Hell Bound (Heroes in Hell)

by Andrew P. Weston

  An open plain, lined on both sides by opposing armies. Two contenders faced off. One towered toward the sky, his spear and shield dwarfing the insects about him. The other looked much less imposing: a mere shepherd, armed with a sling. An unavoidable climax occurred, and the ground reverberated as the titan crashed to the floor. A sense of falling through the ground followed, leading to an awakening beneath leaden skies, dark with ash. Rebellious thoughts resulted in an intervention by a higher power and, soon after, the true death followed. An age passed by. Sealed and silent, a crypt filled with dust. Within, an ornate sarcophagus of impressive proportions faded into antiquity. Upon it, in pride of place, an armored helmet sat forgotten. The scene receded until all that remained was an impression of a grinning skull. Its eyes gleamed like hot coals as it sank into murky depths . . .

  As I regained my balance, Don Pérignone immediately got down to business.

  “Right, let’s dispense with the crap and get straight to it. You might prefer it if we converse mentally. Some of the things I have to say shouldn’t really be bandied about.”

  This should be interesting. “Go on.”

  My erstwhile partner thought he was so clever dumping me here, just so he could avoid any chance that I’d die and regenerate. Well, tough shit for him. We hear things in this river, things that shouldn’t be spoken of. Although I’ve no way out — unless some poor shmuck takes my place, of course — I still possess knowledge. And knowledge is power. A baleful reminder throbbed from lidless orbs. I can help you, Reaper, if you’re willing to trade. Possession of Goliath’s Skull protects the free will of its wearer. They cannot be influenced. From what I’ve gathered, entirely the wrong group of zealots seeks to claim it, for if they succeed, that heralds the beginning of the end. No one will be able to manipulate them, not even his Satanic Butt Plug.

  So what have you got to offer, exactly?

  Of all the denizens in this godforsaken place, you’re known as someone who never lies. Someone who values truth. Well, actions speak louder than words . . .

  Before I could ask what he meant, the streamers coiling around the embankments wrapped themselves around my entire body. They thickened, gleaming with an eerie phosphorescence that clung to my form like wraiths. Sparks capered through my hair, and a static charge danced across my skin. Everything went gray, all sensation ceased. Something changed. No sooner had I registered that fact than the miasma simply melted into the floor and clarity returned. Stunned, I found myself standing outside a huge building amid a crowd of startled passersby.

  “What the fu–?”

  A voice echoed from out of the receding haze.

  I can help you, Reaper. Remember what I’ve done, and act as you see fit.

  A reflection of burning eye sockets appeared again.

  It took me a moment to recognize where I was.

  Hey! This is the Assemblée Diabolique et Niveaux, the new Inter-Circles of Hell travel junction. I spun on the spot. I’ve completely skipped the Palais de L’Injustice. But why? The Palais is an official —

  A sudden thought occurred to me.

  Did Don Pérignone just help me avoid someone? Is that where the one of the moles works? Well, bugger me!

  I thought about the implications of what had just occurred, and grinned. Just like that, the perfect solution came to me:

  Oh, I’ll “act accordingly” all right. If this pans out, I have the perfect candidate to swap places with the Don.

  Chapter 8: The Sphincter

  Like Perish, known throughout the many circles of hell for uncultured brutality, District S16 was renowned for chaos and riotous disorder.

  Not that the District’s denizens had much choice in the matter, for the Spouting Pyramids of Geyser dominated life, keeping everyone on their toes. Erupting with monotonous frequency each day, the monuments flooded the crowded streets and souks of Dark Cairo with a cascade of fire and brimstone so overwhelming it made Pompeii in nearby New Hell look like a day at the park by comparison. Here homes and businesses had been reduced to molten slag so often that locals nicknamed their city Sulfurous Sands. The ultimate holiday destination so long as you remembered your Paradise-factor million.

  The only place in the entire district to escape wanton destruction was the Sphincter, an edifice I now found myself regarding in close detail.

  And now I know the reason it’s left alone.

  Facing east toward a nonexistent sun, the slimestone rock that comprised the man’s head and lion’s body of this great monument was stained deep brown from the acidic air of its environs. I noted with interest how the rear end of our Hellistic version had been altered, raised high into the air like a cat in heat.

  Typical!

  The roiling clouds shrouding Paradise moved away to the south. In dwindling light, I quickly made my way around the entire structure. So far as I could see, the monument had no discernible entrance of any kind.

  Then I remembered. Of course! The bloody thing is supposed to be inconspicuous. If I want to get inside, I’ll have to use my head.

  Sitting back on my heels, I took a moment to consider my options:

  Brute strength is a no-no. I can usually pick up on the presence of enchantments, but this thing isn’t emitting a bean. That means it’ll be shielded all the way to Old Nickmas and back. So trying to hammer my way in will be a complete waste of time. And knowing my luck, if I try to force the wards with dark magic, the hex would likely rebound and fry me where I stand.

  Next, I tried to think laterally.

  Of course, I could try the travel orb. But do I want to expend one of my options? Or what about calling His Infernal Majesty? No! That’s no good either, especially while he’s still pissed at me. He’d probably tell me to go stick my head in a meat grinder.

  Then it hit me.

  Why don’t I try a simple blessing? I’m one of the few souls empowered to use that filthy language . . . and its repulsive nuance just might work.

  Encouraged by that thought, I moved back a dozen or so feet, spread my arms wide, and in the divine tongue, said, “A-mad ha-pâ-tah. (Stand revealed.)”

  Power radiated outward from my location. As it rippled across the surface of the Sphincter, a glittering network of fireflies burst to life, highlighting a skein of concealment. Somehow, the bubble recognized my presence and expanded to encompass me. My vision warped, as if I were now looking at things through a slightly viscid medium. Then I felt a shift in the substance of Gehenna Mean Time (GMT): The entrance stood revealed.

  And it was one hell of an entrance. Situated at the rear end — where else? — I found myself gazing at a large multi-leaved iris positioned exactly where the Sphincter’s butt-hole should be. Stairs leading to it had been cut into the monument’s hind legs. Climbing them, I made my way to a small platform positioned immediately in front of the annulus.

  No sooner had I placed my foot on the top step than a metallic scraping sound set my teeth on edge. Fascinated, I watched as the blades in the doorway dilated to form an opening. A strange moaning sound issued from the now wide-open orifice, accompanied by the reek of ammonia, methane, and rotting eggs.

  I reeled backward, gagging. “Jesus!” I blasphemed. Where did they find that combination of stenches? It makes the Mortuary smell like a summer meadow by comparison.

  A squad of reavers skittered out onto the ledge. One of the Undertaker’s finest achievements, they were an unholy bastardization of humanity, arachnid, and scorpion: the perfect guard dogs. Steel talons clicked on stone as the pack’s alpha edged forward. His tail reared up, its wicked-looking stinger hanging poised, dripping with venom and ready to strike. He bared his fangs, and his yellow eyes glared with barely suppressed rage.

  “You are exxxxpecteeed,” he sibilated. “Follooow meee.”

  Expected? Unbe-fucking-lievable! Is nothing censored in this place?

  Through gritted teeth, I snarled, “Lead on, please.”

  The pack parted, making an avenue for me to proceed. As I sto
mped forward, they tightened up to form a living halo of hair, teeth and claws around me. Only then did they usher me inside. The iris screeched shut behind us and the roof and walls closed in. I suddenly felt like a stubborn turd that didn’t want to leave the comfort of a warm and cozy colon. A fitting analogy, as the constant lapses in security were now grating on my nerves and making me feel constipated.

  My discomfort didn’t ease once we were within the Sphincter itself. Although the hallway furcated in a number of different directions, the heat was oppressive, and exacerbated the stench a thousandfold.

  I was led downward, along a series of switchbacks that took us deep into the not-so-secret workings of the monument. In the confined space, the reverberating resonance produced by my escort made it sound as if I was in the company of a tap-dancing troupe. The longer we walked, the more I had to resist the urge to show them my Elvis shuffle.

  Eventually we turned a corner and arrived at a dead end.

  “Remaaaaain heeeeere,” the alpha hissed.

  Without a further word, he turned and led his squad of mutants, clicking and clacking, off into the darkness.

  Talkative bunch. I wonder if they do weddings.

  I waited, but nothing happened. Just as I was about to call out, a bright thread of light appeared on the wall in front of me. Intensifying, it appeared to sink into the rock itself. It grew until the outline of a double set of ornately carved doors appeared. Once clarified, the unknown illumination cut off, and the entrance silently swung open to reveal a sumptuous office lined with bookshelves and overstuffed leather chairs. A familiar odor assailed my nostrils.

  That smells like...?

  “Please come in,” a sultry voice called.

  I stepped inside and sure enough, my suspicions were confirmed.

  Inside, a pair of Blue Suits stood close together behind a cluttered desk on one side of the room. The first was one of the most outstanding librarians I have ever seen: close to my height, she had curves in all the right places and legs that reached all the way up to her armpits. Her crisp white blouse and navy-blue skirt accentuated her form perfectly. A pair of horn-rimmed spectacles hung from a chain around her neck, drawing my eyes toward the gleaming name badge pinned between her ample breasts: Joy.

  I can only imagine.

  Joy wore her wavy dark hair scrunched up in a bun. For some reason, I liked that a lot. Sadly, I didn’t like it enough to prevent a sneer from souring my countenance. But Joy wasn’t the cause of my displeasure. It was her companion, and the source of the stench — a literally reptilian, stinking lawyer.

  At nearly seven feet in height, his emaciated form reeked of cheesy feet, stale sweat and cabbage. Like his companion, he wore a neatly-tailored dark blue suit, and a high quality collar and tie. Weeping sores and popping pustules covering his exposed hide spoiled the effect of his attire. He wore glasses, attached to the side of his head by two oversized bolts. The name emblazoned in smoldering letters across his breast pocket identified him as Vernon.

  Vernon had taken a cunning position so that the bulk of the desk hid his tail and the pool of slime where he stood. Almost.

  I couldn’t help myself. I hated his kind with a passion.

  “What the fuck is a lawyer doing here?”

  “I’m here on behalf of the Attorney General, Mister Grim,” Vernon replied. He removed a white parchment from his briefcase and held it up. “Here’s our confidentiality agreement. Anything you see or hear within this establishment may not be discussed without the express permission of His Infernal Majesty or his appointed spokesperson.”

  “It’s a bit late for that!” I retorted. “Do you realize how many denizens are blabbing about this place and its contents as we speak? I’m Satan’s bounty hunter, for Azazel’s sake, and even I wasn’t aware of its existence until I encountered a few loose-tongued criminals during the pursuit of a fugitive. If not for them, I wouldn’t be here now, following up a lead. So quit stalling and —”

  “Hang on,” Joy cut in. She appeared puzzled. “You mean you’re not here about the break-in?”

  “Break-in?” Oh, this gets better and better.

  “Yes. We thought you were the specialist dispatched by the Fiendish Bureau of Investigation.”

  My head dropped. I clenched my fists at my side and made a conscious effort to maintain a hold on my temper.

  I’ve wasted enough time. “Do mo géill, cumhach’d. (Submit to my authority.)”

  Both Blue Suits staggered as the compulsive power of the hex took hold. Then they relaxed to await my instructions.

  “Right,” I said, “when did this burglary occur?”

  “I’m not exactly sure,” Joy replied, “but sometime within the last week.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Because I have to complete an inventory every Sinday evening, and that was what? six days ago?”

  “Isn’t that a long time to wait between checks?”

  “Not necessarily, especially considering the protocols we have in place.”

  In response to my look of confusion, she continued: “As you’re no doubt aware, almost all of the items stockpiled here are prohibited; so we keep them in what we call ‘cold storage.’ Deep underground. Out of sight and out of mind. Outwardly, we don’t have an overly elaborate security system like you’d find at the Hexagon, or Bunker of England, as our Dark Lord doesn’t want to draw attention to this facility. So he relies on distraction instead. The location of this particular archive was chosen because of its proximity to the Geyser pyramids. They cause widespread pandemonium that’s effectively masked its existence for centuries. In turn, this gives us the luxury of being able to dispose of unwanted artifacts in a fully automated dump. We can literally forget about them . . . Unless there’s an alarm activation, of course, or it’s time for the weekly audit.”

  “I see. So how many vaults like this are there?”

  Joy looked to Vernon for verification. “I believe there are thirteen, but I’m not quite sure. Part of my contract stipulates the compartmentalization of information. I only have access to the stuff I need to know. And once I’ve served my term . . .”

  She removed a ripcord tag from between her breasts. Only then did I notice the fine chain dangling down from around her neck. That I’d failed to spot it earlier made me better appreciate the principle of distraction.

  “You’ll be reassigned?”

  “After I’ve been mind-wiped, yes. I can’t wait.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “I’m five years into a six-year solo tour, with no one except reavers and imps for company —” Joy glanced to her side “— and the occasional visitor from the department . . .”

  Then she made eye contact with me. “But he doesn’t count. That’s why it’s so nice to get a real visitor for a change.” Joy’s eyes smoldered longingly. She made her way around to the front of the desk, whereupon she arranged herself in such a way as to flaunt the shape of her figure to stunning effect. I felt as if I were witnessing the results of pouring liquid ivory into high heels and stockings.

  Five years? I think someone’s hungry.

  In another part of hell, I could imagine Strawberry sharpening her claws.

  I was forced to cough and clear my throat before I could speak. “I noticed that the chameleon sheath around this structure has a temporal aspect to it. While I appreciate that’s a powerful deterrent in itself, surely it can’t be the only defensive precaution. What else do you have, apart from your reavers, in the way of security?”

  “Oh, there’s infernal-red detectors and so forth, like everywhere else. But for the heavy-duty stuff, you have to go farther below ground.” She sauntered casually toward me and linked her arm through mine. “It would be better if I just showed you.”

  As she led me toward a raised platform in the corner of the room, Joy explained: “The artifacts that have been stolen are imbued with great potency. Even the mention of their names causes a well of esoteric energy to coalesce in
the ether which is something we don’t want in such close proximity to a defense matrix. So, if you don’t mind, I’d rather deactivate certain aspects of the grid before we speak further.”

  “Ahh, I see.” I cocked a thumb over my shoulder. “Won’t Vernon be coming with us?”

  “I have to stay here, I’m afraid,” Vernon replied. He waved the parchment confidentiality agreement. “Remember, we’re waiting for an investigator to arrive, and I’ve got to get him or her to sign this before they can go anywhere.”

  “So it’s just you and me then?” I murmured to Joy, who by now had decided to rest her head on my shoulder.

  “It would seem so.” She gave my arm a brief squeeze and managed to snuggle even closer. A heady bouquet teased my senses.

  “What perfume is that?”

  “Ah, thank you for noticing. I hardly get a chance to wear any since I’ve been here. It’s a brand new fragrance by Jean-Paul Guillotine, called Plagus, eau de toilet.” She flushed with pleasure. “Why, do you like it?”

  Shit!

  “Er, yes. It’s very nice.” To keep my mind on business, I asked, “You mentioned artifacts have been taken? So that obviously means more than one treasure has been removed?”

  “I’m afraid so, yes.”

  Has she been slacking . . . or is she on the take?

  We stepped onto the pad and stopped before a small control panel. An amber radiance lanced down, bathing us in a glimmering cone of light. Joy managed to detach herself from my arm long enough to submit to a retinal scan. Once it was over, she spoke into a microphone attached to a control panel.

  “Joy Winters. Infernal serial number: Nineteen, eighty-eight, delta, epsilon. Thirty, eighty-one, thirteen.”

  She stepped aside and invited me to follow her lead. I did, concluding, “Daemon Grim. Infernal serial number: Six, six, six, alpha. Zero, zero, thirteen.”

  No sooner had I submitted myself to the process than the nimbus surrounding us changed to green. A prickling sensation crawled across my skin, and immediately we were someplace else.