Hell Bound (Heroes in Hell)

by Andrew P. Weston

  “Your reputation preceded you, little puppet,” it crooned in reply, “albeit undeservedly.”

  Faster than any of them could react, I dropped my center of gravity and jabbed my weapon forward. A coherent burst of God’s Grace lanced out, catching the creature full in the face.

  Gotcha, fucker!

  The blob of midnight exploded into a tornado of screeching fury and bloomed like the petals of a giant unfolding rose. But instead of dissipating it flared and looped back in on itself. So concentrated was its rage that the churning maelstrom it generated gouged a trench through the earth as it passed.

  Torn from their foundations, chunks of granite and slimestone were whipped into a lethal barrage of brutal hammers and razor sharp edges. Projectiles rained down, scourging my face and rending my clothes. In moments I was battered into a half-witted gory mess.

  Somehow, I’d retained a grip on my staff. Rolling onto my front, I pulled my hood forward in an attempt to protect my head and reduce the effects of the blinding fusillade of grit and dust billowing about me.

  How in the blazes is that thing still alive? All I’ve done is irritate it.

  My thoughts were prophetic. As before, I was plucked from the ground and hurled, gamboling over and over, high into the air. Banshee howls of glee accompanied me on my rollercoaster ride, and soon I was rising and tumbling through a series of vortexes that flayed, slashed, and impaled my body at every turn.

  Thankfully, the enforcer soon tired of his sport.

  One moment I was whirling along at a sickening rate, and the next I felt as if I’d become momentarily weightless. Peeking out through bruised and swollen eyelids, I saw clouds above, and the city lights of Dark Cairo far below.

  Oh, for the love of Satan!

  Gravity claimed me once more, and my gut-wrenching descent began.

  Unable to warp, glide or phase, the plunge now dominated my world. But I didn’t bother to scream. I felt remote from it, as if this nightmare were happening to somebody else. Instead, I closed my eyes and fought to control the rising panic within me.

  Any moment now. Any moment now. Any mo–

  The terrible collision blasted the insides of my skull like a lightning bolt. Strangely enough, my sense of detachment continued. As if a mere spectator to the events unfolding around me, I looked down on my body and witnessed a glowing blue thread linking my shattered remains to the disembodied consciousness now floating above it.

  From my vantage point, I could see I’d been fortunate. I’d landed in the cinder pits next to the eastern cemetery. The ground had given way beneath me on impact, producing a crater over three feet deep. Nonetheless, my injuries were appalling.

  Then the line holding my immortal soul in place snapped back toward my inert form, and a sensation beyond agony ripped through me. As my senses reasserted themselves, I cast my sight inward to assess the damage. It was bad. Very bad because all my organs had been ruptured and virtually every bone in my body shattered.

  My self-healing faculty kicked into gear, and a gurgling scream split the night. It took me a moment to realize that scream had come from me. Because of my wounds, the usual ripples I felt during the regeneration process had been replaced with crushing breakers of misery coursing through my system. I vomited blood, teeth, stomach lining, and other things that should never see the light of day. My vision refused to clear. Eventually, the brutal waves receded, and I regained an awareness of my surroundings.

  Something was in my hand. With the greatest difficulty I started to rise, and realized I’d still managed to retain a hold on my scythe. In fact, I’d clutched the damned thing so hard my fingers had actually sunk into the medusanite alloy of the handle.

  A sickening sound of popping and grinding signaled my sinews and joints realigning. I pushed myself up from the ground, climbed out of the hole, and staggered to my feet.

  “Is that it?” I taunted. “You catch me with my pants down, and that’s all you’ve got?”

  “Now is not the time for bravado, Reaper,” another disembodied voice warned. “It won’t make your passing any easier.”

  I still couldn’t see properly. It took me a moment to spot them, huddled together in a group against the inky backdrop of the desert plain.

  “What? You think you can actually destroy me? Here? In hell?”

  To tell the truth, after the beating I’d just endured I wasn’t so sure of the answer myself. In any event, they totally ignored my jibe.

  “Look at you. The mighty Daemon Grim, feared throughout the multiverse, reduced to a mere victim.”

  A whooping cackle echoed from all three. Thankfully, they seemed content to wait and see what I would do next. Fine by me, because I’d had enough of their bullshit.

  Time to find out once and for all.

  I glanced at the crystal atop my scythe. It indicated I had sufficient energy for one, maybe two, full powered blasts.

  They didn’t seem to like the essence of God’s Grace. I still can’t understand why it didn’t just kill them on the spot. If I survive this, I’m going to have a long chat with the Boss. There are things that have been hidden from me, and —

  “Afraid to face us?” the same Sibitti called. “Perhaps you’re thinking of running? Pleading for your life?”

  I stared at my trio of antagonists, and selected the moron who appeared to be speaking. A sneaky strategy came to the fore.

  Maybe this will work?

  I summoned the full force of my will and discharged my weapon. However, instead of simply zapping him in the face, I warped the flow of energy so that it manifested within his tangible threshold.

  The specter was illuminated from within by a flash of scintillating blue-white light. From where I was standing, it looked as if a nuclear blast had taken place within a giant colander, for multiple shafts of brilliance lanced out from the myriad holes littering his rags.

  As the radiance intensified, I took their advice and started to run. Before I’d gotten three paces the ground heaved, and a paroxysm of volcanic rage erupted about me. I thought the pyramids had chosen this moment to join in the fun — as if my afterlife wasn’t difficult enough — but I was wrong. It was the final enforcer. And he was pissed.

  I dropped to one knee and brandished my staff. Almost instantly, I was engulfed in an incandescent halo of flames. My hair shriveled and disappeared, my clothes smoked and crisped, and the skin along my raised arm began to bubble and crack.

  Unfathomable power poured into his summoning. Rock liquefied at my feet and metamorphosed into glass. My jacket and trousers flared along one side. Then the blistering cocoon imploded, and I was smashed through the air like a greasy streak of soot.

  I hit the side of Kung-Fu’s pyramid so hard that a huge block cracked on impact. Blood smeared across the stone as I slid toward the base. Flesh rendered, exposed bones blackened, I collapsed in a rattling heap at the bottom of the slope. My ears were ringing. It felt as if my eyes had been fused shut; and when I tried to move, I discovered the right side of my body wouldn’t respond. The smell of roasted meat was overpowering. Using my opposite arm, I tried to drag myself away.

  Something grasped me by the throat and yanked me into the air. The pain was excruciating, as I couldn’t let go of my scythe.

  My hand must have melted to the handle.

  Lifted higher, I dangled like a fish on a hook. A muffled, garbled drone intruded on the edge of my hearing, but as everything was still humming, I couldn’t understand what was being said.

  As luck would have it, my left side still retained a degree of function. I kicked out, feebly, and tried to reach up to gain purchase on whatever was shaking me. I felt cold sharp metal.

  A Sibitti gauntlet?

  Useless. I was too weak to do anything.

  My arm flopped back down, and something banged against my hip. Something hard. Something I’d forgotten about, in my coat.

  Hope dawned.

  As casually as I could, I pretended to wriggle against my captor
and edged my hand inside my pocket. My fingers closed around a circular object.

  The orb!

  I reacted instinctively. Slamming my palm against the studs, I thought of the one thing I craved above anything else.

  Instantly, I was someplace else.

  *

  A Wyrd tree basked in sublime tranquility at the center of a snow-dusted ornamental garden. Its ruby leaves shone like lanterns, blushing the surrounding bushes and shrubs with a gentle infusion of rose-gold warmth.

  The full moon shimmered in a cloudless, midnight-blue sky. Resonant with purpose, its argent purity focused the night like a lens, filling the square with an expectant hush.

  Around the edge of the oasis, silent witnesses maintained a lonely vigil. Ancient sentinels, their obsidian wings were folded against the chill; their stony hands rested upon the pommels of inhumanly long swords, each crowned by an impossibly large jewel of a different color.

  The soft crunch of feet upon icy flakes intruded as a lone female figure walked the pristine parchment of the path. Hooded in scarlet, her footfalls were light and left an indented score along its length.

  Without a word, she approached one of the guardian statues and stood before it. Pale fingers drew back her cowl. Burnished honey-blonde hair blazing like fire in the moonlight cascaded down to her shoulders. She was beautiful, glowing with an ethereal radiance that signified her oneness with her environment.

  The unknown woman climbed the pedestal on which the champion had been positioned. She studied it for a moment. Whatever she sought could remain a mystery forever, for she deemed it an appropriate time to act.

  “Yes, you’ve slept long enough . . .”

  A look of determination crossed her face. She stretched up toward the titan’s ear, cupped her hand, and whispered, “Daemon? It’s time to wake up, can you hear me?”

  Chapter 10: A Hard Lesson

  The mists clouding my senses turned opaque and bloomed white. As they thickened, a sparkling effervescence manifested, as confounding as it was mesmerizing. Something at the edge of my perception imposed itself.

  “Daemon?”

  I tried to ignore the sound, remain safe within my cocoon of obscurity, but it wouldn’t leave me alone.

  “Daemon, are you with us?”

  Muted sounds reflected like ripples and tugged the surface of my consciousness. Although distant, they were nevertheless insistent and conveyed a sense of urgency.

  “Daemon? It’s time to wake up, can you hear me?”

  With grudging reluctance, I blinked my eyes open. The scene swam for a moment before clarifying into the familiar surrounds of my bedroom. A concerned face loomed above me, and long silken tresses fell forward to tickle my nose.

  Inquisitor Strawberry Fields, aka Red Riding Hood? What’s she doing here?

  I raised my head, and memories came crashing back.

  But I . . . ?

  Other people milled about behind her. I heard an argument under way on the far side of the room. From what I could discern, my Hounds were not only present, they were making their feelings clear.

  A low, deep grumble dominated the disagreement. Although I couldn’t quite hear the specifics of what was being said, that voice suddenly rose in volume, and issued a command:

  “. . . long enough! Put aside your personal issues and obey me in this matter.”

  Everybody fell silent, and I heard Nimrod reply, “Yes, my Lord, we bow to your will; it shall be done.”

  “And you in particular, Nimrod,” that same person insisted, “make sure you carry out my instructions to the letter. Understood?”

  “As you wish.”

  I struggled to sit up. “How the . . . ?”

  “Here, let me help you,” Strawberry offered.

  A pillow was pressed into position behind me, and people crowded in. The Hounds were indeed present, as were my Inquisitors. They all came forward, one by one, to welcome me back to the land of the eternally damned.

  Nimrod, King of Shinar, and my lead Hound: A mighty hunter in opposition to God, Nimrod never said much and lived up to that now. Striding confidently toward me, he shook my hand, nodded once, and stepped back into the press. His gaze said it all. Revenge.

  Yamato Takeru came next. Originally known as Prince Ōsu, Yamato was a legendary ninja killer from first-century Japan who had brutally murdered everyone who ever stood in his way. Wielding his fabled weapon, the Sword of the Gathering Clouds of Heaven, he was undefeated in battle, and an elementary titan.

  “Sensei,” he murmured, “I look forward to fighting by your side.”

  Champ Ferguson was close behind him. A notorious Confederate guerilla fighter during the American Civil War, Champ was as loud as he was insulting. He had a cruel and sadistic streak bettered only by his skills as a tracker. Nobody I set him on had ever escaped. In fact, he was almost as good as I was.

  When he chucked me on the chin, I said, “Speak with me when this circus parade is over. I have a little job for both you and Yamato.”

  His eyes flared in comprehension, and one corner of his mouth lifted in an evil sneer.

  Then came the rest of my Inquisitors.

  Leonard Skeffington, a previous Lieutenant of the Tower of London, led the way. We affectionately referred to Leonard by the pseudonym Crusher, as he had invented several remarkable torture devices that were still in use today, especially within our little cadre of specialists. Deceptively quiet and gentle, his almost apologetic nature hid an intensely vindictive character that loved to watch people suffer.

  “Glad to see you’re up and about, old chap,” he whispered. “Why don’t you do us all a favor and disembowel the swine who did this to you as soon as you can?”

  “Oh, I intend to, don’t worry.”

  Baron Ferenc Nádasdy, a sixteenth century Hungarian nobleman, and his wife, Elizabeth Báthory, stood next in line. While relationships were usually frowned on in the underworld, His Satanic Majesty had made an exception for these two.

  Ferenc went by the codename Red Baron, a tongue-in-cheek reference to the foes he had gleefully slain in battle. For a denizen of hell, he was an honorable man who preferred to give prisoners a chance to spill the beans before he spilled their guts.

  His other half, however, was an entirely different kettle of fish.

  History referred to her as the Blood Countess. We knew her as Nutcracker Sweet. Elizabeth was the most prolific of history’s female serial killers. Her endless quest for eternal youth in life had burgeoned into a distinctive, if gory, fetish for which hundreds of young girls had suffered and died whilst being drained of their lifeblood.

  This couple was one of my best teams, for they employed a “good cop, bad cop” scenario to great effect. The only problems we ever experienced involved Elizabeth’s mental instability and lack of inhibitions. Given the opportunity, she would happily castrate every male prisoner who fell into her clutches, even those who had given up their secrets willingly. And for some strange reason I’d never been able to fathom, she always insisted on working in the nude.

  I was glad to see she’d made an effort to dress today.

  “Just give the ones responsible to us,” Ferenc announced loudly, “and I’ll make sure my Lizzie is stir-fried and bat-shit hyper before I let her loose on them.”

  Elizabeth squealed at the suggestion, and turned to gaze at her husband with a deep-seated lust in her eyes.

  Someone’s going to get some tonight, I mused.

  Finally came Black Velvet, Myra Belle Star. An infamous outlaw from the end of the nineteenth century, Myra was a crack shot who had adapted to the position of Inquisitor rather well. She loved the theater of her role, and would amuse the rest of us by staking her victims out on the ground before blasting away at them with her favorite rifle whilst mounted on horseback. The mere fact that she usually blindfolded herself ahead of time made the spectacle all the more entertaining. Thousands had lost fingers, toes, and other dangly appendages to her most inventive and product
ive form of interrogation before they were consigned to the relief of reassignment.

  “Just let me be there when you start slicin’ em up,” was all she said.

  “You’ll be top of the list, Myra,” I grinned. “In fact, if I get my way, you’ll all be there to enjoy . . . to . . .”

  I choked up.

  Fuck it! I can’t let them see me like this.

  Keen to hide my moment of weakness, I snapped, “Anyway. Who the hell is taking care of business while you’re all skiving off and emptying the contents of my drinks cabinet?”

  “Oh, we’re not skiving,” Elizabeth countered with a giggle, “we’ve a few exsanguinations under way, and I have a pretty young thing in my office at this moment, roasting slowly over an open fire. I believe you know her? Joy Winters? A shocking case of negligence that we’re keen to get to the bottom of. By the time I’ve finished with her, the Undertaker may have his work cut out to reassign what’s left.”

  “Miss Winters is here?” I gasped, completely taken by surprise. “How long have I been out?”

  “Two days,” Strawberry whispered. “It took two whole days to regenerate your injuries.” She glanced behind her, along with everyone else, and not until they edged away from each other did I realize someone remained standing by the fireplace.

  Boss?

  His Satanic Majesty stared into my soul as he waited with his back to the fire. On this occasion, I could see he’d adopted his “CEO’s business” guise. Clean-shaven, his slicked back hair was adorned by the slightest dusting of gray at the temples. It added a touch of sophistication to his So’vile Row navy pinstripe suit, and Pradator necktie and shirt. The gold chain hanging from his waistcoat pocket complemented the dark red rose in his buttonhole perfectly, adding to the overall effect.

  He looked every inch the embodiment of pure evil.

  “Give us a moment, would you?” he requested in a deep resonant voice. “I’d like a word with my Reaper alone.”