Damnable

by Hank Schwaeble

  “I . . . I don’t know.”

  Soliya spoke up. “Keep in mind he’s been severely traumatized. Memories of actual life begin to fade immediately once the soul is in Hell’s depths. What is retained is just enough to maximize emotional duress. Even after mere days, he would be completely incoherent, virtually insane once brought back. So the summoning is designed to block all that out. If he had any clear recollection of the torment now, you wouldn’t even be able to converse with him.”

  “It’s cold,” the voice interjected, still eerily disembodied though appearing to come from the moving mouth of the figure. “A burning cold. I sort of remember that. And I remember it being so lonely. Like no one else exists. I just know I don’t want to go back. Oh, God, I’d do anything not to go back.”

  Hatcher thought he could hear a sob in the voice. He turned to Soliya again. “This is ridiculous. I don’t believe any of it.”

  Soliya wagged her chin. “You’re not exactly asking him anything of substance.”

  The face pressed out again, a flash of light brown irises Hatcher had seen before. Every time he looked in the mirror.

  Hatcher wasted no time striking the thought. This was absurd. Just ask him something.

  “Do you remember how you died?”

  “I remember being in traffic. There was a woman. I was trying to save her. Did I?”

  “Yes.”

  A pause. “Guess it wasn’t enough, huh?”

  “Guess not.”

  “I did a lot of bad stuff in my day, Jake. Maybe, maybe I do know. Oh, God, yes, that’s it. That stuff, I remember. I was a contractor. You know what I mean by that?”

  “Like Blackwater?”

  “Yeah. Just like that.”

  Hatcher nodded faintly. The so-called War on Terror had prompted new approaches to military operations, the extensive use of private security contractors being among them. They were well-paid mercenaries, tasked to do things the government didn’t want the military being implicated in. Hatcher hated the whole notion of a War on Terror. You can’t win a war with troops and weapons when the enemy is a concept. He hated the use of contractors, too. Not because they weren’t good at what they did, but because they were. That led to bad strategy, winning battles while losing ground. Wars needed to be fought by soldiers, not mercenaries, and against enemies, not labels. Ideas don’t die by bullets or bombs. They’re defeated by will. You don’t break your enemies’ will by outsourcing.

  He realized, though, that if any of this was real, you do apparently send those hired to do your dirty work to Hell.

  “You’re good,” Hatcher said, turning to Soliya.

  “Oh, I see. You still think this is some elaborate hoax. How predictably simpleminded of you. Regardless of whether you’d prefer to believe that, Mr. Hatcher, this is all very, very genuine.”

  “I wish it weren’t, Jake,” the maybe-Garrett said. “I can’t tell you how much.”

  Hatcher started to move forward. He raised his hand, reaching toward the blue aura. “Let’s just see about that.”

  “No.”

  Her voice was firm enough that Hatcher stopped. There was a quality to it that reached into his past, plucked at strings of experience, struck a jarring chord. It was that unnatural combination of urgency and calm. Like when someone was warning you your foot was about to trip a claymore. The experienced guys didn’t raise their voices too much. Only enough to get you to pay attention. They didn’t want you to jump at the sound.

  “If you so much as touch him,” she explained, “you’ll share his fate.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “The damned are, for lack of a better description, unclean. Once in Hell, a soul carries damnation like a plague. Touch him, and you’ll be headed there when you die. No amount of repentance or faith or good works will change that.”

  “That’s assuming I buy into any of this. Which I don’t.”

  Garrett spoke up: “I’d listen to her, Bro. I don’t know much about what’s going on. I just know I’m completely fucked. I wouldn’t want that for you.”

  To Soliya, Hatcher said, “Fine. Let’s say I was to believe you. Why’s he here? Why am I here? I think it’s time you dropped the smoke and mirrors and told me what this is all about.”

  “He’s here because I thought we might need to impress upon you the importance of the stakes. Those stakes are what this is all about.”

  “Stakes.”

  “Yes. Enormous ones.”

  “And what do these enormous stakes have to do with me?”

  “That’s an easy one, Mr. Hatcher.” Her lips flattened and she gave him a sober, piercing look. “Everything.”

  CHAPTER 18

  WRIGHT BECAME VAGUELY AWARE SHE WAS BOUNCING. Her eyes fluttered open. Bits and pieces of objects could be seen through her hair as it swung across her face, the drier strands puffed and fluttering. The side of her head and the flat of her arms were slapping against a rounded surface. At some point she realized it was a person’s back. A man’s back. A very hard, very muscular back.

  The bouncing stopped. Her head swooned as she felt herself flip, her upper body arcing backward, the world spinning in a circle, then changing directions as she slammed down onto a mattress, rebounding off it slightly.

  She was in a situation. She had to do something.

  Her gun. She watched herself draw her weapon, roll off the bed, double tap to center of mass. No time to waste. Machinelike. The actions came without thought. Vault the body, throw herself out the door, pistol at the ready. Down the stairs two at a time, careful not to trip. Lose the shoes. Out on the sidewalk now, pulling her badge, flagging down a car.

  “It’s so nice you’re awake.”

  The voice pulled her back into herself. It was high, squeaky. She knew that voice, though she couldn’t quite place it. She tried to lift her head. It lolled to the side, clusters of hair stuck stiff across her face. Where was she?

  “Don’t bother. You ain’t going anywhere. I gave you a shot of flunitrazepam. I think that’s how you say it. That’s a fancy European name for roofies. They call it Darkene over there. Boss gets the stuff imported. In an alcohol solution, through a syringe, that junk is way powerful. You won’t remember shit.”

  Her mind was swimming. The room was swaying, like she was on a ship. And why were her clothes damp? Was she at sea? On a boat? Maybe it was a sailboat, cruising the Hudson Bay.

  “That’s why it’s a date rape drug, you know. Lots of drugs will make someone helpless. Combined with alcohol, this one also makes you forget. Odorless, tasteless. The perfect way to turn a glass of wine into a serious social lubricant.”

  The ceiling was squirming above her, the stucco swirling like liquid. What had she just been thinking? Something about shooting someone on a boat?

  “Of course, I have little use for such stuff anymore.”

  That voice. She knew that voice. Kind of sweet, almost feminine. A cartoon voice. Mickey Mouse. Why was Mickey sitting on her bed?

  “Do you know what you people did to me?”

  Wait, this wasn’t Mickey Mouse. She’d just imagined killing this person. Killing him, then getting out of there. He couldn’t be Mickey Mouse. She wouldn’t kill Mickey. M—I—C . . . K—E—Y . . .

  “I had to take all kinds of testosterone just to get it up, that stupid drug treatment you all put me on. Doc says I overdid it, my body couldn’t take the combination. Really fucked me up. Now I have to take all kinds of shit just to keep from growing tits and having my balls suck up into my crotch. Forget about getting wood. You fucking cops, you’re somethin’ else.”

  That’s right, she was a cop. Of course. How silly of her. She had a gun, somewhere. Where was it again? All she had to do was find it. She wasn’t sure why, but she knew she needed to. Maybe she would have to shoot someone. Maybe kill Mickey, after all. If he wasn’t going to let her off this boat.

  “Funny thing is, I still like girls. Still feel that tingly, eager feeling at the thoug
ht of a woman’s body. I just have to get my kicks other ways now. Have to feed that need.”

  Wright felt the bed jiggle. She saw the blurry shape of a man standing next to it, one knee on the mattress. He was taking off his shirt. Wow. Mickey was one big mouse.

  “I had pneumatic tubes installed. Little pumps stuck in my scrotum. Not quite the same as the real rex, can’t get a nut or anything. But there’s still that feeling of penetration, you know? That hard, slamming action. Gets my juices flowing for the other stuff.”

  Penetration. Oh, yes, she remembered that feeling. It had been fantastic. So spontaneous. So wickedly naughty. So wonderful. She hardly knew him, but the way he played her body. Hatcher, Hatcher, Hatcher. God, what a man.

  “So what do you say, Lady Copper . . . Want to have some fun?”

  Fun. Hmmm. What a fun word, fun. Fun sounded fun. But something felt weird. Wasn’t she just thinking about shooting this guy? No, it must have been someone else. She’d never hurt Hatcher. Even if he did sound like Mickey Mouse.

  THE TUNNEL SEEMED TO END AT THE LAST LIGHT, A WALL of blackness so thick it looked tangible. But Soliya walked up to it with a slight lean, as if she intended to keep going. The boyish figure, still glowing and undulating, stood nearby, looking anxious and confused.

  “He is fading, if you haven’t noticed,” Soliya said. “We need to keep moving. He’ll be gone sooner if we stay this far away.”

  “You still haven’t explained anything,” Hatcher said.

  “Come,” she said.

  Hatcher lost sight of her as she disappeared into the dense shadow. The boy followed, vanishing right after her, his glow snuffed out instantly. Hatcher paused at the threshold. The darkness that cloaked their way seemed somehow unnatural, liquid, like a pool of ink viewed from above.

  He stuck his hand out, pierced the plane of it. Nothing.

  Behind him, he heard a snarling grunt, harsh and low. Not very far away. A message, telling him to proceed. He let out a heavy breath and stepped forward.

  A dank, fetid smell molested his nostrils. It took a moment for his eyes to adjust—a few extra seconds, given how they were watering—but he quickly sensed space around him. It was a cavern, vast and echoing. He blinked, testing his vision. It wasn’t dark in the way the tunnel had been. There was a red incandescence gently illuminating his new surroundings, barely enough to see by. It seemed to cancel out the glow from Garrett’s host, whom Hatcher could make out a few yards ahead.

  As his eyesight grew more accustomed, he became aware of subtle movement. He glanced around. It wasn’t easy to see at first, but if he focused on nothing in particular, it was hard not to notice. The distant walls of the cavern rippled and writhed.

  Not the walls, he realized. Things on the walls. He looked back over his shoulder to the walls a few feet behind him, on either side of the opening he had passed through. Movement there, too, and these he could make out more clearly. They were like the creatures he encountered before, but even less humanlike. From what Hatcher could see, they looked like giant bats with small wings. They clung to the rocky sides of the cavern by the dozens. Hundreds, maybe. Bees in a hive.

  “They are Sedim,” Soliya said. She had stopped, blading her body to him and beckoning him to keep moving.

  Hatcher said nothing.

  “These are all juveniles. They lose their wings when they reach adulthood. They can’t fly. But it does seem to allow them to leap from great heights.”

  The details were hard to make out, but Hatcher realized the floor of the cavern near the walls was littered with bones. Crescent-shaped ribs curving up from the ground, skulls piled like cannonballs. “That’s a whole lot of demon chow for a herd like this. Purina must love you.”

  “Do you always try to mask your observations with wit? You’re wondering how they are fed. An understandable question. They practically live on rats and table scraps. And, as you can see, each other, occasionally.”

  Hatcher’s gaze wandered over the dark shapes. He imagined scores of eyes peering back at him. “Not to mention anyone who somehow manages to get this far without an escort.”

  “You catch on quickly,” Soliya said, turning and starting to walk, but at a much slower pace, waiting for him to catch up. “Sometimes.”

  “I have my moments.”

  “Speaking of which, how did you know?”

  “Know what?”

  “That the Sedim couldn’t really read minds? Of the people who’ve actually encountered them, you’re quite possibly the first. They’re usually quite convincing.”

  “Lucky guess.”

  “Skeptics like you don’t believe in luck, Mr. Hatcher.”

  You’re wrong about that, he thought. Hatcher had seen all manner of luck in his life, knew it played as much of a role in living or dying as anything else. More so, even. Dumb luck, blind luck, bad luck. He just didn’t believe you could ever count on it. It was only something you could spot after the fact.

  “The eyes,” he said. “I knew there had to be a reason they reacted to eye contact. I decided it was because they didn’t want you watching them, watching you.”

  She started walking at a normal pace again. “Where were you planning to run? Or had you not thought things through that far?”

  “That lighting near the elevator was way too bright. There had to be a reason. I was betting it was a firewall to keep the whatever-you-call-them from getting to the surface. The eyes again. It must hurt them.”

  “You’ve got some wits about you, Mr. Hatcher. I’ll grant you that.”

  “Not enough to figure you out what the hell you are. What the hell any of you are.”

  She stopped walking. Reaching a demure hand toward his head, she rubbed her fingers over the side of his scalp, through his short hair. Her scent invaded his nostrils like a conquering horde. For a moment, he thought he was going to ejaculate in his pants.

  “We’re just women, Mr. Hatcher. Women who happen to be physically perfect in every way. Can’t you tell a woman’s touch?”

  Hatcher took hold of her wrist and gently lowered her hand from his head. “Physically perfect?”

  Soliya nodded. “Lacking in any cellular or genetic defects, precisely proportioned. Immune to all disease. Virtually impossible to kill.”

  “How is that possible?”

  “You might call it hybrid vigor.”

  “What sort of hybrid?”

  She started moving again, gestured for him to follow. “What do you know about demons, Mr. Hatcher?”

  “I have a feeling less than I’m about to.”

  “Demons and angels are the same creatures, did you know that? Demons are merely the fallen ones, transformed—disfigured, some would say—by their separation from Heaven. They are brilliant, beautiful, dark, complex beings. Sworn enemies of mankind.”

  “I’m sure they’re a hit wherever you take them.”

  “Ah, but there’s the thing. They’re relegated to Hell. Summoning a demon is very difficult. Spontaneous ascent is even more rare. A demon cannot remain corporeal for very long.”

  “You know what they say about fish and visitors.”

  “But as bitter rivals of Heaven,” Soliya continued, ignoring him, “demons strive to wreak havoc among that most beloved creature of Creation: people.”

  “I’m going to guess this where you come in.”

  “In a manner of speaking. You may not know this, but demons and angels are capable of mating with humans. One in ten of the offspring are perfect human specimens in every way but one. They have no soul.”

  “Perfect human specimens. In other words, Carnates?”

  “Yes.”

  “What about the other nine?”

  She waved a hand, vaguely indicating the shadowy forms occupying the walls. “They are creatures like the ones you encountered earlier. Magnificent in their own way, but hardly humanlike.”

  “You’re telling me you, and these other women . . . you’re the product of this kind of crossbreeding
?”

  “Yes.”

  “So, you’re basically demons. All of you.”

  “No. The hybrid offspring of demons. Transcendent. Like the ultimate slap in God’s face. Human in every way. Perfect in every way.”

  “Except for the soul.”

  She nodded. “Except for the soul.”

  “In that case, what happens when you die?”

  “We cease to exist. Fortunately for us, our biological perfection allows us to live for an average of seven generations.”

  “That’s a lot of twenty-ninth birthdays.”

  “Not so many, when compared to the eternity afforded the rest of humanity. In the afterlife.”

  Hatcher let his gaze slide over her face, took in the flawless curves of her body. “What if I don’t believe in demons, or angels, or Heaven, or Hell, or the immortality of the soul?”

  “Yes, of course, the man too clever to believe in anything. Only a fool quarrels with a fact, Mr. Hatcher. But whether you believe or not has no bearing on the reality of their existence. This is not a philosophy class.”

  “As terribly intriguing as this is, I’m more inclined to think one of us is insane,” Hatcher said.

  “Clinging to skepticism is rather juvenile, under the circumstances. Face the evidence, Mr. Hatcher. Your dead brother’s soul is present a few feet away, you’ve felt the teeth and claws of creatures that are the offspring of demons tear at your flesh. There is nothing rational about refusing to accept as true what you experience firsthand.”

  He had to admit she had a point. This had gone way beyond the possibility of an elaborate ruse. Still, just because he’d witnessed some rather bizarre and inexplicable things, it didn’t mean everything he was being told was true. In fact, he thought it made the questioning of it all even more important.

  The path they were following seemed to end, the red glow giving way to another black wall. Garrett, or what was supposed to be him, walked at an anxious pace, heading into the darkness without looking back. Soliya appeared about to follow, then stopped and turned. At the periphery of the shadow, throngs of clinging creatures vied for position, dim forms nudging and nipping at each other, like giant wall rats.