by Louisa Lo
Then she tore her gaze from the lights and stumbled toward her new home. A bellboy opened the door for her politely. It was all very civilized up until the torture. He already had her luggage in a nearby cart, waiting—one piece of luggage for every major sin she committed. She would not be free of her baggage, literally, until she was properly punished. She walked into the casino and the bellboy followed suit.
The reaper assigned to her case was nowhere to be seen. That was expected. He’d already called in the delivery to the bellboy and needn’t make a personal appearance during the package’s arrival. What would be the point? No one escaped once they arrived in Hell.
Well, at least not in theory, anyway.
The first thing Gregory and I did upon our arrival was to take out specially formulated handkerchiefs and wipe the maggot paste off our faces. The tightness on my chest eased. With the scent of aloe vera filling my nose, I could feel cheerful again. In Hell, no less. A quick glance at Gregory showed that he, too, was doing better.
There were two security guards at the entrance. They noticed us and started making their way over. I should be keeping my eyes on them, but something on the left side of the stairs caught my attention, and I nudged Gregory and tilted my head toward that direction.
Each side of the stairs was lined with various golden statues, cast in the images of men and beasts. Standing out from amongst the expected deal-making demons, hellhounds, reapers, and vengeance demons, was a man with the face of Santa Claus.
Gregory’s confused expression matched exactly with how I felt.
Yep, the statue got the face of Santa Claus right, but nothing else.
Gone was the jolly red snowsuit and the ridiculous curly white full beard. His body, looking more muscular then flabby, was covered in a dark, monk-like robe, and there was keen intelligence and seriousness in his eyes. He didn’t look like he would clutch his belly and bellow “ho, ho, ho” any time soon.
Why the heck was Santa immortalized here, and in such a manner? Santa was all about handing out rewards, while Hell was all about dishing out punishments.
We had no time to dwell on that as the guards had now stopped in front of us.
“Can I help you?” one of them asked.
Unlike their nearly naked, stripper-like counterparts that served Leonard on the lower levels of Hell, these boys were the very cliché of the secret service guys in human movies—the black suit, the sunglasses, the headpiece, etc. But what the human CIA agents didn’t have, but the guards of Hell did, was a hellhound on a leash. The hellhound was the picture of intimidation, all fangs and salivating, and it was the size of a small bear.
Each guard had a silk armband. One was emerald, the other one, holding onto the leash of the hellhound, red. I suddenly remembered what Lucifer said on his note:
…please come to the front of the casino and present the guards with the red armband with the enclosed VIP pass…
Well, what was I supposed to do when the two of them approached us together? Pull one aside? I lifted my hands, and the guards immediately went into fighting stance, making Gregory extend his vengeance wings in response.
“Chill, guys,” I said, hastily spreading out my fingers to show that I wasn’t up to any trickery, “I’m just taking out the proof that I have reasons to be here, okay?”
The guards looked at each other, and Gregory folded his wings as a gesture of goodwill. Looking a little more relaxed, the guards signaled me to proceed. I reached back slowly—no sudden, jerky movement there—and detached a small piece of paper the size of a microchip from the clasp of my necklace. I expanded the paper until it resembled a movie ticket on the palm of my hand.
My VIP pass into the casino of Hell.
I hadn’t shown Gregory the pass before, in fear of having it drive home to him how Lucifer really did reach out to me behind his back. Knowing was one thing, seeing was another, and one tends to be a little territorial regarding one’s solus iungere. I was right in my assumption, because Gregory’s eyes narrowed at the sight of the VIP pass, and his fingers flexed as if longing to rip it apart.
The guard with the emerald armband stared at the pass and frowned. “I don’t know what you’re playing at, but I’ve never seen such a pass bef—”
He slumped forward and was caught by his colleague in the red armband. Initially I thought the latter was trying to help, until he let his buddy’s body slide onto the floor. Minus the unconscious guard, there were now only the three of us on the front steps of Hell’s entrance. I took an involuntary step toward Gregory.
Mr. Red Armband gestured for us to follow him. “Hurry, before they find us.”
He turned and broke off into a run toward a non-descriptive side door off the entrance, taking the hellhound with him. Gregory and I looked at each other, at a loss of what to do. Inside the casino, there would be more of Lucifer’s servants. Would we be safer in there, or go with just one guard to who-knew-where, when he already proved that he had zero hesitation in hurting one of his own?
And why the heck was I contemplating the issue of safety in Hell, of all places?
“Come on!” Mr. Red Armband yelled.
In the end, it was the color of the guard’s armband that got me to make up my mind. Lucifer’s note had made mention of it, and we were here, after all, to see Lucifer.
“I think we should go after him,” I said.
“Agreed,” Gregory replied.
We went after Mr. Red Armband, who was already at the side door. With one hand on the doorknob and the other tapping his headpiece, he spoke into it. “Code Cobra. I’m bringing them in.”
Chapter Twenty-Five
The Chocolate Factory
Once the guard opened the side door, a wave of heat hit us and I nearly staggered into Gregory. Never in all my time in Hell had I ever experienced such scorching temperatures before. The heat was almost a physical barrier, and moving an inch forward was like trying to swim across a pool of boiling spring water.
Mr. Red Armband stepped through the threshold with his hellhound, both of which didn’t seem to have a problem with the heat. The guard looked back at us, saw our hesitation, and gave an exasperated sigh. “Move along. We don’t have time for this."
I wetted my dry lips and tried to retort with a biting remark, but couldn’t. I was close to passing out. From Gregory’s labored breathing behind me, I doubt he was doing much better.
But we had to keep going. Too much was at stake. If this was Lucifer’s way to test us, then that was more the reason we had to bring our A game.
Gregory took my sweaty hand in his and squeezed it before letting go, signaling his determination. Gritting my teeth, I forced myself to cross the threshold, knowing he would be right behind me.
What awaited us was a dark passageway that instantly made the bright and flashy front entrance all but a distant dream. Then a burst of eerily orange glow lighted up the space in front of us, followed by the distant sound of gurgling and a wave of scorching heat. The glow lit up our surroundings, showing stone steps winding a path downward. The same burst of light repeated every few seconds, suggesting that there must’ve been some sort of lava pool bubbling ahead.
My hand accidently brushed against the brick wall and came away covered in green gooey slime. Repressing a shudder, I pulled out the handkerchiefs I used for the maggot paste and wiped my hand on it.
The air was stifling, a mix of underground muskiness and pungent sulfur. The sulfuric smell was so pronounced, in fact, I could taste it on the tip of my tongue.
It was an inferno worthy of every human nightmare. I would say it was cliché if it wasn’t what the supernaturals had come to expect of Hell, as well.
Must…go…forward…
One moment I was treading along, the next I was slumping backward onto the steps, overcome by yet another blast of heat. I got the vague impression of Gregory, who was behind me, trying to catch me, but I knocked him down with me as well.
At least I fell backward, and didn
’t pitch forward down the steps, bowling into the guard and hound who were ahead of me.
That was my last thought before passing out.
The next thing I felt was the sensation of a large tongue licking my cheek, and the smell of dog breath. Ugh.
Strange enough, as the licking continued, the temperature in my surroundings became more bearable, as if someone had turned the air-conditioning on. I opened my eyes and stared into the face of the hellhound. His eyes shone with keen intelligence, and with his bark-like panting, and his tongue rolling out to the side of his large mouth, I swear that he was laughing at me.
Then the massive beast leaned past me, his fur tickling my neck, as he proceeded to lick something—or someone—underneath me.
“Alright, that’s enough,” Mr. Red Armband said, pulling the hellhound off me.
Wait, someone underneath me?
As quickly as I could manage, I turned over and got off Gregory. Poor guy, I practically squished him against the hard stone steps when I went down. He broke my fall when he could’ve gotten out of the way, and he was as heat exhausted as I was.
He was so getting a third date if we got out of this.
Gregory’s eyes were closed, and his forehead was beaded with large drops of sweat. I gently pushed a stray piece of wet hair away from his face.
As I watched, his sweat disappeared. He blinked up at me.
“Let’s go,” Mr. Red Armband urged impatiently. “The hellhound’s saliva should give you immunity against the heat. We have to hurry.”
“What’s the emergency?” I gave voice to the questions I’d had since he spirited us away. “Why aren’t we going through the front entrance? Who are we hiding from? Why did you just attack one of your own? What the hell is ‘Code Cobra’? Why was the invite addressed to me, but you’re perfectly okay with Gregory here as well, as if you’re expecting us?”
The only thing I could think of was that there had been some kind of mutiny within Lucifer’s own camp, or another mass breakout. Either way, it didn’t make very good timing for visiting Hell. But then again, had there ever been a good time?
Despite getting the immunity from the heat, which was a nice gesture despite the ick factor, it was about time we got some answers.
Mr. Red Armband buttoned his lips mulishly. “You’re going to have to talk to the boss about it.”
“Not. Good. Enough. Of. An. Answer,” I bit out. “Oh, come on, you have to give me something.”
“Fine.” Mr. Red Armband sighed. “There has been a little, er, social unrest that the boss is handling.”
Oh crap, I was right, and there was a rebellion of sort. Maybe we’ll come back another time was at the tip of my tongue. But really, as I said there was really no good time to do this.
“There are those who, er, might take issue to your presence here,” the guard added.
“But I’ve been here before,” I protested.
“Not as a VIP,” Mr. Red Armband said pointedly. “The boss would still very much like to see you, so I’m getting you in as discreetly as possible. We’re taking a longer route, but we’ll get there safely. That’s as much as I’m going to say for now.”
“Would you at least tell me your name?” I asked. There was always some measure of power in a name, if nothing else.
“No. You saw my red armband, and that’s all you need to know.”
I opened my mouth but Gregory gave me a leave it for now look. With a sigh, I helped him up, and along with the guard and beast, we continued our descent into the belly of Hell. After about a thousand steps, there was a small landing before the stairs continued down.
Mr. Red Armband stopped on the landing, and Gregory and I did the same. The guard gestured a small door by the landing and said, “This is Torture Chamber Section 2C567.”
I paled. Just how many torture chambers were there in Hell? It wasn’t like they actually teach us these things in the vengeance education system. Was Lucifer’s idea of talking to us over some medieval torture devise and a glass of blood?
Seeing my expression, Mr. Red Armband snapped, “You want to meet the boss or not?”
Fine. I took a deep breath and squared my shoulder. Gregory gave me a nod, and when the guard opened the door, we followed him in.
Torture Chamber Section 2C567 was set up like a midway at a state fair. There was Ferris wheel, Gravitron, Haunted House, and many other carnival games, and together they lit up the dark backdrop with thousands of multi-colored neon blubs, twirling and flashing in a dazzling display. Plenty of people milled around, or lined up for rides. A pair of large stereo speakers was stationed at every ride, blasting cheerful carnival tunes of their respective adventure. The smell of funnel cakes, hot dogs, and cotton candies drifted to my nose, and despite having had dinner not so long ago, my mouth watered in response.
The giant Ferris wheel at the entrance was at least six hundred feet tall. Its speakers crackled as it played “My Favorite Things” from The Sound of Music. The wheel lumbered on, having just finished loading up a fresh batch of riders. The ride was quite popular, with the long lineup stretching all the way to the neighboring food stands.
My first clue that something was off was the realization that though this was an amusement park setting, nobody was entirely amused. There was no shared laughter, no chatting, none of the stuff that people usually did when they lined up for a fun time.
My second clue was the look of sheer terror on the riders’ faces as the Ferris wheel suddenly jumped in speed. Then it went into turbo mode, and the song sped up so fast that Julie Andrews was listing out all of her favorite things in under ten seconds. The riders hung onto their seats for dear life-well, maybe not life in their case—but it was futile. The momentum sent them flying into the air one by one, and soon the ground was littered by their broken bodies.
Gregory grabbed me, and together we dove under an unmanned, umbrella-covered hot dog stand. We reinforced the large umbrella, so that as the bodies rained down on it, they slide off with loud squishing sounds, but didn’t puncture our barrier. I scraped my palm on the dirt floor in our hasty retreat, and it stung like crazy.
Mr. Red Armband walked over with his canine friend and said, “Take down the barrier. It isn’t necessary. Those licks from the hellhound are already protecting you from the flying bodies, like it does for me.”
A look at the guard indicated that he was indeed unharmed, and he’d been in the open the entire time. Maybe Hellhound slobber acted as some kind of condemned soul repellant? Gregory and I came out from our shields reluctantly. I would prefer to have some barrier, already being protected or not. It would make me feel better.
“We’re supposed to wait in this area for further instructions, don’t go too far,” Mr. Red Armband said, tapping on his headpiece. “And when I say run, do that right away, okay?”
“Why are we waiting here?” I asked.
“For the right time, so we can get through this area while ensuring that we’re not followed,” he replied. “Every safeguard in Hell covers different geographical areas, and they shift over time, complementing and neutralizing each other in a complicated rhythm, creating pockets of safe zones that take particular traveling patterns to enter. The boundaries are not visible even to me, so I’m relying on instructions from my superior before we proceed.”
“So is this about securing our safety, or your boss’s privacy?” Gregory asked.
Mr. Red Armband shrugged. “Does it matter?”
I looked at my surroundings. Maybe while I was waiting I could learn something about the Lord of Hell from the way he ran things here. I could certainly use every bit of information I could get my hands on. From the way Gregory looked around him, he must be thinking along the same line.
The Ferris wheel, now empty, was slowly coming to a full stop. Though their bodies were broken, the riders on the ground didn’t lose consciousness. They simply lay in their own pools of blood, crying out in pain. Then, incredibly, the pool of blood receded before my
very eyes, and what was once broken—jaws, legs, arms, hips—seemed to get knitted back together. Yes, the broken bones were resetting themselves. Without the use of anesthesia. If the increased volume of cries were anything to go by, this process appeared to be even more excruciating than the business of sustaining the original injuries.
“Batch four of the Wheel of Broken Fraudsters, please report back to the line for further punishment. Batch five, please get ready to take your seats.” A neutral voice announced over the PA system as the Ferris wheel started moving to load up a new round of passengers.
I wondered what had made them so agreeable to the arrangement, as most of them had a resigned look on their faces, whether they were lying on the ground or waiting their turn to end up in a similar fashion.
The freshly-injured-and-healed bunch stretched out their bodies gingerly, got up, and headed back to the line. People who did scummy things in life had a general disregard for the law, and it wasn’t like there was a single underground law enforcement officer in sight, our own tour guide excluded. So why were the prisoners so accepting of their punishment?
No sooner did I ponder about that did a few of the recently punished made a run for it. Looked like there was some fight left in them, after all. They darted around the French fry stand, bulldozed over the beaver tail pavilion, and one enterprising fellow even rolled under the base of a Gravitron, hiding his entire body under there.
Mr. Red Armband’s hellhound pulled at his own leash. The guard waved his hand, and the leash simply melted away. The hellhound doubled in size and bound after the escapees.
And he wasn’t alone. At least half a dozen hellhounds came out of nowhere, racing to catch up with the prisoners. Once they did, they barked, bit, and pushed the escapees, including the one under the Gravitron, back in line like a herd of ill-tempered German Shepherds.