And our dissidents hate to part with their hard-won campaign money.
Fortunately, I didn’t have to stress myself too much in this regard. Due to the nature of my duties, I must be able to move about swiftly. To facilitate this, the Boss had given me an ethereal anchor to prevent any unforeseen mishaps: the Bãlefire. An abstruse power source of untold potential, it ran through my veins like precious lifeblood, enhancing my abilities and negating obstacles at the drop of a hat.
Of course, the Undertaker’s tantrum meant I hadn’t had time to recharge my eternally damned soul since returning from the land of the living. Nonetheless, I’d still felt grounded enough to make the trip.
Having arrived, incident free, in New Hell via the Azazel gateway only seconds ago, I decided to use the short walk to the Mortuary to clear my head and remind myself why I disliked the Undertaker so much.
When a condemned soul first awakens here, they are tormented by a measured dose of Satan’s Grace, an inscrutable concentrate of pure, unadulterated, diabolical tincture. This cryptic essence first discerns what an individual holds most dear, then warps it, so it becomes their greatest bane.
A poet, for example, might be unable to remember a single verse, or be forced to recite perfect prose in languages undecipherable to all who listen. An athlete could awaken with joints that shatter at the slightest exertion. A talented singer may find themselves mute, with no vocal cords whatsoever. Or, in a particularly inventive move, realize their voice has been enhanced to a superlative degree, but the actual words of their chosen songs burn like acid in their throats. Lovers would be cursed with detailed memories of their former devotion, only to realize they could no longer stand the sight of each other.
And fair enough in my book. It’s what hell is about, after all. If they’d sinned enough in life, they’d pay for it here, eternally, and with no chance of reprieve.
Wiser hearts accepted this, and knuckled down to make the best of their situation. Others rebelled, fought tooth and nail to do whatever they could to deny the reality of their predicament.
They couldn’t win, of course, but part of me admired their balls. Such souls faced un-life bravely, come what may.
The same went for those who died, again, after they had arrived. Termed “reassignment,” reanimated existence was a very fragile thing, a minefield-riddled assault course, compounded by the stark fact that murder — both official and unofficial — was the most widely promoted hobby here. Practiced with zealous aplomb by most of the populace, it turned everyday life into a marathon filled with constant hazards and impending death.
An uphill treadmill leading nowhere.
But, to their credit, the majority of my fellow subjects adapted to this drastic change in circumstance and simply got on with it.
Take, for instance, my own situation. I had a job to do that brought me up-close and personal with the most offensive dregs of Hellistic society. Radicals, scumbags, traitors, despots. They were my daily fare. Week after week, year after year, day in, day out. I also must adapt to face the unending challenge and get the job done.
And then there was the Undertaker.
As you can imagine, a place like this has no shortage of candidates especially deserving of further torment. But the Undertaker wasn’t satisfied to leave things to fate. Oh no. He preferred to hide away in his stinking laboratory like an obscene cockroach waiting to feed on the unwary, and his choicest tidbits were those who couldn’t bite back. The weak. The needy. The maladjusted and confused.
Hell’s biggest coward seemed to relish the fact he could do whatever he wanted, to virtually whomever he wanted, without fear or consequence. His unconscious victims would materialize on his slab, helpless and alone, and be subjected to a whole catalog of invasive alterations. And the intrusions this twisted, depraved little insect inflicted on others were as obscene as they were plentiful.
He made things much too personal in my opinion. So much so that I was increasingly suspicious he got some kind of sexual gratification from his egotistical little power trips.
Power trips? Bah! He’s just a closet rapist, is all, hiding his own inadequacies behind the façade of his rank and privileges.
So lost was I in my personal stew of bitter resentment that I hadn’t realized how far nor how quickly I’d traveled. Checking my step, I found myself staring across the street toward the imposing columns of the entrance portico to the Mortuary. Constructed of Black Widow marble, it created an ominous area of deep shadow that frowned upon passersby and leached into the fabric of the sidewalk.
The legend inscribed across the pediment, Abandon Hope, All Ye Who Enter Here, bade a chilling welcome to the throngs doing their best to give the steps as wide a berth as possible. Difficult to do, seeing as the edifice filled an entire city block.
Without waiting for a gap in the traffic, I made eye contact with the driver of an advancing taxi, flicked back the vent of my coat, and stepped out. It took a moment for the poor soul to register my presence and that I was now right in front of him. His bulldog features clouded in anger. That classic look was replaced by one of shock, a split second later, as he recognized the scythe, my clothes, and what it meant to cross me.
A squeal of brakes split the constant drone of engines and horns. He shuddered to a halt only inches from my legs and breathed a huge sigh of relief. Then his cab bounced as he was struck from behind by a truck. The continuous stream of vehicles in both directions paused to enjoy the entertainment, while I seized the opportunity to saunter casually across to the other side whilst tactfully ignoring the sudden torrent of obscenities unleashed behind me.
As I closed on the Mortuary, my heightened awareness tingled. The nearer I got, the more I recognized the muted presence of devilish power. Aroused, I opened my senses fully to capture the full flavor of its essence and began to salivate.
Dark and foreboding, ancient crystallized walls radiated an air of misery, an effect exacerbated by the red-veined exterior, which made it appear as if lifeblood ran through its very structure. Ascending the steps, I detected an unsavory exudation, as of meat left to rot and fester in the sun. Repelled, I wrinkled my nose. The odor increased as I pushed through the smoked-glass revolving doors.
Within, a maze of interconnected passages and walkways awaited me. Stretching off into the gloom, none of them gave any indication of the nature of the work taking place in the bowels below, for they gleamed with a pristine radiance that revealed someone here had developed a somewhat obsessive attitude toward cleanliness.
And since his run-in with Astarte, Queen of the Dead, I can guess who.
The place looked deserted. I was just about to call out when a sad-looking fellow with sorry eyes peeled himself away from the shadows. Skeletal beyond belief, his skin had a bleached, gray-white pallor to it that reminded me of molten wax.
“Follow me,” he announced solemnly, “my master awaits you in the main studio.”
Master? Studio? I sighed. Only a total ass-wipe would have such illusions of grandeur, imagining the butchery he practices is an art form. Wait until I tell the guys.
Without waiting for a reply, Mr. Happy spun on his heels and shuffled quietly off along the main arterial corridor. I followed at a discreet distance, only to be led past a series of vacant bench-seats and individual waiting rooms, mysterious, hushed offices, and empty elevators.
We eventually arrived at the end of the hallway and descended a ponderously wide, wrought-iron spiral staircase. As if it were determined to refute the standards displayed by the rest of the building, it creaked ominously under our weight. I could actually see the dust falling away from the wall as the restraining bolts groaned in protestation.
Round and round we went, descending gradually. With each passing level, the general hubbub increased. Thirteen floors later, we arrived at the bottom in what I could only describe as a hive of activity, and a jaw-dropping tribute to the immaculate conception of bacterial-free efficiency.
There were minions everyw
here. Buzzing from one side of the subterranean corridor to the other, they pushed, pulled, carried and dragged all manner of orthopedic, vascular and pathological appendages from this lab to that.
I couldn’t resist glancing into each of the cold rooms as we passed.
The Mortuary was renowned as a palace of death and resurrection. A hovel, where intestines should lie intertwined with sinews and arteries but often didn’t. Skin and bone with eyeballs and teeth. The mere mention of this place conjured visions of filthy, blood- and feces-stained walls, where the liquefied remains of those incurring His Auspicious Majesty’s displeasure dripped through grilles in the floor.
I didn’t see any evidence of that. Instead, I witnessed endless racks of numbered boxes and musty sacks neatly filling shelves or hanging from meat-hooks like prize joints in a butcher’s emporium. Floor to ceiling high, each refrigerator overflowed with the well-kept remains of those awaiting mutilation and reactivation.
In smaller storehouses, ranked tiers of sarcophagi and pallets lay open for inspection, their occupants afforded a degree of dignity sorely absent elsewhere.
Obviously Blue Suits or other privileged dignitaries of the Satanic Intelligence Agencies.
I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. Even in those theatres where autopsies were currently underway, the substantial assortment of drills, cutters, handsaws and chisels adorning each of the pegs on the walls showed clear signs of lavish care and maintenance.
And this place is much larger than you’d ever imagine from the surface.
Lingering at the entrance to one of the side cells, I noted with interest how the technicians within the receiving area managed the ongoing situation.
Fluorescent lighting, harsh against the white-tiled backdrop, illuminated the sterility of their working environment. The smell of bleach and antiseptic spray stung my nostrils. Four orderlies held a limp, comatose female subject in position, whilst a further pair strapped her into restraints. After a final check of an accompanying chart, an assortment of scalpels and meat cleavers were laid out in order upon a starched, green surgical cloth. With a flourish, the assistants set to, and in no time every stainless steel bowl adorning the surrounding trolleys was overflowing with ruby-red entrails and bone-white appendages.
A further flurry of activity followed. I watched, enthralled, while a mishmash of body parts and organs was expertly sewn into a conflicting patchwork of utter mayhem.
In response to an unspoken signal, the close-knit team loosened the fetters holding their patient in place and jumped back. A sizzling discharge energized the air with abstruse potential. The corpse twitched, shuddered, then lay still once more.
Satisfied, the minions filed into an adjoining cubicle to start the procedure anew on a fresh victim, while waiting ghouls scurried in to devour the leftovers.
Having noticed my curiosity, the guide explained: “Although many of us assist with preparations, final inspections are always carried out by the Undertaker himself or his principal deputy, Gorgonous. Only then will they be fully reanimated.”
I suppressed a shiver.
The mere thought of the control exercised by hell’s slimiest turd made me realize how fortunate I was, for I had never graced the Undertaker’s lair.
Who I was or what I did before I arrived here, I’d never known. I had a void in my mind that effectively swallowed all knowledge of my previous existence. My first ever recollections of the netherworld were of waking up in a comfy chair before a roaring fire, in the presence of the Dark Majesty himself. For reasons I still can’t understand, he welcomed me into the fold like a prodigal son.
Empowered personally by Satan, I was infused with the diabolical puissance to carry out my special duties and ushered into a whole new, privileged way of life. I’d taken to my role like a duck to water and never looked back. As far as I was concerned, my previous existence didn’t come into it. It wasn’t important then, nor would it ever be.
I cast a final glance toward the body on the block.
There, but for the grace of Lucifer, go I. These poor bastards don’t stand a chance . . .
The guide took my silence as an indication that I’d seen enough. Without a further word, he turned and we continued on our way.
We eventually arrived at the end of the corridor and paused before a set of double-swing gates. This chamber appeared larger and more ornate than those we’d passed so far. The threshold itself and decorative kick-strips along the bottom of each flap were of highly polished brass. Despite its spotless appearance, however, this room stank to high heaven.
Unholy shit! It smells as if the odor permeating this place emanates from in here. Is he distilling skunk-piss hooch on the side?
A sign above the lintel declared: Private — Slab #A1.
I had to smile.
Private? Who’d voluntarily want their nasal cavities and eyeballs melted?
We were expected. Before Mr. Happy could announce us, an ingratiating voice pronounced, “You may enter.”
Biting back an instant retort, I pushed past my escort, kicked the gates wide and stepped in. I had to admit, what I saw astonished me. Whereas the other rooms were overflowing with equipment and all sorts of other ancillary paraphernalia, this one was surprisingly Spartan.
A massive chunk of gold and cream marble dominated the center of the workspace. Shaped exactly like an embalming table, its bulk dwarfed the solitary cabinet and double-wheeled trolley positioned to one side. A large butler’s sink graced the opposite wall, and I noticed with interest that the entire floor was one huge grate.
The Undertaker himself languished on the far side of the slab. His slicked-back hair and So’vile Row suit looked oddly out of place with his surroundings, and he appeared totally at ease within the confines of his own little kingdom.
Time to rectify that!
“Well, here I am,” I snapped. As I strode purposely forward, I cracked the knuckles of each hand. “Now, why don’t you start explaining why you dragged me half way around the underworld before I start rearranging your face?”
He glided toward me like a stunt double of Bela Lugosi from the 1931 black and white classic, “Dracula.” As he drew near, the fetid stench saturating the air intensified.
Prince of Darkness! I’d forgotten just how bad his breath is.
“My dear boy,” he tittered, “a picture paints a thousand words. Or in your case, a personal message does. While Cream himself appears to have eluded my abode, something else took his place.” Gesturing toward the slab, he explained: “This is why I felt it prudent to demand your personal appearance.”
I glanced toward the surface of the table, and for the first time noticed a piece of card positioned across the plug. A calcified lump of what looked like pumice had been placed on top of it, to hold it there. Pale red letters peeked out from under the stone. Snatching it up, I confirmed my suspicions.
Another note written in blood. And by the same hand, too.
The words inscribed upon it said:
Listening,
You resolutely ignore the injustice of your actions.
A mockery,
You judge others by your master’s opinion.
Guilty,
All stand condemned, and mock your integrity.
Now freed by a trifling passion,
I long to possess what you have.
Please, accept this small token,
For Arthur’s folly leads the way,
On blood-stained, piss-soaked sheets.
An inferno of wasted passions
Dedicated to your most lavish attentions, awaits.
Sure enough, the text degraded the longer the passage went on, as if the author had once again rushed to complete his message before being discovered.
The Undertaker stepped closer. Nodding toward the note, he said, “Our mutual loathing aside, I think it may be in our best interests to investigate this matter together.”
“Why do you say that?”
“To put the mat
ter succinctly, I’d like to know how Cream managed to avoid my net. And all outward vocalizations aside, I have no doubt our master’s confidence in you is well founded. Your loyalty to him is, after all, without question, and your competence, renown. Up until now, you have never failed him —”
“And I never will!” I waved the parchment in his face. “This is far from over. If you knew the specifics of Cream’s misdeeds, you would realize he is far more resourceful than he appears. Why do you think I was dispatched topside to retrieve him in the first place?”
That got him. The Undertaker fell silent, and had the decency to look deeply troubled.
I added, “That’s why I’m going to let him play this little game through. He’s obviously got contacts: well connected contacts who, for whatever reason, were not only able to assist him in planning his crimes but also had the wherewithal to add a little insurance policy to cover his ass if things went wrong. It took me two days to catch up with him the first time, so I want to know who they are, too. And by the way, you should know, I didn’t just consign his soul back to hell, I bound him here.”
“You bound his essence?” The Undertaker looked shocked. “But that should have meant . . .”
“Yes, I know. No one should have been able to interfere with my machinations. No one! The fact that someone did has made this personal. Big mistake.” I tapped the top of Slab A with my finger. “One way or another, I promise you now, Cream will wind up here. The Reaper guarantees it.”
“So, what are you going to do?”
“Besides recommending you use a stronger breath freshener . . . ?”
I scanned the poem again. Although it conveyed a different tone to the one left at my apartment, both seemed imbued with a veiled challenge.
Cream obviously wants something from me to help achieve his goal. To discover what that is, exactly, it looks like I’ll need to be patient.
Aloud I suggested, “He’s taunting me, daring me to decipher the clues and follow him. Can’t you see? These rhymes are nothing but the bait I need to catch him.”
Hell Bound (Heroes in Hell) Page 3
