Hell in Heaven

CHAPTER EIGHT

Matt stayed absolutely still, axe poised to strike, for a minute, then two, then five. It didn't move, except for the steady decay of the fleshy mound into a black, evil ooze. At first he had decided to stay no longer than it took to dig his arm out of the pile of logs. Once he was free, he told himself he was waiting to make sure it didn't rise back to life. But he knew that was a lie. He was watching in dread, fearing that, like the werewolf at the end of so many horror movies he'd seen as a kid, it would in death regain its original human form. Its beautiful, haunted form.

He needed to know that what he'd killed hadn't been a human being. That it had been some kind of monster, not a needy, lonely woman stricken by a terrible disease.

Matt had killed before. He murdered his own best friend when Andy, possessed by evil from the Dark Man's touch, had gone on a murder spree. But that had been his duty, his responsibility. He did it to save lives. This time he was just protecting his own ass.

The thought of Andy brought up images of his face, rotted and decaying as Mr. Dark's evil consumed his soul. He tried to push the picture out of his head, but it kept pounding back. Finally Matt realized why.

There had been tumors in Andy's rotting face. Maybe they'd been the agent that caused the decay. They were small… but they were the same things that had devoured Joan.

Matt realized that it didn't matter if Joan had been human or not. There was evil in her, evil so massive it dwarfed the hate that had sent Andy to murder everyone who got in his way.

And it was contagious. He brushed at the back of his hand where the droplet of cancer had tried to send its roots deep into his skin, knowing that if it had gained purchase he would have turned into something as horrible as she had. That rage he had felt, that burning hate for everyone and everything, that must have been what Andy felt when he pushed some kid's face into a deep fryer.

If that was the case, then what about the other people in Heaven? Were they all possessed the same way Joan had been? Joan might easily have infected them all. But if so, what had infected her? Could it have been Mr. Dark? Or was there a greater force that controlled both of the monsters?

Since the moment he'd woken up on the coroner's slab, Matt had found nothing but questions. And here he had more puzzles, and still not a single answer. Especially to the most pressing one in his head – what had brought him to Heaven? He'd assumed he'd been acting on his own whim. But the Joan-thing claimed he'd been sent to her. And as he thought through the events of the night, he realized that she had never had a son. That was all a ruse to soften him up before the invitation to become something like her.

That welcome banner was for him.

That thought was enough to propel Matt to his feet. This was one welcome he was going to decline.

The thing on the ground – the two things, since his axe had split it completely into halves – was never going to change back to a person. Whatever humanity might once have been inside that ball of cancer was long gone. The remaining lumps of flesh were turning black, and then sloughing off into a watery ooze, soaking into the ground.

Matt grabbed his axe and yanked it out of the ground. The blade dripped black slime, and he knew he should take the time to clean if off. But that could wait. Everything could wait. The only thing that mattered now was to get the hell out of Heaven.

He picked up his pack and brushed off the shards of glass, then strapped it across the back of his Buell Blast. Lashing the axe across the top of the pack, he swung onto the seat and kicked the bike into life.

Matt slipped the bike into gear and rode slowly over the decaying tarmac of the side street. He allowed himself a little more gas and sped up. Matt had never felt anything so glorious as the fresh wind blowing in his face. He twisted the throttle and let the bike take off. He leaned into a curve and saw the most beautiful sight he'd ever come across in his life.

The long black ribbon of road.

It was the road that ran through Heaven. The road back to the highway. To reality.

Matt gunned the engine and let the bike fly. One hundred yards, fifty, ten. He was almost there.

He screamed up to the intersection, leaning hard right to take the turn onto the blessed road.

Then heard the blasting horn and screaming engine before he could turn his head left to see where the sound was coming from.

The logging truck, tearing down the one-lane road at ninety miles per hour.

The logging truck that was feet away from him.

There was no room to get over. The truck filled every inch of the roadway. The shoulder was a steep berm of dirt and rocks.

Matt could see the grillwork bearing down on him. Count the bugs splattered over the H symbol.

H for Harvester? Or for Heaven?

Matt twisted the handlebars sharply to the right. The bike's front tire cut into the rubble of the berm, and for a moment he thought he'd make it over the top.

Then he hit a rock.

Matt threw himself off the bike, wrenching himself sideways before the momentum could hurl him into the truck's path.

Matt rose in the air for so long he felt he'd learned to fly. Then he realized he wasn't soaring. He was falling. He slammed into the hard earth with a whoompf as the air was pounded out of his lungs. His head came down on a rock and everything went black.

Then there was a shriek of tearing metal as the truck slammed into the Buell Blast, smashing it into fragments.

But Matt didn't hear it.