Hell Bound (Heroes in Hell)

by Andrew P. Weston

  I strolled closer to the cage. The name badge balanced precariously on her well-formed chest identified her as Eileen.

  “Don’t be too upset, Eileen,” I said. “The jinx will only last a day or two. Think of it as an attack of digital dyslexia. Until then, Shanidar will have time to reflect on his attitude toward His Infernal Majesty’s officers. Speaking of whom . . .”

  Spinning to face the rest of the dripping throng now packed into the entrance hall, I projected an image of my target into the ether.

  “In my official capacity as the Reaper, I’d like to know if any of you have seen this man. He is an absconder who, despite his looks, presents a very real danger to public insecurity.”

  Thomas Cream’s profile rotated a slow three-sixty in the air before them. As I waited for a response, I seized the opportunity to scan the crowd’s emotions. While I wasn’t mind reading, the scan nonetheless afforded me an opportunity to zero-in on someone who might have useful information.

  Not a damned thing! What a waste of —

  “Would you like to speak to Sam, the owner?” Eileen asked, suddenly eager to please. “He’s downstairs and has a good working relationship with a number of His Majesty’s officials, including the Ombudsman. I’m sure he’d be keen to offer his assistance.”

  He knows Job? I glanced at my watch. About five minutes to go.

  “That would be most helpful. Thank you.”

  Eileen nodded toward Shanidar and picked up a phone. Now contrite, the big man beckoned me toward a set of stairs to one side of the weapons cage, and lifted a frayed burgundy rope from an adjoining brass hook.

  As I passed, I glanced at a couple of signs affixed to the grille and couldn’t help but laugh. In bold letters, the first proclaimed: One Weapon, One Magazine, No Shit.

  A bit late for that. I’ve already caused quite a stir.

  The second was smaller, but no less important in a place like this: Rooms to Rent. By the Minute, Hour, Day, Week, and Month.

  An entrepreneur too. No wonder the parking lot is full.

  I descended into the gloom and emerged into a perfect haunt for wannabe death-dealers. The room looked much like the inside of an open warehouse, all brickwork and metal walkways above, unadorned concrete below. Machine gun nests filled each of the four corner gantry junctions; on the main floor its booths and tables were packed with an assortment of marines, soldiers and sailors from assorted eras of history.

  The air was saturated with the vile stench of stale beer, vomit, Camel Dung cigarettes and, from what I could discern, other substances too. The only ventilation I could see, apart from the firing ports, was high on the roof, where a single skylight failed miserably to vent the voluminous clouds chuffing from it like a runaway steam train.

  A group of braver souls, oblivious to the choking brume, gyrated wildly to the racket scratching and screeching from a 1950s jukebox over in the far corner. By the way they moved, the dancers were either attempting to demonstrate techno-style hip-hop or being electrocuted. I couldn’t quite fathom which.

  A sensible-looking guy behind the bar, wearing a beige suit and pencil tie, replaced an old-style telephone in its cradle and made his way around the counter. “I’m Sam,” he shouted above the din.

  He paused at the last moment and looked at my hands.

  Nice one!

  I smiled and waggled my gloved fingers at him. “It’s completely safe,” I yelled back, “especially as I understand you have a good working relationship with our Dark Father’s servants.”

  “I try my best,” he replied. “We get a lot of people passing through, and the Hall of Injustice likes us to keep tabs on certain individuals for them.”

  “In that case, I’d like to ask a favor . . .”

  I concentrated and displayed a front, side, and full profile representation of Cream into the air. A burning sensation emanated from inside my breast pocket. I focused more intently, directing my will, and superimposed those images upon a physical manifestation of my choosing. The smell of singed fabric became apparent, Finished, I removed a completed wanted poster from within the folds of my coat.

  “Would you be so kind as to display this in a prominent position? Anyone providing information that directly leads to Cream’s apprehension will be amply rewarded . . . and earn the Reaper’s gratitude.”

  Sam took possession of the notice and gave it the once over. He seemed surprised.

  “This guy doesn’t look up to much,” he mused aloud. “Still, if Satan wants him, it’ll give this lot something useful to do.” He glanced toward his clientele, and his eyes popped wide: “And if I turn the whole thing into a contest between factions, this poor shmuck won’t stand a chance. I take it you won’t mind if they use him as a punch bag before you take him into custody?”

  “Not at all. The more suffering he endures, the better. The only stipulation I’ve ensured to add, as you can see in bold letters along the bottom of the notice, is that Cream is not to be interrogated under any circumstances. To do so would be unfortunate for those involved. And any friends or extended family they might have.”

  “I understand. I’ll make sure that’s passed o–”

  The deafening sound of a siren brought our first meeting to an abrupt end.

  All necks craned toward the skylight, and quite a few people headed for the exit.

  “Is that . . . ?”

  “The Titanic.” Sam nodded. “She’ll be going down, again, in about a minute’s time.”

  “I’ll be leaving you, then. Duty calls.” Nodding to the poster, I emphasized, “Just make sure you pin that in a prominent position.”

  “Will do. Ping Pao to go, on the house?”

  “Thank you, but no. My usual tipple’s Diabhalvulin 18. I like the way it burns on the way down.”

  Sam laughed. “It figures.” As an afterthought, he added, “Hey, if you’re meeting someone off the boat, try the south side of the parking lot. Look for a trailer with a motorboat on it. The stairs there lead down to a tiny cove. It’s away from the harbor, but it’s where most of the revelers like to come ashore. And watch your boots. You’re not wearing waders and the term “in the shit” doesn’t even begin to describe what the tide brings in.”

  Forewarned, I bade Sam a hasty farewell, joined the growing surge toward the door, and made my way back outside.

  Thank Beelzebub, the main body of the squall had passed by, and now only a light drizzle remained to coat the streets in a slick film of sweat. Most of the patrons were heading toward the docks, so I hung back. As the crowd thinned, I spotted the speedboat Sam had told me about and phased toward it. Sure enough, a weathered set of steps sat beside it, leading down onto a tiny reinforced breakwater. Behind it lay a small beach, swamped with the flotsam and jetsam of one of the most volatile districts of New Hell.

  The stench was appalling.

  I see what he means about protecting your footwear.

  The rotting detritus of hellkind had congealed into a definitive mass that puckered and pulsated with a life of its own. I peered closer and realized the entire shoreline was seething with crabs and giant centipedes.

  Pick the bones out of that! I think I’ll stick to dry land.

  After climbing down, I strode to the end of the jetty and looked back out to sea.

  Just in time.

  Another long blast from the Titanic announced the moment of truth had arrived. As the final warning groaned across the harbor, a seething mass of bubbles erupted near the bow. The ship began to dip, and a loud cheer rang out from the revelers on board. In response, the party music screeched to a halt, and the musicians struck up a slower melody. A rousing toast introduced the sonorous notes of our national anthem, Nearer To Satan Than Thee.

  With infinite grace, the stern lifted higher into the air, creating a glittering waterfall that caught the waning glow of Paradise and refracted it into a million prismatic needles. The myriad fairy lights adorning the railings winked out, only to be replaced by a kaleidoscopic fir
eworks display. Chrysanthemum bursts in a plethora of bright, scintillating colors threw back the gloom. Silhouetted against the night sky, the imposing bulk of the Titanic hung suspended in midair for a second. Then the effervescent froth at the bow increased, and she knifed into the icy depths.

  As she did so, the orchestra fell silent, all sounds of gaiety cut off. Moments later, the HSMS Titanic disappeared beneath the waves amid hissing clouds of steam.

  Awesome! No wonder everyone wants to watch.

  Now it was simply a question of waiting for the stragglers to come ashore. To pass the time, I retrieved my most recent clue, and read it again:

  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.

  “So, I’ve been waiting for the damned thing to sink, but who the hell am I supposed to look out for? There’s nothing concrete to tell me anything, except for the last stanza, which doesn’t really seem to fit.”

  Born amongst bitter accusations?

  “Is that a literal hint of some sort? Someone born again in hell? Newborn perhaps, who feels they shouldn’t be here . . . ? Like most of the other complainers. “Born free. Born to be wild?”

  A disturbance out at sea caught my eye.

  One moment the black, glasslike surface of the water was calm, the next it rippled. Bubbles fizzed and popped. A wave of poodle-perm wigs appeared, strung out across the bay like luminescent jellyfish. Strontium silver and yellow, pink, violet, plasma-purple and neon-blue. The gaudier, the better. Heavily powdered profiles were everywhere, adorning bearded faces decorated by running mascara and smudged lipstick. The entire host sported unsavory physiques, and every one of them was squeezed into ill-fitting Victorian bustles. There must have been close to a thousand drag-artists leading the charge.

  Ever the dutiful chaperons, each of the men escorted a lady on his arm. Pencil thin, the women seemed to have gone with a black-tie approach. Stenciled mustaches, greased back hair and monocles made it look as if they had taken a chance, and lost badly at a Monopoly Guy lookalike convention.

  The sea was awash with floating false eyelashes, fans, and cocktail sticks.

  Then a second wave appeared, closing rapidly on the first.

  More debauched than their fellows, this crowd was naked, and had obviously said “to hell with the risk,” and submitted to their lusts.

  A morbid assembly of erections and bouncing curves bobbed and waddled toward me, their owners doing their level best to avoid the swarm of scorpions and spiders now in hot pursuit. While some were successful, none could avoid those arachnids spawned within them.

  You live by the rules, you die by the rules. No sex for vermin . . . or else!

  To say the experience was surreal was an understatement. Some of the biggest pollutants in hell were inappropriately dressed, fat, sweaty bastards. And here I was, forced to watch hundreds of them waggling and flopping ashore.

  They were sickening. Some specimens were so overweight I could have slapped their flab and ridden the undulations on a surfboard. My hand twitched toward my scythe, and it was only with the greatest restraint that I was able to resist the urge to cleanse my beloved environment.

  And I’m supposed to get my next lead from one of these fuckers?

  The two groups met and went down in a tangle of blubbery flesh, coifs, cuffs, and evening wear. Presented with a possible new food source, the crabs and centipedes scouring the shoreline made haste to leap for dangling morsels of flesh and shiny tiaras. Fresh screams and curses punctuated the night, a welcome accompaniment to the catcalls emanating from the bar crowd, now watching from the docks.

  This is a complete waste of time.

  Just as I was about to give up and vent my fury, I saw him. Or should I say, I saw part of him.

  A single head appeared above the waterline. Held aloft by its blue-black hair, it calmly sipped on a cocktail through a brightly-colored straw. As his lips drained the contents, all manner of unsavory aquatic things began squeaking and leaping from the tumbler to the safety of open water.

  His torso emerged, and he handed off his drink to one of his attending retinue. With infinite care, he slowly maneuvered the two body parts back together . . . almost, for a gaping wound still separated one from the other. Careful hands smoothed every hair back into place, and then he tied a scarlet silk cravat around his neck to hide the deformity.

  Recognition hit me like a thunderbolt.

  That’s Bertran de Born, the guy accused of sedition by Henry II! Bloody hell. He’s portrayed by Dante as a sower of schism.

  I glanced at the last line of my clue again and laughed out loud.

  “Born amongst bitter accusations.”

  Literally? But how . . . ?

  Bertran heard my outburst and altered course toward me. As he waded into the shallows, I realized he had dressed for the occasion as a modern-day version of Dracula. Very fitting, for his widow’s peak, goatee beard, and piercing eyes fitted the mood perfectly.

  “Reaper?” he said, by way of greeting.

  “Bertran de Born,” I responded, “I wouldn’t have thought this was really your scene.”

  He turned to look about him as the ensuing debacle unfolded. The crabs, centipedes and voracious other insects appeared to be finishing off the stragglers in double-quick time.

  Unconcerned, he held out his hand for a boost onto the quayside. “Just Bertran, please.” Cocking a thumb toward the dead and the dying, he explained: “I do like people who have broken out of their shells, even if they tend to squander their time in folly. Call it a fault of mine. I thought to liven up their pointless carousing before it’s too late, for surely our Dark Lord must chafe at such wasted exuberance. After all, what’s the point of endless suffering and resurrections if you don’t capitalize on it? There’s nothing like a rousing bit of campaigning to get the juices flowing. Along with all the blood and gore, of course.”

  “Wouldn’t your message have been better received in there?” I countered, pointing back at Sam’s Bar.

  Bertran snorted. “Bah! I wouldn’t be seen undead in that hovel.”

  In a quieter tone, he admitted, “And in all truth, the mercenaries frequenting my competitor’s establishment fight the fine fight and keep the Undertaker’s minions busy enough.” Bertran cast a critical eye over me. “But I doubt you’ve come all this way just to exchange pleasantries. Are you are you here to help me with something?”

  I showed him the note. “To be honest, I think it’s you who’re going to help me. But I’m damned if I can really make head or tail of the conundrum.”

  I had trouble staying quiet as Bertran read the passage through, but somehow I managed to give him the solitude he needed to work things out.

  At first, he appeared puzzled. His gaze flickered from side to side, and he whispered a few undecipherable phrases under his breath. As he scanned the contents again, one finely formed brow arched upward. Then his face brightened with a look of comprehension.

  He chuckled. “How fortuitous.”

  “What? What’s fortuitous?”

  “That phrase about alternating currents.”

  In reply to my look of utter confusion, he explained: “I had someone stop by my bar asking about Tesla only last week.”

  “Tesla?” I echoed, appallingly slow off the mark.

  “Yes, Nikola Tesla. The genius responsible for the discovery of many scientific inventions” — he shoved the note in my face and pointed to the second stanza — “including the alternating current electricity supply system.”

  Of course!

  “Is this the guy who asked the questions?” I showed him a photograph of Cream in all his slimy glor
y.

  “No, I’m afraid not . . . Er . . .”

  For some reason, Bertran had suddenly become coy.

  “What’s the matter?”

  “Reaper . . . you must understand. Because of the nature of our friend’s enquiry, I didn’t even ask his name. I’m sure you’re aware the subject of Tesla’s work attracts an unsavory element that our Satanic Father would rather have . . . um, obliterated. I . . . Let’s just say I’m . . .”

  I understood completely.

  “On my authority as Reaper, I can offer you full immunity if you cooperate with my enquiry. Believe me. His Infernal Majesty is very keen for me to take the man I’m after into custody. In fact, I’m prepared to overlook certain illegal practices, if it ensures I capture him promptly.”

  Bertran cogitated for a moment, then stepped closer. “Very well. The individual in that picture bears little resemblance to the one I saw only six days ago.”

  “Wait a minute! Six days?”

  “Yes, that’s right. The person I spoke with was a rather sour-faced chap; to be honest with you, he looked a bit nuts. He spoke with a French accent, was obviously well educated, but kept mumbling on about this and that, and about someone called George.”

  I did the math in my head.

  It took me forty-eight hours to track down Cream. Then I spent the rest of the week collecting contracts before returning to the Den. Three days later, I got the call.

  I reverted to fingers. For this other guy to be here, so shortly after I’d dealt with Cream, suggests a possible connection . . . and an urgent need for sanitization.

  Aloud, I said, “I see. And what was he after?”

  “There’s been quite a lot of chatter on the white market recently, regarding one or two of Tesla’s latest products. You’ll probably be aware of the rift generators he manufactures? You know, the ones that can create a short range, short-term portal? They’re all the rage with mercenaries at the moment, as it helps them get one over on their opponents.”

  Bertran glanced around to ensure we weren’t being watched, dropped his voice even lower, and continued: “Well, rumor has it that Tesla’s made a breakthrough which will revolutionize the way warfare is conducted. From what I heard, it relates to a new form of acoustic cipher, which will generate huge doorways. Anyway, the chap who dropped by last week had an obscenely large budget, and a very specific shopping list. One that not only included the new phonic generator, but details about a number of other . . . er . . . mythical and therefore banned items.”