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The entrance to Tartarus is through the river under Hell’s creaky version of the old Fourth Street Bridge. The landscape is a wasteland crisscrossed with old railroad tracks running beside a blood-filled tributary of the Styx. I bet all those dead L.A. real estate developers are tortured by dreams of condos and shopping centers as they’re sucked down into the dark.
A year or so ago, I broke out of Tartarus, releasing the schmucks below. Then I sealed it again as the final resting place of Mason Faim. A shitty move, I know, but cry me a fucking river. I thought that would be the end of the place, but now it’s full again and that’s rotten for so many reasons, one of which is visible from half a mile away.
“What in the Lord’s name is that?” says Bill.
“It looks like Jurassic Park.”
“Boy, this is not the time for riddles.”
“You know I used to fight hellbeasts in the arena, right?”
“Of course.”
“And you noticed the Griffith Park Zoo was empty.”
“I ain’t blind.”
I stop the Corvair on a frontage road by the railroad tracks.
“I’ve been wondering what happened to all those animals.”
Bill stares into the distance.
“You silly son of a bitch. What have you brought us to?”
“A hellbeast buffet.”
The entrance to Tartarus might be through the river, but the exit is on dry land. And at the moment it’s surrounded by
a wandering, snarling, crawling, slithering herd of the ugliest hellbeasts I’ve ever seen.
“They must smell the souls.”
“May I point out to you that I’m a soul?” says Bill.
“Don’t worry. They won’t even notice you with the hot lunch down below.”
“Am I to assume you have some blockheaded idea to take them things on?”
I tap the steering wheel.
“I don’t know. Maybe.”
“Is it too late to disown you?”
“Calm down. Let me think for a minute.”
I look at the bloody river. It’s low along the banks.
I look at the hellbeasts. They’re moving slow. I bet they’re starving.
There’s not much around us except for a train yard to the north.
“Fancy a train ride, Bill?”
“That’s not a real question, is it?”
I start the Corvair and we head across the wasteland to the depot. We take it slow. Nothing to see here, monsters. We’re barely a morsel. Not worth your time.
