Free Hellraisers by Alexander Gordon Smith Page A

him.”
    The girl moved in, pressing down on his chest and head. She was freakishly strong, his ribs feeling like they might snap beneath her fingers. Marlow snarled, a noise from deep inside his throat. It was the sound a dog made when it was cornered, knowing it was about to die. He swore at them, curse after curse. The knife rose, hanging there, then it plunged down like a guillotine blade. Marlow winced, every muscle tensing, waiting for the fire. But the blade simply sliced through the first plastic strap.
    â€œWait, what ?” wheezed Marlow. The guy did the same with the other straps and suddenly the only things holding him down were hands. He took as big a breath as he could manage, his throat the size of a juice carton straw. The guy slid the knife away, then pulled on the sheet, lifting it up. Marlow’s body lay beneath, so many bruises and bandages there that it took him a second to realize he was only wearing his boxers.
    â€œYou gonna make this difficult?” the knife guy asked. Marlow shook his head. “Then get up. Slowly.”
    They stepped back to let him past. Marlow snatched in a thimbleful of air, struggling to sit up, every muscle creaking. He hopped down onto the cold floor, flexing, the joints in his neck and back sounding like somebody popping bubble wrap.
    â€œWhat now?” he said, still alert. Herc had given the impression that it was either sign up or sign out— permanently —but the knife guy just gave him a gentle nudge, steering him toward the middle of the giant room.
    â€œNow we show you out,” he said. “And we never see your scrawny ass again. Clear?”
    Marlow didn’t reply. There was no sign of Herc, or Pan, but there were a couple of other people in the room and they looked at him like he’d just spat in their coffee. The fear he’d felt seconds ago was fast becoming something else, something much worse. Shame. They all knew what he was. They could see right through the skin of his chest into his cowardly heart. He hated them for it.
    He hated himself more.
    He lifted a hand and chewed on his knuckles as he walked, keeping his eyes on the floor. Screw them. What the hell was he supposed to have done? Joined up with a bunch of weirdos to fight against things that couldn’t possibly be real?
    There was an elevator in the middle of the room, the doors open.
    â€œGet in,” the girl snapped. The moose man shunted him forward and he staggered into the car, the whole thing wobbling. He spun around, doing his best to look angry, to look tough, feeling like a sheep that’s suddenly found itself in a room full of wolves. The girl and guy walked in beside him. The man grabbed the outer set of metal doors and hauled them shut, then did the same with the inner ones. The girl stood there, her eyes running up and down, making Marlow feel more self-conscious than ever. His knuckles hurt from where he’d bitten them.
    â€œWhen do I get my clothes back?” he said, coughing out phlegm. Each breath was a struggle. “My inhaler.”
    Neither of them answered. The man pressed one of the big brass buttons and the elevator began rattling slowly downward.
    â€œHey,” he said. “Clothes?”
    They didn’t answer, just glanced at each other. He almost didn’t see the mutual nod, it was so subtle. But it was there, and when they both suddenly lunged at him he was ready. He stepped back, spinning his body to avoid the flailing hands. The man tripped on his own feet and Marlow gave him a powerful shove, sending him clattering into the wall. The elevator rocked, groaning, and Marlow staggered. By the time he’d found his balance the girl was coming right for him, something shining in her hand.
    A knife.
    â€œWait!”
    She stabbed the blade toward him and he only just managed to get a hand up, slapping her arm away. It felt like he’d deflected a baseball bat in full swing. He lashed out with his fist,