Paradise Lost Boxed Set

by R. E. Vance

  I nodded in appreciation of Penemue’s twisted psyche. Of course all the books would be blank in his Hell. He loved reading. He loved books. The only thing worse than empty pages was—

  Before I could finish the thought, the ground rumbled, the marble beneath our feet turning up.

  Something was barreling its way underground … and toward us.

  Apparently the Worms in Tremors Were After the Books

  “Book worms,” I yelled over the rumbling noise.

  “Book what?” Bella cried out.

  “Worms. WORMS! This is Penemue’s Hell … What’s the worst thing that could happen to a library? Even one with books filled with blank pages?”

  “They get eaten,” Bella said as we ran away from the tunneling monster and toward what I hoped was the exit. “Of course.”

  Marty hissed as he wrapped tightly around my arm.

  “Must be long-lost cousins of yours,” I said to him.

  The viper had just given me an indignant look that said he’d never be related to a dirt-eating, book-consuming worm when the ground beneath us opened up and a giant, teeth-filled mouth came up beneath us.

  The force of the blow threw me straight up, and as gravity did its inevitable thing (apparently it worked just the same in Hell as on Earth), I saw both Judith and Bella tumbling down the other side of the mound the giant worm had made.

  I pulled out General Shouf’s pistol and pulled the trigger three times, conserving bullets be damned. Each shot bounced off the worm’s exoskeleton … not that I cared. Bella was on the other side of this little impromptu hill, and the last thing I was going to let happen was that worm chasing after her.

  I would be the target, and those bullets did exactly what I wanted them to do.

  The worm turned toward me and charged.

  Running back, I holstered my gun and jumped on some shelves, climbing up the beautifully carved casing like a ladder. On top, I pulled out my sword and had just enough time to leap in the air before the worm came crashing down on the shelves on which I’d stood.

  Stupid worm, I thought as I tumbled onto its back. Using my hunting sword, I stabbed deep and hard into its body’s shell. Bullets might have no effect on this thing, but my sword would. It was a memento I’d taken off the dead body of the Erlking, a monstrous creature who lived for the hunt. His sword was his prized weapon, and it had properties to it that no mortal hand could have created. It was perfectly balanced for one thing, and it was sharper that any surgeon’s scalpel. It could scrape the O out of H2O.

  My sword tore through several rungs of … what the hell was this stuff? Demon-book-worm guts? It was more like the green goo Slimer hit you with in Ghostbusters.

  The worm went down with an anticlimactic thud. As I stood over its dead carcass in full superhero pose, I saw Bella look over at me in wonder and Judith in confused disgust.

  “That was … impressive,” Bella said.

  “Yes,” Judith agreed, her eyes betraying a touch of fear of little old me. If I’d known seeing something like this would have elicited such a reaction, I would have taken my judgmental mother-in-law with me on all my missions.

  “I see why you were so effective at your job,” Bella said, dismantling all the alpha-male bravado my book worm victory had imbued me with.

  For years, I served in a special division of the military whose mandate was to hunt Others. The way I saw it, I was helping the world maintain peace by taking down the particularly nasty Others.

  Bella hated that about me, believing that peace could never be achieved with a gun. At the time, I’d thought she was naïve. But after she died and I spent a few years wandering the GoneGod World without her, I learned that she was right.

  She was always right. And I was ashamed of that part of my life.

  But both bravado and shame were short-lived. The earth started to rumble again; I looked toward the library’s entrance and saw three more mouths coming our way. And if there were three, there were more. A lot more.

  “We’ve got to get out of here,” I yelled.

  “This way,” Judith said. “The model showed an exit over here.”

  We followed Judith down the center of the library as the worms steadily gained on us. Marty, who’d heroically clung to my arm during my fight with the worm, looked behind us and hissed. Either he was speaking snake and telling me to hurry, or he was mocking the worms, daring them to attack. Either way, the viper wasn’t helping. And I doubted his fangs could pierce those worms’ thick hides.

  After a few hundred yards, we made it to a giant door that looked very, very locked.

  So, wanting to regain some of my male gusto, I sped up, determined to ram into the door and force it open.

  Knowing Penemue, I should have known what would happen next.

  As I leapt in the air, shoulder at the ready, the damn door opened on its own. I went flying out of the library and into … whatever this place was.

  A Brief Interlude

  Penemue—

  Some forces are beyond even an angel’s control. Things occur that nothing—no force, no magic, no technology—can stop. Or even interfere with.

  Attempting to do so would be as futile as trying to stop the tides or prevent the sun from rising.

  Certainly, these events are so magnificent, so grand, that they occur in the background of our lives—happenings that mere mortals are unaware of.

  One such occurrence happened when Penemue built his own inferno. He built his own private Hell, determined to punish himself for all his failings.

  He did so selfishly, allowing his guilt to consume him without a second thought as to how he would affect those around him. Those who loved him. Stepping into his own Hell, Penemue was determined to disappear forever.

  But when he feels Jean’s presence on the other side of Hell’s gate, something stirs deep within. He understands that his friend—his brother—will come after him, try to rescue him.

  And although the last thing Penemue wants is to be rescued, perhaps he can use his new home and the powers it imbues him with to help his friend.

  “Perhaps,” he mutters to himself, “I can undo some of the wrong that was done.”

  Perhaps he can bring back those he loved and lost. For here in Hell, the twice-fallen angel has such power.

  The power to bring back the dead.

  End of Brief Interlude

  Out of the Library and Into the … School?

  Penemue’s sin was to teach humankind to read and write.

  The reason? Because (and I quote) “men were not born for this. Thus with pen and with ink to confirm their faith. Since they were not created, except that, like the angels, they might remain righteous and pure. Nor would death, which destroys everything, have affected them; but by this their knowledge they perish, and by this also its power consumes them.”

  A lot of words to describe a simple concept.

  Penemue was a less famous Prometheus. He taught us not to make fire, but to make the written word—something of immense power. And because we’re stupid, talking monkeys (the pejoratives demons use when referring to humans), such knowledge corrupted our souls.

  But that’s the legend. I’d sometimes asked Penemue about it, and his response was crystal clear: “Adam and Eve ate from the Tree of Knowledge, and I gave humanity fruit from the Tree of Life.”

  I, of course, would give him a blank look when he said that to me, at which point he’d roll his eyes and clarify in that way that rubbing mud on your windshield helps you see the road. “The Tree of Life grants immortality to those who eat from it.”

  “And?” I said. More and more, our conversations were like teasing dental floss out of a dog’s butt.

  Penemue signed as if I was challenging his infinite patience. I suspect I was. After all, I was his best friend and the one person he spoke to the most. It must have been frustrating not being able to simply make a point, but constantly having to explain, give context and “dumb it down” for me. Then again, he was
a drunk asshole, so I figured fate put us together to balance some of the karmic baggage we’d both accumulated over our lifetimes.

  With a groan, the twice-fallen explained what he meant. Well, he tried to, at least. “Now that you guys can read and write, your thoughts can live on forever. In other words, your ideas are immortal. Hence the Tree of Life. Get it?”

  I nodded. “That was a sin?”

  “Oh yes, my dear human Jean. It was one of the biggest no-nos the gods had. Humans were never meant to be immortal. You weren’t designed to be so. What I did was against your very making. And for that sin, I should have been undone, utterly obliterated. By the grace of one angel, I was, instead, condemned to Hell.”

  He never did tell me which angel saved him. But from what I knew about angels, that creature must have gone against his or her very nature to let that particular act of rebellion slide.

  Angels are all mercy and forgiveness until you break one of God’s laws. Then they’re fire and brimstone, going all Sodom and Gomorrah on your ass. (Funny thing about going Sodom and Gomorrah … that’s the angel’s equivalent of going postal. I guess our species aren’t that different after all.)

  I knew this part of Penemue’s past. I’d heard it dozens of times before—when he was tipsy, drunk, hungover, then drunk again. He loved to tell me how all of this was his doing, because—in his words, not mine—“Without the power of the pen, how would humans have been able to develop the sciences necessary to build the world around you? The strength of the cement under your feet evolved from humans incrementally improving on the previous generation’s recipe. My sin paved the way for that cement. For the clothes on your back. For the airplanes in your sky and those precious 1980s toys on your shelves. For all of that, my dear human Jean-Luc Matthias, you are welcome.”

  That little speech was usually followed by him passing out.

  Penemue always spoke of that part of his past with pride. Something he relished in that if I could do it again, I would sort of way. And not something he lamented or wished was different.

  So, when we left the library and entered what can only be described as an open-air classroom, complete with row after row of school desks and a blackboard at the front … I knew there was something he hadn’t told me.

  ↔

  “Where are we?” Judith walked amongst the empty desks. She put her hand on one of them, but her fingers passed right through. She repeated this a couple more times before she sighed. “I thought those days were done.”

  Shrugging, I walked over to an empty desk and looked around. Even though we were in a classroom, we were outside. This was one of those open-concept schools, and I would have assumed we were in some ancient village, where so much took place outside because the cost of building structures was far too great given their technology and means, but the desks were modern, the blackboard was too well manufactured and the friggin’ projector at the front had one of those flashing lights in the shape of a dot with waves emanating from it.

  I guess the human symbol for Wi-Fi was universal—as in, expanding across universes.

  No, we weren’t in the past. We were just in one of those school that mandated students be outside as much as possible. And given how perfect the weather was, why not? This was paradise.

  Except it wasn’t; we were in Hell. Penemue’s Hell. So whatever was about to happen next would be dreadful.

  Looking beyond the classroom, what surrounded us was nothing less than spectacular. To the north—I think it was north, based on where the sun was, but then again, we were in Hell. Who knew how directions worked here?—lay a mountain with lightning constantly crashing into it. To the south, what looked like an upside-down iceberg hovered in the air. The west housed a constellation of emerald stars, and to the east, a tree.

  A giant friggin’ tree that reached up to the heavens. A tree that looked like the love child of a giant redwood and sycamore … if both were the size of the Chrysler Building and Mount Everest put together.

  I’d never seen that tree or any tree like it before, but I had heard about it so damn much since the gods left that I would recognize it anywhere.

  That was the Tree of Good and Evil.

  In other words, the tree from which Adam and Eve ate, thus condemning us to our current mortal coil.

  ↔

  “What the f—” I started, staring at the impossibly huge tree in the distance.

  “Language,” Judith admonished.

  “—uck,” I said. “As in firetruck.” Then I pointed at the tree and groaned.

  “Is that …” Bella started, stepping forward to get a better look.

  I nodded.

  Judith must have come to the same conclusions as Bella and me, because she just shook her head and did something I’d never seen her do in all the years she’d been dead. She crossed herself—as in spectacles, testicles, wallet and watch, oh God who art in Heaven crossed herself.

  “Where are we?” Judith asked.

  I shook my head. “I don’t know. But look to the north—that mountaintop is bombarded by lightning. Penemue told me about a place like that once. Mount Olympus. And over there, that floating iceberg-like thing … I’m guessing that’s Niflheim. And there—the Emerald City of Qa. And it’s not just the four points on the compass. If you look between them, there’s the dark forest of Yomi.” As I spoke the words, I could feel my heart racing. My anxiety rose as it dawned on me where we were. I pointed to the other side. “And that lush forest just opposite Yomi has got to be Mag Mell … and that cave is—”

  “Jean,” Bella said, touching my hand. Just knowing that she was near immediately calmed the thumping gallop in my chest. “What’s going on? What do you know?”

  Taking a deep breath, I cracked my neck. “I don’t know where we are, but wherever it is, we are literally surrounded by all the heavens and hells of every religion ever. We must be. Those places, the descriptions of them, are too precise to be anywhere else.”

  “But we’re in Hell,” Bella said in that matter-of-fact tone of hers.

  I nodded. “Yes, and those places aren’t the heavens and hells, but representations of them.”

  “OK,” Judith said, slowly drawing the word out as she considered this. “So we’re in the middle of all the heavens and hells. Why?”

  “I don’t know. But as nice as this place is, it’s not what it seems. Ready yourselves,” I said, putting my hand on my gun.

  Marty hissed, and Bella set a heavy tome that she must have grabbed from the library over her chest.

  “Maybe we should get out of here,” Judith said. “Just move on.”

  I nodded. “Maybe. Nothing seems to be happening here. The trouble is, we need to get to the center of Hell. That’s where Penemue will be. Which way should we go?”

  “Anywhere,” Judith whispered. “Anywhere is better than here. Better to move than just stand here.”

  I shook my head. “No, there’s got be a clue. Something to help us find the damn angel and—”

  But before I could finish the thought, a trumpet sounded. And by trumpet, I mean the kind you’d hear at the end of days. Believe me, I’ve heard it before, and the sound is unmistakable.

  The trumpet blew three times before an angel appeared at the front of the classroom.

  “Speak of the devil …” I muttered, staring at Penemue.

  Classroom of the Gods

  Penemue stood in front of the blackboard, looking at his watchless wrist in faux-exasperation, as though to say, Do you people know what time it is?

  Pulling out a telescopic pointer, he extended it and tapped the blackboard.

  “Penemue.” I reached out my hand and took a step in his direction.

  If the twice-fallen angel heard me, he made no sign of it. He simply cleared his throat and in a voice that expressed infinite patience being tested, said, “Odin, how kind of you to join us.”

  With a flash of smoke, a cloud of—what the hell was that?—ravens appeared in one of the desk seats. T
he ravens flew off in every direction, leaving behind a youthful figure with what looked like a toy pirate’s patch over his eye. The kid couldn’t have been older than eleven, but despite his youth, I could feel power rippling through him.

  “Sorry, Mr. Penemue,” he said. “Loki and Thor were fighting and—”

  “Tattletale!” a voice cried out. Two figures—one blond, one with slick black hair—came running up the hill.

  “It’s not tattling if it’s true. Besides, I stopped the fight, just as a father must,” Odin said. “Isn’t that right, Mr. Penemue?”

  Penemue nodded. “Indeed. They are the fruit of your loins and therefore your responsibility.”

  “And with great responsibility comes great power,” said the childlike Odin.

  “That is why you’re a god,” Penemue agreed. Looking past the patch-eyed god, the normally drunk angel smiled. “Ahhh, my dear Athena. I didn’t think you’d join us today.”

  “I almost didn’t,” said a young lady no older than thirteen. Despite her awkward age, she exhibited a grace I’d only ever seen in Miral—the friggin’ angel. “But in the end, the deliberations were short-lived and, well, I’m glad I made it.”

  “So, is Atlantis sunk?”

  “No,” groaned a young, shirtless boy who entered carrying a trident. “No underwater cities for me.”

  Three more creatures entered—or rather, gods I had encountered in what felt like another life. They were Quetzalcoatl, Baldr and Izanami, three gods from three separate pantheons who shared one quality: they had died. And yes, gods can die, but they don’t die in the conventional sense. About ten years ago, they tried to resurrect themselves to fill the godless void with their presence, and I, with the help of some of my more ancient friends, had stopped them. But that’s another story.