Highway To Hell

by Alex Laybourne

  “I could ask you the same question,” Marcus answered. He felt himself stand taller as he spoke.

  “That’s an easy one. I’ve been here for days already, just me and my rather subdued friend there.” The old man rose from the chair with the ease of a man half his age and pointed to the younger man. Standing behind his chair the man looked at Marcus, gave him a quick glance up and down and then continued to speak. “My name is Graham Williams, and I fear that, much like you, I have no idea what is happening to us. I will, however, speculate that we all died in some way. That we went to our own personal flagellation chambers. As to what this place is, I am in the dark, but I think it is safe to say that we are all on the same side. How am I doing, sport?” Graham said with gentle honesty, yet inside he was shocked and confused as to how the trio had arrived given that there was no door to grant anyone entry or exit.

  Graham had been trapped in the building for what felt like an age. The sunlight outside never faltered, not even broken by a passing cloud, and so he had closed the drapes to create some degree of darkness only to find the lights came on as if on a sensor. The tables had been filled with food prior to his arrival, and all five place settings had been set. It was this specific number of settings at such a large table that offered a strange level of reassurance when Graham looked up and saw three strangers stood around like lost sheep.

  Marcus stepped forward. He was unsure why he did this before speaking, but he went with it. “Pretty good. We all died, you got that right. Where we went, well...” Marcus paused to choose the right word but was cut off by Becky, unafraid of speaking the word that hung on all their lips like a gossip.

  “We were in Hell, old timer. We all know it even if we won’t say it. Now, I don’t trust people easy but we’re all in the same boat, and right now I’m fucking hungry so let’s just have some food and see where this delightful day will take us from here,” Becky said with anger, but even Graham could tell that there was more to it than the stress of their unfortunate situation and so he let it slide. Instead, he sat down and raised his glass to them. It was a signal to them. It said, I am a friend. Eat with me so that we may talk. Across the table the pale figure of Samuel Westford turned his face to them; his eyes were swollen and bloodshot, surrounded by red blistered circles that looked like somebody had played a prank on him with a pair of binoculars that had been dipped in acid.

  Helen gasped, but caught herself before she uttered the cry that rose in her throat.

  “Hi,” Sammy muttered weakly, his voice cracked and broken.

  “You will have to forgive Samuel… Pardon me... Sammy,” Graham corrected himself and smiled at Sammy while doing so. “He isn’t ready to talk about things yet, and until he is I have promised to leave him to work through it on his own.” He finished speaking, took a long sip of the wine and smiled as it warmed his throat. It was the first time any of them had touched the spread. They had been too concerned and confused to think about eating, even though the aromas tied their stomachs into knots as they looked at each dish in turn, feeling the pain travel along their jaw as their deprived senses became overloaded.

  Marcus looked intently at the burns around the boy’s eyes. The skin was sore and blistered, the surrounding areas blackened and festering, while the eyes were not bloodshot, but rather weeping sores. His eyeballs had been damaged and what remained would never offer him the power of sight, even once the burns had healed.

  The trio sat at the table. The chairs were heavy but slid effortlessly over the floor. The thick velvet padded cushions welcomed their tired posteriors and enveloped them, wrapping around the individual contours of their bodies to provide them with the most comfortable sitting position. Soon they were all seated, with Graham at the head of the table, on the left-hand side when viewed from the direction Marcus and his ladies had approached from. Helen had positioned herself next to him and Marcus sat beside her. Becky took the place that was set on the opposite side of the table to Graham, beside Sammy. He had released his hold on himself, and now searched the table for his wine glass, having heard the others both raise and drink from theirs.

  “Here, let me help you.” Helen leaned across the table as far as she could, and Marcus could help himself but steal a peek at her behind as she did for her shirt rode up and exposed both her lower back and her belly, which was smooth and flat. He felt less guilty when he saw Graham doing the same. “Do you want white, red or rosé?” she asked him softly.

  “Red, please,” he answered, his voice a whisper but certainly more audible than before they took their seats.

  Becky handed Sammy the glass, and waited before lowering her hands just in case he needed some help in replacing it on the table.

  Despite their stomachs cramping in hunger nobody was prepared to make the first move and dig into the food. Occasionally one of them took a sip from their wine. The men had all chosen red, while Becky had taken the white and Helen opted for rosé. It was only once one person broke the standoff for a drink that the others all followed suit, and it soon turned into a round robin, each one taking a sip when it was their turn in the cycle.

  “Bugger this,” Becky finally said. She reached across and pulled the cover from the nearest dish and placed it on the table beside the container. “I’m famished,” she added as she looked at the contents.

  The silver serving dish was filled with bacon; crispy, fresh cooked bacon. It was hot and just too good to be ignored. All four of them dove in, piling their plates high with food. Marcus removed the cover from another platter revealing eggs; a mountain of scrambled eggs on one side and a tower of fried eggs on the other, some sunny side up and the others over easy, each cooked to perfection. The other dishes offered steaks, mixed vegetables, sautéed potatoes, mashed potatoes and a pasta dish with what they all assumed was chicken and large, thick sliced mushrooms covered in a rich cream sauce. The final serving dish that was within their seated reach was much deeper than the others. It was filled with fresh baked rolls; whole-wheat and white, covered with sesame seeds, poppy seeds, sunflower and pumpkin seeds. Not to mention ciabatta and flat breads a-plenty. There was also a wide selection of butters, margarines and spreads, including olive and walnut spreads, jams, preserves and various herb and garlic butters.

  With their plates filled they sat back. Only Sammy remained sitting with an empty plate.

  “I can smell it all. It smells so good,” he said as if only speaking to himself, forgetting the fact that he was in company.

  Sammy’s mind was overpowered by the smells. While he could put no images to the aromas, which by the time they reached his nose were mingled into one large, flavored cloud, his world was lit by a fireworks display. He struggled to speak because of the saliva that filled his mouth and the screaming that still rang in his ears.

  “Here you go, Sammy, I filled one for you. It’s got a bit of everything. I hope you don’t mind,” Graham said as he handed the laden plate to Becky, who in turn placed it in front of Sammy. She also handed him his cutlery. At first he took hold of her hand and gave it a grateful squeeze.

  “Thanks,” he said as he began to shovel the food into his mouth like a ravenous animal. Unlike the others he wasn’t privy to the tense and stifling Mexican standoff that had played out with the wine. Nor was he aware that he ended it when he began to eat with such gusto.

  It wasn’t long before they were all cramming food into their mouths like hamsters, swallowing mouthfuls whole in instances where chewing seemed to take too much time. They drank their glasses empty – and refilled them without hesitation – to wash the slow descending food away and clear the route for the next forkload. They ate through bouts of nausea, stomach cramps and sweats, but also through periods of near orgasmic pleasure and warming reassurance such as is only possible to feel through food. They never felt full, never felt the head dizzying effects of the drink.

  The more they ate, the more relaxed they began to feel in each other’s company. The more they drank the warmer they felt fr
om it, the more alive they seemed to feel, even if the alcohol seemed to be nullified somehow. Conversation began to flow, albeit stalled and rather awkward at first, nobody wanting to begin talking about their experiences or their current situation in general. Partly out of fear of the judgment and reaction of others, despite the link between Marcus and Becky, and the knowledge Helen had gained in a short time, they were still all strangers. Perhaps the main factor behind the short, choppy sentences and curtailed responses was that none of them wanted to stop eating. The risk of a serious conversation arising was too large. Not to mention the possibility that it could lead to a debate, and that would cost valuable mouth-filling moments. Instead conversation remained light and jovial. Memories of embarrassing moments and funny childhood stories were shared as if they were a group of old college buddies gathered for a barbeque one hot August afternoon.

  “I remember when I was a kid,” Marcus began, before forking a pile of scrambled eggs into his mouth – he was on to his third plate, having moved from bacon and eggs to a glorious steak dinner; he had been seduced once again by the perfectly cooked and seasoned eggs. ”We used to go away almost every weekend; camping, hiking, biking, it was only the four of us, but my mom was such a stickler for organization that she planned a simple two day hike…” Another load of eggs entered his mouth, this time accompanied by some garlic sautéed potatoes and a small piece of steak – his third of the meal – “as if it was the invasion of Normandy.” Marcus let out a small snort of a laugh at his comparison, one that in the station would have elicited a similar response from the audience. While Becky gave a slight chuckle, Marcus saw the look on Graham’s face and stopped. It was not a look of anger or disappointment, but one of remembrance.

  “Carry on; it was a long time ago. Don’t get all upset because some old bastard like me was there. I’m old, not an idiot. I do understand the concept of humor, you know.” Graham had a friendly voice and a wry smile across his face, immediately sensing or understanding the reason for the derailing of Marcus’s tale.

  “You were there?” Helen asked with a look of disquieting eagerness. “Sorry if I sound excited but History was the one subject that always kept my attention at school,” she continued before stopping to reload her mouth. She too was onto her third plate of food, although her’s were not stacked as full as the men’s were.

  “Yes, not for long. I didn’t storm the beaches or anything but I was there. My war was fought in the Netherlands… Holland.” He added the second name after a short pause to check for recognition or confusion. He saw neither but thought it best to include it to be on the safe side.

  “A bridge too far,” Sammy said, looking up from his second plate of food. His mouth was ringed by bits of food and butter from the bread rolls that he had taken such a shine to. His shirt was dirty also, but they forgave him that given his unfortunate circumstances. “I liked that movie.” It was the most Sammy had contributed to a conversation yet.

  “Yeah, that was a good one. I saw it myself. It wasn’t that operation for me, though. I was stationed closer to the Belgium border...” Graham paused, suddenly aware of how close he was to the subject they had all worked so hard to avoid. Fuck it, he thought before continuing, “We were there until the liberation, fighting small battles here and there. Had a couple of damn close calls too, I can tell you. In fact, it's part of the reason why I’m sitting here today.” He raised his glass and drained it empty, enjoying the clean taste it left. “Do you know? I think I’m done eating,” he added as an attempt to lighten the mood, or at least change the course of discussion.

  In seeming agreement, the others too set down their weapons and called a truce with the endless delights that lined the table.

  “Now would be a good moment for a cigar,” Marcus added, also aware of the direction the conversation was taken.

  “At least you went to Hell for doing the right thing. Protecting people, I mean, not killing. I got this because I looked at my hot neighbor when she was out and about in the summer,” Sammy said, not looking at any of them but rather gazing blankly at the center of the table – not that he knew it.

  “All I did was dislike my in-laws,” Helen said. She had been as good as silent since they had arrived. Even more so than when they first met Becky, and even now she seemed somewhat embarrassed at having spoken.

  “Crack whore.” Becky put her hand up as she spoke. “Long story short,” she said and smiled, and it was true: while there were many factors she was sure that contributed to her fall into the pit, it was this basic fact that remained the constant.

  “You two should have been neighbors,” Marcus blurted, pointing across at both Becky and Sammy. He smiled and before long the entire group was laughing, the pressure removed now that things had been brought to surface.

  “So you three don’t know each other then?” Graham said. The conversation had moved on at a natural pace, Marcus admitting his adultery, which he was surprised to find still stung him to say aloud.

  “Well, not really. I mean, that firecracker over there and I kind of have a history,” Marcus began. He winked at Becky as he said it so that she knew he meant nothing serious by it. It was just his way.

  “What he means is he tried to be all Action Jackson when I was in trouble and got killed as a result.” Becky smiled back, pouting.

  “Something like that, but we only met once we got here, in that weird hotel style building. I guess it’s on the other side of the street or something. It was too bizarre for words,” Marcus offered. They had already discussed the building, the strange grey living dust that seemed to detest color in the extreme, not forgetting the moving doors and wallpaper.

  Both Sammy and Graham had woken in the Banquet Room, as they had christened it, and so the tale of the mystical hotel held a great appeal for them. Sammy listened with his head turned away from Marcus, who did most of the talking, giving at least one ear direct access to the waves of spoken sound. Graham listened keenly, entranced by the tale, like a kid at camp, sitting around the fire, listening to the others tell ghost stories.

  The group remained at the table, yet was far more relaxed than they had been at the start. The wine flowed in more irregular streams rather than in the previously adopted synchronized style. Even Sammy had brightened up and seemed to be feeling far more comfortable with his position.

  “Does it hurt?” Becky asked with genuine concern, touching Sammy on the shoulder with the merest of brushing movements, just to let him know that she was talking to him and because she wanted to know, not through pity or through awkward formality, but because she genuinely wanted to know.

  “Not anymore. It did, but once I got here it began to fade,” he answered, looking right at her as he spoke.

  “How come… I mean, I got… um, well, injured when I was, you know, down there, but when I got here everything was gone,” Becky stammered as she tried to find the right words to use when phrasing what she viewed as a delicate question.

  “It’s true,” Helen agreed, her cheeks flushing a warm scarlet. “I was tortured for years, but I don’t have a mark on me,” she finished. Despite all they had been through, it seemed remarkably easy for them to talk about it all. The initial fear that had held them all in its vice-like grip while alone had begun to loosen in the presence of company. Much like an abusive spouse, it seemed happy to play along while the others were around, but nothing comes without a price, and it would be reaped when the time was right… when they were alone again.

  “That’s because the demon that put their hands on you was powerful. A demon of the second hierarchy, and not someone you would expect to find getting their hands dirty in the lower levels of the pit such as the chambers you five occupied. His name was Rosier, and we cannot undo his touch,” a new voice said. It was deep and monotonous and made all five of them jump.

  Unlike the others, Marcus and Graham reacted more then jumped, both leaping to their feet. Marcus noted how sprightly Graham was for an older man.

  �
�Who the hell are you?” Marcus demanded. He turned as he snapped to attention, and saw the four other men standing at the head of the table far to his right.

  “Sit,” the one in the middle ordered. He stood half a pace ahead of the other three, who stood with their arms straight, hands resting over each other in the center of their waist like personal security, or the guardians of the Matrix.

  Marcus felt an overwhelming urge to take his seat again, and very nearly did when he heard a chair scraping behind him. Out of the corner of his eye Marcus saw that the others had also risen to their feet, even Sammy.

  “No. You see, I’ve had about enough little surprises and strange goings on for one day. You sound like someone who can give us some answers, so why don’t you start by telling us who you are and then, maybe, if we like what we hear we’ll sit. What do you say?” Marcus stood firm, his shoulders back, blood surging through his veins. He was nervous. His hands shook but he held them before his body, fists clenched. The fact that he felt so nervous was actually a comfort for him.

  “How dare you speak to...” One of the minders took a stride forward, his face a thundercloud of restrained rage. His eyes seemed to flash and spark like a live electric cable, while his hulking muscle ridden frame looked to have expanded and stretched the skin that covered it to the limit. The other man, the obvious leader of the group, simply stuck his arm out and held up his hand in a silencing gesture.

  “Calm down, Nakir. They are sinners, and know no better. Besides, they are right; we haven’t introduced ourselves to them yet.” He turned his head to his friend as he spoke, then turned back to look at Marcus. After some pause, he added, “My apologies.” He flashed them a smile and folded his hands before his body much like the others. Behind him, the one he called Nakir had resumed his place in the line. “My name is Raguel, and these are my brothers. Nakir has already made his presence felt, as is often his way. The fellow on my left here is Sariel.” Raguel pointed to the man that stood at the end of the line; he was an ordinary looking man, not as large or imposing as Nakir. Raguel wore a pair of faded blue jeans, a regular work shirt and a pair of black shoes. His hairline receded slightly as the later stages of youth began to give way to approaching middle age, and also unlike Nakir, whose eyes were so dark they seemed black, Sariel’s were green; nothing out of the ordinary but clearly more colored than his muscular counterpart. “And this is Nemamiah.” He was dressed in a casual suit. He had a pair of glasses perched on his nose but he seemed to not understand their purpose for he kept removing them and then replacing them, and when his name was mentioned and the attention directed his way he dropped them. He was the youngest of all four, or so he looked. Nemamiah offered them a strained smile, but for the rest, his body did not move.