Hell Bound (Heroes in Hell)

by Andrew P. Weston

  A squeal of protest rang forth, only to be drowned out by a loud chorus of cheering. The ball left a bloody trail as it came to rest between Nimrod’s feet.

  We looked down into a bruised and battered face. Through broken teeth the “ball” complained, “I broody well habe it when thesh little bashtards have a break. Thish ish the third chukka in a row they’fve ‘ushed my shkull.”

  Although stoically silent, I knew Nimrod was perturbed, for one of his eyebrows arched upward.

  As an unholy whistle-blast deafened us, the sounds of jubilation cut off. All heads turned toward the source, which was none other than the Undertaker himself.

  “Coffee break is over,” he boomed. “Now get back to work.”

  The corridor erupted into a focused frenzy. As I waded through scurrying underlings I was rewarded with a clearer view of our host. I noted with amusement he had gone for a much more casual look than usual. A blue cashmere turtle-neck peeked out from under a brown-plaid woolen blazer. The jacket itself was outdone by an outrageously yellow pocket square that literally vomited its way from his top pocket. Tuscan calfskin trousers and brown leather brogue boots completed the outfit.

  That looks . . . absurd.

  I could tell Nimrod found the outfit hilarious as well, for both of his brows curved upward now, and his mouth formed a perfect O as in ‘fuck off! Seriously’?

  I didn’t know if the Undertaker was dolled up on a bet, or if his attire had anything to do with the continuing influence of Astarte, but I’d bet on the latter.

  As we closed on him, I discovered that not everything had changed. My eyes started to water and my nostrils closed up. I knew there’d be no use holding my breath: the stench would only permeate the pores of my skin to get at me.

  “Why are you back so quickly?” the Undertaker protested. “I told you the extraction of altered memories is a delicate process, and that I’d update you about your Neanderthal from the Hexcalibur Hotel when I had something useful.”

  “And do you?” I shot back. “Or have I disturbed you at a busy time?”

  To piss him off, I cast a critical eye about me as the corridor slowly transformed back into the sterile working environment for which this place was renowned.

  “Ha ha, very funny. The pressures on my staff are as relentless as they are demanding. I allow my underlings the luxury of an exercise break to ensure they work off those stresses sufficiently. I don’t want our standards suffering.” He squared his shoulders. “Anyway, did you come here to criticize or to exchange information?”

  “So you do have something for me?”

  “I do, although you won’t think it much. The candidate you sent me has been mind-wiped. The procedure was akin to what you’d expect from a ripcord, only this was done surgically and with great skill. What’s more, his prefrontal cortex and temporal lobe have been permanently damaged. How, I do not know; reassignment should regenerate all injuries suffered while in hell. In view of this discovery, I took it upon myself to examine every part of his limbic system so as to determine who might be responsible. I have extensive files, and there are only a handful of surgeons I know who are capable of such finesse.”

  “Fair enough,” I conceded, “it sounds as if you’re being more than thorough. But let me know everything you find. And I mean everything. As I’m starting to discover, even the slightest detail might have bearing.”

  We stared at each other. Then the Undertaker recognized the presence of one of the Hell Hounds for the first time.

  “Nimrod,” he spluttered, “why are . . . ?” Then he made the connection. “You’re not just here to catch up, are you?”

  “No. I took you at your word, last time, that you run a tight ship. I realize now that’s not the case. How long have you had a secret portal?”

  To his credit, the Undertaker didn’t betray himself.

  “Secret portal? I don’t know what you’re talking about. If you’re trying to . . .” He caught himself mid sentence. “You don’t mean the officially sanctioned gateway I use to summon the Grumbles, do you?”

  Grumbles! Of course! That’s it.

  I laughed.

  “What is it, Grim? Tell me. If someone’s been sloppy, I need to know.”

  “I think I’ve just worked out how Cream might have eluded us.” Removing the latest clue from my pocket, I held it out for the Undertaker’s scrutiny.

  After he had scanned it, I tapped the last half of the verse. “Did you see this particular reference? Please read it aloud.”

  “‘I create you anew /And thus rearranged /Your grumbling condition /Presents a juxtapose of New possibilities /Pathways /Where the weight of truth is painful to behold.’ The truth be damned. It is painful to behold. I can’t believe they’d contrive to use such means.” Crestfallen, he stared directly at me. “You do realize where the Grumbles postern leads?”

  “I don’t care where that portal leads. I’m more concerned as to how he’s doing this, as it’ll help me get one step closer to bringing this farce to an end.”

  The Undertaker looked thoughtful. “You remember the bother we had during that awful Damned Poets Society Slam last year?”

  “The one where you went ape-shit at the Hexcalibur Hotel? Don’t remind me. That was suicidal lunacy at its apocalyptic best. I’ve never been so busy. Why?”

  “Well, the mayhem went deeper than you think. We had so many rapture-seeking loons swamping us here at the Mortuary that I remember thinking their ardor must be part of a larger conspiracy. I knew something wasn’t right. There I was, working my darkest arts, only to have the victims thank me for my time. No matter what I did, every single one of them remained sickeningly happy. In the end, I was forced to take a break. That’s why I popped across the road to the InfernoCon Six Six Six convention. But things were even worse in there: so sickeningly pleasant, in fact, that I lost all patience and took a hand setting the Grumbles on the revelers. Anyway, with what’s been happening, I’m beginning to —”

  “What if all that was arranged?” Nimrod asked.

  His proposal caught me off guard.

  “Arranged?”

  “What if this ‘problem’ was arranged, and goes back further than you realize?” Nimrod turned to the Undertaker: “And someone made sure you got so wound up, so incensed, that they knew you’d eventually lose your temper and dispatch the Grumbles.”

  Ding-fucking-dong!

  “Bastards!” cursed the Undertaker. “That’s exactly what I was about to suggest.”

  “So you think that whoever’s behind all this might have been planning this dust-up for years?” I gasped. “And they got someone to put themselves deliberately in harm’s way, just so they could get reassigned and slip into the Mortuary’s basement should the opportunity present itself? But why? What do they want to mess about with down there?”

  “There’s only one way to find out,” the Undertaker snapped, “follow me.”

  In moments, he was leading us along the main corridor, toward Slab A. Before we had gone halfway, however, the Undertaker veered right and ushered us through a highly-polished door. The sign on the wall read Collections.

  Inside, we found a handful of minions busy monitoring the readouts from dozens of computer terminals. I lingered to look at a few screens as I walked past, but all I could see was an endless list of names and symbols scrolling down each page. The Undertaker ignored them all, stalked toward an open staircase at the back of the office, and began to descend.

  Like obedient chicks we tumbled along in his wake, only to arrive, after a number of switchbacks, at a set of barricaded doors. Bold red letters stenciled across the pitted metal read: Hub.

  I’d never been here before but whatever was behind the armor plating set my sinuses ringing. There’s something immensely powerful in there. How did I not sense it the last time I was here?

  Then I felt the tingle of a dauntingly potent force field.

  Aha! I glanced at Nimrod to see if he’d noticed, but he’d withdrawn i
nto his shell and appeared as disinterested as ever.

  The Undertaker caught the exchange. “Welcome to the heart of my considerable empire.”

  The prickling sensation cut off and the gates opened, revealing a yawning chasm. Measuring some two hundred yards across, this fissure was filled by a huge miasma of balled, ionized gas. The cloud roiled and sparked under the influence of a myriad miniature novas welling up from its core, and each bright report flared across its surface in streamers of scintillating color.

  A metal walkway haloed the anomaly. Service stations positioned at various points around its circumference catered to the multitude of conduits, tubes and wires that disappeared into or sprang from the brume in apparently haphazard fashion. Some of the cables stopped abruptly in midair, as if swallowed by invisible jaws. Others linked into already existing circuit breakers and junction boxes that lined the inner wall of the cavern.

  “This represents the totality of those newly dead, as well as those awaiting reanimation,” the Undertaker announced. With a sweep of his arms and a wash of body odor, he continued: “Even if consigned to the Inquisitors, their essences are drawn together here first, where they are stored prior to allocation. Basically, what you are looking at is a diabolical conjuration that contains the unadulterated tincture of who they were and what they did, including a full sensory evocation of a lifetime’s worth of memories.”

  Once again, I found myself impressed by the unknown and surprising depths of one of hell’s most hated institutes.

  Who knew?

  The scene before me was utterly captivating and, although energetic, instilled a feeling of euphoric serenity.

  As I studied its various features, I noticed the composition of the plasma field was disturbed every so often by certain blemishes. Darker than their sparkling cousins, these burst from the depths to swallow brighter colors whole. Having fed, they commenced a rampage across the surface, spreading havoc and generating violent storms. Then, satiated, they’d dissipate, allowing peace to return once more.

  I couldn’t help but ask, “What is that . . . incongruity?”

  “That, my dear Reaper, is sin,” the Undertaker replied. “Despicable deeds and foul secrets, peeled open and revealed for the master’s scrutiny, then presented to me on a smorgasbord of hate. These are the nuances I examine when determining the fate of all who pass through my domain.”

  “So, you think Cream got someone to tamper with this?”

  “No, that would be impossible. However, there is a back door. A very dangerous back door . . .” He beckoned us forward again. “This way.”

  Guiding us out onto the catwalk, the Undertaker added: “As you can imagine, the concentration of so much eldritch vitality in one place creates ripples in the very fabric of Helltime.” He pointed to an area of nothingness, below him and to his left. “Here, for example, is a void that leads . . . well, to be honest, we still haven’t fathomed where it leads. No test subject sent through has ever returned. Not even by way of Reassignments. Here” — the Undertaker gestured to his right — “is a realm so inverted to the natural course of life that it is impossible for anything to exist inside for long. Even by Purgatory’s standards, it’s a place of horrendous apparitions and twisted insanity. His Satanic Majesty saves that reality for some very special customers.”

  He stopped adjacent to a metal ladder and then began climbing down. We followed, emerging onto a sub-walkway that led straight back the way we’d just come.

  Why are we retracing our steps? There’s nothing there except solid rock.

  The Undertaker didn’t bother to explain. Without slowing, he marched directly toward the cliff face . . . and disappeared.

  It’s a glamour!

  Moments later, both Nimrod and myself also passed the barrier.

  I felt as if I’d stepped through a curtain of ice. The temperature dropped abruptly, my breath fogged the air with a fine mist, and my senses immediately registered a nearby concentration of magical energy.

  Now we found ourselves in another cave, similar to but much smaller than the one above. Over on the far side, wide stairs were cut into a naturally occurring alcove. Leading upward, the flagstones looked worn and scarred, as if a multitude of clawed feet had passed that way over a protracted period of time.

  An area had been set apart in the dirt before us, marked by a circle of white stones. The Undertaker walked up to the nearest one. “This is what I meant when I referred to a back door. The void here remains ajar, so I can summon the Grumbles to do my bidding in an instant.” He shrugged. “I find it necessary to use them occasionally to eliminate the unwanted and unworthy. And as you’re about to see, Grumbles are quite voracious, leaving little behind.”

  “Voracious?” I echoed.

  “Yes. Gorgonous has just informed me, telepathically, that they were fed not two minutes ago with the results of one of your latest purges. You might remember some of them from out at Sam’s Bar, only last week? You’re in for quite a treat.”

  That mixed bunch of mercs and everyday Joes? But there were over thirty of them.

  Our host didn’t pause. Dropping his voice, he mumbled something that sounded like a rhyme. I heard the words “authority,” “Grumbles,” and “mirror.”

  Power flared. The floor between the marker stones rippled as if someone had drawn a finger across the surface of a pond. Then a moan filtered into the room, sounding uncannily like the death-rattle of a doomed soul, and followed by a fetid outpouring of wind and heat which dried my throat.

  “Behold,” the Undertaker crooned, “my private escape route into oblivion.”

  No sooner had he uttered those words than a caterwauling of terrified wails and agonized howls screeched up out of the darkness. I adjusted my vision to compensate for the variance between realms, and peered within.

  The Grumbles were still feasting. I was stunned to realize they comprised both tangible and spectral aspects. Nonetheless, I was only able to catch fleeting glimpses of whirring fangs and slashing talons as they stomped, tore, rent, and ripped their way through a growing jumble of torsos, detached limbs, and spilt intestines.

  Blood squirted, gore splattered, and feces sprayed. Everything and anything was on the menu: scalps, brains, genitalia and fat; organs, sinews, noses and toes. The whole lot was consumed amid a frenzied maelstrom of gnashing and snarling and gobbling that quickly silenced any and all desperate pleas for mercy.

  Mercy? Not on this side of eternity, my friends.

  The Grumbles were thorough. In less than sixty seconds all that remained of more than three dozen victims were splintered shards of skeletons, the odd bit of mangled flesh, several belt buckles, a few tattered strips of bloodstained cloth, and one eyeball.

  Their meal over, the crowd of mutated savages wandered off into the endless desert of their dusty domain, to do what Grumbles do. I watched as the last of them shuffled away, picking its fangs with what looked like the sharp end of a finger-bone. The beast paused, farted, solidified into a more tangible form, and took an unexpected dump before fading away into the distance.

  When a final belch echoed out of the darkness, Nimrod snorted.

  The Undertaker closed the gate. “So, you think Cream would willingly divert his essence into a place like that?”

  “From what I know of him? Not a chance.” I expanded my senses to savor the unique flavor of the partially open event-horizon. “But what I can say is that, he — or the people he works with — would definitely make use of a semi-active geodesic archway like this. The threshold emits a very distinctive energy signature. I’m betting Cream or someone in league with him knew about this, and used its substance as a lodestone to draw his soul here, or somewhere close by.”

  We began scouring the chamber walls and floor in a hunt for clues.

  My attention was drawn to an impressive-looking condenser by the stairway. A number of major relays led into it from several different directions. Something about the spherical shape of one of the devices attac
hed to the top of the junction box made me look twice.

  “What’s that over there?” I pointed to the object of my concern.

  As we closed on it, a thrill of recognition coursed through my body. “Unholy shit! That’s a translocation device.”

  “Translocation device?” The Undertaker looked puzzled.

  “You must know Tesla’s been working on these for some time now. He’s reached the stage where he can flood the white market with near perfect models.” I tapped the globe. “This is very basic. And old. Must be an early prototype. If it does what I think it can, it’s capable of teleporting one or two people anywhere within the underworld.”

  “Anywhere?”

  “I’m afraid so. And any when, too. I was recently gifted a newer version. From what I understand, the later models have a temporal element added into their matrix. I bet this was placed here months ago in preparation for . . .”

  I caught myself just in time. Very few denizens were aware that Cream had actually managed to get his worthless ass topside. It was my job to ensure things stayed that way.

  “. . . er, one of the secret phases of his master plan, whatever that is. These later orbs can be set to operate for a limited amount of times before they self-destruct.”

  “Well, this one hasn’t blown up yet,” the Undertaker countered. “Do you think it might still be active?”

  Bam!

  I jumped in surprise as the glowing, razor sharp edge of a four-foot long cronimium blade cut the ball in half.

  “Not anymore.”

  Nimrod sheathed his sword and stepped back.

  I managed to swallow a curse attempting to force its way between my lips, and picked up both segments. Inside I discovered a small metallic wafer. Like its casing, the wafer had been cut neatly in two. After removing the pieces, I placed the halves together and saw a prepared message stenciled into the alloy. Written in freehand, it displayed the same inconsistency of clarity as its predecessors.