It stank, too; a rip-throat stench, vile as any sulphur spring. Between those virulent tongues of flame, countless shapeless forms writhed while screams struck upward, so skull-splittingly loud the wall of noise hit almost as hard as the heat.
Hell — true Hell at long last, straight out of the Book itself. One a’them like Ash was always rabbiting on about, in between the Thou-Shalt-Not chorus.
Gehenna, Chess could almost hear Rook rumble, as he went reeling down the bridge after Oona. Where the fearful, and unbelieving, and the abhominable, and murderers, and whoremongers, and sorcerers, and idolaters, and all liars, shall have their part in the lake which burneth with fire and brimstone . . . . Revelation, darlin’. No man can pretend he doesn’t know his fate, he’s only got ears to hear.
Just shut up, you Goddamn man! Chess longed to scream, clinging precariously to his balance and his Ma’s ghostly hand. But demanded instead: “The fuck’s all this? What’s a Bible-thumper’s perdition doin’ down this-a-way, lodged fast in the Enemy’s own gullet?”
Ixchel’s voice, cooing up through his gullet: Tezcatlipoca, who — Mictantecuhtli’s claims to the title of Death’s rulership aside — truly contains all those gone on, since he is the very Night the dead swim in . . .
And you shut up too, you unhallowed bitch: shut up, shut up, shut up —
“’Ell should I know?” Oona yelled back. “Fings all run together down ’ere, if you ain’t already noticed — I’ve seen men runnin’ through the Dials what looked like bloody Swedes all got up for battle, or looked through mirrors an’ seen places like them Chinks talks about — rooms full of knives and snakes, and whatnot. . . .”
She glanced back over her shoulder, like she expected to find ’em nipping at her heels — and shrieked out loud, face spread flat with sudden terror, when she saw what really was. The sight sent Chess whirling ’round to deliver the same sort of back-kick he’d used to fell Doc Glossing’s corpse-doll, back in Mouth-of-Praise — ’til he caught sight of what he was about to go toe-to-toe with, and thought better.
That giant black thing already reared up cavern-roof high, one limb drawn back as if to scythe his head clean off at the shoulders with its foot-long talons, swept its blow instead near a yard too high; its great leg, lifting forward for a further step, snagged on Chess’s boot-heel, and folded. Released at last, Oona’s fright-yell disappeared into the cacophony as the thing overbalanced, staggered too far to one side, and went over the edge. It spun as it fell, topmost portion dimming to a vague point, oval enough to form some sort of head; the blank where a face should have been, which turned to Chess’s until for half an instant, it was a face. A human face, bloodstained and familiar, contorted into something no longer sane beneath its over-groomed crown of Bushwhacker locks, with the wreckage of an officer’s grey shell-jacket flapping away on either side like dirty wings.
The name came up with an agonizing tug, yanked from his brain as if by hooks: Saul Mobley. Or — as Chess’d thought of him for half a year, before blowing out the back of his skull to escape his maddened death-charge plans, after which he’d never thought of
him again — the Lieut.
So here’s where you fetched up, Chess thought, viciously, all mortar fire and smoke, worse by far than any earthly battlefield — you who wanted to fight on even after the War was lost, ’til all of us were dead, or crazy as yourself; almost got Rook and me hung, too, but not quite. Hope you relish it, you jackanapes motherfuck.
If there was recognition in that hate-crazed gaze, however, Chess couldn’t see it — the Lieut, or what little was left of him, was gone too fast anyhow, plunging into the inferno below. Chess stared after, a reckless mistake, as vertigo made him gasp. For an instant, the impulse to fling himself forward as well took hold, stomach seeming to float, bilious yet barely tethered, as if he’d already taken the final dive.
Then two small hands seized him by cheek and jaw, hauling his head back up for Oona to whack her forehead impatiently against his — a Bristol kiss, she’d called it, first time he’d run home with a split skull after having that same move demonstrated on him. And while no blood flowed, Chess’s eyes teared up, nonetheless.
“Ow, Christ! Son of a mother — ”
“Yeah, all that. Now stop sightseein’, pull yer bloody trousers up, and run!”
He opened his mouth to complain again, but realized she was right — for that familiar rhythm was once more coming up from behind, shaking the bridge like a twanged guitar string. The Dead Posse itself, closing in like nightfall. Morbidly curious, he squinted, trying to tell features at this rancid-lit distance, even as Oona tried her best to haul his arm from its socket.
“What are you, deaf?” she yelled. “We ain’t got time to ponder, boy — ’oo knows but there’s a door on the other side, and that already ’alfway shut? Let’s go, you stupid little molly!”
Old habits, but it worked; Chess let the surge of anger pull him upright once more, and scarpered. This time he took the lead, dragging Oona headlong, holding his gaze steady on the path ahead as sweat stung his eyes, teeth clenched ’til they ached. Behind, the hammering was occasionally broken up by thuds and cries of squabbling collisions, along with a single horrific wail, by which Chess could only assume one of his spectral hunters — indistinguishable from the shadows they rode — had managed to throw itself over.
Eventually, a new black wall loomed up, stone pathway plunging straight into it through the tiniest of cracks, while Chess and Oona went careening along with it.
The transition from heat to cold was fierce as a blow. Snow slashed horizontally into their faces, so sharp the Seven Dials’ chill rain seemed a friendly shower by comparison, and Chess and Oona stared down a zigzagging track onto a vast white plain. From where they stood they could see its centre, red and muddy, as great masses of fur-clad men hewed each other fiercely back and forth, armed with axe and sword and spear. Bodies fell, only to be dragged away by comrades and rise again, replacing their severed limbs as they did so; giant figures moved amongst the armies, some inhumanly handsome, others grossly trollish.
And off to the right, over the track’s edge, yawned a black chasm at least as depthless as the lake of fire, breathing out a wind so freezing Chess could feel it sear his eyeballs. He knuckled them to bring tears, then blinked to keep ’em liquid. “Jesus shit!”
“Amen,” Oona agreed, and lurched on, picking her way deftly down the track, bare toes already turning purplish-blue as they sank into the snow. Chess risked one quick glance back, and saw the Dead Posse’s black train negotiate the curve at full steam, right after them. Here too, though, their own fury was their undoing — yet another went slipping off into the dark, knocked sideways by its fellows’ mindless rush, disappearing without a sound.
Chess snorted, calling out to Oona: “Give these clowns another half an hour and they’ll end ’emselves, with no help from us whatsoever!”
“Uh huh. But no matter where they do ’appen t’fall, odds are they’ll be back.” She made as if to peer into the crevasse, but stopped herself just in time; gave a quick head shake instead, as if throwing something off. “Nothing ever really ends, anywhere. Wish I’d known, before’and.”
“Sounds like you learned a thing or two out of the experience, if nothin’ else.”
“Yeah, sure. First off bein’: don’t never bloody die.”
Chess snorted up another laugh at this, and she matched it — chattered it out between clenched teeth, which fed Chess’s own hilarity in turn. Moments later, they were all but howling, holding each other up as they staggered along, when the path debouched onto the plain at the side of a giant upthrust spike of snow-crusted rock. Arms linked, they rounded it together — and drew up, slapped to silence by what they found waiting for ’em.
Somehow, the Dead Posse had outflanked them, waiting patient to be discovered. And as Chess let memory’s tide pull his gaze from face to face, he found he did know them, after all — each and every one. Had he only thought he’d forgotten?
Hoped, perhaps.