BURN IN HADES (7 page)

It would be hard to find new clothes, but he needed something fresh. He stank much more than usual. The accumulation of months’ worth of filth nearly made him choke.

Still, no smell was worse than the repugnant stench of charred souls that the great mountain of fire spewed into the air. Even though they were still a good three hundred miles away from it, the odor scrapped the insides of his throat. It was the kind of smell he could never get used to.

The oily drops falling from the sky thickened the closer they drew to the dark towering Inferno. Rivers of fire spilled down its skirt into the pits of Hell, glowing like evil jewelry. He and Gimlet sought shelter from the black rain in the trembling canyons. Every now and then the mountains around them would sneeze and shiver dust off their shoulders as if allergic to his and Gimlet’s presence.

Cross cleaned the oily rain and yellow pus off himself and Gimlet with a dingy rag he kept in her saddlebag. He scooped the gunk out of her eyes, and after removing her saddle, he scraped her scaly back and husky legs with a flat slab of stone before the slime could dry up, restricting her movement and making her uncomfortable. There was still some purplish crud left over by the time he was done, but he did the best he could without water. The rest would crack up and fall off at some point.

They hid in the canyons for several sleep periods in order to place distance between Cross and any of his pursuers. Finally they abandoned the yellow road and headed east, slowly over the jagged lands.

A few hours into their trek, a vicious dust storm kicked up. Wind whipped past Cross’s ears, bellowing with the whispering voices of spirits. Sand pelted his face. A sudden gust knocked him off Gimlet’s back and swept him up into the blob of black air. He slammed into the dirt and rolled to a stop in the center of the funnel. The twisting whirlwind caged him inside. This was not a normal dust storm.

Pebbles and rock shot out of the funnel cloud and clumped together before him. The detritus formed three skeletal beings.

Fortunately, the rudimentary life forms weren’t known for concerning themselves with silly things like memories. Unfortunately, the incomplete spirits collected entire souls.

More dirt and grime swirled out of the storm and wrapped around the bones, imitating flesh. Debris swirled in and around their incomplete bodies, which were made of more than just dust.

Objects rolled around in them. One Rudimen had an old doll’s pigtail sticking out of its cheek; the second had a spur spinning on his shoulder; and a kettle bobbed in and out of the chest of the third, like a heart beating.

At least he always stood a fighting chance with the squals, but there was no fighting the Rudimen. Stubbornly, he crawled for his blade anyway.

The funnel sucked the blade away and it disappeared in the cloud. The Rudimen slid toward him without bending a knee as if the ground were ice; sand collected up their legs along the way.

“Dni mlu fitu aeb.” They all spoke at once but they had no mouths. Their voices hummed in his head in a deep tone almost as if they had projected their voices into his head.

The dusty apparitions leaned over him, all whispering the same thing at the same time. “Suet elp moce sa elp.” The voices bounced around in his mind and tormented his thoughts. Mouths formed on their faces, and gaped open like swirling portals into their being.

Pressure squeezed his ears with the roar of a locomotive drowning everything. He stretched like taffy. A violent tug yanked him forward, and there was a pop like a cork had shot off a bottle of wine…

He dove into a milky pool and swam in the white void. Whatever he had forgotten, no longer mattered. The three nice men would take great care of him for the rest of his days. They gave him everything he had ever been missing, and he would return the favor by giving them all his memories. They needed them more than he did. With his help the rudimentary life forms were one step closer to completion. He was glad to help his new friends. Suddenly, the ocean of milk dried up and cracks grew into the lake’s bed.

Pressure on his chest and head snapped him back to the underworld. He was lying face down in the dirt now. His slurring tongue licked the ground as he found himself absently calling out for the Rudimen to return.

Whipping sounds slashed through the air like lightning strikes. Cross pushed up with his hands to get a look but flopped back down on his chest as a terrible weakness paralyzed his muscles. He lay there with absolutely no strength to move, his head cocked to the side looking as far up as his eyes could travel.

A black winged beast flapped down into the funnel in between Cross and the Rudimen. Streams of light cracked out from the gargoyle as if it were lashing the Rudimen with lightening. With the dust blasting at his eyes, Cross couldn’t get a clear glimpse of the ebony bird. Its wings were facing him and the flashes of light it produced obscured it further, veiling it beneath a silhouette. He imagined that it looked twisted and horrible like a squal or something.

It drove the Rudimen to retreat. As the dust devils floated away, they exploded one by one, evaporating in clouds. The dust funnel finally settled.

His obsidian blade slapped down a few inches away from him. The shadow of the monster approached. Outrage charged in his chest. He would slay the ugly creature for sending his friends away. He crawled to his blade and placed his hand on the handle. A heavy black boot smashed down on it, preventing him from lifting it.

He dragged his gaze up the leg of what appeared to be a pirate at first. The ebony bird was actually a woman, and she wasn’t nearly as ugly as he initially perceived.

She tucked her beastly black wings behind her back and stared down at him squinty, icy and blank. Not a positive or negative hint in her emotionless eyes.

“Smart move, coming this close to the Inferno,” she said, picking up the blade. “You fooled that one-armed squal, but not me.”

She was dressed in sand-colored justaucorps. It was filthy as all Hell, as everything was in the underworld, and she didn’t seem to be bothered by the heat of being draped in the thick wool. The justaucorps reached down to her knees and there was barely any moisture on her pale face. Even with the coat unbuttoned, like she wore it, had it been him cooped up in that thick coat, he’d be burning up.

She thrust her hand into the inside of a beaten up top hat before sitting it over her silky black hair. The top hat had been through its share of battles. It was crinkled and had stitches going up the side. Her entire wardrobe was completely mismatched, a combination of garments taken from various time periods and thrown together. But strikingly, the way she wore it all, each piece complemented the other as if she had purchased it as one outfit from the same maker. All the different identities formed a unique one that was all her.

Cross knew of this woman. Spirits called her the Raven. He was familiar with her reputation through the circles they both ran in, but he never had any interaction with her before. The mere mention of the Raven’s moniker struck visible fear in the eyes of his old friend Diamond Tooth, the demon of pain and suffering.

The Raven was after his memories like everyone else, but they belonged to his friends, the Rudimen. He gathered himself to his feet.

“I asked the Great Goddess to send me an angel,” he said, trying to mask the fearful tremors in his voice. “Thanks for coming when you did.”

“A mind is a terrible thing to waste,” she said with a deadpan expression. “How much is that head of yours worth now?”

Cross hesitated before answering. Was it a trick question? If she came to collect the bounty placed on his head, she would know. “Nine objects,” he said.

A rope slithered around the Raven’s slender waist as if it were alive. It
was
alive. A dart at the end of the rope lifted on its own accord as the head on a cobra would when preparing to strike. The dart shot towards him in a blink and wrapped its ropey body around him. It squeezed his arms to his sides and constricted his legs together until he tipped over and splashed in the sand.

Son of a bitch. Here we go again.

Chapter 4 - The Man Who Remembers

Hands tied behind his back
, Cross bobbed up and down, riding on Gimlet’s rear, watching her spiked tail dragged through the dirt, as the Raven guided his pet cornurus through the plateaus of black glass. The pressure of bouncing up and down on his chest stole his breath at times, but he could still speak.

“Where’re you taking me?” he asked the Raven.

“Metnal,” she said.

Cross wiggled his body like a worm and rolled off Gimlet’s back.

The Raven hopped off the cornurus. “Where do you think you’re going?”

“You can’t deliver me to the squals. My memories belong to the Rudimen. Cut me loose.”

She stuck her thumb onto his eyelid and peeled it up. “Looks like their effects haven’t worn off.”

He jerked his head away.

“The Rudimen did something to your mind,” said the Raven, “I think I interrupted them before they could finish. So, the damage might not be permanent. We’ll see.”

“They would never hurt me. They care about me. They’re my true friends.”

“And they usually get the soul they come for. Let’s hope you get back to normal by the time I turn you in to the squals. I want all the nine objects they’re paying me.” She lifted him up to place him back onto Gimlet.

He squirmed and twisted, making her job more difficult. “You’ll pay for this,” he said. “I hope you end up in a bone orchard eaten by the Nothing. Cut me loose, you ugly buzzard.”

The Raven transported him back across the mucky, yellow river. This time his cornurus galloped across the surface like she should have the first time they had crossed it.

The crossroads attempted to confuse the Raven, but she ignored the lying roads. She guided Gimlet past the ruined kingdom of Xibalbá and up the north road.

Cross hummed spiritual hymns every day of the past seven periods of sleep to strengthen his spirit, and eventually came to his senses about the Rudimen. They had given him an taste of what it would be like once he finally forgets his past, but if he had gone with them, he wouldn’t have simply given them his memories like he thought he wanted to, they would have stolen his entire soul. He would have become a part of them forever. They had altered his mind just like the Raven had said, but their spell seemed to have worn off now.

Unfortunately, the squals were going to chop off his head.

They traipsed into the squal-infested mountains of Metnal. The miserable souls waited, sidelined in the shadows, as they trotted through. Slowly, squals crept out of the crevices and crowded around Gimlet. Hundreds of foamy jaws greeted them with hisses. Squals stroked their gangly fingers along Cross’s forehead as he went by. He yanked his head away and bit at the fingers.

At a massive cave, the Raven pulled on Gimlet’s reins and the cornurus halted. She hopped off Gimlet and lifted Cross off the cornurus’s back. That rope dart of hers was still wrapped tightly around his body.

She posted him up against a monolith in front of the cave, where he faced the entire hoard of thirsty squals. Hundreds more hung out of crevices above. They gnashed their teeth and slobbered foam all over their sloppy, lipless mouths.

Cross spat in the Raven’s face. She slapped him silly. He tumbled to his face and rolled over to his back.

“Untie me,” he said. “Then, see how tough you think you are. I ain’t never been a woman beater, but if you let me go right now, I’ll forgive you. You go your way. I’ll go mine. We’ll forget this ever happened.”

The Raven left him lying on the ground and disappeared into the dark cave.

“You dirty pigeon. I hope they clip your wings and—”

Cross choked on his words as the largest squal he had ever seen stepped out of the gloomy cave.

It must’ve been the squal chieftain. Her minions stumbled over themselves to make a clear path for her. Her bulging muscles and blade-like teeth portrayed a meaner and tougher presence than the smaller squals.

The chieftain stooped down to meet Cross face to face. He turned away from the hot stinky breath blowing his face. The chieftain gripped Cross’s chin with her foot and forced his head side to side.

“You got the wrong pig in the tail,” said Cross. “I’m no one. I don’t even remember what I ate for lunch. Did I even have lunch? I don’t know, I forget. See, I’m not who you’re looking for.”

“sss-So, you’re not the man who remembers-sss?” asked the chieftain. She could have been wearing a pearled ball gown. She spoke like a distinguished snake with an air of nobility, and a nasty hacking came from the back of his throat.

“Nope,” said Cross. “Not him. I don’t even know who that is. I’m sure if you keep looking you’ll find—what’s his name again? I’m just so forgetful. I never remember anything.”

Still gripping Cross’s face with her foot, the chieftain unrolled a sheet of vellum with her available hands. “Do you recognize this-sss man?”

She shoved the vellum in Cross’s view. A childish drawing of his mug was displayed on it with the recognizable black dot on the head representing the bullet wound on his forehead. Under his face was the sloppy script of the squals, which read: “Nine objects for the capture of the ‘Man Who Remembers’.”