BURN IN HADES (19 page)

Pieces of a metal bird rested in the road. Its beak was separated from the rest of its body, which had windows on the outside and seats on the inside, like some kind of flying coach.

A bottle rolled across the dirt road towards the mangled metal beast. A creature the size of a prairie dog was pushing it. It was completely hairless with green skin. It was a Sisyphean hodder, Gimlet’s favorite food. Sisyphean hodders spent their meaningless afterlives scavenging the underworld, collecting objects of the dead like pack rats.

Cross would have followed it back to wherever it hid its objects, but he had built up thirst stomping through the desert and escaping Hell. And the bottle the hodder was rolling up the road contained some kind of brown liquid. It could have been devil’s water, but if not, it would have to do. He hadn’t drunk anything since before the Raven dropped him off in Sheol.

He skipped over to the little guy, snatched the bottle up, and shook the dangling hodder off. It plopped into the dirt. Cross poured the devil’s water down his dry throat.

The plump hodder pulled itself to its feet. Its ratty face squinted. On all fours, it stood even shorter than the draggles, but when standing on its hind legs, it reached up to Cross’s knee.

It wore a shirt and a vest, both of which failed to close around its round green belly. Its bowtie barely held the shirt together. And its suspenders were stretched to capacity, straining to keep its pants around its pear-shaped waist. It looked like Humpty Dumpty, but green.

Cross peeked inside the flying coach. Rows of seats lined the mangled beast, and they were all covered with junk and piles of debris. The hodder scrambled up a beam and held his palms in Cross’s face.

“Nothing in there for you,” it said.

Cross nudged the little guy out of the way and climbed inside. Yellow cups hung from the cabinets. Things cracked and broke under the weight of his boots. His leg sank through the objects up to his shin. He braced his hands on the seats that lined the aisles, keeping himself balanced as he stumbled over slippery objects, clumsily.

Nothings sat in some of the seats, while most of the other seats were covered in objects of the dead, the accumulation of months’ worth of hoarding. Never had he seen so many objects in one place. He felt like he had discovered the treasure of the Forty Thieves.

He sipped more devil’s water in celebration of his find, and after a long belch of smoke that shot from his mouth, he climbed over mounds and heaps of objects up to a counter. In a glass display, a figurine rode on a toy horse and blew his bugle. The horse’s shoes clicked as it strolled back and forth on the shelf mechanically.

Cross tapped on the glass. The little man aimed his pistol at him. Cross put his hands up playfully. The figurine shot. The bullet ricocheted off the glass, leaving a pebble sized nick.

Cross laughed. “Easy there little fella.”

The hodder vaulted up on the counter. “Can I help you?” it asked.

Cross placed a pair of eyeglasses on his face. His sight zoomed in onto a boil on the hodder’s pointy nose. The hair sticking out of it made it resemble a puny island with a tree. He snatched the glasses off his face and cringed. He sat the glasses back on the counter and picked up a pink parasol. The lace cloth wouldn’t shield a soul from the heat of the sky, but when he opened it, rained poured out the underside of the canopy and sprinkled his arm with cold droplets. He closed it.

“Why would anybody need an umbrella that rains on them?” he said.

“You don’t like fresh water?” said the hodder.

“What good is fresh water gonna do me?” He dropped the girly umbrella and fingered a button on the counter.

The button sprouted legs of thread, taking on the semblance of a spider. It crawled up his finger and onto the back of his hand. He turned his hand over as the button crept into his palm. He leaned in for a better look at the spider button and nudged it gently with his fingertip. It raced up his arm. He slapped at it and missed. The button scrambled around his arm and up his shoulder. When it reached his neck, Cross swiped and swatted at it.

A collar formed around his neck, over top of the shirt he was already wearing and the two shirts mended together. Thread knitted itself down his shoulders, arms and around the rest of his body until a crisp new shirt appeared on him, fully replacing his old tattered shirt. The spider button climbed up his chest and knitted itself into the top of the collar.

Cross adjusted the collar, folder his cuffs and brushed the sleeves down. “How do I look?”

The hodder simply stared at him with an annoyed expression.

The button was definitely a keeper. Clothes were hard to come by in the underworld. Now all he needed was a bath. He needed more than just supplies, too. He needed something he could use to break into paradise. He swept the remaining objects off the counter.

“Weapons?” he demanded of the hodder.

“Then you will leave?” it asked.

“Show me what you got.”

The hodder stared blankly at all the objects on the floor. Some were broken from Cross stepping all over them. It shook its rat ears and hopped off the counter.

“I’ll show you where I keep the best ones.” It escorted Cross over to the weapons area. A Nothing sat beside an empty aisle seat.

“This seat taken?” Cross asked the Nothing. It said nothing. Cross laughed, sat beside it and reclined in the soft cushion.

The hodder dove into a pile and dragged out a dagger. “A tickler?” it said and brandished the dagger for Cross to inspect. Cross shook his head.

The hodder dropped the dagger and dove into another pile. It yanked a stick out and threw the arrow over his shoulder. “How about this nib?”

“Where’s the bow?” asked Cross.

“Bow?”

Cross waved the explanation away. He was a terrible archer anyway. His old friend Otaktay had tried to teach him archery, but the string would always slap his forearm. He only used a bow and arrow when he had no other weapon.

“What else you got?” he asked.

The hodder tumbled over, trying to lift a tribal spear made of bone. The fat rat tipped over the edge of the counter. Cross launched out of his seat and caught the butterball.

It shoved Cross’s hands away and brushed its vest off. Its green cheeks flushed with purple. The hodder propped the spear up as though its near tumble had never happened. “This tosskew perhaps?”

“No.” Cross sat back down.

The hodder paused as if to give Cross an opportunity to think. When it appeared to have gotten the hint that Cross was picky, it huffed and dragged an axe out. Cross massaged the back of his own neck, reminded of his near escape several sleep cycles ago.

“Keep going,” he said to the hodder.

It puffed its chest and vaulted an Ankou’s scythe up to the counter. “A reaper saw would fit you perfect,” he said.

“Do I look like I collect souls?” said Cross.

“All you big spirits look the same.”

“Not what I’m looking for.”

The hodder’s shoulders slouched. It dove into a pile and came back a little slower, this time hauling a sword, straining and grunting.

Cross rose out of his seat. “Need help?”

“I’ve got it,” snapped the hodder, slapping way any assistance. The pits of his shirt now seeped sweat. “Your swopp has a hole in it. This one’s in better condition.” It lifted the sword over his head and took a long deep breath.

Cross picked up the sword, avoiding the sight of his reflection and swung the blade around. Thin slices of the air fell to the ground and evaporated. Too sharp. He was liable to slice himself before he could cut another spirit with that sword. Plus, he wasn’t a swordsman. He was more of a shooter. He sat the sword down. A twinkle caught his eye mirrored inside the sword. The reflected glimmer came from an object high on a shelf.

“What’s that up there?” asked Cross.

“Nothing,” said the hodder, protesting a little too much.

Cross reached for the shiny object. The hodder raced up to the shelf and amazingly beat him to the object. It slapped Cross’s hand away. Cross raised his hand to return the slap.

“Alright,” said the hodder. “If you must. Let me.” The hodder squeezed a pistol out from between a clump of objects. Some dropped to the floor and broke. Then the entire shelf spilled to the floor. The hodder scrunched his ratty nose and growled under its breath.

Cross held his palms up. “I did what you said. I let you get it. Not my fault.”

The hodder lifted the pistol with both his arms and wobbled. “This boomer is a cull tee—”

“Colt,” said Cross. “And I think I’ve found what I was looking for.”

He caressed the shiny Colt Single Action Army. It resembled the Peacemaker he had owned in his previous life.

The day Charles acquainted himself with the Peacemaker for the first time began like every other day. He carried firewood into the mansion. He removed the ash from the fireplace in the parlor and lit the firewood for the long awaited arrival of Mr. Carson. The boss liked a toasty home in the winter and the November air snapped that morning. Charles dusted the artwork, shined the chandeliers, and wiped down the dining table and centerpieces.

“Be careful with those,” said Mrs. Carson. “They’re worth more than you.”

She always warned him of how precious everything was, as if he hadn’t heard her the first hundred times. He hadn’t broken a thing the entire year he’d been living in the mansion. Even if he did break anything, he’d fix it. He fixed everything else around the ranch.

He sat her beloved amphora down on the table gently. “Yes ma’am,” he said.

Mrs. Carson was equally a nice lady and an old croaker when she wanted to be. At least she was kind enough to play the music box while he cleaned—even if it was more for her pleasure than for his, he still enjoyed it. The upbeat tune carried throughout most of the mansion and made work seem easier and go faster.

He shuffled across the carpets that lined the halls and lugged open the mahogany doors to the boss’s study. Usually Mr. Beckwourth cleaned the boss’s study, but before the sun had risen that day, the majordomo had taken the carriage to the train station to pick up the boss and left the job to Charles for the first time.

First, he dusted the shelves and the bookcase. He spotted a white speck on the floor near the throw rug, and he raised the rug to clean the splotch. Hidden under the rug he found the same symbol that was emblazoned on Mr. Carson’s ring. Drawn in wax was a six pointed star inside a five pointed star and both stars were inside a shape with seven sides, which was inside a circle with numbers and letters written all over it. Not understanding what it meant and not wanting to bungle his newly appointed task, he covered the symbol back up without cleaning it.

He proceeded over to the fancy hand washer mounted on the wall. He buffed the handle and accidentally switched it on. A sheet of water poured down from the faucet into the tub. The stream formed a canvass that seemed solid enough to paint a portrait on. And amazingly, a portrait developed on the surface of the water before his eyes. It featured a man sitting in a study similar to the one Charles was now standing in. The man was lost in the madness piled on his desk. It was a stunning image. He could have stared at it all day. It seemed so real as if he could reach in the canvas and touch the man.

Charles went to switch the water off, and the man in the water lifted a book. Charles stepped back, and then leaned closer to make sure his eyes hadn’t deceived him. Portraits don’t move.

“My apologies for the delay, Sam,” said the man in the water. “I just didn’t except you till—who are you?”

Charles remained silent, unable to speak or think. Portraits aren’t supposed to talk either. But this one did. “I’m—I’m Charles,” he said finally.

The man dropped his book and leaned forward. He was missing an ear. “Where’s Samuel?” asked the man in the water. “Is he all right?”

“He’s on his way home. How’d you get in there, Mister?” Charles reached into the water. The image rippled as if he had thrown a stone into a pond, and although he broke the flow of the canvass, the moving and talking portrait remained. It simply wrapped around his wrist and fell back into place when he removed his hand.

The man leaned back in his chair. “I’m rather lost on the nature of this summons. Is there a message you are to deliver?”

“I don’t think so, no. I was just cleaning the boss’s study. The water came out and you showed up.”

The one-eared man vanished from the water. Charles switched the water machine off in fear that he’d just gotten himself in deep trouble.

He never knew what Mr. Carson did for business, but he had always suspected that the boss knew magic. Sometimes Charles would pretend to do his chores while secretly eavesdropping on Mr. Carson as he told his daughter Kate fantastic tales of his journeys. His adventures were straight out of one of Kate’s books, wild and impossible and filled with amazing encounters with monsters and nasty villains. Charles assumed Mr. Carson made all his money finding lost treasures and relics and hoped to have adventures like those someday.

A globe rested in a wooden floor stand next to the boss’s desk. After polishing its oak frame, he spun the earth as if he were God, and then imagined traveling to far off lands like Egypt to gaze upon the pyramids and the sphinx, or to the Isle of Man to see if fairies were as real as the boss claimed in his amazing stories.