Hell Bound (Heroes in Hell)

by Andrew P. Weston

  Flashing my ID, I graced her with what I hoped was my best smile. Nora glanced at the badge and frowned, remaining unimpressed.

  “My apologies for the disturbance. I’m here on official business, sanctioned by His Infernal Majesty. May I see the register? I’m particularly interested in guests who have stayed here over the past few weeks.”

  She clicked her fingers twice and gestured impatiently toward the debris littering the main foyer. For a moment, I thought she was telling me to clean up the mess I’d just made. I was about to remonstrate when a bellboy standing behind the counter snapped to attention, grabbed a dustpan and brush from beneath a table, and rushed to comply. As I watched him go, Nora slammed the ledger down on the desktop in front of me. Startled, I jumped back, and only then did I see the faintest of smiles flicker across her rodentlike face.

  Ignoring her challenge to engage in a pissing contest, I cleared my mind and scanned through the list.

  It didn’t surprise me when the name Thomas Neill Cream failed to appear. So I started again, this time looking for clues. I was glad I did. Ten minutes later, my gaze came to rest on an entry from the previous week, only a few days after I’d supposedly bound the infamous doctor back to hell. It read:

  Mr. Jack Lambeth. Purveyor of TLC

  (Tonics—Lotions—Concoctions)

  Floor 13. Room 13.

  “So, the Poisoner couldn’t resist yet another passing reference to his idol, the Ripper,” I mumbled, piquing Nora’s interest at last.

  “Are you saying we had a Very Important Denizen staying with us who had to make do with a substandard room?” she gasped. “Why in Purgatory didn’t he ask for a suite?”

  She looked genuinely distressed.

  “He’s no VID,” I snapped, and projected an image of him in the ether between us. “Mister Lambeth is a fugitive from injustice. I need access to that room. Now.”

  “But Mister Lambeth checked out this morning. The room is currently occupied.”

  Only this morning? “And?”

  For emphasis, I peeked over the top of my sunglasses.

  She started, fumbled with the contents of a top drawer, and produced a master keycard. Anticipating the next hurdle, I said, “There’s no need for security to come with me. I’ll return this once I’m done.”

  Without giving her a chance to argue, I snatched the card and strode away.

  I needed time to think, so I took the back stairs.

  What the hell is Cream’s game? It looks like he’s definitely watching me, baiting me so I stay hot on the trail. But even without a boost I’m more than a match for him. I must be missing something. I know, I’ll have my contacts at the Fiendish Bureau of Investigation check into Cream’s background, aliases, and recent movements prior to the topside incident. Perhaps they’ll have something that will give me an edge.

  Taking out my Spirit Hextel Blacktooth I placed the call, and spent the next few minutes giving my associates, Bella and Donna Nightshade, a rundown of the things I needed. Identical twins, they were as thorough as they were deadly. What these girls didn’t know, they or their extensive network of informants would find out.

  Satisfied, I exited the stairwell on the thirteenth floor and scooted along to the desired room. The place appeared deserted, just the way I liked it. Putting my ear to the door, I extended my senses and was rewarded by the sounds of someone inside.

  It would seem they’re engaged in a spot of physical activity. I grinned. This’ll spoil their day.

  As quietly as I could, I swiped the keycard through the lock, turned the handle, and crept inside. I wish I hadn’t.

  An obese walrus of a man filled the only couch in the room. Naked from the waist down, he’d positioned himself on the edge of the seat and hitched his knees back toward his shoulders. Some kind of wire trailed out of his ass and along to a control unit by his side. A regular, muffled buzzing noise intruded above the sound of his grunting. Bathed in sweat, his hands clenched and relaxed in time to a rhythmic humming.

  He caught sight of me and jumped up in surprise. Vainly trying to cover his modesty, he gasped, “Would you mind knocking before you enter my room?”

  Too late! The image of a landed whale was now indelibly etched on my fragile mind.

  “Disturb you at a crucial moment, did I?”

  “What? Who . . . ?” His gaze skipped from me to the sofa and then back again. His eyes widened as he registered my identity for the first time. “The Reaper! No, no, no. I haven’t done anything wrong. I’m just charging my mobile phone.”

  I strode farther into the room and peered down at the couch. What I’d assumed to be a control pad was in fact a Hate & T Mobility deck. Cheap and nasty, they were one of Satan’s fun little ways of constantly reminding you the afterlife was out to fuck you, as they could only be charged by way of an obscenely large butt-plug. So large, in fact, that regular users talked with a limp.

  Now disconnected, I noticed the battery indicator on his screen flashing.

  “Aren’t you going to reconnect to the charger?”

  “Er, no . . . Not while you’re here, if you don’t mind,” he stammered fretfully.

  “Don’t worry, I’m not here to collect from you,” I reassured him. “I’m merely trying to discover more about the previous occupant.”

  “Previous occupant? I . . . I wouldn’t know. The room had been tidied before I got it.”

  “I see. And did you notice anything unusual? Had anything been left here that appeared out of place?”

  “Not that I know of.”

  I wracked my brains, drew out the note from the Mortuary, and read it once more. When I reached the end, my eyes lit up. I scrutinized those last few lines again:

  For Arthur’s folly leads the way,

  On blood-stained, piss-soaked sheets,

  An inferno of wasted passions

  Dedicated to your most lavish attentions.

  “An inferno of wasted passions . . .”

  “I’m sorry?” my blubbery friend mumbled, obviously thinking I was talking to him.

  “It’s nothing. Where’s this room’s Dante?”

  “I . . . I don’t know. I never read them.”

  My attention fell upon the beside cabinet. Scooting over to it, I edged the top drawer open and found what I was looking for. A copy of Dante’s Inferno. Its gilt lettering and red-stained jacket were badly worn, but a fresh piece of paper protruded from beneath its back cover. Picking it out, I unfolded the parchment and discovered my hunch had been right.

  The message said:

  Words cast in acoustic streams

  Flow in darkest alternating currents,

  Chilling and fluidic.

  A night to remember,

  Where the ink-blood rivulets of humanity’s pulse

  Sink beneath the waves in Olympian failure.

  A white star of fallen potential,

  Staining your record red

  Born amongst bitter accusations.

  I read the passage again and only then noticed the text was still wet. I’d smudged some of the final words where my thumb held the parchment.

  It’s still fresh? I must be closing the gap . . . or he wants me to think so. This clue is way too easy. Acoustic currents. A night to remember. An obvious reference to the Olympic class White Star liner that went down with massive loss of life. We gained a lot of souls from that tragedy; and here I am, just a short cab journey away from the very place it sinks every night. Very clever. Or very stupid.

  I’d only ever been out to New Hell Harbor once, but I remembered a few bars down that way where I’d collected several juicy debts in the past.

  I glanced at my watch and then at my fat, sweaty acquaintance.

  Hmm. Not too early for a lunchtime tipple. And who knows? If I drink enough, it might help me forget.

  *

  Safe at last, Cream sat back, removed a silk handkerchief from his top pocket, and wiped the perspiration from his brow.

  That was most .
. . exhilarating, though somewhat perilous.

  He hefted the walking stick in his other hand, and ran trembling fingers across the oval-cut gem crowning its hilt. Although it looked like an aquamarine, it was much, much more.

  But at least I now have confidence in our latest acquisition.

  Tightening his grip on the pommel, he pulled lightly, and the end of the cane came away with a gentle click, revealing the gleaming silver edge of a concealed blade within.

  “So it worked then?” a voice behind him queried.

  Cream turned to find his partner-in-crime had just entered the room.

  “It most certainly did.” Cream replaced the handle and continued, “This jewel fragment worked admirably. As you surmised, the cutting contains sufficient dominion to accelerate just one person. But at what speed! It was a remarkable experience, one quite breathtaking.”

  “Does this mean you’re now confident enough for the next stage of our little caper?”

  Am I . . . ?

  Cream gazed from the upper-story window of their shared apartment. In the distance, the silhouette of the Awful Tower dominated the melodramatic backdrop of the ancient city brooding beneath it.

  Am I really prepared to take this venture to a whole new level?

  He took a deep breath, and imagined the glory he would bask in if it actually worked.

  “Yes,” he replied, “I do believe I am. Let’s go and see if we can improve our chances by tracking down our man. And while we’re about it, why don’t we procure ourselves some real killers?”

  Chapter 4: Breadcrumbs

  Despite my reputation, it proved impossible to find a taxi driver willing to take me all the way to New Hell Harbor. Because I hadn’t been that way in a long time, I’d forgotten how renowned it was as a hub for mercenary activity; activity which invariably attracted the more disgruntled and confrontational stereotype. Needless to say, a large concentration of “shoot first and shoot you again when you’re down” mentalities had turned a hornets’ nest into a boiling cauldron of ever-fomenting trouble.

  Most sensible people avoided the place like the plague. But I wasn’t most people.

  Delayed considerably, I’d been forced to walk until I happened across a convoy of Armored Combat Earthmovers heading in the right direction. The rear ACE commander took pity on the lone hitchhiker strolling headlong toward danger and pulled over to give me a lift. When they found out who I was, I got VID treatment all the way: I was invited to sit beside the commander on the bare frame of what had once been the main gunner’s seat. I felt like royalty.

  Thus, by the time the outskirts of the harbor district loomed large, I’d not only recovered some of the time I’d lost, but the frayed edges of my temper as well.

  Clouds as thick as forever blotted out the repulsive glow of Paradise along the far horizon as rain moved in from the west. Fortunately, I didn’t need the flickering light of salvation to know I was in the right place.

  A staggered series of heavily defended switchback checkpoints dotted the main roadway leading down to the bay itself. The farther we progressed, the more evidence of fighting I saw. Streets were lined with the ruined shells of commercial properties. Burnt out, bullet-riddled vehicles lay abandoned everywhere, forming impromptu barricades. And at every turn, a patchwork of dark stains marred pockmarked sidewalks, as if each blemish were desperate to tell its own story.

  And then, after we passed the most heavily-defended fortification, signs of conflict simply faded away.

  Places of work looked to be open and trading once more. Delivery trucks, bristling with armed escorts, trundled to and fro between warehouses and docks. Those streetlights still standing actually worked.

  Seeing my look of surprise, the ACE commander explained: “We had a spot of bother here a week or two back. A surprise attack by the Communist Coalition and their new allies. It caused a lot of damage but, as you can see, it’s all sorted now . . . this area is back under our protection.”

  “Really?” I mumbled. Unconvinced, I scanned the rooftops for hidden snipers and ninja assassins. “We can’t have a little rebellion ruining business now, can we?”

  “Actually, it was great for business,” he chortled. “We’ve never had so many new recruits clamoring for a bit of action. My unit alone, the Flying Fifth, has grown by over thirty bods. And very welcome they are too . . . Aha, here we are. Hang on a tic.”

  We veered away from the main convoy and into the entrance of a large parking lot. While most of the spots were filled by an assortment of military vehicles, spaces here and there contained evidence of everyday abnormality. A beat-up Chevy looked strangely at home wedged between two APC carriers. Across the way, a red Corvette gleamed brightly under a flashing neon sign, right next to the camouflaged outline of a hulking tank. And right in front of me, a VW camper van — abandoned diagonally across two slots — dared to interrupt a precision line-up of over a dozen neatly parked jeeps.

  Home sweet home . . . to someone.

  The commander tapped me on the shoulder and pointed to a squat slab of a building near the water’s edge. “Sam’s Oasis Bar. You might want to wait out the coming storm in there.”

  No sooner had I jumped down onto the tarmac than the ACE pulled away. “Good luck, Reaper,” the commander yelled above the roar of the engines. “Any time you want to turn apocalyptic, just give us a call.”

  I grinned. Then fat globules of rain started to spit from the sky.

  Out in the mouth of the harbor, I noted the HSMS (His Satanic Majesty’s Ship) Titanic had refused to let the worsening weather dampen its party atmosphere. That would come later, when she underwent her nightly dunking. For now, revelers had illuminated the balustrades and walkways in an assortment of gaily-colored lights, and despite the wind I could hear the sound of clinking glasses and lively music wafting across the open water.

  The spitting got heavier, sizzling as it turned more acidic.

  I think I’ll take the commander’s advice. I’ve got a little time to kill, so I might as well ask a few questions and stay dry until the main event. You never know.

  The building before me was a tribute to stark efficiency and lack of imagination. Sprawled across half a block from the harbor’s edge and out toward North Road, it was a featureless chunk of concrete, three stories high. The only windows I could see appeared to be horizontal firing loops on the seaward side. Apart from that, the exterior was featureless except for an encircling halo of razor wire three-quarters of the way up the wall and a series of machine gun nests on each corner of the roof. Movement around the parapet betrayed the presence of ever-vigilant sentries.

  Next moment, the clouds burst, and the acidic shower turned into a downpour.

  A heaving, mixed throng of mercenaries and civilians crowded around the entrance. They’d obviously had the same idea as I and were falling over themselves in an attempt to get in out of the torrent. Although the large oak doors had been thrown open, so many people were trying to get inside at the same time that it had become a logjam.

  Time to live up to my name.

  I took off my gloves and drew my sickle. Now heavy, rainfall masked my approach. That didn’t last long. Activating my weapon alerted those closest to me of imminent danger. People turned, gasped, and struggled to get out of my way. Most of the soldiers were quicker. Diving for cover, they parted like the Red Sea and left a wedge of unfortunates in front of me, too slow to avoid the touch of death.

  Damned souls dropped like flies. In moments I’d swept in through the entrance, leaving a line of freshly mown corpses in my wake.

  A door manager stalked toward me. Cursed with a body the size of a gorilla and the teeth of a rabid chipmunk, he caused me to experience a momentary déjà vu.

  Is New Hell hosting a missing link convention I don’t know about?

  The hatcheck girl minding the weapons cage called out, “Hey, mister. We don’t want any of . . . Oh, Mister Grim . . . ? I’m sorry; we weren’t expecting you.”


  King Kong raised two huge fists.

  I raised my exposed index finger in warning.

  “Shanidar, stop!” the woman screamed.

  The brute paused and turned toward the woman, looking for last-minute direction.

  Amazed, I watched as she communicated with him using sign language.

  He’s deaf? Then how . . . ? That was fortunate.

  “Shanidar,” she repeated, speaking aloud as she signed, “back down. That’s the Reaper, His Majesty’s bounty hunter. We must extend him every courtesy.”

  Behind me, a murmur of discontent broke out among those who had never seen me before. A few idiots even cocked their weapons. Planting my staff firmly on the floor, I stared at the fools until they fell silent, noting with satisfaction the fear now spreading like an infection through the growing press. When I turned back, however, I discovered Shanidar had maneuvered even closer, and interposed himself between me and the girl at the counter. By the look on his face, he was trying to intimidate me and make a point.

  Okay, so will I.

  In view of the fact he was obviously being protective, I decided on a lenient course of action. First, I collapsed my scythe and put it away, demonstrating clearly that I didn’t feel a need for it. Next, slowly replacing my gloves, I resolutely ignored Shanidar. Finally, I extended one hand toward him and in ancient Hellanese intoned, “Air bhurg dì-meas, abaid thu deônaich falaing. (For your disrespect, you will suffer confusion.)”

  “Watch out, a curse!” someone hissed.

  The sound of shuffling feet became louder as people backed away.

  To ensure Shanidar would receive the full effect of my hex, I delivered it both verbally and mentally. In only a few moments the big guy succumbed to its influence. He blinked, staggered, and with an air of bemusement clouding his features, turned to the cashier for support.

  He signed toward her. Apparently baffled by what he had just said, she shrugged her shoulders. He tried again and then gawped at his fingers with a mystified expression.

  “What’s happening?” the cashier complained. “What have you done to him? I can’t understand him anymore.”