Catching Hell Part One: Journey

by Marc Watson

  No response. Answer enough for all.

  “So I thought. You brought them straight to Tan Torna Qu-ay. You brought this on yourself. At least this way you'll suffer for your cowardice. It's the least you deserve.”

  Nixon watched the two in their moments of ill-gotten triumph and heart-crushing defeat. Aryu looked at Esgona like a man looks at a sick dog, disgusted at what he saw. Esgona could only look into the nothingness, denying none of it. Nixon wondered if either of these two young men could be saved.

  Chapter 10

  -----------------------------------

  Unsettling Developments

  Johan stood on the edge of a town he thought he'd never see again. Off to the north he saw the tall and mighty peak the area was known for, reaching the sky with its white cap and imposing demeanor. Just to the west was the smaller peak, the one that not too long before had housed two young men for a night. A sacred night of reminiscence and reflection. A cold, miserable night now that he thought back on it; when the world was small and the quests were over.

  Now he had returned, older and more miserable than that night that seemed so long ago. His home was destroyed, likely his good friend and brother Aryu as well. Their family and friends (or at least whatever they had that was close) were all lost. He was a beaten man as he began heading north again, eventually catching a ride with a small caravan back to this place. "No one left now,” an old carriage driver had said. “We held on as long as we could, but when we saw the explosions get closer, we couldn't wait anymore.” The old driver had offered to take him farther, though even he was unsure of the destination. Johan declined. If Aryu was alive, he’d be here as promised.

  The town was far livelier than it was when he had left. Multitudes of caravans were in each direction, collecting supplies and preparing for the next phase of their trip. Overheard conversations led Johan to believe that no one really had an idea where to go. Many wanted to hide in the false hope of the mountains. Others wanted to go west, following the trail of the ones who had left before them. However, the army was known to be heading in a northwest direction. Time was all that stood between them and their eventual demise.

  The reckless and foolhardy even said east but were soon shot down by shouts of 'madness' and 'stupidity!' Although it was known that most of the east was as peaceful and welcoming as any other, the stigma of it being full of Embracers was strong.

  People filled the streets, some carrying items or children, others trying to barter and sell anything they didn't need wherever they were going. The desperate even attempted to barter children, making Johan sick. This small foothill town had become the major jumping-off point for miles around, and the sense of impending doom was palpable on everyone’s face. For many, this was the last stop before the real running began.

  Johan laughed to himself. The foolish idea that they could run far enough and fast enough to avoid the fate of Tan Torna Qu-ay was ridiculous. Nothing he could say would dissuade any of them, and he was content to let them continue their descent into madness.

  The inns were bare as Johan looked for a place to sleep for the night. It seemed no one was content to simply rest for rest’s sake these days. Many of the travelers stayed with their carts and powered trailers, ready for a quick escape if need be. The explosion on the road, with which Johan was all too familiar with, was much too close for comfort. It seemed the panicked rush to be gone had begun right after that. Even locals could be seen seeking a ride to who knew where.

  An innkeeper asked for no money for his stay, making it known to him that she and her husband had no intentions of remaining much longer and the inn would be abandoned to the winds of fate the following morning. “Stay all you like,” she'd told him. “Come sunrise, you're the best option I have to be the new owner!”

  The thought amused him. At least he may get something out of this ordeal.

  After dropping what little belongings he had in a quiet room on an empty floor, Johan set out to find the agreed-upon bar where he planned on doing two things: drinking and hoping.

  From one side of the town to the other, people were bustling about trying to leave as quickly as possible. Some passed him an odd glance, clearly wondering who this young man was who seemed to be in no hurry to go anywhere. Glances were all they offered, though; their problems were of far more importance to them.

  Land’O’North Tavern was the only business in the area that seemed to be thriving, with people coming and going freely and the sounds of laughter coming from inside.

  The crowd was raucous, to say the least. At least two fights were happening between groups of obviously drunken men (and women), yet no one seemed to take the slightest notice or attempt to stop it. Indeed, most were watching and cheering it on like sport. Elsewhere, men and women were dancing (though no music could be heard), couples were kissing and fondling each other with a ferocity generally reserved for the bedroom, and all around the 'chink' of glasses meeting was present. Indeed, if one were to guess, one would have never suspected that an army with unmeasured power, size and ruthlessness was approaching at great speed not far away.

  In a way, Johan understood it completely. The last few days had been trying for everyone here, not just him. Before the race to wherever they thought was safe, why not tie one last one on and have a bit of drunken fun? Although not quite as chipper, at least not enough to join in, he was thankful for the aura of hedonistic euphoria the crowd emitted. He pushed his way to the bar, with more drinks spilled on him as he passed than he was likely to consume, and found a busted barstool that wobbled and creaked as he sat.

  Ollie was the only one behind the bar, unable to keep pace with the orders, but caring not the slightest. Money poured in as the booze poured out, despite his insistence that people were paying too much. Gratuity jars were filled, and then quickly emptied before someone got any bright ideas.

  The barman was nearly tackled by one particularly loud and generous fellow. “A drink for me, a drink for him, a drink for you! We're all goin' to hell anyway, better drunk than sober! Oh shit, man, a drink for that one down there! Now he needs one!” He was pointing to Johan, who seemed to be the only one on the premises with a sour face. In times like these, that likely seemed to mean he was the hardest up for a drink.

  Ollie poured the drink, a cloudy brown ooze that was more sludge than beverage, finishing the bottle into glasses (each save one were grabbed by the loud man, money tossed in Ollie’s face as he turned to rejoin the rabble). The barman brought the remaining glass down and set it in the hands of Johan. “Courtesy of the polite gentleman over there,” he motioned to the general direction of no one in particular, “somewhere…”

  Johan took it with a nod and thanks, and it would have ended there had not Ollie’s wife rejoined the fray, harassed by patrons who would simply shout at any man or woman foolhardy enough to be behind the bar. A reprieve for the old slinger, it seemed.

  As one may recall, Ollie enjoyed his job very much, and a brief opportunity to console the seemingly inconsolable in times like this was too tempting to pass up. He took this moment of grand foolishness by his wife to focus on the youngster at his bar.

  “I'd be careful lad. That's not for the timid.”

  Johan smiled. With a nod to the tender, he sucked the ghastly sludge back with the grace of an old pro; his lack of experience only to show a moment later when he erupted into harsh coughing and wheezing while slamming the bar with his hands.

  Ollie gave a large laugh, the only kind he was capable of, and slapped him on the shoulders with large, weathered hands. “Well done, sir, well done. Most can't handle my special blend for another twenty or thirty years or so.” Ollie had seen it bring larger men to their knees. This one’s reaction was downright tame by some comparisons.

  Johan looked at the man with red eyes, tears forming (though from sadness or the drink, Ollie couldn't say). “Another, please.”

  The good nature of the old man faded slightly. He had poured this beverage for the lou
d man and his rowdy friends to hopefully get them off his back for a moment, and this one had simply been an innocent bystander. Now, after the rank liquid had gone down to what seemed to be unanimous disapproval, the desire for a second wasn't as much shocking as it was off-putting. This one had seen some terrible things to be in this kind of mood.

  Ollie went back over and popped the top on a fresh bottle of his 'special blend', a mishmash of chunky, sloppy still-leavings of various home-grown spirits and old beer. He returned, his wife cursing him, saying something clearly unladylike under her breath as he passed, and filled the glass with what seemed to be an even ranker concoction. Every bottle was a little different, and this one seemed to be very potent.

  “In times like this, I'll not ask you why you seem to be intent on dying so young, but I will ask why you still seem dour despite the…festivities?”

  Johan looked at him, money in one hand and drink in the other. “I’m from Tan Torna Qu-ay.” He put the money down and slugged back the blend, this time with little reaction. Unfortunately, the horrid taste wasn’t strong enough to force away the memory of his hometown’s mentioned name.

  All at once, Ollie understood. The memory of this one and one other he seemed to recall came back to him. Yes, they'd been here a few days ago, sitting in the same place. They ordered a few beers each, drank, spoke briefly to the barman about the last year (a familiar tale), and were on their way home, south of here. Although they never mentioned their home by name (at least as far as he could remember), south by foot was exactly where Tan Torna Qu-ay was. Or at least had been.

  The passers-by to this little den of the drink had relayed to Ollie the possibility of safety in the picturesque village in the valley. Some said they thought about staying but continued for prudence’s sake. Others were certain the people there had made a deal with the devil and were to be avoided. Either way, the result now was well-documented.

  It had been the farthest north town to be destroyed. Farthest by a good margin too. If this terrible army could strike so far so fast, it was generally believed that nowhere was safe. Then the mass exodus had begun.

  “I'm sorry, fella. Sorry like you wouldn't believe.” Ollie felt at a loss for words, albeit only momentarily. For a bartender, that could be a lifetime. “Whatever you want, let me know. I'm sorry to say that I haven’t seen anyone else from there yet. I pray you aren't the only one I meet.” Johan slumped. That meant Aryu hadn’t been here.

  He left the bottle of brain-killing sludge behind and let him be. Others here had been through a lot, but something about this one gave him pause. As such, was entitled to a few rounds on the house. Money was no object now.

  He returned to the rest of the crowd, his wife giving him an earful the whole way, and began filling orders once more. The kegs were near-dry, each evil little spigot either yellow or flashing red. It seemed that despite their technological relation to the Army of the Old, people could overcome their trepidation enough to suck them dry. Fear apparently did not know hypocrisy.

  Another momentary glance revealed Johan taking another round down the gullet, and with that, Ollie returned to the task at hand.

  -----------------------

  It was obvious by the middle of the night that the party was not about to die. The old and drunk were replaced by the new and sober in a never-ending cycle.

  Johan could barely see straight after so much special blend. Without saying a word to anyone, he got up and staggered out the door, his spot at the bar being promptly filled.

  He really didn’t have a hope in hell of finding his lodgings while in his current state, but he had a rough idea of the direction, and so he followed his sloshed senses in the way that felt the most correct. Johan found a street he swore (for the umpteenth time that night) was the one with the inn on it. Halfway down the road he passed several buildings and alleys, clearly pillaged and ransacked by anyone with the mind to do so in these times, and he was instantly shadowed by three men of ample size and nasty disposition.

  By the time the men passed him, taking off down an alley of pure blackness, even in a drunken state he knew something was wrong. Part of him was afraid, but a larger part had an air of not caring, the malaise and drink mixing into a form of total apathy.

  When one appeared before him, knife in hand with the other two flanking to the rear, Johan had already admitted to himself the truth of the situation and the likely outcome. He was a strong and skilled fighter, but only when sober. He also knew the likely reaction when it was revealed that he possessed not a single thing of value save for a few coins and the dagger. Indeed, the whole scenario had been played out in his head long before the lead thug first spoke, and frankly, he didn’t care much by that point.

  “Dangerous times to be wanderin’ ‘round, boy.” He moved closer, face hidden.

  “Yep. But here I am.” Johan had no need for false bravado or posturing at this time. Their intentions were obvious, and he had no desire to bait them or run. Johan had the gift of strategy but was too far from caring to use it.

  Silence for a moment. Johan had hoped his answer had tipped them off to his knowledge of their intentions. Perhaps he’d missed the mark?

  “You seem out of place? Perhaps for a small fee, we could point you to your destination?”

  “Perhaps.” Tired of the confrontation before it had even started, he was too drunk to pretend anymore. “But perhaps I’ll just keep wandering for free.”

  He made no motion to proceed, yet the dark man moved to stop him anyway. “Well then, that’s not going to be as simpl…”

  “Look, you either have a point or you don’t, but this little act for your amusement is pretty fuckin’ thin. I don’t have money, I don’t have anything you’d want, and I think that’s pretty clear. If you want something else you either spit out what it is or hit me and be done.”

  “Oh I’ll do more than hit you, son. I plan on fuckin’ killin’ ya.”

  The large man was now inches away from Johan, rot and beer on his breath. With a quick awkward motion he grabbed Johan by the scruff of his woven shirt and lifted him off the ground, other hand moving backward in what Johan only assumed was a windup to a nasty left hook.

  As he followed through, Johan felt the grip on him slip just enough to pull up his arms and slip out, landing on the ground, dagger (strategically removed as he fell) in hand. The motion was so quick the large man lost his footing on the follow-through, stumbling a few steps to the side as he regained his balance.

  To Johan it was still a blur, the alcohol winning over the adrenalin rush, but the speed and power were with him as he brought the blade about. His right hand sliced across the shadow of his assailant. He felt no resistance as he moved, and at first, he thought he had missed the mark, but then there was a howl of pain and the sound of something hitting the ground with a thud. Johan jumped back, and from what little light he had to work with, he saw the dark man hunched over grasping his arm.

  With the next turn to the left, Johan saw he had no arm left to grasp. Now the sound of blood hitting the ground in spurts was audible as the man stumbled back in agony.

  No way! thought Johan. No way did I just do that. I didn’t even hit him!

  But the proof was right there. He had hit him clean just below the elbow. He even could make out the arm on the ground, fingers and all.

  “Take his fucking head!”

  The others rushed Johan. The adrenalin began to win what battles it could over the booze and he ducked down, spinning between them like a seasoned dancer.

  Screams of something unintelligible (and likely murderous) echoed behind him when he turned to run, and he knew he was in a race for his life. If only he had a way of knowing where he was. Johan was constantly afraid of running into a post or a person or something. Any idea would…

  *BANG!*

  Something very loud and very close exploded behind him. It threw him off for a second and he hit a bench on the street side, causing him to tumble. Limbs flailed and skin b
urned as it hit the packed dirt ground. In moments his pursuers were on him, stomping loudly as they came to a stop.

  There was more light here, spilling out from local homes. In ribbons of illumination Johan saw what appeared to be a gun in one man’s hand. Basic firearms were still widely used, though not often, as the ammunition was difficult to come by. This man didn’t have a regular gun. This man had what illogically looked like an Ark 1 high-energy confined-beam pulse gun, a small but very powerful handheld weapon that used unbelievable amounts of power to produce a razor-thin beam of compressed energy for less than a millisecond, more than enough time to create a long and damaging stream of particles that could cut through almost anything with explosive results.

  This was ridiculous. He had to be seeing things in his drunken haze because although they were once very popular, Ark 1s were long gone from these lands. They were as foreign and frightening as any mechanical beast that populated the army to the south, but here it was in the hands of an unkempt attacker in a small town, right in front of his eyes.

  “An Ark 1? How the hell did you get an Ark 1?”

  The gun made a low grumble as it leveled at Johan’s face from a few paces back. “Shit, son, you have no time for questions after that stupid little stunt back there. You’re lucky it’ll be so clean.”

  A soft click and the grumble stopped, followed by the brightest light and the loudest bang anyone who had witnessed it had ever experienced.

  -----------------------

  He had been afraid he’d be hard to find. Doubly so when night fell. The hustle and bustle of this lively town made it that much more difficult when he and his gimpy companion sauntered into town in the late afternoon. Asking around was quick to yield little results. Everyone was too preoccupied with leaving as soon as possible to answer him. It was incredible how much this place had changed in so little time.