The Dead

advanced, and a kick to the solar-plexus pounded her over the edge of the bridge.

Cousin Dave came then; Max wailed into him with machete blows, chopped his stubborn fingers from the rail uprights, sent him spinning.

After that, it was Jamie MacAleer.

Then Jamie’s mother.

Then Uncle Buddy; he came up the ladder gripping the rungs with his teeth, his all but severed arm whirling like a medieval war flail.

Another lull after Buddy-Father Ted had a harder time climbing, burdened as he was with Mr. MacAleer. Tied to the priest’s back with barbed wire, MacAleer had his teeth sunk in Father Ted’s scalp; jerking his head back and forth, he worried the dead flesh with pit-bull ferocity.

I have something in mind for him, Legion had said. A little bit of sculpture…

Max drove a knee into the priest’s tied-on face, hitching it halfway up the skull beneath. Father Ted rocked backward shrieking, inverted crucifix trailing behind him in the air.

Max stared down along the ladder, panting. His heart quailed as he saw the next corpse, even though he’d known this was coming, the final turn of the screw, the last stroke of Legion’s malice; Father Ted, Aunt Lucy, cousin Dave, all the rest-it hadn’t been coincidence. Der Kommissar had planned it all, Max knew.

And now the grinning monstrosity clambering up the rungs was his father.

Max Sr.’s dead hand clamped onto a rail upright, and Max lashed out with his foot, but the fingers remained locked, and his father hauled himself over the rim of the catwalk.

Max kicked again, but his father absorbed the blow, his other hand locking onto the upright on the left. Max slammed two punches into his father’s face, but couldn’t yet bring himself to use the machete on the man who’d sired him, raised him, loved him, flesh of his flesh, blood of his blood…

His father snatched at him, and Max retreated, mind an agonized turmoil. Max Sr. leaped onto the catwalk, straightening to his full height, staring at his son with his gleaming black eyes, mouth snapping. Max cocked his machete back to strike, not knowing if he had the resolve to use it.

“Don’t, Dad!” he cried. “Please don’t make me!”

Max Sr. paused for a moment, trembling-and took a mechanical step forward.

Max slashed. Fingers flew.

Max Sr. halted once more as if stung with pain. Yet Max knew it had to be more than that. Was his father’s will free enough to overcome his rage and fear?

“Don’t make me hit you again!” Max pleaded, tears blearing his eyes.

Max Sr. stood facing his son, shaking in every member; Max ached to think of the terror building inside him, the awesome compulsion, Hell bending his father to its will, struggling against what remained of his sanity. Was Legion in his mind even now, gnawing at him like a maggot?

Suddenly Max felt the tension snap. His father started forward once more.

At that moment, Max’s soul was wrenched wide open, and he hardly heard the words that came shrieking from his mouth:

“Daddy! Please!”

The words struck deep. For an instant a fleeting glimpse of shame and unutterable pain mingled with the rage on Max Sr.’s face; he lowered his head, and his hands went slowly down to his sides.

It was a few seconds before Max realized what had happened. Then he slid the machete back into his belt and went for the H and K, which lay at his father’s feet. Freeing the magazine from his pocket, he reloaded and stepped back, watching his father.

Max Sr. lifted his head. The trembling began again. His hands rose once more.

Max trained the gun on him, but didn’t fire. He was determined to hold back until his father’s will cracked once more, until he made his move.

“Stand up to him, Dad,” Max said. “He doesn’t own you. God owns you-”

“But possession’s nine tenths of the law!” a voice roared in answer. Like a mountain growing before Max’s eyes, Legion rose into view behind his father.

Max Sr. turned. Instantly a tremendous blow spun him back round. One whole side of his face had been caved in. Grabbing him by the hair, Legion flung him effortlessly over his shoulder.

“Enjoy your reunion, Max?” the demon asked.

Max screamed and squeezed off a shot. A quarter-sized hole burst open in Legion’s forehead just above the right eye, and a black rotten gust flipped his trooper hat from his skull as the bullet exited. But Legion was on Max before he could loose a second shot, and all at once the gun was smashed from Max’s hands-Max never even saw the blow. Laughing, Legion kicked the gun farther up the catwalk.

Max started to retreat; Legion’s mallet-like right fist hammered up under his jaw, splintering teeth on teeth. Head ringing, blood rivering from his mouth, Max sailed limply through the air, crashing to the catwalk on his back.

Still laughing, shaking his head, Legion gave him time to stagger to his feet and pull the machete out. Then he bashed the blade from Max’s grip and rammed him in the chest with a ribcracking straight right fist. Breath and blood bursting from his lips, Max went down again, gasping, helpless.

“Told you once about the machete, Max,” Legion chuckled. “It’s so insulting. You of all people should realize what you’re up against. You’re the believer-that’s what I like about you. Guys like you are my favorite fix. You have the sense to be really scared. You know about archangels. About suicide seraphim. About the kings of Hell.

“I was ancient when the universe was made, and it was me in Eden, not the Boss. Before The Flood they sacrificed their firstborn to me, and then I blighted their fields and demanded more. Sodom and Gomorrah were my work, and when the Man Upstairs died shrieking in despair, I was in on the hit… I’m the Lord of the Flies, the right hand of Satan himself, and you’re going to stop me with a fucking machete?” With a roar he brought his Frye-booted foot down on Max’s left shin. Bone snapped. Max loosed a shriek that flayed his throat raw, jerking up into a sitting position. Through tears of agony, he saw Legion raise his boot once more.

“Some more Captain Crunch, Max?” the demon asked jovially. “Before I go for the gas?”

The Frye-boot started to descend, slowly this time, toward Max’s other shin. Max tried to jerk his leg back; the boot dropped like a stamping press, pinning his limb between catwalk and sole.

“Faster than you,” Legion gloated, and began to grind.

But before flesh could tear or bone could break, an arm looped around Legion’s neck from behind, yanking him backward. The giant fell, toppling onto his assailant.

Max floundered onto his back, trying to grab one of the uprights and haul himself up. His hand brushed cold steel and plastic-the H and K.

Before him, Legion easily broke his opponent’s hold. Flipping over, he grabbed him and rose, hoisting the struggling figure high overhead with one hand. Max’s bleeding jaw sagged open.

It was his father.

Legion roared; with spine-shattering force, he smashed Max Sr. down on the right-hand rail, then lifted him again and hurled him away down the catwalk as if he were a ragdoll. Then he turned to resume his work on Max.

But Max had grabbed the H and K and switched it back to full auto; and Legion, even with his superhuman speed, was too far to close the distance before Max opened up.

For the first time, Max saw the demon’s hell-grin fade.

Spitting blood, Max smiled.

What happened then was almost more than he could comprehend.

The world seemed to rip before his eyes, as though the screen onto which reality was projected were suddenly tearing; he found himself hurtling through the rent, into cold stinking darkness, flying, falling endlessly.

Put down the gun, said Legion’s voice, quiet and reasonable. Just look, Max. Look ahead. See how useless that little weapon is. See me as I really am.

A light appeared in the void, bluish-green. As Max plummeted toward it, he made out human figures, dark