Lawyers in Hell

by Morris, Janet

  “I do hope so. I’m Malfean, and I’m bored, lonely and new in Pandemonium with a Sinday night to kill and no one to help me.” She reached forward and slipped a card into his lapel pocket. “That’s my number. Call me. I might be waiting.” She strutted off, her heart-shaped tail tip swaying from side-to-side while three cars piled into each other on the other side of the street.

  Arkiel recovered the power of speech and looked at Gravelog. “I’m never getting out of here. Am I?”

  The homely demon looked back at him. “They tell me there’s always hope, sir.”

  With Enemies Like These

  by

  David L. Burkhead

  Wendell waited in the bushes and rubbed at his sore back. A long night’s work had paid off. The hastily dammed stream (not the clear stream of a mountain brook as he’d known in life, but one of the fetid streams common in hell) had overflowed its banks and flooded the road. After flowing across the road the stream tumbled over a low bluff into a ravine. The heavy rains of the day before, now faded to a light sprinkle, made the flooding seem plausible.

  The target would be coming soon and Wendell could then spring the second part of the trap.

  How had he gotten involved in this plot? Wendell wondered. First the long years working in research at the Hall of Injustice, then finally being assigned to try cases … but scarcely had he begun litigating when he was fired. Each step after that had led inexorably to this point but Wendell still could not see just where he had taken the wrong turn. The plot, whatever it was, would fail – they always did – and where would that leave Wendell?

  The light rain, threatening to turn into sleet, had no answer.

  Wendell assumed he was a sacrificial goat – working alone, on a minor mission, without adequate equipment or support. Nothing ever went right in hell, at least not completely. Someone must have thought that setting up Wendell to fail might allow some more critical part of the overall plot, whatever it was, to work.

  Or maybe the plot was just run by idiots.

  Wendell ceased massaging his back at the drone of an approaching car. The time was right. This could be the target.

  A dingy yellow car, exactly matching the description Wendell had been given, rounded a bend in the road and came into view, blue smoke pouring from its exhaust. As it neared the flooded section of road, it slowed to a stop.

  As the car started to reverse, Wendell pulled the trip cord that activated the second part of the trap. Spiked boards shot out from concealment on the roadside just in time for the car to back over them, puncturing three of the car’s four tires before the driver could stop. From his own concealment, Wendell dashed for the car as it spun once before coming to rest against a large rock.

  The driver’s door was already opening as Wendell reached the car. He grabbed the driver’s arm and pulled. The driver of the car managed to stay on his feet as Wendell pulled him from the car.

  “Unhand me, sir.” Then, impossibly, the driver jerked free of Wendell’s grip before Wendell could twist him to the ground.

  Wendell reached for a new grip with his left hand while his right sought the large knife suspended from his belt. The driver, in turn, grabbed for Wendell’s arms catching both. Wendell, trying to jerk his own arms free, was surprised at just how strong the other was.

  They grappled for some time before Wendell stepped backward to find empty air under his foot. He fell, clutching the other and taking him with him.

  The fall took an awfully long time.

  *

  Wendell woke flat on his back on stony ground. His chest felt as if somebody had lit a fire in it; his right arm burned as if it had been used for kindling. At least he wasn’t on the Undertaker’s table. So he had survived the fall.

  It was cold here, wherever “here” was – not freezing, but decidedly uncomfortable.

  Wendell opened his eyes. The first impression was one of gray: fog and mist in a dim twilight. Occasionally, shadows moved in the mist. He looked himself over. No fire, just a remarkable burning pain with every breath and every movement. Oh. Broken ribs. Then the burning in his arm would be…. He tried to move it. Yes. Broken arm.

  “Awake at last?” The voice came from behind him.

  Trying not to move his body and arm, Wendell twisted his head to see who had spoken. It was his target, the person he had been assigned to capture. The target, who had Wendell’s knife and sidearm, was wearing his greatcoat and sitting cross-legged, watching him.

  “I know you,” the target said, “the author of that book everyone was having vapors over. ‘The Common Law’ wasn’t it?”

  “That was a long time ago,” Wendell said.

  “Oliver Wendell Holmes, Jr.,” the target said. “Upstart young justice on the Massachusetts Supreme Court.”

  “You’re out of date.” Suppressing a groan, Wendell used his good arm to push his torso upright. Now he was panting in pain, sitting on the rocky ground. “I was an Associate Justice on the U.S. Supreme Court before I died.”

  “Supreme Court Justice? That quick? Or, no, not so quick. Time does run funny here.”

  “Oh?”

  “I’ve only been here maybe … a year or so, I think. You?”

  “Longer than that. A lot longer.”

  The target waved a hand. “Doesn’t matter. So they made you a Supreme Court Justice? Then the country really was going to hell. Appointing someone who thought that the whim of the moment superseded the written law of the land – including the Constitution – to the highest court in the land? Disaster waiting to happen.”

  “That’s not what I wrote,” Wendell said.

  “No, but it’s where what you wrote leads, inevitably. And now the high and mighty Yankee Supreme Court Justice is reduced to kidnapping – or worse.” The target, drew Wendell’s sidearm, a revolver, similar to the ones Wendell had used during the war, and sighted along the barrel. “Was it kidnapping? Or murder?”

  “Some people wanted to know what you know about current operations in the Hall of Injustice. Nothing personal. And you have the advantage of me, sir. You know me but I am afraid I do not know you. Who were you? Who are you?”

  “Nobody important. Not then, not now. William Simpson, William Dunlap Simpson. Lieutenant Colonel William Dunlap Simpson, Fourteenth South Carolina Volunteers.”

  “Um.”

  “Do you want to know why I haven’t sent you to the Undertaker, Holmes?” Simpson rose to his feet. “Do you really want to know?”

  “Whether I do or not, it’s quite clear you want to tell me.” Holmes clenched his teeth to prevent their chattering. The cold was starting to get to him.

  “You’re right I do.” Simpson waved an arm expansively. “Look around you, Holmes. Take a good look.”

  They were on a small hillock; the mists blocked vision more than fifty yards or so in any direction. One shadow was becoming larger and more distinct, approaching them.

  “You’re not going very far with that arm and those ribs,” Simpson said before Wendell could mention the approaching shadow. “It’s cold enough for exposure to kill you, but not cold enough for it to do so quickly. You are going to spend a long time dying, Justice Holmes, and I want you to think about me the entire time.”

  The shadow resolved into an emaciated man dressed in heavy furs. “Give me food,” the man said. “Please. I beg of you.”

  Simpson started and turned to face the man. “Get away, you.” He shoved the man away.

  The man stumbled and fell, rolling down the hill. Out of sight in the mists they heard the sound of thrashing and screams, then silence.

  “What did you do that for?” Holmes said. “All he wanted was food.”

  “Well, we don’t have any,” Simpson said, then stopped. “Wait a minute. You understood him?”

  “Of course. Didn’t you?”

  “Pure gibberish. Sounded vaguely … German maybe?”

  “I heard English,” Holmes said, “the English of the Boston of my youth.”
/>   Simpson shook his head and sat back down. “Somebody’s playing games with us. Looks like I need to keep you alive for a while.”

  *

  Wendell had his greatcoat back. Although he still felt the cold, his teeth had stopped chattering.

  “We haven’t got anything to splint that arm,” Simpson said. “You’ll just have to tuck your hand in the belt and try to keep it still.”

  “I’ll manage,” Wendell said.

  “You’d better. Having someone who understands the local gibberish while I try to find my way out of here is a convenience, not a necessity. Don’t become ‘inconvenient.’”

  Wendell nodded and did as Simpson had suggested. With his arm thrust as far as he could through the waistband and the belt cinched tight around it, his arm stayed fairly still. The pain was a railroad spike driven through his arm with each step. “Which way do we go, Simpson?”

  “Down the way that fellow fell,” Simpson said. “Now that I know you can talk to him, he may have some answers for us – if he’s still alive.”

  Wendell did not say that being able to understand the people here did not mean he could talk to them. Better not to say anything that might make Simpson decide he was “inconvenient.”

  A few yards down the hill, Wendell froze. A large snake lay curled on the ground a few more yards further along, barely visible in the fog. “Careful,” he said.

  “I see it,” Simpson said. “This way.” Simpson veered to the left, but they proceeded scarcely five more yards before another snake came into view. Simpson veered again but this time two snakes lay in their path.

  Simpson stopped. “Where did all these snakes come from?”

  “We’re in one of the lower hells,” Wendell said, “one that features a lot of snakes, I would say.” He looked around, then back up the hill. “They seem to avoid the hilltops.”

  “It’s a bit warmer down here,” Simpson said. “Snakes don’t like the cold. I expect we’ll find more as we go down the hill.”

  “Then how are we going to get anywhere?”

  Simpson cast Wendell a look of mixed pity and disgust. “City boy, aren’t you? Snakes are cold blooded. When it gets cold they go torpid.” Simpson knelt to examine one of the snakes in front of him. “As long as you watch where you put your feet and don’t step on them, they won’t bother you.” He stood up. “Let’s go.”

  Wendell hesitated.

  Simpson looked back. “Or not. It’s up to you.”

  Despite the chill, Wendell licked sweat from his upper lip and followed Simpson down the hill.

  *

  “We’re going in circles,” Wendell said. The snakes had become a virtual carpet over the muddy ground as they got to the lower reaches of the valley, requiring care to avoid stepping on any. True to Simpson’s word, however, the snakes had remained still.

  “Nonsense. We may be wandering around a bit but….”

  “That’s the third time we’ve passed that hill.”

  Simpson sighed. “I didn’t want to admit it, but I think you’re right. It’s this fog. It’s hard to keep a straight line if you can’t see where you’ve been or where you’re going.” He stooped to look more closely at one of the snakes. “Now that’s something. Come take a look.”

  “I’d rather not,” Wendell said.

  Simpson looked back over his shoulder. “Developing a case of Yankee Chills on me? Come take a look. I promise you won’t get bit.”

  Wendell crept forward and knelt next to Simpson.

  “Look at that,” Simpson said, pointing at one of the snakes.

  Wendell did not recognize the species of snake. It lay with its head tilted to one side, its mouth open, its fangs extended. As Wendell watched, a teardrop slowly grew at the end of one of the fangs, then fell to the muddy ground.

  “Do you think this mud is all from…?” Simpson reached down and touched the mud with one finger.

  “Jehoshaphat!” he shouted, springing to his feet, shaking his hand. He caught himself before taking a step back.

  Wendell stood and watched warily as, with teeth clenched, Simpson swore while continuing to shake his hand. Eventually Simpson stopped and raised his hand to examine the finger. From where he stood, Wendell could see an angry red blister growing at its tip.

  “Snake venom,” Simpson said. “All this mud is from snake venom, and worse than any I’ve ever heard tell of.” He raised the finger toward his mouth, then apparently thought better of it.

  “Hadn’t you better, I don’t know, suck out the poison or something?”

  “I wasn’t bit, Holmes. This –” he held out the blistered finger, “– was simply the venom in the mud. Imagine what it would do to the inside of your mouth. Still, I suppose I should do something.” Simpson drew Holmes’ knife and, with a quick stroke, sliced open the tip of his finger. He let the finger drop to his side, where it dripped blood in a steady stream to the mud at their feet. “We have to get out of here.” He shook his head. “But finding our way….”

  Wendell grinned. “You may know snakes, Colonel, but do you know your Euclid?”

  *

  “This had better work, Holmes,” Simpson said.

  “No reason why it shouldn’t,” Wendell said. “It should at least keep us going in a straight line. Whether that straight line leads anywhere or not is another matter.”

  They had climbed to a nearby hilltop and gathered as many rocks as they could carry. At Wendell’s direction, Simpson had built a small pile of rocks. They had then proceeded down the hill about half the distance. There, where the pile was still visible, they built a second pile of rocks. From that point they continued downhill, glancing back frequently to ensure that they stayed in line with the two rock piles. When the first pile was just barely visible, they made a new rock pile, in line with the first two. Whenever they ran out of rocks, they’d make the long, weary trudge back to the last hillock they had passed to gather more.

  The stream caught them by surprise: a small, fast-flowing stream, clear and inviting.

  “I can’t remember the last time I was so thirsty,” Simpson said, “but somehow I’m not inclined to take a drink.”

  Wendell looked around at the snakes, dozens in view. They had passed thousands in their trek, all dripping venom onto the ground. “Can’t say as I am, either.”

  “Back in the army, the sergeants always said to dig the latrines downstream of the camp.”

  Wendell nodded. “It made the coffee taste better.”

  Simpson laughed, “Yours too, eh?”

  “What did you expect?” Wendell sighed. “It was the same army before … well, before things went terribly wrong.”

  “‘Before things went terribly wrong,’ indeed.” Simpson shook his head sadly. “That’s one way to put it. A country torn apart by war and more than half a million dead.”

  “Follow the stream?” Wendell waved in the direction of the stream’s flow.

  Simpson nodded. “Follow the stream.”

  After several minutes of walking along the stream, Simpson said, “I suppose there’s the quick way out of here.”

  Wendell stopped. “Quick way?”

  Simpson turned to face him. “The Undertaker.”

  “Have you actually been to the Undertaker?”

  “Well, no, but….”

  Wendell shook his head. “I have. Several times. It’s not pleasant.”

  “Worse than this?” Simpson’s gesture took in their surroundings, the snakes, and the probably poisonous stream.

  Wendell nodded. “Worse than this. Besides….” He stopped.

  “Besides?”

  “Every time I’m restored, I end up waist deep in that same damn lake of boiling blood. Every time.”

  “Good Lord!”

  “I guess it’s some kind of personal punishment,” Wendell said. “I have no idea what I did to deserve it, though.”

  “What do you do when you end up there?”

  Wendell sighed and shook his head. “Mostly
I scream a lot. Eventually, I’m able to drag myself out and make my way back to New Hell. Last time, though, well, looks like I was taken in by the wrong crowd.” And the plot he had been pulled into had put him here, where one incautious step could send him right back to the Undertaker and the lake of boiling blood. Yet. again.

  The dim, unchanging light made time hard to judge, but Wendell guessed another hour had passed before Simpson hauled up short. “What’s our supply of rocks like?”

  “My pockets are full,” Wendell said. “Why?”

  “I think I see some color over there.” Simpson pointed in the direction of a looming shadow in the distance, a shadow that seemed to go up forever.

  Wendell squinted but all he could see was gray, darker where the shadow was, and lighter elsewhere. “Your eyes must be better than mine.”

  Some time later, Wendell carefully stepped over yet another snake. “Are the snakes getting thicker here?”

  Simpson didn’t answer.

  “Colonel?” Wendell looked up and froze.

  While Wendell had been watching the ground for the increasingly numerous snakes, the shadow ahead of them had resolved into the largest tree Wendell had ever seen, its trunk so wide that its expanse was lost in the fog. Its height? Well, there was no imagining where the tree’s canopy might end, somewhere above them.

  It was not, however, only the tree that drew Wendell’s attention. There was a snake gnawing on the tree’s root. And what a snake. The head alone was the size of a two-story house. The body? The body of the snake was lost in the distance. How far it extended Wendell did not know. The snake was the source of the color that Simpson had said he saw. Its head was black with a bright yellow band around the neck. The body alternated in bands of black, then yellow, then red with irregular black spots, then yellow, then black once more.

  Simpson stood frozen, staring at the snake. “Red touches black, he’s a friend of Jack.” Simpson whispered, “Red touches yellow, he’s a deadly fellow.”

  “Colonel?” Wendell said again, touching Simpson’s arm.

  “We need to go back to the stream now,” Simpson said, “very, very slowly.”