Hell Cop

by David C. Burton

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  Silver Lake Publishing

  www.silverlakepublishing.com

  Copyright ©2003 by David C. Burton

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  NOTICE: This work is copyrighted. It is licensed only for use by the original purchaser. Making copies of this work or distributing it to any unauthorized person by any means, including without limit email, floppy disk, file transfer, paper print out, or any other method constitutes a violation of International copyright law and subjects the violator to severe fines or imprisonment.

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  To Penpointers, with thanks, and of course to Dee, with thanks and love.

  FORWARD

  When people die, their souls go to Purgatory where it's decided whether they go to Heaven or Hell. The process is not perfect; an occasional clerical error is made and an innocent is sent to eternal torment.

  When a soul is sent to the wrong place, the person who cared most about the deceased when alive (not always the obvious choice) begins to have disturbing dreams, sometimes visions, and a distinct feeling of unease, as if the universe is out of balance somehow. Through a priest, or perhaps a counselor or therapist, the loved one is put in touch with certain specialists. Armed with information and pictures, and a large check, the specialist goes into Hell, finds the misplaced soul, and returns him or her to Purgatory by way of Heaven Gate for proper processing.

  There is risk. If the specialist dies in Hell proper, his or her soul is trapped there for all eternity.

  Soul Retrieval is a secret to all but a few, though it has been going on for centuries. Retrieval helps restore the balance between Heaven and Hell, policing the bookkeeping of Purgatory, keeping the demons of Hell honest. These specialists who risk damnation are known, among those who know of them, as Hell Cops.

  Chapter One

  The way to Hell is not straight. It twists and turns, goes up and down, is infinite in length, but finite in time. Sometimes you step through a shimmer that blocks the tunnel and know you've taken a giant step toward the eternally expanding and contracting Netherworld.

  I stepped through one of those shimmers and, seeing what lay ahead, crouched down right there and took a big breath. In front of me stretched a long straight section of tunnel with a bulge about two thirds of the way to the next turn. This section occurred at a different location each time I went to Hell, and I knew what it was. I pulled the hood of my fireproof jumpsuit over my head, made sure I sealed the suit tight, and walked carefully on.

  The bulge glistened with continuously moving facets—Jump Bugs, thousands of them. They covered the wall and ceiling, forming a gauntlet ten feet long and barely two feet wide. Jump Bugs, each about an inch long, scoured sections of the tunnel, cleaning it of the constantly oozing slime so that the walls were pristine black rock.

  They also ate anything that lived. So long as they weren't touched, they left you alone. Touch even one, it jumped on you, followed in seconds by the rest of the colony. Their tiny mandibles can strip a man to the bone in minutes. I saw it happen.

  A couple years ago somebody managed to follow me into the tunnel. I had turned the far corner when I heard the scream. I ran back within ten seconds, but it was already too late. All I saw was a whirring, churning mass of black on the floor. A bug covered arm pushed out, but was immediately sucked back into the frenzy. Not a single Jump Bug remained on the wall. I got as close as I dared, aimed my gun where I thought the head should be, and fired. Maybe I spared the man, or woman, a few seconds of pain and horror. I hope so.

  Just around the corner from the Jump Bugs are the Tongue Vines. If you're lucky enough, and fast enough, and aren't brought down by the sheer weight of the Bugs like an antelope by a lion, you might make it to the Vines. The Tongue Vines are whip fast vines with rough, flat pink leaves like cats’ tongues. They love Jump Bugs. If Bugs are on you, you must stand still and let the Vines scour them off. But don't stand too long. The Vines will not stop when the Bugs are gone.

  A few feet from the Bugs, I stopped and removed my small backpack. I breathed in slow and deep to get my chi flowing. Heart racing, I held the pack and my walking staff in front of me, turned my shoulders to make myself as thin as possible, and walked quickly through the gauntlet.

  Ten feet on the other side I stopped and breathed again. One obstacle down, an infinite number to go. I continued on. A half mouth, spiky tooth, cat-sized creature darted crookedly at me. I call it Wylie E Coyote because it always returns no matter what I do to it. It has seven unevenly distributed legs, so it has a hard time moving in a straight line. I flicked it away with my staff, but Wylie was a tenacious little beast and kept nipping at my boots. No ten year old girl, my daughter or not, should spend any more time in Hell than necessary. I was in a hurry. I finally had to shoot Wylie and hope the concussion wouldn't alert any demon guards.

  Ten minutes later, my time, the rosy glow of Hell proper appeared in the distance. Eager to be out of the tunnel, I nevertheless forced myself to slow down. A Sling Spider always lurked ahead, somewhere.

  The cool damp of the tunnel turned warm. The slime dried into razor sharp flakes that rippled with a blood-red glow over the uneven surface. This moving pattern hid a deep indentation ahead where a Sling Spider waited. The way looked clear. The unwary might stride confidently forward, glad to be out of the stifling corridor. They would never make it to Hell by doing that. Not the way they intended, anyway.

  The spider waits in a deep fissure in the rock wall, camouflaged by a fine web that resembles the dried slime. A thicker, elastic web is hidden behind the fine one. The spider stretches the center of the web and attaches it to the back of its lair. Then it waits in the center.

  The body of the spider is about one foot wide by two feet long. It has thirteen legs, ten facing out, two to hold on to the web and one that, when the beast detects motion, cuts the anchoring strand, launching the spider at its prey. Its three foot long legs wrap around the unfortunate, the single red claws at the end piercing the victim's flesh. Six inch pincers administer a paralyzing poison. Then the spider can store the meal and suck it dry at its leisure.

  I stepped cautiously down the center of the six foot wide passage. It could be on either side. I took a step, scanned ahead, took another step. There, ahead on the right, the pattern seemed different. I moved slowly to the left, gun ready in case I had a chance to shoot. I kept my eyes to the right. The spider does not attack slow movement.

  I took another step, close to the left side. A hot breeze blew into the tunnel. It rippled the razor scales on the right side. The pattern moved, shifted. I looked for the dull yellow eyes of the spider behind the scales. I saw only solid rock. I stood near the entrance. There was only one other place it could be. I froze. The skin on my back crawled as I felt eyes on the back of my neck. I wanted to bolt. In my imagination I felt the thick, furry legs wrap around me. Felt the pincers close on my head. Saw my body hung in a corner, the spider slinking forward to suck me dry. I didn't panic, but I damn sure wanted to.

  I held still for two minutes. I visualized Tai Chi movements. Calm. Calm.

  Slowly I turned my head to look behind me. Through the thin web I saw the spider, a big one, not five feet away, yellow eyes waiting with arachnid patience for me to move.

  My mind blanked. Instinct took over. Calm. Calm. You've done this umpteen times before. Slow. Steady. Smooth. Pick up a foot. Easy! Move it forward. Set it down. Control the movement. Now the other. Again. Again.

  A Blood Bee buzzed past my head. Startled, I jerked my head around. That was enough. I heard the snap as the spider cut the restraining strand. It came through the camouflage webbing like an emerging nightmare. Ten reaching legs first, then the heavy body. It came too quickly for me to use my gun. I shifted weight and swung my staff.

/>   The spider's impact twisted me around and knocked the gun from my hand. The staff screwed up the spider's trajectory, and it flew past me, leaving four small rips in my jumpsuit. It landed upside down. Ten thick, shaggy legs curled into a tight ball. The thing looked dead; then the two web holding legs snapped it upright. The spider crouched three feet away and was pissed off. My gun was five feet away. Logic said—go for the gun, instinct said—RUN, Hell Cop survival instinct said—attack don't react.

  The Sling Spider didn't care about that. It jumped. At the same time I plunged my walking stick through its main body. In a frenzy, thirteen legs scrabbled at the stick. I let go, then went for my gun.

  With the thing dead, I made myself walk, not run, to the end of the tunnel. I slumped against the wall, burned clean of slime by the dry heat of Hell, and let my body shake. Cool water from my pack unwound the knot in my stomach. There was another tale to tell my father.

  It hadn't been a very auspicious start. As I stared out at the barren boundary area spread out below me I hoped that Christine was wrong and that I was prepared.

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  “Please don't go to Hell now. You just got back, you're not ready,” Christine had said, not bothering to plead. She knew it wouldn't make any difference.

  “You know I have to,” I said.

  “Well, you don't. But you will. Because of the girl.”

  “Yeah,” was all I replied, not quite able to meet her gaze. What else was there to say? She knew that if my wife, her sister, hadn't died in childbirth ten years ago, our daughter would be the same age as the girl's soul I'd been hired to retrieve.

  “Be careful. You haven't had time to prepare properly.”

  “I'll be fine. It's not my first trip, you know.”

  “It wasn't Dimitri's first trip either.”

  Despite my preoccupation I didn't miss the catch in her voice. I held her broad shoulders and looked into her deep blue eyes, bright with impending tears.

  “Christine, I miss your brother as much as you do, and I don't believe he's dead, either. I'll find him, you'll see.”

  “I know you will,” she said, coming into my arms. “I told him not to go. After he destroyed the demon that killed Dad, the others were after him, but he went anyway, damn it. The damsel in distress and Mr. Macho.”

  I held her and breathed in her sweet scent, her fine blonde hair soft against my cheek. It would be awhile before I smelled anything half that agreeable. After a minute she took my face in her strong hands and gave me a tender kiss and a matching smile.

  Hands on my chest, she sighed and said, “The sooner you go, the sooner you get back. Let's get you ready.”

  Christine knew the procedure. She'd been a Hell Cop until she fell for some jerk who only understood that when she was gone she wasn't there to be abused by him. A mundane job as an accountant followed after she got rid of the guy. Then her brother Dimitri disappeared. Dimitri was his Hell Cop name. Retrieving souls is an intense business. We take the job seriously and tend to use our Hell Cop name amongst ourselves, even when in the land of the Living. Christine made two trips to Hell with me to look for him, but she'd lost her edge and knew it. She moved into my house right after that.

  A month later we both succumbed to desire and curiosity and spent an inflammatory night in bed. The sex was terrific, though most of the time I was feeling, tasting, or seeing Julie, my late wife. We never discussed it, but I think Christine was more interested in a familial connection. During that night, often at what most people might consider inappropriate times, she mentioned Dimitri, Julie, or her father rather than me. Christine always had a very strong sense of family. She stayed on, in her own bedroom.

  She made sure the flameproof closures on my coveralls worked properly. She fussed with the neck seals. “You need a haircut,” she said, letting her fingers linger an affectionate second. While she filled the water bottles, replaced the flashlight batteries, and packed some food, for that trip as well as some to cache for future trips, I checked my gear.

  The terrain in Hell is so varied and unpredictable that it's impossible to carry equipment for every circumstance. If things go well you don't need any of it anyway. I carry the basics and trust to field expedients, as they say in the military, for the rest—A Buck survival knife with an eight inch blade, a big Swiss Army knife, two Space Blankets, binoculars, gloves, two changes of underwear and two pairs of socks. Besides the underwear, I carry two other important items, a staff and a gun. The two piece, six-foot walking stick/bo-staff is rosewood with a gold connector in the middle. I can break it down to carry in a three-foot sheath attached to the backpack. The gun is a specialty revolver that shoots six 20-gauge shotgun shells loaded with shot mined in Hell. Most trips I've never had to use it, but when I need it, I need it.

  I also carry one gold and one silver crucifix; sometimes they work. Hell is non-denominational. No matter what kind of Hell people believe in, there's a place for them. If they don't believe in Hell, there's plenty of dark, empty space to wander around in forever. If a person deserves it, according to the Purgatory Assessors, they go to Hell forever; it's that simple.

  My heartbeat was rising fast, and my hands shook. Hell is a scary place. Without fear, survival is unlikely. Fear needs to be controlled, doled out in small amounts to keep your guard up. I hadn't even left the house yet, and the fear already controlled me. It was the girl, I knew. She could have been my daughter. For her to be in Hell one minute longer than necessary was unacceptable.

  For five years after my wife died I wouldn't retrieve kids. I'd convinced myself I didn't want anything to do with them. Finally I did one for a family whose concern for their eight year old son's soul was matched only by their bank account. It went okay, so I kept my feelings in my back pocket and did a professional job when the work was offered.

  While Christine finished inspecting and stowing my gear, I ran through a Tai Chi long form. The slow, controlled movements calmed me, helped me concentrate, focus. When my gear was ready, I was ready.

  I needed to go. The longer it takes to get there the colder the trail can become, so to speak. The girl was ten. She'd been harassing her younger brother in the back seat. The mother turned to yell at her. Her eyes were off the road just long enough for the car to drift left into a dump truck riding the center line. The two kids died. I suppose, technically, the girl was at fault—no harassing, no accident. But come on, send her to Hell for that?

  The girl's mother had the vision, told her priest, Father Henry, and he recommended me. The local Catholics are big on Hell, and I've had some good referrals from Father Henry.

  Before I backed out of the garage Christine said, “If you're not back in four days I'm coming after you.”

  “Christine, no,” I said, taken by surprise.

  She placed a finger on my lips, stifling my protest.

  “Don't bother arguing,” she said, with finality.

  I had to try anyway. “Christine, you've never been down alone. Your dad didn't let me go solo till after ten trips with him and ten with Dimitri. There are too many hidden dangers. It can get rough without a partner. You know that.”

  Her eyes told me the same thing her voice had.

  “I will assume you are in a hurry and didn't really mean to say that you don't think I can handle the rough stuff. I can if I have to.” She gripped my arm with both hands and shook it. “Listen to me. You're all the family I've got left. There's nothing where you're going that's any rougher than waiting here, alone, for you to return. It was a bitch when Dimitri didn't come back. I won't go through that again with you. Six days, and I'm coming after you.”

  I headed east, toward the hills. I passed the fancy developments, my good-old Ford pick-up conspicuous among the luxury cars. A lot of my clients come from the area. There seems to be more ambiguity about where the rich should go when they kick. Soul Retrieval isn't cheap, so I let the rich clients subsidize the regular folks. It's only fair.

  I left the final golf course b
ehind and began climbing into the hills. I kept an eye on the rearview mirror. There are some people who'd like to get to Hell for their own reasons, as long as they know how to get out again.

  The pick-up's tank was full so I didn't stop in Nobell. Nobell has about twenty buildings, half of them unoccupied. The first time I stopped at the gas station an old boy about fifty, going on seventy, wearing greasy mechanic's coveralls and a John Deere hat, sauntered out to pump the gas. He asked me where I was going.

  At the time, I was pretty new to the business and full of myself, so I said, “I'm going to Hell.”

  He looked over my flame-proof suit, long hair, and diamond stud earring and said, “Yep. You're dressed for it. Check yer oil?”

  I said sure and then asked, “How about you? Where you going, Heaven?” I thought I was real cool back then.

  He popped the hood. “I'm already there,” he said.

  “You've been to Heaven?”

  “Am there. Look around you, son.”

  I walked out by the road and did a slow three-sixty. The town straddled the road as it came out of the hills into a high valley. Trees—evergreen and aspen, cottonwoods along the river at the base of the hill, surrounded it. On the other side of the valley, higher hills rose up to snow-capped mountains. The sun hung low, suffusing the valley with a golden glow. Even then, as a cocky young man, I could see why it might be considered Heaven by some.

  I ambled back to the truck. “Yeah, Heaven. I can dig it,” I said. “Hell doesn't look like this.”

  The man held out a knobby hand for the gas money.

  “Look again,” he said, ambling back to the office.

  I looked around again. This time I saw a dying town out in the middle of nowhere. I saw the plywood covered windows of abandoned stores. Cars showed their rust. A woman in a faded dress too big for her scrawny frame called to a couple unsmiling kids with dirty faces.