The Monk raised the pistol. “You got balls, kid, I’ll give you that.” He hesitated, his finger on the trigger. “Might not be any use to you, but you ever meet Gabriel again, you ask him about the Right of Enosh.”

“The Right of Enosh?”

“The Right of Enosh,” confirmed the Monk, and then his finger tightened and the pistol roared.

The force of the shot sent Zac staggering backwards over the roof edge. Clutching his bleeding stomach, he tried to scream. There was a faintly jarring bump as his body hit the concrete. His physical form stayed behind as a messy splat on the ground, but the rest of him just carried on falling.

The grey mists of the Nether Lands smothered him for a few seconds, then cleared to reveal a dark and barren landscape, spread out like a blanket at the world’s gloomiest picnic. From way up high he was able to pick out some detail of the land below him. There was the River Styx. There was the waterfall. And there, way off in the distance was Hades and the flickering lights of Eyedol.

Zac fell. Down towards the sludgy water. Down towards the blood-stained welcome sign. Down towards Hell itself.

He fell.

He smiled.

And he kept on falling.





E LANDED ON his feet and the ground rippled around him.

He had passed through the roof like a ghost and come to a stop in a cave-like room with lava flowing through gaps in the rocky floor. The wailing and the sobbing of the damned bounced like squash balls off the walls around him.

The worst of the wailing, though, seemed to be piped in through hidden speakers. There were only thirty or forty people in the room itself, and most of those were standing in small groups looking worried. Only two or three people were actually weeping, but the sound effects suggested thousands more of them were hiding round the corner.

There was demonic laughter too, and the crackling of deadly flames. Small log fires burned here and there around the cave, but the roar of the inferno was also coming from the speakers.

There was only one actual demon in the room, as far as Zac could tell. He wore gold hot pants and roller skates, and was bare from the waist up. The demon looked up from a clipboard and a flicker of recognition crossed his face. “Oi,” he said. “I know you. You’re the one what shot me.”

The demon trundled awkwardly over on his skates. “Thought you were the big man, waving that gun about,” he spat. “Thought you were the big I am. Not so tough now, are you? Not so tough n—”

Zac formed his left hand into the shape of a spearhead and jabbed it upward into the soft area just above the demon’s right armpit.

“Ooyah,” hissed the creature, and then half his face went slack, and half his body went limp, and all of him slumped to the ground in a whimpering heap.

Zac stepped over him and raced towards a door set into one of the rocky walls. He’d barely got his fingers on the handle when someone called out to him.

“Um... excuse me?”

He turned to find a middle-aged woman waving to him from one of the worried little groups. “We were just wondering... what should we do?” she asked. “It’s just that we’re all quite new to this and...” She ran out of steam then, and someone from another group took over.

“Should we just hang about here or what?” asked a man just a few years older than Zac. “Only no one’s really told us anything since I arrived and, well, between you and me, I’m getting a bit sick of it.”

There was murmured agreement from the rest of the damned. Zac sighed. He didn’t have time for this.

“Well, I don’t know,” he said. “I mean, are any of you murderers or anything?”

A few questioning glances were exchanged. Then, at the back of the room, a solitary man in a long dirty raincoat raised a hand.

“Right, well, you stay here, then,” Zac told him. The man tutted quietly, but sat down on a rock and did his best to make himself comfortable. “The rest of you do what you like,” Zac shrugged. “Try to get out if you want. If you can make it upriver there’s a nightclub. I’d imagine it’s more fun than here. Tell the owner Zac sent you.” He moved to open the door. “Oh, and tell him I said sorry about his boat.”

The door led out into the reception area, where the secretary was sitting at her desk, knitting furiously and gazing down at a double-page spread in Your Hellhound. She looked up as Zac entered and the clicking of her needles stopped.

“All right?” he said. He set the backpack down on the floor, unzipped it and began rummaging inside.

“Um...” said the demon. “Um...”

“Sorry about earlier,” he told her. “You know, shooting you in the face and stuff?”

“Um...”

“We were trying to be stealthy, that’s why I did it.” He took out a couple of small plastic guns and stuck them in his waistband, then he removed a much larger gun from the bag and set it on the floor. Next he removed the little sack of Argus eyes and put them in his pocket.

Finally, he took out the bomb. It was a simple thing. He’d bought it from Geneva Jones on his way to the toyshop. She’d agreed to give him a discount to make up for selling him out to the Monk. It was all just business in the end.

The bomb itself was relatively harmless. Relatively harmless compared to other bombs, at least. It contained only a very small amount of explosive. Four two-litre bottles of water were attached to it, making the whole thing awkwardly heavy. Zac slung the strap of the large gun over his shoulder, leaving his hands free to carry the bomb.

“But I’m not trying to be stealthy any more,” he said, kicking the now empty backpack into the corner of the room. “You’ve got an alarm system in here.”

The demon nodded. “Um...”

“You’d probably better press it.”

The demon nodded again. Her finger slowly went to a button beneath her desk. Zac kicked open the door just as the alarm bells began to ring.

All round the first circle, doors began to open, and the alarm was briefly drowned out by the screams and howls of the damned. A green and purple demon with ape-like arms was unlucky enough to step out from the closest door.

“What’s all the racket?” he demanded, before the tip of Zac’s shoe came up sharply between his legs. The demon clutched his groin and dropped to his knees, then he toppled sideways, groaning, on to the floor.

More demons poured from more doors up ahead. Others still emerged from the rooms behind him. Zac looked down at the floors below and saw that they too, were brimming with monsters, all gesturing angrily in his direction.

With a flick of a switch, Zac primed the bomb and a three-second countdown began. He tossed the thing out over the frosted-glass barrier and into the big space in the centre of the rings. The bomb flipped twice, then began to fall.

It had barely travelled three or four metres downwards when the explosive charge detonated. The bottles ruptured, spraying a rain of holy water in all directions. Those demons unlucky enough to be hit by the spray began to scream as their hides sizzled and blistered.

“Wow,” said Zac. “So that’s what it does to them.”

The din of the demons’ screams echoed round the corridors of Hell. The spray had only hit a small percentage of them, but their thrashing and howling and begging for help had quickly plunged the whole place into chaos.

The demon he’d kicked was still lying on the ground, holding his crotch and trying not to vomit on the carpet. He gave a high-pitched whimper when Zac hauled him to his feet.

“The tenth circle. Can you take me there?”

The demon shook his head. Zac took one of the smaller water pistols from his waistband and jammed it in the demon’s mouth. “Holy water,” he explained. He cocked his head and listened to the screaming from the lower floors. “But then you probably guessed that. I’m going to ask you again. The tenth circle. Can you take me there?”

The demon shook his head again. Zac squeezed the trigger, just enough for a single drop of water to dribble into the monster’s mouth. The demon’s eyes went wide as his tongue began to sizzle and burn.

“Tenth circle,” Zac urged. “Yes or no?”

“’Es!” the demon squeaked. “’Es!”

Zac glanced around the corridor. Those demons who hadn’t been hit by the spray were shoving past the others, making their way around to him. They’d be on him at any moment.

“Then do it,” he growled. “Now!”

There was a blip and Zac found himself standing in the room he’d been in earlier. There were the chains that had bound him and Angelo. There was the reclining chair. But it looked like a tornado had ripped through the place.

The chair was in pieces. The light that had been mounted above it lay smashed and broken on the floor. A gaping hole had been torn through one wall. From beyond it, Zac could hear shouts of anger and yelps of panic, and the roars of something monstrous.

The captive demon watched him, his eyes bulging, the gun still wedged in his mouth. Zac carefully removed the pistol. “Sorry about that,” he said, then he drove a left hook across the demon’s cheek, knocking him out cold. “And that.”

He looked over to the hole in the wall. “Right, then,” he announced to no one in particular. “I’m guessing this way.”

Just as he reached the gap, something large and scaly came hurtling backwards through it. With a cry of pain, Haures smashed through a stainless-steel worktop and thudded hard against the wall. Black blood oozed from the duke’s nose and mouth. He coughed violently, mumbled, “That’s more like it,” then slid sideways on to the floor.

Zac cautiously poked his head round the edge of the hole and peered into a room larger than the one he was in. It was filled with what was probably until very recently state-of-the-art medical equipment, but which was now little more than scrap metal bent into a variety of interesting shapes.

A large metal box, which may once have been a prison cell, stood in the centre of the room. One of its walls had been torn away, the others were scorched and black with soot. Sparks rained down from a broken electric light that hung from the high ceiling. The other lights flickered, more off than on.

Three of the demons in surgical masks chittered excitedly as they launched themselves into the shadows beneath the broken light. A bellow of rage rocked the room and two of the demons were hurled from the darkness at terrifying speed. Their spindly bodies went krik as they broke against the wall.

Zac looked on as the third little demon came darting out of the gloom, its eyes wide open with terror. It made it four steps before a hand reached out of the dark and swatted it to the floor. The demon screamed as the hand dragged it back into the shadows, and then the screams became muffled before abruptly coming to a stop.

Silence followed, broken only by a burp from the darkness.

Zac stepped through the hole in the wall. “Hey, Angelo,” he said, doing what he could to control the shake in his voice. “Hoped I’d find you here.”

Breath hissed in the shadows. A growl rumbled at the back of a throat.

“I came back. You know, to rescue you. Like I said. Because, well, I was thinking and—”

A jet of flame crackled towards him, forcing Zac to throw himself sideways. He rolled expertly and took cover behind the buckled remains of a metal wall. The flame had come from high up, somewhere near the domed ceiling itself. Zac raised his eyes. The ceiling was ten metres high, maybe more. Higher than Angelo’s demon form had been. Much, much higher.

There was a clatter from the hole in the wall and Haures came staggering through. The Duke of Hell glowered gleefully up into the darkness and extended his arms out wide.

“Come, my boy,” he cried. “Come to Uncle Haures!”

Zac kept out of sight. He ducked down low and watched as the shadows parted revealing the Angelo-demon in all his true horror.

“Oh, come on,” Zac muttered as the monstrous shape stepped into view. “You have got to be kidding me.”