Blind Shrike

FORTY THREE Eaten Alive

They seemed to walk forever, but they never grew tired or hungry or thirsty.

“What a lousy day to stop smoking crack,” said Spyder, stumbling on the staircase for maybe the fiftieth time. He had a deathgrip on the metal railing. It had never occurred to him that something as simple as walking down a flight of stairs could be such a pain in the ass when blind. His balance was off, his whole sense of where he ended and other objects began was gone and every new scream and sound from below startled him.

“I knew this reporter down in LA. He was doing a series of stories on local sub-cultures for one of the alternative weeklies. You know, the kind of scene-hopping bullshit that desk monkeys and teenyboppers read to feel edgy. Eventually, his editor wants him to write about the Hell’s Angels. He gets a hookup to their clubhouse and he’s surprised by how smart and cool most of the Angels seem. At the end of his formal interview, they tell him they’re having a party and he should come, so he can get a better idea of what’s what. Sure, he says, expecting a phone call or a flyer or something.” Spyder stumbled again. Shrike caught him by the shoulder. “Thanks. About three in the morning, he’s in bed. When he opens his eyes, he finds about a half-dozen Angels in his bedroom. ‘Get dressed,’ they tell him. He’s no dummy. He does what he’s told. Outside are about a dozen more Angels. They rev their bikes loud enough to peel paint off the neighbors’ houses and roar out into the canyons over the Hollywood Hills, with my reporter friend riding bitch on the back of some guy’s bike.

“The thing about those canyons is, there’s a lot of bodies buried out there. A million years from now, archeologists are going to understand us completely from all the bones of the dead TV producers, junkie musicians, porn stars and coke dealers scattered all up in those canyons. And my friend doesn’t know if he’s going to get laid or stomped or shot in the head and buried in a shallow grave. Then they round a corner and he sees the lights and hears the music. The Angels promised him a party and, sure enough, there’s a party going on.

“But an Angel party isn’t a regular kind of party. There’s a lot of guys on massive doses of acid, playing William Tell with fifty caliber handguns. There’s knives flying by and gangbangs and more beer than in all of Milwaukee. And here’s my little artsy-fartsy weekly newsrag lit major buddy trying to be Cool Hand Luke with it all. The thing he said, though, and I believe this, was that after a while he really was cool with the savage craziness. The party went on all night and into the next day, and the way he put it, ‘You can only be terrified for so long.’”

“I guess you’re still looking for your happy place on this trip,” said Lulu.

“Working on it. I figure Hell can’t be any worse than Houston.”

“Are we close to the bottom, Lulu?” asked Shrike.

“Damned if I know. It just keeps going down.”

“It’s getting hot,” said Shrike.

“Yeah, but it’s a dry heat,” said Spyder. No one laughed.

“Why can’t the Prince of Darkness have an elevator? Ozzy would,” Lulu said.

“Don’t disrespect the demons in their own house, dear.”

“Yes, daddy.”

“Maybe this should be a quiet time, while we try to get our bearings,” said Shrike.

Spyder stumbled again, cursed. He leaned over the railing and felt a warm wind rising from somewhere below. It still smelled of roses, but there was an undercurrent of something musky and subterranean, darkly fungal. Spyder had to admit that he was a little surprised and kind of annoyed with himself. After all the reading and study he’d done concerning the underworld, now that he was actually here, he kind of wanted the place to be a furnace full of guys in red suits, pointy beards and pitchforks. Those childhood images and fears never go away and never really get updated, he thought. You can add on new ones, but you never completely bury the old nightmares.

“How many angels are there?” asked Lulu.

“Depends on who you ask, but the consensus is between a hundred million and a billion. And a third of them went down with Lucifer when he got the door.”

“You’re saying, there’s like thirty million crackhead angels down there?”

“Give or take.”

“How fucked are we?”

“It could be worse,” said Shrike. “We’re sneaking into to a mad place at a chaotic time. War is a great cover for crime.”

“What’s going to be down at the bottom of this staircase?” asked Lulu.

“I wish I knew,” Spyder said. “Hell’s pretty flexible. Different to different people at different times. It’s got a geography, all these little fiefdoms controlled by Lucifer’s lodge buddies. There’s the big boy’s palace in the biggest city, Pandemonium. Some prophets say Hell’s just a big, pointless machine, that all the damned souls are cogs and gears and that the machine’s only purpose is to grow with no purpose at all. Others say that life in Hell’s just like life on earth, only more hopeless and boring. Some traditional types still go with the fire and brimstone story, and why not? Someone’s got to have that old school stick up their ass.” Spyder shrugged. “I’ve talked to Shrike about the demons and laws and traps I’ve read about, but, we’re not going to know what’s down there until we’re on the ground.”

Lulu laughed.

“What?” asked Spyder.

“I’m just rememberin’ something. After I came out to my folks, all the times they told me this is where I’d end up. And here I am.”

The air grew hotter and more fragile, brittle almost. Not like the desert. It felt artificial, as if someone had left on a giant dehumidifier and it was sucking the moisture from everything. The rising air from below was full of an itchy grit that settled on everyone’s skin and instantly itched. Hell already sucked and we’re barely through the door, Spyder thought.

Spyder felt Shrike’s hand close around his. “When we get down there you stick close to me, pony boy.”

“Why didn’t you tell that being blind was such a drag?”

“You get used to it.

“This probably wasn’t the time to start.”

“Damn. We’re here. The bottom,” said Lulu. “Be careful stepping down.”

“Where do we go now?” Spyder asked.

“I was going to ask you, Mr. Wizard. What is this?”

“Describe it. I’m Ray Charles over here.”

“Right. Sorry,” she said. “Okay. We’re in a big cavern at the bottom of the stairs. There’s light, but hell if I can tell where it’s coming from. In front, there’s three really big doors. There’s no signs or nothing, but all of the doors have the pug ugliest demon faces carved on them. Looks like we’re marching down some monster’s gullet, whatever we do. But which one do we open?”

“This wasn’t in any of the books,” Spyder said. “What do the demons look like?”

“Like demons. Big scary teeth and huge goddam claws.”

“Do the demons have snouts? Like dogs or wolves?”

“Yeah. Kind of. What are they?”

“I think I got it,” said Spyder. “It’s not ‘they.’ It’s ‘it.’ This is Cerberus. The three-headed hellhound. Some stories say Cerberus guards the entrance to Hell. Some say he is the entrance. To get inside, Cerberus swallows you. Only you have to pick the right mouth, otherwise, he shits you out into chaos. Not heaven or Hell, just stone cold nothing.”

“So, which head gets the bone?”

Spyder hesitated. He heard someone moving around by the doors. Shrike. She was muttering a spell that wasn’t working. The situation was so frustrating. Spyder wanted to rip the idiot blindfold off his eyes and not have to stand around like a crippled child.

“The one on the right feels light on its hinges. It’s been used the most. Maybe it’s the way,” said Shrike.

“Or it’s a trick to get us down the beast’s belly,” said Lulu.

“We go in through the center,” Spyder said.

“How do you know?” asked Shrike.

“Count Non knew things about Hell. He told me to be like the Buddha. Buddha always took the middle way.”

“Are you sure?”

“Open it.”

He listened to Lulu going to the door. Hesitation. A footfall. Silence. The sound of dry hinges grinding and a door scraping over a dirty floor.

“Lulu?” asked Shrike.

“There’s a tunnel. Something’s moving at the end. People. And like a river, I think.” She pushed the door open wider. “Hey man, thanks for not dooming us right off.”

Spyder smiled. “All part of the service. I guess we’re supposed to go in there now.”

Someone fell. The sound was dry and hollow in the warm, thick air of Hell. Spyder moved toward the sound.

“Shrike, are you all right?”

“I’m fine. Let me catch my breath.”

“Lulu?”

“I’ve got her. Follow my voice over here.”

Spyder found them sitting on the floor. Shrike was leaning on the cavern wall. Her hands were wet and cold.

“Something in my chest,” she said. “I think it’s the key Madame Cinders put inside me. I can feel it moving. It must know we’re getting near the book.”

“When you’re ready, we’ll go,” said Spyder.

“I’m ready,” she said and got up slowly.

The middle tunnel through Cerberus’ gullet was warm and wet. When Spyder touched the wall, the stone was fleshy and yielding. They all hurried through as quickly as they could.