Hell's Vengeance

by Max Jager

  "You should be more grateful." Ajax said.

  "You should get the fuck out of my sun." The vet said.

  "That's probably the reason why you're homeless, you're unreasonable. I just want to ask some questions, old man."

  "Ask away. You ain't getting any answers though, you little shit." He turned the wheel on his chair, Ajax stopped him.

  "I'm not done with you." Ajax said. "Were you here on July sixteen, at around noon, maybe dusk."

  "Get out of my sunlight." He said.

  Ajax stepped aside and looked at him underneath the brightness of the sky. He wore a beret and over his black shirt he wore a green sweater. There was a marines patch on his shoulder, the pins of his service and sacrifice were attached to his hood.

  "What platoon did you serve in?" Ajax asked.

  "Fuck off." He said. Ajax put his foot in between the wheels again. The veteran felt himself stop and he looked up. He smiled and in one move, pushed Ajax. Tried to at least. He fell back to the chair and stood again to retry.

  "You're not even crippled?" Ajax asked. "Did you even serve?"

  "No." The man answered. Ajax let go of his wheelchair. "I didn't. What the fuck do you care?"

  "I thought you'd be the one to care. Stolen valor and all that shit."

  "Valor is for dogs. So is pride, so is respect and decency. Ain't no one ever been decent to me." The old man said. He was wheeling down, Ajax followed himself and found himself jogging just to catch up.

  "That's shameful." Ajax said.

  "What the fuck are you going to do about it?"

  "Nothing." He held his wheel. "So long as you give me some information."

  The old man wheeled back to the streets and to the corner that he was yearning for.

  "You think I give a shit about being blackmailed? If I cared, I wouldn't have told you in the first place." He said. "I'm not like you city folks. I have nothing to lose, I have no need or desire to stay here, no fear of being caught. Run me out of town and I'll find a new spot, scream at me and I won't listen. That's the difference between you and me. You're a dog and I'm a horse, I go where I please, I graze where I please."

  "I'm glad to hear you have so much to look forward to in your life, you old fuck." Ajax said. "But a kid died. A kid that didn't have a chance to go anywhere, do anything. He was cut to pieces."

  "What do I care for kids. They die everywhere all over the world, what's one more body?"

  "Everything," Ajax said. "It's everything to me. You tell me about this body."

  "Or what? You'll take my life. Go on then. Do it here, let's see if you have the balls." His voice was loud. His eyes were red, his breath smelled of cheap vodka. Ajax started to laugh, mostly to diffuse the staring faces.

  "How about I just buy your information, you over dramatic fuck?" He asked.

  "I'm not selling anything for a shitty twenty your friend was offering me." He said. "Give me five hundred."

  "He already offered you twenty huh…" Ajax said. He smiled. He could a vein crawling around his neck, he could feel his face redness. Darr could too, as he rolled up in the car. Ajax smiled, there were daggers behind his teeth and he felt the urge. He grabbed the man by the collar. Darr opened the car.

  "I know exactly what to sell you."

  8:24 PM

  Pip's death had made her angry at first. She blamed him for it, blamed his stupidity, blamed his meekness. It made her so frustrated she didn't eat all day the day she found out. Then the next day came. It made her sad, then, come morning when she was trying to remember a kind dream she had about him. She didn't eat all day either. She committed herself to small things at least, to keep herself alive and sane. She showered, breathed, watched numbing television. She wept that night and she dreamed of Pip again. This one was a nightmare and this one she could not forget, though wanted to. On this third day, she was hopeless. She wandered to the police station asking questions to his death, to the whereabout of the rest of his body, to an answer, it took them an hour to get her off the premise. They almost tased her with how stubborn she flailed about.

  They said he was abducted, that they were on the case and that they had no suspects. She called them incompetent and came home late, her mother wasn't home for the whole ordeal. So she spoke with Pip's mother instead. Mostly listened actually. Mrs. Pip was too busy crying to talk.

  "I don't know where he is." She wept through the receiver. Sophie couldn't answer her. No one knew where he really was, only where he had been kidnapped and only where they found a piece of him. The rest of Pip was out there and it hurt both of them. It was not enough to just die, but to be forgotten, to have an empty grave and a wandering soul. That seemed worse than just death to Sophie. She said sorry and hung up.

  She didn't sleep much that night and on the fourth day, the twentieth of the month, she became resolute.

  She spent all night planning it, there was no room for sleep and throughout the day she planted small siestas and naps whenever her racing heart allowed it. She almost slipped in the shower as fell asleep.

  She had in her backpack, in no particular order: a map of the city, a fresh sweater and a few bags of treats. Candies mostly, she was still a child. She threw in a packet of jerky to pretend it was a healthy, good trail mix. She had the plan outlined, she rewrote it and redrafted in ten times throughout the day. It was simple, really, she wanted to know what happened to Pip. She thought it to be an easy plan, retrace her steps and interview the people around the scene of the crime. The places were named, Pete's Bakery, Lowdrie's Loundra-mats, The Devil's Tail. She didn't want to the latter in particular, it was a loud nightclub. But she would, like she would the other places and homes in the area.

  "It's not like the police are doing anything, right?" She said. She stood in front of her mother lounging on a sofa. A plastic clock ticked away, it was in the shape of a black cat and the pendulum tail swung for each second dialed. Eight twenty-four, it was about time to go. She looked down.

  "I'll be back home soon. I left dinner for you." Sophie said. It was just a styrofoam cup of noodles, now waterlogged. They looked like small slugs inside the cup. Her mother didn't care. She was snoring. It sounded like a cackle in the emptiness of the house. It was the first time she had ever felt the house to be too big but as she looked around, she felt small. The dark oak counters with linen cloths stained months ago, the rings of dirt that decorated the glass tables from cans of forgotten beer, the walls peeling their paint and paper like old bark. They seemed so far apart like small islands. Though she would miss it, horrible as the scenery was and she swore she would be back. It was enough to make her nose sniffle.

  "You can't even take out the trash." She spoke low, her voice was strained. She walked to the kitchen and swung the black bag over her left shoulder. It was bigger than her but she carried it with ease. Her mother laid on the sofa, mouth open. There were green shadows around her mother's eyes from smudged makeup, her drooling lips dripped brown lipstick. Her cheeks were flushed red, though she was not afraid or ashamed or angry like Sophie was. Sophie found a cigarette bud on her mother's chest and flicked it to a glass cup. It had left a burned hole in her shirt. She kissed her mother on the cheek and wiped her lips of the taste of foundation and of rouge. Sophie wanted to put a sheet over her, the ugly sweater of hers, but her mother rolled to the side and dug her face into the soft cushions.

  "You're all useless, aren't you? The old men and the old women. You tell us to stop playing pretend and to stop playing games and here you are, years later, pretending to be good, pretending that this madness isn't another kind of game." She wasn't speaking to her mother though it didn't matter, no one listened. Her mother was too far gone in the drunken, tired, sleep.

  "I love you." She finished. "I'll be back soon."

  Sophie did not sneak out. She did not play thief like all the Hollywood movies had made this kind of even to be. With tired, poor mothers like hers, she didn't need to play false espionage.

  She walked out t
he front door, took out the trash until it laid on the edge of the sidewalk, and waved goodbye. She turned off the lights, closed the door and locked it and walked down the street. No one bothered to say anything to her, no one was there to care.

  The broken lights of crooked posts rained down upon her pieces of light. She met travelers, some few minutes into her walk into the city who passed her smiles. Their teeth looked like daggers but she pressed forward, weak and wobbly, she moved on.

  She neared a park whose dry grass felt rough against her Achilles heel. She scratched herself going to the large tree at the center and climbed it like a conning tower and looked out to give directions to the worried captain, her heart, there was fear in her as she looked out to the thin veil of darkness and faced away from the wail of wild wind. There was curiosity in the small lights of apartments and of streets, like small stranded stars. There was mystery for her, but to you, dear reader, I will leave no surprise: Sophie would die tonight.

  6:00 AM

  The sweat came off Aleistar's back and stuck his skin to the bed. It had been a night of strong images. He looked to his side and found a picture of a woman whose smile made a cold feeling drag across his spine and he put the picture face down as he became worse. The feeling would not leave. Not for an hour, as he went around the house looking for all the photos of his wife that smiled and stood and reminded him of the feeling in him that worsened. It was one-thirty-four in the morning when he was done. He fell on his bed and sat. It wasn't long. He stood. He paced.

  He's coming.

  The stands of the knocked over photos shook like scared, wagging tails.

  Aleistar looked out to the moon and the dreary voice came to him underneath. It was in the floorboards. It was in the door frame. It was in the walls. The color, a light blue, he painted with his son years ago, flushed out. Everything turned malicious, everything closed in on him and the walls looked dark, like a black sea washing over him. He felt washed up. He sat down, catching his breath. He ran out the door, down the hall to a room whose locked doors annoyed him as he rushed through the combinations. It was his study. He struggled to the table on the end of the room. He quickly took out a brown bag. Like an addict, you could see the dependency on his face and his shaking hands when he felt the coarse pink salt pinched through his fingers and spilled all cross the floor and table. He threw, as quickly as he could. He threw in pinches, then handfuls. Then the whole bag all at once which gave life to the fire.

  "Hmm?"

  The flames licked and he could hear the voice through the snaps and crackles of the fire. He immediately knelt and felt his shins bleed as they dragged across the rough floorboard.

  "I'm here, oh bountiful one?" Aleistar said. The fire dimmed for a moment and all he could hear was the quick breathing of the being from beyond.

  "Be quiet." It said. "I should have your tongue ripped off that you would suffer me another failure."

  "You said" Aleistar started. The fire slapped the ground.

  "I said? What does my saying have to do with your lack of action, with your failure?"

  "We tried. We even gave you the boy." Aleistar said.

  "And now his pride is wasted too. He tells me so."

  "You're with him?"

  "Where else do you think he'd go?" The being asked.

  "Pip was his name. He's as embarrassed as I am."

  "Pip," Aleistar repeated. It shook him. Pip. The familiar face, the blood.

  So that was his name.

  He was rattling. "Is my wife with you too?"

  Aleistar felt the fire ride down to him and burn his hands. He broke from his prone stance and rolled away, holding his hand.

  "Do you think you're in a position to negotiate your wants? Another death and you haven't even killed the hunters. Are they that much of a problem?"

  "They're durable. They're getting closer." Aleistar said.

  "Let them get as close as they want. You're almost, right?"

  "Yes but I'm afraid we'll need at least another ceremony. I don't know if we can hold on till then."

  "Then don't." The voice said. "Let them come, I doubt you have it in you to commit to the plan anyway."

  "What?" Aleistar asked. "I won't compromise this. I need this."

  "Oh, suddenly, you're full of conviction."

  "I want my wife." Aleistar said.

  "And what a nasty desire that's been."

  "I've only done what you've demanded."

  "Will that suffice?" The voice laughed. "When you stand in front of the tribunal, will that work? I was only doing as told. Will everyone accept it? Will your wife, if you ever meet her, enjoy this?"

  "Why torment me." Aleistar cried. "Don't you want this as much as me?"

  "I'm beginning to want more. Those two vicars seem more the toy than you could ever be."

  "They'll kill us both." Aleistar said.

  The fire wrapped around the room and he could feel the grip, a manifestation of all the fumes and heat, choking him, squeezing his body and forcing him into convulsions.

  "I would never lose. Thousands of years, I have never lost, thousands of years more, I will never lose. You've shamed me twice. Maybe I should cut my deal then?" The hand let him go, dropped him to the floor and receded. The walls were covered in soot, ash like the volcanic earth had been spread over his study room. Aleistar was coughing, finding breath amongst the smoke and heavy air. He heard the voice laugh.

  "But that would be something, wouldn't it? Every day these two make me happier, is that love." He laughed. "Lust, maybe. I'd like to meet them more. But for that, I'd need you, wouldn't I?"

  "I'll have it done night." Aleistar massaged his throat. "No more errors. No more hesitation. Then we'll see you soon."

  He could see the smile, the cool veneer and the rows of ivory through the heart of the flame.

  "Oh, by the way." The demon said. "Keep an eye on your son. He's got quite the mouth."

  It crackled and died, both voice and fire. Like a poor joke and its poor audience made to laugh and to pity him.

  And nothing remained but the pink salt turned to pink glass, like the painted church windows had shattered onto his fireplace. Aleistar knelt, his pain now gone and he walked over to the fire pit. He reached inside, nothing burned and it felt cold. The life of the room had been sucked through this hellish vortex. He touched the glass and it shattered in his hands.

  It was enough to make him cry for all that he was to do. He put his hands on his scalp and wept. He could hear his son and it made him feel worse, he heard knocking and he covered the sound with his hands.

  After a while, Itrus had stopped and so had Aleistar. His cheeks were red, the scratched marks below his eyes glowed and his fingernails were covered in dead skin cells. He could hear the grandfather clock ring at six, a familiar alarm. It was early morning, what madness had warped time for him. He shuffled to his desk, what was left of it. Half of it was burned to a dead pile of ash. He picked up a phone on the good side of the desk. He looked in his drawer for something to help him cope, for he knew, that today he would accept his fate. The executioner's bell was ringing, after all, and it was loud in his lonely house.

  9:00 AM

  "Puta madre." Ajax cleaned the specks of blood from his chin.

  "What'd you do that for? He's half-dead."

  "He said he knew something about the murder."

  "So you beat it out of him?"

  "No. I gave him a good reason to use that wheelchair, then I got it out of him."

  "What'd you find out?"

  "Nothing. Really."

  Darr looked at him. He rolled his eyes and shook his head around. He was staring across the parking lot, at a man whose teeth now spread out across his shirt. He looked to Ajax and the growing concern of people now walking towards the beaten man. He started the car, it roared and they drove off.

  "You learned nothing?"

  "Well," Ajax spat out the window. "He said there was a police officer at the theater during the cri
me. It just confirms my suspicion, honestly. You can't commit that much murder without the police knowing something or another, they had to have had men on the inside."

  "So what do you want to do?" Darr asked.

  "Take me to the crime scene. I want to see if anyone's tampering with the evidence." Ajax said.

  "How do you expect to do that?"

  "Very quietly." Ajax put a finger to his lips. "With you as lookout."