Planet Purgatory

by Martin, Benedict

  Her smile was infectious, and I soon found myself laughing right along with her.

  “Do you think you could do it again?”

  With her trademark grin, she closed her fist, slowly opening it to reveal one of those origami stones. “Do you want to throw it?”

  I reached for it only to pull back my arm. “It’s not going to blow up in my hand, is it?”

  “Only if you want it to.”

  I couldn’t help being suspicious, but whatever fears I had were overcome by curiosity, and I picked it up, half certain I was about to lose my arm.

  “What do I do?”

  “Throw it.”

  So I did, launching it across the bowl where it exploded with unexpected violence.

  “That was awesome!”

  “Would you like to try again?”

  “Can I?”

  Flea opened and closed her hand, this time revealing two stones. “We’ll throw them together,” she explained.

  If I thought one stone was powerful, two were positively vicious, sending debris high into the sky.

  “Oh, man! Where were you when I was fourteen?” I asked, gazing in wonder at the craters in the ground.

  “Again?” asked Flea, handing me another stone.

  We must have spent ten minutes blowing things up. Green-men, trees, the bonfire; I could only imagine what anyone nearby would have thought. Not that I cared.

  “Hey, imp, can you make them more powerful?”

  “You want something stronger?”

  With a sly grin, Flea revealed another stone. It looked the same as the others, and I was about to send it into the air when she instructed me to throw it as far and as hard as I possibly could. There was something about the way she said it that gave me pause, but I needed to see what it could do. So after loosening my shoulder, I threw that stone as far as I could, launching it into the trees, where, after a moment of silence, I was witness to the biggest explosion I’d ever seen.

  It started as a great column of fire, followed by a shock wave that not only splintered trees but overturned the wagon as well, sending me into the ground with such force it knocked the wind from my lungs.

  My senses were scrambled, and I rolled onto my belly, covering the back of my head with my hands as debris rained down from the sky. And then I heard it, Flea’s laughter. I looked over, and sure enough, there she was, doubled over with arms over her belly, laughing so hard it looked like she was moments away from toppling over. Either that, or vomiting.

  Meanwhile a great cloud of smoke hung in the sky.

  I picked myself up from the dirt and staggered toward the still-hysterical Flea. “What are you?”

  Giggling, she reached up and cupped my face with her hands. “You did ask me to make it stronger.”

  I was still dizzy from the explosion, and could only watch as she pulled my face down and kissed me playfully on the nose before she went scampering into the forest.

  “Come on,” she said. “It’s time to bring you to SYS!”

  * * *

  I felt much more at ease traveling through the forest with Flea as my guide. In fact, I barely paid attention to my surroundings, focusing instead on the strange being scampering in front of me. I didn’t know what to make of the diminutive imp. While I couldn’t rule out the possibility that she was a demon, something told me she wasn’t evil. Naughty, yes. Mischievous, most definitely. But she possessed an aura of warmth that made me think she genuinely cared for my well-being.

  It was about an hour into the hike that I got the distinct impression that we were moving in circles. Stranger still, the imp seemed to be searching the trees for something.

  “Uh, Flea? What are you doing?”

  “Looking for one of those arrows.”

  “What do you mean? What arrows?”

  “You know, the arrows marking the way to the SYS building.”

  I continued walking, watching as she scampered from tree to tree.

  “I thought you made those arrows.”

  “I did,” answered the imp.

  “But wouldn’t that mean you know where SYS is?”

  “That’s right.”

  “So why don’t you just take me there?”

  “What would be the fun in that?” she asked, giving me a disapproving glance.

  Maybe it was the endless ringing in my ears, or maybe it was because I hadn’t eaten anything in a couple of days, but I lost my temper, picking up a stick and throwing it at a tree.

  “Are you serious? We’ve been walking in circles looking for an arrow pointing to a location you already know? Why?”

  “I told you. It’s more fun.”

  “You’re insane! You know that? You’re freaking crazy!”

  “Oh, David,” said Flea, approaching me with her arms outstretched.

  “Get away from me!”

  But she wouldn’t listen, chasing me around the forest with her outstretched arms while I called her every name I could think of. It was ridiculous, and I finally gave up, collapsing against a tree while the little imp wrapped her arms around my neck.

  “Oh, David. You’re so cute when you’re angry. But I know one thing that will brighten your spirits.”

  “And what’s that?”

  “Look up.”

  So I did, and wouldn’t you know it, there was one of those wretched arrows, carved into the tree directly above my head.

  Chapter 10

  Flea was, without question, the most energetic being I’d ever had the misfortune of coming across. The moment we found that first arrow, she was searching for the next one, scrambling from tree to tree, giggling like a child after consuming a bagful of Pixy Stix. It wouldn’t have been so bad had it not been for the constant chatter.

  And to top it all off, I knew perfectly well she knew exactly where all those stupid arrows were, yet she carried on like she’d stumbled onto some incredible mystery waiting to be solved.

  It went on like this for hours, and when that moment came and we stepped onto a road, I was overcome with relief.

  “How much longer?” I asked, peering into the distance.

  “It depends,” she answered.

  “On what?”

  “We’ll see, won’t we?”

  No longer looking for arrows, Flea had taken to hanging off my arm while peppering me with questions about my time on Earth. She wouldn’t stop. I’d answer one question only to be hit by another, and I was reaching my boiling point when we found ourselves at a fork in the road.

  “Well, this looks like where we’re parting ways,” the imp announced.

  “What are you talking about? I thought you were taking me to the SYS building.”

  “I am.”

  “But we’re still in the middle of the forest. I don’t see any buildings.”

  “Oh, David, David, David. There’s no need to be scared,” she said, patting me on the hand. “You’re nearly there. Just follow the road to your left. You’ll be fine.”

  I peered in the direction she was pointing, my stomach exploding with butterflies. “So you’re not coming with me?”

  “Nope.”

  “Why not?”

  “Just can’t.”

  “So I follow the left road.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Where’s the other one go?”

  The imp frowned and wrinkled her nose. “Yeah … You don’t want to go down there.”

  “Why? What’s down there?”

  “Trust me. Take the road on the left and you’ll find yourself at the SYS building in no time.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Would I lie to you?”

  Not exactly the parting words you want to hear from an imp, but with Flea disappeared into the woods, I had no choice but to start down the road as she instructed.

  Now that the imp was gone, the world felt dangerous again. I tried to relax, but it was impossible, and I peered up the road, certain something bad was moments away from revealing itself.

&nb
sp; Not only that, I was starting to wonder if Flea had tricked me. It started as a thought, a blip, ballooning into an overwhelming fear that I should have taken the right road instead. She was such a mischievous creature, it wouldn’t have surprised me in the least if she’d told me the wrong way on purpose. And so, on a hunch, I turned around, backtracking the nearly two kilometers to the fork in the road where, after twenty minutes of flipping the possibilities round in my head, I made the bold but potentially foolish decision to go down the right road instead.

  I was even more on edge. The expression on Flea’s face when I asked what was down that way was unease, but my gut was telling me to press on. And press on I did, until an unmistakable pounding appeared in the ground. It was faint, like a heartbeat, but it was definitely there.

  I must be stubborn, because I kept walking. And the more I walked, the stronger the pounding became. It wasn’t footsteps, it was too regular, but it was enough to make my own heart race, and I was getting ready to turn around once more when what should I see off in the distance but a gate.

  It was big, and made of iron, and slightly ajar. There didn’t appear to be anyone guarding it, and so, taking a deep breath, I hurried forward until I could make out the letters SYS in the wrought iron archway.

  The little devil; so she was lying!

  Both ecstatic and angry, I approached the gate, gun at the ready.

  “Hello?”

  The gate was indeed unattended, and stepping through the gap I saw the reason for the pounding in the ground. There was a massive warehouse or factory, at the end of which a piston several stories tall was driving up and down. The building itself was pure art deco, with dark walls, smoky green windows, and brass accents. There were a number of buildings, all sharing that 1920s style. However, my attention was drawn to a Victorian-era mansion not far from the main gate.

  There was someone standing guard in front of the entrance, and after a swig of chikka, I forced myself up the front steps only to walk right back down again. The guard was, for lack of a better word, undead. There was no other description. He was completely gray. His uniform, his helmet, his skin were varying shades of concrete. And if that wasn’t unnerving enough, he had a metal plate riveted across his face, from his forehead to just above his lips. There were no eye-holes. Just a slab of metal. And to top it all off, he was armed with the nastiest looking rifle I’d ever seen. It was painted bright yellow just like mine, but where my gun looked like it belonged to a farmer, his looked like it was looted from a post-apocalyptic battlefield.

  He knew I was there. I don’t know how, but he did, and he watched me as I paced back and forth at the bottom of the stairs until I found the courage necessary to climb the steps again and address him.

  “Excuse me —”

  The guard didn’t even let met me finish my sentence, stepping forward and aiming his rifle at my chest. “What is the nature of your visit?”

  His voice sounded like it was being broadcast from an old shortwave radio, his lips ever-so-slightly out of sync with the words coming from his mouth.

  “I need to talk to someone in charge,” I said.

  “There is no entry without proper authorization.”

  “But I need to speak to someone.”

  “There is no entry without proper authorization.”

  “How do I get authorization?”

  “What is the nature of your visit?”

  “I need to talk to someone in charge.”

  “There is no entry without proper authorization.”

  There we were, stuck in a loop, and I was waving my hand in front of the metal plate on the guard’s face, wondering how on earth he could see, when an old speaker above the entrance crackled to life.

  “It’s all right, 1-1-4-6,” said a posh Englishman’s voice. “Mr. Eno is a guest. Please show him inside.”

  So they know I’m here, do they?

  Relieved, I stepped toward the door only for the guard to point his gun into my chest once more. “There is no entry without proper authorization.”

  “Uh, sir?” I said, glancing at the speaker. “Your guard isn’t letting me inside.”

  “Nonsense. Just walk inside. 1-1-4-6, please open the door.”

  But the guard jammed the muzzle of his gun against my chest, repeating his warning from before.

  “Uh, sir? Sir? He’s still not letting me inside.”

  “Oh, bloody hell …”

  The speaker went silent and I returned to the top of steps. It wasn’t long before the doors swung open, and a dapper older gentleman in a black suit and tie appeared.

  “Come in,” he said, waving me inside. I recognized him as the voice from the speaker, but again, the moment I stepped toward the door, the guard had his gun on me, telling me there was no entry without proper authorization.

  The older gentleman regarded the guard with heavy-lidded irritation. “1-1-4-6, I’ve already explained Mr. Eno is a guest. Now, please, stand down.”

  But 1-1-4-6 would not let me pass.

  The man closed his eyes and rubbed his temples before peering at something in the distance. “Oh, look,” he said, in that impeccable accent of his. “I see someone sneaking around building five. Go deal with them.”

  1-1-4-6 didn’t need to be told twice. Rifle at the ready, the undead guard descended the front steps while the older gentleman welcomed me inside.

  “That should keep him occupied,” he said, closing the heavy wooden doors behind us.

  I followed him down a dimly lit corridor to a spacious office where I was offered a seat opposite him at a big old wooden desk, the piston outside pounding ever so faintly through the floorboards.

  I felt as though I’d been transported back in time. The furnishings, the books, the rugs on the floor, suggested early-twentieth-century Earth. Everything was in wonderful shape. There was no wear, no scratches or dents on the floor or furniture. There was, however, a hint of mustiness in the air, like an old book, that seemed strangely appropriate. And I couldn’t help but notice a bottle of chikka tucked surreptitiously in a corner of a bookshelf above the older man’s head.

  “Thanks for seeing me,” I said.

  “It’s no trouble at all,” said the older gentleman.

  “I hope you don’t mind me asking, but what was wrong with your guard?”

  “You mean 1-1-4-6? Oh, he’s an idiot.”

  “So why do you keep him?”

  The gentleman merely smiled. “Why are you here, Mr. Eno?”

  “How do you know my name?”

  “Have you forgotten where you are?”

  My stomach constricted. Of course he knew my name. This was SYS. The company that brought me back to life.

  “But outside, on the speaker, it sounded like you were expecting me.”

  “That’s because we were.” The older man nodded at a wall of windows illuminating the room, and who should I see waving at me, but Flea.

  “Hello, David!”

  I was still angry at the little imp for having lied to me about the fork in the road, and I turned my back to her.

  “And what’s your name?” I asked the gentleman.

  He looked genuinely embarrassed, reaching across the desk to shake my hand. “How rude of me. I should have introduced myself at the outset. My name is Mr. Winter. But you can call me Julius.”

  Julius Winter. That name seemed very familiar, but for the life of me, I couldn’t figure out why.

  “Are you going to tell me why you’re here?”

  Mr. Winter’s question ripped me from my thoughts, and without thinking, I answered. “I want to go home.”

  This seemed to surprise both of us, and he leaned forward, resting his elbows on his desk. “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, I want to go back to Earth.”

  “You know that’s not possible.”

  “Why not? There are ships coming here all the time. Surely there are ships that make their way back.”

  Mr. Winter shook his head.
r />   “Is it the distance? Is that it? Because I really don’t mind being on a spaceship for another thirty years. Not if it means getting back home to Earth. I wouldn’t even have to be put in suspended animation. Just give me some magazines and some chikka and I’ll be fine.”

  “Mr. Eno, we both know this is a one-way trip.”

  I closed my eyes, trying but failing to ignore Flea’s tapping on the window.

  “Surely this can’t be the end of the line,” I said. “Are there other places I can go?”

  To my surprise, Mr. Winter nodded. “There are. But you’re not ready.”

  “What do you mean I’m not ready?”

  “I mean, you’re not ready. As much as I’d like to tell you more, I can’t.”

  “Can’t? Or won’t?”

  Mr. Winter leaned back in his chair, studying me through clouded blue eyes.

  “Are you a demon?” I asked.

  The formerly calm Mr. Winter did a double take. “Pardon?”

  “Answer my question. Are you a demon?”

  “What a strange question.”

  “Is it?”

  “A man walks into my office, sits at my desk and proceeds to ask me if I’m a demon. What do you think?”

  I glanced at the window; Flea’s little hands and face were pressed against the glass.

  “I know what this place is, you know.”

  “You do?” asked Mr. Winter, sounding suddenly concerned.

  “It’s Purgatory, isn’t it?”

  My statement was met with bewilderment, followed by understanding. “Oh, you mean ‘this place’ in general! I thought you talking about the building. Sorry. My misunderstanding. So, when you say Purgatory, what do you mean?”

  “I mean the place between Heaven and Hell.”

  “Oh, dear. You do have a lot on your mind. I think this calls for a drink.” Mr. Winter removed a pair of silver decanters from his desk. “Whiskey, Mr. Eno?”

  “No thanks. I’ve got some chikka of my own right here. You can have some. It’s quality stuff.”

  “That’s very kind of you,” said Mr. Winter, retrieving a small ceramic cup from a nearby table. “But chikka makes me ill.”

  I glanced up at the partially hidden bottle of chikka in the bookcase. “So you don’t drink it?”