by Leo Romero
One of the soldiers jabbed at her with its bladed leg, checking for life. She lifted a trembling hand, but the soldier showed no mercy. It aimed its gun at her and released a plume of intense hellfire from the end, incinerating the remains in seconds, leaving nothing but ashes. When done, the soldier released the trigger and marched back to join its squadron. I watched on from the shadows in terror, my chest tight. I had one hand on Excalibur’s hilt and the other on Bam Bam’s grip. These guys were no joke. They had about as much remorse as a shark. The tank went into reverse, and the soldiers pulled away in the direction they’d arrived, rounding the corner. The one with the flamethrower passed by me. It came to a stop and lifted its face in the air.
And then spun its head my way.
My heart skipped a beat. The soldier lowered its head and switched its beams on. Green light bathed the road and moved up toward me as the soldier raised its head once more. I backed up, pressing myself against the wall of the building. The beam drew dangerously close to my feet, inches from my toes.
Get away from me!
The beam stayed there for a few seconds, scanning, searching. One more movement forward and it would detect me. My grips on my weapons tightened. If I had to, I’d fight the asshole. I watched it aim its weapon, the muzzle of that flamethrower staring right at me like a skull’s eye socket.
My heart started to thud. The soldier clicked, crackled, and those beams moved an inch closer, bathing the ground right next to the tips of my boots.
The thing held its stare for a prolonged second. I sucked in a big breath, ready to fight.
The soldier switched off its beams. It spun and stormed off to join its buddies, leaving me in peace.
I almost collapsed from relief.
“That was nerve-wrenching!” said Draxil.
“It’s all right for you in there. What about me!”
“Stop whining. You’re alive, aren’t you?”
My eyes fell on the ashes of the rider. “She’s not. Why were they after her?”
“Who knows? Do they need a reason?”
I diverted my gaze to the bike. “They’ve got bikes in Hell? Cool.”
“Go and get on it. We’ll reach the Kennels faster.”
“And have those bastards on my case? No thanks.”
“We’ll take the backstreets. Go, before they return.”
I had to admit, I couldn’t resist trying out a hellbike. I checked that the coast was clear and scampered over to it. On my way, I accidentally stepped in the chick’s ashes. I looked down at my dusty feet. “Ugh! Sorry!” I said to her remains.
“Never mind her!” Draxil snapped. “Get on the bike.”
I hopped enthusiastically over to the hellbike, gazing down at it the whole time. It was sleek, compact. It hovered on the air, and as I drew close, I could see the air shimmering below it. The heat emanating from the thing was keeping it afloat.
“It’s constructed of human flesh fused with the unique metal ores found in the rocks of Hell,” Draxil informed me.
“Ew! On second thoughts, I think I’d rather go by foot.”
“Don’t be such a crybaby! Just get on.”
I swallowed and stepped tentatively over to the bike. The seat was waiting for me, some kind of weird leather type material held together with rugged stitching.
“I don’t like the look of that seat,” I said.
“Don’t worry, it’s constructed of a synthetic fiber,” Draxil reassured me.
“Oh,” I said in pleasant surprise and sat down on it. It was quite comfortable. I grinned.
“It’s actually made of human skin!” Draxil said.
I shot upward.
Draxil chuckled. “Sit down, you chicken!” He started making clucking sounds.
“You know, when I finally get you out of my mind, King Arthur and I are gonna slice you in half!”
“Pah! You can try.”
I sat back down, trying to think of anything but human skin. I made myself comfortable and looked down at the hellbike. It rippled and flexed beneath me. Dark energy shuddered through me. I grabbed hold of the handlebars, and the energy thrummed up my arms. The anger was starting. It brewed in my belly, but it was a pleasant feeling. It made me feel like a badass. A mean mofo. I gave it some throttle, and that melodic wailing started up.
“It’s the tortured howl of the souls trapped inside,” Draxil told me.
I gave it more throttle, and the wailings altered into a rhythm and, yeah, I could hear it. Electric guitars. I swear, the wails sounded like guitar riffs from my favorite songs. Hey, they were playing Iron Maiden.
I put the hellbike in gear, and hellfire shot out the tail pipe. The whole bike hummed with heat and power. I nodded in appreciation. “Now, that’s what I’m talking about.”
“Get moving, Stone.”
“Yes sir!” I said and pulled back on the throttle. The hellbike roared like a tiger and shot off, the chorus of wailings upping in volume. Now I was a bona fide Hell’s angel.
The hellbike tore along the street, belching out fire, the thing flexing beneath me as we propelled through Hell, the wind rushing past my face. I pushed my momentum to the right; the fleshy parts of it flexed, veering us over. I reached the end of the street and turned left onto another similar street.
“Which way do we go?” I asked Draxil.
“I’ll direct you. Just make sure to keep your eyes open for any soldiers.”
I weaved in and out of poorly-lit backstreets, praying we didn’t run into any of Baal’s squadrons. We passed by naked people cowering in the shadows, one or two of them trying to knock me off the bike. The bike must’ve been some kind of special item for these guys. Maybe it was a way out of the Circle? Who knew? I made sure to speed up whenever I caught a glimpse of a loitering naked person. Yeah, I felt sorry for the assholes being hunted and eaten and raped and all, but they were in Hell for a reason.
I shot through more backstreets, Draxil guiding me until we reached that polluted, black vein of a river. It oozed and ebbed like molten tar, any nearby flames reflecting off its oily surface. Heads on spikes and decaying skeletons lined the bridge running over it. I zoomed across the bridge, getting a glimpse down that toxic river as it flashed by. It flowed into the distance, thick and sludgy.
We made it over the bridge and into a new part of the city where there were less derelict buildings. Instead, thin streets were lined with what could be best described as cages. Hundreds, thousands of them stacked as high as I could see. Stuck inside where naked people with distant stares, either lying down, quivering, or sitting with their knees pulled into their chests, rocking to and fro. The moans of the lost floated on the air; the gibberings of the mad punctuated the moans like incessant chatter. Why they were there was anyone’s guess. The cold truth was, Death had judged them and sent them there, and he never sent people to Hell for nothing. The Grim Reaper was many things, but unfair wasn’t one of them.
I shivered as I bombed down that alley of misery, sullen faces and sunken eyes gazing back at me, no doubt envious of my ‘freedom’.
“Suffer the poor children,” Draxil said.
“It’s Hell, Draxil,” I said back. “Not Disneyworld.”
“Yes. But surely there is a place for redemption. Surely they can be saved from Hell.”
“Once you’re here, can you not leave?”
“How can one possibly escape this place? It festers evil. Redemption is nigh on impossible. Even for one such as I.”
“I’m sure you’ll get back into Heaven one day.”
“Heh, I very much doubt it. But that is for another time. Only one thing is on my mind now. Finding Margaroth and Jagelon.”
I looked up. The cages ran off into the distance. Holy moly. That place was depressing. Endless rusty cages filled with corpses, bones, and people driven to the brink of insanity flashed by.
“How much further?” I asked.
“Keep going.”
I gave it more throttle, and we moved fas
ter, the wailing flesh I was riding increasing in volume. It looked like there were no soldiers here. Just misery. My mind started to get hazy from the endless cages whizzing by. Misery permeated the air. There was no joy here. No bright colors. No pleasant sounds—the twitter of birds, the roll of the ocean, the patter of rain. Only the screams of agony, the sight of rust and metal, and the smell of death and decay. It made a Chicago slum look like Beverly Hills.
My mind started to hum with negativity. I didn’t know how much I could take. How much abject misery I could stand to witness. I looked skywards; I could barely see the top cage, only raging fires, the only thing offering any light. I really had to struggle to remind myself that I was surrounded by murderers and thieves and the worst of humanity, that’s how bad it was.
I tried my best to focus on the horizon, praying for it to arrive soon.
Someone all the way up there in Heaven must’ve heard my prayers. The last of the cages dashed by, and I found myself in a more open space. I came to an abrupt stop. Beneath me was a rusty grate. Black water oozed beneath it, probably a tributary of the bigger river we crossed. Statues stood to attention here and there. Ugly, disfigured depictions with tentacles and horns. One of them I recognized. Its eyes flared scarlet.
“How are you enjoying your excursion in Hell, worm?” it hissed.
Atazoth. “Not you again,” I lamented.
Atazoth chuckled. “Is there something particular you seek?”
“I’m looking for the Kennels.”
“Then look no further. The Kennels are over yonder.”
I looked past the statues at the building ahead of us, which was more a wall of disjointed, rusted sheets of metal that sprawled upward. They were like a patchwork quilt, hastily stitched together.
“He’s right,” Draxil said to me. “We’re here.”
“About time,” I said and weaved past the statues. On my way, I got a shitball fired up in my palm. Once Atazoth was behind me, I turned and slung the shitball at him. It splattered across his head and back where it sizzled away. “Ha! Take that!”
“You worm!” Atazoth hissed. “I’ll make sure your suffering is the stuff of legends!”
“Yeah, I’ve heard it all before,” I said as I left him behind to enjoy my shitball. “I’m on everyone’s shitlist already.” I let out a satisfied sigh.
“Enough games, Stone!” lambasted Draxil. “You’ll need to have your wits about you in there.”
“Only having a bit of fun,” I said and rolled over to that wall of corroded metal. As I approached, I looked around for a handle or a door or something. But there was nothing. Tarnished metal stared back at me. “How do I get in?”
“Knock.”
I shrugged. “All righty.” I rapped on the metal, causing flakes of rust to tumble down. I stood back and waited.
After a while, a small section of the metal flew open with a squeal. I flinched back as a long tentacle with a giant eyeball on the end popped out of the gap. The tentacle stretched over to me. The eyeball roved up and down my body, checking me out. I batted it away, wiping away the slime on my hand afterward.
“What do you want?” a squeaky voice from the other side of the metal asked.
“Tell it you’re looking for Killian.”
“I’m looking for Killian,” I said.
“What do you want with him?”
“Show the eyeball your etchings and say you demand to speak with Killian.”
I pulled up my sleeve and held my forearm up in front of the eyeball. That disgusting, bloodshot eye gazed at the etchings. “I demand to speak with Killian,” I said. “I’m guessing there’ll be no problems.”
The eyeball retreated through the hole, and the metal cover scraped back over.
“Well, that went well,” I said. I was about to start giving Draxil an earful when there was a loud clunk and a harsh screech of metal. The sheets ahead of me were opening up. I took a step back and gazed at them as they came apart. Feral barks shot out from inside, puncturing the air like explosions. The sheets opened enough for me to enter. I took cautious steps up to them, those hellish barks ongoing. It was a nauseating sound, something like a cross between a puma’s growl and a wolf’s snarl. I stepped past the metal sheets and the kennels came into view. Rows and rows of cages in a giant semi-circle filled with dog-like creatures that wouldn’t have looked out of place on Dr. Moreau’s island. Some with two, even three heads. Their fur was mottled, scars displayed proudly on the bare patches. Long strings of saliva dripped from vicious canines. Their eyes glowed that same scarlet color as Atazoth’s. The cage floors were strewn with bloodstained straw and chunks of flesh. They snarled and barked in an incessant chorus that would’ve sent wild cats running for cover. It was Hell’s dog pound.
Something approached from the right; I flinched to meet it. It was the owner of the tentacle: a little person with only one eye and a scraggly beard. The tentacle was growing out the top of his head like a giant dick. Dickhead! Nice.
“Apologies, oh masterful one,” he said with a bow.
About time someone in this frickin’ place showed me some courtesy.
“If I’d known a follower of Hazatar was visiting us, I’d have opened up immediately,” said Dickhead. “Please don’t torture me.” His hands were trembling.
“It’s okay, buddy. I’m not gonna torture you.”
“Oh thank you, your merciful majesty.” He got on his hands and knees and crawled over to me. He was trying to kiss my feet, and that tentacle got between my legs. I hopped back, not wanting Dickhead near me.
“Never mind that. Just take me to Killian.”
Dickhead leaped to his feet. “As you wish, oh entitled one!” he said, wiggling his stubby fingers on the air. He scuttled off toward a door between the cages. “Follow me!”
Chapter 15
Dickhead held the door open for me, and I entered a larger chamber. A torture chamber to be precise. Iron maidens, racks, pillories, and other torture implements littered the torch-lit room.
Looked like Killian liked to go medieval style on his victims’ asses. And speaking of victims, a guy was locked in some stocks in the center of the chamber. Hot coals had been placed beneath his feet and a scold’s bridle strapped on his face. A woman, or what I thought was a woman, without a single hair on her head was enthusiastically whipping the poor asshole with a cat-o’-nine-tails tipped with razors. The grin on her face was hideous. Made worse by the fact that her lips had been slashed up her cheeks. I was guessing she was Killian’s daughter, Morbida.
I looked her up and down. Her body was a skin-coated skeleton, anorexic thin. She was riddled with scars that appeared to be self-inflicted. Strapped across her chest was a bra of razor wire. Around her waist was a mini skirt made of stitched skin, which I presumed to be human. I mean, why wouldn’t it be? Her onyx-colored eyes glimmered with revelry and delight as she mercilessly lashed the guy’s bare ass. She let out weird, excited hisses every time she whipped him.
She was the worst date ever. Unless you were into that BDSM type of thing, then boy, she’d be the girl of your dreams.
She gave the guy another whip, who screamed in pain, and of course, his subsequent screams triggered the scold’s bridle on his face, which tortured his tongue. I winced. Rather you than me, buddy! It would’ve been tragic if it wasn’t so funny. Wait, was that the right way around?
Dickhead scuttled up to her. He held out a tentative hand just as she raised the whip once more. “Mistress.”
She scowled and snapped her head down to meet him. “Can’t you see I’m busy!” she screeched.
Dickhead bowed and groveled. “Apologies, my most high of mistresses. I do not mean to disturb your pleasure. But an acolyte of Hazatar wishes to speak with your father.”
Her irate eyes flicked toward me. I gave her a small wave. “Hi. Sorry to disturb you. Please continue. I’m enjoying the show.”
The guy in the stocks shouted at me, triggering his scold’s bridle. I gave him
a shrug. “Not my fault. You should’ve gone to church on Sundays.”
The guy shouted at me again, and his tongue got more punishment. He growled in frustration, and the cycle endlessly repeated. I puffed my cheeks and turned away, leaving the guy to stew in his own misery.
The torturer ‘lady’ stepped over to me, slapping the business end of the whip in her free hand. Her acidic gaze never left me.
“Watch her, Stone,” warned Draxil. “She’s evil beyond comprehension.”
I gulped as she drew near. She reeked of death. It hung on her like perfume.
“Hazatar, eh?” she hissed. “Show me!”
I lifted up my sleeve and let her see my etchings. She nodded. “What business do you have with Father?”
“Tell her you’re here to collect Margaroth.”
“I’m here for Margaroth. Heard you’ve been looking after him for me, and I’ve finally come to collect.”
She titled her head back and cackled. The noise was like lice on my skin. When she finally stopped, she faced me. “Margaroth belongs to Father now. He’s one of his prized dogs.”
“I get that. But I’ve come a long way. How about I talk directly to Killian?”
“Father’s busy.”
“Well, tell him to be un-busy. There’s a game of cards waiting for him out here. Tell him I’m the guy who beat Death himself.”
Her chewed lips curved up into a smile, revealing rotten and twisted teeth. Did no dentists end up in Hell for crying out loud?
“You defeated Death?” she scoffed.
“That’s right. The reaper got his ass reaped.”
“Oh, I like you!” she hissed. She tilted her head to the side. “Father!” she yelled like a fishwife. “Father!” I winced at the noise. A few seconds later and footsteps on stone echoed through the chamber. They grew louder until a thing entered the torture chamber from the open doorway between two occupied iron maidens.