What the Hell Page 5

  “How many souls are on the bridge?”

  “Millions.”

  “How did they take Dawson through already?”

  “His name was on a list.”

  I froze with one foot on the boat, which was now big enough for just the two of us, while the other rested on the ashen shore. Heat waves wafted up, making the trench coat flaps and hair that spilled out from my beanie dance in the haze. I had to squint my eyes to look at the ferryman.

  “List? What list?” I asked, already knowing the answer.

  Charon didn’t respond. He didn’t have to.

  “Damn Luci—”

  “Do not utter his name here, abomination,” Charon interrupted with an aggression that made me want to shrink into a tiny ball. His robes flapped almost in real time in relation to his urgency.

  In my mind, I thought, Speak of the Devil, and he shall appear.

  I nodded my head and climbed into the boat, carefully holding on to either side. Once in the boat, I was no longer subject to the heat of the river, which brought a load of relief with it. I slid my butt to the exact middle of the one seat and craned my head to look at Charon.

  A large pole manifested into his hands, and he plunged it into the lava, hand over hand, until it hit the bottom. He pushed us forward and we slid away from the shore. My stomach lurched as we moved, terrified we would tip. I did not want to end up in Sheol.

  It was a deceptively calm ride. I constantly searched both banks, expecting to see Satan leaping from the lava river and pulling me under. But he never appeared as we cruised for what seemed like hours.

  I must have nodded off because I awoke as the boat hit something.

  “Chewbacca!” I cried out as my hands shot to grab the sides of the craft.

  “Your dreams reek of fear, John Cook.”

  “Sorry about that. I had Mexican food for lunch,” I said as I rubbed my stomach.

  “Your mask is thin, allowing all to see your true face.”

  “Maybe next time I’ll go to one of those makeup stores to better learn how to blend,” I jested and continued before he could resume his uncomfortable truth-telling. “So, Dawson’s through there?”

  The skeleton stared wordlessly in answer as his gaze violated my soul. I had conversed with all-seeing angels that made me feel more private than this ferryman. Even without a face, I could feel his judgment of me. Maybe I was projecting my most hidden self-assessment of my own soul, which had been blackened for so many years, but as I gazed into the abyss of his empty sockets, I could feel the gaze of a knowing consciousness.

  Placing a steadying hand on the landing, I carefully climbed out of the boat while holding my breath. I respected the molten river — the soul eater — and didn’t want even a single teeny-tiny drop on me.

  Heat greeted me again in an instant, almost throwing me off balance.

  Letting out my breath, I turned to face Charon and was met with a wall of jagged rock.

  “What the . . .” I yelped as I stumbled backward. My eyes frantically scanned the stone wall as my brain tried, and failed, to make sense of what I was seeing.

  After several seconds, I closed my eyes, shook my head in an effort to disregard the sudden appearance of the wall as nothing more than a trick up Hell’s sleeve, and turned to face another tunnel.

  “Son of a . . .” I cursed as I threw my hands into the air and let them drop again, smacking loudly against my thighs.

  With a moan similar to a child who was being forced to go to school, I lifted my face to the ceiling and let my head bob back and forth as I began tromping down the new tunnel, the river having been replaced by a solid stone wall.

  A clattering of falling rock caught my attention, and I snapped into a defensive stance, feeling my metaphorical nerves lighting up in preparation.

  I sent out my senses and was alarmed when nothing happened. Going into the control room of my mind, I was relieved to see Lemarchand’s Box still resting on the coffee table, though it had moved toward the edge again. I manifested a stand and placed it on the middle of the table, securing the Puzzle Box in place.

  Looking out the windows of my eyes, I returned to the driver’s seat of my consciousness and heard the unmistakable inhalation of something I didn’t want to meet.

  I gulped and attempted to manifest a bloodgladius. Of course, nothing happened, and I was left looking like I was trying to shit my pants with how hard I was concentrating.

  A clawed footstep echoed down the tunnel, accompanied by exploratory sniffs. I stood frozen with a wildfire of terror that was eating away at my core, growing to consume my appendages and leave me paralyzed.

  Two glowing white eyes appeared in the distance a few feet off the ground, sweeping left and right as the nostrils searched.

  A quick gasp of surprise hissed out of my mouth before I could cover my lips with my hand. It might as well have been a bullhorn because the white eyes lifted to lock onto me, growing narrower as, I assumed, the monster squinted at me — or maybe scowled. I couldn’t see its face.

  The creature must have read my mind because the white eyes became flooded with raging red-and-green hellfire, helpfully illuminating the creature’s grotesque face.

  “Welp . . . shit . . .” I breathed as my mind raced to figure out what to do.

  The beast began charging, its head lifting to just above the middle of the ten-foot ceiling. Instantly, I knew the thing had to be as big as Depweg when in his were form.

  Hellhound, I realized with unwavering certainty.

  A maw opened wide, revealing a throat that looked like it belonged on a shark, with a glowing orb of hellfire growing somewhere at its core.

  I tilted my head in confusion as I stared at the sphere of hellfire. Without further warning, the ball-o-flame rocketed out of the creature’s mouth like a mortar, taking me by surprise.

  Still frozen in disbelief, all I could do was bring my forearms up to shield my head as the blast smashed into my chest with enough impact to send me careening backward and into the stone wall.

  Air rushed out of my lungs and I crumbled to my knees. Regaining my senses, my hands began feverishly exploring my chest, expecting a hole the size of a bowling ball. I was delighted to see my pendants were glowing slightly. Something else pulled at my attention, however.

  My hand patted at a warm section on my breast pocket, and I scrunched my eyebrows together before rubber-banding them to shoot toward my hairline.

  My hand reached into my coat and pulled out a warm, humming nail.

  “Ha-ha!” I barked with growing excitement while the beast continued its charge. “Oh shit!” I cried out as the hellhound lunged at me.

  With the nail in hand, my predatory senses kicked into high gear, and the dark tunnel became as bright as day. The beast seemed to freeze in midair as my preternatural mind became overclocked and began assessing the threat.

  Without knowing if I could do so, I manifested my bloodgladius from the nail-wielding hand.

  A full, flaming gladius sprang to life. Instead of being made of blood, it was real, as if the nail had enhanced my abilities in much the same way the celestial armor had.

  With the hellhound only a foot away from me, I pointed the gladius coated in heavenfire at the monster and willed a geyser of flame to erupt out the tip and down my attacker’s throat.

  There was an explosion of viscous blood and gore that coated me from head to toe in the entrails, skin, and burnt flesh of the creature. A chunk of brains and skull decided my mouth was as good a place as any to call it a day, encouraging me to ask whatever was in my ghost-stomach to revolt and flee its prison.

  After discovering that nothing was inside of my soul’s stomach and having to claw — with gore-covered hands, mind you — the viscera out of my mouth, I posted on hands and knees and just . . . dry spit. Over and over, desperate to get the taste of hellhound off my tongue.

  After a few minutes of trying not to vomit from the taste of burning tires covered in cat piss, I noticed t
he gladius was still in my hand, burning bright.

  “Neat!” I exclaimed as I got to my feet, turning the angelic blade over in my hand. A worry grew inside the center of my mind and I quickly went back into the control room, preparing to see a wrathful Baleius.

  A quick scan of the room concluded with my eyes on the Lament Configuration, still on its new pedestal. I looked outside my eyes while still in the control room to see the blade in my hand, frozen in time as the events unfolded at the speed of preter-thought.

  Switching my gaze back to the Puzzle Box, I quirked an eyebrow and crossed my arms as I hummed a sigh of question.

  As I thought, the solution became clear, like a red car that had been swallowed by white snow but was now becoming more exposed in the sunlight.

  The armor is celestial and demons are fallen angels, I thought to myself as I paced in my mind. While the nail is purely holy, having Christ’s blood still coating its iron skin, rather than being angelic in nature.

  An optimistic thought exploded in my brain, causing me to freeze in place with wide, hopeful eyes. Can I use the armor and keep Baleius at bay with the nail?

  I stood like that, eyes flicking back and forth as I pondered the potential scenarios.

  No. No, that doesn’t make sense, I admitted as I began pacing again. I crossed one arm over my chest and brought my other hand up to my face. I lightly bit on my thumbnail as I walked back and forth. The holy nail doesn’t prevent Baleius from coming out. It only lets me summon a gladius and access my vampiric abilities, right now. Well, as far as I can tell, those are the only things. Eh, fuck it. I’ll take what I can get for now.

  Returning my consciousness to my body, I made my way down the tunnel, wary of any more patrolling hellhounds. The key continued to pull in my breast pocket.

  I came to an impossibly large square room filled to the ceiling with obsidian blocks that were stacked on top of each other like the universe’s biggest Lego set. Row after row filled the expanse as far as I could see in either direction. There were gaps that created walkways six feet apart. I started walking down the one closest to me and saw that each block was a cell, with their structures back to back. A single barred door made of unpolished obsidian was the only way in or out.

  As I looked around, I let the gladius wink out of existence before placing the nail in my side pocket, confident I would see someone coming well before they could get to me.

  Curiosity got the better of me and I walked up to one of the cells. I peered inside, unable to see anything except a shuddering lump in the far corner. As soon as I placed my hands on the bars, a new scene coalesced.

  The shuddering figure in the corner was now rolling around in a cavern similar to the one I’d entered Hell through. Bugs of varying sizes, shapes, and colors were scuttling over his entire thrashing body.

  “Help! Oh God, please help me!” the voice said in Russian. His hands swiped down his body, futilely trying to throw the thousands upon thousands of bugs off of him. He was a writhing mass of legs and antennas with random splotches of pale skin showing once in a while, like the moon escaping through a particularly dense cloud cover. Blood was oozing under the man, and I understood with nauseating certainty that he was being eaten.

  I stepped back in disgusted horror, breaking contact with the bars. The scene dissipated like throwing a handful of dirt into a strong breeze, leaving behind the whimpering soul who was alone in his cell.

  I covered my gaping mouth as I stared through the bars, understanding what I had just witnessed: the soul’s own personal Hell.

  I moved down the line to the next door, slowly approaching the cell. Licking my lips nervously, I stretched my fingers and inched them closer to the bars, fearful but sickeningly curious as to what I might find.

  My skin came in contact with the obsidian, and I was inside the same cavern. Only this time, there was nothing but a pool of water in the middle. I cautiously approached, attempting to peer into the inky depths, when a woman burst from the water, shrieking. Hands outstretched to me, the woman cried out in Afrikaans, “Please! Take my hand! Don’t let me go back under the water! Not again!”

  An unseen force began dragging her back under the black water as fingernails broke on the cavern floor. I reached out for her, and panicked hands wrapped around one of my wrists. She was surprisingly strong in her desperation to not be swallowed under the surface.

  My own panic skipped its preshow warm-up and instead stepped onto the stage where it gave the performance of a lifetime as comprehension dawned in my mind. She was going to pull me under with her.

  Using my free hand, I began clawing at her viselike fingers as first her neck then her head disappeared into the bubbling abyss.

  “Let go!” I screamed with a cracking voice as I began to hyperventilate.

  I moved into a sumo-squat stance in preparation of using my legs to keep from being pulled under.

  The woman’s grip somehow tightened on my wrist as bubbles began boiling to the surface. I was being pulled down and forward due to the size of the hole. Had it only been two or maybe three feet across, I probably could have better utilized my legs, but because I was at the lip of a large pool, I didn’t have the right leverage.

  I went to first one knee, and then the other, trying my best to lean backward as the unwavering grip refused to release me. The possibility that she might tear my hand off bloomed in my head.

  A thought flashed through my mind of when Father Thomes had locked me in my cell. I had yelled at him about his lack of compassion when it came to my thirst, and how I could show him what it was like by throwing him and a small child in a churning ocean with a tattered life vest. “Then we’ll see what decisions a drowning man makes,” I had screamed at him. This drowning soul was going to drag me to the unfathomable depths with her.

  Oh, Lilith! What if, because I was only a visitor, if I died, I couldn’t get back to my body? Or worse! What if I went to Sheol?!

  “NO!” I bellowed through a straining jaw as I posted up on my right foot and began leaning backward with all my might.

  My unshakable urge to not drown matched her desperate desire to break the surface, and I could feel her grip slipping as she continued to be sucked deeper into the darkness.

  The skin on my thumb and on the back of my hand near my pinky both burned where the flesh was being stretched.

  A few seconds more of vein-bulging screams and her grip slipped, and I was thrown back, tits over feet, for several yards.

  I scrambled to back away from the water like a crab on meth, and my back whacked into another cell. For the briefest of moments, I saw the wall of obsidian prisons before being transported to yet another cavern.

  “F-minus for a lack of creativity, Lu‒” I began before slamming both hands over my mouth.

  “Hello, abomination,” an Asian man greeted in his native tongue.

  I whirled around to see a man in a seated position, wearing what I thought were orange ceremonial robes. I said “thought” because the dude was on fire.

  “What the . . . !” I yelped as I stared in shock at the man.

  “I have waited long for this day,” the monk said as he got to his feet, the flames roaring away from head to toe.

  “Ah . . . you’re on fire, dude,” I said, instantly regretting the obvious statement which was . . . ob . . . obvious.

  “So I am,” the monk said, looking down at his body as if for the first time. “I hadn’t noticed.”

  “How did you know . . . that I . . .” I started, my brain trying to drop the fact that this guy was on fire and catch up to my thoughts.

  “I foresaw it. Meditation is a way for one to see beyond the veil.”

  “Hey . . .” I began, holding up and slowly waving my index finger as I pieced together an obscure puzzle. “You’re that monk that, um, protested the Vietnam War by lighting himself on fire.”

  “Thích Quảng Đức,” he said with a traditional bow.

  “Oh man. Luke Daniels is never going
to be able to pronounce that,” I whispered to myself.

  Quảng Đức somehow smiled at me through the licking flames.

  “Does . . . does it . . . you know . . . ?” I asked, knowing I shouldn’t.

  “Hurt? I’m sure that it does.”

  “You ah . . . you don’t know?”

  “My mind is a petal on a smooth lake.”

  Something bothered me, and I had to ask, “How are you in Hell? I mean, I didn’t think monks believed in that . . . or something.”

  “I am here because I must be.”

  I shifted uncomfortably from foot to foot as I crossed my arms, not liking this conversation.

  “You killed yourself, and allowed your immortal soul to be imprisoned in Hell . . . just to see me?” I asked dubiously. That was an awfully big pill to swallow.

  “I am here for the butterflies,” Quảng Đức said as he held out his flaming hand. While I watched, the fire quavered and then morphed into a butterfly made of flames that fit in his palm. It slowly flapped its wings, like butterflies did.

  I was transfixed by his control over the fire that ate at his soul.

  “I’m quite fond of butterflies.”

  My eyes flicked to his, which held a smile in them. He knew I would be totally lost by his statement.

  “Alright, I’ll bite. What do you mean?” I asked, uncrossing my arms and placing my hands on my hips.

  “You are to save all of existence, including the butterflies that I, as we just discussed, am fond of.” He smiled fully as he spoke, as if he had just told the funniest joke in all of the history of mankind. “I am here to help you, Jonathan.”

  I did a double take at the mention of my name before reflexively adding, “It’s just John.”

  “I know, but it was funny. I was always the funny one.”

  “How do you know my na‒ You know what, forget it. At this point, it doesn’t even matter,” I said, grabbing either side of my head with my hands in exasperation. “How are you going to help me?”

  “To find the white wolf, of course.”

  My hands dropped to my sides, slapping my thighs loudly. After a few moments of stunned silence, I asked, “I-I-I don’t get it. How can that be important enough for you to kill yourself and damn your soul to Hell?”