by Alan Baxter
He flapped to about two thirds of the way up the huge, sloping, black rock face, landed at a vaguely arch-shaped opening. Immediately his senses were swamped with nauseating motion again, the worst kind of seasickness. He folded his wings, then stepped inside.
A corridor of roughly hewn rock stretched out before him, rising very slightly, gently pulsing like the insides of some enormous snake. He walked along, sensing forward, ready for any encounter, slowly becoming more able to cope with the unreal surroundings, if not understand them. The dim corridor twisted and turned, gently sloping.
Soon he noticed a dark shadow on the left, a few yards ahead. An unlit opening in the wall of the corridor. He approached it carefully, gathering his will. As he came alongside the opening there was a scream, crash of metal, and a drawn, skeletal man flew out the darkness, bony arms reaching for him, spittle flying from his wailing mouth. Isiah leapt back, raising one hand to strike him, when the man was pulled up short from behind, his legs swinging out in front, still running. In the shadows he could see small, slimy hands, dozens of them, embedded in the skin of the man’s neck, back, dragging him back into the darkness. He looked away quickly, blocking the image from his mind. Immediately, more openings began popping into existence all around him, in the walls, floor, ceiling. Contorted faces, men, women, children, screamed out at him, hands reaching, fingers clutching, their expressions pure despair and agony. Tears of blood streamed from their eyes, their fingernails torn and broken from scrabbling at the walls of their convulsing, eternal prison. The screams and wails became louder, rising to a deafening crescendo, tearing into his mind, threatening to rip it apart.
He took quick, deep breaths, forcing himself not to panic. He had to maintain his presence, show no fear or weakness. Knowing that he had to protect himself, he began striking out at the suffering faces, knocking them back into their horrifying caves, striding along the passage. He didn’t look directly at any of them, attempting to ignore the horror of their pain.
Flickering light began to paint the walls ahead of him, growing brighter as the corridor curved. Eventually Isiah came to a large cavern, the corridor walls stretching away to either side and high overhead, turning, seething. The cavern was strewn with detritus of all kinds, rubble, bones, unnameable substances trickling, oozing. Flaming, bubbling pits of deep red lava belched all around, smoke and steam thickening the air. In amongst the pits and mess lounged dozens of the small shuriken demons that were so recently familiar to Isiah, dozing, copulating, masturbating, gnawing on bones of unmistakably human origin.
As he stepped into the cavern many of the little minions jumped up and ran to hide, or cowered behind piles of rubble. They were terrified of him. It occurred to Isiah that the demon he was impersonating was probably familiar to them, at least by reputation. That meant that this part of Hell was also likely to be known to him. He growled at the minions, sending them quivering into corners while he thought.
He began searching the confused mass of stolen memories, looking for something familiar. He could vaguely see images of this twisted monument, hints of corridors and rooms, far more developed than this, designed in carved stone, constructed in grotesque images and forms. While he searched his mind he saw one of the minions scuttle across the back of the cavern, heading for an opening on the far side. He swiftly flicked out one arm, sending a fiery bolt of energy flying across the flaming cave, engulfing the horrible creature before it could get away. It screamed and writhed, fell convulsing to the floor, burning. The others danced about, cackling in glee, clapping their slimy hands. Another minion jumped up and ran out in front of Isiah, its arms stretched above its head, pointing to an alcove across the cave. He watched it carefully as it went toward the alcove, its eyes never leaving Isiah’s.
It reached inside the shadowed opening, struggled briefly, before backing out, dragging a struggling young woman, naked and beaten, across the floor. It hit the woman, forcing her up onto all fours, then mounted her from behind, furiously fucking her. It laughed and pointed, motioned Isiah over, You want a go? Isiah swallowed hard, roared at the foul creature. He let a searing burst of fire shoot from his outstretched hand, full into the gibbering face of the black horror, sending it flying backwards, swamped in flame. The sobbing woman scrabbled on her knees back into the dark corner, suffering her personal hell.
With the help of the demon’s stolen memories, Isiah had an idea of how to get to where he thought he needed to go. He strode across the cave, minions scuttling, terrified, away from him. He reached out, grabbing one as it tried to scurry over a pile of broken rock. He held it, thrashing, by the throat, leaned close. ‘Where is Lucifer?’ he asked, his eyes burning into those of the minion, his voice a guttural, thick growl.
The creature squirmed in his grasp. ‘The Master is away among the mortals,’ it hissed, ‘gathering souls, gathering dark souls. We await his return to attend him. We wait, we wait.’
Isiah smirked inside, So this is the demon staff quarters. Servants waiting for the lord of the manor. It was the best news he had had so far. With Lucifer away he had a chance to snatch Samuel and be out of Hell before the Devil got back. If he worked quickly. ‘When will he return?’
‘Soon, soon,’ it cackled. ‘Why do you come here? Why here? Why here? Wait there, wait there.’ It pointed one bony, taloned hand upwards, gesturing vaguely above.
‘How dare you question me!’ Isiah bellowed. He reached out with his other hand, crushed the minion’s head like a ripe melon. A cacophony of hysterical laughter filled the cavern. Isiah tossed the ragged form into a burning, surging pit.
He strode across the cave to the opening opposite, stepped into the dark corridor. He followed the curving, pulsing passage. That was a mistake. He had to have the conviction of his assumed disguise. Appearing where he had was obviously far below his station. In some ways it was a welcome discovery, his presence nearer to his goal was less likely to be challenged.
Using the demon’s stolen memories, he made his way up through the giant mountain, climbing toward the peak. After a time the corridors became less rough, more neatly constructed, though still surging and seething impossibly. He managed to avoid any smaller caves and alcoves, from which issued bloodcurdling screams, tormented moans. Sometimes he had to stride through rooms he could not avoid, trying not to look at the terrified, suffering souls, stretched, hung, contorted, being subjected to a thousand unholy tortures
Soon he came to passages more brightly lit, carved rather than hewn from the glassy, black rock, hideous, disturbing friezes decorating the smooth walls, writhing as if alive. He rounded a sharp bend in the corridor, pulled up short. In front of him was an enormous room, pits of fire burning along either side. There was a huge table in the centre of the room, carved from the rock of the mountain itself, the table legs smoothly melding with the floor, gently shifting. The ceiling was high, shrouded in swirling black smoke. At the table were three deformed, gristly demons, not unlike the image of Isiah himself, a hideous feast of human body parts, limbs, hearts, entrails, spread before them. They looked up, spotting him before he could duck back out of sight. Now is the test.
One of the demons rose, its ugly face splitting in a twisted grin. ‘Ha! What brings you here? I haven’t seen you for centuries!’
‘It seems longer,’ Isiah replied with a laugh.
The demon laughed too, a thick, gurgling sound. ‘Sit down, sit down. Are you reporting to Lucifer?’
Isiah’s mind raced. He couldn’t risk offending them, but if he stayed too long they were likely to see through his masquerade. ‘Yes, but I have some other things to attend to first.’ He tried to ignore the chained, naked humans, male and female, huddled at the end of the table, their bodies beaten and abused.
‘Ah. But drink with us before you go! How much of a hurry can you be in?’ The demon reached across the table, taking up a human skull, worn smooth with use. He poured a thick, red liquid into the bowl of the skull from a huge metal jug.
Isiah t
ook the offered vessel, looked into it. Drinking blood from human skulls, how very stereotypical. Samuel’s hell seemed to be extremely formulaic in many respects, yet utterly unique and twisted in others. He hoped his assumed form would cope with this foul drink. He hefted the skull in salute, then downed the lot in one draft, swallowing hard before he had a chance to consider what he was doing. He tried to conceal his grimace and shudder as the others laughed and swigged from their own skulls. ‘When will he be back?’ he asked the one that seemed to recognise him, the bitter, coppery taste of the blood threatening to make him gag. Vomiting at the taste of blood was likely to blow his cover.
The ugly brute shrugged. ‘Who knows? Not long. There’s time for drinking first. It’s so rare that we gather this way any more. There was a time that we would gather and fight side by side year after year, remember? We were reminiscing. Remember the Battle of the Inferno?’
Isiah took a chance, laughed uproariously. ‘Of course!’ He fervently hoped they weren’t depressed, reminiscing on battles they had lost. Snatches of the demon’s memory within his own seemed jubilant at the name they had mentioned. They all roared with him, banging their skull cups on the table.
He took another chance, the viscous, warm blood cloying in his throat. ‘I’m surprised Lucifer has left again so soon. I would have thought he’d be here torturing that human, Harrigan. Have you heard about that one?’
The other demon chuckled deep in his chest, heavy, rumbling sound. ‘He certainly gave him the run around for a while. He will suffer so hard, so long. Lucifer has left him to stew. He’s remarkably resilient, hasn’t cracked yet.’
Isiah raised one twisted brow in mock surprise, trying to conceal his relief. ‘He hasn’t?’
‘Not yet. He’s convinced some voodoo priest has poisoned him, that he’s hallucinating, tripping out!’ The others laughed, banging their fists and cups.
Isiah nodded knowingly. ‘Resilient or stupid?’
‘Indeed.’
Isiah took a leap. ‘Where is Harrigan?’
The demon pointed one thumb back over his shoulder as he refilled his skull from the jug. ‘The usual. Why?’
Isiah looked to where the demon gestured, a large arched portal in the wall. ‘I might stop by, see what all the fuss is about.’
‘I’m sure it’s not very impressive.’
Isiah made an affirmative noise. ‘I don’t doubt it.’ He slapped the demon on the shoulder. ‘Let me attend to business, my friend. I’ll return and drink with you all shortly.’
The demon nodded, raising his skull. ‘Very well, tarry not!’ He pointed to the huddled humans. ‘We have more entertainment than food and drink!’
Isiah nodded to them all, walked confidently from the room. Close. Too close, but his disguise had held. And he knew which direction to head in his search. He stopped round the corner, out of sight, leaning over, hands on his knees. Sucking in deep, ragged breaths he regained control of himself, the urge to vomit finally abating. He could hear their muffled shouts and laughter as he headed away.
The corridor was lit with burning brands that he doubted would ever need replacing. They had probably burned that way for aeons. Hints of agonised faces swirled in the undulating walls around him, eyes begging release. He ignored them. Every so often he came across a door in the passageway, a small room beyond. He ducked his head into each room, checking for Samuel. Some were empty, others housed humans in various conditions of their own design, their own interpretations of Hell, overlapped with Samuel’s perceptions, twisted, confused. It pained Isiah to know that this eternal suffering, these horrifying torments, were the result of each individual’s belief. Their belief gave Satan his power, and their deepest fears made manifest was their eternal reward. He consoled himself in the knowledge that most of those that suffered here deserved to. He also knew that some of them believed in absolution and might eventually rise into the love of God. Another product of their belief, but surely a healthier one. They could not believe in Hell without also believing in Heaven. There was always hope in these confused religions if nothing else.
He suddenly felt a presence nearby that was unmistakably Samuel’s and heard his tortured screams, distant, echoing, as he approached another junction in the corridor. He turned the corner, his will tightly clenched in his mind in preparation. An undulating corridor stretched away before him, sloping slightly downwards. Or was it up? He couldn’t tell for certain. He headed along the nauseating passage, more tormented souls screaming at him from the walls. After a short time he came across a set of stairs leading up, shifting and heaving. Flickering orange light danced on the glassy surface of each step. He ascended, his lumbering gait and twisted feet making it a difficult climb.
The steps rose for several minutes, pulsing, turning, threatening to send him tumbling back down at any moment, until eventually he reached the top. The orange glow had become a bright, shimmering light, cast forth from a huge lake of fire before him. The broken rock at his feet fell away into a deep, crater-like bowl, thick, bubbling lava heaving and lapping. More arched entrances were dotted around the banks of the lake. The heat was intense, he could feel it burning his slick, horrible skin, making his eyes feel like they were drying up, shrinking. In the middle of the enormous burning lake was a shard of obsidian rock, thrusting high up through the boiling red sea like a coral atoll. The top was flattened, roughly circular. Samuel’s screams of agony were clearly audible across the searing distance.
Samuel was a twisted soul, that much was certain. He hung from a spiked metal frame atop the atoll, sharp points of metal growing and shrinking, twisting in and out of him. He was secured by his wrists and ankles, crucified with thin, barbed wire that twisted tighter, relaxed, tightened again, blood running down his arms, pooling on the floor. His chest was striped with dozens of deep gashes, his face beaten and bloodied. His genitals were pulped, bleeding, his legs awash with blood.
All around him, more little shuriken demons leapt and danced, striking out at him with barbed stakes, metal whips, teeth, claws. He twisted and writhed on the agonising frame, screaming hoarsely, his head snapping from side to side, trying to keep the grotesque horrors away from his face. Every couple of seconds he would look up, his eyes widening in abject terror at something only he could see, before his body would convulse, as if from impact. Eternal agony, but never enough to knock him into the blessed depths of unconsciousness.
Isiah staggered back down a couple of steps, unable to bear the furnace like heat any longer. Samuel was not at the very edge of the lake as he had been, but the heat must be intense for him also. Isiah had seen his skin was blackened and blistered in places, but the black could have been blood, the blisters could have any horrifying source.
He stood for a time, considering his options. He could attempt to fly across the lake, though he was unsure if he would be able to bear the heat. Or if his wings would burst into flame, plunging him to a fierce, surging death. If he travelled across the distance, avoiding the need to physically traverse it, he could be assured of arriving safely, but it was a risk. As soon as he disassembled to travel, his own consciousness would be unmasked for a fraction of a second, his mental presence like a beacon in the night, a dry twig in a silent forest. There was little choice now he was here, he would have to take the risk. Move fast, snatch Samuel and escape.
He took a couple of deep breaths, preparing himself, then travelled. As soon as he reformed on the searing surface of the atoll he heard roars of rage bellowing through contorting corridors. He could feel the inhabitants of this nightmarish Realm reacting to his presence, rushing to intercept him, like foul spiders on a vibrating strand of web.
The dozens of hideous minions reacted to the only instructions they had. Defend Samuel. They leapt at Isiah, screaming and howling. He swung his huge, slimy arms in great arcs, batting the minions into the fiery lake, crushing them under fist and foot. The rushing hordes were getting nearer. Isiah’s arms, face, chest were crisscrossed with scratches a
nd cuts. In moments all the minions were flung into the lava or lay broken on the smooth, black ground.
Samuel raised his head groggily at the sound of Isiah calling his name, his eyes black, shallow, haunted, seeing a myriad horrors that Isiah didn’t want to imagine. He began to moan at the sight of Isiah, his slack lips quivering, ‘No, no, no,’ under his ragged breath, weak.
Isiah stepped up to him, took his chin in one gnarled, slimy hand, tilting his head up. ‘Where are you, Samuel?’
Samuel sobbed, his chest shaking. ‘I don’t know,’ he wailed.
‘What’s the last thing you remember before this?’
Samuel’s wild eyes looked into Isiah’s for the first time, sunken, bloodshot. ‘The Voodoo-Man’s house,’ he said, almost a question.
‘I can take you back there. I can take you out of here.’ Isiah had to be sure that Samuel’s mind was at least partially intact.
Samuel sobbed again. ‘What kind of trick is it this time?’
‘No trick, Samuel. You just have to trust me.’ Isiah looked over his shoulder, across to the top of the stairs he had entered by. Samuel had to have the desire to leave. He had to understand that he could leave. Isiah could feel the hordes of Hell swarming towards them.
He took a deep breath, slowly let his disguise slip away. The inhabitants knew he was here now anyway. He returned to an image of his own form, large, dark haired human, tattered leather jacket, scuffed boots, jeans. It was like shrugging off a steel wetsuit. Samuel’s eyes widened. Isiah looked around again, nervous. He used his mind to break Samuel’s bonds while he spoke, barbed wire and metal snapping and coiling. ‘I can get you out of here, do you understand? You can follow me out of here, I can guide you back.’
Samuel slumped forward as his bindings fell away. Isiah caught him, tried to help him stand, his body slippery with sweat and blood. ‘Back to the Voodoo-Man’s house?’