Hellbound

by Matt Turner

  A gust of hot, humid air made his eyes water as he stepped into the dark room. The only light came from the dim hallway outside, giving him only the vaguest outline of the various objects scattered about the room. From somewhere farther in came the occasional drip of what Lao sincerely hoped was a leaky faucet. It felt as though he had wandered into a damp, moist cave overflowing with hidden creatures that wanted to prey on him; Lao could feel his skin crawling as unseen eyes glowered at him.

  “Legion?” he asked. “It’s me, Lao Ai. I have a proposal for you.”

  Something scratched against the wood in the rafters above. He slowly raised his eyes and nearly bolted out the door at the sight of the dangling cocooned bodies. The ghastly chandeliers softly shifted back and forth, despite the absence of any wind.

  “Come into our parlor, sssaid the ssspider to the fly,” Legion’s voices whispered from somewhere in the darkness.

  Lao spun around to identify the source of the sound, but only caught a glimpse of an outreached arm darting away from his hair and swiftly retracting back into the shadows.

  They almost touched me, Lao realized in horror. “Legion,” he said in a voice that shook with fear, “I’ve come to talk.”

  “Sssaid the ssspider to the fly, ‘Dear friend, what can I do?’”

  The iron door slammed shut behind Lao, casting him in darkness. He let out an inadvertent yelp of terror, but there was nowhere to run; from the tiny sliver of light cast underneath the door, he could just barely make out the monstrous outline of an army of tangled limbs rising from the floor, surrounding him on every side.

  “I come with an offer!” Lao screamed as the whispering tendrils of flesh reached for him. “For eating!”

  “An interesssting choice of wordsss.” Legion’s voices chuckled, but the limbs reaching for Lao stopped in their tracks.

  Lao stood in place, frozen with fear and disgust, as one of the cocoons hanging from the rafters slowly lowered itself so that it was eye-level with him. The fist-sized pores of the cocoon—it resembled something out of a slaughterhouse—retracted, and a handful of eyes took their place. Lao nearly pissed himself when one of them winked at him.

  A slit opened up in the cocoon’s soft shell, exposing a set of human teeth embedded in bleeding gums. “Let usss prove the warm affection we’ve alwaysss felt for you,” Legion said. “Ssspeak, little fly.”

  The Prophet hadn’t consumed him yet, so Lao took that as a good sign. “I come with an offer,” he repeated, forcing himself to speak more slowly and with greater confidence. “From the Master.”

  He had hoped for an expression of fear, but Legion’s bulging mouth only laughed in his face. “You ssspeak for Cain?” they howled. “Sssalome will be mossst interesssted to hear thisss.”

  “I’m serious,” Lao snapped. He was done being constantly underestimated. This is my time. “The Master offers you a meal. The meal, beyond your wildest dreams.”

  “Why take that when we have a meal of our very own right now?” the Prophet questioned. A monstrous tongue emerged from behind its teeth and slowly reached out toward Lao’s face. “Sssweet creature, how handsssome are your gauzy wingsss…how brilliant your eyesss…”

  He forced himself to remain still, even as the tongue drew nearer and nearer to his left eye. “How many have you consumed so far, Legion?”

  The monster did not appear to take notice of his words. “Our hunger is for flesssh, but there are multiple waysss to sssatisssfy our appetite,” they breathed. “A ssspecimen of your appearance…we will make good ussse of you.” A bubble of saliva dribbled out of the open mouth and onto Lao’s boot.

  “How many, Legion?” Lao demanded in a voice like a knife. “Fifty? A hundred? A thousand? How many have joined you?”

  The tongue paused a centimeter away from his pupil. “Sssix thousssand and eight have joined our embrace,” Legion said with a hint of pride. “You ssshall make sssix thousssand and nine.”

  This’ll be easier than I thought, Lao realized in relief. He laughed scornfully. “Six thousand? You’ve only consumed six thousand souls?”

  “You mock usss,” Legion snarled, but they did not move.

  “How long have you existed, Legion?” Lao demanded. “A thousand years? Two thousand? And yet, with all that time, all that hunger of yours that you’re always going on about, you only have six thousand to your name. I’m disappointed.”

  “We have made up our mindsss, little fly,” Legion whispered. “We ssshall play with you firssst.”

  “You remind me of myself,” Lao lied with a theatrical sigh. “Constantly overlooked by our so-called ‘superiors,’ constantly having to lie and hide in the shadows. The other Prophets fear you, but don’t trust you.” He chuckled bitterly. “The same way they trust me, but don’t fear me.”

  Legion’s many eyes narrowed. “What are you sssaying?”

  “The Kingdom has been holding you back from your true potential.” Lao said the words fervently, as much to persuade himself as the eldritch monster before him. “Six thousand—I bet if we set you loose in Dis, you would have that number in an hour.”

  Legion’s eyes glimmered. “In a minute.”

  “But the Kingdom and the other Prophets would never allow us to achieve our true power,” Lao whispered. “Their chains hold you down, just as they hold down all that sweet, delightful meat you could be eating. You’ve thought of it, haven’t you?”

  A small river of drool began to pour from the thing’s mouth. “Yesss,” Legion croaked. “We think of it every sssecond of every day. But the Kingdom isss too ssstrong. Gilesss is too sssupisssciousss…”

  “The Master will let you have all you want,” Lao promised. “Beginning with the entire Eighth Circle. Think of it, Legion. How big could you grow? How many could you consume? A hundred thousand? A million?”

  “All of it.” Legion moaned. “We could consssume EVERYTHING!” Their limbs curled in ecstasy at the very thought.

  “And Cain would give it all to you—all Creation, from Judecca to the throne of Paradise itself! All that He requires of you is your service.”

  “Yesss, yesss, yesss!” Legion gasped. “Let usss tassste the Divine itssself! Let the Massster take usss to Paradissse!”

  Lao smiled. “Then come with me. There’s one more thing we need to do before we leave to serve Him.”

  17

  Imperator Sisera of the Praetorian Guard was the evilest bastard John had ever met, and considering the realm in which they dwelt, that was saying a great deal.

  “I have a present for you today, John,” the Praetorian said mockingly. The stake that protruded from his head slightly bulged outward in anticipation of his merry mood. “Would you like another present? Wouldn’t you?”

  John was too weary to even raise his head from the table. He couldn’t even if he had wanted to; they’d already used a buzz-saw on his limbs. It had hurt. “I would love a present, Imperator,” he said dully.

  “Now that we’ve extracted the saplings, the Holy Council has given the order to proceed with the Seven Sinful Tortures for you,” Sisera said. “This is about to mark an entirely new chapter in our relationship, Horseman.”

  “S-saplings?” John choked out.

  “You owe us an entire Suicide Forest.” Sisera grinned. “And those arms and legs you so generously donated are just the beginning. The Kingdom is going to extract every single twig from your body until the Forest can be replanted, root and stem.”

  John said nothing.

  Sisera scowled down at him. “Not quite what I’d do for you.” The imperator sighed. “I have some friends who’d—well, never mind about that for now. The council has decreed that you and your compatriots shall suffer the Seven Sinful Tortures.”

  He rattled them off on his fingers. “The chained, the impaled, the crucified, the burnt, the drowned, the buried, and the destroyed. Effective, all of them, but they lack that special touch. And that is where my present comes in!”

  Three burly guards w
alked in, leading a figure bound hand to toe in chains.

  Her face was hidden under a cloth bag, her body was half-starved and covered in lacerations and filth, but John recognized his nightmare immediately. “Tituba,” he gasped in shock. “How…?”

  Sisera grinned. “I have my sources.” He waited for his men to lock Tituba’s chains to the wall, then reached up and tore away the cloth bag. “So beautiful to see young lovers reunite!”

  If hate could somehow take physical form and crawl into the skin of a dead corpse, it would not look half as horrifying as Tituba did. Most of her lovely features were gone, either burnt away or hanging from her face by a few strands of cartilage and ligament. He could see much of her skull peeking out, as though her face were a poorly made mask for children and the true Tituba was lurking behind it. And her eyes…they blazed with an intensity that made him shudder and nearly weep. Her jaws clenched and tightened around the steel bar that they had used to gag her.

  “I’d like to make you a deal, John.” Sisera scratched at his thick hair, briefly revealing the tent-peg that protruded from his skull. “Great changes are afoot in Hell. More than you could possibly know... And a man with your particular skillset would be most useful to me.”

  Tituba’s eyes locked directly with John’s. He wilted from her as much as he was able. Her teeth tightened around the steel bar so much that a trickle of blood began to roll down her chin.

  “Give me your loyalty, Horseman,” Sisera urged. “Join my cause. Grief would love to have you.”

  “What are you talking about?” John hissed.

  Sisera barked out a single order to his men. They immediately filed out of the torture chamber, leaving just the Praetorian, Tituba, and John.

  “There is only one God in Hell, Horseman,” Sisera said in a low voice. “And he is much, much closer than you think. Join me, and serve him. Join me”—he gently pulled a pistol from his belt and pressed it against Tituba’s forehead—“and you won’t have to see me rip her apart.”

  “I—I don’t—” John said frantically.

  Sisera sighed. “I’m disappointed, Horseman.” He holstered his pistol. “Get back in here, boys! This one still needs some convincing.”

  The Praetorians re-entered. One of them slammed a metal bucket of something on the floor. A few drops of the golden liquid within it splashed over the rim and dribbled on the cobblestones.

  “Oil,” Sisera explained. “Don’t ask where we get it. It’s not as effective as Hellfire, but it gets the job done.” He dipped a finger into the bucket and gently spread a small smear of it across Tituba’s forehead. She snapped at him, but the chains and gag held her back.

  “I’m going to burn this bitch alive,” the Praetorian calmly said. “Then I’m going to bring in a tank of tar and drown her. Then I’ll dice her body up into tiny little bits and ask Giles to put her back together again. I’m going to make her suffer a thousand tortures while you watch and regrow your limbs, John.”

  John was so horrified that he could barely speak. “W-why?” His voice trembled.

  “She’s here because of you,” Sisera said. “All the tortures in Hell don’t compare to the power of guilt. Of grief. You should know that better than most, Reverend.”

  “Please,” John begged. “Don’t do this.”

  Sisera’s response was to upend the bucket of oil over Tituba’s face. “I’ve done worse.” He shrugged. “Dump him in the coffin, lads.”

  Another Praetorian entered, carrying a large iron crate. Before John could fully see into it, another one of the guards unlocked his chains and unceremoniously dumped him inside. His torso, devoid of all limbs, easily fit.

  One of the Praetorians leaned over the crate and held a long brass tube up to one of John’s eyes.

  “The quick-cement now,” Sisera ordered.

  A bucket of foul-smelling liquid was emptied over John, then another, then another. He could feel it harden almost immediately, pinning him in place with a strength like steel. In just a few minutes, he was completely trapped within it, and the only access he had to the outside world was the small circle of light he could just barely make out through the brass tube.

  “Is it dry?” one of the Praetorians grunted in a muffled voice.

  “Not yet,” Sisera said. “Place it on the table anyway.”

  John felt a sickening lurch and a heavy crack as someone picked up the cement-filled crate and dropped it on the table with a groan. Oh God, he thought in shock as they turned him around so that he could see Tituba’s face through the makeshift eyehole. Everything that he had gone through, had suffered…she had had it a thousand times over. How long was she here in Hell, waiting for me? he wondered in horror.

  “Give it another few minutes,” Sisera’s distant voice commanded. “Anticipation’s the best part.”

  He’s right, John realized. She’s here because of me. This is all my fault. He closed his eye, trying to blot out the image. It would be better if the darkness would just finally take him away, erase him forever…

  No, a small voice said.

  John blinked. What?

  The voice shifted so that it now belonged to Plague. Don’t try to run, Reverend. It only makes it hurt worse when they finally catch you. Before he could fully process the words’ meaning, the voice changed again to Vera’s. I’m not done, she had declared, over and over again, even as they struggled for their lives against an entire army. Then it became his own: Maybe we can’t be redeemed, it said. But maybe we can still be better.

  A vision dawned on him then, with such clarity that it felt as though he had pierced the veil of a flimsy reality and saw the true world: children laughing and playing in a sunny field, watched over by smiling parents. One of the little girls, the echo of a laugh still on her lips, turned mid-run to gaze at him. She had the dark skin and hair of Tituba, but she had the same green eyes as her father.

  My child, John thought in wonder. He knew he was undeserving of her, had failed her in every way—but, even as tears streamed down his cheeks, he reached out for her with his unblemished, human hands. Please, he begged.

  She smiled at him, and then the vision faded away. He did not know whether he would ever see her again.

  But it was enough.

  “That should do for the cement,” Sisera said thirty seconds later. He banged a hand on top of the crate. “You looking out here, John? Because we’re about to—”

  The quick-cement exploded like a bomb as a thousand tiny roots tore it to pieces. The guards cursed and held up their hands as shards of concrete and pieces of the crate pelted them like bullets, spraying out blood and forcing them back.

  Sisera let out a shriek of pain as a scrap of the crate sliced across his cheek, laying his face open to the bone. “You little shit,” he swore as he drew his pistol and spun the crate around to face himself. “I’ll—”

  An arm made entirely of vine sprang out of John’s torso and wrapped around the Praetorian’s neck. Sisera gasped, fired the handgun blindly, let out another swear as the bullet bounced off the thick bark on John’s chest—and John lunged forward, growing another vine-arm that he roped around a second Praetorian. He collided their heads so hard together that their skulls audibly crunched, then dropped the two men as the third Praetorian whipped up his beam-cannon.

  In spite of everything, Sisera still managed to stagger for the door. “Move,” he howled, and he shoved the remaining guard out of the way—directly into the path of the Praetorian’s beam-cannon. The beam neatly sliced him in half, narrowly avoided decapitating John, and slammed into the opposite wall with such force that it punched a foot-wide hole through five yards of ancient brick. “Fuck!” the Praetorian cursed. He laid a hand on the small device at his hip. “We have a—”

  Growing legs was easy compared to arms; John bounced forward on his new limbs made solely of vine and bark and sank a fist into the Praetorian’s chest that sent the man flying into the bars of the cell with enough force to break every bone in his bo
dy. He reached out for Sisera, but the imperator was surprisingly quick; with the speed of a snake, he slipped out of the cell and vanished into the darkness of the outside corridor.

  Need to go after him, John thought as he slung the fallen beam-cannon over his newly grown shoulder.

  But there was one last thing he needed to do before he left.

  John was no fool; he knew that it was probably the last thing he’d ever do for a long, long time. I can’t run anymore, he told himself as he turned to face Tituba. Her ragged face still burned with hatred. He was afraid that she was no longer capable of feeling anything else. No. I can’t believe that. It was time to face her. She deserved that much.

  But before he removed her gag, he gingerly pressed a hand against the shredded remnants of her cheek. She raged and spat silent venom at his touch, but he forced himself to ignore it as a line of tiny vine-like growths emerged from his fingertips, stitching back flayed, tortured flesh together, and slowly rebuilding her face. She gradually became still, but her blazing eyes never once veered from his own.

  When at last he was finished, her face had regained a shadow of the beauty it had once had; the stitches and scars were obvious, but there was no longer any scraps of skin and muscle dangling from it. He slowly unfastened the iron bar in her mouth and slid it out. She smacked her lips once together and said nothing.

  With a vine protruding from his finger, John easily unlocked the various chains and shackles holding her in place. Each one that fell to the ground was a leaden weight on his chest; he felt sweat dripping down his back, and fear rising in his belly—he could no longer even dare to look at her face. Not once did she move a muscle.

  He collapsed to his knees in front of her as the last manacles fell away. “Tituba,” John begged. “Forgive me.”