Hell Bound (Heroes in Hell)

by Andrew P. Weston

  How in buggering Hades do they keep doing this?

  It read:

  A Nightingale glides among gilded cages,

  Her veined candle of melted wax

  Fails to illuminate those wards

  Where life’s blood now lies congealing.

  A stuttering flame,

  And a puff of old smoke,

  Marks the moment another lamp is quenched,

  A poignant reminder of life’s only certainty.

  Tuscany,

  Ah, it’s beautiful at this time of year,

  But fear not,

  That’s not the Florence you’re after.

  “Oh, you infuriating fuckard!”

  “What’s the matter, boss?” Nimrod was clearly amused by the ire in my voice.

  “You’re not going to like this, but I’m afraid we’re going all the way back to Juxtapose.”

  “Juxtapose? But we just came from there.”

  I waved the two pieces of metal in his face. “Don’t blame me. Blame the irritating little shit who’s giving us the runaround. Look at this.”

  Both Nimrod and the Undertaker read our latest breadcrumb.

  “Do you see?”

  “Well, he’s obviously referring to Florence Nightingale,” the Undertaker bemoaned. “Any idiot can see that. But what makes you so sure you have to go back to Olde London Town?”

  “Because of the double innuendo the text contains. Nightingale was infamous for her work with wounded soldiers in the Crimean War. Following that conflict, she established the very first secular nursing school in the world at St Thomas’ Hospital, London.”

  “Riiight . . . but how does that relate to Cream?”

  “In life, Doctor Thomas Neill Cream was a bona fide, fully-trained physician before he turned to murder. Guess where he studied?”

  “I haven’t a clue,” the Undertaker admitted. “English history isn’t really my strong point.”

  “Then I’ll help you. None other than the aptly named St Thomas’ Hospital, the very place graced by Miss Nightingale. Guess where in London that is?”

  “You’ll have to tell me.”

  “It was in Lambeth, or, as we call it here, Lambsdeath. The sneaky swine is taking us back to where he snuffed out his victims’ lives, because as you are well aware, Cream eventually became known as the ‘Lambeth Poisoner.’ And, if you needed any more proof, the final clue comes from the phrase ‘old smoke,’ within the text. That’s the Victorian nickname for the capital, and relevant to the time he was active. Do you see now?”

  “Bloody hell! Talk about spot the connection. What do you think you’ll find there?”

  “Damned if I know. But I’m itching to find out.”

  Chapter 12: Just What the Doctor Ordered

  St Thomas’ Hospital was a sprawling great structure that fronted on the River Tombs, opposite the Palace of Westmonster. Despite the fact I’d lived in Juxtapose all of my afterlife, and the grounds were only a couple of miles from my home, I did what most people do when such things are right on their doorstep: I totally ignored it. Yes, I’d seen it at a distance, but even then it had never attracted my attention, for it was nothing like the topside version. Ours was old, decrepit, and festering: a stark reminder of the futility of sacrifice and good deeds. Why?

  Satan had seen fit to order the entire edifice and its estate abandoned. And so, year after year, century after century, no one had dared do otherwise. The mortar had crumbled, and the dark red bricks and fluted towers had gradually stained gray. Windows cracked and shattered, heavy doors tore free from rusted hinges. Open to the elements, it was now home to all manner of wild birds, rodents, and down-and-outs seeking refuge from the harshness of an eternity of suffering.

  Parts of the roof had fallen in decades ago, giving acid rain and the cloying mists of the River Tombs unlimited access to the multitude of halls, wards, and corridors that crisscrossed the hospital’s interior like a latticework of veins and arteries clogged by the detritus of accumulated grime and neglect.

  Nimrod and I had been here just over an hour. Because the place was so huge, we decided to reconnoiter the grounds and exterior structures first. A fruitless experience, as anything of value had been removed by scavengers long ago.

  Waiting by the main entrance for Nimrod to complete his final sweep, I peered inside. The interior seemed to swallow light and sound whole. Yet from what my enhanced senses could ascertain, it looked deserted.

  Yeah, right!

  As I’d so painfully learned, appearances could be deceiving, all the more so where Cream was concerned.

  A flapping of wings overhead told me we definitely weren’t alone. My presence, although elusive, had already panicked a nesting pair of hell-pigeons. They had been so cautious, I’d completely missed them.

  And if they can be that silent, so can any other unexpected visitors who’ve decided to wait for us.

  Nimrod’s arrival disturbed my concentration. As he splashed around the corner of the building, I asked, “Anything?”

  “No,” he mouthed, adding a slight shake of his head.

  “Right. Let’s do this.”

  Alert for danger, we slipped inside and quickly made our way to the reception desk. Once there, we stood still and listened. As a precaution, I also projected my astral sight as far as it would go, hunting for stray emotions that might give away the presence of hidden lurkers.

  Nothing! Not a damned thing. And it looks like a maze in there . . .

  “Any ideas?” Nimrod whispered.

  “With the cryptic reference to ‘stuttering flames’ and ‘puffs of smoke,’ I’m betting the obvious place to start will be the hospital’s furnace. Hang on a moment.” I sidled across to a You Are Here notice-board.

  As if by providence, a single shaft of Paradiselight dared to pierce the veil outside. Stabbing down through a gaping hole in the roof, it illuminated the entrance foyer sufficiently for me to scan the listed departments. Where the paint had blackened and peeled away, I was able to trace with my finger the slightly indented outline of each letter.

  “Mortuary and Funeral Services. Pathology labs. Ah, here it is . . . Cremation and Incinerator. Basement level, north wing.” The basement, where else?

  I stepped back to get my bearings. Old signs hung by rusting chains from hooks in the ceiling. “North wing is this way. You cover the left side of the corridor, I’ll go right. We’ll take our time so as not to disturb whatever makes its home here. And link to me mentally so we can share what we see and hear.”

  Nimrod nodded and moved to obey. Once in position we stalked slowly forward, making sure to soak up the ambiance as we went.

  By the time we’d gone a few hundred yards I understood why vagrants were absent, and the myriad critters left behind so keen to remain anonymous. Something wasn’t right. It was eerily silent. Too silent. Nothing moved. Nothing breathed or squeaked. Apart from the wind working its way in through broken panes and missing roof tiles, not a damned thing made a sound.

  A glance toward Nimrod confirmed he’d picked up on the atmosphere too.

  Telepathy only. Stay sharp.

  We gravitated toward each other and, to the accompaniment of the ceaselessly moaning breeze, disappeared into the muggy gloom.

  The sheer magnitude of isolation here was both strange and disquieting. Such quiet made me jittery. Whenever my awareness would latch onto something at the edge of perception, it faded away before I could identify its nature. I tried not to let on that I’d detected anything. Nonetheless, each episode only served to confirm my suspicion that we were expected.

  We finally arrived at the central shaft to the northern wing. Steps as pale as bleached tusks vanished into the depths. In this setting, the well looked as wide as the jaws of a leviathan and equally as black. Direction arrows indicated we needed to descend. So we spent the next ten minutes gradually spiraling down into the bowels of the earth.

  Each floor was comprised of hundreds of tiny offices and store cupbo
ards. Their doors filed off into the distance like blank dominos stacked before opposing mirrors. Curiosity roused, we checked out a few rooms on the way, to discover that most had been ransacked, although a few were still chock-full of outdated surgical supplies. The farther we went, however, the more the evidence of decay, and the less the wind intruded.

  Eventually we arrived at the bottom. If the surface had appeared surreal, the basement presented another world entirely.

  Despite the humidity, a definite chill pervaded the air. Many of the fixtures and fittings that once lined the subterranean passages had been torn down and positioned at the exact center of the junction of four long corridors. Piled high and crowned by a torn leather chair, they had been arranged as if we were looking at a monument to an unknown deity.

  Apart from our breathing, the only sound to punctuate the silence was a constant drip, drip, drip, from a broken pipe or missing skylight high above. Whatever had found its way into the pit now coated the walls and floor in an oily substance that made it difficult to move quickly.

  The hairs on the back of my neck prickled.

  We must be getting closer, I broadcast to Nimrod.

  Yes, I agree. But which way now?

  Well. The direction board told us the crematorium and furnace were in the northern wing. Now we’re here, I’d say we have to —

  “He’s here — he’s here — he’s here . . .” intruded a declaration out of the darkness.

  Suddenly, we were surrounded by overlapping voices:

  “Yes, the Reaper has arrived.”

  “Quickly, brothers and sisters, call the others — others — others . . .”

  “At last — last — last . . .”

  Unwelcome recollections of a recent, similar surprise crowded in on me, but only served to strengthen my resolve. As any pretence at stealth was now unnecessary, I called out loudly, “Ah, company. Just what the doctor ordered.”

  “Reaper — Reaper — Reaper . . .”

  “This way — way — way . . .”

  “Make ready. He’s here — here — here . . .”

  The echoing warnings drew ever closer.

  “I don’t suppose you’d care to show yourselves?” I said. “After all, if you know who I am, you’ll understand there’s nothing to fear if you don’t stand in my way.”

  Up ahead, a pile of leaves and other accumulated detritus swirled to life under the influence of unseen eddies.

  A soft hiss alerted me to the fact that Nimrod had just drawn sword from scabbard. Sure enough, the familiar gleam of burning ice filled the bottom of the stairwell in midnight-blue radiance. I emulated him, a gentle click announcing the moment I extended my scythe into combat configuration. Back to back, we held our weapons at the ready and started to make our way along the hall, revolving slowly about each other as we did so. Our maneuver appeared to do the trick, for despite repeated catcalls our unseen hosts seemed content to merely lead us deeper into the guts of the hospital.

  Progress continued in this manner for more than five minutes, until we reached an old-fashioned combined ablutions area and changing room.

  To our left, a congregation of rickety metallic lockers had been pushed together into an untidy knot. Draped with cobwebs and covered in dust, they appeared hooded in sackcloth and reverent, as if deep in prayer. Beady eyes gleamed out from the spaces in between and underneath, a sign that a food source was nearby.

  On the other side, the remains of a shower block stood out in glaring contrast to the shrouded lockers. The once white tiles adorning these walls had stained yellow long, long ago. Many were missing; most were cracked. The floor itself was littered with shards of glass, broken faucets, bits of pipe, and copious amounts of mold. More worryingly, I also noticed a fresh trail of blood leading from an adjacent doorway down to the main grille, positioned precisely in the middle of the chamber.

  Old light fixtures sporting shattered bulbs hung limply from frayed brown cords. Despite the fact it should have been impossible for them to work, each lamp flickered on and off, betraying the presence of some form of deviltry.

  With so many demons, mutants and monsters inhabiting the many layers of the underworld, it is sometimes difficult to work out exactly what you are dealing with. Some are a minor nuisance, while others are much more puissant, and therefore deserving of respect.

  I decided to make my offer again, more formally this time.

  “If you are aware I’m the Reaper, then you’ll know I’m here on His Satanic Majesty’s business. So long as you don’t try to obstruct me in the course of my duty, you have absolutely no reason to fear me. I give you my word. Look, I don’t really care what little enterprise you’ve got going down here. This building is abandoned. Nobody wants it. Bad luck to you. But show yourselves now, and state your intentions. Do you understand?”

  “Oh, we understand, Reaper,” a voice intoned, “but it’s too late for us — us — us . . .”

  “Like you, we are bound by our word — word — word,” a second one said.

  “Locked by our oath — our oath — our oath,” rasped another.

  The orbiting chorus faded as the lights flared; a squadron of glittering, dark vortices manifested around us. An overwhelming impression of fear cascaded down, as if a million instants of terror had been frozen at the point of realization, only to be encapsulated within living, diamond-encrusted storms of hatred.

  “Dread-Locks!” I shouted.

  I knew it important to stay calm around these beasts, for they killed to order and would grow stronger by feeding on the panic generated by their victims. Once set on you, they were bonded — or locked — into fulfilling their contract. Or they’d die trying.

  Such ghouls are difficult to see clearly, for their spiraling substance expands and contracts in an alarming manner. From my perspective, it looked as if their very nature was in contention with itself.

  If only!

  “They’re here to oppose us,” I called to Nimrod. “Take them out, no mercy.”

  With no more time to prepare, our struggle commenced.

  The atmosphere sang to a thrumming resonance as Nimrod’s sword became a dazzling streak of blue-white plasma. I’d have loved to watch, for his grace and precision in battle was legend. Instead, I found myself busy contending with my own demons as a fusillade of deathly blows rained down on me from all sides at once.

  I had a point to prove, both to myself and my team member, so I refused the urge to manifest the Phage and relied instead on my own killer instinct and considerable skill.

  With a dexterity few could match, I whirled my weapon in blinding arcs and met their attack head on. High mêlée, low advance, left, right, and center. I reveled in combat and quickly found my rhythm. Needle-tipped claws skidded along my blade. It mattered not a bit: whatever action they employed I countered, and my staff grated in protest under the blurred assault of razor edged talons. The chamber flashed and sparks flew, providing a dazzling backdrop to the ringing cacophony of adrenaline-fueled engagement.

  The Dread-Locks were giving their all. When they were unable to breach our defenses swiftly enough they began to howl, and their attack grew increasingly undisciplined. Some commenced darting runs in an effort to distract us, while others tried to phase up through the floor. When that failed, bolder wraiths attempted simply to storm us and take us down by sheer weight of numbers.

  Their skirmish continued like this for some time. Overhead smash — block. Underhand lunge — parry. Sweep, slash, gouge, and thrust. Catch, counter, jab, retreat and stop-cut. Over and over. Again and again. Nonetheless, as minutes ticked by without either side giving quarter, it became evident that their attempt to wear us down by attrition had backfired. Not only was the timing of their forays disjointed, but it was clear the frantic pace of our exchange was taking its toll on them.

  From what I could discern, neither Nimrod nor I had given way to fear. The Dread-Locks had nothing to feed on. The glittering scales encasing their semi-corporeal forms
lost their luster. As they dimmed, scores of plates fell to the floor and shattered.

  Keep it up, I sent to Nimrod, they’re shrinking. Now it’s our turn to use brute force.

  I discerned a summoning of potential as my partner readied himself.

  Now!

  As one, we leaped forward.

  Shrieks of anguish knifed into the night as a rapid swarm of blows found their mark. Our unexpected attack gained fluidity, and then we were among them, dealing death and destruction at will. Their panic increased. Cries of alarm added a potent mix to their growing desperation.

  “Flee — flee — flee . . .”

  The tinkling cascade of their ruptured essences was accompanied by more yowls of pain, each followed by a succession of pops as air rushed to fill sudden vacuums.

  “Don’t let any escape,” I roared, “not a single one. We need to send a message . . .”

  The scene before me receded, overlapped by another reality entirely. In this place, I was both spectator and participant in yet another battle, as seen from someone else’s perspective.

  Two juggernauts came together, their blazing swords colliding with the power to sunder worlds. A shockwave ran the length of my weapon and up through my arms. I thrilled at the challenge and reached out to grasp my adversary by the throat.

  Celestial energies clashed, and my eyes shone like stars as I called on the sum of my potential. I exhaled, and the vault of the heavens disappeared amid a blinding flash of brilliant white light. Heat washed across me, and my opponent screamed before erupting in flames. Inhaling, I thrilled to the surge of fresh essence. With so much potential coursing through my veins, I couldn’t contain it. My head fell back and I began laughing. Mortals cowered, for the sound was both exhilarating and terrifying . . .

  . . . and somehow, its timbre continued to peal along the halls of the hospital as I came to my senses.