March till Death (Hellsong Book 3)

by Shaun O. McCoy

  Arturus, Aaron, Galen and Johnny followed the struggling pair. The wall beyond got closer slowly, almost imperceptibly so.

  Arturus felt like centuries were passing by. Then he noticed that the dead were beginning to pay more attention to them. They were starting to look their way for longer periods of time. Some even took to following them for a while before losing interest.

  “Father,” Arturus warned, “we’re starting to draw attention.”

  “That’s a good sign,” Galen answered. “It means we’re coming back to life.”

  The loose gravel crunched under Ellen’s feet.

  Home.

  She passed Arturus’ room—her room, and the hall that led to where Rick stayed. Shortly thereafter, she walked by where Galen had once lived. She entered the battery room. She stepped over the lip that kept out the gravel, crossed the stone floor, and sat down at the door-turned-table. She ran her finger along the woodstone at its edge. Her finger dipped into one of the depressions that had once housed a door hinge.

  Ellen put her arms on the table and rested her cheek on her folded hands. She heard Rick approaching across the gravel behind her. He entered the room too. He sat down on one of the seats that had once been a barrel and leaned back against the stone wall. She could hear the gentle squeaking of the waterwheel. Somehow that noise made the place seem more quiet.

  “How long will it take Massan to heal?” Ellen asked, her voice cutting through the still air.

  “Depends. His will seems very strong now. Those who have the will to live usually heal faster. Perhaps as few as two weeks, or as many as a month. It’s hard to tell in Hell. You have to learn your own moods to know how long it will take.”

  She nodded. There was a piece of gravel on the table. She wasn’t sure how it had gotten there. Maybe Alice or Molly, or even Massan, had placed it there. She picked up the rock and used it to trace designs on the woodstone. The wood was lighter under where she moved the rock. For a long while, the sound of the waterwheel and her rock on the woodstone was all there was.

  “I didn’t like what I saw today,” Ellen said.

  “I know. You’d be a bad person if you did.”

  “I mean I really didn’t like it.” She looked up at Rick.

  “We must not do anything rash.”

  Ellen nodded. “But I’d like to. I’d like to make them suffer. Maybe we could get all the Citizens to agree to trade places with the villagers for a week.”

  Rick chuckled. “I wish.”

  Ellen drew a small spiral. It looked sort of like a snail’s shell. “We don’t have to live here, do we?”

  Rick shifted, causing his barrel to scrape across the floor. “It would be hard to replace all that we have. The battery, the waterwheel. Those things weren’t easy to build. Without Galen, I don’t know how long it would take me to figure everything out. He was the one who made these things.”

  “But we could replace them, couldn’t we?” Ellen asked. “If we worked hard enough and for long enough.”

  Rick nodded.

  “El Cid told me there were Infidel cities. She said they were much better off than Harpsborough. That they were near the populated center of Hell.”

  “Normally, she’d be right. But there are so few devils here, now, there would probably be more if we headed toward those cities.”

  “But we could go.”

  Rick closed his eyes and tilted his head back.

  Ellen waited for his answer, but he didn’t give one. “When you’re ready . . . I mean, I know you’ve spent a lot of time here. I know it’s hard for you to let go. But someday you have to. We can go to one of those Infidel Friend cities. You belong with them, Rick. You heard what El Cid said, you’re good enough to go into the Carrion. The way you fought that harpy. You’re as good as they are, Rick. I don’t think anyone else in Harpsborough is.”

  Rick didn’t move.

  “Just think about it. Sleep on it. You don’t have to answer right away. But tell me this, do the Infidel Friend cities chop off people’s hands?”

  Rick opened his eyes. “No, Ellen. No, they do not.”

  “Do they have a rich bunch of fuckers who hide their worthless bodies away from Hell while they make other people withstand the torture that they should be receiving?”

  “There is some of that, but it’s not nearly as bad.”

  “Do they have people like Galen?”

  Tears began to form in Rick’s eyes, but he breathed in deeply and looked up to fight them. Then he blinked a few times, recovering his composure. “No. Nobody has people like Galen. Ever, anywhere.”

  Ellen stood up and walked around the table. She bent down and kissed Rick as if he was her lover.

  His lips were still for a moment, but then he began to respond.

  “I’m too young for you,” Ellen whispered. “I’m in love with your dead son. In the old world, me kissing you would be so fucked up. Or we would have at least thought it was. But I do love you, Rick. I want you to be happy. I want what’s best for you. Of all the people in all of Harpsborough, you’re the only one who I figure got cheated when he was sent to Hell. You’re too good for this place. Let’s find what happiness we can. Let’s take it. No one would begrudge us that. Would Galen disapprove?”

  Rick shook his head.

  “Then this must be the right thing.” She kissed him again.

  Ellen stood straight and walked back to the doorway. “Think about it,” Ellen said. “You don’t have to tell me the answer in the morning. Or tomorrow, or the day after that. But someday, let me know if we can find a place where we belong. Where there are people who I wouldn’t mind fighting Hell with.”

  The gravel crunched beneath her again as she walked to the room that had once been Turi’s. She entered it and lay down on the blankets he had once used as a bed. She looked up to the stone ceiling that he must have watched on those nights when he couldn’t fall asleep.

  Ye swore.

  He felt dead.

  Am I? Did I go too far?

  He felt sick inside. In his belly, in his arms and legs. The muscles behind his right eye were an epicenter of pain, shooting wretched waves of agony through his head and down the back of his neck.

  “Where am I?” Arturus asked around his dry tongue.

  “You passed out,” Kelly’s voice was weak. “Galen carried you. We’re in the silver mines. We’re out of the Deadlands.”

  Arturus’ hands were shaking. His stomach felt like it was burning.

  “Galen’s gone for more food,” Kelly said. “Eat this. He told me to make you eat it when you woke. And there’s water. But drink and eat slowly. Very slowly. Trust me.”

  Arturus didn’t know if he was famished, or if he never wanted to eat again. He put some of the raw dyitzu meat in his mouth. He could barely taste it on his tongue. He chewed a little, but his mouth erupted in pain. He swallowed, and the meat was fire running down his throat. His stomach churned.

  “What’s happening to me?”

  “Water,” Kelly demanded, “just a little.”

  Arturus drank a sip. It was worse than the dyitzu meat. He felt it sinking into the nerves in his teeth. The pain was more than he could bear. He swallowed it just to get it out of his mouth, but the pain didn’t stop. He felt his stomach grumbling.

  “What’s happening?”

  “I don’t know,” Kelly’s small voice belied her tears. “I wish I knew. It hurts so bad. So bad. Maybe it’s the dead parts of us. Maybe it’s withdrawal. I don’t know.”

  Arturus crawled over to her. The effort it required was mindboggling. He lay down next to her and pulled her close to him. They lay together. They suffered together. They ate and drank measured bites and sips together. They threw up all over each other. But it didn’t matter. The vomit and the bile and the tears and the snot, none of it meant anything to Arturus. It was nothing compared to the pain of the death inside him.

  Aaron woke up for a while and ate. Then Avery did.

  Then Gal
en returned. He brought more water and another dyitzu body.

  “How long?” Arturus asked through clenched teeth. “How long will it hurt?”

  In the dim light of the mining cavern, Arturus could see the bright pink of his father’s cheek muscle beneath the wound that he’d received.

  “I don’t know,” his father’s calm voice said. “It is different for everyone. But as always, my son, the more you want to live, the faster you heal.”

  Arturus looked to Kelly.

  I want to live.

  “Has Johnny woken up yet?” Galen asked.

  Kelly shook her head. “He’s still breathing though.”

  “Give him another few hours,” Galen said. “If he’s not up by the time I get back, I’ll wake him.”

  None of Galen’s clothing had rotted. Kelly had mentioned that things could be treated to withstand the rot when they were in Nephysis’ old lab, and Arturus remembered his father telling him as much when he was younger.

  Galen didn’t seem to be in any pain, either, though Arturus knew he must be feeling the same things he was. Only Arturus didn’t see how it was possible to work or think through this kind of agony.

  “Father, how can you still move?”

  “You, Turi.”

  “What?”

  “I can move because of you, Son.”

  “What do you mean? Because I’m an angel’s get I give you power?”

  “No.” Galen shook his head. “I love you very much, Son. Very, very much. And that means that I have a reason to live. Because of you I want to live more passionately than I ever have before. That means I heal quickly.”

  “I love you, too, Father.”

  “Now rest, and heal. I have work to do.”

  “And miles to go before you sleep.”

  Galen nodded. “Yes, like the poem Rick loves. Miles to go before we sleep.”

  Kelly started to give off warmth. That was around the time Arturus realized that he was freezing. Or maybe he was burning up. He couldn’t tell. All he knew was that he was both shivering and sweating. He was hungrier than he had ever been, thirstier than he thought possible, but eating and drinking were tortures beyond his imagination. His hands shook so badly that he could barely open the canteen. His vision was blurred by the pain. Kelly was crying into his shoulder.

  Avery lay on his back, his eyes were wide open. He was staring at the ceiling, his jaw clenched. He was breathing heavily enough to send flecks of spittle into the air.

  Johnny sat up slowly.

  Oh thank God.

  “Johnny.” Arturus said. “Food. You have to eat”

  Johnny struggled to his feet.

  “No.” Arturus muddled through the pain in his mind to form the words he wanted to say. “Stay down. Your ankle.”

  But Johnny didn’t seem to know where he was. Perhaps he had been fighting for so long, trying to run for so long, he didn’t know he was safe.

  Arturus gathered his will and forced himself to his feet. The nerves in his body protested so loudly that, for a moment, he couldn’t see. But this was Johnny, the only hunter Arturus was sure he loved. He had to help. He picked up a canteen.

  Johnny was limping away.

  “Wait!” Arturus choked over the word.

  Arturus followed after Johnny, each step sending blinding waves of agony through his body. Arturus caught up with the hunter and turned him around.

  “Here,” Arturus said, offering him the canteen with shaky hands.

  Johnny looked at him. Or seemed to. Or maybe looked right through him. He was so pale. His mouth opened and closed. There wasn’t a single bit of pink in his tongue or gums or in his mouth.

  Maybe it’s just too dark.

  “Johnny, listen to me.”

  It’s too dark. If it were brighter, I could see the living parts of him. He’s not moving like a corpse. He’s moving like a person with a fucked up ankle.

  Johnny stumbled back. Then the hunter started limping towards him.

  It’s just the way that he’s injured that makes him walk that way. Johnny’s fine. He’s alive. He’s going to make it. Galen would have warned us if he was going to die.

  Johnny raised his hands.

  He made it through all this. Through the spiders and the Minotaur, the climb and the walk through the dead. He wouldn’t come this far only to die now.

  The hunter swung, and Arturus ducked under the attack.

  “Johnny, wake up!”

  He’s just in so much pain. He’s not dead. He’s not dead.

  Arturus pushed the humter back, adrenalin giving him some temporary relief from his pain.

  “Johnny!”

  The hunter fell down stiffly. With arms and legs barely bending, Johnny climbed back to his feet.

  “You’re not dead!” Arturus shouted. “You’re not.”

  But Johnny was.

  Arturus saw his sword lying there next to Kelly. He looked back at Johnny, or rather, at what had once been Johnny.

  I’m going to miss you.

  Arturus bent down and picked up the sword.

  The corpse walked closer towards him.

  Arturus shoved the gladius into his friend’s chest. Then he pulled it out. The black blood of a corpse spilled out of Johnny’s body as it fell to the floor.

  Arturus dropped the sword. It clattered against the stones.

  He lay down beside Kelly and cried.

  Whether you kill an old man or a young man, you take from him just the same—you take from him the present.

  —Marcus Aurelius

  Pause, for a moment, and imagine your own death. Try hard, dig deep. Make yourself face your own mortality. I’ll wait. Does it disturb you? When you have done this, imagine what ills, what evils scare you more than death. Those things, the ones worse than death, those are the things worth fighting.

  —Ares

  From Gehennic Law: The Court Swallow

  There was once a young bird who, when fluttering through the skies, sought a place where she could build her nest and lay her eggs. It was such trouble, building a nest, and it was very difficult to find a warm, dry place to put it. So she flew over the human city of Athens and descended upon the roof of their court building. The roof seemed steady, and it was waterproof, so she thought that it must be a place of perfect shelter.

  “Whosoever has built this place will not mind if I rest here for a while,” she thought.

  She flew into the building and found that the Athenians had placed straw along the roof as insulation. Happy then, she landed and, with minimal effort, made her nest there. So it came to pass that this was the place where she laid her eggs—then she waited for them to hatch.

  While she was waiting, she listened to many law cases and enjoyed seeing justice dispensed. She began to feel that this court building was the most important of all the buildings in Athens, and that it was, in a way, a pillar which supported their society.

  Then one morning she flew out to find some food, leaving her eggs safe in their warm and sheltered space.

  But there was a rat who had also found shelter in the court building. It was dry and safe for him as well, and the men who came there often left crumbs for him to feast on.

  Seeing that the swallow had left, the rat climbed up a pillar and ate the swallow’s eggs.

  Then it so happened that the swallow returned and saw that her eggs had been eaten.

  She bemoaned her fate and shouted up to the uncaring gods, “Oh what unfairness has been visited upon me, that such injustice strikes my family in this house of law.”

  He had a body, clad in a grey robe. He hadn’t during the fall from Benson’s ladder.

  I’m not bleeding.

  It had finally stopped. He wasn’t sure how long he’d bled—but at the moment, he was unable to remember a time before he’d borne the wound. Certainly he’d been bleeding through the entirety of his last life. But there was an earlier time, a time before he’d been stabbed, he knew there was—only the memory seemed di
stant. Far, far distant.

  He was lying on a black plain. It was featureless, smooth and endless, expanding out from him in all directions towards some invisible horizon. There was light which he could see by, but it seemed wrong somehow. It reflected oddly off the blackness around him.

  Am I the source?

  Perhaps he was, but he wasn’t glowing. Carlisle struggled, climbing up to his hands and knees.

  Where am I? What Hell is this? Should I even call it Hell?

  His early memories—maybe they could tell him what was going on, but they were so distant. He remembered Benson and Mephistopheles and Simeon. Those faces were fresh, crisp in his mind. But there were other faces, faces from long ago. The Infidel, for one. Maab, for another. But there were other memories even farther back than that. Memories of a cornfield—of Anna McNamara. He tried to remember how she had looked on the day he had sodomized her, but the memory was too far distant. It was as if he was looking at her through fogged glass.

  She was bearing my child. She died, and the child died with her.

  The light started to bug him. There was something wrong with it, but he couldn’t figure out what. He waved his hand in front of his eyes. He saw the light whirl a little.

  That’s what’s wrong!

  He had seen light move before, in a way, but it had always been an illusion. It had been fog, or glass, or something else that had actually been moving. This was different. He actually saw the light itself move. It was almost imperceptible, because it was so fast, but he could see its minute oscillations as it sped through the air. If he ignored that, then he could see normally.

  Whatever substance was beneath him, it was not rock. He bent down and pushed against it with his fingers. At first the blackness gave a little, but the harder he pushed, the more firm it became. He could make a depression about an inch deep, but nothing more than that.

  He didn’t know where to go, so he picked a random direction.

  After a few steps, he stopped. This was not a featureless plain at all. In places there was a ceiling, or a wall, or some combination of the two. They were formed out of odd geometric shapes which met each other at clean lines. Between those lines he could occasionally catch glimpses of some world that lay beyond this one.