II. Unholy Roller

Chapter 2. Jack crash lands on the core of the Earth and hitches a ride into Hell with a Judas freak in a Mack truck.

Burning car fell out of the sky like an act of some lunatic god. Blacked out before I hit the ground. Corpse of the Cadillac exploded on impact. Woke up on fire. Too numb to notice right away, too disoriented to care. I picture myself running around in circles, consumed in flames like a Hollywood stuntman. No one around to appreciate the joke, though. So I ignore the smell of burning flesh and start making my way towards nothing in particular. Walking funeral pyre.

 

I hear a sudden banging noise behind me. It's coming from the trunk of the car, but louder than before. Kicking and screaming. Fear and fury. I pause for a moment to wonder about the other passengers. The ones that had to fly coach.

 

With a triumphant crack, the latch gives way and the stowaways manage to escape their flaming tomb…and emerge in Hell. Some people have the worst luck. If Harry Houdini ever lost a wager with the Devil, it probably would have played out about the same way.

They practically rip each other apart trying to be the first one to crawl out. Bruised, burned, and mangled. Already starting to rot.

 

SIX DEAD BODIES: The number of cadavers you can fit comfortably in the trunk of a Cadillac according to the owner's manual (seven if you have a hacksaw).

 

Now they're all running around screaming at the top of their useless, dust-filled lungs. Incoherent corpse gibberish. Mostly begging, praying, and cursing. One of them keeps shouting, "Stop the car!" Another one recoils in horror shrieking about a "burning devil." I look around but I don't see anything that fits the description. Then I realize that I'm still smoldering in flames and he's pointing at me. Well that's a relief.

 

I take a moment to put out the fire like I was brushing lint off of my sleeves. I mutter a few compassionate words of hope ("Shut up, fuckers, I'm not a demon") to the lost and tortured souls newly arisen in the afterlife. Then I shove one of them to the ground for getting too close ("And don't f*****g touch me, either"). I'm surrounded by dead penitents tugging at my sleeves. Weeping. Sniveling. Red tears. Black drool.

 

Confessions are recited. Promises are made. Bribes are offered. Sure thing, kids. Ten thousand Hail Mary's and you're free to go. Just follow me to my magic spaceship and we'll all take the rainbow bridge up to Heaven. All is forgiven, happy ending, amen.

 

No dice. Call a tow truck.

 

If they think that I'm here to save them, then they're in for a world of disappointment. My advice? Find Jesus. Pray for a ride. Bring gas money.

 

They're still moaning and groveling as I walk away. It's not that I don't want to help--okay, that's part of it. The bottom line is, I got problems of my own.

 

So this is my new home now. Fantastic. I guess I should probably take a look around and try to get my bearings. Soak in the scenery. Maybe try to find an elevator with an up button. Hell, at this point I'd settle for a thousand flights of stairs as long as I saw a sign marked EXIT. Ah, nothing quite like good old fashioned optimism. The glass isn't half-empty, it's half-full of piss and poison.

 

At least the weather's not so bad, aside from the sweltering heat. And the view is nice, as far as infernal wastelands go. The smog-choked sky is a bruised shade of purple. A red glow of distant lava marks the horizon line. The terrain is forged from obsidian. Jagged peaks and cracked foothills. Death Valley in glass.

 

Closer inspection reveals faces and figures encased within the black, glassy rock. Eye level, trapped in cliff facings, or underground and underfoot. Motionless and fossilized like insects in paperweights. Frozen stares of shock and horror. Naked and vulgar, suspended in distorted poses. Only their eyes move. Why do their eyes move?

That brings up some valid questions. Are they still conscious? Can the dead die? What's the shelf life on a soul, anyway? I guess mine's fireproof. Then again, I'm a jaded skeptic; I don't believe in metaphysical pain.

 

Mortality might not be a factor anymore, but mobility sure as hell is. Gotta have something to keep the wheels of self-preservation spinning. Without that, what have you got? Nothing but slow, wasted years. Memories of movement. A crippled immortal, powerless and bored--forever. Just a scarecrow, collecting itches that will never be scratched. A lawn ornament in the Devil's front yard. Terrible way to spend an afterlife.

 

I stop at the edge of a plateau and take a moment to contemplate my surroundings. Lost in a panoramic hellscape paved with volcanic glass. Whorled rows of cracked trenches like crop circles scar the polished surface below. Neon red embers radiate from beneath. Far off in the distance I see an angry writhing vortex of storm clouds. Dead ringer for the eye of Jupiter. Below it lies the Pit. Above it, half hidden by tendrils of smoke and dust, a pyramid looms overhead--suspended by some mystical stygian science that only the ancient gravity wizards know for certain. And I think you know which pyramid I'm talking about. You've seen it before. You worship it every day. We all do. Behold the Great Seal of the Almighty Dollar.

 

The Illuminated Eye stares back at me. I stand transfixed in its gaze for a brief fragment of eternity.

*

The sound of something strangely familiar breaks my concentration and pulls me out of hypnosis. There's a loud rumbling noise nearby. An engine?

 

I turn to face a Mack truck idling behind me. The driver shouts to me over the uproar of the eighteen-wheeler. Southern drawl. Drunken slur. "Hey man, you need a ride? I'm headed to the city."

 

The city? Nice euphemism. I point towards the smokestack-belching abyss and say, "You want to go there?"

 

"Yup."

 

"And I should come with you?"

 

"Hop in."

 

I weigh the offer in my mind. My luck's been pretty bad on free rides today. I take one look at the burly redneck behind the wheel. Mutton chop sideburns and a s**t-eating grin. Scabs on his knuckles. Dried blood on his shirt. You can smell the stink of diesel fuel and bourbon from here.

 

I think I'd rather walk.

 

Seeing my lack of enthusiasm he adds, "Or you can just stay out here and get ripped apart. Your choice, man. I don't really give a s**t either way." He directs my attention upward. I look and see a swarm of giant flying things in the air above. Things that look vaguely prehistoric. Things that look predatory. Hundreds of them. Sprawling shadows with jagged black wings. They intersect each other in a razor blade kaleidoscope.

 

Okay. I'm sold.

 

Against my better judgment I climb into the cab of the truck. There's a plastic Judas figurine on the dashboard. Bible in the seat. Not the Good Book, though. Different bible. Hesitantly I say, "Thanks for the lift...I think."

 

"No sweat. Name's Coalburner. Friends call me Coal. Or CB. Sometimes Pigfucker. That last one'll cost ya a cracked rib, though."

 

"Good to meet you…uh, Coal. I'm Jack. So this is Hell, huh?"

 

"Oh yeah man, it's great. I love it here." He says it without sarcasm.

 

I challenge him with, "You can't be serious."

 

"The hell I ain't. Sinner’s paradise."

 

"Is that right?"

 

"Now I ain't sayin' it ain't a rough place. You gotta watch your a*s. Never know when some crazy f****r with a buck knife might run up on ya an' try to steal a kidney. Or ya might just get robbed and tortured in an alley. I see that a lot. Course that could happen anywhere. Ever been to Bangkok? That place is a m**********r. S**t, I f****n' died in Bangkok. Got caned to death outside a cheap whorehouse. You know how long it takes to beat a man to death with a bamboo cane?"

 

"No I don't."

 

"Twenty-three minutes. And this guy was a speedfreak, too. Hell ain't that bad. I seen worse."

 

The trucker looks over at me and catches me staring at the Judas on the dash. He says, "You believe in Judas, boy?" I don't know how to answer that one. I am instantly uncomfortable. "Hey. S**t-heel. I asked you a question. Ain't you ever heard the gospel of Judas?" Aw s**t. He's starting to go zealot on me.

 

"No, but I'd love to hear all about it some other time."

 

"Oh you'll hear about it now," he snaps at me. Whiskey breath hangs heavy in the air.

"Yeah man, I used to be righteous. Then I accepted Judas as my personal savior. Taught me to wrong my rights. I was headed for that big Sunday school in the sky till he put me on that dark path."

 

"Glad that whole burning in Hell thing worked out for you. You're a real inspiration. So other than getting stabbed with pitchforks, what do you do here all day? Got any fun hobbies?"

 

"Mostly I like to pick up hitchhikers. Cut 'em up into small pieces. Sell their organs."

 

"Say what?" Red flag. Get out. Now.

 

"Hitchhikers. Pieces. Organs." He speaks slowly. He stares straight ahead. His cheek twitches, doglike. Quick show of teeth.

 

There's an awkward silence. My hand creeps towards the door handle.

 

"Naw man, I'm just f****n' with ya." His face relaxes into a smile and he slaps my shoulder. Hilarious. F*****g hilarious.

 

I keep a wary eye on the sinister hick. Not quite sure what to make of this guy.

 

"You still ain't answered my question," he says, suddenly dead serious again. "You believe in Judas? If you say no I'll beat the dogshit outta you right now." I can't tell if he's joking. Let's just assume he's not.

 

"Um…yes?"

 

"Say you love Judas."

 

"What?"

 

"Say it, m**********r!" he shouts at me. My hand goes straight back to the door handle. He says, "Aw, c'mon man, don't go gettin' all upset on me, now. I didn't mean to yell at ya. Sometimes I get real angry. Doctor got me on these pills." Oh good, he's crazy. I think I'd like to leave now.

 

And he just keeps talking. "Hey man, check out this T-shirt I got! Now see, this picture tells a story. Right here ya got Judas. Now look real close. You see his jacket? It's got thirty pieces of silver on it. Know why? Cause that was the bounty they put on Jesus."

 

"Okay, but what's that got to do with--"

 

"See now, Jesus was a vampire zombie that walked the night back in the old wild west days. He was terrorizin' the peaceful village of Lago. Now the mayor of Lago--who was also the sheriff--well, he was beggin' for help. Course everybody just laughed at him cuz he was a midget. But then Judas came to town an' he taught the townsfolk to stand up and fight. Jesus attacked 'em again. And that sonuva b***h almost wiped out the whole damn village! I mean he could fly, he was throwin' fireballs, blowin' s**t up with his mind...crazy s**t."

 

"What page is that on, again?" I mumble as I flip through the Book of Judas.

 

"But then Judas challenged Jesus to a gunfight at high noon in front of the clocktower. Jesus was fast but Judas was faster. Bang! He shot him right in the head! That's the only way to kill a zombie, and Judas knew that. Then he staked him in the heart just to make sure. He saved the day and everyone that wasn't dead threw a big party. The mayor gave Judas a bag full of money, and the last hot girl in town slept with him twice. Then Judas rode off into the sunset on a giant metal bird."

 

"What the f**k are you even talking about?"

 

"How Judas saved the town of Lago."

 

"Are you f*****g high?" I ask the trucker.

 

"Yeah. What about it?"

 

"Well--vampires and zombies aside--you just described the plot of High Plains Drifter. Also, that's a picture of Rob Halford. From Judas Priest."

 

He just says, "Uh huh. What's your point?"

 

I inform him that Judas Priest was a rock band.

 

He says, "Everybody knows Judas was in a rock band. That's how he spread his gospel across the galaxy. Why else would his apostles carry guitars around?" He's got an answer for everything, apparently.

 

So I'm hitchhiking through Hell with a dead drunk Judas-freak off his meds. Welcome to the Satanic Bible Belt. Holy s**t. This guy must have the weirdest church on the face of...actually, scratch, that. I keep forgetting we're not on the face of the Earth anymore. Still under its skin, though.

 

I wonder if they persecute atheists and heretics here. What do you mean you don't believe in the Devil? Is not this magnificent lake of fire proof of His greatness? Guess the holy rollers are all the same no matter which god they're backing. And Old Scratch does have the home field advantage down here.

 

"So I guess there're a lot of Devil worshippers in Hell, huh?" I ask.

 

"I ain't no goddamn Devil worshipper!" he shouts back, suddenly offended.

 

Well now I'm totally confused. I drop the subject. For all I know this guy just sits around drinking lysergic Kool-Aid with David Koresh and listening to records backwards. Whatever. It's really none of my business. Also I don't care.

 

Onward we ride towards the cavernous hellmouth. Screw it, might as well sit back and enjoy the view. No reason to let a thing like eternal damnation bring me down. Come to think of it, I was already in a foul mood when I got here.

 

I stare vacantly out the window. Dead bodies lay decomposing on the jagged plains of the volcanic wasteland. Some isolated here and there, some in heaping piles. We pass a bulldozer depositing corpses by the dozens into the back of a large dump truck stained with blood and rust. Undead writhing souls pour into the truck with limp resignation. Somehow dead and deathless at the same time. Some moan in protest, some don't. Men in silver thermal suits oversee the operation. They're all armed with sub-machine guns. The occasional stragglers and fugitives are shot down accordingly. The smaller piles of bodies missed by the bulldozer are loaded by hand--with pitch-forks.

 

An unpleasant thought suddenly enters my head. I ask Coal what kind of cargo he's hauling in this rig.

 

"Dead folk," is his answer.

 

"Dead folk, you say."

 

"Yup."

 

There's another awkward silence.

 

"Lotta uses for dead folk," he tells me.

 

"I'll bet."

 

"Good for construction. They grind the bones up into bricks and sheetrock. Every building down there's made outta someone's bones."

 

"Sure."

 

"Good job security in construction."

 

"Uh huh."

 

"You can make paper from the skin. That's how they print the money. Skin's good for other stuff, too. Tablecloths, lampshades, curtains, shirts, pants...hell, I got a nice tapestry made outta tattooed skin. Wizards, dragons, naked chicks with swords...that kinda s**t. It's hangin' up in my living room right now. Picked it up at a flea market for ten bucks. I love it. My wife hates it. We don't get along so good."

 

"Sure."

 

"Steaks. They make good steaks. Restaurants pay top dollar by the pound. Ever eaten human flesh?"

 

"Can't say that I have."

 

"Oh, you'd love it. I got a special marinade I like to use. Old Cajun recipe. Let's see, what else. Medical experiments, that's a good one. Zombie slave trade, that's another one. Sculptures, for the art crowd. They got some weird s**t like you wouldn't believe. Sometimes they don't even use the whole body. Just parts. Sometimes they use lotsa bodies. Most of it's pretty fucked up. Course, that's what the kids are into these days, I reckon. You like art?"

 

"It's alright, I guess."

 

"Yeah, me neither. Rich folks usually just take the corpses and dip 'em in gold, then stick 'em in fountains. They think it's classy or some s**t. Personally I think it's just tacky. Ain't no need to flaunt that s**t, we know you're rich. That s**t pisses me off. Don't that s**t piss you off, Jack?"

 

"What, fountains?"

 

"Look retard, don't be a smart-a*s."

 

"Sorry."

 

"Anyway, what else...what else. Oh, there's taxidermy. Have some corpses stuffed and set 'em up in the yard. That's fun. Dress 'em up, pose 'em into fight scenes from movies. You should go check out the corpse museum. Bring the whole family. You got kids, Jack?"

 

"Nope."

 

"Yeah, I sold all mine. Grubby little b******s. Always crawling around the table, beggin' for food. Crappin' everywhere. Pissin'. Cryin'. Breakin' s**t. Smashed up all my Franklin Mint collectable plates. I was still payin' for that s**t, too. They ate all the damn rat poison, now I got rats. What was I talkin' about earlier?"

 

"Uses for dead folk."

 

"Right. Man, I could go on for hours."

 

"I'm sure you could."

 

"There's necromancy...necrophilia..."

 

"Yeah Coal...I get it."

 

"Well s**t man, you asked."

 

We're getting closer to the Pit. A dust storm kicks up around us. I can't even see through the windshield. I look over at Coal. He's pouring a glass of bourbon, altogether unconcerned with the hazards of the road.

 

"Maybe we should pull over until the storm clears," I say to the driver.

 

"Maybe you should shut the f**k up. Here, drink this." He hands me the glass of bourbon and starts drinking the rest straight from the bottle.

 

F**k it. Bottoms up. No point in not being drunk for this.

 

Well that's weird. There's something running alongside the truck. Something like a strange giant reptile. Almost looks like...oh, no. No. No f*****g way. That is NOT what I think it is. That is not a dinosaur.

 

It's a dinosaur. I'll be damned.

 

Why didn't anyone ever tell me about this before? You'd think the Bible would have mentioned it somewhere. Would have made for some interesting Sunday school sermons.

 

Q: What happened to all the dinosaurs?

A: They all died and went to Hell. Take that, Evolution!

 

Goddamn dinosaurs, of all things. Not the cleaned-up, paint-by-number versions you see on television or in children's books, either. They're a much stranger, more twisted breed than that. Ancient giants arisen from the tar pits, rabid and decaying. Still brooding over their own extinction. They've all zeroed in on us.

 

We seem to have attracted a large following. Groups of triple-horned, four-legged beasts stampede furiously on either side of us. One rams the trailer. Oh s**t. Then another. F**k. Then a third. Goddamn it, f*****g stop already! The impact shakes the cab of the truck. Coalburner spills his drink and starts swearing.

 

The flyers circle overhead, dive bombing the roof every so often. A beak the size of a b*****d sword slams against my window and cracks the glass. F**k you. Go away.

Cro-Magnon devils ride in on mammoths, hurling crude spears at the windows and tires. A small horde of savage Mesolithic bandits.

 

The trucker's hurling Molotov cocktails out the window. Hang on a minute--this f****r actually has a liquor cabinet installed in the dashboard! He's drinking the bourbon and burning the vodka. In that case, I'm gonna fix another drink.

 

Amazingly enough, he does actually manage to set a couple of the mammoths aflame, but it doesn't seem to slow them down any. So now we're just being chased by flaming pissed off prehistoric monsters.

 

One of the mammoth-riders catches a Molotov in his hand and throws it back at us. It explodes right in front of our eyes. Oh, you dirty son of a b***h. So now the windshield is on fire. And in front of us, waiting...

 

I refuse to name any of these creatures by association with whatever scientific classification they once had. In front of us is a monstrous behemoth who, in its kinder and gentler days, might have been addressed as a tyrannosaurus. It's a f*****g mountain with teeth.

 

"Get us out of here, Coal!"

 

"C'mon sweet Judas, don't you sell me on the cross today!"

The mountain stomps the ground. Coalburner swerves. The rig jackknifes. We slide up to the rim of the Pit. Right up to the edge, hanging off the side. The slightest nudge could send us over. The truck's suspended by a miracle with a cruel sense of humor. Everything falls still. It's quiet.

 

The driver says, "Hey, pass me that bottle," pointing to a fifth of bourbon. I grab it and study the label. Fighting C**k. Kentucky Straight Bourbon Whiskey. Aged 6 years. 103 proof. Good brand. I take a shot without asking permission and hand the rest to the trucker.

 

I hear giants galloping towards us. I look in the side view mirror. The stampede's on the way. Here they come. We're fucked.

 

They slam into the side of the tractor trailer. Truck takes a swan dive. So much for that miracle. Just once today I'd like an escape route that doesn't involve driving off of a cliff.

Reviews

[OzDurose]

my eyes hurt and I have done nothing at work today except read your words.
I love this guys attitude and the whole imagery of the piece. Its funny because I came to read this after I read your course classes (which are a real satirical view on writing, but still point out issues and parallels with my own work), and it's really interesting to see how your writing reflects what you say in them.

Fun times!

[Kay]

Um, why isn't this published? Dude, this novel could be great. I see a perfect movie when I read this s**t. I love how you describe Hell through the dialogue in this chapter. Coal is funny as f**k with his constant ramblings. He's genuine and insane; his overall matter-of-fact attitude towards the culture in Hell is excellent. And, of course, the main character is brilliant. In general, it's an addicting story; a cross between a modern Dante's Inferno (hence the Jack's Inferno) and an Alice in Wonderland adventure, Hell style. I'm just going to keep reading and wait for this to be published. Keep up the phenomenal work. ;)

[alice]

Oh, I loved this at Black Cadillac in the first sentence, in the first paragraph in the first chapter.
This is seriously *bleeping* awesome. I love the black comedy of this.

[roarke]

dude. Subtlety isn't wasted on you is it? good thing, it's over rated anyway. btw are you any relation to Bruce Campbell?
Digressing a bit, I hope you're shopping this around. It needs to be produced by Tarantino or Miller or Rodriguez..... word.
ya own this genre. Yer my new hero..... metaphorically speaking.

This ride could be to hitch hikers what "Refer Madness" was to....... analogy fails me.
So many nice touches.... "The Never Ending Story" for adults. Grimm's Fairy Tales for the vodka and radiator fluid cocktail set.

you da man.