Read Letters From Hades Online
Authors: Jeffrey Thomas
Letters From Hades (16 page)
"Mr. Gold?" I asked.
"Your supervisor. Mr. Gold."
Was that his name? This was the first I’d heard of him. I only ever saw Bruce, and I knew no more regarding the purpose of this plant in general and my job in particular than I had on my first day. I suspected there was no purpose. Just something to keep the Damned laboring. Well, from what I’d heard it was better than working amongst the scorching foundries and forges in the multi-leveled cellar world beneath Oblivion, or in the adjacent mine tunnels where ore was transported from the Slag Mountains. If you worked down there willingly, as many did, you could afford a nice apartment, maybe your own little house. Many didn’t work there willingly; if found to be jobless, loitering, aimless, one might be rounded up as slave labor. Either way, I’d stick to my perhaps bogus job, no questions asked.
Turner led me into a little room dominated by a desk of welded metal plates, so thoroughly oxidized that it looked painted in coagulated and flaking gore. When the Celestial closed the door behind me, I turned to see that Bruce no longer accompanied us. I never thought I’d miss that little prick. Turner gestured to a chair of purplish wood, and I sat. He himself slipped beside Mr. Gold’s cluttered desk. The Celestial stood by the door, unnervingly out of my sight behind me though I imagined I could feel his/her chilly glow.
"I have a few questions for you, about this Demon named Chara, who attacked two Angels in the establishment called Blue a little while back." He didn’t say a few "days" ago. He might not portion out time in the same way I did.
"I’ll do what I can," I offered, after I had swallowed a hard lump I thought might choke me. I imagined that ethereal being pinning me from behind while the Angel removed something scalpel-sharp from inside his robe.
"I was a detective in life, you know," Turner said, leaning back in his creaking chair, absently rifling some enigmatic graphs or charts on Gold’s desk. "Thirty-two years… Montgomery, Alabama."
"Never been there. Alabama."
"Ahh. And where are you from?"
"Eastborough. Massachusetts."
"Small town boy."
"Smallish, yeah."
"I went to Boston once, for a conference. Nice old town."
"Mm-hm."
Turner leaned forward again. "You rescued this Demon, I understand, when you chanced upon her on your way to Oblivion."
"Yes. I found her nailed to a tree, with a spear in her. She was weak and might have died, so I guess I felt sorry for her."
"For a Demon. Interesting."
"I’d never met her kind before. The human kind. So that sort of…effected me, I guess. If I’d met them sooner…been mistreated by them…I dunno…maybe I wouldn’t have…I don’t know."
"Well, it’s a noble gesture. You needn’t try to rationalize it."
"Thanks." I wanted to glance behind me at that ghost in the flesh.
"Did you know that they captured the five men who did that to her?"
"Yes, sir—I saw them yesterday."
"How did you hear about that?" Did I see his eyes narrow ever so slightly? Where did he imagine I might have learned about the capture of the men?
"A coworker told me. He took me there to have a look."
"I see."
"I never found out what she was doing out there, in the woods, when they caught her," I said truthfully, hoping he might enlighten me.
"The Demon Chara and some others were flushing out a gang of humans who were camped in the forest. A little gypsy-style band of troublemakers. They’d killed an Overseer and his attendants a while back, and maybe some other Demons. It seems like it was becoming an occupation for these men, but I suppose their biggest mistake was letting one of their victims live to identify them. When Chara’s group raided the humans’ camp they scattered, so the Demons had to split up to chase them down. They became separated from each other. When her companions didn’t find Chara they assumed she’d herded her prisoners on back to Oblivion for proper punishment. She might have been discovered by a search party before she died. Or maybe she wouldn’t have. So it was indeed an admirable thing you did, my boy." He sighed, looked around him at more charts and grease-smudged reports on the walls. "And while I feel badly for what this creature suffered at the hands of those troublemakers, and I’m glad that they’ve been tracked down and brought to justice, it’s still ironic and unfortunate that now she herself is guilty of some grave misconduct. And, has become a fugitive from justice, just like her own attackers." His blue eyes, more piercing than the Celestial’s despite being less unearthly, returned to lock onto my own. "Her attack on those two gentlemen in Blue is an extremely serious matter. Angels visiting Hell during war games expect to be attacked, within the context of those games…but certainly not in this manner. This was not a game, but an act of pure hostility and disrespect. For a Demon to behave in this way toward two Angels…" He wagged his head, tossed up his hands and let them fall fatalistically to the desktop. "It’s beyond insubordination. It’s blasphemous…sacrilege."
"I understand," I said lamely.
"At least her partner, the Demon Verdelet, has already paid for her own involvement. In fact, it was by identifying Verdelet’s body that we determined who our fugitive was."
"I see."
Turner fondled a paperweight, a greenish lump of half-melted glass. Inside it like a fly in amber was what may or may not have been a doll’s eye. He weighed it in his palm, as if contemplating a skull’s resistance to it. "According to my report…the statement of Mr. Butler and Mr. Franklin…you acted in a chivalrous manner toward the Demon Chara, for a second time, in this Blue establishment."
"Well," I stammered, "it’s just my upbringing, I guess. I know she’s a Demon, but she looks so human. And so when I saw two men bullying her…well…I guess I felt protective, or…"
"I understand." He held up his free hand. "Honestly. And I realize you didn’t perpetrate any violent acts against either of these gentlemen, yourself. Though I have to tell you, they are rather unhappy with you." He gave a little chuckle, as if sharing a joke with me. "They’d like to see you punished severely, just for the disrespect you showed them as well…"
"But sir, I…"
Again the chuckle and the staying palm, raised as if to give me a blessing. He set down that chunk of waste glass with the hopefully insentient eye. "I assured the gentlemen that you’d be helpful when I questioned you. It’s obvious that a human wouldn’t be in allegiance with a Demon."
"Right. Thanks. I’m trying to be helpful."
"And I appreciate that, sir. As I said, I knew you’d be cooperative. Granted," he pouted and spread his blunt hands, "it is odd that on two occasions you acted in a chivalrous way toward this same creature, but I imagine that coincidence comes into play."
"Yes sir."
"You didn’t intend to meet Chara in Blue that night?"
"No sir. I had no idea she’d be there."
"You haven’t ever met with her socially, I would take it?"
"No sir…never. Like you say, that isn’t done."
He nodded. "Of course. It’s just…well…Mr. Butler thought he heard an exchange between you and the Demon, but his head was still largely unformed so he may have been mistaken…"
"An exchange?"
"Well, he thought you said something to the effect that Chara should come see you. To which the Demon was said to respond that she knows where you live."
I tried not to swallow again. I tried not to hesitate, or protest too strenuously, when I said, "Mr. Butler must be mistaken, Mr. Turner. Like you said, his head was still reforming. I’m not associated with this woman…Demon…no matter what I might have done for her. She’s a Demon, sir. I’m nothing but an animal to her, if even that."
"Perhaps. Then again, from what I’ve heard from witnesses, and particularly from the two victims, it seemed that this Demon was trying to protect you from Mr. Butler."
"Sir…you know, maybe she was. Maybe she was trying to repay me for what I did for her. But I didn’t ask her to. Like you said, I didn’t participate in the attack myself. And maybe she wasn’t protecting me…maybe they had simply harassed her beyond her breaking point."
"That could be. Not to exonerate her; there is no excuse for what she did, however insulted she herself might have felt…"
"But we aren’t friends, sir," I chuckled myself this time, to show that even the notion was absurd. "That would be like me climbing one of the watchtowers to play checkers with an Overseer."
Turner snorted a half laugh and pushed his chair back, rising to his feet. I did the same. He shook my hand again as he emerged from behind the desk.
"I appreciate your candor, sir," he told me. "And please…if you ever should spot Chara in Oblivion again, report it to another Demon immediately. They’ve been instructed to capture her, despite their feelings about her being of their own kind. They know they’re expected to demonstrate their loyalty to their jobs, first and foremost."
"I should think she’d get out of Oblivion altogether, as fast as she could."
"You may be right. Then again, it is a large city. With many nooks and crannies."
We exited my alleged supervisor’s office (maybe there wasn’t even a Mr. Gold; another possible sham). I was relieved to see the Celestial’s cadaverous spine as it walked away ahead of me. But Turner turned toward me again, and the Celestial paused as well.
"Just one more thing, sir," Turner apologized. "When Butler and Franklin reconstituted, they found their assault rifles beside them. But both were missing their pistols. Do you know anything about that?"
"Missing their pistols? No, sir…I don’t…"
"Well, a patron might have snuck back and grabbed them. And of course it’s very possible that Chara herself took them. While Demons favor their swords and such, they can use a gun when they have to…as Chara proved with those assault rifles."
"Yes sir."
Turner clapped his palms together, as if catching a fly between them. "All right, then. Good enough. I thank you again."
"Anytime, sir." I forced a smile as I watched the Angel investigator and his bodyguard or escort turn down a dingy corridor. I half-expected the affable detective to look back and give a wave.
How had Turner found out where I worked? I supposed that the factory owner was required to report my employment to some office or other of the city’s demonic government.
And might the owner of the hotel/lodging house also report to some office the names of those like myself who rent on an extended basis? Maybe there is a kind of census bureau in Oblivion after all…
Might Turner, like Chara, know where I live?
Day 67.
I
took my more recently favored, more circuitous path home from work. The sidewalk along this street was formed from sooty black bricks, like the crowded buildings that faced it. Gray translucent grass and weeds grew at the confluence of sidewalk and wall. I had managed to elude Larry’s attempts at walking home with me.
took my more recently favored, more circuitous path home from work. The sidewalk along this street was formed from sooty black bricks, like the crowded buildings that faced it. Gray translucent grass and weeds grew at the confluence of sidewalk and wall. I had managed to elude Larry’s attempts at walking home with me.
I stopped briefly in a small bookshop along the way, as I had done before. There was a printing press in the back room; I’d seen the door left half open, had heard its churning sounds. The offering was small; chapbooks, stapled at the spine, nothing perfect bound. Memoirs, brief autobiographies. Poetry or short story collections, novellas at most. No religious propaganda or anything like that, and it was not any kind of diabolic establishment. It was managed and operated by a small group of citizens, publishing and distributing the writing of other citizens.
Naturally I found most of the work I’d already bought to be amateurish, sophomoric. The typos few (I credited the publishers for this more so than the authors), but the actual prose seldom above the level of a high school creative writing class. The fiction cliched, often maudlin, the nonfiction of little interest to anyone who had not lived it themselves. And yet I was grateful for even the worst of it, and was only too happy to spend my hard-won coins on it (even though I wished Anne Sexton and Yukio Mishima—writers who interested me greatly, having both ended their own lives as I had—were citizens of Oblivion). Today I bought a slim collection of poems by yet another obscure author.
Not for the first time, I wondered if this publishing house—Necropolitan Press—might be inclined to publish this journal of mine. I had been entertaining the fantasy of slipping it through some crack in the wall of Hell, sneaking it into the living world through a portal. Might some of the more infernal of the world’s books have found their way into the hands of Satanists in that manner? Might these Satanists heed my warnings, mend their ways so as to avoid my fate?
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