by Brom
She blinked back tears and looked out into the thick mist. It was as though they were floating aimlessly in a cloud. “My name’s Ana,” she said.
“Chet.”
Anxious murmurs rolled through the crowd as ominous gray shapes loomed out of the mist ahead.
“Do you think were heading for a good place?” Ana asked.
Chet didn’t, but he didn’t say so, just shrugged.
A stone embankment, much like the one they’d left, materialized and a moment later the barge thumped up against a landing. Torches lined the embankment, casting hazy shadows into the gloom. A bell tolled nearby and they heard the sound of heavy boots clumping toward them. Everyone fell quiet.
The landing lay level with the river. The only way off the landing was a flight of stairs leading up into the gloom, and down these came around a dozen shadowy figures. The figures stopped at the bottom of the steps and appeared to be waiting for them. Chet saw they were armed with spears, clubs, and even swords.
The ferryman stepped over and unlatched the rope strung across the rail, then returned to the wheel without a word.
“What do we do?” someone asked.
The ferryman didn’t answer, but Chet caught sight of his eyes beneath the hood. They were set on the armed men, glaring. Never had Chet seen such contempt and hatred on anyone’s face.
Souls glanced from one to another, unsure. Slowly, one by one, they began to disembark, stepping cautiously up onto the wet flagstone. Chet and Ana disembarked with the rest, following the crowd toward the armed men because there was nowhere else to go.
The guards formed a line and lowered their spears, blocking the stairs. They were large men, wearing ragged lumpy coats and blazers from different periods and styles, all various shades of green—some looked to be dyed, others painted. Most wore hoods or hats, Stetsons and bowlers, also green, and baggy pants stuffed into boots. Their faces were covered with deep ritual scarring. Veins and knotted muscles rippled like taunt wires just beneath their leathery hide, the gray flesh riddled with pocks and bumps. But it was their weapons that held Chet’s attention. Most carried spears, but several held clubs with spikes and long hooks on their ends—hooks large enough to fit around a man’s neck.
“Can you tell us what this is about?” a man in the very front asked. He wore a business suit, sported a nice haircut, an important person’s haircut, the sort a lawyer or politician would wear.
The guards didn’t answer, just stared at them with hard, dispassionate looks.
“Can you at least tell us where we’re at?” the man in the suit persisted.
“Heaven,” a huge barrel of a man said as he tromped down the stairs. He wore a dark green overcoat with loose leather pants stuffed into pointed cowboy boots. “Doesn’t it look like Heaven to you?” He raked his fat fingers through his thin yellowy hair and waited, staring at them with bleary eyes. “No?” He pushed aside the hem of his coat so that everyone could see the big knife and what appeared to be a flintlock pistol jammed into his belt. “My name’s Dirk Robertson, I’m the law here in Styga.” Chet noted a tin star pinned to the man’s breast pocket. “So let’s just get one thing straight right now. What I say goes.” He waited, his eyes daring anyone to challenge his assertion. “Here’s the deal. You owe a toll. It’s the law . . . been the law for an eon. You can either pay, or swim back. That’s up to you. But no one goes up these steps until they’ve paid.”
“What’s Styga?” It was the man in the suit again, a desperate, almost frantic edge creeping into his voice. “Can you at least tell us that?”
Dirk ignored him, giving instructions to one of the guards.
“Hey,” the man called, his voice cracking. Chet wanted to tell him to cool it, that Dirk didn’t look like someone you wanted to push. “Hey, sir? Sir?” The man reached out, actually tapping Dirk’s arm. Dirk grabbed the man, yanked him out of the line, and slammed him to the stones, then drove his boot into his side, sending the man tumbling toward the river. Dirk took a sword from one of the guards, stepped over, and with a solid overhand swing, brought the blade down on the back of the man’s neck, twice, separating his head from his body on the second strike.
The crowd let out a collective gasp. No one moved, not even a whisper. Everyone was staring at the man’s head lying on the stones, gulping as his eyes rolled about.
“You think because you’re dead you got nothing left to lose?” Dirk shouted. “Well think again, because death isn’t that simple . . . not down here.” He placed the tip of the sword against the side of the man’s head. The man’s eyes darted desperately about, as though seeking escape. Dirk leaned his weight onto the weapon, driving the blade into the man’s skull. Chet wanted to look away but couldn’t. Dirk twisted the sword and there came a loud crack as the man’s skull split open. The man let out a long wail and Chet saw silvery smoke slithering from the wound, drifting slowly upward.
The man’s eyes stilled, his mouth fell slack. Above him the silvery smoke gathered, forming into the vague semblance of a human body. A face materialized and Chet realized it was that of the man. He appeared confused, then his eyes grew wide, darting about as though hearing something terrible the rest of them could not. His wispy limbs flailed and his mouth opened into a scream, but no sound came out. His mouth opened wider, then wider, tearing completely in half, then reforming, only to tear in half again, and again. He continued drifting upward, higher and higher, twisting, writhing, slowly disappearing into the mist above.
Many in the crowd were openly weeping. Chet clutched the child tightly to his chest, clinched his eyes shut, trying to push the image of the man’s horrified face from his mind. “Hold it together,” Chet hissed through his teeth. “If you want to get back to Trish, you gotta hold it together.”
“Some think of purgatory as some kind of second chance,” Dirk said. “Well I’m here to tell you it’s not. It’s your last chance. Y’know, you can hear them sometimes, the dead dead, lost souls like this numbfuck up there in the clouds. Don’t know what’s happening to them, but it doesn’t sound like they’re having much fun.” He walked casually back to the line, returning the sword to the guard as though nothing had happened. “My job is to take the toll,” Dirk called out. “Not to help you find your way through the great fucking beyond. If you want to give us trouble you’ll end up in the river or like this man. So the sooner you shut up and do what you’re told, the sooner you can be on your way to find peace, redemption, penance, mommy, or whatever other shit your famished soul may be starving for.” He pulled a lighter and hand-rolled cigarette from his inside jacket pocket, lit it, and took a long drag. “Now, if you want to speed things along, we’re looking for copper, as in pennies. You got pennies then you can head right on up. Gold will do, most anything made of metal, good boots, jackets, knives, hell, guns if you got them. If you don’t have anything you pay with flesh.”
Pennies? Chet thought, remembering the pouch.
“Can’t take it with you, they say?” Dirk continued. “Shows what anyone upstairs knows. If you’re buried or cremated with it, it usually shows up here. Now search your pockets, see what you can find.”
People began to explore their pockets. Many seemed surprised to find that they did indeed have coins, rings, watches; a few even had wallets and purses.
Chet slid his hand into his own pockets and for the first time realized he had on his jean jacket. He’d certainly not been wearing it when he died. Other than that he had on what he usually wore—worn-out cords, boots, and a T-shirt. He glanced about, saw that many appeared to be in their Sunday finest, what Chet guessed to be the clothes they were buried in, their faces covered in funeral makeup, but they were in the minority; most instead were in normal day-to-day clothes, even a few with no clothes at all. Chet found no coins in his pockets, just an old lighter. He clutched the pouch full of pennies, suddenly very grateful to Senoy.
Two of the guards lifted their spears, waving a few souls forward. When the souls didn’t move, t
he guards tugged them along, keeping weapons ready while other guards patted them down, asking what they had for payment.
“No!” a woman cried. “That’s my wedding band.” They paid her no heed, pocketing the ring, then rifling beneath her skirt, tearing open her blouse, their rough gray hands searching where they pleased.
The woman burst into tears.
“Save your tears, woman,” a guard said, shoving her along. “You’ll need them later.”
She stumbled up the stairs clutching her blouse, looking dazed, lost, disappearing into the gloom. The guards patted down another soul, then another, taking whatever they wanted, then sending them up the stairs.
Can’t lose the knife, Chet thought, searching for another way off the landing, but finding nothing but slick black walls disappearing into the mist above.
“He’s got nothing,” a guard called, pulling aside a nude man.
Dirk nodded toward a block set against the wall. A man stood behind it holding a large cleaver. When the nude man saw this he began to struggle. “No!” he cried.
“No?” Dirk asked, walking over. “You pay. Everyone pays. If you don’t have coin, you pay with a pound of flesh. Now, it’s up to you, flesh or the river?”
The man just kept shaking his head.
Dirk nodded and the guards yanked him over. The cleaver rose, fell, chopping the man’s hand clean off. Chet flinched, anticipating the blood, the terrible scream that was sure to follow. But there was no blood, nor scream. The man’s face contorted in pain, but only for a moment. He looked more confused than injured. They released him and he just stood there holding his stump.
Several baskets lined the wall, most empty, others full of jackets, shoes, boots, and gloves. The guard threw the severed hand into the basket full of gloves and it was then that Chet understood they weren’t gloves. Oh, fuck.
The guards pushed the man on his way and he stumbled wordlessly up the steps, clutching his wrist. Anxious murmurs rolled through the crowd, growing in volume.
“Settle down!” Dirk yelled. “Nothing’s free. Not in life . . . not in death. You crossed, now it’s time to pay. No copper, no gold, then you pay in flesh. It’s the law.”
Chet found himself caught in the press of souls; it was almost his turn. He knew he had to think of something quick, or he’d lose the knife, wondered if he could slip it through in his boot.
“No way!” a woman cried. It was Ana.
“Lady,” Dirk said, reaching for one of the infants, “do them a favor. Do us all a favor. Let the river have them. It’ll save you, them, us, all a lot of grief.”
“Keep your hands off them!” Ana snapped, pulling the babies back and glaring at him.
“Calm down, lady. Nobody wants your little monkeys. I’m just trying to tell you the river is truly the best thing.”
She shook her head.
He shrugged. “Your call, but you’ll have to pay . . . for you and for them. No one passes for free.” He held out his hand.
She stared at his palm.
“Do you have coin? Pennies? Gold?”
Ana didn’t reply.
The man sighed. “Then it’ll cost a pound of flesh. A pound for each of—”
Ana bolted, just took off, ducking past the big man, heading for the stairs with a baby clutched beneath each arm.
The guards sprang after her, one of them catching her arm with a hook, yanking her off her feet. The second grabbed hold of an infant, trying to wrestle it from her grasp. She wouldn’t let go and he drove his boot, hard, into her ribs. Ana let out a cry, but held tight to the child, kicking and screaming.
“Stop it!” Chet cried, pushing forward. “I can pay for them!” No one heard him over the shouting and screaming. “Get out of my way,” he growled, trying not to drop the baby as he shoved his way to the front.
A guard brought his club down onto Ana, driving the spikes into her stomach. She let out a dreadful scream.
“Stop it!” Chet shouted, rushing up. A guard hit him in the back of the head, sent him sprawling. Chet slammed down onto the stone, losing hold of the child. The infant tumbled, ending up on his back at the edge of the river. The baby squalled and tried to sit up, rolling even closer to the ledge. Chet scrambled for the infant and something hit him from behind. He looked down and found a spear blade protruding from the middle of his chest. Chet gasped, coughed, tried to rise.
“Stay down!” a guard yelled, giving the spear a hard shove, pinning Chet to the stone. Chet clutched the blade, grunting through clenched teeth. The pain was a numbing chill, so cold it burned.
“Toss him in the fucking river,” Dirk said.
The guard yanked the blade free and Chet gasped as a fresh wave of pain shot through him. He coughed violently, the pain doubling him over, saw the large wound in his chest, marveled that he was still alive—whatever that might mean down here. Two guards snatched him up, the pouch falling from his shoulder when they did, hitting the stone with a clank.
“Wait,” Dirk called, stooping to pick up the pouch. The big man untied the cord, removed the knife, giving the hilt a curious look. He slid the blade partially out from the sheaf and his face lit up with surprise. His brow furrowed and slowly his surprise turned to concern, then to what looked like fear. “How—” He shoved it back in the pouch, slapped the flap closed, tying the cord tight, and set hard, suspicious eyes on Chet. “Where did you get this?”
Chet didn’t answer, couldn’t—the pain overwhelming.
“Who sent you?” Dirk demanded.
Chet could only shake his head.
Dirk slammed his big fist into Chet’s chest, directly into the wound, knocking Chet back to the stones. The pain made Chet’s vision blur.
“I’m not playing games. Who sent you?”
“I . . . I . . .” Chet started, trying to get the words out, when another round of violent coughs racked his frame.
Dirk’s eyes narrowed. “Who the hell are you?”
All three infants were wailing now, their cries echoing up and down the landing.
Dirk stuffed the pouch into the front of his belt, walked over, and grabbed an infant—the one Chet had carried—up by the leg, dangled it over the river.
“No!” Ana screamed.
Chet clutched his chest, trying to sit up.
“Tell me who sent you or this little tyke goes for a swim.”
“An angel . . . I was sent here by an—”
“What madness is this?” someone shouted from the top of the stairs.
All heads turned as three women tromped down the steps onto the landing. They wore black robes, their faces hidden beneath hoods, their cloaks billowing out behind them as they headed for Dirk. Chet saw they wore swords beneath their cloaks.
The one in the lead tossed back her hood, revealing dark eyes set in a pale, narrow face. Her quick movements and the forward thrust of her birdlike figure gave Chet the impression of a raven in search of prey. When she got closer, Chet noticed a black jewel set into the middle of her forehead. Her severe eyes took in the scene. When they landed on the baby in Dirk’s hand the jewel in her forehead blazed crimson.
“Ah, hell,” Dirk muttered, lowering the child. “Here’s some shit I don’t need today.”
The woman stormed up to Dirk, her lithe figure half that of the huge man. She held out her hands—waited.
Dirk let out a long sigh and placed the wailing baby in her arms.
The other two women went to Ana, shoving the guards out of the way. They helped Ana to her feet, glaring at the guards, daring them to do something.
The woman with the jewel whispered to the baby and the baby stopped crying, looking at her the way it would its own mother. She nodded toward one of her companions and the woman came forward, taking the child.
The woman with the jewel locked eyes with Dirk.
“Glad to see you’re out making everyone’s day brighter, Mary,” the big man said.
“If it were in my power,” Mary said, “I’d strike you down
where you stand for this.”
“Then it’s a good thing for me,” he said, smiling wanly, “that it’s not within your power.”
“There are consequences for breaking the law.”
“I’ve broken no laws,” Dirk replied. “Those that cross must pay.”
“Those bearing infants are granted safe passage,” she shot back. “It has always been so.”
Dirk shrugged.
“You bring shame to Charon.”
“Don’t lecture me on your bullshit. The Defenders rule this post now,” Dirk said. “And we don’t bend knee to the unjust laws of dead and bygone gods. Now, I suggest you take your precious infants and be gone, before I forget my manners and things turn unpleasant.”
She appeared ready to strike him. “The last I checked, the Red Lady was very much alive and full of vengeance. Do you really wish to tempt her ire?”
Dirk struggled to hold her eyes. “The old ways are dying along with the old gods.” His tone changed, the challenge gone; what was left sounded like a man pleading truth. “That’s all. You know it’s true. We all have to do what we have to do.”
“Lines are forming, toad. Choose your side wisely, because thugs and thieves hiding behind banners will be the first to taste the flame.” She turned away, stepped over to Chet. “Are you able to stand?”
Chet realized that the pain was slowly dissipating, that injuries were indeed different here. He got to his knees, taking a moment as the pain continued to subside. Mary put a hand under his arm, helping him to his feet. Chet swayed slightly, looked again at the wound in his chest, and tried to understand how he was alive at all.
“It’ll get better with time,” she said, leading him toward the women.
Dirk stepped in front of them. “The woman, the babies. They’re free to go. But this man, he stays. We have unfinished business.”
“I say your business is done,” Mary stated flatly.
“Don’t press me,” Dirk replied, his tone hard, almost desperate. “There’s no way he’s leaving.” He nodded to the guards and they readied their weapons. Dirk touched the hilt of his pistol in warning. “Mary, just take the infants and leave and we’ll all live to see another day.”
