by Mark Cain
I rubbed the spot where the saint had hit me. That was gonna make a bruise. “Will it hurt the souls?”
He frowned. “Well, no. They’re pure, like I told you, and not really vulnerable to anything but the bad choices of a human’s free will during mortal life. As far as I can tell, BOOH hasn’t a gram of evil in him. He’s morally neutral.”
“Then there’s no problem,” I said, as BOOH bounded to the shore. The giant bat, completely rejuvenated, was glowing with a golden light. He stretched his wings high overhead. He was like Superbat.
I nodded. BOOH’s sudden recovery convinced me that I was right.
“Looking good, BOOH! Thanks again, Peter, for the information.” Though I still wasn’t very happy about the coin toss, or my sore arm, he had been helpful. “Come on BOOH, let’s get back to the Elevator.”
“Skree!” BOOH shot into the sky. He was stronger and faster than ever. Like a falcon on speed, SuperBOOH plummeted to the ground, snatched me up, and shot toward the Mouth of Hell.
I could no longer see Peter or the Lake. We had left him behind in the wink of an eye. As we entered the Mouth, I realized we wouldn’t be needing the Elevator for a while.
Chapter 21
Lying on top of my desk was the HVAC schematic, with a little addition of my own. On a piece of butcher paper (that’s all we really have to write on down here - that and work orders) I had sketched the Gates Level, along with my best sense of where the Well of [Damned] Souls was in relationship to the Pearlies, the Escalator, the Elevator, the Stairs and the pathway to Charon’s boathouse.
I had done my best to draw this to the same scale as the HVAC schematic, and I tried now to place my sketch above the blueprints, aligning things the way I thought they fit. “Hmm.”
“Hmm, what?” Orson asked, as he came into the office, his hands full of supplies. Above him, Bik flew in a lazy sort of loop-the-loop.
“Just looking at the HVAC drawing some more,” I said, as I walked over to the Mr. Coffee and poured some coffee into my “I’M NOT WITH STUPID. I AM STUPID” mug. I took a sip and did my involuntary wince. As usual, my cup o’ joe tasted like hell. “What’s all that stuff in your hands? It looks like you raided Dora's warehouse.”
“I did,” Orson said, dumping the supplies in a corner of the trailer. “While you were off visiting who knows who, I did some more triage on our work orders. Things are backing up pretty badly, so I picked up the supplies we’ll need for the top priority items. Might save us some time when this HVAC crap is over with.”
The HVAC. I hadn’t discussed with Orson my growing concerns about the true severity of the situation, though I knew he had some notion that this was more serious than a heater being on the blink. A shiver went down my spine, as much from fear as the drop in temperature.
“Cold?”
“Maybe. That was good thinking, by the way, picking up those supplies.” A good supervisor should always praise the initiative of a subordinate.
But Orson frowned. “Don’t patronize me.”
“Sorry.”
I stared at the two drawings, placed end to end. “Say, Orson, pour yourself some coffee and come take a look at this with me.”
Orson grabbed his mug. It was bright yellow and said Blimpie’s on it. There was a big blimp on the mug too. I always thought whoever had given Orson the mug had been making a joke about his weight, but I never mentioned that to him. My assistant topped off his cup with some coffee then, as an afterthought, grabbed a can of sardines.
“Rickets?” I asked mildly.
“Not so far, thank goodness. No. I’m just hungry.” Orson opened the tin, cutting his finger on the jagged edge of the can. “Shit!”
Orson stared at the drawing for a minute, dripping, oil from his sardine can on the paper. “Sorry,” he said, blotting it up with his sleeve.
“No problem.”
“Did you add the little drawing on top?”
“Yeah.”
“Why?” Orson took a sardine out of the tin, stared speculatively at it then dropped it in the coffee. He took a sip and grimaced.
“Any better?”
“No, a little worse in fact, but I’d never tried it before.”
“Nothing ventured, nothing gained,” I offered.
“You didn’t answer my question. Why did you graft the Gates Level on top of the schematic? And where did these green lines come from on the blueprint? I don’t remember them from before.”
I grabbed an orange from the crate we always kept in the office. Well, the one with oranges in it. We had the other crate, but it was full of blood bags. Orson must have gone back to the hospital to pick up some treats for BOOH. Copying Orson, I put a slice of orange in my coffee and took a sip.
“Any better?”
I spat on the floor.
“Didn’t think so. That’s why I tried the sardines instead. Now, about the lines?”
“Satan added them.”
“What are they?”
“Company secret. Need-to-know basis. You’ll probably need to know later, but for now, I’ll keep it to myself, so I don’t end up in the shithouse with Satan.”
“Fine by me. I don’t want to know anything Satan would rather keep secret. That’s a death w … never mind. It’s a bad idea.”
“Can’t argue with you there.”
Orson studied the green lines. “They’re a bit of a mess. Like green spaghetti smeared all over the page. Or the line you’ve drawn when you’ve solved a maze puzzle.”
“Maze puzzle?”
“You know, you have a maze drawn on a piece of paper, you take your pencil, start at one end, and you have to get to the other end. There’s only one solution.”
“Yeah. I remember those. Satan did that on purpose. Tell me, though, can you find the two ends?”
“Probably. I used to be pretty good at these things. Look here,” he said, pointing to the terminus down on Level Nine. “Here’s one.”
Orson was pointing at the end that fed into Surtr’s boiler room. “And here’s the other at the top.”
“Yeah. That’s what I thought too, but I wanted a second opinion. See any other loose ends?”
My assistant did a quick double-check. “Nope.”
I tapped the end at the top of the schematics. “Where do you think this one finishes?”
My fat friend ran his fingers through his beard. “Hard to say, since it goes all the way to the top of the page, but if you’ve placed your drawing in the correct spot, I’d say it ends … here!” Orson pointed to a round circle I’d drawn.
“Yes,” I agreed. “That’s the Well of [Damned] Souls.”
“What’s that funny sound you’re making before and after the word ‘damned?’”
“Brackets.”
“What’s the Well of [Damned] Souls?” Orson made a perfect brackets sound without any practice. He had always been good at making noises, though: cat calls, farts, squeaks, even vocal impressions. He probably picked up the skill during his years in radio. Anyway, it was impressive.
“Believe me, you don’t want to know.” But then I reconsidered. Satan had been reluctant to share the information about the fuel line with me, but he hadn’t actually told me anything about the Well.
Making a decision, I closed my eyes and tried something I’d never done before: I attempted to project my thoughts. In my head, I said, “Lord Satan, I need to tell Orson all about this. I need his help.”
I hadn’t really expected a response, but to my surprise, the Devil’s voice hissed in my head. Go ahead, Minion. But tell Orson to keep his trap shut, or I’ll feed his fat butt to the Kraken. And never do this again! I'm not an answering service, you know. Make an appointment like everyone else.
My eyes popped open, and I saw my assistant peering intently at me. “What just happened?”
“I … I had a conversation with Satan.”
“What? How?”
My heart was hammering in my chest. That may have been the single most terrifying
thing I’d ever experienced in Hell. I always felt that a man’s thoughts should be his own, and even though the conversation was at my own initiation, I still felt violated. “We’re … we’re working on something that’s really important, and I guess Satan was monitoring my thoughts. Mind reader, remember?”
Perspiration began to form on Orson’s forehead. “Scary.”
“You said it. I’ve never done that before. Wasn’t even sure it would work, but I needed an answer right away. I guess Satan thinks the situation is serious enough to indulge me.”
“Indulge you how?”
I sat in my desk chair, feeling a little faint. That was creepy-scary, and it made me wonder if the Earl of Hell really was omniscient. I hoped not. The prospect of never having a private thought unnerved me. “I … I need to be able to tell you what’s going on, or what I suspect is going on, and I wanted Satan’s permission.”
“And he gave it to you?”
“Yeah.” I wiped my forehead with my sleeve. The fabric came back soaked, as if I’d just had a panic attack, which was probably exactly what had happened. I took a few deep breaths and began to explain. “Orson, as you’ve figured out, the green lines are actually just one. It’s the fuel line for the heating system. We’ve always known that what little cold we need down here is provided by Erebus. It’s like a slowly melting, gigantic stalactite. It should last us forever. But the heat, well, we need to burn something. It’s not sulfur. All the mines in all of Hell couldn’t produce enough fuel to keep Hell hot.”
Orson nodded. “I know. The sulfur is just for effect. And the smell of course.”
“Of course. Now, the line at the bottom is going into the boiler room where I met Surtr. I’m pretty sure it feeds the main burners down there.”
“If that’s the destination for the fuel, then you’re saying the source is this Well.”
“It’s only a theory, but … ” I nodded.
“Then, then you think our heating fuel is … ”
“Say it. Say it, Orson. I don’t want to.”
“Souls? My Go … damn it, that’s diabolical!”
Satan’s laughter echoed in my brain, sending me to quaking in my work boots. “Sort of by definition. Satan designed this part of the system. Even Beezy doesn’t know what fuels the system. Satan didn’t want him to, which is why the line is all in curlicues, taking the pipe wherever it needs to go to stay out of sight.”
I left my desk and walked over to the window. Outside, Hell was bustling. The traffic on the Road to Hell was snarled, and some demons were out in the middle of the cracked asphalt trying to make it worse. They were all wearing hoodies. Yep, things were definitely getting colder. No self-respecting demon would wear a hoody unless he was really cold. I turned back to my friend. “It gets worse.”
Orson looked at me aghast. “How could it possibly get worse?”
Aside from the fact that a chunk of your soul, and mine, is in that vast well? I didn’t tell him that part, though if he thought long enough, Orson might figure it out. He was smart. Until he did, though, the owners of the Well’s souls was a ghastly secret I would keep to myself. What I said instead was, “There is another Well of Souls inside the Pearly Gates. It’s the source for all the newborn Christian, Jewish and Muslim babies on Earth.”
“And why is that relevant to our problem?”
“The wells are connected. If one gets too low, a valve will open and … ”
“You mean Hell could potentially start burning baby souls?” Orson started to gag.
“Man up, old chum. I don’t think Satan wants that any more than we do. I suspect that would get him in deep shit with his boss.”
“Satan doesn’t have a boss,” Orson mumbled, then his eyes widened. “Oh. HIM.”
“Exactly. Burning damned souls is bad, but Satan’s responsible for the damned anyway. Besides, at worst, it’s no more than a bit of petty larceny, and I think the guy upstairs pretty much expects that of the Devil. Burning souls of the unborn, though, I think that would qualify as grand theft.”
While we had been talking, Bik had settled on the counter where we kept the coffee pot. In the air he had formed one of his flaming discs and was speaking intently into it.
“Hey, Bik,” I hollered. “Do you have your grandfather on flameophone there?”
The fire giant glanced at me over his shoulder. “Yes. I was just filling him in on our adventures.”
“Do you think I could talk with him for a sec?”
“Sure! I’ll try to make the disc bigger. Ugh. This is hard,” he said, as he swirled his hand, increasing the diameter of the disc. “I’m having more and more trouble manipulating The Spark.”
“That’s because we’re all in deep doo-doo,” said a smoked-ravaged voice from the disc. I leaned in closely and saw the ancient fire giant.
“And why are we in deep doo-doo?” I asked, fully expecting a certain answer.
“Because the last jet on the heating system just went out.”
I stared at the tiny image of Surtr. It was hard to tell, since I was staring through a monitor made of flame, but it seemed to me that Surtr was burning like a house afire.
“Well, you look pretty good, considering your job’s on the line, not to mention probably freezing your fanny off.”
The old giant bit down on his cigar, turning it to ash. “What do you mean?”
“Well, you’re burning so hot you’re practically blue.”
“I’m mad, damn it! And frustrated! I take pride in my work, and whatever’s going on is making me look like a nincompoop.” Surtr screamed in rage, the monitor filled with a blinding light then went out.
“He’s right, you know,” Bik said. “Grandpa takes his work very seriously, and he’s got a wicked temper. The madder he gets, the hotter he gets.”
“Interesting,” I said, but I was thinking about the information Surtr had given me. “Thanks, Bik.”
I wandered back over to where Orson was still studying the schematic. “It’s as I thought,” I said to him quietly. “The fires of Hell just went out.”
“And what exactly do you think that means?”
“It means we’re out of fuel.”
“How can that be? You said yourself the Well of [Damned] Souls is plenty full.”
“I think we’ve sprung a leak somewhere.”
Orson frowned. “Then, somewhere in Hell, souls are spewing all over the place.”
“Possibly. There’s a problem, somewhere, that’s for sure, but how do you find ‘somewhere’ in all of the Nine Circles?” Then an idea popped into my head. Pulling open my bottom drawer, I rummaged through its contents. “Rubber duckie, no. Wet Wipes, uh uh. Ah, here it is,” I said, pulling out a stethoscope.
“What’s that for?”
“We’re going to try to find the leak.”
“With a stethoscope?”
“I think so,” I said a little sheepishly. “The souls aren’t on fire as they travel through the pipeline, so the only thing I can think to do is listen for the flow of their passage through the pipe.”
“That’s stupid.”
“Hey, it’s what I do. Besides, you got any better ideas?”
Orson walked to our parts closet. “No,” he said, lifting another stethoscope off a shelf.
“What’s that for?”
“You may need a second opinion.” Orson put the ear pieces of the stethoscope around his neck, doctor style. “Man, this is going to take forever.”
“Maybe,” I agreed, “but it’s all we’ve got right now. Look here,” I said, indicating the green line that crossed at Level Five. “That’s not far from here. Let’s go take a listen.”
My assistant closed the door to the closet. “Yes, let’s. Bik you coming?”
“Huh?” The fire giant was recreating his flameophone. “In a minute. There’s something I forgot to tell Grandpa.”
I taped together the HVAC diagram and my own drawing and folded them under my arm. “Well, shake a leg. We’re
going to be just across the street.”
“’kay. I won’t be long.”
As we stepped onto the road, I wished we’d had on white lab coats. The stethoscopes looked stupid against our yellow coveralls, but we could only work with what we had.
Though there was plenty of activity in the oil refinery, the tall iron gates were closed. Orson and I shouldered one open and went inside. We were looking for a pipe, but there were plenty of those here. The place was littered with them. I only hoped the sketch was accurate enough to help us spot the one we wanted.
“Crap! Crap, crap, crap!”
Looking to our right, we spotted a man in overalls who was struggling with a valve on a pipe that was stretched across the ground. He looked ancient, close to a hundred, and frail enough to snap between two fingers. The skin on his cadaverous face was like parchment; his thin, white locks looked like wisps of smoke on an otherwise bald pate. “Hey, J.D.,” I said. “What’s the problem?”
J.D. Rockefeller was drenched in sweat. He must have been working on the valve for some time. “I can’t get this damn thing open. It’s stuck.”
“Of course it is,” Orson replied mildly. “This is Hell after all. What do you expect?”
Rockefeller grunted as he gave the valve another go. “A little less lip from another one of the damned, Welles, would be something.”
“How about a hand instead?” I offered.
“That,” he gasped, trying again, “that would be appreciated.”
I gave him a standing ovation. With a smirk, Orson joined in.
“Very funny,” he grumbled.
“Got the idea from Bruce the Bedeviled, so you can thank him. Besides, we couldn’t resist,” I said, grabbing the valve with him. Orson, chuckling, did the same.
Man, was it ever stuck. It took all three of us five minutes of grunting and straining to get the valve to move. We finally got it open.
As I stepped away from the pipe, I studied the workman. J.D. Rockefeller was the world’s first billionaire, having reached that milestone in 1916. At that time, his personal wealth was nearly two percent of the gross domestic product of the entire US. I did a little mental math and figured that, accounting for inflation, he probably would be a trillionaire in the present era, which, although I didn’t know for sure, was probably around the year 2050 back on Earth. Some people say old J.D. was the richest man to ever live.