A New Hell

By Michael John Weber

A new Fiend sits upon the Throne of Hell. Her name is Malison.
The next phase in the war against Humanity begins.

Alien and strange, a new form of plant life grows in the badlands of Canada, fast-spreading, and seemingly indestructible. It is called, the Sliver.
From its otherworldly trees emerge horrid creatures, intelligent and cruel. The Insecarii.
Both phenomenon threaten to bring civilization to a standstill.

Meanwhile, five Magirai return to their lives on Earth, to protect Humanity not only from this new threat, but the enemies of old, as they try to adjust to life as superheroes in the modern Age.
Despite their great power, they need the population's help, in order to save the planet.
But, will Humanity rise to the challenge?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Michael John Weber
• Release date: Sep 16, 2022
• ISBN: 9781005078645

Michael John Weber

I live at the Sungoma Arts Centre, on Vancouver Island. It's quiet and peaceful, and surprisingly comfortable, especially in the forgiving winters, here. There, I write novels, short stories, screenplays, and essays; I make music as well, under the moniker DJ Stoa, which I publish all over the Internets; I also design board-games, card-games, and pen & paper role-playing games, for children and adults alike.

Book preview

Chapter One

~ Hummingbirds; Humming Mask ~

Calgary, Alberta, Canada; Summer, 2020 AD

At the end of the night-quiet cul de sac called Mayfield Place, within one of the cookie cutter suburban homes, January and Zelda stand at the broad island in the kitchen, both dressed for bed, the former clad in one-piece pyjamas, coloured a bright shade of red, save for the white bottoms of their builtin socks, while the latter stands barefoot, wearing a simple grey tank top, and a pair of plush, burgundy boxer shorts. Cluttering the tiled island of the kitchen, a half-dozen varieties of ice cream stand arranged before them, along with bottles of chocolate syrup and caramel, cans of whipped cream, and jars of maraschino cherries, crushed nuts, and multicoloured candy sprinkles. As the antics and high-jinx of the animated show, BattleBerry Five, murmurs softly from the television in the living room, the two friends chatter between samples of the creamy treats, while the coffee machine slowly sputters another decanter of dark roast, filling the kitchen with its rich aroma.

In the midst of their conversation, turning to fetch two bowls from a nearby cupboard, fair-haired January frowns, and infers: So, you're saying they should just be banned, outright?

Well, yeah, shrugs Zelda, pausing to eat a spoonful of maple-walnut ice cream straight from the carton, and speaking with her mouthful, she says: Seriously, remember that time I went to the Philippines? I did a day stopover in Tokyo, and I went to one.

Dropping scoops of cookie dough ice cream into a bowl, January asks: And, based on that one experience, you've decided all maid cafés need to be banned?

Of course, frowns the winsome auburnette, as though it should be obvious, it's perverse. It's just a bunch of horny, middle-aged men sitting around, being waited on by girls in ridiculous maid outfits, who act all cute and servile, and call them 'big brother' all the time.

With a wry grin, January corrects: "It's pronounced, 'onii-chan', in Japanese."

Whatever, Zelda groans, rolling her eyes, half these girls are only, like, fifteen years old.

Apparently, shrugs January, "the age of majority in Japan is fifteen."

It doesn't matter, replies Zelda, shovelling another spoonful of ice cream into her mouth, it's still exploitative to force teenagers to get all dolled-up like that, just to wait upon a bunch of slimy perverts.

Dark brown bottle in hand, busy squeezing lines of warm chocolate syrup onto her dessert, January snorts a laugh, saying: Goodness, Zelda, it's not a slavering, it's not a brothel; it's a job. And, the outfits they get dolled-up in are hardly revealing. I saw the pictures you took on that trip; the only bare skin you could see on that waitress, was her hands and face.

Zelda frowns at her friend, incredulously asking: Are you actually defending the maid café?

Fetching a bag of miniature marshmallows from a cupboard, January retorts: Are you telling me the little booty shorts, and tight tank-top of the Hooters uniform, is any better? Hell, the maid outfits in the pictures you took seem almost matronly in comparison.

Okay, I'll give you that, allows Zelda, gesturing with the spoon in her hand, but at least the girls at Hooters are eighteen, or older.

Nodding, January replies: Agreed, but even though the age of majority is higher in this country, it's not like it stops the sexualization of teenagers; making it taboo is probably one of the things that encourages it. Hell, most of the people we knew in high school lost their virginity when they were in their early teens.

Shaking her head, Zelda retorts: That's different. That's teens and teens getting it on; it's not sixty year olds perving on fifteen year olds.

Actually, segues January, poorly, that reminds me of some study I saw on the internet, about online dating sites. So, you know that bit where you put in, 'I am a something, seeking a something, in the age range of something'? Well, they looked at the ages people were searching for, and found that women mostly look for someone around their own age, whatever that may be; men, on the other hand, no matter what age they are, are mostly looking for someone in the eighteen to twenty-four range.

Zelda rolls her eyes, taking the spoon from her mouth, before she grumbles: And, I bet if the dating sites let you pick a lower age range, like thirteen to seventeen, a lot of men would be selecting it, instead.

Sprinkling little marshmallows upon her ice cream, January grins, and adds: Which goes along with the idea that the number one, porn search term used on Google, throughout the world, is 'teen'.

With a heavy sigh, Zelda shakes her head as though disgusted, and says, "Well, like that guy in the show, Community, said: 'Men are monsters who crave young flesh'."

It's been that way forever, informs January, taking a bite of her treacle dessert. Like, in the late eighteen-hundreds, if you were a woman, and you weren't married by the time you were twenty-one, you were considered a spinster.

Oh – my goodness, you're twenty-one?! exclaims Zelda, sardonically. "That's it for you, honey, you're done; you're an old maid who's gonna die alone and unloved, because you're just waaay too old."

Grinning at her friend's sarcasm, January dryly adds: Well, apparently, over the last hundred years, or so, we've managed to push the spinster line all the way to twenty-four; any older, and men won't want you. At least on dating sites.

Aiming the sigh of her words heavenward, seemingly unable to stop shaking her head, Zelda observes: It's amazing… Glass ceilings, all over the place.

As January opens her mouth to say more, a quiet noise draws her attention, like the slow tap of a pen upon glass, and the duo look to each other, both frowning. You hear that?, whispers January.

Zelda holds up a finger to shush her friend, cocking her head, listening intently. Beside them, the refrigerator's compressor hums to life, and the ice-maker rattles, softly. From the living room, the end credit theme song of BattleBerry Five suddenly stops, mid-note. Soft and quiet, seeming to come from all directions, a faint sound continues to break the silence, as though a fingernail slowly taps upon thin metal.

The quiet noise stops, and January and Zelda stare at each other.

In a trice, every cupboard door in the kitchen bursts wide open, all at once, spilling cans and dishware to clatter and crash upon the floor, as the refrigerator slams open, disgorging containers of food and drink to splatter and spray about the room; every drawer of every cabinet flings out to the limit of its brackets, launching jangling clouds of silverware to the checkered tile, as the kitchen table and chairs flip and leap into the air, smashing together, before collapsing to a jumbled heap in the centre of the room.

Screaming, both girls flinch and duck, each one turning to run for cover, Zelda making for the bathroom, while January rushes through the dining room, into the living room. Floorboards buckle and crack for the heavy, unseen footfalls what slowly pursue her; the dining table and chairs leap aside, crashing and splintering against the walls, shattering the displays of patterned china and flatware. One at a time, the glass of wall-mounted photos cracks in their frames, the pictures within shredding and tearing to pieces; wooden whatnots tumble from the walls, sending a lifetime of bric-a-brac to the floor, while bookshelves topple, houseplants rip from their soil, and stacks of DVDs flip and spin through the air.

January watches as the path of destruction inexorably moves towards her; seeing that it will soon come to ruin the gleaming urn upon the mantle, she whispers, Dad, before rushing forward, snatching the golden vessel in her arms.

Struck by an unseen blow, January sails across the room, slamming into the wall, falling to the floor with a sickening thud. Laying in a slowly growing pool of her own blood, still cradling the golden urn, protectively, she opens her eyes enough to see a dark shadow moving her way, its footfalls thudding loudly. With Zelda's screams faintly ringing in her ears, body growing cold and numb, her vision fading, January averts her gaze from the approaching Demon, unable to face that which destroys her. Eyes coming to rest upon the blood-spattered DVD case on the floor, nearby, focusing on the blue-haired BattleBerry smiling bright upon the cover, January whispers: I wish you could help us…

Screaming January's name, large chef's knife in hand, Zelda stumbles into the living room, mortified at the death and devastation she sees, and the hulking Demon turns its brutal fury her way. Lashing out with thick tentacles of glaring darkness, furiously piercing and stabbing, its savage attack cuts her cries off short, and she crumples to the floor, twitching and gushing blood from her wounds. Then, thundering the floorboards as it moves, the roiling vantablack shadow crackles and hums with thready arcs of violet electricity, its vague and dark form contracting and condensing. First assuming a humanoid aspect, then quickly accumulating density and mass, the ambulant shadow flares with violet-black light, fading to reveal an aged man, tall and thin, with piercing blue eyes, and an Aristotelian fringe of grey hair. Wearing a rather dapper three-piece suit, the colour of pistachio ice-cream, with a dress shirt, paisley tie, and polished oxfords to match, he fastidiously steps around the quickly growing pools of blood upon the floor. Tugging up the knees of his trousers as he crouches next to January, thin smile upon his lips, he watches as the golden urn to which she weakly clings fades from existence, and her final breath escapes her lips.

Good, whispers he, somehow making the word seem foul and offensive.

A sudden and blinding flash of rosy light fills the room, as long ribbons of glaring, multicoloured energy lash and coil, all about; a bluster of wind whips around the room, tossing the long curtains, carrying with it the scent of fresh wildflowers. In the mere space between heartbeats, that eye-searing blaze of light fades; the man in the pistachio-coloured suit staggers and stumbles backwards through the ruined living room, shedding crackling plumes of darkness, screeching his surprise, arms held as a shield before his face.

Blazing as a sliver of the Sun, humming as a hive of angered bees, January's sword banishes the darkness in the room, trailing a wide ribbon of light on the air, as she strides through a pool of her own blood. Golden hair flowing long and loose, her face is hidden by the round of a smooth and featureless mask, tinted a shade of red darker than blood, and adorned with two symmetrical teardrop lines that gleam as sun-struck snow. Clad in a panoply of crimson plate armour, form-fitting and accented in vestal white, a tall, diamond-shaped shield sits strapped to her offhand forearm, itself ablaze with an eye-wrenching glare of cherry-coloured light. In a burst of preternatural speed, booming the air as a thunderclap, setting off a chorus of car alarms outside, she lunges for the man in the pistachio-coloured suit, swinging her sword of glaring plasma impossibly fast.

Shedding sprays of aureate sparks, strange cracks form in his dapper apparel where her humming sword finds its mark, the wounds spewing streams of pure darkness limned with ultraviolet light, and the man blindly turns from January's preternatural advance, himself blurring the air with his haste, in his attempt to flee the blazing fury of her roaring onslaught. Another blinding flash of rosy light stalls his rapid egress from the battle, then, launching him through the air to fracture the wall against which he slams, shattering the glamour of his pistachio-coloured suit to jagged shards as he hits the floor, revealing the horrid vantablack shadowform within. Quickly, the burst of rosy-light fades, and Zelda drifts across the living room, hovering a hand's breadth off the blood-stained floorboards.

All clad in a thick and languid billow of flowing robes, coloured burgundy and black, and aglow with a nimbus of silver light, she carries a tall, metallic staff in her hand, seemingly made of an array of masterfully crafted hummingbirds, each one gleaming black, with glowing gemstones set for eyes. As she draws near, she releases her hold upon that strange weapon, and the scores of clockwork hummingbirds suddenly whir to life, tiny wings droning as they take to the air. Forearms wreathed in bracelets of glaring light, her many mechanical contraptions aflame with burgundy fire, Zelda looks to the bleeding terror, and smiles. Armour spattered with gore, January stands aside the twitching Demon, aiming the point of her blazing sol-sword its way: You have anything smart to say, before we erase you from the Isness?

Brilliant light floods that house on Mayfield Place, a moment, then is gone; the horrible, shrieking howl that echoes from within is abruptly cut short. A thick cloud of tiny golden sparks drifts through the roof, quickly vanishing as they speed upward and Onward. A few minutes later, the front door opens, and the two Magirai step out into the warm, suburban night. Still armed and armoured, anachronistically standing-out against that modern day backdrop, they look about the sleeping neighbourhood of that sprawling metropolis they call home. Removing her featureless mask, January turns Zelda's way, and giggles: So, you wanna go for coffee, before we get started?

All about the cul de sac, lights begin to bloom within the windows of the cookie cutter homes, and car alarms go abruptly silent, as the two Magirai spy the neighbours peeking through their curtains, and turning on their porch lights, looking to see if all is well. Seems we've woken the neighbourhood, mumbles Zelda, looking about the now-quiet street.

It is then, when a quiet voice from next door says: January; is that you?, and both girls look to see a woman standing upon the front stair of the neighbouring home, she clad only in a floriated housecoat, and a pair of fuzzy white slippers.

Oh, hey Mrs. Biggs, says January, with an armoured hand giving the woman a happy wave.

To which, she named Mrs. Biggs stage-whispers the question: What are you two doing?

Nothing, shrugs January, offhandedly gesturing to the street, just seeing what all the commotion is about. Then, pointing to she who stands beside her, she adds: Oh, uh, you remember my friend, Zelda.

With a bright smile, leaning upon her metallic walking staff, Zelda cheerfully waves: Hi, Missus B.

One hand clutching her housecoat closed at her throat, Mrs. Biggs frowns as she looks January up and down, taking in the girl's metallic armour, and shield, before turning her attention to the strange robes, and stranger walking stick, Zelda bears. What are you wearing?, frowns she, blinking the question.

We just got back from a cosplay convention, Zelda hurries to reply, gesturing to her own attire.

Yeah, nods January, playing along with the lie, you've heard of cosplay, right? You know, when you dress up as your favourite character from comic books, or movies, or video games?

They give out prizes for the best ones, and everything, Zelda adds, nodding happily.

Giving a slight shake of her head, Mrs. Biggs mumbles: You kids nowadays…

To which, January sniffs a laugh, with a shrug saying: Yeah, we're pretty crazy all right.

For a moment looking about the night-dark street, Mrs. Biggs then inquires: Did you win?

Oh, uh, no, we didn't, replies January, shaking her head, I'm sorry to say.

And, again turning her attention to the quiet cul de sac, Mrs. Biggs murmurs: I wonder what set off all the alarms like that; it almost sounded like an explosion.

I thought I heard an airplane, before it happened, offers Zelda, looking to the sky, maybe it was a sonic boom, or something.

Well, it's late, segues Mrs. Biggs, letting out a sigh, half turning for her door, you two should get inside. Have a good night, girls.

Nodding a smile, January replies: Have a good night, Mrs. Biggs. Sleep well.

To which, Zelda happily adds: Yeah, it was nice seeing you again, Missus B; love that housecoat, by the way, and January nudges her with an elbow, giving her a small frown of warning. What?, whispers Zelda, putting on an innocent grin.

When Mrs. Biggs disappears inside, and the door clicks shut, and her porch light goes dark, January leans Zelda's way, and mutters: Quick thinking with that cosplay bit. Let's head back inside, real quick, and put away our armour, before we go anywhere.

Yeah, nods Zelda, in this day and Age, that lie might work for a little while, but…

At which, both girls reenter the house, shutting the door tight, and coming to a halt, they survey the mess of the night's ordeal. All about the living room, bric-a-brac and furniture lay scattered upon the floor, along with the shattered glass of picture frames, and the soil of uprooted potted plants, while two conjoined pools of freshly spilt blood stain the hardwood. Looking at the carnage in the room, Zelda holds out her metallic staff, lifting her chin January's way, as she says: Hey, close the curtains, real quick, and I'll tidy this place up.

Vacantly staring at the pools of blood upon the floor, the golden-haired swordswoman gives a small start, saying, Uh… Yeah, okay, before crossing to the large oriel window looking out onto the street, to tug the heavy curtains together. At which point, Zelda releases the full contingent of clockwork hummingbirds from her weapon, two score and ten, who immediately dart and whir into action, righting the toppled breakfront and end tables about the room, beams of light lancing from their beaks to remove the stain of blood from the floor, and repair the broken and shattered decorations, before returning them to their proper places upon the shelves and walls. In less than a minute completing their task, that glimmering of hummingbirds then disappears down the short hallway what leads to the kitchen, where they work to clean up the mess of foodstuffs, melting ice cream, scattered silverware, broken plates, and tangled furniture, what clutters the tiled floor.

Thanks, nods January, as she looks about the living