Highway to Hell Read online

  "Nightmares? So, I'm dreaming then?" Her eyes widen and her lips twitch in anticipation of the barest hint of hope revealing itself.

  I feel the tightness of irritation in my chest loosen a little. The woman is in her mid to late forties. She has the look on her face that speaks of desolation and despair. Like she'd seen too much shit in her time and decided to drink herself to death because it was the best way to escape. It saddens me, people like her always seem to find a spark of hope within themselves after it's too late. Maybe because it hits so close to home. I certainly had been like her, afflicted with the hopeless dilemma, but it didn't mean everyone got a cush deal like mine. I harden my heart, remembering the rules. There is nothing I can do for the woman now.

  "Yeah, a nightmare. Who wants to spend an eternity waiting in line, right? Look, the Drudes will consider your case and decide then. I'm not the one for the job. I just bring them in."

  "Them? Who is them?" The woman licks her dried-out lips, glancing around for the "them.”

  "The souls."

  "I still don't understand."

  I close my eyes and groan as I run my hand through my spikey, caramel-colored hair, wanting to tear it out. How many times have I pushed my way through the crowds of people and needed to explain this? At least once every time I bring in a new mark. So, daily. I do this crap daily.

  "You know where you are?" I open my eyes and stare down at her. Her eyes don’t fully meet mine. She suffers from the same affliction of nervous I-don’t-want-to-stare-because-that-would-be-rude vibe. This place is rude. A daily affront to everything anyone holds virtuous. I have a hard time remembering names, so I stopped asking for them. Mostly I recognize the people here by the look on their face. The level of how much this place has worn at their soul. It ranges from the hope on hers to the look of dejected defeat.

  "I…I think so.” The woman's eyes water as she looks around the massive stone room.

  Columns line the outer circular walls and dark crevices collect in corners like dust bunnies breeding under furniture that haven't been moved in years. Great, cue the waterworks and the denial too. I sigh and glance up at the domed ceiling. It’s just as spartan and gloomy as the rest of the room. Maybe we could commission a corrupt painter to put in a skylight or something. There’s my hope shining through my brain like a beacon of -- what the shit, Catriona? Don’t forget the mission. Someday you get a one-way ticket out. No need to entertain the false idea of incorporating hope to the masses who don’t get out. I switch gears in my head, downshifting to a practical speed. Nah, no skylight. We all have other stuff to do rather than watch out for Hell’s version of a pervy-Picasso. I turn my face back to hers, reminding myself as much as I feel for her situation, I am not a hugger.

  "My job is to collect the souls that have been marked to come here. With me so far?" Farrah hair Femme nods. “Ok, well, my crew and I," I point to the four biker chicks behind me manhandling Jeremiah into the foyer. “We drive them here into Hell on our motorcycles. We act as transport to get souls past the walls of the human realm into this one and deliver our marks to get in line with the rest of you who are waiting for sentencing.”

  "Yes, but I still think there has been a mistake. I came here on a boat,” she insists as her fingers curl around the sleeve of my jacket.

  I look down at them and feel my jaw crack. My fingers had once curled similarly, as I looked up into the eyes of my murderer. There’s a defining moment in everyone’s life. Some think it’s the first bad decision. Some think it’s the catalyst to those decisions. Some even think the defining moment is when the big crisis comes and the lesson is learned. I think maybe I was a combination of all three. My defining moment came at the end. When I blinked up into the eyes of the man holding the gun. I cried and I begged.

  I often imagine what it would have been like if I were a hero. If I’d notched my chin up and said, “go ahead. Pull the trigger.” I’ve had about two years down here to accept the fact I am not, nor was I ever, that person. I begged. And if I were to ever relive the moment, I can with the utmost confidence say, I would beg again. But what’s the lesson learned from all of this? I know what moment defined me. I know my life wasn’t perfect and I should have made better choices, but in the end, I would still ask for it back. I would make the changes and do the right thing. Hindsight is twenty-twenty and when my handler emerged from the shadows near the junk pile when I was making makeshift tools to fix up Sugar, and offered me the second chance, I didn’t hesitate to take it. I look around for my handler to see if she will pop out of the shadows like a damn poltergeist and save this woman, but no such luck for the late-eighties lady.

  I crack the cement my jaw has become and my teeth hurt as I grind out, "There’s more than one way other than a motorcycle to get here. Your case is not my problem, lady. I just deliver the goods.”

  "You have to help me. Please!"

  I wish I was immune to the begging. I have been listening to it for what feels like an eternity, although my gig only started a few years ago. It still gets to me, every damn day.

  "I told you, I--" I pull her fists off of my jacket as more tears stream from eyes just as dull brown as her hair.

  "Bitch!"

  My head snaps to the side as something that feels like a boulder smashes into my cheek.

  2

  I stagger back a couple of steps as pain explodes in my skull and then a copper taste floods my mouth. Sappy lady also stumbles a few steps and quickly scrambles away from us. I spit blood on the floor, convincing myself I hadn’t just been shot point blank again. The black spots fade from my vision just as I see Jeremiah try to tackle me, but I'm quick to jump back to my feet, survival instincts kicked up to one hundred percent. Just because I’m dead doesn’t mean I won’t defend against a personal attack.

  Faline tries to wrap her arms back around Jeremiah. His face is contorted into the unmasked rage of a psycho killer and he's definitely worse for wear, burnt from the sidecar's flames with scraps of flesh hanging around his waist from the barbs. The wounds will disappear in time, this being the land of the dead and all. Torture comes in daily doses around here like Percocet in a halfway house's candy dish. The current injuries he is sporting are a tickle compared to what is in store for him in the circle he is headed for.

  Normally, I would have just let Jeremiah go once inside Limbo, but he’d proven to be a feisty mark on the ride between realms. He tried to push through the sidecar’s flames so he's one of the souls we must physically hand over to the Drudes.

  I snarl, cupping my throbbing cheek, and then tackle him. We both go down in a heap of limbs. I twist once we are on the floor and pin him down. I straddle his waist, hiss down at him, and clock him in the nose. My knuckles tingle on the impact and I shake my hand. I'm not usually the one to dole out torture around here, but the job permits me to use force when necessary. It satisfies me to hear the cartilage crunch, but then the blood spurts, spraying across my t-shirt.

  "Damn it! I loved this shirt!" I want to strangle him as I look at the gray t-shirt with "Hellion" written in glittering gold lettering across the front. So maybe the new girl’s #Cutie t-shirt isn’t so far-fetched.

  He's holding his nose and moaning, but it is a safe bet he isn't going anywhere. A couple of Drudes float in beside me as I scramble to get off him. I hate being anywhere near the Drudes if I can help it. The dense patch of fog wafting around them is like a black void. I've tried to discern a form beyond it, but there is nothing solid under the miasma. The feeling they emit is the cold terror of nightmares. It sucks me in and makes my skin crawl, reminding me my worst nightmares have already come to pass, but they can ensure I relive them, again and again.

  It's momentarily paralyzing, but to keep from freezing on the spot, I rub my arms against the prickling sensation under my skin and watch as they float Jeremiah away. His screams rip through the atrium and those waiting in line around us stare as he struggles against the fog, but he is lost to it. His eyes are bloodshot from ter
ror. Whatever terror is near the surface of Jeremiah's mind, it wasn't hard for the Drudes to find.

  Newly formed Drudes give people night terrors once or twice a week. They go for the sick and elderly types, or little kids. Drudes who have been around the block a few times are the ones who have perfected the craft of night terrors. Some of them even have favorite victims.

  "Trina, you're growling!" Leo has lit a cigarette as she watches the spectacle. The ember tip glows like my eyes and the smoke curls around her face like a veil. She shakes her dark head and I see her spikey black hair with white tips flash under the low torchlight.

  Faline and Tabby are shifting side to side, trying to figure out how to help and settle on crowd control if need be while Tora looks on terrified.

  "No shit. Always the level-headed one, you are.” I stand and she hands the cigarette to me. I take a drag and cough. I've never really enjoyed smoking, but I do relish the feel of my blood pressure dropping when the nicotine hits my system.

  "I thought I was the level head.” Faline looks like she's ready to hand me a fire extinguisher to douse myself, but the flames die down in my soul. Her face is tight and I can’t tell if it’s from the severity of her hair pulled back into a tight knot at the base of her skull, or if she’s genuinely worried. I blink, reminding myself of a mission. Her hair reminds me of the color of espresso and as soon as I can get to the level I’m going to, the sooner I can have a cup of caffeine, the balm to my tattered soul. Besides, it's not like I can kill anyone with my temper. Everyone here is already dead, technically. We were all given corporeal bodies when we make our deals with the Devil. I feel my claws rescind along with my fangs and whiskers.

  "I don't get paid enough for this crap.” I hand the smoke back to Leo.

  Her dark fingers pinch the butt and she flicks the ashes on the floor. There’s no such thing as Hellish housekeeping.

  "We don't get paid at all.” She takes a drag and the tip lights up again.

  "Point made.”

  "You could always take it up with the Union Rep.” The smoke curls out of her lips and it is mesmerizing for a moment. I pretend my temper is coiling out and escaping this place and the thought calms me down. I’m itching for a proper smack down Jeremiah had been promising, but my girls are getting so proficient, the jobs have pretty much become get in, get the mark, and get out.

  "Hell has a Union? What happens to the person who complains?" Frumpy Fran who begged for my help earlier is back in my face.

  I groan. I should have chased after Jeremiah. Then I consider her question. "I've never really given it much thought. I think the person would get the ax. Literally."

  A shudder ripples through my girls. Tora looks just as perplexed as Fran. Picture that. Me going to Hell's HR department. The gang's handler here in Hell, Jezebel. More fondly known to us as Auntie J. I can just see Auntie J, a Gorgon demon, with her simple woodsman hatchet or rolling pin; it depends on the mood she's in, baking or breaking. She has one too many chins and smells like sulfur and baking spices. Female Gorgons are the demons of wisdom and mysteries, it makes her the best candidate to be the liaison between most of the demons and the Devil. She's also the bringer of death if necessary. Like, literal death. Death of a soul death and of the permanent kind for demons. She fought for my deal with Lucifer, but asking for a dime for this job is a stretch. Even for me. Auntie J is no pushover. Despite being able to equate her to the boisterous and irritating relative who only shows up for holiday dinners, she could rock the lumberjack hardware with the best of the woodsmen.

  I continue to watch as the Drudes, bouncers of the year, drag Jeremiah off. Satisfied, I turn my attention back to the woman, not wanting to keep Auntie J waiting anymore.

  “Look, lady. Your best bet is to wait in line like everyone else, ok?"

  "But…"

  I nod at the woman and Leona stubs out her cigarette on the floor with her boot as she grabs the woman under her arm. She knows when my patience is shot and I'm grateful my girl steps in before I overstep my role and boundaries of the job. I don’t need any more smudges on my soul, and delivering undue punishment, even with whatever she deserves down here, would tarnish the offset I’ve been working so hard for. I can hear the woman protesting even as I make my way through the lines of gawking people.

  "Come on, girls. We're going to the Dog Pound,” I call over my shoulder. The rest of my crew is hot on my heels when we reach the other side of the unadorned antechamber.

  The area near the far walls is darker than the pale beige stone of the rest of the room. The archways are cast into shadows where the light bulbs have burnt out. No one has bothered to replace them and why should they? It makes the whole room feel forlorn. I hit a button on the column of granite near the wall and hear the rumble of the elevator spring to life and ascend from somewhere below my feet. It’s a funny place down here. There’s the incorporation of modern amenities in a place as archaic as time itself. The electricity feels out of place here, like a historical building renovated for modern living. You know the toilet shouldn’t be able to flush, or the kitchen to have running water, but then those little commodities have been added for the benefit of the owner. Maybe that’s why I like the occasional visit to ancient ruins as a stop off before the end of a job. The character is still imbued within the walls, even if the Hell is a bit broken. At least it’s untarnished with the need to make it better. Kind of like how my foster parents treated me and my sister, Fiona. I feel the hurt arc through my body. Fiona was the perky upgrade while I was the ruins.

  When the little ping of the lift sounds and the doors slide open on an ear-piercing screech due to lack of oiling, I step onto the elevator and wait as everyone squashes in next to me. I hit the button for the tenth floor then close my eyes. No one realizes there is a tenth floor in Hell. It’s all “8-6-7-5-3-0-9!” for Hell’s floor plan. Throw in a level 1, 2, and 4 and no one cares what’s beyond that. Probably because they’ve never survived any of the levels above it.

  I don't want to see through the transparent slats on either side of the doors into the next eight circles as the elevator rumbles to life. I've always been grateful I'm not on one of those floors now. I might have been if it hadn't been for Auntie J. She stepped up on my behalf and asked Satan for a deal for me. She brokered my contract so to speak. Hashed out all the details. I owe her a solid for sure. Maybe I am more like the souls in Limbo than I realize. Looking for a clan, a semblance of order, the top of the gang’s hierarchy.

  I open my eyes thinking we must be nearly to the Dog Pound. I've gotten good at timing it in my head, but the fight with Jeremiah and the deep thoughts have me rattled. I never knew the human body could suffer so much from torture. Crime drama on TV paints a vivid picture of what is on the insides of the human body, but it is nothing compared to the reality of the mush splahing down like raining cow viscera on a butcher's block, into a tub below the table. Anytime I catch a glimpse of intestines, it makes my own stomach roll. It takes guts to walk through Hell with my head held high and the knowledge there is a job to do. I don't like looking into the third circle of Hell, Gluttony.

  "The Dog Pound?"

  I forgot Tora has no idea what it is. Grateful for a distraction, I glance over and see Tabby tighten the blond ponytails on top of her head. Then she answers for me.

  "It's kind of like a Hellhound frat house.”

  "Who are they?" Tora chews her fingernails.

  "The gang who marks the souls we collect.”

  "That doesn't sound so bad.” Tora looks between the three of us. She giggles, hearing the lie in her own voice none of us bother to point out.

  "Cats and dogs, sweetie. This is Hell. Do you honestly think two rival gangs of demons are going to get along?" Faline checks her phone again. Ok, so apparently Fae will call her on the bullshit meter going off. Then again, Fae’s bedside manner is what got her in trouble with the Cosmos in the first place.

  "Oh, sorry.” Tora chews on her other hand.

  "D
on't be sorry. That shit'll get you chewed up and spit back out down here. Hellhounds versus Hellcats. They loathe us and we loathe them. We still must work together though, but it's cool because the Cats stick together. You're one of us now.” I shoulder bump her to make her feel better.

  She peers up at me with pale green eyes. Her freckles blend with her whisker spots so I can't see one over the other. But it's the flaming red hair that captures everyone's attention. I can see the whole innocent look being what caught Leo’s attention this morning. If opposites attract, she and Leo are polar. I just hope the beguiling face doesn’t get her torn apart down here. I’ll give her a minute to get accustomed then I’ll have to harden her up.

  I smile at her, something we rarely do down here. Redemption is a terrifying road to travel and atonement for the crap we've done is an even harder gear to grind. She's only been with us for a day. Or longer. I lose track of time in the Underworld because it moves differently than the living realm. She showed up this morning and Auntie J brought her to us just as we were about to ride out to collect Jeremiah. I don't have her full story yet, but she fits the bill stamped with Lucifer's seal of stands-a-chance so she hopped on the back of Leo's bike and away we went.

  She looks around and I see the small smiles on Faline and Tabby's lips. I nod and the elevator shudders to a stop. The doors ping as they open and we step out into the Dog Pound. I look around for the five Hounds. At least, by last count, there were five. They have a tendency to get territorial and tear each other up like the rabid mongrels they are. Mostly, when their leader, Damien, isn't keeping a tight leash on them.