Highway To Hell

by Alex Laybourne

  “Okay, those are nice names,” Marcus said sarcastically. “But not what I meant. Who are you?” he asked again.

  Raguel opened his mouth to answer, pausing before continuing in a tone that was one of complete surprise, as if their names alone should have been introduction enough. “Why, we’re Angels of the Lord.”

  XI

  The sun beat down. The sky was cloudless a deep shade of azure, impossibly so. It was the kind of blue sky seen in surreal movies or comedies, and had Richard not been staring into it for the past week he would not have believed it even if someone had told him and made him watch their home movies of the trip to prove it. Truth was he had no clue how long he had been there, stranded on the top of a mountain risen in the center of a large desert. Although it wasn’t just desert, no, there were patches of what looked like dry earth, cracked open like the soles of the feet that must have tried to cross this landscape at some point in times past.

  The sun moved across the sky, a large burning disc that traversed the world far too close to the ground to be considered a good sign – although that could have been aided by the impossible height of the rock which Richard found himself stranded on. It rose in the East, and lowered in the west, but its pace was as impossible to gauge as the mind of a woman, especially one who bases all of her important life decision on the measure of drink and liquor floating through her system at the time of asking. Some days would go by slower than the last afternoon of school before summer. The heat would boil the sweat while it was still beneath Richard’s skin, and the night would go even slower, the cold air freezing him. With no place to turn for shelter from either of the two extremes, Richard lay flat against the rock, fighting against the elements. The sun would rise and he would welcome he oncoming heat, and the moon would come out and usher in an equally welcomed cool. Then, just as Richard would get accustomed to the system, it all changed. The sun would rise; the temperature would shoot off the chart before the burning orb had revealed itself for the day to be gone in a matter of hours, before a night came that lasted twice as long as Richard could bear. There was no pattern to the concept of time, except maybe a randomness which could only be seen once the approaching insanity could decode.

  The first few days after his arrival, Richard stood or sat in the same location, just waiting for the man, Jizo, to come back and take him further on whatever journey it was that he had to make; escaping Hell or simply being moved further into it, he wasn’t sure which. However, after a particularly long day and halfway through an equally slow night, Richard finally realized that he was waiting for something that would not happen. It was his move to make. On the fourth day Richard began his search for a way down, or at least a route that was less than vertical and offered a modicum of grip. There was nothing. He was stuck on the plateau of a large mountain in the middle of the desert without even so much as a tree to offer him shade. There was no way down that wasn’t merely a feat of chance. By the end of that fourth day the sun had begun to take its toll on him. Richard found himself weaker, the night was harder, and even by mid-afternoon on the fifth day beneath the blistering sun, he shivered. Richard was reduced to crawling on his hands and knees as he continued to scavenge the mountain top for something, anything. Each day he would cover the same ground, hoping for some change, for some miraculous or overlooked escape point. He thought he had seen a root or some other form of vine not far below the edge on the evening of the fifth day, and so he had headed for it, but no sooner had his grasping fingers found their target did the vines crumble in his hands, disappearing to dust and floating off into the wind.

  At the peak of the sixth day, Richard sat back, resting on his elbows, forearms flat against the burning rock, like a holiday maker on Bondi Beach. He watched as a fascinatingly green colored scorpion crawled along his legs. The creature seemed rather interested in this new find, for it had stalked Richard for the best part of ninety minutes, much to Richard’s amusement. It circled him like a cat circling the unaware blackbird, moving it seemed in ever decreasing circles until the time came for its first approach. Richard’s body had been coated in sweat as the beast approached him. He was exhausted, unable to move away if he wanted to. His body burnt from the sun, blisters had erupted all over his flesh and they seemed to pulse in a strange rhythm, his right arm was tingling, while his left had lost nearly all sensation other than a dull ache which lingered in the back of his mind. The unusual coloration of the creature also held him captive; the fine hairs on its body were clearly visible and to Richard’s sun-bleached mind it looked like a gooseberry. Richard had laughed, chuckled until his stomach cramped. When he focused again the beast was gone; it had moved from the rock and now sat, perched neatly, on Richard’s legs. His trousers were torn at the knee, his legs exposed. The scorpion moved with a gentle grace. Its feet were tipped like needles yet they didn’t break the skin. Its curled tail twitched at regular intervals and its body expanded as it took a breath. The barb was a much darker shade of green than the rest of its body, dyed by the poison that filled it, no doubt. The large pincers were held up in the air, the left one higher than the right, as if it was taking up the defensive stance of a boxer, ready to strike with one claw while protecting itself should the enemy get a shot off or even evade the first attack.

  Afraid to even move, Richard lay still, his breath burning in his lungs, his legs trembling as his body began to scream for oxygen. For a while he thought the creature had fallen asleep; it didn’t move, didn’t breathe. It just sat still. Finally, after what felt like an age, with a startling leap the creature jumped from Richard’s legs and landed more than a meter away. It remained where it landed for a few moment – winded, perhaps – before scurrying off again, disappearing over the edge of the cliff. Richard watched the creature, awed by the certainty of its movements, and he was overtaken by a sudden surety that the answer to his eventual descent laid in the beast. Rolling onto his front, ignoring the cries of his body, Richard forced himself onwards. He crawled on his belly like a snake, not stopping until his bloodied hands hooked over the lip of his elevated prison. The sun blisters that covered him had burst, becoming open, weeping sores. Sweat stung them and the pain sounded in his ears like wind chimes. Richard also felt his crotch begin to itch, a mere flutter of a sensation that went away with a simple veering of the mind. Richard hauled himself further over the edge, giving himself a clear view straight down the side of the cliff. At first the scorpion was gone: Richard scoured the cliff face but saw nothing. Then, there it was, scurrying effortlessly down the side of the mountain. It reached about halfway down and stopped. Richard waited and watched as the beast jumped from the rock and plummeted towards the ground before a set of wings came loose from its back and began to flap furiously in a bid to slow its ever accelerating descent. With the task accomplished, the beating wings took on a much more rhythmic pattern, and the unique creation flew away, gaining height and picking up speed. Richard watched it go and then turned, exhausted, exasperated and defeated. It was at that moment, with his head still hanging over the edge of the cliff, that Richard raised the question of just letting himself fall straight down into the desert below like Wyle E. Coyote.

  That wasn’t possible – although, if it could do that, then why can’t you? a voice spoke inside Richard’s head. It was a voice he was familiar with, although in the past it had always been more aggressive. It was the instigator behind many of his sexual adventures, the whispering voice that sat on his shoulders, directing his moves, aiding and powering his thrusts, enhancing his love making until he could outlast even the most energetic of women in bed and leave them begging for more.

  Maybe. I mean, nothing makes sense anymore, his own mind answered the voice. It was the first time he had answered, or reasoned with himself, but the voice was different now; it was withdrawn, worried, maybe even scared.

  If you believe it, then surely it makes sense, and then anything is possible. I mean, this rock you’re on, it looks a little, I don’t know... um...
sandy to me, yeah, real brittle. I reckon you could just dig your way down, if you had enough time.

  Richard found himself peering down the side of the mountain once again. He was shocked by what he saw, the sides no longer the hard, smooth rock of a few minutes previous, but fragile piles of sand that seemed to be flowing as the top layer drifted down to the bottom, where it formed the new base and pushed the pile back up to its full height.

  Was it always like that? he asked himself. No answer came.

  Of course it was. You just missed it, Richard gave himself the answer.

  Richard’s movements were slow, more through his body’s weakened condition than as a result of any planned caution, but he swung himself over the ledge and, with a series of weak kicks, managed to create a foothold and followed this up by creating a second. He swung his second leg over and was now ready to begin his possibly foolish Papillion impression, and try to escape an inescapable prison.

  His progress was slow and it didn’t take long before his body began to rebel. His shoulders cried out as cramp surged through them. His forearms and fingers burned from the constant tension that they were under. Sweat blinded him and his gums bled as his clenched jaw forced his teeth deeper into their beds.

  Through it all, the itch in his crotch grew. It was no longer a thought in the back of his mind but a fact, cold and hard to ignore.

  In an attempt to catch his breath Richard stopped and rested his head against the rock. Its surface was chalky, and although he couldn’t see it, he felt a layer of powdered rock dust stick to his sweat drenched forehead. Once it became clear to him that resting in his current position would not lead to recuperation in any form, he continued his descent, slamming his feet into the softened sand-like rock, driving his legs with power generated in an attempt to ward off the itching which had become too much to bear. It had progressed beyond the point of a need to scratch and become something painful in both mind and body.

  His feet hit home, eliciting a grunt which could have come from either him or the rock. Richard lowered himself another step, hands filling the indentations left by his feet from an earlier strike. Richard had struggled at first, but now he had found his rhythm. It was slow and steady but it worked for him. He looked up and saw the ledge towering above him.

  What are you doing? the voice whispered to him, impatient with the halt of his descent.

  There’s no way I’ve come that far. Fifty feet, seventy-five maybe, but no way have I come this far. Richard looked back up again. The ledge must have been at least two hundred meters above him, too far to change his mind.

  Richard clenched his teeth, closed his eyes and tried to wipe his mind.

  It itches so bad, doesn’t it? The voice changed its approach, trying to find another way to worms into Richard’s mind, to sell him a deal he couldn’t refuse.

  It itches, but you can make it stop. Just scratch it. It’s burning, right? it probed.

  No, it’s not. Focus. Come on, we need to get down. I’m saying that this is all wrong, don’t you see? Richard told himself

  Okay, but just scratch it, we can’t think like this. Scratch; find that sweet release and then we can think things through with a clear head.

  The argument raged inside his head, and Richard could feel his mind being pushed and pulled in both directions. Through it all, his crotch continued to burn as the itching became so intense it brought tears to his eyes. His whole body called out to be scratched yet he knew only one place would be the right one, the sweet spot that would make it all go away. Richard tried to grind his crotch on the rocks, but it was to no avail. This relief needed to be delivered by a much more intimate method. He closed his eyes and the voices grew louder, so he opened them again. Determined to ignore them, he looked around. He was unfocused but determined to find a way to the bottom. He looked down, and thought the cliff no longer looked like such a vertical drop, but had turned into a curve. The change in gradient was slight, if at all, but it was better than the sheer face he had begun with.

  If I can just find a way to make…

  Scratch IT! Burning, we’re burning up!

  I just need to work out how…

  To scratch it. We could think clearer if we did..

  “No!” Richard bellowed aloud, his voice raspy, his throat agony as a result. His grip loosened as cramp buried into his forearms while his swollen fingers were skinned down to the bone. Unable to take the strain any longer, they released their grip, and for a split second Richard hung in the air. It was a sobering moment, akin to when one falls asleep while driving. Having not noticed your head drooping towards the steering wheel, you are jolted awake when your head snaps back up just in time to avoid disaster. Richard closed his eyes and forced his fingers to do the same. They dug into the rock. It didn’t stop his fall, but rather sent him sliding like Errol Flynn down sail of a ship, knife-like fingers slicing through the sandy cliff face. His descent slowed – after a few more meters Richard came to a stop.

  The unwanted descent had taken Richard closer to the ground, but now his feet were left without purchase. He tried to create some foothold like before, but the soft surface was gone, replaced by hardened, terracotta colored rock. Time passed, the sun beat down on him, and Richard felt his grip begin to give. His kicks against the rock lost their impotence, his toes numb from the blows. Still the maddening itch buried its way deep into his crotch, like a flesh-eating bug. At some point during his descent the thin, healed skin had been ripped away. The skin beneath the scab was wet and raw, and Richard’s every move irritated it further.

  Just FUCKING SCRATCH IT!

  The sweat blinded him as the need to scratch continued to grow. Richard realized it was unavoidable. Much like mosquito bites, there was only so long he could resist before he just had to scratch them, stopping only once he had broken the surface of the swelling, spilling the white poisonous fluid that filled them.

  Richard’s hands slipped further, the surface of the rocks slick with a mixture of blood and sweat. His strength had deserted him; he hadn’t even the energy to tell the voice in his head to shut up. He needed to think and find a fast way down – and then it came to him.

  There’s only one thing for it, he told himself as he looked down between his legs.

  Just scratch it then, get it over with. You know you’re not thinking straight. Scratch it and things will look so much different. Don’t do anything stupid.

  Fuck you, Richard snapped at himself, unsure if he spoke aloud, not caring either way.

  Richard closed his eyes, and a sudden moment of clarity came rushing into his brain as he realized what he was about to do, and for the first time he could remember, certainly the first time since his parents had died, Richard Hamilton prayed. The words felt hollow and stale in his mouth. He knew what he planned to do was wrong, but at the same time if felt right.

  “Our Father, which art in heaven, Hallowed be thy name.

  Thy kingdom come, Thy will be done in earth, as it is in heaven.

  Give us this day our daily bread.

  And forgive us our debts, as we forgive our debtors.

  And lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil:

  For thine is the kingdom, and the power, and the glory, for ever.

  Amen”

  Richard whispered the final word and then kissed the rock. Wanting no further moments to risk additional reflection, Richard released his grip. The feat itself was harder than he had anticipated and for a while Richard wondered what that meant.

  Cramp raged through his arms and shoulders, which he found to be locked into position, yet somehow Richard managed to force his hands to open far enough to allow gravity to do its part in the proceedings.

  Turning as he fell, Richard felt his back grate against the rock. He began to pick up speed. The rock wasn’t as smooth as Richard thought, yet after a few feet his body came away from the wall and removed the issue from his list of problems. Richard pitched forward and for a moment thought that he would
do a somersault in mid-air and land head first in the ground like a javelin launched from the top of the highest mountain in Hell.

  Thankfully the curve of the cliff face began at just the right moment: Richard’s heels hit first, creating a jolt that ran up his spine like a static shock. He twisted and felt his spine crack. He gave a small cry but was cut off when his torso slammed into the cliff face, bouncing not once but three times before settling into the slide. Richard’s head also took a solid whiplash jolt which caused fireworks to explode before his eyes, and twilight descended over the entire desert. Richard managed to remain conscious but felt his slide getting out of control; his speed was much faster than he had thought it would be in his brief moment of contemplation. Before he reached the burning sand of the desert, he had twisted and begun to tumble rather than slide. His arms went out behind him to try and create some stability, but succeeded in merely loosing several layers of skin and being pulled to the limit of their arc of rotation.