Hell Bound (Heroes in Hell)

by Andrew P. Weston

  Oh, fantastic. Another pile of shit I’ll have to sort out along the way.

  But I’d procrastinated long enough. “Right, you’d better stand back while I get this show on the road.”

  “Very well,” Lemuel replied, “but if I may be so bold? Be careful to keep your aura under control. If the Key registers your presence, I fear your fortitude may trigger the divine wards, and that is something to be avoided.”

  “You don’t have to worry on that account. The less I have to do with anything of heavenly origin, the better.”

  Yeah! I scolded myself, you talk the talk, but how are you actually going to walk the walk, and pluck the item from the Key without touching it?

  I considered my dilemma from a purely practical point of view. Physical exertion is out. If I make contact it’ll activate the stone, and the Almighty’s angels will descend on us like the proverbial avalanche, and damn the consequences. But if I use my hell-spawned abilities, that could also elicit an adverse reaction.

  I scanned the interior of the bore from top to bottom. My gaze came to rest on the spot where the Bãlefire erupted from hydraspace. Opening my senses wide, I tasted the resonance of the matter stream as it cascaded through the chamber, and followed it down to the point where it disappeared.

  Of course! It’s so simple . . .

  One of my primary attributes was the ability to phase through the ether. To do so, I incorporated a proficiency to blend with the very quintessence of hydraspace itself. However, I never actually breached the event horizon, as someone would do if they teleported. Instead, I merely skimmed the threshold between dimensions in a way that allowed me to jump between two proximate locations almost instantaneously. The point being, my molecules would temporarily mesh with those of the exotic medium through which I was traveling.

  And if my essence is blended with the Bãlefire, it shouldn’t trigger . . .

  In an instant, I was there.

  At one with the roaring, writhing monstrosity that was the very heart-blood of infernity, I allowed its essence to sweep me along in a ferocious tide that took my esoteric breath away.

  Part of my consciousness was aware of the expression painted all over Lemuel’s face. My maneuver had obviously taken him by surprise. Fortunately, that didn’t distract me from the task at hand: the Key of Sighs.

  As the column of fire screamed down, it flowed across the dignity of the stone without generating the slightest ripple. Where the current impacted the mystery token, however, a violent eddy had been created. Swirling round and around, the miniature maelstrom concentrated the rushing energies so much that they threatened to vaporize the memento at any second.

  Fortunately, that would no longer be a problem. Joining with the vortex for just an instant, I snatched the offending article from its perch. Then, indivisible from the plasma ribbon once more, I allowed the stream to carry me toward the terminus.

  Moments later I was back, standing beside a startled Warden with a glowing — and exceedingly hot — souvenir in my grasp.

  “Well, that was easier than I’d thought.” Makes a bloody change.

  Lemuel was dumbfounded. “How did . . . ?”

  “Let’s just say it’s part of the unique heritage you mentioned, which makes me an effective Reaper. Nowhere is safe.” I paused to carefully unfold my prize and take a closer look. “Now, what have we got here?”

  The item in my possession was different from the messages I’d been left before. Although written by the same hand, and in blood, the author had somehow managed to stencil the words into a malleable, metallic sliver of paper.

  This stuff feels like gold leaf . . . but far more flexible.

  It was a very delicate piece of work, making me wonder how the text had been inscribed onto its surface without damage.

  My latest clue said:

  Kill jars,

  Pickled remains of past grievances,

  Both great and small,

  Marinating now upon their shelves,

  Preserves of the most succulent variety.

  Mine to savor when the fancy takes me,

  Sweet rich marrow,

  Toothpick finger-bones,

  Toasting your accomplishments,

  And flensing the taste of you from memory.

  “Well, well, well!” I fumed. “It looks as if I’ll be settling some old scores much sooner than I expected.”

  “Is this from that Cream fellow you mentioned?” Lemuel asked. “And more importantly, do you understand what it means?”

  “Oh, I understand it all right. And it’s close enough to Cream to count as one and the same.” I turned to the Warden and shook his hand. For some reason, the tingle running up my arm was much, much stronger this time. “Lemuel, thank you for your assistance. I wish there was some way I could repay you, but I’ve got to go. This clue tells me where I need to be. The sooner I get there, the better for all concerned.”

  Lemuel maintained his hold and grinned. “Then there is a way you can repay me. Simply fry the bastard who dared to make me look incompetent, then return the stolen piece into my care. None of us will be safe until the shard is reunited with the Key.”

  “I’ll do my best.”

  “One thing more,” he said. “Think of it as a parting gesture.”

  Before I could ask what he meant, Lemuel muttered something under his breath. I felt an icy-cold veil of darkness wash over my body. Everything went black for a moment and when I opened my eyes, I found myself standing on the sidewalk outside the Old Bully, right in front of a very surprised Hell Hound.

  “How the fuck did you do that?” Nimrod spluttered. He jumped back, his usual composure totally blown.

  “Do what?”

  “You’ve only just this second walked into the mist on the other side of the street, and now . . .”

  I grew quite concerned by the way he was staring at me. “What’s wrong. Nimrod? You look like you’ve seen a long lost friend after far too long.”

  “That’s just it, Boss, you haven’t been anywhere. And all of a sudden you’ve appeared right beside me, glowing like a neon advertisement outside a brothel.”

  I stepped away and looked at my reflection in a window. Then I held up my hands. Power radiated from me in waves, and I was shocked to discover I was indeed surrounded by a rich, strontium-red nimbus.

  It must have been my exposure to the Bãlefire.

  I sent my senses deep inside. And come to think of it, I do feel strangely invigorated. “This is gonna come in handy.”

  “How so?”

  I waved the latest clue in his face. “Thanks to the Knights and the Grey Friars, we’ve gained a lot of time. And I know where to go next. What say I use all this excess energy and take us there in style, right now?”

  “Sounds good, but where are we going?”

  “We, my dear friend, are going to make a very public spectacle of a self-styled crime lord who thinks that attempting to murder the Reaper won’t have repercussions. You might want to get your sword out. I have a feeling we’ll be in the thick of it as soon as we arrive.”

  Chapter 15: Consequences

  A bitter wind pushed down from the distant mountains. Gaining momentum, the gale streaked across the pack ice. Its passage bullied the freshest layers of snow into outrageous twirling dances that only served to layer the frozen drifts in ever-thickening cloaks of white. The farther north they went, the stronger the squall, and the more Champ Ferguson’s keen sight struggled to cope with the airborne needles being driven into his face at more than ninety-five miles per hour.

  Perched as he was behind the pristine sail of a pressure ridge, Champ was afforded a degree of respite. Nevertheless, he was forced to squint and repeatedly blinked away the buildup of rime along his lashes that threatened to seal his eyes shut.

  He glanced behind, where Yamato Takeru basked in the frigid gusts. Dressed from head to foot in seal fur, Yamato had thrown back his hood and allowed the length of his combat braid to stream behind him in th
e wind. A modern-day pair of Ray-Bans looked oddly out of place on this ensemble, as did the ivory-handled sword strapped to his back.

  Lucky bastard! If I had his flair with the elements I’d do something about the blasted weather.

  Champ peeked over the top of the ridge once more, only to be assaulted by a fresh flurry of flakes which proceeded to worm their way into his hood and down his back.

  Dang my melt if I can see how I’m supposed to track this thing properly. Sunglasses screw up my ability to read spoor-sign, but without ‘em I’m half blind.

  He waited a moment for a lull in the storm, then tried again. So thick was the veil overhead that Paradise was barely able to punctuate the clouds; and where it did, the hurricane force winds ensured each delicate shaft of dappled light was soon obliterated by the grip of perpetual twilight.

  We’re in hell, for Azazel’s sake. It’s supposed to be all warm and toasty. Despite his own layered caribou skins, Champ shivered. At least, that’s what they told us in chapel . . .

  Yamato approached and squatted beside him. “Is it still heading toward Purgatory?”

  “Straight as a die,” Champ replied, “although Satan only knows what it’s gonna do there.”

  “The Sibitti are a force of nature. They need no reason to wreak havoc on the weak and lowly, especially if it serves Erra’s aspirations.” He paused to scrutinize the glaring vista before them. “Has it shown any sign of slowing down?”

  “Not really.” Champ shrugged. “This one stopped dead in its tracks a few minutes ago, but it’s still half a mile ahead of us.”

  “Really? Do you think it may be tired?”

  “I doubt it. They don’t seem to need a break, or a shit, or eat like the rest of us. It must be great to have the constitution of a personified weap– Jumpin’ Jehoshaphat!”

  “What? What’s wrong?” Yamato’s hand flew to his sword.

  “It’s gone!” Champ scrambled on his hands and knees to stare long and hard into the face of the storm.

  “You mean you’ve lost sight of it?”

  “Nooo. I mean the darn thing is gone, just like the others.”

  Yamato looked thoughtful. “It must have been communicating with someone, or receiving instructions.”

  “That’s the third one we’ve followed that’s upped and hightailed it away for no reason. Are you sure you can’t track them in any way?”

  “Tracking prey is your specialty, my friend. I merely employ the subtleties of my elemental gifts to keep us hidden from view while we’re marking the sites of esoteric manipulation. Not a difficult task, seeing as the enforcers are incredibly powerful. However, once they manifest, or have teleported, it’s down to you and your skills.”

  “C’mon then.” Champ stood and dusted the latest layer of snow from his clothing. “Let’s go and check. Perhaps we might be able to discover something useful at the site itself.”

  With no further need for caution, the Hounds quickly made their way to the approximate area where Champ had last spotted their quarry. Despite their proficiency, finding the exact spot was harder than they anticipated, and both spent a considerable time stumbling around in the worsening conditions.

  “Are you sure this is the last place you saw our target?” Yamato called out. “I’m not . . . hang on . . .!” He froze, closed his eyes, and raised one hand in front of him.

  Champ was at his side in seconds. He knelt and scanned the ground. “What have you got?”

  “Ah, I see . . .” Yamato continued to probe the ether with his senses for a few moments. “It used a different method of travel. One we haven’t seen before. That’s why I couldn’t detect it.”

  “Here you go. Shoot! Would you look at this?” Champ swept away a layer of frost to reveal a strange outline in the ice below. Perfectly circular, the design looked similar to a kundalini yoga pattern used by ancient eastern mystics. “Can you see where the ground has melted and refrozen almost instantaneously? Whatever the Sibitti did, it must have generated a great deal of power to do this.” He glanced at his companion. “Can you follow it?”

  “I don’t know . . . yet.”

  Champ hawked the contents of his nose and throat to the ground between them in disgust. “Shit! We’re screwed then.”

  “Not necessarily.” Yamato ignored the gesture. He was used to the quirks of his companion. “I’m sure Daemon will be interested in what we’ve discovered so far.”

  “Really? That his Hounds have developed a nasty habit of losing their prey?” Champ spat again. On this occasion, a trail of spittle froze instantly to his lip and chin, forcing him to wipe it away with the back of his hand.

  Yamato moved closer. “You forget, these are Sibitti we’re dealing with. Something is clearly fomenting for them to be moving about so openly. We’ve tracked them in New Hell, Hades, and now here, at the very borders of Purgatory. Why? What is their purpose? And who calls on them to abandon their quests?”

  Champ was struck by a sudden thought. “If you manage to latch onto that new energy signature, perhaps you might be able to do one of your vision-quest thingamajigs? You know, scan the underverse and find out in which of the levels they’re congregating?”

  “And who with?” Yamato added.

  “It’ll be dangerous.”

  “And ripe with the potential for glory.”

  “If they catch us, those bastards will probably skin us alive.”

  “Since when has fear of the consequences ever prevented us from taking risks?” Yamato countered serenely. “This is the netherworld, after all. Even if we walk into a full-scale trap, it’s not like we can actually die.”

  “But they can make us suffer.” An evil grin cracked the ice coating Champ Ferguson’s face. “I like it. Do your thing. The sooner we start, the sooner we can heat things up a little.”

  *

  We crossed the threshold with weapons drawn. Nimrod ran forward a few steps to cover our advance, while I dropped into a crouch and spun back toward the portico.

  I wouldn’t put it past our Gallic friends to have installed something unfriendly to stab unexpected visitors in the back.

  The geodesic plane continued to ripple for a moment, and the bridge flared a rich golden-yellow. Then it hissed out of existence. Up above, the phosphorous silver crescent horns that marked the terminus of the arch followed suit, dulling to plain white stone.

  Clear, I yelled telepathically.

  Same here, Nimrod replied, although it won’t stay that way for long.

  I skimmed our surroundings to get an idea of what we faced.

  The foyer to the gate room atop the Awful Tower was much as I recalled. A metal gantry led down from the portal toward a circular reception area, which still bore the scars of my previous visit. Wide fractures lined the floor, walls, and ceiling in a spiderweb network of cracks that made the place look as if it might fall apart any second.

  On either side of us, more than a thousand kill jars had been neatly stacked upon ledges, ranked in ascending tiers. Their contents bore stark testimony to the sadistic savagery of the vendettas still scourging the criminal underworld in Perish. A severed limb or excised organ here; a plucked eyeball or portion of flayed genitalia there; lone torso, coiled entrails, or the digits of one hand. All perfectly preserved with loving care and left to float in a personal sea of embalming fluid. Yet not one of the mementos could ever depict the full extent of suffering that went into their assemblage.

  Nevertheless, these caught and held my attention for some reason.

  Something’s different . . .

  Then it hit me. Although the main room hadn’t been repaired, the shelves certainly had. From what I could see, they looked to have been rebuilt, placed on seismic stabilizers, and shifted back a few feet so they were now encased within the confines of reinforced glass.

  That reminds me.

  I checked to the front. The last time I was here I’d also damaged the special security screen separating the portal run-off from the rest of the t
op floor, and split the thing from top to bottom. It was missing.

  The three fudge-monkeys I’d met previously — Speak only evil, see all evil, and hear nothing but evil — weren’t.

  I was swept by déjà vu as “Speaky” sat behind the reception counter, picked up the phone and began honking like a pregnant goose to someone on the other end of the line. Sadly, that was where the similarity to my past experience ended.

  His buddies were ensconced behind upgraded defenses, two heavy-duty machine gun posts. Situated on either side and just behind the desk itself, both emplacements had been positioned on hydraulic rotational platforms and protected by a combination of armor plating and sandbags. To the left, I recognized a military issue He-XM313 anti-aircraft cannon; to the right, a Minigun and tripod setup peeped out from beneath a transparent bubble-cover.

  Fuck me! They were waiting for us.

  I thought back to my last encounter and realized Catraz had probably installed these precautions very shortly after his failed attempt on my life.

  He’s expecting repercussions at any rate . . . Best not disappoint him, then.

  Just as I was about to move, demonic and human reinforcements came pouring in through the door. They fanned out and stood there, the men pale and anxious, the fiends twitching and snarling as if waiting for some unseen signal to engage.

  My gaze flicked across their ranks. As well as fangs and talons dripping with venom, I faced Hellishnikov 7.62s, M666s, Hate-K submachine gun pistols, and even a few Tartarus EP13 heavy assault rifles.

  So what are they waiting for, an invitation?

  A split second later, I found out when a familiar voice blared out of a hidden speaker: “Kill them! Kill them and stamp all over their bloody remains. Don’t be put off because he’s the Reaper. A bonus to the man who brings me his head!”

  Crack-crack!

  The chorus of multiple weapons simultaneously being cocked served as a unified declaration of intent. In the silence that followed, the distinctive whine of pneumatic barrels cranking up only served to focus my resolve.