Hell Bound (Heroes in Hell)

by Andrew P. Weston

Subconsciously, my left thumb shifted and came to rest against the second stud down from the top of my weapon. As swiftly as I could, with my other hand I entered the manual entry code into the command console, and then provided the necessary DNHA sample.

  The vacuum seal disengaged, and the panels slid open with an audible hiss. Although quiet, the acoustics of the sewer tunnels made it sound like a leviathan having a gas attack.

  Cursing silently, I led the way in.

  The reception area, sparsely furnished, contained a desk, a few chairs, one filing cabinet, and two cells adjacent to the doorway. Those cells were empty, clean, and eerily silent. I sensed something amiss almost immediately. Strawberry was as meticulous in her work as in her private life, and yet here the security hatch leading to the private interior rooms was ajar. She wouldn’t have left it that way.

  Then I spotted her mobile phone on the desk. She never went anywhere without it. A quick check of its call log revealed the memory had been deleted.

  I sent a telepathic warning to Nimrod: We have company.

  Elusive as smoke, we drifted toward the next obstacle and waited at the threshold, listening.

  It was as quiet as the grave.

  Do you hear anything?

  Nimrod gave a brief shake of his head.

  Right, I’m going to edge the door open. You look inside and tell me what you see.

  Nimrod nodded once, then pressed his back against the wall. He fiddled inside a pocket flap and produced a small extendable mirror. After adjusting for his desired length and angle, he positioned it at the sill and gave me a thumbs-up. I started to push.

  Thankfully, the well-oiled hinges made no sound as they moved.

  We linked minds so I could see through Nimrod’s eyes. A crack of light spilling from the foyer into the passage beyond grew wider. Nimrod twirled the handle of the mirror back and forth between his fingers to extend our view.

  We both knew the layout intimately. A short corridor led into a living area and kitchenette on the left, with a bedroom to the right. Along a further hallway stood a final door to the interrogation room. Strawberry had deliberately designed her outpost this way, since she always felt the act of torturing someone to be intensely arousing and liked her workplace to stay close at hand.

  From what we could see, several lamps had been left illuminated inside. That would only be the case if Strawberry was actually here.

  Without a word, we melted into the spider’s lair, alert and ready for anything. Nimrod headed left; I peeled away to the right.

  Strawberry had definitely been here: sheets were drawn back and her side of the bed rumpled. I smiled. Even when we weren’t together, we tended to stick to our own sides.

  Just like a couple. Eh . . . ?

  I sobered instantly at that thought, as a number of other factors registered nearly simultaneously.

  The first thing I noticed was her electric alarm clock, knocked out of position, facing the rear edge of the bedside cabinet. The top had been cracked open, as if someone had attempted to reach for the weapon she always kept inside: Strawberry’s personalized Cobra’s-Fang two-shot pistol. I pulled the drawer out the rest of the way and sure enough, the gun was missing.

  But did Strawberry actually take it, or was she prevented?

  Her scent still lingered in the air, along with a subtle hint of something else — something foreign. That scent didn’t belong here and set my nerves on edge.

  Poison?

  I dropped to my hands and knees and looked under the bed. Ominously, one of Strawberry’s ruby slippers sat upended in the middle of the floor, along with a piece of white gauze. I fished the cloth out, and the tang intensified.

  She was drugged . . .

  A sound from behind alerted me to Nimrod’s approach.

  The other side is clear, he thought, she must have been in bed, asleep, when —

  There’s only one way to know for sure. I turned to look at the only remaining barrier. Let’s get this over with.

  We moved forward, then stood listening outside the chamber. As before, silence ruled. With extreme caution, Nimrod tried the handle, only to find it locked.

  I held up my hand, pantomimed counting down and then kicking the hatch.

  He nodded.

  We took up position, side by side.

  Three, two, one, now!

  Even without arcane augmentation, Nimrod and I were incredibly strong. Years of rigorous training and hard living had seen to that. With an almighty crack, the steel panel snapped free from its hinges and sprayed the interior with a lethal shower of concrete shards and metal splinters. The door itself flew through the air, clanged against the opposite wall, and landed upright. After teetering on its edge for a moment, it crashed to the floor amid a pile of debris.

  Apart from the bloody remains of a lawyer draped across one of the torture racks, the room was empty. He’d been gutted, Jack the Ripper style, and a piece of paper had been left pinned to his forehead by a delicate jeweled knife.

  Predictable as alw– What?

  A very subtle but noticeable resonance permeated the area close to the body. I was intrigued as to its source, for I thought the odor might explain why the corpse hadn’t faded yet and why our friend didn’t stink like the rest of his fellow backstabbers. Fighting down my agitation, I looked closer and realized the victim’s name badge was still pinned to what remained of his chest under all the muck and gore. I wiped the stain of his lungs away and identified him as Judas, one of the Devil’s Children and our pet snake in the grass, now deceased.

  “Well, there’s no divided loyalties now,” I mumbled, “coerced or not. Strawberry’s missing, and I’m betting we’re about to find out where she’s been taken.”

  I yanked the blade from Judas’ skull and slipped the note free. No sooner had I done so than his new reptilian carcass dissolved. A familiar, disgusting stench wafted through the air. I gagged, coughed, squeezed the tears from my eyes, and held our latest installment in front of me.

  Written in Cream’s own hand, it said:

  I saw the life in your eyes,

  The energy of sunlight,

  And of Jovian vistas unseen.

  You were beautiful,

  But the Revelation Eight you away from inside.

  Now debased, you are darkened,

  Wormwood,

  Oh fallen star of heaven.

  Chained, with salvation in sight,

  Your redemption lies beyond your grasp.

  But fear not,

  A release is imminent.

  I knew it! “Oh, you are fucking idiots!”

  “Who, me?” Nimrod asked, unaware I was venting my anger at absent fiends.

  “This clue,” I brandished the note in Nimrod’s face, “reveals just how far Cream and Chopin are willing to go to outdo each other. It’s bloody lunacy.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “You remember that love poem you found on the pad by using a pencil? You know, the one Chopin wrote for his beloved George?”

  I broadcast the memory telepathically, so he could see it again:

  Most Precious George,

  I wish to bathe in the crimson pulse

  Of our hearts’ fondest desire,

  Each beat, a wash of life

  Upon the shore of your prison’s demise.

  The tide recedes,

  And my pursuit ends before it begins

  Across a sea of Bitter consequence,

  The fruition of our reunion grows near.

  So take heart my love,

  For soon, your bosom will be free of grief.

  “Yes, of course I do,” he replied. “What’s your point?”

  “At first glance, it might appear that he was merely twittering away about reclaiming his lost love from heaven so they could be reunited here in hell, yes?”

  “That’s right. We discussed it at the time. Chopin doesn’t realize how much George Sands came to detest him, so it’s —”

  “But
did you ever stop to wonder how he might go about achieving his aims? I didn’t say so at the time because I hoped against hope Chopin wouldn’t be stupid enough to contemplate it, but his message contained some interesting references to things that obviously have a double meaning. Places he might go to ensure the success of his schemes. I’ll give you a hint. Look again at the fifth through eighth stanzas of his note.”

  Nimrod adopted a thoughtful pose as he studied my mind once more.

  I couldn’t wait more than ten seconds: “Now look here.” I held up Cream’s latest breadcrumb and pointed to one line in particular. “This is another little pointer. “Revelation Eight you away”? Duh! Excuse me for blaspheming, but a certain book written by one who can’t be named contains a passage in Revelation chapter eight, verse eleven, which says, and I quote:

  “‘And the name of the star is called Wormwood. And a third of the waters turned into wormwood, and many of the men died from the waters, because they had been made bitter.’

  “How obvious do Cream and Chopin need to be? Put it all together. We’ve got prisons, chains, tides, fallen angels, across a sea of Bitter consequence?”

  Nimrod’s eyes popped in sudden comprehension and he gasped.

  “No! The Bitter Sea?”

  “Precisely.”

  “Hang on. Isn’t that where . . . ?”

  “Yes, it is.”

  “But don’t they keep . . . ?”

  “Yes, they do.”

  “Unholy shit! How in the seven shades of hell did they find out about that? And why kidnap Strawberry? It’s not as if they can use her as leverage. If they survive the landing, the jailers will kill any unauthorized visitors on sight. Inquisitor or not, hostage or not, she’s screwed if they drag her ashore without authorization.”

  “I know.” Suddenly calm, I enjoyed a moment of clarity. “But I think that’s why I’ve been baited all along. Think about it. Cream and Chopin have their own agendas now, that much is clear. But they’ve had a common geographical goal all along: the Isle of Cogs. They’re heading toward their final destination, so they are keener than ever to ensure I know about it. Don’t you see? They’re hoping my presence will negate any resistance and somehow facilitate the success of their enterprise.”

  Nimrod almost choked.

  “Are they really that naïve, to think you would compromise Satanic security just to save Strawberry?”

  “That’s what worries me,” I admitted, “because they aren’t that stupid. Up until now, they’ve displayed both tenacity and a resolve bordering on sheer genius. I doubt they’d suddenly stop.”

  So what do they know that they think will give them an edge?

  “We have to notify His Majesty,” Nimrod cautioned.

  “I agree, but not just yet. With everything that’s happened over the past year or so, Lucifer is bound to . . . overreact. Remember, he’s still pissed at the challenge to his authority fomented by those damned poets last year. And there’s Erra to contend with, don’t forget. No, we will involve him, but only once we’re sure of what’s happening.”

  “And how are we going to do that?”

  “I think a little trip to London’s All Seeing Eye is needed. After all, there are only a few methods by which someone can approach the Isle unhindered. We need to know what they are.”

  “We’ll need a gift, then.”

  “That’s right.” I held up the jeweled knife. “I’d like to give the Oracle this. It’d be right up his street. But I’m itching to find out how it prevented our erstwhile friend from dissipating. Cream and company have access to far too many goodies for my liking; the sooner we even the playing field, the better. So it looks like we’ll have to go shopping.” I clasped him by the shoulder. “Fancy a trip to the circus?”

  Chapter 20: There’s No Time Like the Present

  Situated on the south bank of the River Tombs, the All Seeing Eye was easily the most distinguishable feature along the skyline of Olde London Town. When dormant, it looked like any other giant Ferris wheel, measuring over four hundred feet in diameter. However, once the Oracle had engaged his remarkable mind, the huge edifice transformed into an esoteric ocular enigma, unparalleled anywhere else among the many layers of hell.

  The hub of the wheel would metamorphose into a super-enlarged pupil, the spokes into a scintillating iris with colors that shimmered through a thousand shades of blue. Finally, the outer edge of the structure — comprising the drive rim and capsules — would transmogrify into an ultra-thin sclera, encompassed within an electrostatic skein of arcane puissance.

  Thus engaged, the Oracle could “see” any event, person, or circumstance anywhere and anywhen throughout infernity. A remarkable feat, given the fact that he was a mutant, one of those poor unfortunate souls permanently afflicted by the Undertaker on arrival. Rendered physically deaf, blind, and dumb, his extrasensory faculties were now second to none.

  No one knew his name or, indeed, what he had done to deserve such punishment. Regardless, he was the go-to guy if you needed information and had the wherewithal to pay.

  With no discernible skull to speak of except for the bottom half of his jaw — resplendent with a full set of pearly-white teeth but no tongue — the Oracle looked grotesque, an effect compounded by the fact that he dressed well and had surrounded himself with sumptuous luxury.

  Dr. Thomas Neill Cream sat opposite his host, drinking tea from a bone-china cup and munching finger biscuits as if such circumstances were an everyday occurrence. An open fire snapped and crackled in one corner of the well-appointed room, and hundreds upon hundreds of scented candles burned warmly from silver holders scattered along every available surface.

  The Oracle’s naked brain glistened and pulsated with a strange sucking sound. The cerebrum itself oozed a steady stream of mucus which dripped down onto the shoulders of his midnight-purple jacket, where it soaked into the fabric in an ever-spreading stain. Dribble trickled from the corners of his half-mouth, fouling the front of his elaborate silk shirt a filthy green color that appeared leprous in the flickering firelight.

  Cream didn’t bat an eye, and waited patiently as the Oracle finished his own beverage through a modified straw.

  A hiss from one corner drew Cream’s attention. He turned in his seat to find a pair of baleful green eyes studying him from the shadows.

  “Psst, psst, psst,” he crooned, leaning forward and offering his hand for examination. “C’mon, there’s a good kitty. I won’t hurt you.”

  A dark shape detached itself from the gloom and clarified into a feminine feline form. Padding silently forward until barely out of reach, the cat stopped to test the air, nostrils quavering and whiskers twitching. Kitty obviously didn’t like what she sensed, for dainty lips curled back to reveal pristine white fangs. With a final hiss, she dismissed Cream from her existence and wandered off toward the parlor.

  You must excuse Esmeralda, the Oracle’s mind intoned, she’s very particular when it comes to making friends.

  “Not to worry,” Cream replied. Mange-ridden moggy! “I’m not here to make friends. I just need information so I can be on my way as quickly as possible.”

  The Oracle leaned forward in his chair, as if taking the measure of his guest.

  A pity, for I could have saved you much . . . but so be it. Courtesy is such a rare commodity in this godforsaken place that people have forgotten how priceless it can be. An ethereal sigh whispered through the air. You are aware, are you not, of the conditions of my services?

  “I am.” Cream delved inside his briefcase and brought out a small crystal vial containing a clear liquid that glittered through all the colors of the rainbow. “I bring you the Tears of the Messiah, shed by Jesus himself at the death of his friend Lazarus. Not only does it contain the essence of hope revealed, but it acts as a restorative to all but the severest maladies.”

  A worthy gift, and one that must have cost you dearly. So tell me, what great boon do you seek for such a rarity?

  “Passage
to the Isle of Cogs.”

  By that I take it you mean the actual prison?

  “Most certainly.”

  Then you are indeed fortunate, and right to act with haste.

  “What do you mean?”

  There are but a few methods by which the Isle can be approached in relative safety, and only one that avoids all hazards. Such an avenue is open but once a year. And tonight, my friend, as the bells of Little Ben strike twelve, the Infernal Equinox will manifest the portal, and those seeking safe passage may enter. . . if they know where to look.

  Cream glanced at his watch, a thrill of surprise surging through him: Midnight? Ha! There’s nothing to stop me getting there first. I’m home free.

  With a smirk, he handed the bottle to the Oracle and purred, “That’s good to know. So tell me, where must I go, and what do I do once there?”

  Listen carefully, for my directions are precise and must be followed to the letter.

  Cream took out a small notebook.

  First, you must appreciate that time does not flow within the conduit as it does elsewhere. You will need . . .

  *

  Chopin knew there were certain areas in the underworlds where it would be unwise to venture unless brave, stupid, well protected, or skilled in the art of assassination. Lambsdeath, in Olde London Town, was one such district: an infamous hive of dingy cobbled streets and licentious back alleys where drunks, pickpockets, and whores of all shapes and sizes would commit bloody murder at the drop of a hat.

  But, as dangerous as Lambsdeath could be, another territory boasted yet a darker reputation.

  If you travel south for a mile or so along the River Tombs, you enter an area governed by the Pirate Lords, a merciless band of buccaneers, slavers, and bootleggers governed by a code so savage the term “cutthroat” would never do them credit.

  Predatory to a superlative degree, the privateers sneered at those who chose to live in “safer” neighborhoods — which was saying something for hell — and didn’t class souls as true residents until they bore a livid scar from ear to ear to prove their mettle. An odd state of affairs, for while they were ruthless with each other, these denizens had a radically different approach toward those with whom they conducted business.