“Denke, the beast is hungry, I think.”

Karl Denke cursed and jerked on the chain attached to the spiked, metal collar around the Hell Hound’s neck. The beast had the scent of their prey now and muscles coiled beneath it’s hairless, black hide with the urge to be let loose. Saliva dripped from sharp, yellow teeth in anticipation of the kill.

“Yes, it is.” He looked around and nodded. “The trail is fresh. Our prey is heavily burdened and has grown weak. It won’t be long now. We will feast soon enough, beast.”

The hound wasn’t the only one slavering in anticipation. In all his time in Hell, Denke had never had the opportunity to feast on Succubus flesh. Would it be tender? Would it taste sweet?

Soon, he thought with a smile of anticipation. Very soon now.

The five lesser servants assigned to assist Denke in his hunt fingered their weapons in savage anticipation. Their hard, human eyes scanned to the left, right, and rear of the Prussian Butcher, always vigilant for threat or opportunity. Three men and two women proudly bore a mark of ownership burned into the right cheek and scars from many battles fought on their demon Master’s behalf. Each wore a large backpack stuffed with survival gear.

The clawed footprints of the lavender Succubus led them to, and vanished at, a sheer wall of rock. Vines and scrub brush clung to the weathered stone in tangled patches. Nothing moved except the wind.

“Where did the bitch go?” Pierre asked.

“Quiet.” Denke rumbled and looked up the cliff.  “We’re close. I can smell her fear. Drop the packs. Weapons only from here. Billy, climb up and see where she might be hiding. Pierre, search around and make certain she did not double back on her trail. Everyone else, stay alert for an ambush.” 

Billy began to climb. He vanished over a ledge only to re-appear moments later. “There’s a cave entrance up here.” 

“Ah,” Denke smiled. “I have you now, little bitch, and whatever it is you are trying so hard to hide. Up we go. Quick and quiet now.”

“Not you, beast.” Denke jerked the snarling Hell Hound back. “It is stealth and surprise we need now. Your part in this chase is over. No one gets to eat my prize except me.” He hooked the chain leash to a metal spike and, with one massive blow of a hammer, drove the spike deep into the ground. “That should hold you,” he laughed ad pointed. “Sit.”

The beast snarled at him, then sat.

“Stay,” Denke ordered and climbed up the ledge.

The way was narrow. The half dozen hunters had to climb up and duck into the dark crevasse one at a time. Denke went last, struggling to squeeze his armored bulk through the break in the rock.

He gestured for Pierre to lead the way. The ground immediately sloped downward, ever deeper into the earth, and into unbroken darkness. Pierre stared into the thick blackness and felt dread coil in his gut. He didn’t like this, not at all, but what choice was there? The way back was blocked by the rest of his team and their demon Master who would suffer no reports of cowardice from his servants. 

None of them had counted on cave diving when this chase had begun. Without lights, there was nothing to do except shuffle forward through the unbroken black, one step at a time. Pierre took a step, and another- right into a sudden, sharp drop. Before anyone knew what was happening, something jagged speared through the sole of his boot. 

Denke heard the rattle and thump of Pierre crashing to the ground. A blood-curdling scream of agony exploded through the darkness, battering painfully at their ears in the tight confines of the tunnel. Denke pushed forward to lean past Sonja. A match flared bright yellow in his fingers. 

Billy looked down and recoiled at the sight. “Bloody fuck!”

The lead hunter lay in the dirt of the narrow passage. His left foot was ankle-deep in a hole and bent at a grotesque angle. The fluttering light reflected off of ragged flesh and the white shine of jagged, shattered bone. The mist that was his life force seeped out of his foot and ankle and that wasn’t even the worst of it

Metal needles sprouted from Pierre’s face and hands, including one that had pierced his right eye. All around where he had fallen, a small minefield of ash-covered needles sprouted point up out of the ground. Writhing in screaming agony only embedded more needles into his flesh.

“End that noise!” Denke bellowed over the echoing screams from his position in the back of the line. Billy raised his hand ax and drove it down with all his strength. The screaming stopped.

Denke laughed, a bubbling and cruel sound. “Aren’t you just the clever, tasty, little treat? I will savor every bite of your delicious flesh.” He gave Billy a hard shove in the back, then pulled his goggles gown to protect his eyes against any other potential traps in the tunnel. “Keep moving. We will loot his corpse of gear on our return.”

Billy was less than eager to lead the way further into the narrow darkness but he reluctantly complied. They each stepped over the body and moved forward, kicking needles aside and testing each step carefully in the black. Denke wasted match after expensive match to provide some small measure of light, growing angrier with his mounting costs as each one flared and died. Sweat trickled into Billy’s eyes and down his neck as he imagined new horrors with every step and labored breath. 

Finally, just ahead, beyond a turn in the rock, he saw a spill of orange light. A glance at his feet revealed no more dangers. Spear held at the ready, he stepped out into the cavern, certain that the worst was over. 

A rope snapped up out of the dirt, inches from the right side of his face to something above and behind. The man turned as liquid splashed down on his head, stinging his eyes and reeking of spearmint. From the back of the group, Denke could just hear what sounded like the spark of a match. 

“Oh shit,” Billy moaned. And then his world was fire.

***** 

Logan knew the enemy was close when he heard the first man scream. One down, I hope. He thought. Six to go.

He looked over to Beauty and Karen, both crouched behind the cover of rock. “Remember the plan.” 

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“Logan…” Beauty snarled. 

“No, Beauty! No more talk. You’re still too weak for a pitched battle, and if they get through me, you are our last hope.” He didn’t say out loud what they were all probably thinking. Because I will likely be dead. “Stick to the plan.” 

He hurried to get into position. With any luck, the spiked trap and the minefield of needles he had planted in the dirt would slow them enough to give him time to be ready. Logan moved in a fast combat crouch behind a thick spire of stalagmite where all of his chosen weapons of war were carefully arranged for easy access.

The first to step into the orange light of the cavern was a servant according to the tattoo on the man’s right cheek. And yet, despite being little more than property himself, the man was vastly better equipped than any demon Logan and Beauty had previously fought. 

A brown, leather, combat vest, with many loops and pockets for equipment, protected his torso over a long-sleeved, rust-colored, shirt. Pants of the same color were tucked into stout, weather-beaten, brown leather boots. A dagger hung from his right hip. On his left hip was a holster. In one hand was a short sword. In the other was what Logan had feared, a pistol. A pair of brass goggles perched on his forehead over a leather cap meant to shield his skull from injury. 

Not this time. Logan pulled on the first rope. It snapped up out of the dirt he had hidden it in, pulling the leather bag from a narrow ledge in the rock above the cavern entrance.  The rotgut liquor splashed down. Logan thumbed a match to life, lit the cloth wrapped rock in his other hand, and threw.

His aim was good. Logan watched the man flail, burn, and fall. 

Two down. Five to go.

At this angle, the enemy would have no good shot at him without stepping out in the cavern, and out of the cover of darkness. If he was lucky, they would cut their losses at this point and retreat. If not, it would boil down to guns versus blades and whatever dirty tricks Logan had left to play.

Hope for the best and plan for the worst. Logan gave himself 50/50 odds to survive but that only if his final trick worked.

“Come get me, you fuckers.” he growled. “I’m waiting.”

Despite the words of challenge, Logan was worried. He had expected that the Hellhound would be first through the breach to flush him out and buy time for the hunters to get into position to attack. Yet, the beast was nowhere to be seen. 

The rush he knew was inevitable happened next. Three more charged into the cave, spreading out to left, center, and right, shoulder-to-shoulder in a firing line. Each was dressed in a similar uniform to the first man who had entered the cavern, but each of them held a pair of the odd-looking pistols. Six barrels across the cave, looking for a target to kill. Fear and fury twisted the scars and brands on their faces. Lumbering out of the darkness, behind the human shield of his last three soldiers, came their leader. A wild-haired, bushy-bearded, giant of a man. 

Logan knew, at a glance, that he was the real threat and immediately revised his estimation of what “wealthy” looked like here in Hell. 

He wore a black jacket and pants embroidered with a fine silver border, and knee-high, black leather boots. Goggles, constructed of brass and glass, covered his eyes. A pistol was slung low on one hip like an old west gunfighter. A sheathed fencing sword dangled from the other hip. In his hands, pointing out over the firing line was a handcrafted, bolt action rifle. 

“Come out, little whore.” The man’s voice was the coarse scratch of rocks rubbing together. The business end of the rifle slowly panned across the shadow and stone of the cavern. “The time for silly games is over.”

“Not quite over,” Logan whispered. “Always remember to look up.”

He tugged a carefully placed square knot loose. Rope slithered away as the weight of his final secret weapon hurtled down from above. The madman’s eyes noticed movement and finally looked up. 

A sack of flour struck the stony floor and exploded into a cloud of choking, white powder that rolled over all four men and women. Voices coughed and cursed in anger. The hunter bellowed laughter, still coughing and waving one hand in front of his face as he staggered through the cloud. “Dust? You are going to stop me with a bag of dust?” 

Logan lit the last alcohol-soaked, rag covered rock in his arsenal and rose out of hiding. “That isn’t just dust, asshole. It’s chemistry.” To the ladies, he yelled, “Do it now!” 

The ladies jumped up from cover, holding their own flaming, cloth-wrapped stones. All three hurled the burning missiles overhead like grenades, into the cloud of extremely flammable, airborne particles. Blinding light, searing heat, and the physical impact of thundering noise exploded in a rolling wall of fire.

Logan was blown off his feet. Awareness came back slowly in the form of a ringing sound in his ears and the scent of cooked pork in his nose. No, not just ringing.

Screaming. Then the sharp crack of a gunshot.

He pulled himself up, to look around cover at the blackened stone and still, smoking bodies. Flames still gently danced on their corpses. All but one.

The leader still stood. The screams; bellowing cries of mindless agony, were his. Where there had been hair and beard was now only wet, ruined flesh. His armored clothing had survived the flash fire. The goggles had shielded one eye. The other was hidden behind shattered glass and melted metal. 

The rifle had also survived. Logan watched him stagger back against the cavern wall, hardly pausing for breath as he shrieked his pain and mutilation, ratcheting the slide bolt on the gun and firing blindly into the shadows.

Another wild shot. A female voice wailed of pain. The man’s head whipped around as if zeroing in on the location of the cry. His hand began to work the bolt and chamber another round.

Logan threw himself across the distance. Desperate to get there first. Knowing he never would. 

Fifteen feet.

The rifle rose to steady and shoot. 

Ten feet.

The hunter’s finger curled around the trigger and began to squeeze.

Too slow. The words fluttered through his mind as Logan pulled his knife and leaped. Too late.

Just then, Logan and Beauty’s shitty old, make-shift hunting spear struck the man dead on in the chest. It could not penetrate past the metal plates on his jacket but the force was enough to rock the man backward and carry his shot high and wide. 

Thank you, Beauty!

Logan crashed into the man like a linebacker, shoulder first, and at full charge. They hurtled to the ground in a tangle of limbs and fought as hard men will, with savage strength and merciless intent. Both drew knives. Fists hammered. Blades cut. Red blood and pale mist spilled across the floor as they fought to kill and fought to live.

 Logan felt lines of fire tear across his ribs but the “fight or flight” rush of adrenaline kept the agony at bay. Long enough to get his knife hand free. He roared, spraying blood from his mouth and stabbed, and stabbed, and stabbed.

The hunter bellowed in pain, slapping a hand against the life force boiling out of his neck. The other hand clenched around Logan’s wrist and twisted until the knife clattered from his grasp. A backhanded blow snapped Logan’s head to the side, stunning him for less than a heartbeat.

Long enough for Denke to draw the pistol from his holster.

They fought for control of the gun. The madman pursed his lips in a loud, piercing whistle. Something monstrous roared in answer from outside the cavern. A slow, savage grin spread across the man’s face as they both heard the Hell Hound rapidly approaching through the tunnel. The barrel of the gun slowly inched down toward Logan’s face.

His last thoughts were of her. I’m sorry, Beauty. I am so sorry!

“First I will take your life.” Spit dripped from between Denke’s broken teeth to splatter on Logan’s face. “Then I will take your human woman as payment for your arrogance. The demon I will cook and eat for my dinner.” The madman pulled the hammer back to fire.

Just as two hundred pounds of Hell Hound lunged out the darkness. Long, yellow teeth clamped down on Denke’s neck and shoulder. The gun fired into the air sending a bullet to ricochet off stone walls. The hound snarled and shook the man like a rag doll. Bone snapped as the hunter screamed in pain and terror. Denke twitched and then was still as his life force bled out in a billowing cloud of mist. 

The beast rose to its feet. Karl Denke, the madman once known as the Prussian Butcher, did not. Molten red eyes looked at Logan where he lay gasping and bleeding into the dirt. Logan braced himself to fight the beast with his last breath.

“Hello cousin. Grandfather Bear sends his regards.”

Logan was stunned to realize that he heard the words in his head, not in his ears. 

“Logan!” Beauty called to him.

He looked over. Karen’s hands were folded over her belly. A steady stream of ghostly mist poured out from between her fingers. Her beautiful dark eyes were wide and frightened.

“Logan?” she whimpered. 

He watched her crumple to the ground.