“It comes down to this: I got lucky. I received a job offer that beat anything I could be doing in Hell. I have no regrets.
“I was born in a rural community far from the bustling Beelzehub of Hell. Which, if you haven’t guessed, is not the fire and brimstone pit the Bible beaters would have you believe. Oh, to be sure, it’s hot, sweltering even, but no more so than a rainy Vegas summer, or August in Orlando. What makes Hell Hell isn’t burning in a lake of fire, it’s constant work and no vacations. And, I was sick of it.
“Sick…of…it!
“It’s laid out like any other country, only on a much larger scale—imagine the population! The Beelzehub is at its center—a bustling metropolis that in its cynosure breaches the clouds and spreads out to its lowest storied buildings in a circumference the size of Texas. Two hundred highways stretch off across the desert dunes—where the heat can reach glassblowing highs—like spokes on a wheel to populous regions where villages are as big as Tokyo.
“Each village is assigned a duty, which is managed by the Undermastor, who reports to the Mastor of the specific Highway, who reports to the Liaison to the Synod Speaker, who reports to the Synod itself. From there it gets confusing. All you need to know is that they’re all in bed together, sometimes literally, and you can’t trust any of them.
“Despair, where I’m from, is more of a hamlet than a village, about the size of Los Angeles. It lies far enough from a main highway, that it gets few visits from the Undermastor himself. Our work was simple enough, though, requiring little effort and repetitive. Lower-level soul sorting has never been a priority to the Synod. They just let us do our thing, which was essentially job placement for petty criminals, political figures, and children who stepped on cracks despite clear evidence of its outcome. We spent what little free time there was fucking—that’s the number one leisure activity in Hell; second is masturbation; there isn’t a third.
“So it was a surprise to be called into my manager’s office one day, and come face to face with the Undermastor, who looks a bit like Kevin Spacey, I must say. Except for the crimson complexion and the skinned horns protruding from his forehead like a calf. He wore his wings down, and cloaked under a light black trench, which is the style in the Beelzehub, but in Despair it came off as elitist. My manager was shooed away and the honcho asked me to sit. The window behind me whispered with the etching of a sandstorm. He said he had a proposition.
“‘We’ve had our eye on you for some time,’ he said. ‘You’re a lovely girl, dedicated to your work, scored high on grey matter, omni-orgasmic, and seemingly impervious to distraction of any sort. These are amazing character traits for Earth, but here, quite an accomplishment. Satan himself couldn’t have conjured a more appropriate set of attributes.’ The Undermastor’s black eyes stared over the temple of his clasped hands, index fingers tapping his nose.
“I shifted in my seat. There seemed to be a question hanging out there. I thought I might be in recruitment for Satan’s League of Whores, which despite the title was not just a concept, but an actual pack of female demons sitting around in mud baths waiting for the Big Guy’s forked dick to twitch. Revulsion coursed through my flesh. I preferred to choose sexual partners, you see, and while that belief is not the norm in Hell, I planned on maintaining control of my own body.
“‘Liesl, how would you like to spend some time in a cooler climate?’
“I cocked my head. Cooler, I thought. Did he mean the hub? The League of Whores is said to have air conditioning. I cringed, my left stomach roiled.
“‘I’m of course referring to a tour of duty on Earth. Now, don’t answer yet. I know that life in the Corps sounds glamorous, but it can be very nasty work. Very nasty. You’d have to leave Despair and travel to the Beelzehub, immediately. I’ll give you a few minutes to consider your options.’
“The Undermastor strode to the nearby window overlooking the steaming factory floor. Thousands of thick pipes rose and curved like shower nozzles on either side of a wide conveyor belt. Steam rose from the open ends creating a shimmering haze. Souls ejected from each of them with a plop, turning from milky misshapen masses to corporeal form as they connected with the moving surface. Red arms snatched at the new arrivals with the efficiency of machines, tossing them through the air into various bins, marked deprogramming and trade school and upper management. From the sorters, workers sucked the dead up into huge vacuum hoses, delivering them to their assorted destinations. The workers were drenched with a feverish sweat that beaded on their red skin like white candy dots; nearly all flapped their fleshy wings to create a bearable breeze. This was a ‘sweat shop’ in the truest sense of the word, but the swing shift crew only had another ninety-seven hours until half-shift fuck-break. The home stretch.
“He started to move for the door. This was not a choice. It was like winning the lottery. ‘That’s not necessary. I’m ready now.’
“The Succubus Corps Basic Training Camp is a twenty-story building connected to the Great Mall of Indecency in Southwestern Dreary, a major suburb of the Beelzehub. The Undermastor was right; in addition to being more spacious than the factory in Despair, it was significantly cooler.
“In my first days at camp, I was assigned a partner and a tracker, Clevis, who you’ve obviously met. The job was laid out simply: Fuck humans, strip and deliver souls, increase our number through hybridization. That last bit I can’t go into specifics on. You’ve seen too much as it is and must promise to keep your mouth shut. I know you will.
“The trainings at SCBTC were minimally pleasurable exercises in human mating rituals. The complex utilized a recreation of an Applebee’s Restaurant, where we ran pickup drills and familiarized ourselves with your wonderful cocktails. I became enamored of strawberry margaritas from the first day. The sex act took a little getting used to, logistically speaking. Humans are so fragile and soft. I hate to tell you how many I broke just getting on top of them—the size differential had a bit to do with that, I think. Really tedious machinations, as you can imagine, but the unit orgies were amazing. They had to be, to make up for all the boring human sex.
“The orgy stadium was intentionally the most comfortable of spaces. The coaches made sure of that, and only the top one hundred grunts of the day got tickets. Needless to say, I was there every day. The floor of the place was a massive tufted cushion made from a slick vinyl-like material that was hosed and mopped off regularly to avoid the accumulation of noxious fumes that our fluids can sometimes generate—a little known fact, don’t spread it around. The ceiling expands to allow for various aerial positioning and for flying mounts. Just thinking about the room gets me going, a little bit.
“I remember this one orgy. It lasted nearly two hundred and twelve hours. I ran through every possible maneuver and left there sore from my asshole to my nasal passages. My red skin was raw to the point of purple. I needed a real hosing down after that one, and more than a few gauze pads.
“After training, our group was assigned to Seattle. We had a glorious graduation parade through the streets of Dreary. The citizens threw streamers of ash and blew stolen horns from the Lights, the angelic sound blistered in the heat, warbling. The wonderful smoky odor of a forest ablaze filled the air. The Liason to the Synod, herself, presided.
“We left for Earth the very next day.
“That experience wasn’t so wonderful, and I’ll leave it at that. I did mention the sloughing of our natural bodies rite? Dreadful.”
Despite Liesl sharing so very much of her personal life, she left some questions unanswered. I reached into my purse, digging for that hunk of plastic that had got me into all this in the first place, her cell phone.
“Liesl, if you weren’t in any kind of trouble, why did you text me the message?”
“What message?”
I pulled the phone from my purse and clicked on the saved message. “Help me” glowed. I handed it to her. “This one.”
“I didn’t send you that message. In fact, I lost that phone, be
fore I was called away for the harvest.”
“The what?”
“Oh, no, this.” Liesl swept her arms about indicating the birthing. “When my other called to me, I had to drop everything. I guess that included my phone. I can’t be sure where I lost it.”
“Then I wonder who sent the message?”
“No clue, Amanda.”
Liesl busied herself tightening blankets. I sensed it was time to excuse myself, as I had a guest in the car. I looked at my watch. 2:30 A.M.
“I’m going to leave you to your mothering.” I turned to walk back down the hall. Then, turned back. “We could use some time to catch up. Is there a chance you can come to the opening of Mortuary on Saturday? I have a feeling it’s going to be eventful.”
“I’ll see if my other will escort me. I’d love for you all to meet him.”
Liesl was so polite. I loved her for that.
“Okay, then. Call me tomorrow night and we’ll set it up. But plan on dressing to impress.” I thought of the tracker’s moll and her chocolaty satin. “I’m thinking satin slip dresses, what do you think?”
“Pretty.”
Hey. I’m not above idea thievery. I let myself out.
Chapter 24
Duck and Cover
Supernatural crime statistics show that Seattle has the lowest number of violent crimes committed against other undead by vampires, zombies, demons, and the assorted faerie breeds. Unfortunately, the data confirms a tendency toward impulse control problems amongst the shifting population…
—A Taxonomy of the Dead
Mr. Kim was so happy to see me, and he followed directions so well. He hadn’t even removed his seat belt. He just sat there with a huge grin on his face that didn’t move. His eyes held my gaze. They were unblinking, dry dusty marbles—so very dry. From a small hole in the center of his forehead, a slow ooze of aging yellowed pus glugged, like a leftover squeeze of Mrs. Butterworth’s gone stiff on the side of the bottle. Behind him, on the headrest, was a reef of grey coral, spattered with brown beads of blood and lumps of hairy scalp.
My eyes skipped to the windshield. I’d seen enough CSI to know that the bullet had come from the opposite direction of the big splatter on the headrest. There on the center of the passenger side, the glass was pocked and thin cracks radiated from the hole like roots.
Poor Mr. Kim. He was so nice and helpful.
Oh, wait…hello.
Danger.
I stumbled from the Volvo and backed away in a feral crouch, hands gone instinctively to claws. What if the shooter were nearby? Was it stop drop and roll? From off to my right I heard the shirring slide of metal on a track, the slamming of a door. I craned my neck to see the blue van, any other time a sight to elicit fury—now quite welcome. Behind its window, the red light signaled record. Maybe they’d caught it, Undead on Tape, and all. At the very least they might provide some protection. A bullet hole didn’t really go with my outfit.
I charged the vehicle, weaving in a crooked line, to avoid being “scoped” or “sighted” or whatever the fuck a sniper might do through his viewmaster. The only thing I was sure of was that he was not flipping through Disney cartoons.
I scrambled low across the blacktop, reaching the van in a matter of seconds. I slid twice on the slick toes of tan Coach pumps, nearly cracking my ankle. But they were too cute. I pressed my face to the window and clawed at the door handle. Locked.
“Open up Hansen! Jesus! I could use some help here!”
I heard a quiet pfft as a bullet whizzed past followed by a hollow thunk when another punctured the van’s side. I flattened myself on the concrete, ruining a Calvin Klein skirt in the process, and not just muddied, a full-on tear spread east of the seam109. The door slid on the opposite side and that familiar voice called out.
“Get in here, we’re gonna get killed,” Hansen cried, and then to someone else inside, “Yes, goddamn it. Did I say to stop filming?”
“But? But?” the other voice stuttered.
I crawled around the van, hugged close to the ground, my left shoulder skimming the fender and bumper, cleaning road grime and tar from it, another ruined item—reminder to self, time for a shopping excursion. I certainly would have been up for some browsing then, or anything, even a ride on the senior citizens bus to the dollar store—desperation is horribly unfashionable. As I rounded the driver’s side fender, I felt hands reach for my waist out of the darkness, pulling me forward and up into the open gap of the van door.
We were face-to-face then, probably mirroring openmouthed horror. Cameron was attractive despite the height difference, which wasn’t revealed from a sitting position, indicating a longer torso—totally proportionless—but, his skin was tan and flawless—damn him—like mine used to be110. The cameraman was obscured behind the big lens and a spotlight. It was pointing at us.
I turned back to Cameron, panting, and out of breath. Odd considering I didn’t actually breathe, but that’s nothing you don’t already know. I was reminded of the buffet in the south-side motel room, and the breath that had squeaked out into the computer geek’s face sparking something within him. I realize that the spark I saw was undeath. Now I was exhaling, and the breath had emerged, again in thick white tendrils, uncoiled and undulating like the stingers of a Portuguese man-o-war. Cameron shifted his body away to avoid connecting with the solid air, his neck stayed stiff, like the animations of a puppet. An “ew” came from behind the camera. I tried to inhale the breath back, but found myself merely biting at it, taking it in chunks, and swallowing. Finally, when the breath hung in loose zeppelin shapes, I sucked in the last of it with a gagging painful intake of air. My pipes were getting rusty.
“Wow, Amanda,” Cameron said, nodding smugly. “A socialite and a breather, I’m impressed. But you’re going to have to keep that in check.”
“Whatever, little man. Who’s shooting and, why? I thought as supernaturals, we’d be past guns?”
He looked up toward the window. “You’re right, we are. They…” He pointed a shaky finger out the window. “Are not.”
“Not past guns or not supernatural?”
Before he could respond, the back window blew out and we were sprayed with glass, gore and chunks of cameraman, suitable only for stew meat, and, then, only if you picked out the glass. Who am I kidding? He was totally inedible. A shame to waste so much food, though; did I mention he was overweight? Cameron was scrambling over a padded center console into the driver’s seat and fumbling for drive on the tree.
Approaching from behind were three shadowy figures, two in pants, the other in a skirt. The bitch carried a thin rifle, while the other two were armed with heavy looking shotguns. As the van shifted forward, Mr. Kim’s assassins broke into a run, raised their guns, and began to fire. I saw a green apron with a Starbucks logo on the front as they passed under a streetlight. I ducked out of the way of a spray of fire. They were silent between shots.
Cameron picked up the pace and took the corner with such ferocity that I was left tumbling in the van’s seatless cabin. I slammed into the door with my arm bent back far enough to jar the nicotine patches loose. The cameraman’s body slid toward me, releasing a putrid wave of liquefied innards. He had been a zombie. I, apparently, would have been right to leave him unbitten—quite a good makeup job, though.
The ride smoothed out. We left our assailants and my rental behind.
“Those were Karkaroff’s people,” I said, blinking away a slick gob of fat from my splattered face.
“Karkaroff?” he sneered. “What the hell are you talking about?”
I began to explain the zombie plague scheme, but the actor was wild-eyed and fumbling for something in a cargo pant pocket. He withdrew a phone and held down a key with a decidedly pointed thumb, speed dialing.
“Are you all right, sweetheart?” he asked, breathless. “I know. I know…They were shooting at us…Mmm-hmm…Bill’s dead…Yes…I know, it’s horrible…Are you safe?”
Who was he talking t
o, I wondered. Someone else knew we were being targeted? And before I realized it, I uttered the famous line of every bad horror movie, “What’s going on here?” Usually, it would signal my death, but in this case, that would be the least of my problems.
Cameron either hadn’t heard, or didn’t give two shits; he continued his call. “They haven’t tried to get in the house…how are the babies?”
Click!
The lights are now on. He was the other.
I only had to wait a few seconds for confirmation.
“Okay, Liesl, call Clevis and let him know to get a guard over to the house…I know they’d need an amulet to enter, but the bullets wouldn’t…Just humor me…Tell the guard to get that Volvo in the garage before the cops see it…I love you, sweetie…I will. Bye.” He pressed end and the phone darkened.
Do I need to state the obvious? Cameron was Liesl’s other. Gross, she must tower over him. I’d need to talk to her about self-esteem.
“Now, what’s all this about Karkaroff?”
“I’ll tell you later. Let’s take this party to the Well and regroup.”
In the shock of the realization, I’d nearly forgotten about Karkaroff’s barista death squad. My head needed to settle. Cocktails were in order, many of them. Looking down at myself, and the state of my designer fashions, caused a pit to open in my abdomen. My stomach sunk inside it. I decided on a detour.
“On second thought, Cam, let’s head to my apartment, I need to get presentable.” The truth was, he didn’t look much better.
Behind its ice waterfall, the Well of Souls hid a secret room. In the future, the space would become our lair, the VIP party spot. We were all there, except Liesl, who had more important duties, namely, the care of newborn hairy maggots with glowing eyes111. A series of bistro tables was lined up, draped with white linen, and surrounded by chairs. A variety of crystal chandeliers hung at random heights, shaded in delicate fringed paper. The walls were striped in multiple colors. Someone had been to Le Cirque. Lowballs and glass pitchers of various cocktails sat in metal bowls of crushed ice, on antique French sideboards.
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