Hell Cop

by David C. Burton

  Oh, man. I figured to return, but hopefully not to fight Mephisto or anybody. “I will return and do what I can to fulfill the Prophecy.”

  “The Taur will wait and fight with you.” As one they bowed deeper, rose, and galloped off into the dunes.

  Great, now I had a whole species of demon waiting for me to deliver them from evil.

  Gregory's Skyhook landed. He slid off and gripped my arms in a I'm-glad-you're-okay gesture.

  “Thanks for the rescue, again,” I said, returning his grip.

  “Tis the very least I can do for the Prophecy man.”

  I rolled my eyes and let it go. “Did you see McFetter?”

  “Aye, I saw the bloody traitor. Lost him in the tumult.”

  By the hate in his eyes I figured to let that go, too.

  “Where is Ixsess?” I asked.

  “He'll be here,” Gregory said, distracted by vengeful thoughts of McFetter.

  The wood floor, tables, chairs, walls of the Swizzle Styx Bar were all shades of gray, from light, almost white, to an almost black. A single slab of a polished stone never seen in Life spanned the whole back wall. It had patterns of red, gray, and green that flowed and changed, but no matter how hard I've looked, I've never actually seen them change.

  The Master of the House resided behind the bar. He looked like a pudgy, round-headed bald man. He was drying glasses at the far end when I entered. He smiled a welcome, then frowned as he took in my dirty, bloody, shabby state, as if the others weren't just as bad or worse.

  “Sit, Getter. Sit. What can I get you?” the Master of the House asked in a high, breathy voice as his unending serpent body coiled around itself behind the bar. There are no bottles behind the bar, but he always has just what you want.

  Cappy lay on the right end of the bar. His usually shiny black skin was dull gray and tight against his bones. He was dying and we all knew it. Sneaker ignored her own injuries and sat on a stool beside him. She held his big hand pressed to her lips. He woke.

  His voice was a bare whisper. “Sneaker.” He attempted a smile. “I hoped I'd see you again, before ...”

  A tear left a track on her dirty cheek. “Cappy, for all you've done for me, at least I can buy you a drink.”

  “Boilermakers,” Cappy said. “Remember that time ...”

  “I remember.” She took a glass of water from the Master of the House and held it to his lips. “I'd had a bad trip and needed ...”

  I moved down the bar so Sneaker and Cappy could reminisce. If he died in Hell, his soul stayed there forever. If he got through Heaven Gate he went to Heaven where he belonged. He was fading fast, and our limited first aid skills were meaningless. Charon's Ferry provided the only way across the river.

  “When will Charon come?” I asked.

  The Master of the House handed me a cold beer. The rustle of his massive serpent body was like the rush of wind through trees. “Soon,” he said.

  “Soon enough for Cappy?” That first swallow of beer was the best ever. It always is.

  He watched Cappy with concern. “Maybe not. His soul will always be welcome here. You had a bad visit this time.”

  “That's for sure. And it's not over yet.”

  Where was that damned Ferry?

  Gregory, Dimitri, Grace, and Brittany sat quietly in a booth. Dimitri divided his attention between Grace and the river. Once the souls were unloaded we would have only a short time to board. And a short trip to Heaven Gate where he and Grace would separate. The Ferry couldn't come soon enough for me. Dimitri was in no hurry.

  At a sign from the Master of the House a gargoyle perched over the door flew down to the bar. With a tray of drinks on its back, it leaped over to the table. Brittany stared with unabashed fascination at the creature.

  The end of a job was usually a happy time. Often, other Hell Cops and their souls waited for the Ferry. They chilled out with exaggerated war stories, a few laughs, or a cold beer or two. Charon came when he came.

  With Cappy near death, and Grace and Dimitri's separation imminent, nobody felt like laughing. I had to keep moving or fall asleep where I stood. I grabbed a handful of steamed zook nuts (demons love the baked ones, but they'll kill a Lifer) and wandered out onto the deck.

  A wood rail runs along the front edge of the deck that overhangs the hundred and something foot drop to the water. The railing has been there for centuries, but I still don't trust it. I keep at least three feet away at all times. Twenty feet below the deck is the ledge the new souls climb from the Ferry, to the Nexus, to their assigned torment.

  I scanned the mist for the Ferry. Nothing. I spent five minutes thinking miscellaneous thoughts. I sipped my beer and noticed that my hand shook. Then my insides tightened up. Sweat beaded my forehead. My head jerked around, up and down, attempting to see in all directions at once. I froze, hardened my thoughts against panic. I was close enough to the end of the trip to feel safe. The Swizzle Styx Bar, Charon's Ferry, the quarter-mile distance to Heaven's Gate were neutral territory. I was safe from attack. But that damn prophecy had got out and Mephisto believed it. That made me a threat, and Mephisto did not strike me as one to respect boundaries or traditions if they got in his way. I felt safe and vulnerable. For a few minutes my mind didn't know which to believe.

  “Getter? Are you okay?”

  Brittany looked up at me, concern wrinkling her pale brow. Brittany was still in Hell. She was vulnerable, therefore fear was in order. I could handle that.

  “Sure. I'm fine. How's Cappy?”

  “Not very good. Dimitri says we have to get him to Heaven's Gate ASAP. Will the Angels make him better?”

  “Yeah, they'll fix him up,” I said.

  I knelt down and we hugged and I knew I'd miss her. Where was that damn Ferry?

  “Ferry's coming,” Grace said from the railing.

  Charon's Ferry had cleared the dark mist that obscured the far shore. It steamed toward the dock, trailing black smoke. A sinner from the EPA would have a fit. The Ferry looked like a small tramp freighter only fitted with a wood mast and boom carrying dingy sails, and it was made of wood with gaps between the planks. Arms stuck through the gaps. Frightened eyes of the souls peered out. Three decks of superstructure rose aft. Charon himself manned the helm on a platform around the upper deck. Tall, dark, and hooded he may be a disgraced relative of a Wizard, doomed to deliver souls for eternity.

  “Better get Cappy ready,” I told Grace. “Once the souls are off, we only have a few minutes to get on board.”

  Grace led Brittany back inside the bar. I hesitated a moment, watching the Ferry, willing it to hurry.

  A shadow passed over. I glanced up. A rush of air staggered me. A huge Pragon settled on one end of the deck. Mephisto dismounted. Sword in his remaining hand, hard-edged face distorted with hate, he strode to me. Crumbs of dried mud fell off him.

  I had no weapons. My staff was inside. I'd returned the little knife to Gregory. I stood firm. He would not have the pleasure of seeing me squirm.

  “So, Getter, are you just lucky, or is the prophecy true?” He laid the sword blade on my shoulder. The damn thing weighed a ton.

  “I'd prefer I was just lucky,” I said. I meant it. That prophecy had caused me nothing but trouble.

  “Maybe so. But if it is true, it would be better if you were dead and the parts of your body were buried at the far edges of hell.”

  “You should think of the consequences of your actions. Maybe that's what the prophecy is about?” I hoped not.

  “No. The prophecy means that as long as you are alive you will cause trouble for me. So I will kill you and bury your parts and be done with you.”

  He raised the sword and stepped back. He must have thought I'd stand there and let him cut my head off.

  “Getter!”

  Sneaker threw my staff to me. I grabbed it and did a few fancy moves, more for my own benefit than any expectation of intimidating Mephisto. He didn't even let me finish before striking.

  I deflected
the blade up over my head. Then I lunged and struck his ankle with all my strength. His foot moved about an inch, and my hands tingled. His body was basically heavy armor. Hellshot bullets would barely dent it. My staff would barely scratch it. All I could do was defend myself and keep him located so if somebody bigger than me came to my rescue, Mephisto would be in the proper position.

  I could not stop his sword, only deflect it. He tried to force me to the deck's edge. I tried to keep him in the middle. He was fast and determined. He scored on me several times, blood from a deep cut ran down my left leg. My strikes were ineffectual, my energy fading fast.

  “This is neutral ground.” I danced away from a fast jab.

  “Not for me,” Mephisto said, grinning.

  I had the sinking feeling that he was playing with me, could slice me into pieces any second he chose. My guts, and morale, sank farther when I noticed that the Ferry had docked and the souls were disembarking. If we missed that Ferry, Cappy would die in Hell for sure, along with me. I couldn't keep fighting much longer. My legs cramped, my arms felt like rubber, and sweat burned my eyes. The others were not safe either.

  They had Cappy on a crude stretcher by the door. They'd attempted to sneak off the deck behind Mephisto's back. He forced them back inside. They had no weapons left either.

  I'd expected some help by then. But neutral ground meant neutral ground and not everybody was as willing to break tradition as Mephisto, irregardless of death and dismemberment right in front of them. On the other hand, some beings were more sensitive than others.

  “Where are all your Guards?” I asked, trying not to wheeze.

  Contempt tinged his reply. “The cowards would not come here.”

  He was playing with me then, and we both knew it.

  “You mean they were more scared of the Master of the House than of you.”

  “Ha!”

  Suddenly, the flat of his blade swept my feet out from under me. I landed hard on my back. The tip of his sword pressed into my heaving chest. We were dead center on the deck.

  “I am to be feared more than the Master of the House. I do what I want where I want. There is no neutral ground anymore, least of all here.”

  “There must be a reason why this has always been neutral.”

  “Silly stories. The Master of the House deserves no fear.”

  “Yes he does,” I said.

  Chapter Forty-one

  Behind Mephisto, the Master of the House shot out the door and rose up into striking position. A HISSSSS loud enough to hurt my ears issued from his mouth as it elongated and protruded, bigger and bigger into fang-filled jaws. At last, the cavalry.

  Mephisto turned, stumbled back, stared up at the huge red maw, black teeth, and yellow eyes. His jaw dropped open, whether from fear or anger at being interrupted, I could not tell.

  The transformed head struck. Mephisto jumped. I crawled to the rail. Another strike. The sword flashed out, bounced off coarse scales.

  “HISSSSS!”

  A thick, pink, forked tongue darted out. The twin tips wrapped around Mephisto's leg. Yanked. He dropped. Rolled. Sliced through the tongue. “HISSSSS!” Free, Mephisto jumped to his feet. Trailing green blood, the tongue recoiled. Then shot out, whacked the big demon on the chest, knocking him back. Sword slice. Recoil. Whack. Slice. Recoil. Whack. Each hit forced Mephisto toward the rail.

  Eat him, I wanted to yell. Just eat him. The souls on the path stared with horror at the two fighting demons. Several slipped off the path and fell into the water. Something ate them. Welcome to Hell.

  Sneaker led the others through the narrow gap in the door left by the Master of the House's immense body. With no time to be gentle they dragged Cappy through. They dashed to the deck's end and waited for the last of the souls to climb the steep steps.

  Chunks of tongue in splotches of green blood left a trail across the deck. As Mephisto backed to the rail, I stuck my staff between his ankles. Whack! Mephisto toppled over the rail.

  His Pragon squawked and dove after him.

  “Getter. Come on. We have to go,” Sneaker yelled.

  I struggled to my feet. The great snake head, yellow eyes ablaze, hovered in front of my face.

  “Thank you, Master of the House,” I said.

  “Hissss,” he said and withdrew his massive body back into the bar.

  A small hand tugged at mine. “Come on, Getter,” Brittany insisted. “The last soul has left the boat.”

  I glanced over the rail. The last soul was almost at the top of the steps. Two minutes until too late.

  Sneaker had Cappy on a makeshift stretcher, her in front, Dimitri in back. They started down. Dimitri slipped.

  “Let me take it,” I said. “You go first. Take Grace and Brittany. You and Gregory make sure they get onboard. Go. Go.”

  Brittany went first. Dimitri leaned on Grace as he limped quickly down the worn steps.

  I reached for the stretcher.

  “I cannot go farther,” Gregory said.

  I faced him, the little Scot looked small and alone.

  “Greg, come with us anyway. We can try.”

  “No. I will not be permitted down the steps. I can feel the barrier. But you must go, quickly. We will meet again, of that I am sure.”

  I hesitated. I owed him. I had things to say.

  “I know, Getter,” he said.

  I saw that he did know. I'd have to be satisfied with that.

  The big slash on my thigh screamed pain that fuzzed my vision when I hefted the stretcher. “Stay with the Master of the House until it's safe,” I called back to him.

  “And when is it ever safe in Hell, Getter my friend?” he called back.

  Cappy slipped on the stretcher. Sneaker stumbled, yanked me forward. I had to kick my feet out and sit down hard to keep us all from tumbling into the water and being eaten.

  Silently, Sneaker picked up her end. My hands slipped when I grabbed. They were covered with blood. I wiped them on the stone, and we continued.

  Brittany, Grace, and Dimitri were on the Ferry! Relief surged through me. Gave me strength. Limping, slipping, sliding, we reached the dock.

  “Run!” the three of them yelled.

  The Ferry moved.

  Sneaker looked back at me, fear, uncertainty, despair, in her eyes.

  “Can you make it?” I asked.

  “I'll make it, damn it,” she said, as if I'd challenged her. Which I had.

  We ran. We came even with the rail. A foot of water separated us from the boat. Sneaker stepped over. Dimitri and Grace grabbed the stretcher, dragged it over the rail. Sneaker collapsed on deck.

  Brittany screamed.

  Something slammed my back. I fell. Rolled over the edge of the dock. Grasped the edge. My legs hung in the water to my knees.

  Above, Mephisto on his Pragon circled for another pass at me. Below, something big and solid brushed my legs. I tried to pull myself onto the dock. I couldn't. I was done. I had no strength left.

  The others urged me on from the deck.

  “Get Brittany to Heaven,” I think I called back.

  “Getter, please.” Brittany. She'd be safe. That's what mattered. That was my job. What I did. And I always got my soul, except for one, and everybody agreed that wasn't my fault. Not a bad record. I could die with that.

  So tired, but I could hold on a little longer. Then drop into the water and drown, or be eaten. Not give Mephisto the satisfaction of killing me. A long rest then through a lengthy limbo until reconstituted in the River of Souls. “Getter! Getter! Come on.”

  I looked up. Grace tugged at my arm.

  “Hurry!”

  Then I heard the others yelling at me, Sneaker, Brittany, Dimitri. At the top of the steps, Gregory.

  Grace again, pleading, “Come on, damn it. What's the matter with you?” Her eyes begged me to do something. Suddenly, her eyes grew wide. “Pull your legs up! Pull your legs up!” She jabbed at the water with my staff.

  The water stirred around my
legs. Fear tingled in my brain. Fear of the unseen malevolence in the dark water. Fear gave me energy, and hope. I raised my legs.

  Seconds passed. Adrenaline pumped. Energy, hope.

  “Now, Getter, step up. Push up. Now. Now.”

  I pushed down with my legs. Contacted something substantial, moving. Fear drove me. I pushed. Grace pulled. I rolled onto the dock.

  Yeah. Driven by controlled fear. Back to normal.

  The Ferry backed along the dock, the gap now three feet. I jumped up, grabbed Grace's arm. “Go!” I yelled. “Go!”

  We raced down the dock, Grace slightly ahead of me. Movement on my right. Mephisto on his Pragon, diving. Talons extended. No time to warn Grace. I lunged. A game saving tackle. A claw caught at a strap of my backpack. Sliced though. Pragon and rider passed over.

  “AHHHHH.” Mephisto. Frustrated. A four foot gap. Growing.

  We ran side by side. My backpack slid off. I heaved it over my head onto the deck.

  Five feet.

  “JUUUUMP!” we all screamed at once.

  We jumped.

  Chapter Forty-two

  My knees just cleared the rail. My shins didn't. I tumbled hard onto the deck. Sneaker and Brittany knelt beside me, all smiles. Beautiful. I closed my eyes and breathed deep. Safe.

  I started. Grace? I struggled to sit up. Dimitri leaned over the rail. Head bowed, unmoving. The dock fifty feet away. Empty. “Oh, Grace.”

  Dimitri straightened. Turned. In his arms, Grace clung to his emaciated body. They laughed and cried together. Their time of separation not quite yet.

  “Are you all right?” Sneaker asked, when I slumped back onto the deck.

  “I'm as all right as you are,” I said. “You're a mess.”

  Her smile and the touch of her hand on my cheek almost made it all okay. “Maybe Charon will let me use the Ladies to freshen up?”

  At the mention of Charon's name we looked to the upper deck. Charon stood huge and impassive behind the spoked wheel. The Ferry had cleared the dock. Wind came from nowhere and filled the sails. Charon turned the wheel, and the Ferry came about and glided toward the mist.

  I peered deep into the dark reaches of Charon's hood. I found no clue to his identity. I felt him inspect me in turn, possibly attempting to judge whether I was worthy of being important to the future of Hell. An uncomfortable feeling.