by Tim Hawken
I rounded the block so I could keep close to Phineus’ house, in case the answer came to me. Now in a quieter strip of shops, there was barely any sound, just the low hum of traffic and the distant beat of a drum. I stopped and listened. It seemed to be coming closer and closer, like a creeping heartbeat. As the drum pounded louder I could hear a mass of footsteps, stomping in time. There were voices as well. Where was it coming from? At that moment, a cavalcade of demons and half-demons, dressed in vibrant colors, pranced out from a side alleyway in front of me, into the middle of the road. They were chanting and singing wildly in a language I couldn’t understand, cheering at regular intervals. One demon, dressed all in black with a red top hat, spat fire from his mouth into the air. I stood back as the parade marched past. There were massive skulls bobbing on floats, and skeletons hanging from poles that the revelers held high over their own ghastly heads.
The procession snaked down the road and then veered off down another lane, like a demented Mardi Gras, celebrating death. It was very similar to something I saw once in Mexico, called Dia De Los Muertos -- the Day of the Dead. It was a day where passed loved ones were remembered in celebration, rather than mourning.
I snapped out of my lapse in concentration, shutting out the noise and confusing colors of the parade. I had to concentrate on the task at hand. I had to think, and fast.
The secret of solving a riddle is finding the most illogical part of the problem and making it logical under a special circumstance. It seemed that the last part of this puzzle held the key to the solution.
“How could I be using something and not know I am actually using it?” I asked aloud. Then it hit me like punch in the face. How could I not have seen it right away? I looked at my watch, three minutes left. I sprinted back towards Phineus’ home. I knew the answer to his little test, but I was out of time!
eight
“A COFFIN!” I yelled in triumph as I burst through Phineus’ door, seconds before the final grains of sand slid to rest in the hour glass at his side. He smiled without looking up.
“Very good, Michael. You’re the first person for around a thousand years to have answered correctly in time. Of course, I knew you would,” he said. “I saw it.”
“You know how strange that sounds coming from a blind man,” I said cheekily.
“Oh, we are happy with ourself, are we?” he taunted back. “That was one silly riddle. The rest of your journey will prove a lot tougher, and you only just pulled this one off in the nick of time. In the future you’ll need to be much faster on your toes, quick of body and of mind to gain your revenge on Gideon.”
“You have already seen what I must do?” I asked excitedly, grabbing him by the shoulders and shaking him, as if I was trying to rattle the answer from his mouth.
“Indeed, Michael, but you must have patience,” he said. “You must steady yourself and be focused. Now take a seat, I’ll show you what you must do and where you must go to destroy your hatred. You realize that this is not the only path you can take and it is surely not the easiest, but it is the best. I must warn you now that this is only what you think you want to achieve, but nothing I can say will make your purpose any different. Remember that freewill plays a part in everything you do. No-one’s destiny is set in concrete. This is the most probable outcome of the path, but not the only one. I am not here to tell you how it will be, but how it may be. You must do the rest.”
“I understand,” I lied, sinking into the couch. “I am ready to do what I must.”
Phineus sat cross-legged on the ground again at my feet and reached out, searching for my hands. I grabbed his fingers, and he clasped his palms over my fists. His touch instantly made me nauseous. Pulsating shocks ran from his hands through my body, zapping up into my forehead. The world around caved in on itself and revealed flashing visions, bursting through my mind like a strobe.
I saw a pitch black alleyway with a faintly lit door, flaked, yellow paint peeling off it. A shadowy figure was blocking the way. Flash. A creature, human-like, bald, covered in eyes, one of them open. I fell inside one of the eyes, through a ball of flame and a rush of water. Flash. An Egyptian laughing at me, his face painted blue, a black and gold Falcon flapping its wings on his head. He cut my wrists and wrung the blood into a bowl. Flash. The Egyptian’s face turned into Gideon swinging a sword of fire toward my face. Then all went blank.
I sat up gasping for air. It felt like I’d been underwater. My ears were ringing. The room around me was dark. It felt like it was night time outside, if there was such a thing in Hell.
I thought I’d only been out for minutes, but hours must have gone by. There was no sound from the street outside, no traffic, nothing. Phineus was nowhere to be seen. I called out his name but there was no answer. After a full minute I rose slowly, aching all over. I limped painfully to the kitchen where I turned on the tap and splashed some water on my face, clearing my buzzing head. Finally, the ringing stopped and I flicked on the light switch.
Blood splatters covered the walls and floor. Somehow, I knew it was the blood of Phineus. There was a pool of it at the foot of the couch where he had been sitting and then a trail, like he’d been dragged over the floor and out into the street. I frantically ran to the door; there was a note stuck to it. It read:
Find the Perceptionist with a thousand eyes
Down the yellow-door lane in Satan’s Demise
Take a gift of gold as a gift of thread
And the eyes that belong in Phineus’ head
There you will learn the power of sight
To create to destroy is Michael’s birthright
The Elemental’s secret will soon be revealed
And Michael’s dark fate forever is sealed.
I read the note over and over again. Most of it didn’t make sense. There was only one person who could help me from here: Satan.
nine
I LOCKED THE DOOR BEHIND ME as I left Phineus’ home. I hoped that he was okay, but I had a more urgent matter at hand -- revenge. I wasn’t certain how I would find Satan, but surely it wouldn’t be too hard to find the Dark Lord of Hell in his own domain. I thought about going back to his building. As I looked to the skyline of Hell, I saw the tip of the mountain where he had told me his home was. Casa Diablo. That’s exactly where he would be. I felt it.
I stuck my arm in the air, hailing one of the blood-red taxis that were whizzing past. The closest car slammed on its breaks and squealed up to the curb. A burly cab-driver with a tattoo of a naked lady on his arm leant out of his window and snarled, “You better have some freaking money, buddy.”
I pulled a hundred dollar bill out of my pocket and waved it in his face. Suddenly smiling, he chirped, “Jump in the front, someone just threw up back there and I haven’t cleaned it up yet.”
I walked around the side of the car and climbed into the passenger seat.
“Take me to Casa Diablo,” I said.
He shook his head in dismay. “Have you lost your mind there, buddy?” he said in a thick, New Jersey accent. “This cab don’t fly, you can’t get up there without a chopper.”
“Then take me to a chopper,” I said abruptly.
“Whoa, alright then, chief, I know just the crazy bastard for the job,” he said, slamming his foot to the floor and boosting out onto the highway.
The stench of vomit from the back seat consumed the entire cab, making me feel ill. It smelt like bin-juice and alcohol mixed together. The driver swerved and dodged through traffic making matters worse. I swallowed the bile rising in my throat.
“You sure this cab can’t fly?” I joked, trying to keep my mind off the smell. “Sure feels like we could take off at any moment.”
“Say, you’re alright,” he laughed. “The name’s Mack. I’ve been driving cabs half my life, and all of my death.” He grinned at me, a few teeth missing from his smile. “I’m glad you had some cash, I’ve been driving around that place all day and everyone I go to pick up wants a lift for free, ’cos they’
ve lost all their bread in the casinos.”
“Yeah, well I don’t gamble,” I said seriously.
“I guess there’s more to do in Smoking Gun than flush yer bread down the toilet.” He winked.
“I guess so,” I replied. “Where are we headed anyway?” The putrid reek of sick in the backseat was making me feel queasy again. I needed to get out of this cab. It felt like the smell was suffocating me.
“Smithy’s Hanger,” Mack replied. “He’s a freakin’ nut if you ask me, but that’s what you’ll need if you want someone to fly you up to that peak. Most air-traffic up there gets crushed by Satan’s pet dragon, Moloch, like little flies between the fingers of wanton boys.” He pinched his thumb and forefinger together and made a squishing noise to emphasize his point.
“How long have we got to go?” I asked as buildings and cars sped by. “I think I’m about to add to the mess there in the back if we don’t pull over soon.”
The words barely escaped my mouth when Mack pulled on his handbrake. We slid sideways, screeching into a gravel driveway just off the main road. The car fishtailed, but he regained control and accelerated toward a seemingly abandoned aircraft hangar.
There was rust showing through the corrugated iron cladding of the domed structure. The grounds around it were littered with old World War I and II bi-planes, Spitfires, F-16 fighter jets and Blackhawk helicopters. It reminded me of an aircraft graveyard. Mack slid to a stop next to a dilapidated office and I fell out of the passenger door, retching fluro-yellow stomach lining onto the ground. Fresh air filled my lungs and I began to breath normally again. I wiped the spittle from my chin and stumbled to my feet, glad to be out of the putrid taxi.
“Here you are, buddy,” Mack said, slapping me on the shoulders, “Kingsford Aviation. The owner, Smithy is a good friend of mine. He’s an old war hero or something, although he doesn’t like to bring it up. I can help you talk him into flying up to that mountain, for a nice little tip of course,” he said winking.
“Get me a good price and I’ll give you another one of these,” I said, clapping a hundred-dollar bill into his palm.
“Righto, buddy,” he beamed. “I’ll get a price The Devil would be proud of.”
I followed Mack into the office, through an open sliding-glass door. Inside looked more like a war museum than a charter service. Old flags lined the walls, and pictures of vintage aircraft and war medals hung in frames behind the desk, where an old pilot sat. His face was shriveled up and wrinkly like a crusty sultana. A worn leather flying cap and goggles were pulled firm over his head. White, curly hair protruded from underneath the earflaps on either side. His mouth hung open and his snores filled the room. Drool dribbled from the corner of his mouth, plopping to the ground at the base of his stool and forming a puddle on the floor.
Mack slapped his meaty hand on the counter and shouted, “Air raid!” at the top of his lungs.
The senior citizen before us sprang into action, jumping to his feet and leaping the counter with surprising agility. He ran right past us and out the open door towards his hangar, gazing up at the sky for incoming planes. His run slowed to a jog when he failed to see anything threatening flying overhead. Eventually, he stopped, eyes glued to the black clouds above.
“Smithy, you old idiot!” Mack yelled out the door, waving his hand in greeting. “You fall for that air raid shit every bloody time.” He looked at me laughing. “Every time!” he said again, shaking his head in disbelief.
Smithy slowly walked back to the front of the office where we were now standing, wagging his finger in the air at Mack.
“Mack, you scoundrel! How many times do I have to tell you a soldier can never give up his training? I’m always ready for some new action.”
He finally made it to where we were standing and embraced Mack with a hug of true friends. I could tell the luck of the devil was running at my side. I put my hand out and introduced myself.
“Hello Smithy, I’m Michael, I’m…” Mack cut me off.
“We’ve got a dangerous assignment for you, soldier,” Mack said theatrically. “Only a pilot of your immense skill and daring could possibly pull it off.”
Smithy’s chest swelled with pride as Mack continued.
“This is a perilous mission now, Smithy. We’ll need only the best craft in your fleet to undertake the task, your AH-64 Apache.”
The pilot’s smile turned to a frown. “Mack, I hope you don’t want me to fly up to that castle again?” he said flatly.
My hopes dimmed.
“But of course,” Mack continued, not missing a beat. “Only the best of the best can make it past Moloch to the safety of Casa Diablo, on the peak of Mount Belial. You are the only person who could pull such a feat off, don’t you agree?” he baited.
“I guess you are right there,” Smithy conceded. “But it will cost an awful lot for such a dangerous mission.”
My heart sank even further; I only had a few hundred dollars left in my pocket.
“Name your price!” Mack said confidently.
Smithy rubbed his chin as if deep in thought.
“Well, I would say it would cost you around fifty dollars plus twenty five for fuel!” he said, as if asking an outrageous amount.
Mack whispered out the side of this mouth, “He still thinks it’s 1945.”
“Deal!” Mack said to Smithy. “We are willing to pay the best for the best.”
I pulled out three hundred dollars from the wad in my pocket. I gave a hundred to Mack and two hundred to Smithy.
“You can keep the change if you wait for me and bring me back safely,” I said.
His eyes almost popped out of his head looking at the money I gave him, then he looked back up at me.
“You government?” he asked. “Only government could afford such a price.”
Mack stamped on my foot, indicating to play along.
“Yes I am,” I said solemnly. “I’m on a top-secret assignment of espionage on The Devil himself.” I leant in, lowering my voice to a whisper. “You must realize I’m paying for your silence as well as your services.”
“Why, of course,” he replied now whispering also. “You can be assured I’ll not tell a word of your trip to any demon, no matter how fierce. Those creatures need to be brought down by someone!” He snapped his hand to his forehead in salute and began to march toward his hangar.
“Follow me, captain,” he shouted back. “We leave immediately.”
ten
I FOLLOWED SMITHY TOWARD THE HANGAR, yelling at Mack, “Catch you later. I’ll need a lift when we return if you’re around.”
“I’ll make sure I am,” he shouted back. I turned and jogged to catch up to my geriatric pilot, who was just entering his rusted hanger. I stopped dead as I entered. In the centre of the building was a crisp shining chopper, painted to resemble a tiger. Black and yellow stripes glistened under the halogen globes attached to the ceiling. The sharp rotors hung limp, ready to twist into action. Smithy was about four feet away, pulling on a khaki jump suit and black, lace-up boots. He looked up, steely eyed and smiling from ear to ear. He pulled his goggles down over his eyes and snapped his ear-flaps into place under his chin. He threw me a jump suit.
“Put that on before we board, Captain,” he said. “You’re in for a hell of a ride. We’ll be encountering one mischievous bogie on this flight. Le Dragon Rouge, Moloch the Great; he’s destroyed more choppers and planes than the Japanese and Germans combined.”
I pulled on my suit and followed Smithy’s lead as he climbed into the pilot’s chair, me in the jump seat.
“Prepare for takeoff,” Smithy said as he flicked switches on his dash and clipped his seatbelt over his shoulder. “We’ll have to leave right away if we are to get up there before the next wave of Guilt sweeps us all into oblivion.”
It was hard to believe this quirky man could be guilty of anything worthy of keeping him in Hell, but I knew better than to ask that sort of personal question. Smithy pushed a remote contro
l button to his left. The roof of the hangar slowly slid open, bathing us in Hell’s bloody glow. The rotors of the chopper whirred into life and picked up speed. The sound of steel blades slicing the air filled my ears. Smithy eased the joystick back between his legs and we rose into the air, slowly at first, then faster, moving upwards and outwards, soaring above Hell City.
The spider web of streets stretched out below us as we flew above the skyscrapers and casinos. I looked up to the mountain and saw lights glowing in The Devil’s castle. Someone was home.
Smithy’s voice crackled through the headphones I had on. “Great view, isn’t it!” he said. “Such a beautiful angle of a horrible place.”
I nodded agreement and pointed to where the city went dark, just beyond the dazzling lights of Smoking Gun.
“Why don’t the lights work in that part of town?” I asked through my mic.
“That’s the suburb of Satan’s Demise,” he said. “It’s the heart of darkness, a place of powerful demons that often come out and attack Satan, or the other parts of Hell, for no apparent reason. No-one will ever go there to service the city’s lights or buildings, so it grows forever darker. It’s a place you’d never want to visit if you can help it.”
“Satan’s Demise,” I repeated, alarm bells going off in my head. I pulled the piece of paper out of my pocket; Find the Perceptionist with a thousand eyes / Down the yellow-door lane in Satan’s Demise. It seemed I would be going to that most evil part of Hell before too long.
Smithy pointed ahead as Mount Belial loomed in front of us. It was ugly, black and dominating. As we got closer I could see the twisted trees that covered the mountainside. They looked like people frozen in agony. Anguished faces pushed out from the trunks. Branches reached for the sky, like outstretched arms with broken twigs for fingers.
