III. Dead Man River

Adventures in the Acheron River. Also, Phobus is a dick.

"Breaker 1-9, this is the Coalburner talkin', could use a hand out here, over."

"--Well if it ain't Pigfucker! Whatchya done now, gotcha dick caught in your zipper?"

"Babylon Betty! You ol' chubby harlot! How the hell you been, baby doll? You still with Brimstone Bob?"

"--Nah, he split an' went back to his s**t ex-wife. I'm with Diablo Dick now."

"Oh, you gotta be shittin' me. That c**k jugglin' son of a circus w***e? If I ever see him again I'll beat that sorry f****r 'til he pisses blood."

"--For your information we're engaged."

"Aw, c'mon baby. You're breakin' my heart. Hey, you still remember that one time last summer when--"

"WHO F*****G CARES!?! WE'RE AT THE BOTTOM OF THE RIVER!!!" I finally scream at the trucker, thoroughly fed up with the present state of things.

Coal stops and slowly turns his gaze on me, visibly irritated about the interruption of his C.B. soap opera. Still staring at me, he mashes the thumb button on the radio to add, "Yeah anyway, I seem to have parked my truck in the Acheron."

"--Again? Damn CB, you can't drive that rig worth a drunk f**k, can ya? Who in the hell gave you a license, anyway?"

"Baby, you know I ain't got no damn license."

"--How come Plastic Judas didn't save ya?"

"Don't blaspheme, woman! Now I'm gonna need a crane an' a chain."

*THUNK!*

The submerged truck jerks upward and slams against a large magnet on a chain.

"Damn woman, that was quick."

"--That won't me, honey. I think Charon's boys might'a found ya."

"Charon?! Ah, s**t." The trucker seems shaken by the name.

"Charon?" I muse aloud, "Oh right, ferryman of the underworld. Old guy, scraggly beard. Yeah, I remember reading about him in some mythology books."

"Oh you read about him?" the trucker snaps, "In some books? Well ain't you just a goddamn shinin' example of culture an' sophistication. You ever met the sonuva b***h? Last time I had a run-in with his goons they beat me with stun batons till I s**t my pants! Did ya read about that in any f****n' books?"

"No," I smugly counter, "but I think I saw a painting of it at the museum once. It was very moving."

"F**k you!"

"I think it was a Rembrandt."

"Keep jokin', jackass."

The truck starts to rise, slow and steady. I look out the window but the water is pitch black...can't see a damn thing. I think it might even be oil. Just as well, probably--WHAT THE F**K WAS THAT!?!

Okay. Really wish I hadn't seen that. Don't even know what I just saw swim past the window. Let's just pretend it was a shark. Sharks I can understand. They're not too difficult for a relatively sound mind to process. Go ahead and try it with me--picture a shark in your head. Got it? Good. Now picture some horrific aquatic nightmare from the pages of H.P. Lovecraft eating that shark.

Without thinking I lock the door. Then I take a quiet moment to feel like an idiot. My mind's eye conjures up an image of a white-bread suburban family nervously locking up their station wagon at a stop light in the ghetto. Shut up, brain. Don't need you mocking me today.

We break the surface of the water. There's a massive barge floating in front of us with a crane arm attached. It hoists us up a ways then stops, leaving us suspended in the air just above the river. The truck sways back and forth uncomfortably for a moment, then falls still.

Beside the barge is a small gunship. I guess it's a skiff...little boat with a belt-fed machine gun mounted on the deck. You get the picture. Nautical terminology is beside the point right now.

Standing on the gunship are two figures clad head to toe in black leather: boots, trench coats, gloves...not to mention the strange looking horned gas masks. They look like stormtroopers for some kind of demonic fetish-cult. Their undivided attention is on us.

Without turning my eyes away from the sinister boatmen ahead of us, I mutter to the trucker, "So who are these two jerk-offs?"

"Phobus and Deimus; Deimus bein' the fella with the horns that point up, Phobus with the ones that curve down. They work for Charon. You heard a' Mars?"

"War god or the planet?" I ask him.

"War g-- Boy, look around ya! You see any planets? We're in the center a' the damn Earth, space ain't got s**t to do with this! Anyways, these two pricks are his b******s. So they got that whole my daddy's a war god complex. They tool around the river harassin' merchants and traders like they're the f****n' coast guard."

"Yeah, I've been meaning to ask you...who do you trade with? You got some other Hells around here?"

"Actually, yeah...smart-a*s." he retorts. "You ever been to a country that's only got one city in it? This is a big place. Lotta dead folk. Lotta different screwy customs and religions." This coming from a guy with a plastic Judas on his dashboard. "Course if you ask me this here's the nicest one outta all of 'em. I was in this Chinese Hell one time...man, now that place was just plain weird. Good food, though."

The truck jolts. The crane arm swivels us over the barge. The chain lowers and the magnet drops us from just high enough to ensure a rough landing, but without damaging the ship.

The two brothers climb aboard the barge after docking the skiff on the side. They approach us. Phobus walks around the side to tap on the driver's window and commence with the routine interrogation. Deimus veers left (his left, not mine) and to the passenger side. I thought the height of the eighteen wheeler's frame might keep him more or less out of sight. He opts for less out of sight by climbing onto the step ladder below the door. His face is centrally framed in my window. I can hear Phobus on the other side droning on about regulations and infractions and penalties. Deimus doesn't speak. He only stares at me.

At last Phobus says, "I'm afraid we're going to have to get Charon involved in this matter. This is the third time you have defiled his sacred river. I can assure you he will be very displeased. He hates being bothered. Ever since they started running the slave ships through here for the new arrivals, he has been considerably less burdened by the likes of you and your kind."

The trucker says, "Now hold on a minute, there's no need--"

"SILENCE, FOOL! It is pointless to argue with me. My father is a war god!"

Coal comes back with, "Yeah, my daddy used to beat me, too. You wanna talk about it? Might make ya feel better."

Here is a brief account of the repercussions which swiftly followed that joke. First, the door gets ripped off the hinge and thrown into the river. Second, a black gloved hand finds its way around a truck driver's throat. Third, the beating starts.

Deimus is still staring at me. He hasn't moved. He hasn't spoken.

"Nice day," I say to him as I roll down the window to have a cigarette. I blow the smoke in his face. F**k him, he's wearing a gas mask.

Coal's a*s-beating eventually winds down and we're both forced to board the gunship. Not sure why I got dragged into it, though. I don't even know this a*****e.

The trucker stretches his back, cracks his neck, and spits out a tooth. The motor chokes on the viscous river and the boat takes off with a sharp jolt.

"Charon will deal with the two of you," says the talky one.

The quiet one is still staring at me.

"Don't talk much, do you?" I say.

"He is deaf and mute," Phobus explains. "His eardrums were ruptured long ago by all the panic-stricken screams and the horrified shrieks of the damned! The only sound he has ever known is the sheer frenzied terror of every doomed soul whose wretched misfortune it was to cross paths with him! To look upon him is to know the true face of horror!"

"Yeah," my sarcastic response, "Sounds fantastic. So...he's not going to try to touch me or anything, right? Like, inappropriate touching? Because he's kinda weirding me out right now."

"You would do well to fear--wait, what? No! That's disgusting!"

Deimus, still leering, slowly moves a hand to unzip his pants. His brother punches him in the shoulder and chastises him saying, "You stop embarrassing me this instant!" Deimus clasps his hands behind his back and bows his head in shame.

Awkward silence. It's been a strange day.

I take in the twisted scenery as the ride goes on. So here we are. Isle of the dead. I've seen paintings, I've read stories, now I'm on a boat ride through the damn place.

Hundreds of demon birds and giant bat-like things flutter noisily overhead. Swimming things, crawling things...things with no eyes chasing things with too many eyes. Islands of debris here and there, jutting out of the murky depths. And by debris, I mean human skulls. No shortage of those around here. Some corpses in the river.

"How do you drown when you're already dead?" I ask to anyone listening.

"They're just lazy," Phobus answers, "or they can't swim and grew tired of aimlessly flailing about like inept fools."

One of the floating corpses jerks his head out of the bloody black water with a sudden desperate gasp. He splashes frantically in an unsuccessful attempt at swimming to the shore, or anywhere for that matter. This attracts some unwanted attention. He's quickly snatched up by the jaws of...

You know what? I just don't have the words for a lot of the s**t I've seen here. Now I know how that crazy prophet felt when he wrote Revelations. Apache helicopters? Yeah, that looks like a locust. Why not? Nothing in ancient Hebrew translates to "rockets" or "tanks" very well. It's all horns and beasts. A trumpet's just as good as a rifle if you don't live in the age of the gun. Seven headed dragons? God knows the man's never seen a bomber plane before. It all starts to look alike after awhile. I suppose one man's apocalypse is another man's CNN rerun. But I'm ranting again, my apologies.

"That's the biggest goddamn catfish I've ever seen," the trucker remarks in regard to the colossal dragon/whale/squid monster-thing sinking back into the vile river.

"It is a serpent cloned from the secret DNA of Leviathan," Phobus corrects him. "We have thousands of them."

The trucker mumbles a disgruntled "Nobody likes a know-it-all."

The boat drifts to a stop in front of a large cave. We stand in silence, waiting. The ripples fade and the river is dead calm. I look around, not knowing what to expect, still wary of my present company and surroundings.

Waiting.

Coalburner breaks the silence. "What's the goddamn holdup? Did ya run outta gas? Are we lost? Did we hit a dolphin? What the hell, man?!"

A shape emerges out of the slimy black water. Something big. The river of filth begins to boil around it. A thick vapor rises from the surface. The giant rises to welcome us. Our gracious host, Charon. He wears a mask that looks like a jawless horse skull. A pair of horns run perpendicular from the top, then bend sharply down and inward forming a triangular pattern. His ragged cloak is pinkish and fleshy. There's something vulgar about the folds and creases of it, and the split open seam that runs up the middle.

"Master Charon! These men seek to profane your great river Acheron!"

Charon is somehow standing on the surface of the oil-stained water. He looks to be about twenty feet tall, give or take a yard. His cloak gapes open to reveal a writhing horde of damned souls.

"We cast these wretched vagrants at your feet, O Great One! What do you wish of us? How shall the offenders be dealt with? Tell us your will, Master Charon, and so shall it be our command!"

"QUIET! I HEARD YOU THE FIRST TIME!" Charon's deep booming voice resonates with a kind of metallic echo. If you've ever spoken directly into a spinning fan-blade to hear the distortion of your voice, then you have some idea of the sound.

Charon lifts a gnarled black hand to his mask and unfastens three latches that run down the right side of his head, then three more on the left. He lifts up the hooded headdress by the horns, revealing a mane of long, ragged dredlocks the color of ashes. The faceplate of the skull-mask is still on. He pulls out the six rusted nails that hold it in place.

Unmasked. The dark, charred skin of his face is cracked, wrinkled, and scarred. Like I said before--old guy, scraggly beard. Didn't think he'd be two stories tall, though.

The eyes are solid black--for a moment. As they come into the faint light of the subterranean landscape they turn cloudy white as if blinded. He sniffs the air around us like a hound locking in on our scent. He c***s his head to the side agitatedly, already sensing Phobus making the first silent breath before his words would pour out...

"Master Charon!"

"SHUT YOUR HOLE, YOU MISERABLE SYCOPHANT! You're lucky that your father is a friend of mine. Now, as for you two..." Charon turns his attention to me and the trucker (first wise-a*s that mutters, "Don't you mean the trucker and I?" is getting a bloody nose). A black orb oscillates into view from the far corner of one of his eyes and stops. The pupil divides in two like an amoeba. One of them is staring at me, the other at Coal. Another slightly larger pupil rolls into sight on the opposite eye to focus on Phobus.

"Have you any money? You must pay the fare to cross my river. If you cannot pay you must wait with the others," he gestures towards the poor b******s trapped within the horrid womb of his robe. "No one rides for free."

"But I live here! I wrecked my truck comin' off the expressway!" The trucker attempts to plead his case.

"Fine. What about you?" he asks me.

"Visiting my dead uncle."

"Fine," he says dryly and altogether disinterested. Then to Phobus, "You're completely useless. Never bother me again."

And with that, Charon puts his mask back on and returns to the depths of the river. Everything is silent again. Phobus begins to fidget, angry and embarrassed at the exchange.

"So..." Coal says to the boatmen, "you fuckers wanna give us a ride back to the truck now?"

"Watch your tone, insolent scum," the boatman hisses back at him. The trucker just smiles, scratching his a*s leisurely.

We ride back to the shore in tense silence. It's a long, slow journey. Phobus cracks his knuckles. His breathing is deep and agitated. Even under his mask you can hear a faint scrape of grinding teeth. I get the impression he doesn't like us.

The boatman kills the motor. We glide to a halt in the middle of nothing and nowhere. Lost. Stranded. Miles upriver in a dead man's ship with no destination worth mentioning.

It's barely audible. Just two words. Phobus hisses them under his breath. "Get out."

I look over at the trucker to gauge his reaction. He just shrugs.

"I'm going to destroy you now," the boatman tells us. "Both of you. I'm going to feed your lifeless mutilated souls to the great river Acheron. Your eternal suffering will bring me great pleasure. Remember this day, now and forever. You shall curse my name until the end of time."

I turn to Coal and say, "Is this guy f*****g serious?"

Phobus screams, "I said get out of my f*****g boat!" He thrusts his arm towards the sky in a berserker fury as coiled lightning bolts burst forth from his stun baton. It's like seeing a disgruntled riot cop wielding the hammer of God. Oh s**t, is he mad? He's mad isn't he?

Deimus follows suit and whips out his own stun baton. He begins shrieking and howling like a rabid baboon. A mildly-retarded rabid baboon. With a 50,000 volt stick.

Coal catches a blow to the chest that explodes into a shower of glowing blue sparks. "Ah, goddamn!" is his natural response. While picking himself back up he adds, "Where's my goddamn truck, you dick!? I ain't leaving without it!"

"Foolish hillbilly! It's been eviscerated and sold as spare parts! You shall share its fate! Prepare to--"

Shotgun blast drowns out the rest of the speech. First shot launches Phobus back-flipping into the river. Second barrel drops Deimus in the pitch black water with his brother. Although I have to admit his hey man, I just work here hands-up surrender was priceless. Didn't win him any mercy, though.

Coalburner's a lot more resourceful than I give him credit for. Sawed-off shotgun stashed under the coat (I thought it was odd he was wearing a coat in Hell). That trick never gets old. We have officially commandeered this vessel.

"Nice shot, captain," I say.

"No need to thank me for saving your life back there, hoss. You just swab the deck an' we'll call it even."

"We're already dead, you dumb b*****d. You didn't save s**t."

"F**k you, Jack."

*

Joy ride on the stolen gunboat gets cut short as we cross the path of a bigger boat. Much bigger.

It's something like a 15th century sailing warship, with a hint of Viking strangeness in the design. And it's in flames, which is very fashionable here.

A thousand oars rise and fall in a rhythmic cycle. A Christ-like millipede walking on water, headed straight towards our rogue vessel. Coal's at the wheel, I'm at the gun turret. My finger tenses on the trigger as I watch the ship approach.

Sea monsters circle our boat. I don't have a better name for them than that. They're f*****g sea monsters. Giant hideous sea monsters with evil intent. Every now and again a razor edged dorsal fin splits the surface, or a massive tentacle uncoils and extends above us. Taunting us. Huge luminous eyes staring at us from below. There's a bloodthirsty cyclone of carrion birds overhead, waiting impatiently for table scraps when the devil sharks are finished with us.

Hull of the burning slave ship splits open like the mouth of a whale to swallow us whole. I open fire. It doesn't help. Current drags us in. Mouth of the hull snaps shut behind us. Darkness. The stench of fungal rot and stagnant water. Belly of the beast.

I spark my lighter to take a look around. Nothing but debris, standing water, and a dozen or so small-craft shipwrecks. Oh, and a lot of bones, blood and human remains; but that's become so commonplace by now it's hardly worth noting. There's a door up ahead at the top of a rusted metal stairwell, and an ominous red light bleeding through the small circular window. Looks like the only alternative to rotting down here for the rest of this godforsaken cruise.

"I wouldn't go up there if I were you." The feeble voice of a decrepit old man rises above the metallic clank of our footsteps on the stairwell. A short hunched figure sulks in the shadows. He has long filthy grey hair. His beard is the same. He's dressed in torn rags, crusted with grease and dried blood.

"Why's that, old man?" I ask.

"Well..." he pauses to ponder the question as if it had never occurred to him, then finally settles for, "because I'm a coward?"

"Fair enough. So what's up there?"

"Don't know. Never worked up the nerve to open the door. I've been down here for three years."

"Is that so? Well...goodbye."

Some people have no initiative. Me and Coal pass through the unlocked door and leave the old man behind before he has a chance to start begging for change or spewing out boring anecdotes. Twenty bucks says there was a fishing story waiting for us.

We're in some kind of engine room. Gears and pipes. Valves and switches. Noise and smoke. There's a massive furnace in the back of the place.

I spot a few demon stokers wearing scorched gloves and goggles. Jagged beards greased into points on every jaw. Horns patterned with copper fire-scale on every brow. They haven't noticed us yet. They're too busy shoveling passengers into the incinerator over ticket disputes. Fuel for the fire.

The walls are lined with giant hamster wheels (yes, really) and people running in place in their spinning treadmills. I can't tell if it's tragic or hilarious. I assume they must be supplying some of the ship's power, unless it's just an elaborate joke designed to torment the dead. Probably both. No one can say Hell doesn't have a sense of humor.

We sneak through the large corridor, taking cover as much as possible. We come across a metal rung ladder along the wall. Nowhere to go but up.

After the climb and a short walk down a narrow passage we find ourselves amidst the squalor and chaos of the main passenger deck. Damned souls man the oars. They're whipped for encouragement. It's too crowded to walk anywhere on deck and people are trampling over one another. On the upside, it's easy to blend in here. Then again, blending in with sheep in the company of wolves is not the best long-term strategy.

A static drenched voice from the intercom announces our long awaited arrival to the shore. Welcome home.

The crowd pours out of the boat like garbage from an overturned dumpster. We finally manage to break away from the mob. On exiting the infernal cruise ship, I look up and see something very strange and amusing.

WELCOME CENTER: TOURS, INFO, LODGING, GIFT SHOP AND SNACK BAR. ASK ABOUT OUR SPECIAL GROUP RATES.

You've got to be joking. Ellis Island for the damned. There's even a demonic parody of the statue of liberty. Alright, they have my attention. I'm up for a good laugh right about now.

Coal says to me, "Lemme guess, you wanna go see the gift shop don't ya?"

"Well, it is my first time here. I'd hate to think I was missing out."

"F****n' tourists are all alike."

The building is like an Aztec temple in neon and glass. At least a hundred towering stone steps between me and the entrance. But I have to see it at least once.

I'm stopped along the way by a Satanic missionary passing out pamphlets. I tell him to piss off and I keep walking.

I finally reach the summit of the stairs to the main entrance. I stroll inside past the scores of dead tourists and immigrants, wandering around like children lost in a shopping mall. Their expressions vary from wonder and amazement to sobs of terror. Most stick to the dull oblivion between the two that got them through life before the Big Sleep. Some still wear their injuries like illustrated obituaries. Bullet holes, missing limbs, strange scars and bruises. One man is carrying his own severed head around.

Large TV monitors crowd the interior, hanging overhead at every available space. They flash through various images of Hell: gruesome tortures and twisted landscapes overrun with hideous fiends. All the while a cheerful narrator speaks of "the adventures that await you in this once-in-a-lifetime vacation opportunity!" Every monitor is broadcasting its travel agency propaganda in a different language, courtesy of the Satellite Tower of Babel.

"With nine exciting circles to choose from, you may be asking yourself, 'which one is right for me?' Here's a handy overview of the Underworld.

"The First Circle: Are you poor? Lazy? Unmotivated? Mediocre and unremarkable in every way? Sure, you're not a bad person...but you're not really a good person, either! Well buddy, you're in Hell now! Get used to it! Make yourself comfortable! Why bother going any further when you could settle for a plot of swampland right here! Someday you might even own your own trailer!

"The Second Circle: Perverts and degenerates rejoice! The Circle of the Lustful is endorsed by prostitutes and sex offenders the world over! You'll come for the strip clubs, but you'll stay for the clinics!

"The Third Circle: You're a disgusting fat pig! Live like a bloated king in the Circle of the Gluttons! With so many restaurants to choose from, you'll choke on your own vomit! Beware of cannibals!

"The Fourth Circle: Rich or poor, young or old, there's something for everyone in the Circle of Hoarders and Wasters! Whether you're addicted to shopping or addicted to crystal meth, we've got everything you need...for a price!

"The Fifth Circle: You think you're angry or depressed now? Head to the Circle of the Wrathful and the Sullen, we'll give you something to cry about! Try getting a job! You think the rent here is free?!

"The Sixth Circle: Everyday's a witch-hunt in the Circle of Heretics! We'll burn anyone! It's better than sex! Home of the capital city Dis Cocytus.

"The Seventh Circle: This is where the real men go to party in Hell--the Circle of the Violent. Nothing here but war, murder, snuff films and cage matches! Sodomites and suicides welcome.

"The Eighth Circle: Liars and thieves always get the best deals! The Malbolge is ten Hells for the price of one! It's a theme park of pain! Kids get in free!

"The Ninth Circle: You're a complete b*****d with no friends or loved ones! You are absolute scum and even the Gods despise you! Bring a coat! It's cold in the Circle of Betrayers!

You had a choice in eternity and we thank you for choosing American Hell district 27 sector 8 pit 34."

And there you have it. Everything you ever wanted to know about Hell summed up in a three minute infomercial. The herd around me is mesmerized by the screen.

I walk into the gift shop. The salesman practically assaults me with a relentless volley of sales pitches.

"Post card? Something to remember your visit? Snow globe? Novelty pitchfork?"

"No thanks," I say dismissively.

"What about a paperback copy of The Necronomicon?"

"Already got one."

"How about Aleister Crowley's severed left hand? Guaranteed to bring luck and fortune!"

"No thank you."

"Got some succubus stag films in the back. Ever seen the one with Adam and Lilith?"

"No. Feel free to stop harassing me anytime, though."

"Maybe you'd like a Slayer t-shirt?"

"I'll think about it."

"Really?" His eyes light up at the prospect of a sale.

"No." Nothing else to see here.

As I exit the building I see the trucker still outside arguing religion with the Satanic missionary. Coal is trying to explain how Judas could beat Lucifer in a fiddle playing contest. I missed the finer points of the debate, but what I do manage to overhear makes absolutely no sense ("--any day a' the week! Even in Georgia! Hell, I got a cousin that can play a fiddle better than the Devil, an' that boy's autistic! Bottom line is you never bet against Judas! That's a fool's gamble!"). Still unclear on the specifics of that man's strange faith. I put it out of my head.

"You done sightseein'?" he asks me as I approach.

"Yeah. Ready to roll when you are."

The missionary gives us a "Hail Satan" as we're leaving. I flip him off and tell him to get a job.

Author's Note

I got tired of manually seperating all the paragraphs from the cut-and-paste copy. So I didn't do it. Deal with it.

Reviews

[alice]

Now I remember where I seen this, or part of it. PatronQuo!
Why are you not published?
This story is unbelievable and surrealistic. Could use some brushing up on editing, but, still beautiful in it's entirety of dark humor. I love it.

[roarke]

Dealing with it,the 10th circle in Hell? Your imagery is beyond surrealistic. Mike, you can handle dialogue with ease and originality, enjoyable to read.

One thought, your pace in these chapters is break-neck, when you slow down, it really seems to slow down. like doing 100 mph and then hitting a school zone. I know, Jack and the boys wouldn't bother slowing down.... Maybe insert more speed bumps or make the slo-mo interludes a bit shorter. Don't ask me how, I'm workin' on that angle myself. I want an autographed first edition of this book.