2013: Beyond Armageddon (46 page)

Satan scooped him up and they quickly reached the right side wall of the vast cavern. Openings into the smaller rooms were carved at more or less regular intervals, maybe fifty yards apart. Satan put him down and they entered the first one.

They stood in a 19th-century London cobblestone street. Rundown row houses ran behind sidewalks on either side. Near where they stood, a narrow alley disappeared into the darkness. Milling around its entrance was a group of women, no longer human but entities of fire. Streetwalkers, judging from their garish, rundown appearance, and the coarse torrent of abuse they were unleashing on someone in the alley. Each held either a straight razor or large knife.

A commotion came from somewhere in the alley. A humanesque fire, in the shape of a man wearing a hat and overcoat, staggered out of the darkness. Blood spurted from a gaping slash across his neck. Another female fire-shape followed him out and threw her blood-stained razor at his feet. The others descended on him, hacking and slashing furiously.

“Jack the Ripper and his victims, getting even for all eternity. Each time, he experiences all the agonies of death—but death brings him no rest. As soon as he dies, he rises up again, his murderer goes to the back of the line, and the next one takes her place. Who says I’m not fair?”

Zeke knew he should keep quiet but couldn’t. “Why are the women here? They were innocent victims.”

“Innocent? Nonsense. You know nothing about the sins these harlots committed. I, on the other hand, was there.” Satan picked him up. “Come, let us continue.”

In the next room they touched down in front of a guillotine. Someone was about to be executed. A long line of people stretched away from the wooden structure. An endless supply of victims, Zeke thought.

The executioner pulled the release. Zeke watched in horror as the blade slid noisily along the rails.

Choonk
.

The head tumbled into the basket.

A cheer went up from the crowd. The executioner shuffled away as the next person came up the stairs. Zeke expected her to take the beheaded person’s place. Instead, she went to the executioner’s post and began pulling the cord to raise the blade back into place. When it was secured at the top, the severed head rose up from the basket and reattached itself to its body.

“Robespierre and his victims,” said Satan. “His head has been lopped off millions of times in the last two hundred years.”

Down came the blade again, and that grisly unmistakable final sound.

Choonk
.

It took a moment for Zeke to find his voice. “You said the people doing the executing were his victims. Why are they here?”

“I said victims. I didn’t say innocent victims. These are the ones the good Monsieur was right about. They were guilty as hell. Pardon the expression.”

Satan snatched Zeke up and headed for the next room.

“Some people thought Robespierre was a hero,” Zeke managed to say as they went.

“Fuck him,” Satan said. “He was behind all those heads being lopped off. When you condone that much cruelty, you are my willing accomplice, and there’s going to be Hell to pay.”

Satan chuckled.

Zeke steeled himself for whatever horror awaited in the next chamber.

A 17th-century slave ship stood on wooden supports, the side cut away to reveal the interior. The white captain and crew were in shackles below, being whipped by their African slaves.

“Another variation on the theme,” said Satan.

“But the slaves did nothing wrong,” Zeke protested. “They
were
innocent victims. Why are they down here?”

“Those aren’t the original slaves. They’re just stand-ins: crack dealers, gangstas, and other solid citizens. All God’s chillun, getting back what they gave out. What goes around comes around.”

Zeke felt disgusted with himself for almost smiling at Satan’s use of street slang. Before he could dwell on the feeling, Satan’s huge hand wrapped around him again and the tour continued.

In the next room several enraged spirit-flames, wielding various cutting instruments, hacked a screaming man to pieces, then began eating the body parts. A spurt of vomit burned the back of Zeke’s throat. “Dahmer?”

The familiar gloating leer gave him his answer.

Into room after room they went, each depicting some grisly moment in history.

Satan apparently saw that Zeke was shutting down. As they flew to the next exhibit he said, “Time to show you that first scene, as I promised, while you can still appreciate it.”

In an instant they were there. Satan made a proud, theatrical sweep of his arm to indicate the spectacle before them.

“My masterpiece.”

Marching by in front of them were row after precise row of goose-stepping troops. Despite their recognizable shape and uniforms, these were not human soldiers. These were their souls, their evil residue, perpetually encased in flame. As they paraded by from left to right, their right arms shot up to salute the lone figure that stood to the side inspecting them.

Their leader.

Der Führer.

Adolf Hitler.

There he stood, with his unmistakable little mustache, proudly surveying his army. Replete with uniform and swastika armband, still in power. It struck Zeke that being here might be more of a reward than a punishment. A documentary he’d seen on Hitler and the occult had presented a conspiracy theory saying Hitler purposely committed suicide on Walpurgis Night to commend his spirit unto Satan.

The scene suddenly changed.

Columns of smoke hissed up, as though from invisible jets in the earth. The smoke became a cloud that completely enshrouded the Führer and his troopers. As the poison took effect, their death moans started low, then quickly swelled into a collective roar of soul-shattering agony that filled every inch of Hell. Zeke clamped his hands over his ears while standing transfixed in morbid fascination, every muscle tensed against a hurricane blast of evil worse than anything he had yet encountered.

He wanted to rejoice that there was justice after all, but it was another hollow victory. If he ever told his Jewish friends of this, would it bring them joy or pain?

Satan broke in on his thoughts.

“The spawn of the neo-Nazi movement and its various offspring,” he proudly announced. “The Jews were an hors d’oeuvre.”

Zeke was unable to stifle a moan. Satan noticed with delight and went on, unfazed.

“Every time a new group is thoroughly trained, they are sent above to infiltrate. Ethnic hatred is big business, and I’m a worldwide conglomerate.”

He paused to savor the effect he was having, then continued with relish.

“Luckily for me, you pathetic creatures do
not
learn from your mistakes. Remind yourself all you want with your little memorials, but they will change nothing. All of God’s creatures will soon be mine.”

Zeke was teetering on the brink.

“There is so much more to show you,” Satan said, “but, alas, I can see that you are not up to it. So many superstars you will have to miss: Herod, Pilate, Vlad the Impaler, Mussolini, Stalin, Attila. Attila. They called him Flagellum Dei. The Scourge of God.

“Not to mention the endless parade of minor but important supporting characters: John Wayne Gacy, Eddie Gein, Richard Speck, Andrei Chikatilo—all the rest will have to wait.

“All except one. Come along, weakling. One more and I will put you out of your misery. You cannot leave without seeing the honorary general of my army.”

Satan grabbed him and flew what seemed like many miles downward to a much deeper region. Finally they touched down.

“You’ve often heard the expression ‘the nethermost region of Hell.’ Well, here we are. A fitting place for humanity’s ultimate outcast.”

The room was enormous, far bigger than any of the others. At the base of the far wall, several hundred yards away, was a small shadowy shape, indistinguishable from this distance.

A stream flowed in a straight line along the center of the stone floor. Zeke followed its course and saw that it appeared to begin near the distant shape. He looked behind him to see if he could tell where it ended.

It flowed into the sea of fire, a tributary to the molten heart of Hell.

“Come,” said Satan. “Behold the man who began the end.”

He pushed off with his enormous legs, his wings whooshed loudly one time, and they were there. Satan released Zeke. Tensing himself against the ultimate evil, he looked up.

An ancient, gnarled olive tree grew from the solid rock. From one of its lowest branches, an entity of fire in the shape of a man hung at the end of a rope.

But he was not dead. His eyes were open.

Copious rivulets of tears ran down his cheeks. His face was crumpled into a mask of abject shame that was almost unendurable to see. When the once-human thing that hung there saw Zeke staring at him, he hid his face behind his hands. Tears spurted through his fingers, ran down his body to the floor, and trickled into the stream that ended at his feet.

Zeke looked warily at Satan and waited for him to supply the familiar name. Smiling his gloating, repugnant smile, he did so.

“Judas Iscariot.”

Zeke sagged, nearly collapsing. Satan noted it with pleasure and continued his assault.

“Suicide did not end his misery. It only began it.”

Zeke fought back a flood of emotion. Satan saw it and went on with heightened enthusiasm.

“Sometimes, some of the others come down here to spit on him. They hold him responsible for killing their ‘Savior’.” The Devil very exaggeratedly moved his huge claws to indicate the quotation marks. “He has not stopped crying for two thousand years. This ground was dry when I first brought him here.”

Zeke had seen enough. He felt as if his soul were on the brink of being lost forever, even if he did make it out alive.

It was time. He needed to get to the weapons in his backpack. Now.

He put a hand over his eyes, as if to shield them from what he was seeing, and used slumping, defeated body language to heighten the impression that he could take no more.

Satan plucked him up and scrutinized him. An ominous rumbling came from the bestial throat. The contemptuous sound made Zeke think he might just be crushed. Instead the gigantic wings began to flap.

Moments later they were back. Satan released Zeke beside his pack and resumed his place on the throne, twenty yards away. Zeke nonchalantly began to open the pack.

“What are you doing?”

“I’m dying of thirst. I need some water before I can talk.”

The pack was open, its contents exposed. Satan was unconcerned.

“Do not do anything foolish, young man. I am invincible. I have absorbed the energy of all the souls in my army since the beginning of my war with Him. Against all of that power, your atom bombs are like lightning bugs.”

“All right,” Zeke said calmly. “But how about these?”

He rocketed one of the footballs at Satan’s chest. A hand came up to block it and the missile exploded against his palm. Satan looked at his hand in stunned surprise, shaking it as if he’d been stung by a bee. While he was distracted Zeke threw three more. All exploded on Satan’s torso.

The Devil let out a deafening roar and shot up from his seat, brushing at the liquid like someone on fire trying to put out the flames.

Three more grenades knocked him back a faltering step. Two more drove him farther back. He roared again and gathered himself to charge.

Zeke reached for more grenades but the crucifixes caught his attention. Lightning he hadn’t noticed before was exploding inside them. The streaking light churned violently through the entire pile, as though the crucifixes had come to life and were arming themselves for battle.

Satan took an unsteady step, then another, cutting the distance between them in half. Zeke threw a crucifix. It whizzed end over end and it stuck in Satan’s shoulder. He stopped and looked at in shock, pain etched on his face.

Lightning bursts exploded inside the crucifix. The relic must be injecting its power into him, like venom from a snake.

Satan yanked the crucifix out and flung it aside, advancing again.

Zeke threw another but it bounced off.

A huge hand began to close over him, but he jammed a crucifix into the scaly palm. Satan yanked his hand back, lightning flashing inside the silver relic. Zeke grabbed two more and dashed to a gigantic foot, plunging one of the crucifixes into it. Satan roared and pulled the foot up, almost losing his balance.

Zeke sprinted over and impaled the other foot. The Demon staggered and almost fell. He regrouped quickly, and although his gait was unsteady, he was close behind as Zeke returned to his pack for more weapons. He reached into the pack as Satan’s uninjured hand came down to grab him. Just before the hand closed Zeke jammed a crucifix into the web between the thumb and forefinger. Satan roared as foul liquid shot out and the hand jerked open, springing Zeke loose. He landed on his side and his head banged against the stone floor. Scrambling to his feet, he shook it off.

Satan stared in disbelief at his hands and feet. All had crucifixes in them, flashing lightning. Zeke snatched up his pack, keeping an eye on the Archenemy while putting more distance between them. Twenty, thirty, forty yards.

One by one Satan yanked out the crucifixes. With each removal he became stronger. When he had flung the last aside, he drew himself up to his full height and gazed down at Zeke, burning intensity streaming from the demonic red eyes. His voice was a jagged bolt of whispered rage.

“You must die.”

He advanced with careful, deliberate steps.

Zeke unzipped a pouch. He pulled out the pistol, thumbed the safety, and pulled the trigger. Satan spasmed as the burst of silver bullets hit him. Seconds later the 33-round magazine was empty. Above Satan’s nerve-shattering roar, Zeke heard another sound.

The whoosh of wings. Coming from his right.

The winged demon that had attacked earlier was swooping toward him. Zeke ducked and felt a talon go through his hair. He inserted a fresh magazine as the beast circled for another assault. Going down on one knee, he held the gun in both hands and squeezed off a short burst.