Necessary Evil and the Greater Good

by Adam Ingle

  The air in the station swirled, coming out hot and dry from the pneumatic tube, causing the hanging lights to sway slightly. The hissing from the tubes faded and then stopped. The air inside stilled and quickly took on an acidic, oily taste and smell. It felt slightly damp, too. Mestoph imagined the dampness was the trapped sweat of the Imps or lesser Demons that had built this place however many eons ago, which had created a tiny, isolated evaporation/precipitation cycle. In reality it was a carefully controlled humidity system to counter the vampiric, moisture-sucking property of being beneath an ocean of magma. If it weren’t for the moisture, any paper documents, the plastic chairs, and even the tiles would dry out, the walls would crack, and the magma would quickly reclaim this small bubble of habitable space. The oily taste, on the other hand, was much closer to Mestoph’s imagination than he’d have cared to know.

  Other than the capsule he had arrived in and the plastic chairs, the only other thing in the station was a small metal door with a sign that read “Authorized Personnel Only.” He walked over and looked carefully at the door. Seeing no obvious traps or security measures, Mestoph authorized himself to open the door. He turned the knob, wincing as he did. The door simply opened with a little squeak from disuse. Inside, Mestoph found a long, low-ceilinged room that looked like a closet that had forgotten to stop. He couldn’t tell exactly how far back it went because it was full of row after row of tall filing cabinets. The cabinets stood four abreast in two sets of two, with a small path in the middle. Mestoph opened the top drawer of the nearest one and found it full of newly minted and executed Omens. They were signed by the board of directors, had an elaborate wax seal at the bottom bearing the Official Crest of the Office of the Prince of the Underworld, and underneath that was the immaculate signature of Satan. The “S” was illuminated as a serpent and the rest was a slow, loping trail of thick black ink.

  The Omen he held was from only a few weeks ago. It precisely described a coup in Kenya that, much to Mestoph’s chagrin, had actually failed miserably due to the last minute intervention by Freewill International. The coup had been a pet project of his. Mestoph had assembled an impressively gruesome band of rebels who would have swept through the Kenyan jungles, absorbing or abolishing tribes as necessary, until the accumulated army had reached Nairobi. As long as an all-out conflict erupted, the outcome of the bloody revolt was inconsequential. It only served as a smokescreen for a hostile takeover of the governing body of Kenya.

  The rebels had been poised to launch the first of their attacks when Freewill International caught wind of the build-up of forces and interceded, citing the Ancient Agreement and forcing Hell into arbitration. The result was that not only could they not have their revolution, but because of the instability that had been created amongst the rebels and tribes, they would have to take good faith measures as well. That good faith would come in the form of an AIDS awareness campaign and an education initiative on condom use. The meeting with Satan over that particular SNAFU had been an intense and uncomfortable one, but Mestoph had managed to salvage things at the last minute by suggesting they use defective condoms.

  Mestoph put the Omen back into the filing cabinet. A quick look at the other Omens in the drawer showed that they were filed chronologically, so anything in that cabinet would be too new and therefore verbose to serve his purposes. They needed something older, preferably an Omen that hadn’t been scanned into the digital system yet. Hell was a bit behind the times and had just recently begun building a visual, searchable archive of Omens. Mestoph was already going to have to have the database record changed in addition to having the physical document forged; he didn’t want to have to worry about manipulating a scanned image as well.

  He walked further into the large closet, passing a dozen or so rows of filing cabinets, before picking another drawer at random. He pulled out an Omen near the back and looked it over. It was from the late 1980s and was a lot less wordy, but still not what he was looking for. He checked the drawer below it, and after opting against several others, he found exactly what he was wanted. The paper had started to yellow and was tattered around the edges from being shuffled around over the years. The Omen was dated 1981, and all it said, in plain lettering in the middle of the document, was “Union Strike.”

  Mestoph set the Omen down, opened his trench coat, and pulled out a large poster tube from the deep pocket he had dubbed the Highlander Pocket, named for the propensity of the sword-wielding characters from the popular movies and TV series to pull a full-sized katana or claymore from out of nowhere. In reality, it was probably closer to being a Redneck Pocket, more likely to hold a shotgun than a sword. Regardless, Mestoph rolled up the Omen, stuck it in the tube, slapped a shipping label addressed to a Mr. A. H., and shoved the tube back in his Highlander Pocket. Mestoph closed the filing cabinet and walked back to the front of the room. Unsurprisingly, there wasn’t a mail slot down there, so he would have to drop it off on his way back home.

  When Mestoph returned the subway station, it took a moment for him to register the fact that the pneumatic capsule was gone. There was no reason for it to be gone unless someone else had summoned it to come down. It was a small station, with only one tube leading in, and Mestoph had a hard time believing that the system was programmed to leave stranded everyone that visited. Unless he had seriously pissed off the information terminal—a distinct possibility—then there was someone on their way down.

  Mestoph tried to figure out how long the ride had taken, but he had been both so astounded and overwhelmingly bored by the trip that he had no idea. He knew he had only been in the filing closet for a max of fifteen minutes and assumed it had taken at least that long to get down. If the return trip was the same length, he should have at least fifteen minutes left before the capsule returned. Which meant he didn’t have a whole lot of time to find a hiding place.

  He hadn’t given the station a thorough look when he had arrived because there wasn’t much to look at thoroughly. There was the platform that made up the majority up the station. There was also a small recess where the capsule docked, and where he would be thoroughly squished if he tried to hide. Hiding under the chairs wouldn’t do anything but make him look stupid. Beyond that, the only other place was the filing closet where he had gotten the Omen. Hiding in there would only buy him a few minutes of sanctuary since there was nothing in there but rows of filing cabinets. Granted, there were seemingly endless rows, but how far would he have to go before he was reasonably sure whoever was coming would stop looking before they got to him?

  He was beginning to feel the first cold, prickly hints of panic when he noticed the room had suddenly gotten drafty. Hot, dry air was rushing in from the pneumatic tube. The capsule had to be close.

  If Mestoph left another dead body, this time right outside the scene of his crime, he would have Nephilim after him before he could even celebrate his victory. Desperate, he pulled out his dart pistol and shot out all the fluorescent lights hanging from the ceiling. Despite the glow of the lava, the station became surprisingly dim. Nothing even close to dark, but enough to make it hard to see into the far corners. The wind was picking up quickly, and Mestoph made a dash for the corner nearest to where the tube came into the station. He hoped that whoever exited the capsule didn’t look behind them as soon as they got out.

  There had been just enough time between hiding and the capsule arriving for Mestoph to realize exactly how bad his plan was, but by the time he thought of making a mad dash for the filing closet it was too late. The capsule slid smoothly into the station and up to the platform. The door opened and warm light flowed out, illuminating the half of the station where the door to the filing closet was. Out of the capsule stepped a tall, skinny man with long, mangy reddish brown hair. He was wearing a tattered, powder-blue zip-up sweater and dirty black corduroy pants that looked like they were either covered in splotches of paint or condiments. It was hard to tell from Mestoph’s vantage, but it almost looked like the man was sniffin
g the air. He had an overwhelming resemblance to a weasel, which made Mestoph uncomfortable for reasons he couldn’t explain.

  The Weasel pulled a pack of cigarettes from inside his sweater and took out a half cigarette. Whether he had saved it or found it was unclear, but it reinforced Mestoph’s impression that this was an unsavory man. Everything about him seemed dirty. The Weasel took a few puffs from the cigarette, licked his fingers, and extinguished it, putting the remains, now about a quarter of a cigarette, back into the pack. He looked around again and then walked over to the closet door and inspected it. Mestoph hadn’t noticed any kind of counter-intrusion measures or anything that would’ve have given away the fact that the door had been used. He wasn’t sure what The Weasel was looking at, but the man was clearly examining something. The Weasel finally opened the door and stepped in, letting it close behind him.

  Once again Mestoph didn’t have a lot of time to make a major decision. He could jump in the tube and take off, but this would give away the fact that someone had been there. The tube would be gone when he came out, and when no one ever came back in the tube, The Weasel would be able to figure it out. If he stayed and hid until The Weasel left, he ran the increasing risk of being found out. It was a lose-lose scenario, but Mestoph figured that taking the tube bought him the most time. As he was trying to quietly work his way out from his hiding place, The Weasel exited the filing closet.

  Mestoph froze.

  Again The Weasel just stood there, this time facing Mestoph. The man really did look like a weasel; he had dark, sunken eyes with a small but sharp nose, a patchy mustache that looked more like whiskers, and odd sideburns that seemed to turn and grow toward his mouth about halfway down his face. He was also definitely sniffing the air. Mestoph didn’t wear any cologne, but depending on how sensitive this man’s senses were, he might be able to tell that Mestoph had showered earlier that morning, or even detect the fear-laden sweat that was now pouring.

  The Weasel made a quick, random looking sweep of the room with his small, black eyes and then started walking. Instead of returning to the capsule or pulling Mestoph from his half-assed hiding place, he walked to the opposite end of the station and pushed on one of the white wall tiles. A door opened silently, causing the wind to pick back up. The Weasel cocked his head to the side and then turned, sniffing the air again. His eyes darted around but never landed on Mestoph, and after a few seconds he turned back and walked out of the door, which quickly closed behind him.

  Mestoph waited several minutes in the shadows for The Weasel to come back, but he never did. Finally feeling safe, he stepped out and walked over to the wall where the man had disappeared. None of the tiles looked different from any others, but he began pushing randomly in the general area where he thought The Weasel had pushed. It took several tries, but he found a tile that gave way with a little pressure. The door opened into a random hallway somewhere in the Administration area of Hell Industries HQ, far above where he was now, judging by walls that were the most putrid color of green imaginable. That particular color of green had to be the horrendous love child of Avocado and Baby Shit, and managed to be worse than either one could possibly be alone. It was only found in Admin.

  The doorway was obviously a portal. He stepped through, looked around for any sign of The Weasel, and breathed a deep sigh of relief. He had done it. He dropped the tube containing the Omen into a mail slot and went home. He needed another beer.

  Chapter 5

  No good deed…

  Mestoph flipped his cell phone closed and stuck it in his pocket with a smile. He was riding on a high of success in his cat-burglary and the hope that coming soon would be a true vacation. With both an Omen and a Prophecy, he and Leviticus held real, awesome power in their hands. It was tempting to go crazy with it, but their plans would never work if they got power hungry. It was the simplicity that gave it a chance of actually succeeding. Success was a thought he hadn’t considered up until this point, and it frightened and excited him. They had passed the point of no return. The plan must go forward.

  Mestoph was ruminating on various retirement possibilities as he strolled into his apartment, so he was caught completely by surprise when a baseball bat slammed into his back and knocked him forward onto the arm of his vintage couch. He dropped to the floor and had just enough time to roll over and see The Weasel smiling down at him, half a cigarette hanging from his lips, and then the baseball bat hit a glancing blow on his head, just enough to knock him unconscious.

  Stephanie was walking down the dream path again, but her Grams was nowhere to be seen. She had never been here before without her grandmother, and it felt much more foreboding and dangerous now. A strong wind seemed to blow straight up the narrow, tree-lined path. It whipped branches at her face as if the forest were fighting her off—or warning her.

  Clouds swam across the night sky and engulfed the moon, letting only the dimmest hint of moonlight through to light her way. She thought of turning back, but there wasn’t anything back there, any more than there was anything in front of her. It was a dream, after all. She continued down the path, stumbling here and there over the roots that grew out of the hard-packed dirt.

  A full-on storm was now brewing; the winds gusted and lightning arced in the distance. Flailing tree limbs grabbed at Stephanie’s nightgown as the rain began to fall, plastering the fabric against her skin. She felt the tiny hairs on her arm, wet as they were, stand on end and then a jagged bolt of lightning ripped through the sky in front of her and struck a tree only a few feet away. She stopped, afraid to go forward, but also afraid to go back. As if answering her fears, she saw a bright flash and heard the thunder at nearly the same time, coming from behind her. Her dreams had never taken on this intense feeling of danger, and she didn’t know what to do.

  And then she felt that cold, prickling fear crawling up her spine, the same sensation she had felt the last time she was here.

  She could sense a presence behind her, could hear the flapping of wings and the soft coldness of breath on her neck. She couldn’t move despite her frantic attempts to escape. She was paralyzed to the point that she couldn’t even scream. There was another lightning strike, this one a safe distance away, but it backlit something small on the path in front of her. She could have sworn it was a dog.

  “Let her go!” boomed a deep voice.

  Stephanie couldn’t see the creature behind her, but she sensed confusion or at least a shift in its attention. At last she was able to move and, hedging her bets on the devil she didn’t know, ran toward the other voice. She began to regret the decision when she saw two small white orbs glowing at the height she imagined the dog’s eyes would be, and then she heard barking. Tiny, yappy dog barking.

  “Alright, this is just getting ridiculous,” she shouted above the noise of wind, thunder, barking, and flapping.

  It was at that point that the glowing orbs grew in size and then shot out like lightning, zig-zaging toward her. Stephanie froze as the bolts passed on both sides of her, just above her shoulders. She heard the crackle as an arc of electricity passed within inches of her face, and then a brilliant white-blue explosion of light blinded her. All sound was drowned out by the kind of high-pitched whining roar that she had always associated with dinosaurs and lizard monsters in cheesy sci-fi movies. Cheesy or not, as the roar died out so did the cold, creepy feeling. She braved a glance behind her and saw nothing but trail and trees. She turned back around, and right in front of her was a small Scottish terrier.

  “Sir Regi?” she asked.

  Mestoph came to in a pool of what he hoped was his own drool. It was warm and wet, so it could’ve been blood. He tried to open his eyes, but the second he did his head was filled with intense pain. He let out an uncontrollable moan. Moments later, he was forced to roll over as someone grabbed him by what he realized was a chain linked to a pair of handcuffs. As he landed, his head flopped backwards, hitting something hard despite the fact that he was on something so
ft, and sending a whole new wave of pain flooding into his head.

  His vision slowly came into focus, though the haze seemed to throb with his pulse, and he realized he was still in his house, lying handcuffed on his vintage couch. The Weasel was standing over him, smiling with what looked like the same cigarette hanging precariously out of his mouth. He leaned in and Mestoph flinched, expecting a headbutt, but The Weasel stopped inches from his face and inhaled deeply through his nose. He was taking a large whiff of Mestoph’s scent like a hound dog.

  “I thought that was you I smelled down there,” he said with a self-satisfied smile on his face.

  The ridiculousness of a human tracking him by smell aside, Mestoph couldn’t imagine how The Weasel would have known his smell to begin with since their paths had never knowingly crossed before. It mattered not since the man had tracked him down regardless. The thought barely had time to sink in before The Weasel gave him a backhanded slap, a hand full of cheap, gaudy rings making nicks and cuts on the Demons cheek and lips. Mestoph leaned over and spit out a mouthful of blood, but wouldn’t give the Weasel the satisfaction of whining.

  “Shouldn’t you make your demands before beating me up?” Mestoph asked.

  The Weasel gave a quick-take of mock revelation, said “So that’s how you do it,” and then gave Mestoph another backhand. “Oops, there I go…getting it backwards again.”

  Mestoph spit out more blood and forced a smile. His lip was cut in several places, and the effort was repaid with intense pain. “If you’re not going to make any demands, what do you want?”