The Salvation War 2: Pantheocide

by Slade, Stuart

  Six hours later, Carnival Triumph was as near to being docked as the shattered facilities of Hamilton would allow. In fact, she was anchored fairly close to where the quays had been and an emergency set of brows had been lifted into place by a U.S. Navy helicopter. The refugees were on their way ashore, most of them looking nervously at the Baldricks working in the ruined buildings. With one exception, as one of the men from the town had been standing in the street looking at ruins that were presumably where he had once worked, a Baldrick had carefully lifted a survivor from the wreckage, a woman who must have been in an office corner where she had been sheltered from the destruction. Why hadn’t she been evacuated? Too scared to leave the building perhaps or just never got the word. She’d been put on a stretcher and carried away, the man holding her hand all the way. His wife? Secretary? Mistress? Olsen didn’t know and guessed that he probably never would.

  He had more interesting things on his mind, not least of which were the two telegrams he had received from Head Office. One was commending him for the rescue of most of the inhabitants of Hamilton, an action described as being in the finest traditions of the company and of the seafaring community. The other reprimanded him for hazarding his ship and passengers. He was trying to work out which one to take seriously when there was a knock on the door.

  “Captain, I am Doctor Surlethe, the National Science Advisor. I was wondering if I could ask you a few questions about the storm.”

  “I’ll do what I can Doctor, you probably know more than I do. You’re still in office then?”

  “I think so, President-Elect Obama has said he will keep in place the scientific and military team that won the war against Hell. The political team is changing of course, although I understand Defense Secretary Warner will also be asked to stay on.”

  “Florida and Ohio finally made their minds up then?”

  “Nope still hung up. But McCain has conceded, even if he’d got both states, he’d still have been down by an electoral vote or two.”

  “I was expecting the election to be a lot more decided than this. After all, the Republicans won the war in Hell.”

  “Sure, but that was Bush, McCain didn’t gain that much from it and his attempts to use the victory looked like cheap electioneering which it was of course. The Gee-Oh-Pee had lost a lot of its religious people, that balanced things a bit although it hit the popular vote more than the electoral vote. Most of those who laid down and died did so in areas where they just reduced the Republican majority a bit. And the Democrats lost some of the immigrant vote for the same reasons. The people who do the analyses on the voting will be working for years to try and unscramble all the trends but the upshot is, Barry Obama is in by a narrow margin. Not that it will make that much difference given the circumstances. Now to business. You saw the way the storm changed course and picked up strength?”

  “We did. Just like Missouri.”

  “And just like Houston in August. By the way, we’ve looked back at Katrina and there was the same anomalous course changes and strength increases there as well. You know what that means?”

  Olsen shook his head.

  “Remember the old saying, once is happenstance, twice is coincidence, three times is enemy action? Well we’ve got four cases now of major storm systems that have suddenly changed course and picked up strength. Katrina and Ike were subtle, the storm didn’t pick up that much strength or change course by so very large a degree, but these last two were blatant. In Missouri the storm changed course by more than a hundred degrees in less than a minute while doubling its strength and then redoubled it. The storm here didn’t change course by that much, a mere 40 degrees or so, but its strength was phenomenal. We’ve got records that suggest the wind speed at the peak went over 400 miles per hour. No hurricane had ever, ever got that close. Nor have typhoons or cyclones.”

  “Four times. And three times makes it enemy action. These were not natural events.”

  “No, they were not. That’s why we need your reports as quickly as possible. It looks like Yahweh is moving against us at last, we were expecting this a long time ago and we’re a bit confused why it’s taken so long. We’ll need to look at all your records and instrument readings, But, we want to take down statements from everybody, impressions, thoughts all that good stuff. What really sticks in your mind about your run for the Hellmouth?”

  Olsen thought for a few moments. “It was warm, the temperature was going up even as the pressure went down. That’s unusual, usually a storm like that is cold.”

  “Interesting. Anything else.”

  Olsen replayed the pictures in his mind. Suddenly one thing really seized his mind. “Yes, the clouds. They were spinning fast but usually hurricane clouds are gray. These were black, jet black, as black as Yahweh’s heart.”

  Chapter Three

  Heavengate, Hell, November 2008.

  Corporal Dripankeothorofenex had decided, upon mature consideration, that he liked humans. In a manner of speaking, he always had in a culinary sense, but now he was working with them, he was beginning to see that the way they did things had decided advantages to offer a poor footslogger.

  Take Heavengate for example. The chamber containing the black ellipse that offered direct access from Hell to Heaven was in the center of a massive fortress, one designed for the sole purpose of stopping the Heavenly hordes from invading Hell. It has served that function, and served it well, for millennia beyond counting. The problem was that the way the daemons had organized the defense, there had to be a guard detail inside that chamber. This had led to a game being played over those millennia. The Angels would stage a raid, pile through the gate, kill the guard and retreat the other side before reinforcements could arrive. Then the daemons would retaliate and stage a raid of their own. And so it went on, millennia after millennia. Greta fun for the Lords who could boast in Satan's court about it, not so much for the foot-soldiers who died.

  Then the human army had come and they'd killed Satan, destroyed his court and put their own leader into power. After a while, they'd found Heavengate, looked at the chamber and shaken their heads sadly. Then they'd made a few modifications of their own. They'd walled up the original entrance to the chamber, leaving just a massive steel door for access. They'd built a new room off to one side, with armored glass windows so the occupants had a good view of the portal. Then they'd brought in comfortable chairs for the guards, run a power capable in from a generator outside and even installed a refrigerator so the guards could have a cold fungus ale now and then while on duty. After all, as the Sergeant in charge had said, ‘any damned fool can be uncomfortable’. Then they'd rigged the inside of the chamber with their dreaded weapons.

  Dripankeothorofenex remembered what had happened next, remembered it fondly. He'd been on guard when a group of angels had burst into the chamber, intent on slaughtering the daemon guard. Then they'd stopped dead, looking around them in confusion at the empty chamber. While they did so, Dripankeothorofenex had picked up the telephone and called the human reaction force waiting outside.

  “Hi Drippy, anything happening in there?” The human voice at the other end might have been relaxed but Dripankeothorofenex wasn't taken in. Humans could do more killing while totally relaxed than daemons could achieve with a week's concentrated effort. He was a little proud though, he'd noticed that the human soldiers tended to invent slightly abusive nicknames for each other and the fact he had one of his own suggested they were accepting him as a comrade.

  “Angel raiding party just arrived.” His report was interrupted by a series of explosions as his Sergeant set off the killing machines. ‘Claymores’ the humans had called them. “We just blew them up.”

  “Good for you. We're on our way.”

  Dripankeothorofenex had settled back in his seat and waited for the humans. This way of warfare, sitting back and killing by remote control, was much preferable to a desperate hand-to-hand fight. He had looked into the chamber, seeing the charnel house resulting from the killing
machines. Not an angel had survived. Then the humans had come, taken away what was left of the bodies and reset the charges. “When we will stage a raid of our own?” ‘Drippy’ had asked the Sergeant commanding the team.

  “We won't. Why should we? We don’t know what is that side, we can guess it's probably much the same as this. Why waste lives? Anyway, they sent a raiding party through, it never came back, what would you do?”

  Dripankeothorofenex thought for a second. “Send another one through to find out what happened to the first one?”

  “Right, Drippy. And we blow that one up too. We could get half a dozen groups before they give it up as a bad job and that's the end of this raiding problem, right?”

  That's when Dripankeothorofenex had decided he liked humans. He entered the observation room and relieved the previous watch of their duty. Once his own group were in place, he visually checked the Heavengate Chamber and saw that all was in order. Next item on the checklist, he picked up the telephone and advised the human reaction team outside the fortress that he had the guard and all was well.

  At that point he turned around, opened the refrigerator and looked inside. There were flasks of fungus ale, some slices of foodbeast and some metal cans of human beer marked ‘Coors’. He took one of the cans, in truth he preferred fungus ale but beer was human so it had to be better didn’t it?, opened it and swallowed the contents. As he turned around he looked again into the Heavengate Chamber and it took a second for the change to register. When it did, he dived for the telephone. The black ellipse wasn't there. The Heavengate was closed and couldn’t be reopened. Ever.

  Interstate 95, just south of Dover, Delaware. December 2008

  “That's the turning, Interstate 666.”

  The green sign made it quite clear. “Interstate 666, Delaware City, Middletown and Hellgate Golf.” John McLanahan swung the family car on to the exit ramp and started to follow the signs for the Hellgate. The whole road was new and showed signs of the hurried construction. The signs though were unambiguous. ‘Military Convoys Have Absolute Right of Way.’

  “Are we there yet?” John Junior sounded impatient and fretful.

  “Nearly honey. We'll be seeing Grandma again soon. We'll make sure she is all right now she's dead.” Naomi McLanahan and her husband exchanged slightly guilty glances, they were making this visit, one that was using a substantial proportion of their monthly gasoline ration, for reasons that were not quite so altruistic.

  Ahead of them, Interstate 666 split, the main lanes curving off towards Hellgate Golf, the rest reverting to the prewar road network. Another preemptory sign, ‘Civilian Traffic, Right Lane. Left Three Lanes, Military Traffic Only.’ McLanahan started to swing right and felt the Toyota Corolla lurch as a ten-wheeled Oshkosh HEMTT roared past. It was followed by more of the same mixed in with tank transporters carrying Abrams tanks and Bradley armored fighting vehicles. The sign about military convoys having absolute right of way wasn't a joke, if the Toyota had been in the way, it would have been pushed out of it. McLanahan shook slightly, being at war took a lot of getting used to. Iraq and the Persian Gulf wars hadn't been anything like this.

  Ahead, the road rose before falling away to the area surrounding the gate. Cresting the rise, he could see the whole extent of the human side of Base Hellgate-Golf. There would be more the other side of the ellipse but that was hidden behind the black shadow. “See that Junior? That's the Hellgate. Anybody from your class been through it yet?”

  “No.” Junior was staring at the lines of vehicles and helicopters parked outside. Most of them were red-stained and battered, waiting for the repairs that the vicious environment of Hell made essential.

  Another sign. ‘Civilian Parking’ and an arrow leading off to the right. Once again McLanahan followed the indicated route to a parking lot. It was much smaller than he had thought, he had been expecting a sea of cars, left while their owners visited newly-deceased loved ones. Then reality set in, there were only a limited number of permits to visit Hell issued to civilians and the McLanahans had been lucky. Most were not. He parked the car and his family got out, looking around as they did so. There was a small shelter nearby, marked “Transit Bus”. It drew them over and they stood in the metal lean-to, welcoming the cover it offered from the drizzling rain. A few minutes later, a dark green bus, looking for all the world like a schoolbus pulled up.

  “Transit Bus For Hell.” The Private driving it was bored out of his mind by the constant shuttling. This was not a prized assignment and he'd really upset his Sergeant at some time to get it.

  The bus took them to a single-story building marked “Hell Orientation Center”. The McLanahans were conducted into a briefing room, one that had around 20 seats in it. The room filled up quickly, the people eying each other curiously. Then, an Army Officer entered and stood at the podium.

  “Welcome to Hell, ladies and gentlemen. A few quick words to advise you of the conditions and regulations concerning your visit. Firstly, this is an operational military base, photography is not permitted while on base grounds. Anybody seen taking pictures will have their camera confiscated.

  “Secondly, the atmosphere in Hell is not healthy. It is loaded with dust and that is harmful to your health. You must not, repeat not, take off your breathing mask any time you are in an unfiltered environment. You do, you may be back here sooner than you expect. Some of the troops we sent in right at the start of the war didn't have breathing masks either and their health is now pretty bad.

  “Thirdly, all of you are here to visit recently-deceased relatives. Be aware of this, the people you will be meeting are not humans. Not quite. They look like the people you knew and have the same characters but they are in different bodies, ones adapted to living in Hell. Think of them as flasks into which the people you knew have been transferred. So, just because they can do things here – like walking around outside without masks - don’t think you can.

  “Fourthly, military convoys and personnel have absolute priority. If they are coming through, get out of their way because they will not stop.” The Lieutenant looked grim for a second. “You may have heard that we had some protesters here a few days ago. They laid down in the road in from of a tank convoy. By the time the convoy had passed, they were a thousandth of an inch tall and about eighty yards long. Something like a tank convoy can't stop, understand? OK.

  “Fifthly, wandering around is a bad idea. Hell isn’t linear, don't ask us why, we don’t know. If you really want an answer, we'll tell you it's because the polarity is reversed but that's just saying we don’t know using different words. But, it means this. You walk in a straight line out, turn around and walk in a straight line back, you will not end up in the same place you started out from. On walking distances, its only a small error but in the refugee camps, that will get you lost. And that will displease us.

  “Lastly, when the bus comes to pick you up, you leave. You'll have about an hour or so before that happens. Please don’t make us come in and get you. That's all. Any questions? No? Excellent. Thank you.” The Lieutenant left quickly, giving the orientation speech wasn't a prized duty either and he wondered what he had done that had displeased his Captain so badly.

  Another bus pulled into the reception building and the visitors were conducted into it. The driver was another morose private expiating some unknown military sin but there was also a professionally cheerful young woman on board. She handed out breathing masks as the visitors entered. Once they were all seated, the bus pulled out as she checked everybody had their masks on properly. “Did you all get your lecture from the Lieutenant?” There was a mumble of agreement. “He is a bit fierce isn't he? Still, Hell is a hostile environment, but you follow his advice and its safe enough. He probably skidded you past the questions bit so if I can answer anything. My name is Elva by the way, Elva Jones.”

  The bus slipped through the Hellgate and the inside darkened as the overcast Earth sky was replaced by the red-gray of Hell. Junior stuck his hand up. “You're n
ot wearing a mask.”

  A chuckle went around the bus at the boy's presumption. The guide smiled for the same reason. “I don’t have to Johnny. I'm dead you see.”

  One of the men up near the front of the bus couldn’t help but ask. “Miss, ummm, how did you...”

  “Die? I was an air hostess and my plane crashed. So, when I was rescued, I got this job.” She looked at the man who was about to ask something else. “A DC-2, remember them?” The man nodded and she smiled at him, not many people knew much about old airliners.

  “People, we're now entering the Phelan Plain. This is named after Philip Phelan, a mall security guard who gave his life to rescue a group of schoolgirls from a Baldrick attack. We're hoping we’ll find him soon so he can come visit us. The Phelan Plain is where everybody stays after they arrive or are rescued, until they find a better place of course. Now. We're going to the American Arrivals Area, all the people you want to see are there. Just give me your ticket, I'll tell you where to get off and give you a map.”

  “Miss Jones, the Lieutenant said that people are different. Will we be able to recognize...”

  “Certainly. If your relative died before middle-age, menopause for women, they'll look just the way they did when they died. If they died much older, they'll look the way they did in middle age. To quote the Lieutenant, don't ask us why, we don’t know. Right, first stop. Mr and Mrs McLanahan and your son? Here you are, just follow the map, it's only a few yards.”

  Elva had been right, the small hut allocated to Rose Matthews, Naomi McLanahan's mother, was only a few yards away from the bus stop. Privately, McLanahan guessed that wasn't an accident, that the bus routes were planned to drop each group off close to their destination.

  “Oh Naomi, its so good to see you. And you brought little Johnnie too. Come in, why don’t you, it’s a bit small but it's only temporary. Johnnie, would you like a drink or something to eat? You can come in too John.” John McLanahan reflected that being dead hadn't affected his mother-in-law at all. Physically though, the change was stunning. When he had last seen her, she had been on a bed in the hospice, breathing through a tube in her nose and fading away as the lung cancer had killed her. Now, she looked like a well-preserved mid-forties, very much like Naomi's sister rather than her mother. And so, he followed them in and settled down