Hellboy: Unnatural Selection(53)

The soundings from the invader came strong and hard, parting around the serpent and being swallowed. The closer it came, the more it hurt the serpent's innards every time one of these echoes sounded. Anger grew, rage wallowed in the creatures guts, and by the time it reached the huge metal invader, it was alight with violence.

Too late, the invader noted its presence. With a pathetic cough it unleashed a defense against the serpent. The creature twisted and evaded the torpedo, then darted in at the vessels hull. The submarine — home to the killers of memory, the serpent's father had said — roared on through the depths, but now there were sounds coming from it that the serpent relished. Breaking sounds, creaking, moaning.

It took the submarine deeper.

Another torpedo fired, and the ocean caught fire.

Stunned, confused, the serpent parted from the submarine and sank quickly, trying to escape the pounding impact of the explosion that had ripped its skin and shattered its insides. But above, the invader was also in trouble. The metallic creaks and groans had increased into a drawn-out squeal, and another, smaller explosion sent a wave of heat through the water. The serpent halted its descent and rose again, pained but exhilarated.

The submarine had all but stopped moving, and it now hung still in the water. Great streams of bubbles rose from its nose, and in those streams were other things that smelled bad, felt worse. Even in death, this thing was dirtying the sea.

Enemies of memory, the serpent's father had said.

Killers of wonder.

Enraged, the serpent rose quickly and struck the submarine again.

And then — sensing a great shadow rising from below, feeling the rush of displaced water, hearing the thumping impacts of the things mind as it turned over those same words from Father — the serpent darted away, happy to let another forgotten memory finish the task it had begun.

Soon it was in free water again, untouched by the noises and impacts of the submarine's demise. It swam back to the ship, ignorant of its wounds. The main thought in its mind was, Killers of memory, memories themselves.

In the serpent's mind, Father smiled.



* * *





Baltimore International Airport — 1997



ABBY PARIS SAT AT A coffee shop table in BWI, absently stroking her smooth stomach as she noted and doodled in a writing pad. Her mug of coffee had grown cold on the table before her, and the bustle of passengers lining up to pass through security had faded away to a background murmur. All her concentration was on her pen, the paper in front of her, and the shapes that were appearing there. Her hand moved, but she was not doing the drawing. She was remembering the Memory and the voice of the thing that had spoken to her in there. She was certain it had given her information. No matter how old it claimed to be, how awful, how faded and alone now that Blake had passed it by, she thought it had given her something of value before she withdrew. Trouble was, she had no idea what.

She closed her eyes, hoping that complete disassociation would aid her automatic drawing.

"Hey, nice picture."

Abby opened her eyes. A young man was sitting across the table, smiling at her as he sipped from a cup of coffee. He was fit, attractive, and evidently untroubled by deeper things.

"Get lost," Abby said.

"Hey now, no need to be like that!" He leaned forward, glancing left and right as if about to impart a secret. "How about we get lost together?"

Abby dropped the pencil, leaned across the table, and hissed. She felt the power coming to the fore, the lack of control that gave her such dreadful freedom, and she tasted the tang of blood in her mouth. Whatever the boy saw or smelled scared the hell out of him. He stood, knocked his coffee across the table, and ran. He didn't make a sound.

Abby sat back and snatched up her writing pad before the coffee could stain it. Her heart had not skipped a beat. But inside, where nobody ever saw, she could feel the change coming over her. Why the hell did I run two days before a full moon? she thought. But it had been an impulse, and there was no way she could have controlled what happened. Perhaps she had no control. The birthing at the hands of Blake, escape from the New Ark, being rescued by Abe, the BPRD, killing that werewolf in Baltimore ... her whole life had the feel of being preordained, and the more she fought against it, the more she felt steered by something way beyond her ken.

"Shit." She opened her eyes, glanced down at the pad, and saw yet another signature of fate.

Growling at the boy had split her gums, and blood had sprayed across the table and pattered down onto her writing pad. It was smudged now, already drying, and it had smeared into a pattern she recognized.