Hell Bound (Heroes in Hell)

by Andrew P. Weston

  So fast, in fact, that I was hardly able to keep track.

  So don’t! A voice inside my head whispered.

  Eh?

  A part of me, deep down in the furthest recesses of my mind, began to play devil’s advocate. I decided to go with it to see where it led.

  What do you mean, don’t try?

  I mean, don’t try too hard. For a change, don’t, especially when there’s no need.

  How did you work that one out?

  You have rightly chosen the analogy of a storm. Expand that premise and a solution will present itself.

  How?

  Hurricanes form when disorganized areas of disturbed weather clash. That is what you face, a series of seemingly haphazard events, all thrown together in a manner that is churning up the restless sea of Hellkind. Breakers and whitecaps surround you at every turn. Trying to decide what to deal with first is distracting you. Don’t. You’re forgetting what lies at the center.

  No I haven’t, it’s the eye. That’s what I’m trying to step into.

  Step into?

  Yes.

  Then you misunderstand. Don’t step into the eye . . . be the eye. Be the lodestone that attracts the convergence of all the waves. Currents have been set in motion that will run their course. Allow them to come, but instead of being sidetracked and attempting to label them in order of importance, just cling to the first swell that arrives and hold on, no matter how small and insignificant it might appear. Because . . . ?

  Because all the waves are generated from the same place, the actual source of the storm. And any of them will lead me back to where I need to go. Brilliant!

  I decided I needed to argue with myself more often.

  But only so long as I don’t verbalize it. People think I’m strange enough as it is.

  I smiled.

  “Happy about something, Reaper?” the Don asked.

  “Only that I seem to be making headway at last. So many questions have been flung at me lately that I haven’t known where to start.”

  “I don’t suppose I helped with that little snippet about the betrayer’s kiss then?”

  “It goes with the job,” I sighed. “You’ve only confirmed what my own enquiries have highlighted . . .” Someone wants out. This . . . pantomime is but a charade to cover the obvious. It’s time to cut through the crap and start sanitizing. Thankfully, I know just the place to begin . . . “And as I’ve come to realize, every little piece of the jigsaw helps.”

  Thinking of a jigsaw reminded me of something important.

  I wonder if Bella and Donna have anything for me yet?

  “Please excuse me,” I added, “I need to make a private call. I’ll see you at the top.”

  I phased from the carriage and materialized outside the gate room. Everyone else was still inside, so the place was deserted.

  Perfect.

  I took out my secure hellphone and dialed...

  Bella picked up. “Daemon, hi. You must be psychic. Donna and I were waiting for one or two last-minute items to come back before we called, but you’re gonna love some of the stuff sulforensic examination has turned up.”

  “Such as?”

  “I’ll start with the seizure from the Sinotaph . . .” The sound of a keyboard being tapped intruded. “Right, here we go. That ammunition you sent us, the Hell-Brass slug? They’re definitely new. No one at the Special Weapons Division ever dreamed such a gadget could exist, yet alone fit into a bullet head. And none of our specialists here at the Fiendish Bureau of Investigation or at the Sintral Intelligence Agency has heard of them either. We even called the Satanic Intelligence Service, MI13, in Juxtapose. There’s nothing like them out there. So, of course, we just had to try them out under laboratory conditions.”

  “And?”

  “As you suspected, they do indeed work like a ripcord. The actual tip contains DNHA nanosoftware, very sophisticated and way beyond anything currently under development. They mechanically replicate an esoteric process by rewriting the subject’s memory and residual cognitive function. It’s abso–”

  “Hang on. Are you saying these rounds have the capability to affect long-term awareness as well?”

  “That’s right. We’ve tested several bullets so far, and in each case the ‘volunteers’ have been completely wiped clean. They’re a blank page, and have no recollection of their lives here in hell, or topside.”

  “Fuuuck! So what’s Cornelius like now?”

  “The Undertaker tells me he’s acting exactly like our stooges. Extremely confused, unaware of the fact he’s actually dead and condemned, and is so open to suggestion that if you asked him to bite off his own fingers, he’d happily do it. Needless to say, Bad Breath is pissed at the fact someone has managed to intrude into what is, essentially, his area of expertise, as it will make effective reassignment problematic.”

  And undermine Satan’s credibility to make people suffer. Interesting . . .

  “So we can’t use his direct testimony as an eyewitness to identify any of the other players involved?”

  “I’m sorry, Daemon, but no. Whoever’s behind this has gone to great lengths to ensure they can’t be directly implicated.”

  “As if we don’t know it’s Tesla!” I snapped. “With everything else that’s happening, it can only be him.”

  “Our thoughts exactly. It seems the mild-mannered and benevolent philanthropist has turned a full one-eighty, and now wants the recognition and glory he spurned in life. Of course, with the company we think he’s keeping, that’s to be expected.”

  “I take it you’ve gained further info on Cream as well?”

  “We certainly have. The lab results came back on the wine you sent us. Guess what? Our boffins have never seen a more elaborate concoction of naturally occurring hypnotics, hallucinogens, and suppressants. The volume of psychoactive ingredients contained in that one bottle alone was sufficient to run a small pharmacy. Together with the description already obtained, Cream’s not shy in letting us know he’s a main player. But we might be able to do something about that soon.”

  “Oh really?”

  “Hang on a moment.” The sound of slow tapping became more prevalent again. “Ah, here it is . . .”

  “If this is good, you’ve both earned yourselves dinner at a restaurant of your choice.”

  “Well, get your tux to the drycleaners, big boy; you might be needing it.”

  “Please tell me you’ve got him?”

  “We’re getting there. Do you remember we had a tapeworm running on all recent hydraspace activity, especially trips of an ‘unorthodox’ nature?”

  “You mean the search you were conducting on the tags that are secretly taken from everyone who travels through the Sheolspace continuum? Yes, go on.”

  “It’s an ongoing process, but the field is rapidly narrowing. Cream is obviously working with Tesla, as their DNHA crops up all over the place at similar locations. Not necessarily at the same time, you understand, but close enough to point to an obvious connection.”

  I thought those prototypes masked their presence? “How are you going to proceed?”

  “Because we’ve established a pattern, we’re now concentrating our efforts on the identity of everyone else who turns up at those same places. And there’s more than you’d think, as Cream and company are clearly offering all sorts of illegal shit for sale that will help the dissidents fight each other.”

  “Any names stand out?”

  “Not as yet. There’s the interest you’d expect from several of the more active rebel factions—Devo Pact, Che Guevara’s lot, and the Democratic Resistance Freedom Fighters, to name a few. So we’re focusing on individuals instead. Those who don’t belong to any particular revolutionary cause, and who, therefore, might not have a legitimate/illegitimate reason to express an interest in such items . . .”

  “Unless they were involved in their sale in some way, and therefore linked to Cream and Tesla?”

  “You get my point. And I’m glad to s
ay, we’ve narrowed it down to a mere few dozen candidates.”

  “Is that a fact?”

  “Yes. The trouble is, because the obtaining of such information is highly classified and has to be conducted through the proper channels, we’re still awaiting authorization for the next round of searches. But I know you’re in a rush and want something in the meantime, so I conducted a wider, less restricted interrogation of the system. It picked out the most popular venue our mystery friends keep popping up in. I bet you don’t know where that might be?”

  “Don’t tell me. Olde London Town? New Hell? Sulfurous Sands?”

  “Close, but no cigar. I’ll give you a clue. My HPS Satan-Nav indicates you’re standing on one of its landmarks right now.”

  “Huh?”

  The elevator carriage distracted me as it rumbled and rattled its way to a stop, so it took a moment for Bella’s words to register. Don Pérignone waved at me from inside the cage and slid back the doors. Only then did the import of Bella’s revelation hit me.

  “Are you saying Perish is top of the list?”

  “I am,” she replied, “and of the twenty-six individuals we’ll be taking a closer look at, nineteen have cropped up there. For some reason, Perish is a hive of activity.”

  The Don walked across the deck. The Skull was obviously heavier than it looked, as he was quite out of breath having to carry it any distance.

  Time to test the waters, then, and see what the waves bring me.

  “Bella, I’ve got to go. But thanks for that update. Let me know when you have something more . . . specific. And do me a favor? Split your list into those who are resident here, and those who live in one of the other levels. We might uncover something in the meantime to help us refine our efforts even more.”

  “Will do.”

  The line went dead and I turned to my latest partner in legitimate crime.

  “There you are,” he puffed, “is everything all right?”

  “Better by the minute.” I stooped to take the case from him. “Sorry about leaving you like that, but I had to make a sensitive call. It avoided the necessity of having to reap you.”

  Pérignone’s eyes flared in alarm. “In that case, thank you. But if you’re feeling the urge to kill someone, you can always help me clear out the dross in there.” He cocked his head toward the gate room. “Remember, I’ve got to recruit some fresh meat, and you, dear Reaper, have an uncanny knack of knowing who to trust.”

  He’s got a point. “Okay, I could do with a spot of fresh essence.”

  “Me too,” he responded enthusiastically, “I haven’t eaten properly in years.”

  Chapter 17: An Unexpected Journey

  I was a bit disappointed to realize the guys hadn’t uncovered the next clue while I’d been otherwise engaged, but when I saw the full extent of what they’d had to search through, I began to appreciate the scale of their task.

  Over the years, Don Pérignone and Al Catraz had collected thousands of specimens, only a fraction of which were actually on display within the gate room. So while the various teams continued to busy themselves searching jars and dismantling walls, I dispatched the Skull of Goliath to His Infernal Majesty by way of UPDS, his very own Underworld Package Delivery System, and got down to the additional business of vetting hoods.

  In five minutes I’d discovered exactly what the Don had meant by “not eating properly in years.”

  Nine out of ten of the first group were backstabbing schemers, loyal to no one in particular. I was ready to delegate them for immediate reassignment when Pérignone asked me to wait while he took a quick bite.

  I thought it odd he’d want to delay proceedings while he skipped down to the kitchens to fix a quick sandwich. He didn’t. Instead, Pérignone used Catraz’s revolver to shoot the nearest unlucky dupe in the head, removed a handsaw from his pocket, and calmly detached the guy’s arm at the elbow. Having completed his grisly task, he walked casually back to the desk and started munching away on the severed limb as if nothing out of the ordinary had taken place.

  This took me completely by surprise.

  Only then did our previous conversation at Pont Snuff really make sense.

  “I had to contend with my own personal thorn in the flesh, as we all do . . . and while it means I still can’t taste such fine wines and succulent morsels as I did when alive, I know that by working with you I’ll get the opportunity to resume a more bearable existence.”

  When I questioned him about it, the former Parisian gourmet chef — and part-time black marketer — was entirely matter-of-fact about the way Satan had cursed him when he arrived in hell. Pérignone also went on to explain how that was where he’d got the original idea for the kill jars. Not because he was particularly bloodthirsty, far from it, but because the pickling process made the foodstuffs of his cannibal existence less disgusting. Of course, as he gradually immersed himself in the Perishian criminal underworld, the Don deliberately embellished the stories about his feeding process, which expounded his legend no end, and led to his rise to boss.

  From the amount of heads he’d collected during a long and drawn out “evaluation” process — one that continued throughout the rest of the night and on into morning — it was clear my newfound informant had grown into the shoes he’d inherited.

  Eventually, we reached the final batch.

  This motley crew of six individuals were ushered in at gunpoint and paraded before us. Pale-faced and haggard, they dubiously eyed the growing pile of bodies and stacked pyramid of new trophies in their containers and began muttering amongst themselves.

  To keep them on edge, I picked up my scythe and made a point of repeatedly slamming its heel into the decking as I walked toward them.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, as you can clearly see there’s been a change in leadership. Don Pérignone has resumed his rightful place at the helm, and I’m here to show my approval for the new regime. You should know I’m also here to ensure that only the most trustworthy employees remain on the workforce. So, let’s cut to the chase . . .” I altered my perceptions so their auras stood out, dark and clear. “Do you promise to support the Don in this new endeavor and give him your loyalty?”

  “Yes!” they replied as one.

  Of course you do.

  Their coronas flashed scarlet; and so did my blade an instant later, slicing through necks as easily as a hot knife through butter. The floor sprayed red and, almost immediately, their essences started to dissipate.

  “Devildammit!” Pérignone cursed, “I was wondering when that would happen.” He glared off to one side, where a cleanup squad from the GDSI — the Directon Générale de la Satanique Intérieure — Perish’s special intelligence division of Satan’s Children was carrying out the latest batch of the special wall plates that lined the gate room. “They’ve taken too many of my panels away. I installed them to create a dampening field around this entire structure. Without them, cadavers simply fade away and revert to reassignments.”

  The gang paused midstride, and the Don turned back to me. “I don’t suppose you’d let me keep some, would you? Just enough for a samples chamber and perhaps a small interrogation room? It’d make keeping up appearances so much easier. “

  I glanced at the team and shrugged. Why not? “Okay, if you go with those guys over there and show them where you want your panels, I’m sure they can help. They should have enough for a thorough sulforensic examination by now, anyway.”

  Before I had a chance to regret my decision, Pérignone bolted for the door and ushered them downstairs.

  “Thank you, Reaper,” he called back over his shoulder.

  With nothing else to do, I ambled across to where Nimrod and the rest of the Hounds sat amid a cluster of urns. I could tell before I even reached them that frustrations were running high.

  “Anything to report?”

  Champ spat on the floor in disgust and proceeded to clean his nails with the tip of his bowie knife. Possessed of a more reserved nature, Yamato m
aintained his dignity and mentally updated me with the results of their Sibitti hunt.

  I digested the contents of his report with interest.

  “As you can see from my précis,” he concluded, “we thought our pursuit a fruitless exercise until we drew a total blank here.”

  See what the waves bring me. “You’re both positive none of the enforcers detected you before they flitted away?”

  “Of that I have no doubt. Champ kept us at a reasonable distance to maintain our observations unhindered, and my abilities were more than sufficient to mask our presence. In each case, the Sibitti seemed intent upon their individual tasks, whatever that might be, until they simply froze in place for a few minutes. I was under the impression they might be receiving instructions, for each of them disappeared from sight soon after stopping.

  “And have you been able to determine their location since?”

  “Not as yet, although I have isolated the energy signature of their esoteric portals, which are extremely refined. I may need to be in close proximity, or within the actual realm in which they are congregating in numbers, in order for me to zero in on them. Obviously, our assistance here has delayed my experimentation in this regard.”

  “I didn’t realize. Would you agree it’s important we discover what they’re up to?”

  “Although it might not be connected to your current investigation? Most definitely. Their mere presence represents a threat to everyone’s safety and to Satan’s rule.”

  “Make it your priority then. And for Azazel’s sake, maintain your distance. Your elemental affinity should keep you safe, but don’t take chances. Use the portal here to take you wherever you need to go.”

  A quick glance at Nimrod revealed he was staring at me intently.

  “Of course,” Yamato replied. “We’ll stop off at the Den first, resupply, and then get right on it.”

  “Yee-haw!” Champ leapt to his feet. “That’s music to my ears. Something real to do, instead of just sittin’ here looking through pickles and scratchin’ my ass.”

  He was off, running toward the gate controls.