Tour of Duty: Stories and Provocation

by Michael Z. Williamson

“Nooooo! Eeeaaaaeeiii!”

  They all stared at him. Had McCarthy melted down again? On McCarthy’s pants were telltale stains of wetness at the crotch. Wonderful.

  “Sir?” someone asked. “Captain?”

  McCarthy hummed or cursed to himself and nobody else spoke or moved for far too long.

  Finally, Benet stepped over and lifted the cover letter from the dirt floor of the makeshift headquarters. Smoothing out the wrinkles caused by McCarthy clutching it like a doll, Benet read aloud:

  “The operative legal code of the day is that of the USSR, nineteen sixty-five.”

  McCarthy was curled on the ground, whimpering, “Commies . . . commies . . . commies . . .”

  While Benet alternated between cajoling and kicking the worthless old radical, Roger sorted his papers, leaving appropriate gaps where pages were missing.

  Crooked-legged Horace and Rehnquist, the CLAP’s paralegal, came around to sort, stack and box. Boxing was necessary to keep the papers in order, but the boxes were held together with duct tape that had degraded in this dusty, gritty hell of hells. Horace and Rehnquist did the best they could. Roger snuck his phone behind his raised knees. Perhaps there might be some brief infernalnet connectivity. Worth a shot. He slid out the keyboard and pulled up DisgraceBook, on the off chance of connecting. He recognized no names. He had fifty invites for IQ tests, questionnaires, and suggestions of people to dis. He clicked on the first one of those.

  The page came up on his screen, where a grizzled old man leapt naked out of a bathtub. The nude senior snagged an old Garand rifle from the corner, hurling enough invective to merit notice even in hell, and rasped, “Get off my page!”

  Roger snapped the phone closed.

  Quiet persisted until a relief platoon of infantry arrived to assist with insecurity. They remained outside for the most part. He avoided meeting them, but caught a glimpse of them when their lieutenant came in to talk to Benet.

  Infantrymen spent the afterlife getting shot up. One—with dark, curly hair and a Greek accent—was horrifically scarred. Disfigurement was part of this hell. Roger wondered if he’d eventually end up like the Greek. He tried not to be disgusted by the poor guy and dreaded lunch.

  As always this year, lunch was a stiff stick of jerky and a piece of dry bread. So was breakfast and dinner. He sighed as he chewed slowly, wondering when the menu would change, and to what. Last year they’d had only raw tuna, past its peak. One ate because nerves and habits compelled it—if you could. Some guys in hell had no stomachs; some had no anuses. Some starved to death, becoming more and more helpless and easy prey in the process. . . .

  “Howard, wake up,” someone snapped, too loud.

  He jerked upright. He’d been napping against the wall, and now had a crick in his neck.

  McCarthy glowered at him and moved on.

  “Yes, sir,” Roger said to his back.

  Next to him, mashed-up Henry said, “Get ready.” Roger knew what Henry meant. He turned away, trying not to look at Henry’s twisted face. Poor bastard.

  Get ready—to work. Hell might have too many lawyers, but none were in residence here. The locals wanted their grievances heard. The CLAP would hear every one, rendering injustice as best they could.

  Horace limped outside on his bent leg, carrying a roster, so the locals could lodge their complaints and seek resolution.

  The good part was that the shooting had stopped. The bad part was the cases ranged from sad to bizarre to disquieting.

  McCarthy grabbed the first dozen and read them off. Then . . .

  “Next we have a classless action lawsuit by the remaining eight lives of a hell-kitten for attempted genocide of mice; suit brought by the tabby hell-kitten (striped wings and all) called Lucky, who wanted to grow up; with a countersuit by a certain desert hell-fox, who determined that life number three was the tastiest and he had been unfairly deprived of it. Howard, can you handle this?”

  “Yes, sir. I can.” You knew you were in hell when you were a lawyer defending talking animals with manners no better than drunks. “Yes, sir.”

  McCarthy read on: “A Mohammed (. . . why is every third male in hell named Mohammed? . . .) alleges that a prostitute did not give him, and I quote, ‘a poetically succulent release,’ and did give him several nasty diseases. She says because in hell orgasm . . .” McCarthy hesitated over the word, “. . . is commonly unattainable, and the diseases were the weekly special, she’s innocent: she only provides a service. Benedict?”

  “I can do that, sir.”

  “A certain former presidential candidate, Democratic (presumably a Communist), insists an election wasn’t run fairly. Regulations say that elections in hell are supposed to be unfair. I’ll take that one.”

  Roger felt sorry for everyone in that case. McCarthy would rant.

  Benet said, “And here’re our primary mission orders.”

  You could hear a feather drop as he ripped open the package. These were never good. A flash and a strong whiff of sulfur attested to its authenticity.

  Benet scanned them, sighed in relief, and read aloud: “We are to bring back the head of the most honest man in hell for deposition.”

  “It’s a trap!” McCarthy scoffed. “An honest man in hell?”

  Roger muttered, “Certainly neither of you.” Nor himself, but he was honest enough to admit it.

  Horace said, “Evil and honesty don’t have to go together. The only hurt I caused was some fractional percentage of shortage to the IRS. It benefited my clients. I was not very evil in that context, but I was certainly dishonest.”

  McCarthy asked, fairly lucidly, “Who are we going to find here who’s evil but honest? Peter the Great? Julius Caesar? Those Greeks from that famous battle?”

  Horace said, “I can get on the infernalnet and see who’s here.”

  “Do that. You young kids know how that stuff works.”

  “Yes, sir,” Horace agreed, though he was fifty at time of death. “Young” in this case meant “more current.”

  The next morning, in a red-painted mudbrick hall, domed and spired, Roger conducted his trial as barrister for the tabby hell-kitten named Lucky, using the legal code of the UK, 1923, complete to powdered wig. Standard procedure, most days, but today the minor demon serving as judge was glorying in his role.

  “Your Dishonor, we—” Zap! Lightning singed Roger’s butt. “Your Dishonor, we object—” Zap! Zap! “My Lord Judge, we propose—” Zap! Zap! Zap!

  At noon, the code switched to that of King Kamehameha of Hawaii. Roger steeled himself for horrors to come. The Hawaiian death penalty was even more terrifying when you knew you couldn’t die permanently from it.

  Mercifully, he was able to argue the winged hell-kitten’s case well enough for it to be dismissed before the Kamehameha rules kicked in. He doubted that poor little Lucky would really enjoy his victory, since after his eight more legally-mandated lives were lived, the hell-kitten faced innumerable lives with no legal protections: the restraining order against the hell-fox would lapse.

  That evening, back in the CLAP’s compound, now wired and sandbagged, they chewed their jerky and discussed their mission.

  Benet said, “Satan wants the head of the most honest man in hell. By specifying head, should I assume he wants it sans body?”

  “I believe we must, son,” Sergeant Thurmond drawled in his scratchy voice; ancient skin wrinkled around his beady eyes. “I always take His Satanic Majesty at His word.”

  “The next question is: who‘s the most honest man in hell? Accepting that ‘good,’ ‘honest’ and even ‘kind’ don’t necessarily overlap, who would meet the criterion of ‘honest’?”

  Roger thought about that. Nearly every damned soul in hell thought he was doomed unjustly to eternal torment; they sinned and died and sinned more and died again; the damned dead never learned; new sinners arrived constantly. Everybody in hell lied constantly, if only to himself. So could there even be a soul in this area of hell who was honest?


  Horace said, “I have it: Ghandi.”

  Roger tried to smile but smirked instead. “Gandhi. Of course.”

  McCarthy muttered, “That swarthy little Communist bastard.”

  Roger didn’t think Gandhi qualified as communist. The father of nonviolence as a political strategy, yes. Liberal, certainly. Pacifist, mostly. Of course, McCarthy accused everyone of being a communist.

  Benet said, “I have only heard the name.”

  Roger said, “In India, Ghandi promoted passive disobedience against tyranny. He helped lead people to independence from the British. Nonviolent. Persuasive. Unassailably consistent in his beliefs.”

  Benet snorted, but said, “He certainly sounds promising. Where do we find him?”

  Horace said, “I believe he’s right downtown, protesting something.”

  Hardly surprising.

  The day turned cold; its chill bit Roger’s lungs. He wished for an overcoat. Benet had that wool uniform, which must be horrible in the heat—certainly it smelled that way—but would be wonderful now.

  They met no resistance on their way “downtown.” Factions abounded in Kabum; after their landing the day before, they were just one more clutch of damned souls from everywhere. Distant battles raged, as residents of hell fought over metaphors or territory or eye-color or infernal affiliation: men made hell familiar, and war was familiar to every soul from every era.

  They walked downtown. Roger preferred the blisters from his boots to yesterday’s parachuting and pogo-sticking. Streets here were convoluted and narrow, and of course their maps were wrong. So they walked in the general direction of downtown, among mudbrick facades and teetering high rises with blown-out glass, guided by eye and ear and instinct to where the damned were congregating.

  They found an open plaza surrounding a parliament building: in it was a flagpole; on the pole flapped a tattered flag showing a black devil dancing on a red mountaintop: the symbol of Ashcanistan.

  Only the flag was familiar. Roger wasn’t familiar with Kabum. They’d not been briefed for this foray. On the whole, the town felt ancient, but then there were the gutted Soviet-style high-rises with shacks between them . . . stupidity from every age, chockablock on the streets.

  A protest was ongoing, involving thousands upon thousands, old and new, in the costumes of human history. The CLAP went unremarked and unchallenged, despite weapons, as they patrolled the perimeter looking for their witness: nonviolent demonstration or not, sarrisophori and demons and bedawi and ifrits and kaffirs and modern soldiers prowled among the throng: helmets with horsehair crests and metal wings and slitted visors and horns and feathers and spikes and chinstraps and faceshields and MOPP masks turned to them and away again. Kindred souls.

  “I see him,” McCarthy said. “At the base of the steps. A scrawny little weasel, sanctimonious in his cowardice.”

  Ghandi was wearing homespun, despite the day’s chill. Roger recognized some people around him as dedicated disciples. He couldn’t name them, but he recalled faces from famous photos. Ahead, people squeezed toward demon guards. Closer to Gandhi, his followers were organized in ranks, climbing low stairs in formation.

  “Very much like communists,” McCarthy commented.

  “Or soldiers,” Roger threw out. McCarthy’s paranoia and obsession irritated him more as time went on. He felt some sympathy for Benet, who at least acted like a leader, if misguided. McCarthy was just a narcissistic jerk.

  As marchers reached the top, demons on risers flanking the podium held up pokers that flashed into orange heat, and stabbed the leading wave of demonstrators. Screaming, the damned protesters thrashed and rolled down the steps. Some got to their feet and stumbled toward the rear of the line, to repeat the process. Others crawled away.

  “What the hell is this?” Benet asked.

  “It’s called ‘passive resistance.’ They seek to overwhelm the demons without fighting.”

  “Does that work?”

  “Only against a civilized enemy.”

  “Isn’t it rather ridiculous? You think he’d learn.”

  So are single-shot rifles against repeaters, you jackass. “It did work against the British in India. His proposal to use it against the Nazis was never tested.”

  Benet said, “So I suspect. Well, let’s see if he’s our man.” He hooked his scabbard onto his belt and advanced.

  Sobs from the nonviolent seared by pokers were strangely disturbing. The fried bologna smell of scorched flesh didn’t improve Roger’s mindset.

  McCarthy said, “Roger, you seem to know something about this man. Introduce us, please.”

  “Yes, sir.” Probably a good idea. Benet knew nothing about Ghandi or his time. McCarthy had the manners of a pig. Even a simple, reasonable request came out of McCarthy’s mouth sounding pompous.

  Surprised by his own calm, Roger led the way, politely stepping in front of Benet. He hadn’t yet died in hell, though he’d suffered numerous indignities. He sighed. There was going to be a first time. Maybe today.

  Nothing untoward happened, though, as Roger stolidly led the party from the CLAP forward, edging the through the edges of the throng.

  “Mr. Ghandi,” Roger said, “Or do you prefer Bapu?”

  Little Ghandi was all cheerful smiles. His cohorts stood nearby but made no move to interfere.

  “I answer to either. How may I help you?”

  Ghandi, in the midst of this mayhem, seemed so confident. Roger could smell roasted flesh, hear the wails, and yet the leader seemed undisturbed.

  Benet asked, “Mister Ghandi, sir, is the mob going to be a problem?” The CLAP moved in, creating a wall between their target and the danse noir on the steps.

  “The ‘mob’?” Gandhi asked, still smiling. “Right must battle might, or lose all legitimacy. They are but supplicants for decency, presenting a rational request to the demons. This ‘mob’ is not a problem, though certainly the demons may decide to make them such, for their own purposes.”

  Roger said, “Well then, sir, we were sent to bring you.”

  “‘Sent’? ‘Ordered’? You do not yourselves choose to come for me?” He smiled knowingly, and Roger understood it was an attempt at debate. Among doomed screams and demonic violence, this tableau was bizarre, even for hell.

  Benet looked confused and annoyed. McCarthy looked apoplectic.

  Roger stifled a grin. That sight was worth enjoying. Pleasure in hell was hard to find.

  Benet faced the little Indian and said, “We must bring you with us, or face pain and suffering. I personally try to avoid pain and suffering.” Benet must think Gandhi didn’t understand.

  Gandhi said, “You could choose to endure it, however. You could choose not to participate in hell’s charade. New Hell, they call this place, but nothing is new here.” He waved around, indicating the marching masochists, the observers, the demons. “If people refuse to take part in Satan’s games—that would be new. If all do that, the devil, by any name, becomes powerless.”

  That was incorrect, but inspiring. Torment didn’t require assent on the part of the tormented: you liked it, you didn’t; you ran, or you fought. It didn’t matter either way: this wasn’t a world to win by intimidation and press manipulation, by inspiration or steadfastness. Right and wrong were meaningless here.

  So Ghandi didn’t get it. He was doing in afterlife what had worked for him in life, like so many others. Kabum was a part of the greater underworld, in all its manifest complexity. No debater’s trick or fillip of law could change that. Roger admired Ghandi, the way you’d admire a diorama. It took exceptional strength of character to behave this way in hell. Or sheer insanity. Impressive, either way.

  McCarthy muttered, “Goddam commie.”

  Ghandi heard McCarthy, turned and responded. “Indeed not. I am not a communist, nor a capitalist, a monarchist, nor any other type of categorized statist. I am myself, and only myself. You serve another, by choice. I serve myself,” he nodded, “by choice.”

  Realizing that
Benet was confused and McCarthy about to burst a blood vessel, which in hell meant literally and messily, Roger stepped in.

  “Bapu Ghandi, we have been asked to find the most honest man in hell. Your name was mentioned, and I took the liberty of presuming you might be he.”

  Ghandi laughed in a low resonant tenor, head back and cotton robe shifting as he raised his arms.

  “Oh, young man, I can make no such claim.”

  Modesty, but perhaps false. All men lie. Even in hell.

  “No?”

  The wizened elf sighed and smiled and said, “I was once a lawyer. I lusted and lied to protect a lustful dalliance.” He shook his head. “I manipulated truth for effect, for my nation. I made statements deemed racist. I do not regret any of it, even now, but I am here because I was not as honest as I was effective. And I am in New Hell, subject to Satan’s will, when Naraka is in the place of torment, or proper hell, for Islamists and Hindus and Sikhs and Jains and Buddhists—Yama should be my judge, not this Father of Lies who rules in New Hell. The underworld’s mistake, or my own? No matter. Here I am, among the other New Dead, liar that I am, opportunist that I am, with the flock that died believing my lies all around me.” He raised an arm to indicate the moaning protesters again.

  He’d stopped smiling, at last.

  McCarthy asked, “Who then?”

  The little man shrugged his skinny shoulders. “The princess in the minefield would be a good bet. If one wanted to bet in hell. What is there to lose?” He smiled again.

  “Very well. However, we must bring you along as well, just in case.”

  “With respect, I refuse to comply.”

  McCarthy shrugged and grinned. Benet drew his saber and swung smoothly. He’d had much time to practice his technique here.

  The anti-communist crusader looked down at the bruised face rolling on the ground, and said, “I should think it was obvious, and now demonstrated, what one could lose.” He wore a shit-eating grin. God, Satan, whoever you wanted to invoke, what an asshole.

  Ghandi smiled wanly at them, as his body vomited blood and collapsed next to his head. His eyes tracked it, and looked calm and resigned as he was was stuffed into the sack Thurmond had in his hand.