by C. F. Waller
“What’s up with her?” I inquire, amused. “Looks like a charcoal briquette.”
“Sometimes they burn,” she snorts, “If I’m in a hurry.”
“Where are you putting their life force?” Edward asks, then shakes his head. “I mean energy or whatever.”
“They are going down, right?” Jenn eyes Gabriel, then the bodies. “I mean like in three minutes.”
He nods, his face a cross between amused and concerned.
“So, they don’t need it back?”
He shakes his head.
“I got it right here,” she reveals, holding her palm out flat revealing a red ball of smoke hovering there. “I can do another if you’re worried about me handling a third?”
“I’m good,” I grin, stepping off the lip and back in the pool. “Looks like you got it handled.”
“You?” she frowns at Edward.
He shakes his head, stepping over the lip next to Annie. Jenn turns and floats the ball in front of Gabriel who steps back. She and Arron chuckle, suggesting he was up to date on her abilities. He is her father after all. Without warning, she rubs her hands together, as if she were drying them. An explosion of red dust fills the air. It hovers for a moment, then dissipates into nothingness. I had assumed she would return the life force to her victims, but no one mentions it. I wink at Jenn, mother’s pride washing over me. She and I seem to have a few things in common.
“Everyone ready?” she asks, then wrinkles her lips. “You should probably kneel. I don’t want you falling over and getting hurt.”
I do, putting a hand on Annie as she dips her dress in the fountain.
“Hey Angel,” I ask before kneeling. “You never mentioned how we get Rhea out of the cage?”
“No worries,” Gabriel holds up a hand. “I gave the particulars to Edward.”
“Time starts when I send them down?” Jenn asks Gabriel impatiently, holding both hands out in our direction.
“Yup.”
“Good luck,” Arron blurts out.
I nod, then see Annie and Edward follow suit. Jenn inhales deeply several times, exhaling slowly. I join her in a deep breath, then clench my fists. I seriously hate this part.
Chapter Six
Rahnee Ben-Ahron
Level One, the Waiting Area
The bottom of the fountain evaporates, leaving us in free fall. The sensation is new to me, my other two trips to Hell having occurred more traditionally. In those cases, I simply passed out and woke up down here. Let’s hope the third time’s the charm.
We land in shallow water, the concrete bottom hitting me like a freight train. Unable to move at first, I watch bubbles trickle out of my mouth, then roll over, pushing my face to the surface. I expect more pain, but it subsides quickly. Pushing myself up on my knees reveals the water is no deeper than the Columbus Circle fountain. This one is much smaller, maybe fifteen feet across. Annie’s head bursts to the surface on my right.
“Oh dear,” she coughs, then spits water.
“Relax, you’re going to be fine.”
“Where is Edward?”
To my left, he lies face up, still under the water. His eyes flicker, bubbles escaping to the surface. A peek back at Annie reveals a look of fear. She ain’t seen nothing yet. Pulling on Edward’s shoulder, I drag his face topside.
“Upsie daisy,” I sigh, turning him onto his knees.
Annie comes to his aide, patting his back and supporting him. He is quite a bit older than the rest of us. The fall was probably worse for him. After a moment, he turns around and stares at me. His face is that of a younger man, reminiscent of our first meeting at my resurrection. Annie doesn’t seem to notice at first, helping him to his feet. I do the same, then watch her confusion at his appearance.
“Edward, you look so young?” she mutters, pushing hair off his forehead.
“Feels like I got hit by a bus.”
“Why does he look like this?” Annie demands, eyes on me.
“Our bodies are up top,” I point a finger upward, fixing my ponytail with the other hand. “What you are seeing now is just a mental projection.”
“Meaning what?” Edward asks, a hand feeling his face.
“It’s what you think you look like. Your mind thinks you’re young, so you are.”
“Why does my mind think I’m fat?” Annie complains, stomping out of the fountain and straightening out her dress.
“Don’t answer that,” Edward warns me, stepping out of the water. “There is no acceptable answer for that question.”
I nod agreement, then join them on red cobblestones that surround the fountain. The stones fan out in all directions, as far as the eye can see. To the right are crowds of people, their voices like white noise. Far ahead, a long billboard hangs over a building. Red numbers glow, each numeral several stories high. There are at least twenty numbers laid out end to end. As I watch, a six on the far end turns to a seven. A loud click echoes in the air, even though the board would seem to be a digital display.
“So that’s what?” Edward points. “A Now Serving sign?”
“Yeah, when their number comes up they go down. There is a long bank of elevators in the building.”
“Anything else here?” he scans the horizon, which is engulfed in darkness.
“This is pretty much it. If you try to walk in any other direction nothing happens. You never get any farther away from the lines.”
“The clock stopped,” Annie mutters, looking at the underside of her forearm.
“Not stopped,” I tap on the 2:16 glowing in yellow. “It’s moving slowly. Just make sure you get ahold of Edward before it hits zero.”
“What about you?” she wrinkles up her lip.
“No worries,” I assure her. “I have no intension of staying here.”
“Speaking of that,” Edward sighs, hands on his hips. “I’ll assume we have to go down another level. Do we use this fountain or is there another one?”
“There aren’t any fountains on Level One,” I explain, and then point behind us. “Other than this one, and it’s just a back door.”
“It was my understanding that we can’t use the elevators?”
“That’s right,” I agree, waving for them to follow me.
We disappear into the crowd, passing all sorts of people, young and old. Most of them are by themselves, but here and there are a sprinkling of couples or groups huddle together. People who died together in car accidents or shootings. My two companions stare at the lost souls we pass, looking concerned.
“Are all these people dammed to Hell?” Annie whispers, a hand on my shoulder.
“This is Hell,” I smirk, then see her looking concerned. “Yes, all these people have recently died. Either a lack of faith or evil deeds have landed them here.”
“They don’t look evil?” she mutters, still clinging to my shoulder as we keep moving. “How did the Devil get so many?”
“Satan doesn’t have to recruit,” I chuckle. “Everyone here was judged up top, then sent down by default. You only wind up here if can’t get into heaven, not because Satan wanted you.”
“There aren’t any children,” Edward points out, pushing people out of the way as we fight past.
“Very few,” I agree, but nod to my left as we pass a boy no older than ten.
The crowd becomes thicker, forcing us to lock arms. We travel for an hour, then Annie drags us to a stop. I wait, watching Edward pat her on the back as she inhales deeply. I turn back, gazing on the long row of numbers on the billboard. We don’t seem to be any closer. I watch as they both notice this, then frown at me.
“How far is it?” Edward grunts, hooking elbows with his winded companion.
“No idea,” I reveal. “You just have to keep moving. At the front, under the billboard are a row of turnstiles. That is where the souls of the damned pass through.”
“But we can’t pass through,” Edward argues. “We don’t have numbers.”
“I can’t go any further,�
� Annie chokes out, bent over with her hands on her knees. “I’m dizzy and I need something to eat.”
“No, you’re not,” I shake my head. “Your body’s up top. You don’t need to eat, sleep or use the rest room.”
“But my feet hurt,” she pouts, standing up straight.
“You think your feet hurt,” I explain, then lean in to whisper when a man near us tries to listen. “Close your eyes and relax. Think about feeling better.”
Annie closes her eyes, clinging to Edward. He eyes me suspiciously, but shifts back and forth from one foot to the other. He’s slowly coming to his own understanding of the situation. He isn’t really weary of walking. Annie’s eyes pop open, a bemused smile on her lips.
“Alright, let’s go,” she chirps, pushing us forward.
We weave our way through the crowd for another hour, then stop to huddle. I reassure them that we will eventually reach the front. Begrudgingly they follow along, acting like children who pepper their parents with chants of Are we there yet?
Two hours later, a long line of red turnstiles come into view. We are close enough now that the audible click when the numbers turn is deafening. One at a time, the numbers changing is followed by a jubilant person running forward, waving their hand. These people have been waiting so long they are excited to have their number called, seemingly unaware this is Hell. A clear reminder of how they got here.
“Who are those guys?” Annie whispers, peeking past a dozen people in front of us.
“They check the numbers and pass people through.”
“They look normal?” Edward mutters. “I was expecting red devils or horned serpents?”
“You have seen too many movies,” I chuckle. “Come on, we need to keep moving.”
They follow along, glancing back several times at the men checking the numbers. Dressed in silver suits and ties, they look more like businessmen than guardians at the gates of Hell. Then again, there aren’t actual gates. The Bible never mentions The Turnstiles of Hell.
I lead them down the front row, on the far right. Once we pass the last turnstile, a white picket fence runs twenty yards, ending in a concrete wall. The wall is too tall to see the top, seeming to lead off the right an infinite distance. On the wall is a yellow door. DO NOT ENTER is stenciled in black spray paint. I put a hand on the knob, but get pulled back by Edward.
“It says do not enter.”
“Yeah, I can read,” I pull away, then turn the knob.
The door opens, revealing a staircase. It leads down, then switches back the other way. Looking down the effect is hypnotic, as there doesn’t seem to be a bottom. White light bars mark every other staircase, static flickering, a loud hum bouncing off the walls. I hold the door for Annie to enter.
“This leads to Level Two?” Edward grunts, peering over the railing.
I nod, smiling at Annie, who seems amused.
“Why don’t the people out there just use the stairs?” he demands stepping out.
“If you have a number the door won’t open. The stairs are for people who work here.”
“This entire place seems a wee bit shady?” he frowns backing up a step. “How do we know you’re telling us the truth?”
Before I can reply the door is pulled all the way open from inside, leaving a man dressed like a janitor in the doorway. He wears grey overalls and black boots, a silver cloth baseball cap on his head. All these guys look like Oakland Raiders fans. At first shocked, he recognizes me and smiles, pointing a broom handle in my direction.
“Figured I’d see you again,” he chuckles.
“How’s it hanging Fred?” I offer a hand.
He’s short, full figured with dark skin. His beard is grey, the hair on his head bright white. He shakes my hand, scanning over my companions suspiciously.
“You don’t mind if we take the stairs, do you?” I ask.
“These two trying to skip the line?” he grumbles, twirling the end of a salt and pepper handlebar mustache.
“No numbers,” I offer, turning Edward’s hands over revealing his blank palm. “I just want to get down to two and see if my friends have left yet.”
“Pretty backed up down there,” he sighs, leaning on his broom, then pulling a rag from his back pocket. “How come you don’t have numbers?”
“Frequent fliers,” I joke. “If I had to wait up here every time I died the Big Guy would miss me.”
“Sounds about right,” he sighs, wiping his brow with the rag.
“I should get going.”
“No doubt he’s eager to welcome you,” Fred nods, pushing the door open with his back. “If anyone asks, you never saw me.”
“Saw who?” I grin, playing along.
He passes by us, entering level one. My companions glare at me.
“Let’s go,” I shrug, starting down the stairs.
“The Big Guy would miss you?” Edward mutters, following behind me.
“How many stairs are there?” Annie whines, still struggling with her bodiless form. “Will it take as long at the walk to get here?”
“It will if you keep asking,” I groan.
Edward Grey
Level Two, Waiting Area
We climb down staircases for hours, stopping several times to encourage Annie. We repeat the closed eyes meditation together as she slowly comes to grips with her situation. Her mind is telling her she’s weary, but in fact none of us are. For the record, I feel better than I have is decades. I am reborn a young man.
“That’s it,” Rahnee announces, climbing down one more flight, then stopping in front of a yellow door. “Level Two.”
As we stand on the concrete platform, I peer down into darkness. There are no more stairs or lights, just a pit. It would appear the stairs only go down to the second level. She pushes the door open, revealing an abandoned subway platform. We shuffle in, letting the door slam shut behind us. Out of habit I try to pull it back open, but it’s locked.
“It won’t open from this side,” Rahnee nods at the door. “Can’t have people escaping up the stairs.”
“How do we get back up?” Annie begs.
“Jenn can reach down and pull us back from here. Don’t worry about it.”
“But Rhea is down on Three?” I ask, recalling something about an Amphitheater. “We will have to go farther down?”
“Try to keep your eye on the ball Edward,” Rahnee chuckles, starting toward the stairs that exit to street level. “There’s a slim chance Beatrix is still on two.”
“Oh good,” Annie chirps, holding up a hand. “Fingers crossed.”
I’m numb at the thought of my beloved. Even though my participation was gained with the promise of a possible reunion, I had pushed the idea out of my mind until now. Am I actually going to see Beatrix? Why did she say slim chance?
We come out of the subway entrance onto a city street. The sky is wallpapered with grey clouds, leaving us in twilight. Gas lit street lights remind me of the mid nineteenth century. No cars move on the streets, but a scattering of people trudge by on the sidewalk, leaving a trail of dust in their wake. A fine layer of gray powder seems to cover everything. I spin in place, taking in a panorama of sky scrapers.
“I know where we are,” I announce. “This is—.”
“New York,” Rahnee interrupts. “It’s all big cities down here.”
“Why is this level New York?” Annie asks, pulling up the hem of her dress as she trails behind us, through the dust.
“It just is,” Rahnee reveals, avoiding a now crowded sidewalk, by walking into the empty street. “Hell can’t be a sunny beach or strawberry field.”
“Where are we going?” I ask, walking faster to get beside her. “You mentioned a slim chance?”
“Swing by Dorian’s place and see if anyone’s still here.”
“Dorian has a place?” I ask.
“I was here thousands of years,” she snorts. “I had a place over on West 83rd. Dorian’s place was on the corner of 90th and Madison.”
> “Did Beatrix have a place?”
“She stayed with Dorian, or at least that was my understanding.”
“Oh,” I mutter, my mood darkening.
Prior to coming out of hiding some two decades ago, my relationship with Beatrix never worried me. We did, from time to time, drift apart, but I never doubted her love for me. We were always the perfect couple. A love affair for the ages. Things seemed change, or at least my perception of them, when I first met Miss Ben-Ahron. Several conversations led me to believe that my beloved Beatrix may have been romantically entwined with my best friend Dorian. Even though Arron seemed to think this unlikely, how long would it take for that to change? They have been here thousands of years.
“Stop worrying,” Annie whispers as we walk.
“Easy for you to say,” I mumble.
We walk east from Morningside Park down 120th Street to Madison, then south to 90th. The sunless grey sky seems to hold in heat and humidity, leaving me bathed in sweat. Annie snakes her arm inside mine, hooking elbows, and seems to enjoy the walk. A stunning change from her complaining all day.
Tan marble blocks make up the front of Dorian’s building; the metal numbers gone, leaving only an orange stain where the address used to be. A maroon canvas overhang blows tattered in the breeze overhead. There does appear to be a breeze, but it’s just far enough off the ground to miss us. More than likely, a deliberate act intended to cause suffering. Bravo Satan, bravo.
It’s the sort of place that should have a doorman, but has none. I visualize bell boys fetching luggage out of shiny black limousines, or uniformed greeters kissing a lady’s hand on arrival. Ah, the good old days. We follow Rahnee inside, passing red leather chairs randomly spaced around a dark wooden table in the lobby. A front desk, similar to a hotel, is deserted, grey dust and loose papers littering the surface. A narrow corridor holds two elevators, but Rahnee chooses a door marked fire escape instead.
“I don’t suppose the lifts work?” I groan.
She shakes her head, pulling the door open and holding it for us.
“What floor?”
“Twenty-three.”
“Good thing we don’t get tiered,” Annie chirps, pushing me forward.