Mass struggled to see, his vision blurry, but he vaguely recognised the stranger with Addy’s pressed knife against his throat. “You entered the gate with Vamps. Rick… Rick Bastion?”
“Things went badly for your friend. Vamps was brave, but no match for Crimolok.”
Mass nodded dismissively, not wanting to talk about such things. “I know what happened to my friend, but what are you doing here?”
“I’m here to help mankind win this war.”
“Yeah, okay, fair enough.”
Smithy explained the events of the past week so rapidly that he had to start again. “So, yeah, we, um, found this pub a couple hours after we left the cottage – Nailor’s Arms, it was. Nice place with loads of guest ales and a specials menu behind the bar. Anyway, inside we found a pair of first aid kits, dishcloths, and as much alcohol as we could carry. It was a perfect score, man.”
Tox nodded. “It was. We expected to be right back here with everything we needed.”
Smithy continued, excitement in his voice. “Then this hobo with a shotgun appears from out of nowhere and shoots Tox right in the shin – almost takes his leg off at the knee. I almost puked, I swear.”
“I was bleeding out fast,” said Tox, grimacing at the memory, “and the fucker would have shot me again if Smithy hadn’t brained him with a bottle of Irish cream.”
“It was Tia Maria.”
“Oh, I thought it was Baileys.”
Smithy shook his head. “Nah, it was definitely Tia M—”
“Not important,” said Mass. He glanced at Tox’s leg. His friend was limping, but his limb was intact. His jeans were ragged and covered in blood. “How did you survive a shotgun blast?”
“I wouldn’t have,” said Tox. “The gunshot attracted demons and they surrounded the pub. They would have got in, but they all vanished.”
“Vanished?”
Smithy and Tox both looked at Rick, who gave no response. After a moment, he acknowledged that they wanted his input and sighed. “This body can only endure so much,” he said, “but I can exorcise nearby demons to Hell. It is… draining. As is the act of healing. I helped your friend, but it took a lot out of me. I needed a day to rest.”
Mass slumped in the rocking chair, his head moving closer to his knees. He was so tired. So cold. His words were slow and soaked with saliva when he spoke. “I wish I could say it all sounds like… like nonsense, but I’m talking to a guy who’s been to Hell and back. Tox, how come it took you a week to get back here?”
Tox leant against the wall, taking the weight off his leg. “That was my fault. Rick kept me from dying, but my leg didn’t get better straight away. It was like accelerated healing or something, not instant. Each day my leg hurt a little less and looked a little better until, eventually, I could walk again.”
“What about the old guy who shot you?”
Smithy chuckled. “Bryan. We tied him to the pub’s fruit machine until he calmed down, which took about three bloody days. We asked him to come with us when we left, but the guy’s missing the marble from his Screwball Scramble – a complete loon. We left him alone at the pub. I reckon his plan is to drink out the last of his days in peace. Not the worst idea.” He looked at Tox wistfully. “I miss Bryan.”
Tox sighed. “Yeah. Yeah, me too.”
“We came back as soon as we could,” said Smithy. “I could have come alone sooner, but I didn’t want to leave Tox behind with Jesus mark two.”
Rick looked at him, the slightest of frowns upon his face. “You did not trust me?”
“No offence, but you’re a tad emotionless, the kind of guy who would work at McDonalds and piss in the milkshake machine when nobody was watching.”
Rick shrugged, uninterested.
“Anyway, we’re back now,” said Tox. “I was worried we took too long. I thought for sure…”
Mass could barely keep his eyes open. “You made it back just in time to say goodbye. I’m glad… I’m glad you’re okay. Now… go.”
“Not without you, man. I got the thing you need.” Tox gave Rick an assenting nod and the former pop star approached Mass with his hands outstretched like he was coming in for a grope.
Mass shifted, almost falling forward out of the rocking chair. “W-What are you doing?”
“Helping you. I’m afraid this will hurt a lot.”
It hurt worse.
Another day passed. An agonising stream of time, punctuated by Mass’s healing body crying out as the cells in his body stitched themselves back together. It was an otherworldly experience, happening so fast that he could swear he saw his flesh knitting back together before his very eyes. The pain was immense.
Everyone sat around anxiously, watching Mass, soothing him and holding him, telling him that everything was all right. He felt like a smackhead being nursed through recovery. His brow sweated, he begged constantly for relief, and yet nobody could do a damn thing to help except bear witness to his soul-destroying agony. “Can’t you do anything?” Mass heard Addy demand of Rick several times, but each time the peculiar man said no.
Smithy always seemed to be sitting close by, most often on the second step of the cottage’s rickety staircase. His knee juddered up and down ceaselessly, his chin resting on his hand. Concern or boredom, Mass was unsure. The constant, jittery movement was annoying either way.
When Tox and Smithy had returned with Rick, they had brought food and water from the pub. The pork scratchings, salted peanuts, and plain crisps had kept everyone going, but morale was low. Mass’s pain was bringing everybody down. Their isolation in the middle of nowhere was sending them insane. Mass thought constantly about what he had released when he had killed Vamps. He thought about the giant gate and what monstrous being might emerge from it. Perhaps a devourer of worlds like the giant squid monster he’d once
