Highway To Hell

by Alex Laybourne

  There was an obvious current beneath him; Graham could feel the gore pulling at him, and so he decided to swim with it. He began to paddle, his body covered in rapidly congealing blood. Thick clots tried to stick his eyelids together. His nose was blocked with blacked lumps of jelly, and he had swallowed more than he cared to think about; his mouth tasted as though he had bitten down a handful of old pennies.

  Graham had no idea how long he swam: all he knew was that he was tired. Not just I’ve had a long day at work tired, but worn out, falling apart tired, exhausted to the point where further movement was not just hard but impossible.

  When he first arrived in the world, it had been silent. Even the blood ocean with its pink froth capped waves had made no sound. Yet now, as he swam heading towards what he hoped would be the shore, Graham realized that the silence was being replaced by an eerie groaning, the same sound one hears in old houses or in pipes long since due a service. It was carried on the air, it travelled through the ocean, it fell from the sky, an all-encompassing cry. It was that of tortured souls screaming, cries of lust, sin and hatred all boiled together.

  He stopped swimming, and Graham noticed that every part of him that was below the surface was completely numb. It had been a warm, bordering on burning sensation at first, but now all feeling had gone. He was tired, exhausted, and there was part of him that wanted to be taken by the sea, to simply sink away again to the bottom of the bloody ocean and drown in the fluid of life. It all seemed rather poetic to him. Yet just as he made the decision to let his body go, the water began to ripple around him. It spread in circles as if a helicopter was moving into position to pluck him from the sea. A bright light appeared, bathing Graham in a pure brilliance; a searchlight, or so his natural inclination and rational mind suggested. Out of nowhere, a pair of hands grasped him, not by the feet this time, but by the shoulder. The grip was powerful and the nails felt like sharp talons as they dug into Graham’s flesh, not breaking the skin but pinching to the point of penetration. Graham felt himself begin to rise above the waves. He was plucked effortlessly from the ocean. It looked as if he had been bathing in a barrel of beetroot for weeks. He rose higher and higher, not moving in any direction other than along the vertical. Graham looked down and saw for the first time how vast it all was. The ocean stretched out in all directions, and squint as he might, there was not even the faintest trace of land on the horizon.

  Graham could make out small islands dotted around, and he could see people, souls like himself, swimming, some against the tide, some with it, all heading towards what they hoped to be salvation. They rose another few feet and Graham realized that they weren’t islands, but rather giant floating clots that drifted on the surface of the water. Graham could see people clinging to them. He could feel their anguish and hear their groans as they realized that salvation didn’t exist, not anymore. He saw sprays of pink foam shooting high into the air just before large grey beasts leapt from beneath the surface, consuming entire groups of people, even entire ‘islands’ inside their cavernous mouths. Some had fins, and others looked like giant frog/whale hybrids. Some had several heads and some to Graham’s shock seemed to have no heads at all. One end simply opened into a giant mouth like an amphibious worm.

  There was something else. Graham noticed it just at the end, just as they reached a height where things all became indistinguishable: beneath the surface, when the ocean was flat and the waves staved off, he could see them, hundreds, thousands, no, probably hundreds of millions of faces staring up through the red liquid. Their arms were outstretched as they grasped upwards, reaching not for the surface but for more bodies, for new arrivals. They were waiting to take a hold and pull them down. To sink them to the Hemoglobic Ocean floor, and in turn lift themselves slightly higher, back to the surface, to their second chance. They were the faces of those who, like Graham, simply gave up and sank. They didn’t die, but were made to wait, to gather those that joined their hopeless cause and climb back up and restart their epic journey in the hope of finding… anything.

  “What the hell is this?” Graham asked, not realizing he was speaking aloud, his consciousness drifting away from him.

  “One of the Blood Seas, pools that are filled with the remains of those skinned in the Chamber of Blood,” a patient sounding voice answered him. There was no malice in it, no hidden scheming lust for suffering, but simply an honest answer to an honest yet terrifying question.

  With the answer still filtering through his mind, Graham felt everything slip away from him. All his fears and thoughts wiped out of his mind, replaced by a feeling much akin to sleep, and when it hit, Graham welcomed it with open arms.

  ~

  PART II

  A GREAT HALL IN A DYING WORLD

  ~

  CHAPTER 3

  I

  Helen’s eyes sprung open, panicked. She sat bolt upright; the sensation of being unrestrained scared her at first. After so many years of being bound and immobile the sudden range of motion her body was given was too much for her and she collapsed back down onto the hard floor.

  Helen let out a long, slow breath, wincing in anticipation of the pain that she had learned accompanied such sudden movements. Behind her closed eyes she could see Luther’s face, a smirk spread across it, his eyes glowing with orange fire, no doubt merely a trick of her mind, a dream. Yet she felt his hot, acrid breath blow against her face as his mouth opened up into a laugh; a sneering, howling laugh that revealed rows of shark teeth. Behind him fire spurted into the air, flames fanned outwards, licking Luther’s colorless skin, leaving red tattoos patterned over his flesh. She saw hazy images of shadowy skulls, and bony limbs twisted and danced within the flickering background inferno – and so, with no other option…

  Helen opened her eyes.

  The initial burst of panic replaced by a nervous caution; she fully expected the freedom to have been dream, and didn’t even entertain the notion that she had gotten away. Helen was certain that she was still hung upside-down in the forest, or maybe that was over and she was above a canyon or gorge. She could see the blood red river running far below her; it looked like nothing more than a small vein running through the body of barren land that stretched out in all directions as far as her inverted eyes could see. But no, the world was not dull and hopeless, yet nor was it bright. The world was pastel. The colors were there but faded, yet felt so real, it was unmistakable. Helen had escaped and woken up in some vintage world, a water-washed pastel kingdom where nothing could be too bright or vivid.

  Despite what appeared at first glance to be safe surroundings, Helen could still feel the insects crawling over her skin, and with a frantic flail of arms she pulled off her shirt. Helen wasn’t sure where the shirt had come from, but she was glad for it, as she wasn’t sure she wanted to see the damage it covered. Her skin was smooth, unblemished. Even the scar from where she had had her appendix removed when she was sixteen was gone. Helen ran her hands over her body, fingers trembling in near disbelief. She refused to believe what her eyes showed her; she needed to feel it for herself. She patted herself down, and only once she was satisfied that her body was her own and that no bugs were preparing to erupt from her chest in a reenactment of the alien birthing scene did she put her shirt back on.

  Getting to her feet wasn’t as difficult as she had envisioned. Keeping her balance, however, that took some practice. Holding out her hands like a blind woman, Helen supported herself against the grey wall that she had been slumped up against when she woke. It took a few moments for her balance to return but when it did it was instant, with nothing worse than a slight popping sensation in her ears, like when adjusting to the pressurization in an aircraft cabin. The wall was solid and warm to her touch, its surface was rough against her skin, which seemed overly sensitive. The walls looked smooth, but felt like raw brick, scratchy and unrefined. It was dusty, and when she removed her hands Helen saw it had once been a yellow color. No sooner had she removed her hand, did the strange, dust-like coati
ng – which she would notice, at a later date, once having left the confines of the room, seemed to affect everything in the town – returned, covering her palm print like steam on a bathroom mirror.

  There was a large window to her left. The curtains were tied back neatly, but the glass they were hung to cover was so filthy that it offered up no view of the world beyond the walls. With first impressions being the powerful tool that they are, Helen thought that it was merely misty out. Reluctantly, Helen pushed herself away from the wall, giving herself complete control of her body. Once she was stable, Helen walked over the window, wiping it with her fist, creating a small porthole through which she could see. While Helen could not make out any distinguishing features or individual landmarks because of the ‘mist’ as she thought of it, it was obvious that she was in some sort of town. From the shadowy look of the buildings opposite, Helen had only one thought occupy her mind, and it was too absurd to even speak aloud.

  (The Wild West)

  “Where the hell... Where am I?” She caught her words without realizing it. The stupidity of the statement occurred to her, however, and when thinking about it after the fact she realized it was a silly saying when one thought about it.

  “I hoped you could tell me,” a deep, somewhat groggy sounding voice said from behind her.

  Helen let out a startled scream as she turned around and saw the shadowy figure of a semi-naked man standing in the far corner of what she now saw was a large bedroom; a hotel room. The random scenic paintings placed on the wall above the bed, the rather surreal oil painting in the far left hand corner of the room, a small alcove where there should have been a desk or wall mounted trouser press. The floor was carpeted with cheap nylon and the bed decked with an ever outdated floral bed spread. In fact, the only thing that looked out of place was the small clapped-out cupboard, which looked as if it would fall apart at the slightest of touches. The cupboard was immediately to the left of the door upon entering, yet it stood at least six inches away from the wall, with no obvious obstruction having caused its unusual placement.

  “W-wh-who are you?”

  Luther?

  Helen stuttered, her voice a shocked whisper. The small amount of power she did put into her words seemed to be absorbed by the air long before they reached the stranger’s ears. She moved backwards as she spoke, reaching behind her for support of some kind, her legs losing the strength they had just found.

  “What do you say you tell me your name first and we’ll take it from there? Who are you, how did you just appear out of thin air, and what the fuck is going on here?” Marcus demanded, his tone serious, straight to the point and downright terrifying, or so the scared and disoriented Helen thought.

  “I… I don’t know, I mean… I was, um… I think I died, but then I thought it was a dream. Him. Oh God, I just don’t know.” Helen couldn’t take it any longer and she burst into tears. She collapsed onto her haunches and buried her face in her hands, her hair doing its best to hide it all as she sobbed.

  Marcus moved across the room and crouched down next to the woman. It felt strange to touch another human being, and he wasn’t surprised to see his hand shake as he reached out to her. Marcus laid his hand on the sobbing lady’s shoulder. He felt her shrink back from his touch and recoiled himself.

  “Hey, I’m sorry. I guess we seem to be on the same side here. I… um, I died also,” he said, admitting it to himself and speaking it out loud for the first time. “You just put the wind up me with your sudden appearance.” Marcus continued, “Come on, why don’t we stand you up and see if you don’t feel better?” Marcus slipped his hand under her arm and applied a gentle pressure that helped guide Helen to her feet. “You don’t happen to have a key, do you? I had kind of hoped we could get out of this godforsaken hotel. It doesn’t feel right here.” Marcus managed a half smile. He meant what he said but didn’t want to scare the girl; she looked as though she had been through enough.

  “Wh-what do you mean, I j-ju..-just appeared?” Helen asked, stuttering as she always did when nervous.

  Or scared.

  She knew that the conversation had progressed from the stranger’s opening statement but she didn’t care. It had stuck with her and she needed to know what he meant.

  Marcus, who had turned to stare out the window – which had held him captive since he had awoken – looked at her over his shoulder. “Well, that’s just it. One minute I was here alone, the next there was a strange grating noise and there you were.” Marcus looked Helen right in the eye as he spoke. It was enough to convince Helen that he spoke the truth.

  “I don’t understand, I don’t remember what... I was just at work and then, then I was... in Hell, with him and it was so long, and… and, and now...” Helen’s words faltered as a fresh wave of warm salty tears fell from her eyes.

  “You were in Hell,” Marcus finished for her, jumping on her words. “You and I both. I was just walking back to the car ready to finish my shift when trouble starts, just out of nowhere. This guy stabs me and boom, out went my lights. Next thing I know, I’ve got some strange creature showing me what I did wrong and sending me to some Chamber, and I’ll tell you one thing: I saw that place, and I don’t plan on going back.” Marcus exhaled a long, deep breath. Under normal circumstances he wasn’t one to run his mouth, but after being alone for so long it felt good to get it all said in front of someone else.

  Helen tried to smile – it was the only gesture she could think of – as she steadied herself on her feet. She stood steady and then walked over to the man. He was big, broad and in good shape. Three things which, when combined, made Helen feel safer than she had ever in her life.

  “Helen, Helen Attinson.” She offered Marcus her hand. He took it – enveloped it, more like – within his own gigantic fist. His grip was gentle, although Helen felt the power that lurked behind it and felt safer still. “I was stuck in the chamber for years, or at least it felt like years. I was tortured every day in ways that even now I can’t fully imagine.” She stopped talking; the memories that flooded back into her mind were too painful and the wounds too fresh. Every time she closed her eyes Luther was there, smiling at her, waiting.

  Marcus stared at her, his eyes wide. “Jesus –” he began, but Helen cut him off.

  “It wasn’t your fault.” She tried to smile, and felt the corners of her mouth twitch; it was the best she could do.

  “Marcus Fielding. You said you were there for years, in one of those oil cauldrons. I can’t what that must have been like. I was falling, these things flew towards me and then… then I woke up here. I have no idea how long ago that was; the time never changes. Never day, never night,” Marcus said, trying to fathom how the attractive young lady in front of him had earned her space in the oil.

  “Oil? What do you mean? I wasn’t in oil. I was… well, don’t want to talk about it.” Helen quieted down as she finished talking, her eyes scanning the ground. “No offence,” she added as an afterthought, not wanting to hurt Marcus’s feelings.

  Marcus didn’t push the subject; he knew that once somebody decided that they didn’t want to talk then there wasn’t anything that could be done to make them. Plus he knew well enough that she was on his side. There was a look in her eyes that just couldn’t be faked: sincerity.

  “So what is this place? Have you been outside yet?” Helen asked after the silence between them became too much for her to bear.

  “The door’s locked; there isn’t any way out of this room. I thought I would go insane before you arrived,” Marcus answered with all seriousness.

  Helen looked at him out of the corner of her eye. He was clearly in good shape; his body toned and showed signs that once it had been a muscular one. She also saw a wedding ring and the shadow left behind by a watch which was no longer there. “Well I guess we can go crazy together then.”

  What happen next surprised the both of them. They looked at each other, and laughed. Not a crazy laugh, but simply a good, old fashioned ‘my sides are st
itching’ laugh. Tears welled and rolled down cramp afflicted cheeks as every emotion they felt boiled over in a fit of the giggles.

  Once the laughter subsided and their breath had been re-caught the pair began their introductions again. The mood between them lightened; a friendship was instantly formed.

  *

  “Wow, I can’t believe you were a boxer. My dad used to love watching boxing – all sports actually, but boxing was his favorite,” Helen said. She sat cross-legged on the bed, listening intently to Marcus’s life story. Wondering at the same time how she could make her life sound half as interesting.

  “Yeah, they all claimed that I was the next big thing, but I got out of the game. I discovered that it had a dark side; a very dark side. I didn’t want to become a Sonny Liston, some puppet who winds up dead in a hotel room. So I left, retired before my time had even begun and joined the force,” Marcus continued. The entire time he spoke he held studied Helen. He couldn’t help it. She sat with her hands in her lap, and played nervously with her fingers, twisting them, rubbing them against their opposite number like Lady Macbeth. She was uncomfortable, not to mention shy. Marcus kept his story short, giving her the highlight reel rather than the blow by blow account.