by C. F. Waller
We climb, rather than descend, this time. Each floor has two tiers of stairs, flipping back at right angles. All the doors have red stenciled numbers, indicating what level you are passing. When we get to twenty-three, Annie holds the door open for Rahnee and me.
“Fingers crossed,” she whispers when I pass.
In her place, I doubt I would be so gleeful at the prospect of my spouse reuniting with his old flame. Annie is a very special lady, but then again, I’m well aware of that. It’s why I traded my own immortality to save her. A rare selfless decision of mine that I do not regret.
“This is it,” Rahnee announces, stopping in front of a thick wooden door. “2303.”
We gather together, then she knocks. When she does, the door moves backwards, opening a bit. Looking at first perplexed, Rahnee pushes the door open slowly, then steps inside. We follow, looking over her shoulder at a neat and tidy living space.
“Swanky,” Annie whispers.
On the left, a living room with hardwood floors and fleur-de-lis wallpaper is warm and inviting. Blue satin Queen Anne chairs surround a fireplace, that’s almost certainly a wall mounted gas unit. Book shelves fill one wall, the contents a mish mash of vintage literature. Dorian did like to read.
On the right, a dining table that would seat a dozen people runs down the middle of a long room. Only three chairs surround it, leaving the room looking unfinished. A hallway runs straight out from the entry way, thick framed art hanging on both walls. There are several doors at the end of the hall, probably bedrooms or bathrooms. Rahnee observes the surroundings from just inside the entryway, then shrugs.
“No one home?” Annie frowns.
“Doesn’t look like it,” Rahnee sighs.
“When where you last here?” I ask.
“It’s been awhile. The last time I died was a pretty short trip. I never got over to see them.”
“Short, in terms of time down here?”
“I was only alive for a week before Rhea killed me, but down here that could be a hundred years,” she admits. “They must have gone down.”
“To Level Three?” I suggest. “The Amphitheater.”
“Yeah, three is Purgatory,” she explains. “The Amphitheater is on three.”
“How do we—.” Annie starts, but a shadow falls over the dining room.
Emerging from what I assume is the kitchen, a familiar face looks up in surprise.
“Helen?” Annie shouts, rushing over and trapping her in a two-armed hug.
Rahnee and I share confused expressions. Helen told us she was a simple clay statue fashioned by the Almighty. She and her nine brother and sister statues, were sent down to help his fallen Angels complete a task. She inferred that her demise would land her back on Gods knick-knack shelf. If she isn’t a real person, thus possessing no soul, why is she here?
Caught off guard, Helen nearly drops the bowl of cereal she was eating. She sets it on the table, then returns Annie’s embrace. Once the two part, I see she’s wearing jeans and a hooded sweat shirt, a far cry from her designer wardrobe at the Estate. Helen wipes milk off her lips with the sleeve of her hoodie, then waves weakly in my direction. She looks as surprised as we do.
“Who’s she?” Rahnee grumbles.
“This is Helen,” Annie exclaims. “She’s a friend.”
“Technically speaking, she was Annie’s oppressor,” I grin, walking over to hug Helen.
“Oh, all that mess is forgotten,” Annie announces.
“It’s good to see you,” I whisper.
“I wish I could say the same,” she replies, squeezing me. “I never expected to wind up here.”
“I don’t suppose you’ve seen a gal calling herself Beatrix?” I inquire, stepping back. “I realize you never met her topside.”
“No, she wasn’t here when I arrived. Just some eccentric nut ball.”
“Dorian,” Rahnee chimes in.
“Yeah, Dorian,” Helen nods. “He went down quite a while ago.”
While happy to see Helen, and receive news that Dorian was here, something is off. How did she wind up in Dorian’s Apartment? They never met topside and it’s a big city. Why is she living in his house? The odds against their paths crossing are enormous.
“How did you meet Dorian?” I ask.
“I came to this address and he was the only one here,” she reveals, then pauses. “Wait, that’s not accurate. There was a kid, red hair, spoke German.”
“Sindri,” I exhale, wondering if Michelle is down here somewhere.
Helen nods.
“Why did you come here?” I press.
“I assumed it was part of the plan,” she shrugs, turning her arm over revealing an address tattooed on the underside. “This address was all I had to go on.”
“Who is she again?” Rahnee asks.
“One of Rhea’s minions, but she helped us,” I answer, careful to emphasize her good points. “If it wasn’t for her we would never have survived.”
“Technically speaking, you burned me alive with Hellfire,” Helen smirks, pointing at Rahnee. “But it happened pretty fast. You were preoccupied with Rhea.”
“Sorry,” Rahnee replies in an unconvincing tone.
“And you wound up here,” I interrupt, a thumb to my lips. “Did you have a number when you got here? I’m surprised you got in at all.”
“I didn’t go through the first levels. I only know about them from the whacko.”
“Dorian,” Rahnee corrects her.
“Yes, sorry. I woke up in Central Park,” Helen reveals. “Nearly drown in the fountain.”
“You awoke in a fountain?” Rahnee mutters. “In Central Park?”
Helen nods.
“Pulitzer Fountain,” Rahnee nods.
“Yeah, why, does that matter?”
“The guy we work for must have sent you here,” Rahnee purposes, pointing up. “I wasn’t a hundred percent sure how I was going to get down to level three, but you seem like a bread crumb.”
“You think the fountain goes down?” I ask.
“Only one way to find out,” Annie chirps, eyeing the bowl on the edge of the table. “Do you have any more cereal?”
Chapter Seven
Rahnee Ben Ahron
I lean on the wall, gazing at the street below waiting. Annie devours two bowls of Rice Krispies, covering each with enough sugar to rival the milk. While she understands, eating isn’t an imperative, she argues that it’s also not fattening. It would appear she can mentally turn lemons into lemonade at will. Edward finds it endearing, but it’s just slowing me down. When I ask to see the underside of her arm, to check it against mine, the number is 1:57. We have lost nineteen seconds already.
A long discussion between Edward and Helen regarding the Agreement takes place. Helen listens attentively, but makes a concerned eye roll in my direction several times. Is Helen here to assist me, or was she just a trail of breadcrumbs to the Pulitzer Fountain? I lean on the wall, gazing out the window trying to decide.
On the street below, a half dozen men wander lazily from the south. They are attired in matching red suits with black shirts, shoes and white ties. These are the Purgatory Enforcers. They huddle up across the street, leaning on a building trying to look casual. Rather than sound the alarm, I simply observe them. Are they here for me?
“What cha looking at?” Helen whispers, peeking over my shoulder.
“Got a little security detail down there. Not sure if they are going to a problem or not?” I reply in my quiet inside voice.
“Looks like one of them is coming in?” Helen remarks, pointing down.
“You have any problems before we showed up?” I ask, raising an eyebrow.
“Last week,” she nods, then leads me to the bedroom hallway with her eyes. “Let me show you my etchings.”
She leads and I follow. Annie is finishing her second bowl of cereal. She tips up the bowl to drink the milk, dripping a trail down the front of her dress. Edward turns in his chair, watching us.
“You two alright?”
“Yeah, get ready to go,” I point a finger at him, following Helen down the hall.
The second door on the right leads to the master bedroom. A Queen sized four poster bed takes up half the room. It’s unmade, blue satin sheets piled in a lump at the foot. Two chairs and a table sit in front of a window, but the curtains are pulled. Helen moves past a doorway leading to the bathroom, stopping in front of another door.
“What’s in the closet?” I ask.
“You asked if I had any problems,” she shrugs, then pulls the door open revealing a corpse in a red suit. “This guy showed up last week asking to see my number.”
“And you don’t have a number,” I sigh, hands on my hips. “He was alone?”
“Must have been. If he had a partner, they would have come looking for him.”
“Possibly, that’s what’s happening now.”
His back is to us, but what looks like the end of a coat rack protrudes from the silk jacket. When I pull gently on his collar, the body falls out, landing on its arched back. It is indeed a coat rack, the top torn off, leaving a sharp spear coming out his chest. All the Purgatory Enforcers look the same. Pasty skin, slicked back hair and teeth filed down to sharp points. I study the face, but can’t place him. I know a few of the bastards from previous entanglements.
“A coat rack,” I mutter. “You get points for creativity.”
“My options were limited. Is this going to be a problem?”
“Yeah,” I huff, rubbing my forehead. “Was he armed?”
Helen nods, stepping into the bathroom, then comes back with a white handgun. She turns it around, then hands it to me by the stock. Along the side in red letters it reads Do not remove from Level 2.
“He get off any shots?” I inquire, pulling out the clip to check myself.
“Yeah, I took one here,” she explains, pointing at a blemish on her shoulder. “He didn’t get a second chance.”
“And you’re okay?”
“I’m not a real girl,” she winks. “Sticks and stones won’t break my bones.”
“Are words a problem?” I grin, slapping the clip back in.
She shakes her head, then crosses her arms.
“Is there a back way out of here?”
“Yeah, there’s a second stairwell down the hall to the left.”
“Good, take Edward and Annie to Pulitzer Fountain and wait for me. Make sure they get there in one piece.”
“Wouldn’t they be better served if you accompanied them?” she suggests. “You stand a better chance of freeing Rhea than I do.”
“I don’t know. You’re pretty handy with a coat rack,” I mutter, stepping past her.
“No,” she whispers, stopping me abruptly with one hand. “You need to finish this if you want to get topside. It doesn’t matter what they do to me.”
“Are you sure,” I back up a step. “This level is cupcakes and unicorns compared to the lower ones.”
“How many levels down did you make it?”
“You wouldn’t believe me.”
“Was Dante right?” she shrugs. “Are there seven or is it deeper?”
“I can vouch for five,” I admit, but wince at the thought. “Seven is what’s on the brochure.”
“You take them down the back stairwell,” she orders, stepping back to let me pass. “When this guy’s friend gets here, I’ll entertain him.”
“How you gonna do that?” I ask, stepping past her into the hall. “You’re all out of coat racks.”
“I’ll improvise.”
Hustling into the living room, I shoo Edward and Annie into the hallway. I point to the left, but they pause at first, then go when I point the gun at them. Helen leans on the door frame looking bored. Why did the Almighty place her here?
“There’s more than one outside,” I suggest. “You sure you don’t wanna come with?”
“No, you need a diversion.”
“Here,” I sigh, offering her the gun.
“You need it more than I do,” she replies, pushing it back in my direction. “Besides, you already know it won’t fire when you point it at the guys in red.”
“How do you know that?”
“I tried to put a few rounds in coat rack boy,” she nods in the direction of the bedroom. “Just for fun.”
“You’re quite a bit more blood thirsty than you look.”
“Go,” she barks, shoving me down the hallway.
“We’ll be coming back through the Pulitzer Fountain,” I offer, stumbling backwards down the hall. “If you wait for us there—.”
“Go,” she cuts me off. “We both know how this ends for me.”
I watch her until I get to the end of the hallway. A few doors down on the left is a second stairwell. I take the lead, moving slowly so Annie can keep up. What does the Devil do with Gods clay statues?
Helen of Troy
I leave the door open, then wander into the kitchen. Six black handles protrude from a butcher-block knife holder. I choose the two largest, neither with serrated edges. It’s bloody hard to throw a scalloped blade. Moving back into the living room I hear footsteps in the hall. I stab the knives into the table, leaving then wobbling back and forth like a metronome. Pulling the hoodie over my head, I discard it. I jerk the knifes out of the table, holding both by the tip of the blade with two fingers.
“Knock, knock,” a scratchy voice calls out from the hallway.
“Let the diversion begin,” I whisper.
He walks calmly through the door. He looks similar to guy I impaled with the coat rack. Before he can bring me into focus, I throw the first knife. I am surprised when he gets a hand up and it sticks in his palm, the sharp end protruding out the back of his hand.
“That’s not very—,” he starts, but the second knife hits him in the forehead.
“Hush,” I mutter, watching him fall over on his back.
I have to tug on the black composite handle three times to get the blade out of his head, eventually putting my foot on his ear to keep him down. Checking the hall for others, I find none.
“One at a time then.”
I retrieve the second knife, before sticking both of them back in the dining room table. When I scan the street below, a half dozen Enforcers wait patiently for their boss. I’d prefer to take them on in the narrow hallway, as opposed to the wide-open street. There is also my three conspirators to consider. I don’t want the band of devils to wander around the back of the building.
“Return to sender,” I mumble, taking the body by the ankle and drag him to the window.
Windows on the higher floors don’t open. We wouldn’t want anyone to take a dive, in a vain attempt to avoid level three. Using his gun, I fire a few shots into the glass, shattering it. Down below the band of Enforcers glance up, a hail of glass landing on the sidewalk.
“Hold that thought,” I announce, taking the body by the belt and tossing him out.
He falls, arms limp, landing in the middle of the road with a splat. He skips a bit from the angle of the throw, leaving a crimson trail on the pavement. With all eyes on me, I wave, then curl a finger, inviting them up. After a brief pause to check the soggy mess in the street, they file into the front door and out of sight.
“My kingdom for a coat rack,” I growl, jerking the knives out of the table.
Edward Grey
The Pulitzer Fountain
After hiking for a half hour, we arrive at the fountain, located in the middle of Central Park. Annie sits on the retaining wall, once again out of breath for no apparent reason. Old habits die hard. Rahnee circles the monument, scanning over the lay out. This one is nothing like Columbus Circle, leaving me wondering how it may work.
In the center, surrounded by water, are four terraces, each somewhat higher than the last. A huge round wall along the ground creates a fifth level, looking like a birthday cake in the center. At the top is a statue in a giant bird bath, the Roman Goddess Pomona looking down from quite
a height. Water trickles over the edges of the various levels, the flow of water seeming loud in the deserted park.
“Any idea how this works?” I ask Rahnee as she completes a circuit. “Last time Jenn made it work.”
“We just have to hop in, but I want to be sure we use the right one.”
“Right one?”
“There are six different levels, counting the bowl under the statue. It’s like an elevator. We need to get to level three, but I’m stumped as to which one.”
“Wouldn’t it be the third?” I suggest.
“Maybe, but the third one up, or the third one down?”
“Ah, I see what you’re driving at.”
“There is also the matter of six levels,” Rahnee frowns, crossing her arms over her chest. “Assuming there are seven, is the first level actually two?”
“If that is the case, we would need to enter the second one.”
“You see the conundrum,” she smirks. “Trust me when I tell you, we do not want to go any farther down than three.”
“I’ll take your word for it.”
“Does this fountain go up?” Annie chirps, joining our conversation.
“Up to where?” Rahnee shrugs.
“Can we get in and go back to level one?” Annie asks.
“Not that I am aware. Which is why I used the stairs.”
“So, to get to level three from here we need to use the second level,” Annie purposes. “Since it doesn’t go up, the first level is actually number two.”
“How can you be sure?” I ask.
“Because there’s supposed to be seven,” Rahnee nods. “This fountain runs from two to seven. Well done Annie.”
“And you’re sure?” I verify, not wanting to go deeper than necessary.
“It makes sense,” Rahnee replies, climbing up on the retaining wall. “It explains why the bird feeder at the top is so tall. They don’t want just anyone dropping in to Satan’s office.”
“Office?” Annie shrugs, then is pulled up on the wall above the first pool.
“Office, den, well of souls, lake of fire,” Rahnee mutters, helping Annie into the shallow water. “I haven’t been, and let’s not find out.”