Hell Bound (Heroes in Hell)

by Andrew P. Weston

  Nimrod? Left and center. I’ll take this side. Enjoy yourself!

  You too.

  In such a situation I’d usually manifest, simply to ensure the Phage boosted my perceptions sufficiently to meet the danger head on. But having overdosed on Bãlefire, I was intrigued to see how super-hyped my normal responses would be.

  Blam!

  The initial salvo was deafening. With so many rounds raining down all at once, there was no distinguishing one weapon from another. I hit the deck and rolled for cover, leaving a scarlet ribbon trailing behind me. I was still glowing from my encounter with the Key of Sighs, and a swarm of metallic wasps following in my wake buzzed angrily, blowing chunks out of walls and ceiling as they tried to track my movements.

  I laughed aloud. Not because of the adrenaline surge produced by the presence of so much danger, or from the heat of battle itself, but because I felt so alive. I’d never moved this fast without being augmented. The experience was exhilarating and fascinating, almost as if I were precognitive, and able to anticipate the flow and trajectory of each individual missile.

  On a whim, I expanded my awareness even more, adjusting my reactions to compensate. The difference registered immediately.

  In the background, a slower, rhythmic thud — thud — thud added a deeper counterpoint to the high-pitched serenade of the light-caliber bullets. The heavy machine gun had obviously opened up on the other side of the room, so I knew for sure Nimrod would now be just as busy as I, trying not to get his ass chewed to bits. But I couldn’t spare much thought for him, it was taking every ounce of my hyper-energized concentration to avoid the lethal fusillade hammering toward me in a mesmerizing avalanche of glittering steel. Amazingly, I could see everything in a kaleidoscopic frenzy of slow-motion, altered reality.

  Adopting a haphazard approach, I jinked, pirouetted, rolled, and feinted. Bounded, leaped, ducked and dived. Vengeful sparks flared and ricochets snapped back, impartially biting their originators instead of their intended targets. Men screamed and staggered. Muzzles fell, smoking and silent.

  Regardless of the resistance, I snaked forward like a neon band of light.

  Amid the tinkling cascade of spent rounds and ejected links, a rising sense of panic took hold. Some reckless fools broke ranks and tried to rush me. Their ill-thought maneuver only brought them within my reach and forced the Minigun operator to cease firing.

  My scythe became a blur in my hands. Its ever-keen blade whirred like the wind, igneous and fluid. Heads rolled and limbs fell. Weapons clattered to the floor. Fingers still twitched, their dying nerves squeezing triggers in a hapless parody of impotent revenge.

  And still I advanced.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed Nimrod was pinned down under a relentless onslaught from the .50 millimeter. Forced to stave off an unending deluge of shells big enough to demolish a house, he was unable to dispatch any of his opponents, who were slowly gaining ground on him. If this continued, I judged they would soon have him surrounded.

  Time to even the score.

  I slammed the heel of my staff into the deck and released a blinding surge of power. Opponents on both sides of the room covered their faces in fear and fell back a step.

  I used the lull to my advantage. Twisting away from my antagonists, I leaped and pirouetted high through the air. Depressing the top stud on my sickle, I aimed the jewel toward a small group of hoods using the He-XM313 as cover. An unholy ribbon of lightning blazed from the gem and fried them all where they stood. I extended the discharge into a steady stream, and crowed with glee as energetic tendrils snapped and sizzled along the floors and walls, electrocuting those standing nearby as well.

  But I wasn’t satisfied. Not yet. Not with the sweet scent of death drenching the atmosphere, spurring me on and arousing my lust for darker deeds.

  With a mighty roar, I compressed ever more potential into my efforts. The charred remains of my victims glowed white hot and then exploded, carbonizing bone and blackening metal in a paroxysm of rage that reduced cadavers to fine dust.

  A high-pitched yelp rang out as tendrils of plasma continued to lick across the floor.

  ‘Speak only evil’ must have caught the tail end of the charge. How sad.

  Only then did I drop to the floor. As I did so, I spun, sidestepped, and released two bolts of God’s Grace straight at the He-XM313 emplacement. The entire post vaporized in a blue-white flash that left a steaming pile of molten slag behind.

  Nimrod was amongst the survivors in an instant, his blade cutting a sanguinary passage through demon and human alike. Blood and gore sprayed the walls and ceiling in an ugly swathe of bubbling red and black potency.

  I left him to it, for now only the Minigun remained between me and the door. That it was surrounded by a squadron of ghouls and the last detachment of hoods mattered not a whit, for they were obviously demoralized and confused.

  I can help you with that.

  To looks of mixed astonishment and trepidation, I sheathed my blade, stood tall, and slowly held up my naked hands. The radiant nimbus had reduced somewhat, but still grabbed their attention. I made eye contact with each and every one of them, cracking my knuckles repeatedly as I did so. Then I started forward.

  Comprehension flared on the faces closest to me. Fear took hold and spread like the plague. As one, they let rip with everything they had.

  But it was too late. Faster than anyone could follow, I was on them, weaving to and fro like the lethal instrument I’d been forged to be.

  In less than ten seconds, more than thirty denizens lay dead at my feet.

  Just one more to go . . . for now.

  Even though I was too close for him to draw a proper bead on me, the Minigun operator was still firing blindly. I kicked the barrel of his weapon aside and then, with a cry of rage, clenched my fist and punched straight through the pod cover. The blow broke his neck. His eyes rolled into the back of his head, he slumped forward, and the ear-splitting crescendo abruptly ceased.

  Within the confines of the gate room, the sudden stillness was deafening. A smell of cordite, scorched metal, and burnt flesh saturated the air. Dust and other particles swirled down from unseen nooks and crannies. I followed the flight of one particularly large piece of debris as it fluttered downward and then turned to survey the rest of the chamber.

  The kill jars were my first concern. The rhyme had led me to this specific location, and I dreaded to think what might have happened to my next clue. But I needn’t have worried. Amazingly, the armored glass had done its work. Despite a few ugly-looking scars and deeper pockmarks here and there, the glass had retained its integrity and protected the entire macabre collection.

  I recalled how tough the roof of Infernos nightclub had been on my last visit.

  Is that barrier made of the same material, I wonder?

  Nimrod had hardly broken a sweat. I watched as he tore the shredded jacket off one of his victims and calmly used it to wipe the filth from his blade.

  That’s when I noticed something else. Something odd.

  These bodies haven’t dissipated.

  I glanced back at the containers, and then at the structure itself.

  Is there some kind of dampening field around this place that prevents dissolution? Or have they managed to extend the principle used for the jars themselves?

  Spent links and empty casings tinkled and crunched beneath my feet as I ambled across to the nearest wall and tapped the metal plating with one bare finger. It felt as if an additional layer had been bolted on over the old panels; to my ear, it sounded quite dense.

  Now that’s a handy bit of intelligence to report back. Not only might this be a composite we’ve never seen before, but I’m itching to know how a thug like Catraz got his hands on it. Who knows, the Boss might even let me have some for the Den? The Inquisitors would have a field day with this stuff lining the interrogation rooms.

  I replaced my gloves and brushed myself off. As I did so, my thumb caught in a new addition
to my attire; a fist-sized hole in the left-hand side of my trench coat. Puzzled, I checked further, and was shocked to realize my entire ensemble was peppered with a number of rents and bullet holes.

  Only then did I take stock of my own situation.

  While most of the damage was superficial, obviously having been caused while I’d pranced about like a demented ballet dancer, some of it was far more serious. My attention zeroed in on the site of several major injuries which still stung as they sealed over. I rolled up my sleeve. Sure enough, my skin wasn’t glowing anymore. I clearly hadn’t been quite as fast as I would have liked.

  Of course it would wear off. And all the more so after what I’ve just been through.

  I was a little pissed, to say the least. The wounds to my flesh would disappear in less than a minute. Those to my pride, however, would take longer to heal.

  Suck it up, idiot! Pain is just weakness leaving the body. You should have thought of the consequences of using so much energy that quickly without manifesting. You have the Phage for a reason. Use it!

  My fingers drummed against my leg in frustration.

  No wonder Satan restricts my treatments. Such mastery could become quite addictive. Still, at least I know not to make the same mistake twice . . .

  The muffled sound of shouting from outside disturbed my personal sulk session. I extended my senses and listened in.

  “. . . a move on quickly, boss, before those bastards get through. The CCTV’s gone dead, so we don’t know what’s happening. Merde alors! Will you —”

  Catraz!

  I mentally relayed this new development to Nimrod, grinned, and inhaled sharply.

  Nimrod guessed what was coming and ducked behind the remains of the machine gun emplacement. I exhaled, and released a massive pressure wave that blew the doors off their hinges. As luck would have it, they also took out the nearest guards ushering the so-called hardest crime boss in Perish toward his escape route.

  That left only a half dozen heavily armed hoods, who quickly closed ranks about the Marlon Brando stunt-double hiding in the middle of their group. He appeared as panic-stricken as someone wired up to the national grid.

  “Leaving so soon?” I bellowed.

  Catraz screamed in terror. His goons reacted and leveled their guns. I phased and exploded into their midst before their first rounds had even been fired. The repeated thud of bodies and clatter of weapons hitting the deck was music to my ears.

  I looked down through the transparent flooring and waved to the remainder of the security detail who had been caught flat-footed. Still inside the nightclub, they’d had no chance of getting here before it was too late.

  Not that their presence would alter the outcome.

  Adjusting my awareness, I sent a quick heads-up to Nimrod, and then stalked toward my prey. Catraz’s face blanched white. He backed away and fumbled inside his jacket pocket.

  Oh, no you don’t.

  As the Hell-Brass 6.66 Magnum left its holster, I snatched it from his grasp, back-handed him across the face, and tossed the weapon over the railing.

  “Would you like to join it?” I asked. “I know you have a penchant for dropping things from a great height. I must admit, that displays a certain sense of karma I find most appealing.”

  “No, no, no. You can’t. Don’t you realize who I —?”

  I slapped him again, harder this time.

  Catraz flew across the deck and landed in a heap on the floor. He looked up in pained surprise, and his gaze jumped to my hands.

  My grin was pure evil. I made the sign of the inverted cross, and then beckoned to him with my right index finger.

  “C’mon, little man,” I growled. “It’s time to face the consequences of being a complete and utter dick.”

  “Leave me alone.”

  “I can’t. You’re in something up to your neck. I’ll give you a clue. It begins with S and ends in HIT. Can you guess what it is?”

  “I’ve got money, lots of money. Assets, too. Just name your price. Anything to make this go away.”

  For some reason, Catraz was finding it difficult to regain his feet and continued shuffling backward on his ass, heels and hands until he was pressed against the balustrade. Once there, he clung to the netting and began to sob.

  I loomed over him.

  The abrupt sound of combat behind me didn’t break my concentration one bit. Nimrod would make short work of the latecomers, leaving me free to play.

  “You should know by now that won’t work,” I warned. “I can’t be bribed, and I don’t have the slightest ounce of empathy for the likes of you. But seeing as you’re so desperate to pay the price, let me tell you what your actions will cost.”

  He looked totally crushed, and yet seemed to cling desperately to the illusion that a ray of hope might appear out of nowhere to save him at the last second.

  Time to spell it out.

  I grabbed him by the throat, yanked him up so we were nose to nose, and snarled, “You really fucked up trying to kill me. And I mean really fucked up. So, I’m here to . . .”

  My head dropped to his ear, and I lowered my voice to a bare whisper. Then I detailed exactly what was going to happen.

  When I’d finished, I held him at arm’s length. “Did you understand all of that?”

  The growing stain on his pants and the tears in his eyes showed he’d understood me perfectly.

  Hell’s bells, but I love my job.

  Chapter 16: Testing the Water

  I left Nimrod in charge of the mopping-up operations and instructed him to call the rest of the Hounds to assist. Searching the scores of kill jars for my next clue and removing the special wall panels would be long and complex processes, something the others could begin while I kept a promise.

  Although I’m beginning to regret that promise.

  My package was becoming rather tiresome. Although bound, gagged, and partially covered in a dusty old sack, my prisoner screamed and wriggled with every step I took. Mind you, I could appreciate that the thought of impending doom was probably spurring Catraz on to offer as much resistance as possible.

  Not that it did him much good. The residents of Perish were as indifferent to the suffering of others as they were brutal and unfeeling. I thought of them as a “callous with a capital Tough shit sucker, so long as it’s not me I don’t care” kind of crowd. So the sight of the Reaper dragging a mysterious someone along by their ankles attracted little attention. And the closer we got to Pont Snuff, the more deserted the streets became, and the less inclined people were to even glance our way.

  On this occasion I was approaching from the direction of the Palais de Injustice, along the south bank. However, I had trouble spotting the difference between neighborhoods, for the congealing mists made it difficult to pick out any but the tallest major landmarks. By the time the first abutment came into view, the fog was so thick I could only see twenty to thirty yards ahead of me.

  Catraz must have sensed the increasing chill and dwindling presence of traffic around us, for he fell mercifully silent.

  Thank Purgatory for that!

  At last, I stood before the spans of the oldest bridge in Perish, a place that epitomized the very spirit of hell. Eternal suffering, without a moment’s peace. Moans throbbed out from the brume, exacerbating the mood a thousandfold. I took a moment to fortify my mind for the ordeal ahead, and noticed details I’d missed on my previous visit.

  The bastions stationed along each side boasted the most ornate of embellishments. So lavish were they that each battlement could have been decorated by a master pâtissier. In defiance of the surrounding miasma leaching all color and substance from the air, so much thought had been put into the bridge’s ornamentation that its arches reminded me of the side of a wedding cake.

  I wonder why I never noticed this before?

  A cackling chorus split the silence.

  “Help me. For God’s sake help me. I shouldn’t be here —”

  “No, help me. I’m th
e one who was wrongly condemned. I’m the one who —”

  “Please, I beg you. Just look at me, anyone can see I’m innocent —”

  “You bloody liars! You deserve what you got. I was merely tricked —”

  “Ignore those fools. They just want you to step closer to the edge so they can grab you. I, on the other hand, have a genuine proposition —”

  That’s why!

  Catraz must have heard the tirade as well, for he began to writhe and protest vigorously through his gag.

  Someone’s eager to get to his new home.

  “C’mon, dipstick,” I snapped, “let’s get you settled in.”

  Prepared as I was, the siren calls were still hard to resist. Something in the tone of their voices and the emotions conveyed by their pleas reached deep down inside me to pluck at what little strings of humanity I had left.

  I had to keep reminding myself: This is hell. Everybody gets what they deserve . . . and then some.

  The enticements were as tenuous as the vapors through which they echoed.

  “You’ve returned. We knew you’d come back. Just help me out so I can share the knowledge I’ve gained with you —”

  “Bless you, Reaper. May Satan shower his fortunes upon you for the insight you’ve shown. Now, if you could just assist me —”

  “This way, quickly, before the others interfere. I have the very thing to enable you to overcome the machinations of your adversaries —”

  “About bloody time! Actions speak louder than words.”

  There!

  “Don Pérignone? Is that you?”

  “Read me, Reaper. You’ll no doubt recognize what remains of my essence from when you were here before. It’s not like I’ve had the chance to go anywhere.”

  Yup! That’s him all right.

  I zeroed in on his position and scanned the flickering residue of his aura. Barely readable, it nevertheless contained the acidic taint of one betrayed by circumstance and cursed by lingering impotence.

  The surrounding entities shrieked in alarm, which only panicked Catraz all the more.

  “No, don’t listen to him —”