Something is Out There

by Jeff DePew

  There were walkways and paths carved into the sides of the cavern by centuries of use, but they were not well maintained by any means, and the pushcart rattled and bounced as he pushed it along. Ancient torches were set into the walls, although they didn’t really provide any light. Just added to the smoky air.

  Pitch scowled, swatting a particularly determined wasp. The stinging insects didn’t bother Pitch. Their stingers couldn’t penetrate his thick, pebbly skin, so they basically left him alone. When one was foolish enough to try to sting him, more often than not Pitch grabbed it, squeezed its head, and ate it. A minor perquisite of his current job. Speaking of jobs, it was show time.

  “Hey, losers! I got your insect repellent! Get your insect repellant! Guaranteed relief!” Ragged heads turned. Hollowed eyes widened in anticipation and hope. Tattered, emaciated forms shuffled toward him, crowded around him, skeletal hands open and grasping.

  “Hold on, take your turn. There’s plenty for everyone!” Pitch said, rapidly handing out tubes labeled “Insect Repellent-Extra Strength.” In less than five minutes, he had given away his entire supply.

  “Sorry, all out. Get me next time.” The Shades drifted off, clumsily smearing the amber fluid on their exposed bodies. Others, further back, returned empty-handed to their spots along the rock walls. A scuffle broke out as three or four Shades fought over one bottle.

  Moans began to pick up. Swarms of insects were aggressively besieging the Shades who had taken the tubes. The ragged souls weakly swung their arms and swatted vainly at the insects, but it made no difference. One of them, completely covered with hornets and wasps, stumbled into the side of a cliff and fell over. Biting insects swarmed over it, and within seconds, there was nothing left but glistening bone.

  Pitch stood, arms akimbo, watching his handiwork. He had spent the better part of the morning squeezing out the actual insect repellant and refilling the tubes with honey.

  He felt no pleasure in this. Not like he used to. It was too easy. And they fell for it every time. He did it three times a day, every day. Not that there were “days” and “nights” down here. However, there was the time clock, and that was what mattered. The work cycle determined when they worked, when they ate, when they slept. And speaking of the time clock, he was almost off. In fact, Vlad, his replacement, was slowly making his way up the circular path. Pitch wheeled the cart back to the plastic bear-shaped honey bottles, which were magically refilling, as they did three times a day, and took off his leather apron.

  Pitch was short by human standards, about four feet tall and just as wide. He had no neck to speak of, had to turn his entire torso to look from side to side. His skin was dark orange and very pebbly and tough. His eyes were large, with vertical slits like a cat’s. His nose was broad over a large mouth full of short, sharp teeth. His arms were long and muscular and hung down past his knees, although his legs were short and bowlegged. He wore a soiled breechcloth made of some type of skin, lizard or human, he wasn’t sure. And he served his master faithfully.

  He finished wiping down the cart. He kicked a skull over the edge of the Circle. He watched it bounce off the rock walls and disappear into the darkness below. Below. That’s where all the action was. Not up here with these losers. Pitch ducked as the banner flew close to his head, followed by dozens of emaciated, insect-bitten poor souls chasing it in vain.

  “Watch it, you morons,” he growled, shoving one of the stragglers. The Shade was an old woman, and she weighed almost nothing. She staggered toward the edge of the rocky path that led around the edge of the Pit. She stood on the edge, her arms pin-wheeling for balance, mouth open in a silent scream. A heavy arm reached out, planted a meaty hand on her bony chest, and shoved. She went over the edge, tumbled in the swirling air, caught by the wind, and slammed into the side of the pit. Her battered, broken body fluttered downward.

  Vlad, a heavyset Level-Three demon, guffawed. He was wearing his usual outfit of mismatched chainmail and armor. Today he had on a metal Viking helmet with a ram's horn on either side of it. It was much too small, and Vlad had fashioned a chinstrap out of a length of tendon, which was tightly knotted beneath his protruding lower jaw.

  “That was a good one, eh, Pitch?” he said, gazing happily into the pit. “She spun at least three times before she hit the side. Normally the best I can get is two, maybe two and a half.”

  Pitch nodded beside him. “Yeah. Barnaby said he got a seven spinner once, but you know Barnaby.”

  “Full of shit,” agreed Vlad. “The secret is to aim for the middle of the Abyss. Avoid the sides as much as possible. Anyways, how was it today?”

  “How is it every day?” Pitch shrugged. “You know nothing ever changes.”

  “Is that so bad?” Vlad asked pulling two time cards from an uneven slot on the rock wall. He glanced at them and handed one to Pitch. Pitch slid his card in the time clock until there was an audible click. A puff of black smoke came from the top of the time clock. Pitch put his card back in the slot in the wall as Vlad clocked in.

  “I guess,” Pitch lied. Like many of the Legions in Hell, Vlad was content. He had a place and a purpose. He was a demon, a tormentor of lost souls. And that was enough for him. But Pitch felt something was missing. He was so close to Hell and could even see the flames at times, but was unable to get any closer. He was so far from the action down in the Pit. Barnaby, of course, said that he had met Satan twice, but as everyone knew, Barnaby was a liar. He wasn’t called Barnaby the Deceitful for nothing.

  Vlad sat on a wooden stool, emptying a bottle of insect repellant into a wide pool filled with murky water. Beside the pool was a handwritten, wooden sign stating “Drinking Water.” Several skeletons lay nearby. Vlad nodded out over the Abyss.

  “I know you’d rather be down there, but I like it up here. No pressure. They tell me when to get up, when to work, when to quit. It’s easy. And I get to mess with these jokers—oh no you don’t!” A Shade was reaching for one of the bottles. Vlad picked him up by the scruff of his neck, shook him, and slammed him into a huge boulder. His skull collapsed with a loud crunch. Bits of bone and brain splattered the rock. Vlad turned and flung him headlong into the Abyss. They watched him fall.

  “Two spinner,” Vlad remarked disappointedly, getting back to work.

  “You’d better be careful,” warned Pitch. “You’ve lost two already.” Loss Prevention allowed them to “...misplace, reallocate, destroy, or devour...” seven souls per shift. Pitch had never lost more than one. But did anyone recognize that? Of course not.

  Vlad shrugged. “What am I going to do? I’m a passionate guy. And it’s not like they’re losing anything.” He nodded, gesturing toward the unfortunate soul he had just thrown over the cliff. “That joker’ll be back by my next shift.”

  Pitch couldn’t think of a response to that. “Well, see you tomorrow.” He nodded as he headed down the path to his cave.

  “You too, buddy.” Vlad nodded. “And Pitch—”

  Pitch paused, turned back.

  “Relax, man. You’re too stressed out. Have some fun.” He showed his enormous teeth in an encouraging smile. A Shade had been sneaking toward him, saw that smile, and slowly backed away. Vlad scowled at him. “You’d better keep moving.”

  As Pitch slowly made his way around the circular, stone path, occasionally kicking a skull out of his way, he wondered why he couldn’t relax. Things weren’t so bad. He had a good job, a comfortable sleeping mat, and a few acquaintances and friends. It could be worse, he thought, watching as another Shade fell through the air. Pitch shook his head. Vlad loved his work.

  A dark shape soared up and snatched the unfortunate soul out of midair. A harpy. Her leathery bat wings flapped rapidly, holding her suspended in space as she tore at the Shade. Clawed hands pulled and twisted, and with a wet popping sound, she tore off an arm. She let go of the body, which continued its descent.

  “Hey. Pitch.” She nodded, her mouth full of blood and rotten meat. Her yellow eyes glinted in
the misty light.

  “Oh hi, Sybal.” Pitch waved. “What’s up?”

  She landed beside him, still tearing at the arm. “I’m passing the word. He’s doing Christmas again.”

  Sybal wiped her mouth with a feathered forearm and held out the bloodied limb out to Pitch.

  He shook his head at the offered arm. He had outgrown a taste for human flesh years ago.

  “Christmas already?” It was so hard to measure time down here. Most Demonkind were not even aware of the concept of time. Eternity was just... eternity. But ages ago Pitch had found a soiled copy of a 1952 Greenway Auto Parts calendar. It was full of scantily clad human females engaging in various recreational activities. He kept it in his hovel, beside his sleeping mat. He didn’t understand how months worked, but he liked to keep track of the seasons and holidays. When he got home, he would change the month to December.

  “I still don’t understand why, out of all the Surface holidays, he chose Christmas.” Pitch shook his head in bewilderment.

  “The way I hear it, the Big Guy likes to throw a bone to the unfortunate ones every once in a while. I guess that just because we’re in Hell, it doesn’t have to be “hell,” if you know what I’m saying.”

  “I guess.” Pitch shrugged. “But Christmas?”

  “It’s also a big ‘fuck you’ to Him.” She nodded upwards.

  He glanced up, then met her gaze. “So I suppose they’re doing the Secret Santa again?”

  “Yeah.” She sucked the flesh off the pinkie finger, looked over the arm one more time, grunted, and flung it over the edge. “I just signed up.” She glanced around, motioned at a female Shade struggling to fill a battered colander from a muddied water hole. “Hey, you! Come here!”

  The Shade bowed its shoulder and approached. Sybal reached out and grabbed her shroud, pulling her close. She used it to wipe her mouth and shoved the Shade away. “Get back to work!” The Shade put its head down and returned to its endless task. Sybal turned back to Pitch. “I gotta go. I’ll see you later.”

  Pitch held up a claw and watched her leap over the abyss, catch an updraft, and rocket up and away.

  ***

  The commissary was unusually loud and boisterous. The Christmas decorations and the excitement and uncertainty of the upcoming Secret Santa gift exchange had buoyed the spirits of the Demonkind. Garlands made of intestines stretched across the length of one wall. The upside-down crosses were turned right-side up. Volunteer imps wearing crimson Santa caps had been nailed to each one.

  Laughter and chatter rang throughout the cavern as Pitch approached the food line. He took a battered metal tray from the stack and slid it along the counter. A heavyset Shade wearing a loincloth and a stained chef’s hat spooned some type of brown sludge onto his tray. Pitch peered at it. He wasn’t sure what it was, but there was something wriggling in it, so it couldn’t be too bad. He looked over at the other choices of side dishes on the steam table.

  “What’s that?” he asked, indicating a red, mucus-like liquid in which an eyeball floated. The Shade looked at him vacantly. Pitch shook his head. “Forget it. Just give me some. With extra eyeballs.”

  Pitch glanced around for a familiar face. A burst of laughter caught his attention and he glanced over to the right. Of course. The SCS table. They always sat together, with their matching jackets: black with white sleeves along with the fiery-red badge emblazoned with “SCS.” The Soul Collection Squad.

  Occasionally Satan would leave the confines of Hell and travel Up Top. Often, while there, he would come to some type of “arrangement” with a human. Some wanted ultimate power; others asked for fortune, fame, knowledge. Always with the knowledge, Pitch thought. When would they learn? Too much knowledge is a curse.

  The Soul Collection Squad was a group of specially trained and selected demons who would travel up and arrive just as a human whose soul had been claimed by Satan was about to die. As it turned out, many humans who entered into contracts with Satan were not always willing to “come quietly” when it was their time. So Satan had assembled a group of enforcers whose job it was to make sure, when the humans’ contracts were up, they wound up in Hell.

  When a contract was due, the Collection Squad would travel up and surround the body, protecting it from Death, and yank out the soul. They never came willingly. Always kicking and screaming, pleading: “I didn’t mean it” “I’m sorry!” “Christ, please forgive me!” As if that ever helped. Soul in tow, the Squad would return to Hell and leave Death behind with his empty vessel. “Bastards!” he would reportedly shout, shaking a bony fist. But he wasn’t really mad. It was business. It was the way things were.

  In the Long Ago, Pitch had dreamed of being part of the Soul Collection Squad. That was before things went north and he was demoted. All he wanted to do now was maintain a low profile, do his job, and eventually try for a promotion. Another shout, followed by raucous laughter from the SCS table. Pitch sighed and found a seat across the room.

  Pitch was joined by Ogilvie, an enormous, flaming ifrit whom he had worked with before in Level Six. There were some other demons he recognized, but he didn’t know their names or duties. All anyone could talk about was the Secret Santa.

  In the past, Satan always participated. And he liked everyone else to as well. It was considered bad form not to. The actual gift exchange ceremony would take place in the main hall in Pandemonium, the greatest of Satan’s palaces. Satan towered over all on his immense throne, attended by his imps and concubines, as hundreds of demons and members of his inner circle watched and exchanged gifts. Satan commented and praised, or, in most cases, openly mocked and derided those whose gifts he considered less than worthy.

  And he always saved himself for last. The grand finale. If Satan picked your name, the gifts could be phenomenal. There was talk that he had once given a two-year pass Up Top, and another time he had presented Hitler, wearing nothing but a spiked collar, as a personal valet. If Satan drew your name, it could be existence changing.

  On the other hand, you definitely did not want to PICK Satan’s name. He was extremely critical of his gifts and often punitive if he did not like them. And he liked very few gifts. How could he? He had everything. There were stories about how he had tortured and even imprisoned givers of less-than-worthy gifts. Many demons swore away from the Secret Santa gift exchange just so they wouldn’t be the one to pull Satan’s name.

  Another downside to the whole gift exchange was that whoever picked your name would give you a terrible gift. Last Secret Santa, Vlad’s gift was supposed to be the thigh bone of Pope St. Fabian. At least that’s what the card had said. Instead, it had been the leg bone of a goat. A goat. It just wasn’t worth the aggravation.

  And then there was the choosing a gift for some demon you didn't even know. What were you supposed to get? True, this was one of the few occasions when demons were allowed to go Up Top to obtain a gift if they wished, but most just scrounged around or rummaged through their belongings or the trash piles and came up with something they didn’t want anymore. As far as Pitch was concerned, the only reason to enter the gift exchange was for the slight chance that Satan pulled your name. And what were the odds of that? So why bother?

  During lunch, a crowd had been growing just outside the entrance to the canteen. After eating, Pitch walked over and saw demons surrounding a Shade on his hands and knees, supporting a carved wooden crate labeled “Secret Santa.” A line of demons had formed, and he watched as they each approached the box, one at a time, wrote their name down (or made their mark, in the case of the Cyclopes) on a scrap of paper, fold it, and stick it in the slot at the top of the crate. Two enormous Djinn stood on either side of the crate, arms folded across massive chests, their burning eyes scanning the crowd.

  The crowd hushed. Pitch followed their gaze. A trio of striking Succubi strolled over, and the demons parted to let them pass. They wore sheer gowns, which, like their hair, flowed around them, even though there was no breeze. They seemed to move in slo
w motion as they approached the front of the line. Even the Djinn were eyeing them.

  The Succubi spoke quietly, heads together, and then each put a slip of paper in the slot. They glanced haughtily around at the staring throng. One of them caught Pitch’s gaze. She whispered to the other two, who looked him up and down with their beautiful, pitiless eyes, and laughed quietly as they strode away, hips swaying. A few of the others turned to look at Pitch curiously. One of the SCS guys, a huge Minotaur, elbowed another and stifled his laughter.

  Pitch scowled. Who the Heaven were they to laugh at him? He wasn’t good enough to enter the Secret Santa? Fine. He strode up to the crate, snatched a piece of paper, scrawled his name, folded it, and shoved it in the slot. Done. He took three steps away and paused. What have I done?

  ***

  A pop! woke Pitch up. A small scroll hung suspended in the air beside him. He mumbled something and rolled over. The scroll floated over him. Pitch tried to go back to sleep. Something nudged his cheek. He brushed it away. Nudge. Nudge. He opened his eyes and batted the scroll away. It zipped out of reach and then came back to rest in front of him. Pitch sighed, sat up, and snatched the scroll. He untied the rough twine and unrolled it. A small, shiny paper square fell out and he picked it up. A twelve-hour Surface Pass. For getting a gift.

  He tore open the scroll and scanned it up and down.

  “Congratulations, you have decided to participate in the Secret Santa Gift Exchange. You will be giving a gift to...”

  Pitch closed his eyes. He opened them again and looked at the scroll. Nope. Still there.

  You will be buying a gift for SATAN.

  Pitch stared at the scroll. He put it down, stood up, and walked to the opening of his hovel. He was having trouble breathing. He went back to his pallet and sat down and picked up the scroll.