Hell Cop

by David C. Burton

  The balcony ran around the chamber, carved, as was the whole building, out of solid rock. At intervals, thick stone columns rose to a high domed ceiling. Peeking from behind a column we stared into the chamber at a fantastic scene.

  Wires and pipes cluttered the chamber. To the right two obsidian columns topped with pentagonal spheres rose from rough pits. Periodically, lightning arced between the spheres then ran down a thick wire that split into five strands.

  Three stone troughs emerged at equal intervals from high on the wall. Each trough split into five smaller ones that crisscrossed the chamber till they ended at one of five shallow stone tanks set at the points of a raised pentagram. One of the five big wires ended above each tank, its end splayed out in a circle. Smaller wires ran from directly underneath us into each tank. Torches and golden braziers lit the chamber with flickering gloom.

  Music battered my ears. I leaned against a column as I surveyed the strange scene and felt the rock vibrate to the heavy bass line. Tucked under the balcony to my left a bizarre orchestra played. A tall, thin bat with human hands played violin. A serpent with triple forked tail played drums while a miniature Dinocat played tuba and a grizzled Lizardhead wailed on trumpet. A non-human skeleton played electric guitar and all I could see were two shaggy arms on piano. The other players were out of sight.

  The music was at once discordant and harmonious, a mix of Mozart and Hendrix. The screech of sax or trumpet or violin jumbled my thoughts. I couldn't concentrate, yet at the end of each crescendo the instruments came together in a melody so sweet it caught at my throat and threatened to bring tears to my eyes. Combined with the bass that permeated everything, and the smoke and smells and flashes of electricity, it was a wrenching, fascinating experience. Brittany thought so, too. She pressed against me, hands over ears, as she tried to take in the fantastical scene.

  The whole chaos of sight and sound focused on, and was conducted by, a single exotic demon. All the other distractions faded as I realized what I was seeing. I forced my mind to remember all the stories I'd heard. It had to be. In the center of it all, on a small raised pentagram, stood an actual Wizard.

  Even in Hell, Wizards were mythical demons. They commanded awesome powers and were not influenced by either Satan or God. Some said they were the creators of the universe. One of their powers was the ability to create life.

  As I sorted through the muddle of my thoughts—oh man, a real Wizard, nobody will believe me—I realized what he was doing—Creating life.

  The Wizard stood ten feet tall. His (or her or its) shadowy hooded robe hung as if on a framework of sticks. His arms extended at least five feet to wide, gray hands with slender, many-jointed fingers. The arms flowed with exquisite grace as he conducted the music in time with what happened around him. Into each tank a complete skeleton slid from its trough. From another trough, blood flowed, half covering the bones. Then an empty sac of skin from the River of Flesh, its dead eyes still reflecting the horror of its “death,” covered the bones.

  With a smooth, strong voice that easily cut through the music, the Wizard intoned a chant:

  Grack tol sim be roctelus gracie

  Betoth jal fetmac hell tolkinati

  Yodeth, roctelus, stpix be YODETH.

  When the strange symphony reached a peak he pointed dramatically to one of the tanks. Lightning arced between the raised pentagonal spheres, raced down the wire, leaving a trail of smoke, and showered the bones, blood, and flesh with energy. At the same time the small wire glowed a dull green. A cry split the close atmosphere. The contents of the tank fused together, forming a living, if imperfect, soul.

  The soul sat up and screamed. Excess blood sloshed onto the floor. Bat-like minions with vestigial wings scampered to the new soul and licked it clean of blood with long stained tongues, then led it away. This was where the troops I almost ran into came from. Mephisto had them made to order. With an unlimited supply of materials from the Three Rivers the upstart couldn't lose.

  The Wizard finished with a flourish, both fluid arms high in the air, and that's when I saw it—a chain on the Wizard's leg. A chain? On a Wizard? Was that possible? The Wizard could create life, I'd just seen it. How could a chain hold him? What power did Mephisto have that could do such a thing? Or were Wizards just rare, not as powerful as the myths said?

  I looked at him as he brought another soul to life. For a moment as he turned to another tank, he bowed his hooded head. Certainly giving life took some energy from the giver, but the minute shake of his head was all I needed to know that the Wizard was indeed a prisoner.

  The Wizard froze, arms upraised, one long finger extended in a wait-a-minute-gesture. The music stopped, the sudden silence like a slap in the face. He turned and stared directly at me. I froze. The hood shadowed his face, yet his eyes, dark spots in dark, held mine like the chain held him.

  We didn't speak. Nothing moved. Someone moaned. Something happened in my head. I thought, I'll try, not sure what I was agreeing to. The Wizard turned away, and the music began again with a crash.

  I turned away, too, and leaned against the slightly slimy column, wondering what had just happened. Had I agreed to rescue a Wizard? I was learning an awful lot about Hell that I wasn't sure I wanted to know. Hell had been simpler before: you knew the rules, knew the dangers. You came in, retrieved the souls, and left. Now there were prophesying Fliers, telepathic Skyhooks, and captive Wizards who communicated on an even deeper level, not to mention talk of war. Change can be good. None of those changes worked for me. I would accept them, and deal with them, but at that moment, I realized that the “Good old days” were gone forever. In ten years the young turks coming up would think of this time as the “Good old days.” A sad thought.

  Somebody was coming. I knew it, and it wasn't my instincts that told me. I took a last look at the, if not mythical, certainly mysterious, Wizard. Then I took Brittany's hand, and we slipped back through the door and down the stairs.

  Chapter Twenty-six

  The humidity went up as the stairs went down. A general aroma of filth overcame the perfume of ozone. Not an odor of rot or decay but of open sewers and long unwashed bodies. I put in nose filters and continued down.

  “Ewww. This place stinks,” Brittany whispered.

  I stopped on the first landing and dug out filters for her.

  “What were they doing in that place?” she asked.

  I looked her over. Dirty, cut by the sharp bones, clothes ragged, hair scraggly, yet looking up at me wide-eyed with curiosity, not fear. Her short time in Hell had matured her well past her ten years of Life. I didn't need to shield her from any of Hell's realities no matter how bizarre.

  “I think, making an army of soul cannon-fodder.”

  We continued down the worn stone steps.

  “Who was that tall man?”

  “That was a Wizard,” I said. Before she asked the next question, we came to another door. I held my hand up for quiet. Unlocked, the door opened without a sound. I peeked through. I'd found the dungeon.

  The dank corridor stretched in both directions. Heavy metal doors with small barred windows were spaced every ten feet. To the right the corridor came to a blank wall. I couldn't tell if it dead-ended or intersected another corridor. To the left, about twenty feet down, a smokey torch lit a chair and part of an ancient desk.

  I looked in the cell directly across from me. Except for some scattered straw and a skeleton huddled in the corner, it was empty. Brittany went to another one and jumped up, trying to see in.

  Voices came from the direction of the desk. I grabbed Brittany and snuck back through the door from the stairs and hid behind it. Heavy footsteps approached and the latch went up. I flattened myself against the wall behind the door and hoped that whoever came through possessed the alertness of all the other guards I'd seen so far.

  The door swung open, and two Lizardhead Guards came through.

  “Do you believe how many of those troops they're making? Seems like forever th
at Wizard's been conducting that caterwauling.”

  “Mephisto must have a strong army to assure victory,” the other said like a fully indoctrinated party faithful.

  “Sure, sure, but against Satan? He hasn't been out of that palace in two hundred years. Where's his army? Nowhere, that's where.”

  “Mephisto says we need a big army.”

  “Yeah, Mephisto says. But what for?”

  “To restore Hell to its former glory, of course.”

  “You mean to restore Mephisto to the glory he never had.”

  “Gitch, do not speak like that. That is treason.”

  “Okay, sorry. Come on, lets get that Lifer before he croaks for real.”

  Lifer? Did they have Dimitri some place else? I started to follow, then heard more footsteps rising from below. I didn't want to chance getting caught between them so we slipped back into the dungeon. In the third cell I saw a familiar form hunched in a corner, legs drawn up, head resting on knees. Even without the flat English driving cap, I'd know that bald head anywhere.

  “Cappy,” I whispered. He didn't move. “Cappy, wake up.” He stirred slightly. The lock was big, ancient, and rusty. It looked like it would fall apart if I touched it. It didn't. I quickly checked the other cells. One held a Lizardhead who looked like he was sleeping off a drunk. The others were empty though one had the air, if the stultifying humidity and stench could be called that, of recent occupancy. Dimitri's cell. The guards were going to get a Lifer, it had to be Dimitri.

  I called to Cappy again. This time he woke. When he raised his head I wasn't sure it was him. He'd lost fifty pounds and had the haggard look and dull eyes of a man who had almost given up. He had burn marks on his wrists and across his chest. He still had his smile, though somewhat dimmed.

  “Getter? Jesus Christ in a hat, what are you doing here?” he said in a rough tenor voice that could bring tears when he sang “Danny Boy” or some such sentimental favorite.

  “Room service. You look like Hell, Cappy.”

  Cappy stood up to his full six-and-a-half feet. The top of his tattered Hell Cop coverall was tied around his waist. Renewed hope lit up his thin brown face. He limped to the door.

  “Thanks for the compliment,” he said. His hands wrapped around the small window bars and shook them. “Son of a bitch, Getter, can you get me out of here?” Then he noticed Brittany. “Damn, Getter, you bring a little girl soul in here?”

  “It's a long story. I'll tell you later.” I gripped his hands in mine and said, “We won't leave you, Cappy. I promise. Is Dimitri here?”

  “Yeah. His cell is two down. He won't be there. He's up in the Resurrection Chamber. Getting the life sucked out of him.”

  “What do you mean?” I asked. “Never mind. I think I know.” The moan, the scream, the small wire, Cappy's burn marks. Dimitri had been right under me in the Chamber. “Look, Cappy, I just heard two Lizardheads say they were going to get a “Lifer.” Does that mean Dimitri?”

  The smile vanished. He pushed his face right up against the bars. Desperation drove his voice.

  “Getter, you got to get me out of here. They'll come for me next. I can't take it again, man.” He held up his wrists. “I can't do it. I'll die for real first. Promise me, if you can't get me out you'll shoot me. Please, Getter. Promise?”

  Hatred for Mephisto swelled in my chest. I knew Cappy fairly well. Always hearty and positive, with a ready smile, he was a joy to be around. He loved life and accepted the rough spots with cheerful abandon. He stood on the other side of the door a wasted wreck. I could barely stand to hear him pleading to die.

  “I'll get you out, Cappy. Who has the keys?”

  “I think they're down there,” he said, pointing to the desk.

  “How much time do I have?”

  “Not much. They'll just unstrap him, drag him down here, and drag me up.”

  I ran to the desk, Brittany behind me. No keys. The passage turned right for about fifty feet then stairs curved up to the left. A lantern lit a small room. It had a wooden table, three chairs, and a rough bed. Half eaten rodents and half empty goblets littered a greasy wood table. No keys. Three cloaks hung from steel pegs close to the door. Brittany checked behind the door. I searched the cloaks.

  A guard walked into the room.

  One puckered gash on his arm marked him as a Corporal. A heavy key hung at his side. He was three steps into the room when he stopped and raised his broad snout to sniff in the fetid air. I had no time to waste and was in no mood to waste it if I had it.

  Plan A was to knock him out with my gun and take the keys. Alerted by my smell, he saw me with my arm raised at the last instant. He whirled and knocked me off balance with his stubby tail. He swung a balled up claw at my head. Would have connected but for a minor distraction.

  “Leave him alone, you dirty demon!” Brittany jumped on the guard's back, arms around his throat.

  I shifted my weight, wound up, and smacked him hard in his heavy jaw. He groaned and crumpled neatly onto the floor. I hissed at the pain in my knuckles.

  Voices. The guards returning with Dimitri.

  Brittany rolled the Corporal over and grabbed the key. She jumped up in triumph. “I got it!”

  Then the guard had her. He rolled up and backfisted me in the ribs. I dropped to my knees. As I gasped for breath he hit me again. Choking in the dust, I saw the guard raise Brittany upside down by her leg and inspect her like a new lizard treat, leaving himself wide open. On my back, I planted a solid kick square into his groin. That had the same effect as on human men. He and Brittany went down with an ommph. I stood up and hit him twice to make sure he stayed down.

  “Thanks,” I said to Brittany. “But you're supposed to keep yourself safe out of harm's way.”

  “No, you're supposed to do that.” At least she smiled when she said it.

  I stuck the key in Cappy's cell door.

  “It won't turn,” I told him.

  The voices grew louder.

  “You have to say the words,” he said, frantic now that he could hear the voices, too.

  “What words?”

  “Shit, man, the words. The magic words. It won't open without them.”

  “What are they?”

  “Oh man, oh man.” He shook with his desperation and squeezed his head for the words. “Rookbalu fek ... No, no. Rookbalu fetmac ... Oh, man.”

  “Come on, Cappy,” I urged, watching the stairway door and him at the same time. I was completely exposed.

  “Okay. Okay. Rookbalu fetmac christnot. You say them.”

  On the second try the key turned. At the same time the stairway door burst open. The guards came through backward, laughing and dragging a body. Instantly I recognized the dark curly hair glistening with sweat. Dimitri.

  “They sure sucked the life out of him this time,” one of the Lizardhead guards said with a chuckle. “Don't look like he'll be a Lifer much longer.”

  “Then Mephisto might reward him for his service to the Hell Liberation Army.”

  “Yeah, sure he will. Take him to his cell. I'll get the key from Ticmuc, the lazy slothzerd.”

  “Gitch, that kind of talk about your superiors will get you in trouble.”

  “Ticmuc? My superior? I don't think so, Jimig.”

  “He is a Corporal.”

  “He's a Corporal kiss ass. Just take this Lifer will you? Bog my dog, you'd think you were bucking for General.”

  I was so caught up in the guards I forgot I was in the open. Cappy didn't. He grabbed Brittany's arm and she grabbed mine as he dragged us into his cell. I crouched out of sight along the front wall.

  “Shit!” I whispered. “He'll find the third guard.”

  “The third guard?” Comprehension clouded Cappy's wasted dark face. “We have to get them. I'm not going through that again, Getter.”

  I jumped up.

  “Can you take care of Dimitri's guard?”

  “Oh, yeah.”

  The guard carrying Dimitri had already go
ne past us. Cappy went after him. Gun ready, I ran back toward the guard's desk. I rounded the corner and ran right into Gitch's fist. My head stopped, my feet kept going, and I landed hard on my ass with a jolt that stunned me into immobility. Everything went black, then came back through a blur as Gitch threw me over his shoulder.

  “Stop!” he yelled at Cappy.

  “Fuck you!” Cappy yelled back.

  I heard the sizzle of a flamegun and Cappy cry out. Gitch threw me into the open cell. My head swam and I thought I'd pass out. I threw up instead. Cappy landed next to me. Smoke rose from the flamegun wound on his side. Gitch stood in the door, shaking his head.

  “Where'd you come from, Lifer?” he asked me.

  “Uhh.” I was coming around fast, but no sense letting him know that.

  “Doesn't matter. You can take this one's place on the rack upstairs.” To Cappy he said, “You killed Jimig. He wasn't the brightest demon, he took all this Hell Liberation crap way too seriously. He was all right, though.”

  Gitch raised his flamegun to Cappy. Cappy stared defiantly at him. His desire to die instead of take any chance of having to go back to the Resurrection chamber was obvious. Gitch noticed.

  “You wish to die, Lifer, rather than go on the rack again? Then you will die. On the rack.” He put up his gun and backed through the door. He grinned a little reptilian grin and pointed a claw at me. “You are next for the Wizard.”

  “Wait,” I said. “Let me go and I'll give you gold. I know where Satan's Mine is.”

  That stopped him. “Satan's Mine is a story for babies.”

  “Don't you think I've been to places in Hell you haven't? Gold won't do me any good if I'm dead.”

  He was interested. He came one step into the chamber. “What about your friends?”

  “What friends?”

  That appealed to the demon's sensibilities. “Ha. You are a Lifer, aren't you? Tell me where it is.”

  I reached out to him. “Help me up. You hurt my leg.”

  The demon stepped farther into the room. That's when Brittany, hiding behind the door, tripped him with my staff, just as Dimitri rushed him from behind. They tumbled to the floor. Cappy and I pounced. A few seconds later Gitch was out of it for good.