AllFreeNovel
Share Us
“Then back to Pandemonium. We’re so fucked.”
Berith looks out at the road.
“I don’t want to think about that.”
The truck rolls steadily, but it’s not in a rush to get anywhere. The posse up front is passing bottles around. I don’t suppose they’d be too keen on sharing with us prisoners. Maybe I can put my fist through the mesh and ask one nicely with my boot on his throat.
I get up and grab hold of a section of the fence. And promptly land on my back, feeling like someone just handed me a glass of whiskey with a thousand-volt chaser.
Berith laughs.
“Neat trick, eh? One of the Malebranche’s hexes. You can touch the walls of your cell all you want, but the moment you come at it with attitude, well, you see what happens.”
“Thanks for the warning.”
“We’re all going to be dead soon. We need to have a few laughs along the way.”
I put my hand on the fence. Nothing happens. Holding on to it, I pull myself to my feet. We’re past all the houses and apartments and into a wider main street. Somewhere around Western maybe. Lots of burned-out buildings, but with a little something extra. My face.
Wanted posters offering a hefty reward cover every building, signpost, and bus kiosk still standing.
I guess someone figured out that Mammon and his staff are missing. Mason will know who did it, but that’s still goddamn fast to get posters plastered all over the place. Even with all the map games this place has been playing on me, the angel, who’s better at these things than I am, is sure we haven’t been here more than a day. And how does Mason even know I’m heading for Eleusis and not wandering the streets of Pandemonium like the Flying Dutchman? Jack couldn’t have made it back yet and ratted me out. With my face in a bag he can claim he killed me and get the reward. The bastard will be drinking mai tais and eating prime rib before I get near the asylum.
I hear cheering voices. There must be a lot of them if they’re loud enough to hear over the Unimog’s rumble and grinding gears. A couple of more blocks down, there’s a stadium. It’s not as big as the L.A. Coliseum. It’s more like the place well-off parents pay for so their sprogs can play soccer on a regulation field that’s not full of beer cans and gopher holes. Frposer holeom the tone of the crowd, they’re not playing in there.
We turn off the main road and onto a two-lane driveway behind the stadium and roll alongside what looks like a holding area for the posse’s prisoners. Big wire-mesh pens and RVs with blacked-out windows hold dozens of dirty, frightened Hellions. The fact that they’re being held in a stadium tells me that the posse isn’t above having a little fun with their prisoners before they’re shipped back to Pandemonium.
The truck stops. Six Hellions in SWAT body armor, carrying shotguns and homemade morning stars, hustle us off the flatbed and into the pens, where we have a clear view of the playing field.
Some people have dreams where they show up for final exams in their underwear or for a course they didn’t know they were taking. Other people wake up in the middle of the ocean. There’s land in the distance, but no matter how hard they swim, they never get any closer. Me, I dream about the arena. Shrinks call these “anxiety dreams.” I call them road maps. They show you where you’ve been and where you’re headed. A dream about being lost at sea doesn’t mean you’re going to end up as an extra on Gilligan’s Island, but it probably means you’ve gone off track somewhere. For me it’s even simpler. I don’t dream in metaphors. When I dream about the arena, I’m really dreaming a dream about the arena.
In my heart of hearts I’ve always known I wasn’t finished with the place. It’s like a drunk who goes on the wagon but decides to pitch his tent in the Jack Daniel’s parking lot. Yeah, he cleaned up, but he didn’t run very far from what made him a lush in the first place.
Once I’d killed the other members of my old magic Circle and sent Mason Downtown, I should have walked away from the whole hoodoo world and become just another brain-dead civilian. Take a mail-order course in taxidermy or sell maps of the stars’ homes to tourists. Instead I hung around with Lurkers, renegade angels, and Jades. I’m surprised it’s taken me this long to get back here. If the Bamboo House of Dolls didn’t have such a high-quality jukebox and Carlos didn’t make such good tamales, I would have been back here months ago and this would all be over with.
All those dreams about tests and being lost and being back in the blood and the dust are just lines on a map. The elevation marks reveal that no matter how low you get, there’s always somewhere lower to fall.
Some of the Hellions from the flatbed go right up to the fence to get a good look at the current fight, trying to convince themselves they’re not seeing what they’re seeing. Others, the ones with a firmer grip on reality, are at the far end of the pen puking and shitting themselves. They’re not in denial about what’s coming.
The arena isn’t much to see. Just a flat soccer field with semis parked a hundred feet apart to mark the boundaries of the killing floor. Hellions and even a few pagan collaborators fill the stands between the trucks, drinking, cheering, and throwing bottles and rocks at the Hellion prisoners forced to fight each other. I shake my head. Lucifer woulHouLuciferdn’t have put up with the peanut gallery getting his arena floor messy. These small-time bullies have no class.
I look around the stadium, not really paying attention to the current fight. There’s the unmistakable sound of metal smashing into meat and bone. The crowd cheers. The bone crunch comes again. A cheer. Then a bigger cheer. I go to the fence and look through. It looks like the Hellion who was to be chopped into McNuggets got the other fighter in the throat with a knife when he got too close. They both fall over and disappear. Cue the crowd. People drink and pay off wagers. It’s a party and they take their time about it.
A few minutes later armored guards grab more prisoners from the pen. Berith is with them. He looks at me like he thinks I’m going to do something about it. All I do is stay by the fence to watch. The guards walk the group out to the middle of the killing floor and hand them weapons. Every Hellion was a soldier once. They were all part of the rebel legions in Heaven, but that was a long time ago. In the arena the prisoners look at the rusty swords and shields in their hands like they’ve never seen anything like them before. That’s the lousy thing about shock. It makes you look stupid.
I remember my first time in the arena. It wasn’t like this bumpkin retrofit. The arena in Pandemonium was built for blood sports and nothing else. It was like the Roman Colosseum, but clad in plates of bronze and ivory and hung with sculpted bone chandeliers over each entrance. It was full of false walls that could be moved to change the fighting floor. There were trapdoors and chutes where beasts and fighters could be lifted or shot into the arena in a few seconds. The crowds were connoisseurs of pain.
My first fight was against a human soul. The arena bookers thought it would be a hoot to put the one living guy in Hell up against one of his dead brethren. The thing is, the guy I was up against was from one of the lowest regions, one reserved for child killers, so I didn’t exactly think of him as one of my brethren.
I’d been in Hell long enough to have built up a thick skin of fury. I was still a circus attraction back then. The living freak to be passed around and used and gawked at like a pickled punk. And I was sure as shit a long way from being Sandman Slim.
I went into the fight all teeth and claws and righteous idiot fury. It was the first time I used a na’at and I had no idea what to do with it. I can’t say I was scared going up against a real killer. I was too crazy for that, and when I did think about it, more than anything I was amazed at where my life had taken me. The unreality of Hell became even more unreal. That’s probably what saved me.
The Kid Killer knew how to use blades and I didn’t. He gave me my first scars. Later they changed me, made me stronger, and I became a kind of living body armor. But that night in the arena, the slashes just hurt.
I tried using the na’at the way I’d seen Hellions use it, but I mostly bounced it off the ground and hit myself in the face when it sprang open into different configurations. That routine went for big laughs.
I wish I could say I finig fd say Ished the Kid Killer with a flashy na’at move, but the blood and pain nudged me from crazy into Norman Bates territory. And the crazier I got, the more the crowd cheered. When I managed to knock the Kid Killer down, I climbed on top of him, pinned his arms, and choked the fucker until his eyes bulged out like twin eight balls. You haven’t seen surprised until you’ve seen a dead man realize he’s about to die again. Later, one of my guards explained to me about Tartarus and the double dead.
