Highway To Hell

by Alex Laybourne

  When his slide finally came to a halt, Richard’s body landed in a limp heap, his legs bent one way, his upper body twisted another. His neck snapped to the left so hard that the pain erupted through his entire body like a ball of fire. Just before his world went black, Richard managed to raise his arms and drape them over his face to protect him from the sun which had now passed over the mountain and had the rest of the afternoon to focus all of its damaging attention on the prostrate figure that lay below it.

  Richard had no idea how long he was unconscious, but when he came around a genuine twilight had taken over the world – not just the hazy blackness of impending unconsciousness, but the actual look of the world as the light is rubbed out.

  Richard sat up, his skin dry cracked and sore, already blistered from overexposure. Weeping sores covered his arms from where they had been raised. His legs were straight out before him, and he could see that his left ankle was badly swollen, his knee was locked into place, and Richard saw his jeans were soaked to a hardened crisp from where his blood had been spilt. A large tear ran through his jeans leg, stretching from his knee down to the midpoint of his shin. Through it, Richard could see a deep laceration that ran the same length as the tear. Yet miraculously he could feel and move both of his legs and saw no immediate sign of continued blood loss.

  Looking up at the mountain Richard was amazed at how large it looked. He couldn’t see the exact place where he let go, but he made a groggy estimate and found he didn’t like even the most conservative of numbers.

  How did we survive that? the voice said. This voice wasn’t groggy, and it didn’t seem to be suffering from the heat or overexposure. The only thing that seemed to affect him had been the itch, which, now that Richard thought about it, still burned like the memories of a first love.

  I don’t know. I guess somebody up there likes me today, Richard thought to himself. He shivered. It was cold. Night approached fast in the desert, no matter the passage of time once it arrived. The stars were already out in force, and Richard just knew that this night would be a long one.

  A fluttering sound behind him made him turn sharply, and his neck called out a bright reminder of its recent off road adventure. Moving slower, turning his entire upper body in one sweeping motion – it was stiff but not as painful as when he moved his neck –Richard saw nothing. Not just in terms of a source of the fluttering sound, but nothing, simply endless rolls of undulating sand dunes and valleys of dried cracked earth which he assumed had once been the bed of rivers, wild water highways that had cut through this arid landscape and offered respite to all who graced the vicinity. The fluttering sounded again, buzzing in his ears like a mosquito in the middle of the night. Richard turned back again – and then he saw it. It hovered in the air, its body not exactly glowing but shimmering in the moonlight as if it had a phosphorescent shell. The scorpion hovered mere inches from Richard’s face, its wings creating an ever so slight breeze that battered against his nose, making it itch.

  “Hey, little guy, I guess I owe you a lot of thanks, or at least half of a lot.” Richard smiled, unable to take his eyes off the magical creature.

  Moving with a grace the defied its species, the creature landed on Richard’s injured leg just above the knee. He could feel its legs prickling his skin. Richard winced at the sensation – not pain – but the scorpion stood perfectly still. Richard smiled at it. “You are a strange little bugger,” he began, but before he could say anything else the scorpion struck. With the speed of Mohammed Ali’s jab its barbed tail whipped out and dug into Richard’s leg. It struck three times in quick succession, each strike so fast that Richard didn’t even see it move more than once. “Ah… Son of a bitch!” Richard snapped, flicking out his hand and slapping the creature off of his leg.

  The scorpion landed on its feet and turned to face him. “You journey has begun,” the creature said, and then in a sudden burst of fire the jape scorpion was engulfed in flames, and disappeared within a few seconds. It left behind not even a scorching on the ground or a smell of smoke in the air.

  The pain was instantaneous; Richard could feel his leg begin to swell as the poison worked its way into his body. It was excruciating. Richard felt his heart begin to race. His breathing accelerated but become shallow at the same time. A bellow of rage grew in the pit of his stomach where it remained prisoner for as long as Richard could contain it. His leg was swollen to the point where it looked the same as when Bill Bixby’s Bruce Banner got mad. A sudden gust of wind ran through the desert, carrying Richard’s screams off into the distance, leaving behind nothing but a howling echo that came close to taking Richard’s focus away from the pain. The pain remained long into the night, and Richard lay awake the entire time. He screamed and roared in agony until his throat was raw and the coppery taste of fresh meat filled the back of his throat. His leg alternated from periods of burning, fire fuelled agony to near frozen cold spells that only served to aggravate the poison further. When the sun finally rose in the morning, Richard lay once again with his eyes closed, only this time it was a light form of sleep that held him captive. Even in his dreams his leg burned, but he was elsewhere, lost in a happy place. The scene changed every few moments, or so it felt. One moment he was at the local water park where he had spent many summers as a child, and then he was in a forest, the floor thick with pine needles that crunched beneath his feet. He turned a corner and found himself looking at a church; a small quaint country church surrounded by barren fields. A small campfire smoldered beneath the shadow of the church, a thin trail of grey wispy smoke dancing into the air, pushed along by a light breeze. Just like the breeze created by the jade colored scorpion. A close up image of the rare creature appeared in his mind, spot lit and taking center stage. Its talking head’s monologue was short and simple: Your journey has begun. The words echoed through Richard’s dream world: taking him by the hand, they pulled him from slumber.

  Richard’s eyes fluttered open. The lids were heavy and his head called out groggily, his mind swimming in the strange sensation of too much sleep, leaving him feeling shattered. With his mind temporarily blank, he sat up and looked around him. He remembered the dream, the strange places he had visited, and the subtle threatening nature of them. A strange feeling that some unseen hostility lurked in the background, behind the images he saw, had created a feeling of dread the emanated from the pit of his stomach and just could not be shaken loose. After allowing his head to clear, Richard immediately noticed the changes, not only in the desert around him but also in him. His clothes were the same, but his body beneath them was not. His leg was healed, the deep incision which if it had been viewed under more professional circumstances would have revealed a wound deep enough to see the bone, was gone, and not even a scar remained, not even a scab to show he had fallen. His leg was as good as it once was. Richard sat looking at his healed limb, having rolled his trouser leg up to get a better look. He remembered the scorpion, its lightning fast tail stabbing him several times, he remembered it exploding in a flash of light, and slowly the pieces began to slot together.

  It was a test of faith, he told himself. The scorpion rewarded me for making the right decision.

  Before the other voice that dwelled inside his mind had a chance to add his two pennies worth of information, Richard scrambled to his feet. The sun had begun to warm up the sandy world once again but Richard felt certain that he would be fine. As he stood, his back cracked several times, and his legs ached with sciatica from his rather unusual choice of sleeping locations, but once he stared walking it soon passed. Turning his back on the mountain, Richard faced the desert and looked at how it had changed. There were two paths, one heading east, the other heading west, or so he assumed given the path of the sun each day – but who was to say that in this world the sun followed such a strict path – and each path extended as far as Richard could see. All around him was sand, undulating unbroken rows of sweeping dunes. Each one rippled from the flow of sand and the occasional gentle gust of wa
rm arid wind. The horizon seemed to shimmer as it met the once again cloudless blue sky. Richard turned his focus back to the two pathways. He stood at the beginning of each, the starting points so close to one another that only after closer inspection showed that they did not meet.

  A decision; you must make a decision, he told himself.

  In the center of each path, but several meters after they began, lay what could only be considered a guardian. On his left, the path heading east, he saw a dead bird, its body plump and gaseous. It was still covered in feathers. They were dark grey and looked almost like that of a pigeon, only longer, much longer. The legs were bright orange and seemed to have curled up into the body like the legs of the wicked witch that Dorothy was so kind as to flatten with her house. The wings however were completely decomposed, all traces of flesh and feather removed, leaving nothing but bone bleached by the sun and polished by the abrasive nature of sand. The wings were not curled up or broken as Richard would have expected but rather spread out wide as if the animal were in full flight. The wingspan was large, much larger than would be normal for a bird of that size. Its neck was broken, the head twisted so that it looked right at Richard. The eyes seemed alert. Even in death their piercing brown color led Richard to believe that if so inclined the bird could spring up and hop away.

  Of course, it did not.

  To Richard’s right, the path that headed west was guarded by a snake. The large reptile was coiled up on itself. Its head rested on its spiraled body. The creature seemed to sense the gaze of the strange man that stood before it and raised its head – not a lot, but just enough to show it was alive and that it was a bad motherfucker. The snake had seen man before, many years ago, and it still carried the scars down its flank, which served as an everyday reminder for him to always be on his guard.

  Richard saw the snake and understood the danger before it moved. He could hear it, the hissing of its forked tongue as it shot out of its mouth with the same lightning speed as the striking stinger on the end of the jade scorpion’s tail. It tasted the air, tasted him no doubt, inhaled his scent. Uncoiling, the snake raised its head ever further and Richard could clearly see its coloration. Its body was a dark green, with yellow edged diamonds running down its belly. Along its flank ran spots of red – at least from the sensible and safe viewing distance Richard had decided to keep they looked like spots - but they could well have been random patches of color, or even watery edged diamonds to match the reptile’s belly tattoos.

  The snake opened its mouth, hissing like a cornered cat, and in doing so revealed two rows of large hooked fangs in each corner of its mouth. The large fangs were at the front and behind them, just slightly offset, was a smaller set. The larger front fangs glistened in the sunlight, coated in and dripping the venom that it was so eager to share with whoever came too close.

  What a choice, Richard said to himself. He wanted to sit down. His body was tired and his head felt groggy. Well we have to pick one of them, he told himself, eager to make a decision before the unwanted voice returned. Richard looked at each path in turn, from east to west. Neither looked any different. The dry riverbed off into the distance rose and fell in rhythm with the dunes.

  I would choose the snake, the voice spoke up again.

  Why? It looks dangerous. I think we should go east, if for anything simply because it heads away from the sun at the moment, Richard reasoned with himself. He was unsure if he spoke out loud but when he thought about it found that he didn’t care either way.

  You have to be kidding me. Look at that thing. It’s dead. D-E-A-D. Dead.

  I know, but the snake is dangerous; it’s just waiting to take a bite, and I have a bad feeling about it.

  Remember the fucking scorpion. It’s a test. West is the answer.

  No. I’m in charge; we’re supposed to go east. It’s in my gut.

  I’m in your head, you fool. Go west. The snake is here to help us.

  Richard stood still, simply staring from one path to the other like a child checking the road for traffic but never being brave enough to take the first step even onto an empty street. He looked from the dead animal, with the decayed extremities and the life-like torso, to the cold blooded, evil eyed snake. The small black dots that Richard assumed were its eyes seemed to be fixed on him, as if trying to beckon him over. The issue of the scorpion weighed heavy in his mind, and he turned his body to head towards the reptile, when he remembered that the scorpion helped heal him; it had served a purpose. This time he didn’t need to be cured; he was as healthy as could be expected for somebody stranded in the desert. He also remembered the Bible. Genesis. The creation of the world and the tempting of Adam and Eve, man’s fall from grace and expulsion from the Garden of Eden. It was all masterminded by the serpent.

  The serpent is not the right choice, Richard said – or maybe just thought – to himself. With that he turned and started walking towards the eastbound riverbed.

  Oh, so choosing death is better than a snake. That’s what this path is, you know: DEATH for us both.

  The voice staged its protest vehemently but Richard’s mind was made up, the decision already made.

  If it is a good death, then yes. I would rather die (again) knowing I made the right choice.

  Concentrating hard, Richard made himself bring down – or erect – some mental walls and block the annoying conscience themed voice from coming any further forward. It wasn’t a sturdy construction but it would hold him long enough for Richard to start his journey, and by then it would be too late for further protest.

  Richard reached the dead bird and paused. He stood over it and looked down at it. He was amazed at the way the wings were spread, as if it had been placed so at some point in time. Before he set off, Richard cast his eyes back over his shoulder at the path he had decided against. It was a momentary glance, but enough to tell him he had made the right decision. The snake had risen even higher from the ground, its body thick and powerful, overflowing with a deadly force and Richard could have sworn, even though it was the quickest of glances that he gave the beast, that it had smiled at him.

  Richard turned back again and with his head down, staring at his feet, watching how they moved over the cracked arid floor beneath them, he began his eastward journey, unsure where it would take him or what he would do when he got there. He was just happy to be off the mountain, and to have a direction to head in, but most of all he was thankful to the scorpion, for its sting had finally taken away the maddening itch of his groin. He hadn’t checked the merchandise just yet, but it felt all in one piece and seemed to swing the right way so he would take it.

  XII

  “I’m sorry… Could you say that one more time for me, please?” Graham said first; each stuttered word was interspaced with stifled laughter. The kind you get at all the most inopportune moments throughout your life; church or the school assembly were always the popular ones, not to mention business meetings or remembrance services.

  “Yes, with pleasure,” Raguel said in a stoic fashion. “We are Angels of the Lord, and we have been sent here to gather you all.” The words were cold, emotionless; they smelt foul on the air coming out of Raguel’s mouth and they felt even fouler when they entered the ears of the feasting group.

  “A-angels. As in wings and halo angels?” Helen stuttered and mumbled. Her voice lacked the mocking undertones that had accompanied Graham’s initial statement, and instead made her sound rather fearful.

  “Well, your conception of us is a fool’s mindset and depicts us in a certain way, but for the sake of your own understanding, then yes. Angels with wings and halos is exactly what we are,” Raguel said. It was obvious to all that he was in charge, the person to deal with, to come to when you wanted to file any grievances. The others stood stock still behind him, and if they hadn’t all moved earlier at some point in time after their arrival, everyone in the group would have been forgiven for thinking them to be statues.

  They don’t even blink, Marcus thought to himsel
f.

  “Bullshit. Tell us the truth. I mean, you pulled us out so I guess we are indebted to you to a certain degree, but don’t bullshit us.” Graham rose from behind the table, his chair grating on the floor, eliciting a sound not unlike long gnarled yellow fingernails scraping the top layer from a blackboard in a classroom filled with unruly children.

  “You dare question us? Call me a liar, you peasant?” Raguel roared. He threw his hands out and the room began to shake as if an earthquake had picked a most poetic moment to release its rage. The lights dimmed and Raguel seemed to grow, rising into the air. His feet left the floor as his face reddened with a controlled yet imposing rage. His eyes were wide, his lips clenched tight, and electricity seemed to snap and crackle in the air around them.

  Sammy, in his blind and rather disadvantaged state, jumped as a charge hit his arm and jolted through his body. The curtain that hung before the windows was thrown back. It grabbed all of their attention, with the exception of Graham, who seemed to have his gaze held by the furious Raguel. The angel’s face had continued to darken and now looked like somebody who had been hung to the point of suffocation only to be revived at the last second. Outside the sky too had darkened, as if someone had flipped the theoretical switch and brought darkness forward but a few hours. The ground seemed to tremble and even in the near night conditions they could see the thick bubbling thunderhead clouds that had gathered overhead. A fierce wind surged down the street, whistling through the eaves of the other buildings; it kicked sand up from street and battered it against the window like a fine rain. Mini tornados of gritty dust raced along the road and disappeared into the night.