by C. G Harris
“I was sent to bring you alive. They said nothing about uninjured.”
“Alright, alright,” I held out my hands and squinted my eyes shut. “Turn the A/C back on. I was kidding. I kid when I get nervous. It’s how I cope.”
“You must be nervous a great deal of the time.”
I looked up at the Hellion, trying to read his face, but he never cracked so much as a grin. “A demon with jokes, now I’ve seen everything.” My comedic companion rolled the knob again, and the temperature made a return trip from the surface of the sun.
“So, seriously, are you going to tell me what this is all about? This isn’t about Celia? I swear I didn’t know she had a twin sister.”
My eyes were glued to the Hellion and his little shield gadget, so when he stopped and opened the door to a beat-up VW Bug, he caught me by surprise. Most of the car’s top, along with the two front seats, had been removed, allowing the huge demon to sit in the back and drive with his head and horns sticking out the roof. The body appeared to be intact, but saying the car had an abundance of patina would be an understatement. The chrome bumpers seemed to be the only pristine part of the car.
I stood on the driver’s side and gawked at the rusted monstrosity.
“1955 Oval Window VW Bug,” The Hellion exclaimed. “The only true classic of the twentieth century.” He started the car and black smoke emanated from the exhaust pipe, the hood vents, the undercarriage, the tail lights—pretty much everywhere.
“Is this thing safe?” I asked. “And why didn’t the storm destroy your car?”
The Hellion rummaged around the passenger side floor for a moment and came up with a seat belt. He tossed it to me and said, “If it will make you feel better, you can put this on. I wouldn’t leave a prize like this unprotected. This vehicle has its own shield generator. Now get in before I turn the A/C off again.”
I carried the seatbelt around to the passenger side of the car and got in. “All the demons they could have sent, and I got Jay Leno.”
The old Bug revved up and pulled away, sounding like a three-quarter ton truck slogging through the La Brea Tar Pits. A veritable fog of black exhaust plumed out behind us. I looked over at my horned chauffeur. The barest hint of a smile touched his lips as the wind parted his snowy white hair.
We raced through the narrow streets at breakneck speeds. The Woebegone were clear, thanks to the firestorm, so there was no need to worry about the usual crowds and wandering pedestrians. Molten rain, wind, and gravel-sized brimstone still streaked out of the rolling fire clouds above, but the storm had slowed. My companion’s little device made short work of everything, allowing us to fly through the dwindling inferno like a Teflon-coated snowball.
Shanty high-rises had collapsed into heaps of steel and mortar. The Gnashing Fields would be overflowing tonight. It would take time for the Woebegone to return and rebuild, but that’s what we did. Rebuilding was all we could to do. We built hope, watched hope be destroyed, died, suffered, got reborn and started over. Afterlife in The Nine.
A few more erratic turns, and we arrived at a high-rise complex I had hoped to never see. All mirrored glass and rusted steel, the building stood as six separate structures, ringed to face one another and connected with a bridge at every sixth floor. The first building stood at six stories, and every building after that stood six stories taller, giving the whole structure an ascending, or descending appearance, depending on your perspective.
My escort pulled up to the front of the tallest building and yanked the emergency brake. “Go to the top floor and tell the receptionist who you are. They are expecting you.”
“You’re not going to walk me up? How do you know I won’t run?”
This time, the Hellion did smile. The sight terrified me. He hadn’t seen a dentist in at least a century.
“Running would be—unwise.”
I stepped out of the car, and the Bug tore away before I could answer—or close the door. Must be late to pick up his next victim. I glanced up at the sky, and to my astonishment the rolling black clouds parted over the structure as if it were an island in a stream, leaving the building untouched by the storm. I shook my head and considered running anyway, but the Hellion’s fetid smile stuck in my head. Running would be unwise. Something told me he was right. I had a feeling the Judas Agency would find me no matter where I ran. I had become a goldfish in a bowl, and the Judas cat stared in, ready for a snack. There was no other choice. I had to go in and straighten out whatever misunderstanding had gotten me into this mess. The junior agent assigned to my case better have a good sense of humor—better than my ghost-face chauffeur, at least.
My feet required more persuasion than my brain, but they shuffled forward several moments later, and I made my way inside. The elevator to the top floor oozed more posh and luxury than anything found on earth with the Topside crowds. I wondered why the Hellion allowed me to enter the place on my own. Criminals did not head into prison through the grand ballroom. They came in through the back door, with guards, handcuffs, and the occasional nightstick-shaped contusion.
The elevator dinged, and the doors opened, revealing an office area full of brass, dark wood, and marble. The floor tiles spelled out Judas Agency, in flourished intricate detail, and led to a pair of tall, double glass doors several yards away.
I crossed the entry and made my way through the doors to the desk, where a Woebegone woman wearing a dark dress and glasses sat waiting. She peered up at me, squinting a pair of wary brown eyes.
“I’m Gabriel Gantry. I think I have an appointment.” I did my best to come off as confident, or at least not like a puddle of quivering Jell-O. My trembling legs did not cooperate.
The Woebegone woman picked up a phone and said a few words I couldn’t hear, then she hung up. “Mr. Iscariot is waiting for you. You may go in.
Chapter Five
“I’m sorry,” I said with a nervous laugh. “You said I am seeing who?”
“Mr. Iscariot. I suggest you do not keep him waiting.”
I held out a hand to interrupt her. It shook like an epileptic flounder, so I jerked my arm back to my side. “Is there more than one Mr. Iscariot? Like John or Bob?” My voice went up about three octaves, and the lower half of my body went full on wiggling toddler, ready to make a graceless sprint toward the elevator.
“Geez, I hope there’s not more than one of them,” she whispered. “One’s about all I can handle. Do you know how many times he’s sent me back to the Gnashing Fields?”
I stopped breathing.
“I’m kidding about the Gnashing Fields. He likes me.” She looked me up and down for a second. “I would get in there if I were you, though.”
Then, as if she read my mind, I heard an audible clunk come from the elevator doors.
“Just so you’re aware, that was the sound of a timed lock. It helps to deter a quick exit. Mr. Iscariot’s name has an … effect on some people.” She wrinkled her nose as if she were sharing some dirty bit of gossip that had nothing to do with me.
I nodded like a clueless zombie and stared at the huge double doors to the left of the receptionist’s desk. Intricate scenes were carved into the dark wood, starting at the top with a depiction of the Last Supper and what appeared to be the betrayal of Christ, then a gruesome suicide. After that, the scenes degraded into every sort of torture and torment imaginable. A graphic biography to remind all ye who enter here, this place meant business.
I knocked so softly I’m not sure my knuckles even touched the wood. On the third timid tap, both doors swung wide with an ominous groan.
“Come in, Mr. Gantry.” The voice came from inside and to the right of the open doors.
I glanced down at my pants to make sure I hadn’t wet myself, then I walked inside.
Judas Iscariot’s cavernous office did not disappoint any more than his door had. The huge room practically radiated dark wood and blood red marble. The walls were a museum quality display of masterful paintings depicting graphic views of
the plague, Jewish concentration camps, great famines, and every sort of war fought with sticks, swords, or suicide bombers. Scattered among the horror show, glass cases held creative tools, torture devices, and statues depicting savage atrocities that almost defied imagination. The whole scene made me want to bolt out the door and try my luck with the elevator—or perhaps an open window.
Judas sat at the far end of the cavernous office behind his desk, another acre of rare dark wood. He wore the piece as one more accessory to his power and intimidation. I forced my feet to move toward him as he stared me down with dark eyes.
Behind him stood two Hellions. One I recognized. The red-eyed albino giant who had brought me here. I hadn’t rushed up after he had dropped me off, but he must have taken the back-door Bat-Elevator to beat me to Judas’s office.
The other I did not know, but she intimidated me more than the Albino. She crouched like a raptor atop a platform in her corner of the room, looking ready to pounce. Her black leathery wings had spikes along the ridges, and her thick, frayed hair shot out like a dark mane cut off at her shoulders. The tight black leather armor she wore revealed more skin than it covered. The outfit served no function, at least not for a fight, but somehow, I doubted she needed it. The loose blindfold over her eyes disturbed me most of all. As if she had to be sightless in order to remain under control. Despite the blindfold, she tracked my every move with a very disheartening grin.
“Thank you for coming,” Judas said. “My associate, Procel, said you came quietly. Not many do.”
“I can’t imagine why. This is such a nice place. Maybe a little dark, but nothing a few lamps couldn’t fix. Have you ever considered skylights?”
The Hellion on the perch lost her grin and leaned forward. I leaned back and lost a little of the bladder control I had worried about earlier.
Judas held up a hand to stop her from moving. “Mastema and Procel are my most trusted and faithful associates. Neither will abide a flippant attitude.”
I nodded, taking a step back to regain my balance. For the moment, my body wouldn’t be persuaded to lean forward again.
Judas stood and orbited his desk to approach me. He had long brown hair, an unkempt beard and angular features. His suit was impeccably tailored, black silk piled upon more black silk. He eyed me up and down as he circled, sizing me up like a used car.
“I’ve been watching you, Gabe,” Judas said. “Your friends call you Gabe?”
I nodded again.
He smiled and nodded as well. “I hope we can be friends, Gabe. I want to make you a proposition. Not many can survive as long as you have without being recycled through the Gnashing Fields. You manage to run a successful black-market business. I understand you have amassed quite a stockpile.”
This time I nodded in furious little jerks. “If there’s something I can get for you ... Anything at all, let me know.”
Judas laughed. “I am not interested in the items you keep in that husk of a school bus.”
I managed to control most of my shock, but my eyebrows went up enough for Judas to pick up on.
“I am aware of your little enterprise and how you work. The Woebegone come to you with secrets. Those learned by accident or secrets you send them out to obtain. In return, you provide the goods stockpiled in your little store. The secrets go to low level Hellions possessing enough power to travel to the surface and steal your trinkets as payment for the information. Hellions who may need leverage against a competitor or a jilted lover looking for revenge. A nice operation, but what benefits do you receive?”
“Nothing, I swear,” I stammered. “Sometimes I eat a Twinkie or read a book before I give it out, but that’s all.”
Judas smiled and nodded. “Admirable, but I think a talent like yours should be rewarded, don’t you?”
For the first time I found myself a little confused. I thought I had bought a one-way ticket to a torture tunnel, but had Judas Iscariot just offered me, what—a job?
“I need people like you on my staff. Those skilled at gathering secrets and manipulating the Woebegone. If you can handle them, manipulating people Topside should be easy.”
He paused a moment to allow his words to sink in.
“You want me to work as a Topside agent?” My astonishment won out, and my eyebrows broke loose and tried to crawl up my forehead.
“Look around you, the things you see are always the end result of careful planning and manipulation. People such as yourself can bring such harm and suffering to the world. Hitler, Stalin, Hussein; all pawns to my agents. Whispers and secrets are more powerful than any bomb, gun, or sword. That sort of power can’t be manufactured; you must be born with the talent. You possess that talent, Gabe.”
I did not find myself at a loss for words often, but this was one of those times. The most influential betrayer in history just told me I had the talent to sway nations. The fact that he wanted me to sway them into killing one another made me feel sick.
“You should be aware that a position like this isn’t like your black-market operation in Scrapyard City. With it, you will earn all the perks an agent of the Judas Agency deserves. In addition to the protection of the Agency itself, you will be allowed full access to our stores and armory. You will be provided a place to live, a clothing stipend, and enjoy about every indulgence you ever savored on earth. I’ll bet you were you a lady’s man back in the day, weren’t you, Gabe?”
Mastema regained her grin and let out a little growl that made me squirm. Not in a good way, more like an earthworm under the knife of a junior high science student sort of squirm.
“Best of all,” Judas touched my arm and a wash of relief passed from my head all the way to my toes. A sensation I could hardly remember. Warmth. Not the temperature of the air or room, but blessed warmth coursing through my bones. The soul freezing chill of The Nine had disappeared. Tears flooded into my eyes like a childish dolt. I didn’t say anything for a moment. I wanted to revel in the sensation a moment longer. Then I lifted my head and choked out the words my lips didn’t want to utter.
“I’m sorry, sir. But I must respectfully decline your offer.”
I hung my head and tried to stop the sob that escaped my lips. Refusing Judas Iscariot meant torture and endless rebirth in the burning sulfur, but I could never be a part of his Agency. I was not perfect. Lord knows my reasons for being in The Nine were many, but I did my best to atone for those sins. I would never go back to the person I was when the world owned me.
I waited for Mastema to remove her blindfold and come swooping down like some vulturous sex raptor. Procel had brought me, she would drag me away. But she never moved, and the frost never returned to my bones.
I looked up at Judas and saw him ... smiling.
“Excellent. That was precisely what I hoped to hear.”
Chapter Six
I stood in the middle of the room looking brilliant with my mouth hanging open. “Wait … what?”
“Yes.” Judas motioned to the bone frame chair behind me. “Why don’t you sit down? You look like you need to rest a moment.”
I shook my head, flopped down on the seat, and said, “No, thanks. I’ll stand.”
That drew a chuckle out of Judas.
“I have watched you for some time, Gabe, but not because I want another agent, at least not one to put in the field like the rest.” Judas picked up a small oval-shaped box from his desk and rolled the silver curio around in his palm. “As head of the Judas Agency, I am witness to horrible things under my watch. I see to the things that must be done. I always have, no matter what those things might be.” Judas clenched the little silver box in his palm and gave me a hard stare. For once I didn’t say a word.
He waited a moment then resumed his absent toying. “To that effect, I organized a small contingent of double agents. They undertake tasks my superiors may not fully agree with or know about. Tasks which must be carried out, nonetheless, for the good of us all. Thirty Woebegone, handpicked by me to infiltrate the Ju
das Agency, report on current operations and disrupt them when necessary. Influence equals power, and you know how to wield the sort of influence I am looking for and for the right reasons. You want to do what’s right for others, not for yourself.”
I put my hands to my face and tried to wrap my head around the words coming out of Judas’s mouth.
“Hold on. You want to stop bad things from happening? Is this a joke? You run the Judas Agency—The Disaster Factory. You are the most ruthless and feared Woebegone who ever was—no offense. If you want to shut something off, why can’t you throw the switch?”
Judas stood and paced back and forth in front of the desk. “I would not be in charge for very long if I halted every operation I was ordered to carry out. I run the Judas Agency, but I do not rule the underworld. One overzealous operation can unbalance a structure more delicate than most can comprehend. Sometimes restraint, or even damage control, is necessary. Other reasons I may have for halting operations are my own.”
Judas stopped rolling the box in his hand and began thumbing the latch open and closed with repetitive clicks.
“As for gathering information, The Judas Agency operates under a cell structure. No one department is fully aware of what another is doing. That way, no one entity possesses enough information to disrupt the entire Agency. Even I am not apprised of all operations and dealings. I merely keep the organization together and ensure operations run smoothly. Cell or department leaders come to me if problems arise, but the Hellions in charge of each faction are equipped and capable. I am not often consulted. Which is why I need you. I need agents to infiltrate, discover, and disrupt operations where I cannot.”
I sat back in my chair and took in a deep breath. “This is not what I expected.”
“If it were, I would not be doing my job very well.”
I nodded. “Can I just think for a second?”
“Of course.” Judas stopped in front of me and flipped his little box open. “Take this, perhaps it will help you make up your mind.”