“Such as?”
He paused again, took a deep breath, and murmured, “Dare I say, relics of a bygone age? Perhaps even, from the Time of Sundering?”
A shock coursed down my spine; for a moment my legs felt hollow.
Knowledge of such history and the artifacts it referred to was proscribed by law, for it related to the fall of Satan, and angelic weapons of untold mastery and purpose. Not only had all record of them been destroyed — at least, that’s what should have happened — but public archives since then had been altered to completely avoid any reference to those times. Few were privy to such matters, for even talking about it would render a transgressor top of my list, and consigned from there to a thousand years roasting in Hades.
I understood now why Bertran was so reluctant to speak.
And yet, it seems Cream and his friend display a blasé attitude about incurring my Awful Father’s wrath.
“So, how did you help him, Bertran?”
“I directed him to my cousin, François, in Perish. He traffics mercenaries and Foreign Legionnaires for several of the causes over there. Obviously, because of his contacts, he has exclusive ties to the white market as well.”
“How far developed are Tesla’s latest models?”
“At the moment he’s only got short distance prototypes of his latest model working. Thanks to the idiosyncrasies of the Undertaker, Tesla keeps making mistakes in his calculations, so his toys keep fritzing out. But he’s removing those obstacles one by one.”
“And this new device can go anywhere?”
“From what I’m told, yes.”
“Thank you, I won’t forget this. Is there anything else you’d like to add? Remember, no detail is too small.”
Bertran thought for a moment. “Now you come to mention it, I think our mysterious friend might be suffering from a form of OCD. Although our conversation was brief, he couldn’t stop massaging his hands. I thought he might have cramps or something similar, but there was a desperation to his actions that bordered on the schizophrenic.”
“Good, people will remember him then, and that makes it easier for me to track him down.” I glanced at my watch. “Look, I’d better get going. I’ve lost enough time as it is.”
I turned and jumped back onto the lip of the parking lot.
“You’re sprightlier than you look,” Bertran shouted in surprise.
“It goes with the job,” I replied. As an afterthought, I called, “You say your cousin is in Perish?”
“That’s right. Just ask for François de UnBorn. He lives in the fourth district, or as they say over there, the Hotel-de-E’ville Horrondissement. But be sure to mention his name. Despite your standing, Perish is a dangerous place. Even by hell’s devious standards. If they realize you’re there to see François, you’ll be able to avoid a lot of deliberate hassle.”
“Thanks, I’ll bear that in mind.”
Now all I have to do is think of a way of getting back to Juxtapose without expending too much energy.
As I began walking toward the docks, my Despicable Father demonstrated, once again, he had been keeping a close eye on events. Before I’d even had the opportunity to think of anything myself, a congealing miasma descended over the entire bay.
All traces of the surrounding jeering and heckling fell away. The insects on the shoreline paused in their carnivorous rampage. Everything seemed to hold its breath.
Then from out of the mists came a metallic, baying resonance. A rhythmic reverberation made its presence known, becoming more pronounced as the groaning sound got nearer. A voluminous wash of water came cascading out of the gloom, followed moments later by the cause of the commotion. The Bridge itself.
Thank Purgatory for that! It looks like I’ll be riding back to Juxtapose in style.
Chapter 5: Perish the Thought
My journey was somewhat bizarre.
Having climbed aboard the Bridge in New Hell, I found it promptly morphed into a vaulted gondola, ascended into the heavens, and spun a wormhole between realities. The view from inside appeared much like a fluidic kaleidoscope, and as I punted my way along the wormhole’s length I had the opportunity to peek into myriad other fragments of helltime.
Here, souls roasted alive in the fiery pits of Hades. There, denizens fought for their lives against a leviathan from the depths of Purgatory. Before me, demons and shape shifters fought over the bloody remains of adventurers that had strayed where they shouldn’t. And behind, insurgents, intent on wiping out their antagonists, had detonated an ADAM (Advanced Demolition Atomic Munition), a tactical nuclear device. The maneuver not only vaporized their enemies but most of the northeast sector of Hellview Estates as well.
What was even more disconcerting was the fact that although my journey seemed to stretch on into eternity, it was over almost as soon as it began.
Before I knew what was happening, the roiling mass of cloud encompassing me parted, and I looked down from a vast height upon my destination: Perish, or as the world above knew it, Gay Paree. But nothing was gleeful or merry about the sprawling conurbation stretching off into the distance below me.
It was sinister. It was brutal. Earthy and crass. Souls here were as cruel as they were merciless. Embittered and hardhearted, their Gallic charm was reflected in their view of existence where joie de vivre had definitely been replaced by joie de la souffrance.
Me? I loved Perish. It was so gothic I never had to worry about what to wear. Black went with absolutely everything, and I was looking forward to immersing myself among the uncultured once more.
A chime sounded, notifying me of my imminent disembarkation.
So, how will the Bridge put me down?
I was about to find out:
First the starboard arch of the gate glimmered with a spectral radiance that beckoned me forward.
Next the tone sounded again, and the plane of the portico flared.
I stepped through, my stomach leaping into my mouth as I experienced an unexpected drop. Disoriented, I found myself plummeting, then tumbling forward onto a raised platform. Thankfully, my heightened senses allowed me to arrest my fall and use the momentum to gambol to a safe landing.
The inference was clear: My Despicable Father was demonstrating he was still pissed, and expecting me to stay on my toes.
Nice one, Sire! Thank Beelzebub I didn’t make a complete tit of myself.
I took stock of my surroundings.
Behind me, two inverted metallic horns marked the threshold of a displacement vortex. The event horizon still glowed like the surface of a pond illuminated by moonbeams. As I watched, a static display shimmered between the spines, and the field collapsed in on itself and died.
An unsanctioned gateway? And one that Satan knows about? Interesting . . .
My acrobatic display took me halfway along a metallic gantry that sloped down into a small, circular reception foyer. From what I could see, that area was protected from the portal run-off by a number of security guards, and a transparent screen running from floor to ceiling.
Tiered shelves lined either side of the aisle, upon which sat hundreds of glass vessels. Arrayed in all sorts of outlandish shapes and sizes, each contained what looked like severed body parts in some sort of fluid.
Comprehension struck me like a thunderbolt.
Satan’s really thrown me into the lion’s den.
Although I’d initially been confused by the temporal doorway — which was a brand-new feature — I now recognized where I was, for I’d been here once before, many years ago.
Perish was governed by a number of crime lords, who ran the city with a ruthless efficiency matched only by Satan and his fallen angels themselves. One of the most notorious of these gangsters was a soul named Don Pérignone, a cutthroat bootlegger of impressive stripe. Together with Al Catraz, his gunrunning deputy, he controlled most of the districts south of the River Inseine with an ‘iron fist in titanium glove’ approach. A policy reflected by the Don’s habit of keeping souven
irs of those who had displeased him in kill jars.
I cast my gaze along the racks of prize specimens about me and instantly felt envious of such a fine collection.
Damn, but I want one for a paperweight! Rumor has it that those who really annoy Pérignone are kept alive at the edge of dissolution, just so he can serve them their severed limbs, fried, with garlic and onions. He’s been known to extend their suffering for months that way, before allowing them to fade for reassignment. Very clever.
Both hoods conducted their affairs from a number of different venues, but their main base of operations sat below the place where I now found myself. Called Infernos, the nightclub was a heavily fortified hive of iniquity atop the Awful Tower, from where they spread fear and extortion in equal measure. They’d obviously added the portal to help move their merchandise about. And really, where better for them to display such a fine reminder to the consequences of disobedience?
I looked back toward the reception area and noticed that the grunts making up my little welcoming committee were undecided as to how to respond.
The one behind the desk picked up a phone and babbled incoherently into the receiver. His buddy next to him lowered some kind of visor over his eyes, cocked a mean-looking Hellishnikov 7.62, and leveled it right at me. The final goon also pointed a gun my way, but appeared distracted by whoever was speaking to him on the other end of a walkie-talkie currently pressed to one ear. They reminded me of hell’s version of the three wise monkeys, or in their case: ‘Speak only evil, see all evil, and hear nothing but evil’.
Radio Guy nodded and said something I couldn’t hear to his buddies, whereupon they all began backing away toward a set of sliding doors.
“Before you all go scurrying off to whatever rocks you like to fornicate under,” I shouted, “or start overtaxing the drainage system with a strenuous bout of panic flushing, you can relax. I’m not here for you, or any illegal contraband that might be deposited around this establishment . . . without your knowledge, of course. I just need to see your boss. It’s urgent.”
They all froze. No one replied.
“J’ai besoin de voir votre patron,” I repeated mentally and verbally in my best French, a completely unnecessary exercise for I knew they understood Standard English perfectly well. Everyone in hell did.
Each one of them sneered at my effort to communicate. Mr. Machine Gun even had the audacity to hawk up half his lungs and spit on the floor.
In response, I removed my scythe, extended the shaft, and held it out in plain sight.
Their gazes flicked repeatedly between me and the blade. The muzzles of their guns inched upward.
“Gentlemen,” I warned, “I’m trying to be polite. Don’t make me regret it.”
Neither their eyes nor their weapons stopped moving.
Your choice.
“Very well . . .” Depressing the bottom of five studs, I slammed the heel of the sickle into the ground and unleashed a shockwave that rocked the entire edifice to its foundations. As the monkeys were thrown to the ground, a wide crack split the fabric of the metal at my feet. Splintering outward, it zigzagged along the floor and radiated toward the walls on all sides. Jars danced on shelves; dust motes, dislodged, fell from the ceiling. One of the fissures wormed its way down to the security screen, hit the glass, and fractured the entire barrier from top to bottom. Miraculously, the barricade held.
In the ensuing silence, a trio of stunned faces looked my way.
“Do I have your attention now? Good. That was a little taste of the power at my disposal. Think of it as a demonstration. I haven’t bothered to manifest the full might of the Phage, yet, so on a scale of one to ten, that was a one . . . bordering on a two. Would you like to see what happens if I up the stakes?”
Radio Guy shook his head vigorously. His buddies continued to stare.
“Excellent. I’ve already asked to see your boss twice” — I raised my staff and wiggled my thumb over the button again — “there won’t be a third time.”
As one, they rolled onto their hands and knees and scrabbled for the doors. Before they’d covered half the distance it swished open, and a heavyset individual looking like a cross between Marlon Brando and a bulldog chewing a wasp stalked inside. Al Catraz. Not the person I’d asked for.
We made eye contact. I could see he was far from happy.
Then his scrutiny flicked past me and on to the display cases. A near disaster had been narrowly avoided, for at least a dozen containers had been shunted to the edge of their shelves where they now teetered precariously, only a hairsbreadth from oblivion.
Al’s anger fell upon his flunkies.
“Well, don’t just lie there groveling, you dopey morons!” Waving his arms furiously, he shepherded them toward the racks. “Put the blasted things back in their places before they fall.”
Now he was grumpy. At this rate, we’d be through the rest of the seven dwarves in less than a minute.
Mind you, I appreciated the slick distraction his ruse had furnished.
So smoothly I hadn’t realized what he was doing, Al used the cover of his wildly gesticulating outburst to disguise the fact that he had removed a Hell-Brass 6.66 Magnum from a concealed holster beneath his jacket. Its barrel was now pointed directly at me: not a welcoming sight.
“If you know me, Reaper,” he snarled, “then you know I don’t really care for authority. What’s to prevent me from testing how resistant to injury you really are? Perhaps you’d make a fine addition to my collection.”
To your collection? So that would mean . . . ?
“Where’s Don Pérignone?” I demanded. “I’ll only speak with the man in charge.”
“You are speaking to him.” In response to my look of surprise, Al explained: “I retired the Don a few years back. Let’s just say I didn’t like the direction he was taking us, so I arranged for a very generous pension plan. One weighted with all sorts of fringe benefits.”
“Concrete benefits of the lead-lined variety?”
“Most definitely. You could say he’s immersed in a whole new way of life now.”
The neutral veneer of his emotions revealed he was telling the truth.
So there has been a change in leadership . . .
“Very well.” I paused to replace the scythe within my coat and stepped slowly toward him. “As I was trying to emphasize to your lobotomized flunkies, I’m not here to cramp your style. I am, however, on a time-constricted mission. Bertran de Born suggested I might be helped in my endeavor if I enlisted the help of his cousin, François.”
“François? François de UnBorn?” A huge grin split his gnarled face.
“Yes, why?”
“He’s my partner in, er, no criminal activity whatsoever.”
This time, Al’s aura blushed scarlet, with strontium-red whorls. And it wasn’t the fact that he’d just lied that was firing him up. Oh no. He was one of those who had obviously heard the tales about my regenerative powers, and he was itching to put them to the test.
Our little exchange had given me time to close the gap between us. Walking up to him, I pressed myself against the Magnum’s muzzle. “By all means, test your little theory. But if you waste my time by forcing me to heal myself, there won’t be enough jars in this place to hold the pieces I’ll cut away from you.”
The barrel was now positioned above my heart.
As if I ever had one to begin with.
An urgent buzzing disturbed his deliberations. Using his free hand, Al reached inside his jacket and removed a Denizen Guileless mobile phone. As he held it a few inches from his head, his eyes glazed over.
I was intrigued. Not so much by the fact that he was using telepathy, for such decks incorporated an enhancement function to allow users to convey accurate thoughts and impressions across all the levels of hell. No, I was disturbed because those particular models were premium, and supposedly only available to Satan and his fallen angels.
So, that’s either a white market imitation, or w
e’ve got a few leaks that need plugging in the higher echelons of power. I think I’ll give the Hounds a call once my enquiries here are finished. It’ll be nice to give them something to chew on for a while.
The pressure against my chest eased as Al’s eyes came back into focus. Moments later, both gun and phone were things of the past, tucked away in dark, deep pockets.
“You’re not going to believe this,” he mumbled, “but that was François. Not two minutes ago, he received a call all the way from New Hell. Veeery expensive. Evidently, his cousin Bertran was keen to stress the urgency of assisting you. Having been apprised of a few details, François is inclined to agree.” His face deformed into a smile, and he beckoned toward the double doors. “Please follow me, and I’ll show you to your carriage.”
“Carriage?”
“Yes. The sixth metro ley line runs directly below this tower, so we’ve turned it into our own personal chauffeur service. It grants us freedom of movement throughout the whole of our territory, as well as access to the twelfth and sixteenth horrondissements. You’ll still have to travel north, of course, but at least you’ll get most of the way in safety.”
“I see . . .”
“My apologies.” Al was quick to make amends. “I thought you were sent here to snoop. We’re a stubborn lot and don’t take kindly to authority, nor do we trust anyone sent by His Satanic Majesty.”
I stopped and turned to face him.
You’ve just earned yourself a future visit.
“Mr. Catraz. There’s one thing you need to understand about me. I’m a very different kettle of fish to the small fry you’ve no doubt come across. Nor am I like any Blue Suit or Infernal Agent you will ever meet. I never lie to achieve my objectives. I don’t need to. My record speaks for itself. The worst thing you can ever do is try to impede my enquiries or engage in unnecessary pissing contests. They don’t impress me and will only ever work against you. I hope you take the hint, because I’ll never extend the benefit of another one.”
Hell Bound (Heroes in Hell) Page 7