Author's Note: I was told to let the plot bunnies run free, and they are. This story is the pseudo-sequel to my one-shot ASCENDING ANGELS. I highly recommend reading that before you attempt this one; it won't take long. This fic is also rated R, or M for Mature Audiences Only. It starts out dark, and I'm pretty sure it's going to get worse. It's the darkest plot bunny I've ever encountered, and I'm still vaguely shocked that I came up with it, to be honest. So beware. I do not want anyone under 15 even attempting it, but it's clear that I can't stop you. However, I strongly advise against it.

Disclaimer: Van Helsing belongs to Stephen Somers, and Indiana Jones to Lucas and Speilberg. Not mine. The title for this was, again, inspired by Dali, but to my knowledge was not a title for any of his works.

MOLTEN TIME

It was chilly in Burnham Park, despite the fact that it was only the first week in August. The man walking along the path gave in to the brisk wind off the lake, and zipped his jacket. That same wind ruffled his short hair, and he turned his face into it, wishing that the smell which greeted him was clean and clear, instead of putrid with trash.

It was well after dark, and only the stupid or foolish usually lingered in Burnham so far after sundown. This man was neither. Instead, he had the secure weight of a semi-automatic at his hip, a comforting reassurance. He was not inclined to think about such things, however.

He couldn't get the scene out of his head, and his memories of the last half-hour chilled him far more than Lake Ontario's stiff breeze. Violent things happened in Chicago, but it was always worse when the victims were children. And they were so young . . . he winced.

He had been called on the scene just after sundown, a few mere minutes after the original, panicked call had come out. A girl working in a pizzeria on South Canal Street had been taking out the trash, and found the still-warm body lying in the dumpster. She had been hysterical and nearly incoherent during the 911 call, and the cop couldn't blame her.

The victim had been thirteen-year-old Jody Suarez, a name that still meant nothing to the policeman outside of a horrific, and tragically youthful, demise. His face scrunched in disgust as he recalled the scene. The young girl had been laid out carefully in the dumpster, on her back with all her appendages sprawled, as if she had flopped into the trash for a nap. Her school ID, clearly identifying her as one of the children from PS 117, had been laid over a gruesome knife wound that pierced her heart. Already other members of the force were speculating on who had brought her to the pizzeria, and why. PS 117 was on the other side of the Chicago River, after all.

The man scowled, his stride forceful and angry, as he recalled what else had been determined at the scene. The specialists had been called in, and the body examined cursorily before the scene had been fully closed down for the night. Not yet cool, the body had been easily moved, and it had been quickly discovered that little Jody Suarez had also been injected with some illicit drug – judging from the needle marks, the cop was betting on heroin. She had also, quite recently, been sexually active.

All in all, it painted a picture of drugging, rape and murder that the cop had seen in two other sadly similar cases within the past few days. He was disgusted by the sudden serial trend, despite knowing that it happened all too frequently these days. The new millennium looked to be not much different from the old, and it was starting out on a bad foot.

But it was the expression on little Jody's face – a heart-striking mix of terror and betrayal, that haunted his thoughts.

The man grimaced, distracting himself from his morbid musings by concentrating on his surroundings. Chicago had precious few places free from the teeming humanity that choked every square mile of the city. The parks were intended refuges from machinery, that had varying degrees of success. Burnham was a little less successful than most, but had the advantage of being close to Lake Ontario. That in itself made the place a little easier to tolerate, but not worth the danger courted by spending too much time there.

The cop glanced around, noting with surprise the lack of usual skulking humanity. He expected to see pushers and muggers lurking in the shadows, waiting to ambush misfortunate passerby, but the shadows were suspiciously empty.

His stride grew longer, his steps more purposeful, as he realized the lateness of the hour. He needed to get home, to write up a report, and get at least some sleep before the morning grind began again.

It was then that he heard the first noise.

It tingled down his spine, the soft scuff of a shoe over dirt. Grey eyes darted to the shadows, keenly seeking the source, but it had stifled itself and was invisible. Hands, swinging loose by his sides despite the chill in the air, flexed cautiously. The cop was seriously considering the repercussions of drawing his weapon when the attack came.

A thick branch swung out of nowhere, slamming into his side with the muffled crack of breaking ribs. A gasped cry burst from his lips, but the cop was still standing. He could see almost nothing in the dark, a stand of trees blocking even the sliver of moon from him.

He reached for his gun, and went staggering to the left as something hard impacted the right side of his face. He was caught, roughly shoved upright and back into the circle of attackers.

He couldn't see their faces – nylon masks obscured features that were darkened in the night's shadows. Pushed from one to the other, he suffered various scrapes and bruises, sharp blows coming sporadically from nowhere to double him over. His first reach for his gun was thwarted as someone else got there first. He tensed, expecting to be shot, but the blast never came.

Instead, he was whirled and thrown between them – and there were many. Rage welled up inside, and he struck out. A few, short cries of pain were his reward, and he grinned to hear them, heedless of the blood trailing over his face from his nose, or the pain in his split lip.

Victory was short-lived. The sound of a shot rang through the air almost at once, but the cop did not fall. The gun had been fired into the air, bringing the combatants to an immediate halt.

Good, the cop thought ruthlessly. Attract more attention.

But the eerie silence that swallowed the noise had the cop thinking uneasily of just how deserted Burnham Park was at three-thirty in the morning.

The fighters around him took a step forward, and he could see immediately what was coming. He fought tooth and nail, throwing his body at them without heed for his bruised and broken ribs, but to no avail. The cop was carried to the ground by the force of his attackers, crushed under the pile of bodies. Smothered beneath unimaginable weight, he felt the air pressed painfully from his lungs, gasping ineffectually to breathe. Sweaty and hot, the air he did get did him no good. Swirling blackness swept him out of time.

When he woke, he was tied and cramped. The rumbling heat of a motor under him informed him that he had been neatly tucked, like a trussed hog, into the trunk of someone's car. The space was too small for him, and he had a moment to wonder that he was yet alive. He could barely breathe now, making a conscious effort at it, and had no idea how he had done so while unconscious.

The car slowed to a stop for several moments, before sudden motion tossed him none-to-gently forward.

The rest of the ride – fifteen minutes in which he kept from fantasizing on how his life was going to end – was similarly torturous. Growing pain in his chest let him know that ribs were cracked, broken. The urge to cough told him that he was being optimistic in that assessment. The odds that a rib had punctured a lung, especially given his contorted position, were high.

Taking his mind off what was probably a serious rehabilitation period, if not imminent death, he tried to think of whom he had infuriated enough to merit this treatment. He hadn't gotten on the nerves of the local mafiosa lately – except for jailing that one mob boss's son a few weeks ago. But that was business, not personal. After all, the boy had screwed up and the father – well, the cop figured he'd already be dead instead of wondering why he wasn't.

Pushers, muggers, local street thugs wouldn't and couldn't mobilize like this – they had neither the resources nor the will. The appearance of a cop-killer among the local street scum of Chicago would ensure a massive, active police response. The force did not take lightly to the murder of one of their own.

So that left – who? He was just another cop, had gone out of his way to remain unnoticed and ignored. If this was an opportunist attack, though, he figured he was royally screwed. Survival rates of cops against someone with a grudge against the police were not high. And the death would be a hard, brutal one.

He had no more time for such thoughts. The car had come to a stop, and the vibrating engine which had held out the promise of life with its muted roar had been silenced. The slamming of doors vibrated through the body of the vehicle, and the cop squeezed into the trunk could feel them. His stomach dropped, his heart beating in his throat.

He squinted at the sudden light as the lid to the trunk was opened.

"Officer Jones," he heard. The voice was distorted but understandable.

"Who are you?" he snapped breathlessly.

A low laugh was his only answer, before he was unceremoniously jerked from the car. The grating of bones in the side of his chest stole his breath, and he dropped to his knees with a voiceless cry. It was dark, the area around him smelling strongly of the lake and illuminated only by far-off streetlights.

His face was white with pain, his skin cold from shock and wet with fear-sweat. His captors – he counted three – unloaded something from the backseat of the car, and he froze in horror.

In this day and age, there were many ways to die; some worse than others. The cop considered those that went out on the highs of drugs, or the swift bite of a bullet, just as lucky as the ones who lived to ninety and drifted off in their sleep. It was a quick way to die, more painless than some others, and half the time you never even saw it coming.

There were worse ways to die. Killed by fire, or an angry lover, where you could feel pain in every fiber of your being. Falling to his death had always been a secret fear, one kept close and never shared.

But drowning – he had never considered it. He knew how to swim, and entered the water so infrequently that it had never really entered his mind.

An irreverent thought clouded his mind. So many sophisticated ways to die, in this day and age, and they were loading him onto a small boat, next to the cinderblocks they clearly intended to fasten to him before throwing him overboard.

He had been alive for far longer than the story his face projected, but he had never died. He knew of no real way to prepare, knew of nothing besides the facts and that his faith, never quite solid but still there, might not be up to this task.

Time flowed away from him again, but he was conscious this time, panic setting in as the boat's motor stopped as well, the only noise the quiet joking of his captors and the lapping of waves against the boat. No matter how long the journey had been, it would never be long enough. He was tightly wrapped in chains, padlocks ensuring his captivity to the many heavy blocks they wove around him with steel.

The men surveyed their job, quietly and in a moment of peaceful silence. For the captive, it was strained with the knowledge that it was quite possibly his last on Earth. "Why?" he scraped out, hoarse with pain and soul-clenching fear.

A harsh chuckle, bitter with experience, met his ears. "You know why," the man answered then.

His struggles, as they lifted him up, were ineffectual, constrained as he was with rope and chain. The short drop to the water gave him enough time to gasp in a breath, one that was almost immediately stolen from him by the shock of such pervasive cold. Ontario was one of the Great Lakes – all that was left of an ancient inland sea. Not even in summer did it warm up for long.

He was dragged under quickly, descending as the weights pulled him inexorably downwards. The water made everything heavier, and even as he struggled, he spiraled deeper and deeper into the abyss. He continued to fight, refusing to give up, racking an exhausted brain for any escape even as his body grew heavy, bubbles escaping his nose and mouth to float freely upwards.

An idea, an old memory, sparked the last dying cells struggling for life. His lungs were pressing, his chest on fire with the pain, the need for air. In a last, desperate shout, his remaining air left him, and water rushed in. Darkness reached for him, and his consciousness faded, the name still ringing strongly in his mind.

"Gabriel!"