by Tony Moyle
In the distance, John made out a bridge spanning their side of the third circle across the abyss to the other side. In effect, the bridge was the result of the cavern having been carved out around it, reminiscent of a piece of work that the builders had not completed due to budget constraints. When they were about halfway across, John could truly gauge the full size and extent of the Hell that surrounded him. All ten levels were visible, each cowering in the shadow of the next, the lowest sitting astride a dark, stagnant lake, lifeless and still.
Which level would he have found himself on if he hadn’t decided to go to work on that sunny morning the day he’d died? How much longer would he have lived, and would his life have taken him further towards Heaven or Hell? He suspected the latter. John had been an active Christian up until his mid-twenties but had forsaken the Church when those around him, who had professed to be so devoted, used the Church to gain personal profit and influence. This wasn’t the sort of profit that John was searching for, and eventually he became disillusioned.
He stopped attending church, developed a new circle of friends, and forgot most of the teachings that had been his default behaviour for so long. His soul must have been positively charged until he went off the rails. At that time he’d been determined to catch up on the fun he’d missed out on. Inevitably, this landed John in trouble on more than one occasion, perhaps erasing some of the positive charge, slowly creating a balance that had led him to Limbo.
As they reached the other side of the bridge they were met with the same moans of misery from the countless inmates within earshot. Directly in front of them another tunnel, much wider and more impressive than the last one, burrowed into the rock face. Unlike the ones leading up from the back gate, with their foul and unpleasant smells, this one felt fresh and welcoming. A great relief filled him when Brimstone gestured for them to enter. It was an extremely unpleasant experience for a person, even a deceased one, to see former humans in so much pain and anguish. It was a relief that none of those that he’d seen were people he knew personally: what would his reaction have been then? It had all seemed to wash over Brimstone as if he was totally desensitised to it all.
“How can you live with this, doesn’t it affect you?” asked John.
“No. It has never had an impact on us.”
“What exactly are you? If you don’t mind me asking,” asked John, hesitant with his question as he wasn’t entirely sure that he wanted to hear the answer.
“I’m a demon. I was created at the very dawn of the Universe when Satan first played with creation. Satan created us in the same way that he created man in his image, only Satan’s creations were more sinister and disgusting. The elements were his ingredients: water, fire, minerals, air, space and time. Satan wanted to better his creations, to challenge him. At first we looked almost completely human, although there were no souls or any capacity for them. Slowly over time we degraded into the elements that formed us. We are bound to Satan’s will, the guardians and the workers of his domain.” Brimstone showed no emotion in his explanation; he felt no pity for his situation or any ability to do so.
“There are others like you?”
“There are others, yes, but none of us look the same. Each was created from a different elemental starting point. I was moulded from the dust that erupted from the initial creation, what you refer to as the ‘Big Bang’. You may meet some others if you are unfortunate.”
As they discussed the birth of life, it dawned on John how close the competing views of religion and science were to each other. In past debates he’d had on the subjects, their compatibility with each other seemed paradoxical and had fuelled many an argument. There was never even a close compromise between people with sacred views, the two subjects having divided generations of scholars and beer drinkers alike.
Now he could see how both had some validity in their polarised positions. At the very least he could no longer argue and reject the existence of a greater being. Neither could he pour scorn on astrophysical calculations that he had read in scientific journals about the probable outcomes of passing through a wormhole. He had personally witnessed both of these events in the last few hours. What a unique position that put him in. No doubt a Nobel Prize would be winging its way from Sweden, if only he had any proof of what he’d seen, or an audience close enough to hear it.
“Okay, we are here,” stated Brimstone as they passed through the end of the tunnel.
As John scanned the scenery he noticed one main difference in a room similar to the one at the back gate. Instead of the white column that had brought John’s soul in through that entrance, there sat a very different piece of machinery. It resembled a massive cannon with a huge, clear, bulbous base where you might expect to find the trigger. The barrel extended out into space through the void in the cave, right up and partially through the wormhole. At the base of the gun, conveyor belts carried plastic bodies that stretched all the way to the back of the cavern and up through one of the tunnels.
A figure was carefully loading empty vessols to the bulbous end of the gun, where they were attached to a white, plastic nozzle. These bodies were manacled at both the arms and legs and blindfolded around the face. A second figure, seated to the nearest side of the equipment, was pressing a complicated array of buttons and levers on the side of the barrel.
At regular intervals the plastic bodies would expand and come to life, before being immediately led away on the conveyor. As each new empty vessol was loaded, and at each pull of the lever, a huge pulse of blue electrical energy was fired through the transparent barrel into space. After a fraction of a second, a similar but weaker blue spark came bouncing erratically back into the bulb, eventually forced into the body that was waiting for it. The whole mechanics of it were an extremely impressive sight, managed with the utmost efficiency and organisation.
John had been so immersed in it that he was unaware that Brimstone had made his way down to one of the figures and was now in discussion with a solid gold version of himself, which John guessed to be one of Brimstone’s demon colleagues. The golden creature, who had been the one operating the controls, stepped down from his seat and beckoned to his colleagues to help him.
All four of them grabbed hold of a massive red lever and with all of their force pulled it down to the floor. The machine still appeared to be working, or at least it was still pulsing with blue energy into space, but this time no bodies were being filled. The machine’s demon crew walked away towards a further tunnel and Brimstone beckoned for John to join him. John walked cautiously across the floor.
“Let me introduce you to the Soul Catcher,” Brimstone pointed quite unnecessarily to the machine that had been the focus of John’s attention.
“You’re now standing at the main entrance to Hell, otherwise known as the front gate. This is where we process the majority of those that are unfortunate enough to be attracted here,” said Brimstone. “It’s usually a job that never stops, although we’ve managed to put a freeze on it for a while so we can talk in peace. This is where I work, and the Soul Catcher is my responsibility. Which brings me to my reason for bringing you here.”
Brimstone again took from his pouch the envelope that he had shown John at the back gate. It was clear that the niceties of his arrival were over. They were going to get down to the real business. What task was he about to be dealt?
“Hewson, we have a problem,” said Brimstone, looking serious, even worried. It appeared that it wasn’t just John who was concerned about the contents of the envelope.
“To get to the point, we have had a minor incident with the Soul Catcher. We have lost a soul that should have been attracted here but has not yet arrived. We need you to recover that soul and bring it back to us. In return for successfully completing this task, your debt will have been repaid and Satan will honour your reprieve. Your soul will be positively charged and you will be allowed to travel, if you wish, to Heaven. That is the deal if you choose to accept it?”
“I don’t
suppose that I have much choice in the matter?”
“There is an alternative,” offered Brimstone. “You can be taken immediately to the fourth level and be housed in a cell right next to your father’s.”
“My father isn’t in Hell. He was a war hero and highly decorated for it. He saved lives…you’re lying to me,” shouted John.
“I’m afraid not. I suppose you were too young to know the truth. Your mother told you what you wanted to hear. Tell me, John, did you not hear his voice in the ether before you came in through the back gate? Where did you think he was?” taunted Brimstone. “You can see for yourself if you like. It’s only a short walk, but I’m not sure you want to take it.”
John idolised his father, or at least the image of him that he’d pieced together. When he was seven years old news reached the UK that his father, a Navy officer, had died when his ship had been bombed and sunk with the loss of all but a handful of the crew. The story he’d heard portrayed how his father’s heroics had saved the small number of survivors; he’d even met one of them and got the story first-hand. This new twist was devastating. How could he face the prospect of seeing one of the people he loved in the same predicament as those he had already witnessed?
“Whose soul do you want me to find?” John answered meekly.
Brimstone opened the envelope as if he were about to announce the winner of an award.
“The man’s name is Sandy Logan.”
“Sandy Logan, the Minister of Homeland Security for the government?”
“Yes, well, the former,” replied Brimstone. “What of it?”
“I know him,” responded John.
“Yes, we thought you might,” replied Brimstone, his smile expanding across his face, leaking more lava than ever.
- CHAPTER FOUR -
THE MINISTER FOR HOMELAND SECURITY
Finding your way around the corridors in the Palace of Westminster was a challenge for all but the longest-serving employee. But for a brand new civil servant they were a complete nightmare. The building was a myriad of passageways, cabinet offices and debating chambers. There were literally thousands of doors, each concealing an important person busily influencing the direction of our lives in their nominated discipline. Some of the departments along these hallowed corridors were more important than others. Some, such as the ‘Department for the Protection of British Culture’, were small and invisible in the public consciousness. Very few people knew what they were; even fewer knew where they were. One of the newest departments in this beacon of democracy was extremely well known: the ‘Department for Homeland Security’.
Recent events meant you couldn’t go a day without reading or hearing about it across the media. Formed by the last prime minister in the early part of the 21st century in a direct response to the devastation of the attacks in America, it was created to develop a clear and strategic approach to national security. Part of the Home Office, its job was to bring together the security services, GCHQ, MI6 and MI5, to co-operate as a seamless intelligence body. Cynically most people believed that the British Government was obediently following the US’s lead, adding further fuel to the fire that our prime ministers were just lapdogs, ready to bound to the president’s side at a moment’s notice. The government were insistent that the department’s main purpose was to demonstrate that they were taking it seriously. So much so that they appointed someone who could act as a mouthpiece to the country, communicating progress and allaying the public’s fears. The man responsible was the Minister for Homeland Security.
Whether the department was seen as important or not didn’t make it any easier to find. The panic-stricken civil servant, currently sweating from head to foot, would have to agree. He lurched from corridor to corridor, stopping sporadically to appeal for directions, his grey suit a mere excuse for the one he remembered putting on that morning. It flopped around loosely as he quickened his pace, glancing frequently at his wristwatch. It had now passed three o’clock and his message had still not reached its destination. The sweat accelerated, dripping under his glasses and down his face. Just as he was about to give up, retrace his steps and start again, he found a door that read, ‘The Rt Hon. Sandy Logan. Minister for Homeland Security.’
The man stopped for a few seconds to regain his composure before tapping firmly on the door. There was no response. He put his ear against the door and heard the sound of paper being hurriedly hidden away, followed by heavy footsteps pacing quickly towards the door. It swung open and the civil servant tumbled through, just stopping himself hitting the floor on the other side. The tall, heavy-set man holding the door open scanned the empty space up and down the corridor, before quickly closing the door behind both of them.
Sandy Logan returned to his chair, sitting his large frame awkwardly behind a desk that was much too small for its occupant. Rubbing his beard in quiet contemplation he continued working, ignoring the new arrival. Relieved that he’d finally found the right office, the disjointed civil servant stood vacantly, having completely forgotten why he was there in the first place.
“Well, what is it?” snapped Sandy impatiently, still looking downwards to something more important.
“The Prime Minister has requested your presence, a matter of urgency as I understand it,” replied the man.
Sandy took in his dishevelled appearance.
“You pronounce it to be a matter of some urgency, yet you have clearly been trying to find me for some time. You might advise the Prime Minister to make better use of his email in future. I’m a little busy at present to repeat the same pointless journey that you have just been on,” said Sandy, in no mood to be summoned as a master calls a servant.
“He did say that you might not be keen to meet,” replied the civil servant, his wits returning to him. “He said that if you were not in his office by three-thirty, then you would not be in yours past four.”
Sandy’s humourless, unpleasant laugh filled the office, brimming with contempt for the preposterous nature of the threat. Sandy picked up his phone and pressed a few numbers. Sitting motionlessly he waited for the tone on the other end to be answered, all the while staring at the fragile man in front of him. Finally, after what seemed to the civil servant as several minutes, the line was answered.
“I need to meet our illustrious leader, I’ll be a little late…no, I see no problems…carry on as planned. I’ll get there when I can.” The call was short and sweet and the moment the phone had been replaced in its charger, Sandy got up and reached for his jacket. “Let’s see what all the fuss is about then, shall we? I’ll show you the way back: after all, it is urgent.”
Sandy led the man towards the door and out into the corridor. The mid-afternoon sun was streaming in through the floor-to-ceiling stained-glass windows that were positioned at regular intervals along the passageway. When they had walked the length of it in silence they descended a vast staircase for several floors. The civil servant tried to keep pace with Sandy’s quickening steps, whose urgency to get to the Prime Minister’s office now appeared greater than the original request. Several more winding corridors, each resembling a clone of the last, flashed by before they reached an area of the Houses of Parliament more decorative and well kept. It was also more occupied; doors were now guarded by security personnel, two of whom stood either side of the door that they were approaching.
Sandy flashed his official security badge in the direction of one of them, and without knocking opened the door and entered. On the other side a vast office, with little resemblance to Sandy’s own, bustled with fervent activity. In the distance three people stood in deep discussion, whilst here and there several more were engrossed in vast mountains of paperwork, or deep and meaningful telephone conversations. There was a heightened sense of anxiety felt in both the actions of these people and the urgency with which they were being carried out. Sandy had been here before: this wasn’t normal, something was happening.
The three figures at the far end stopped their discussion as Sandy bu
rst into the room in a manner of overimportance. The Prime Minister, Byron T. Casey, a greying, bushy-haired, slightly overweight man with the ubiquitous cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth, stood in the centre wearing the expression of someone who had just been told his house was on fire and that all the exits were blocked. The man to the Prime Minister’s right was also someone that Sandy knew well, the Home Secretary, his immediate boss.
Smartly dressed in a sharp, black suit, Sandy had not seen the third man before. Handsome and muscular, the light glistened off his dark, greased-back, blond hair, and the obvious bulge in his jacket indicated that he was an agent from one of the security forces. Sandy’s present role had brought him into contact with these people, so he knew how to spot them without seeing the unnatural bulge. The only surprise was that he didn’t know who this one was.
As he moved towards them, Byron beckoned for the other two to leave. The agent left by another exit, but not before he assessed Sandy for some unknown threat.
“Okay, I need some time with Minister Logan, so I want everyone else out,” the Prime Minister announced loudly to the congregation of employees who, accepting his decision, unanimously filtered away.
“What is it this time, Byron?!” bellowed Sandy before he’d reached the Prime Minister and the collective had finished leaving the room.
The Prime Minister waited until the throng had left before acknowledging Sandy. His demeanour suggested the weight of an uncomfortable few hours was about to explode out onto a few others, and he was not at all in the mood to suffer Sandy’s insolence.
“An ideal question. One that I feel is more relevant for me to ask of you,” growled the Prime Minister. “If I had any belief that you had done your job correctly, then perhaps I might be illuminated by the response. However, as I suspect this is not the case, at least I can witness your discomfort. A position that I have occupied for most of the day.”
