Never Fear (62 page)

Occasionally Satan would leave the
confines of Hell and travel Up Top. Often, while there, he would
come to some type of “arrangement” with a human. Some wanted
ultimate power; others asked for fortune, fame, knowledge. Always
with the knowledge, Pitch thought. When would they learn? Too much
knowledge is a curse.

The Soul Collection Squad was a group
of specially trained and selected demons who would travel up and
arrive just as a human whose soul had been claimed by Satan was
about to die. As it turned out, many humans who entered into
contracts with Satan were not always willing to “come quietly” when
it was their time. So Satan had assembled a group of enforcers
whose job it was to make sure, when the humans’ contracts were up,
they wound up in Hell.

When a contract was due, the
Collection Squad would travel up and surround the body, protecting
it from Death, and yank out the soul. They never came willingly.
Always kicking and screaming, pleading: “I didn’t mean it” “I’m
sorry!” “Christ, please forgive me!” As if that ever helped. Soul
in tow, the Squad would return to Hell and leave Death behind with
his empty vessel. “Bastards!” he would reportedly shout, shaking a
bony fist. But he wasn’t really mad. It was business. It was the
way things were.

In the Long Ago, Pitch had dreamed of
being part of the Soul Collection Squad. That was before things
went north and he was demoted. All he wanted to do now was maintain
a low profile, do his job, and eventually try for a promotion.
Another shout, followed by raucous laughter from the SCS table.
Pitch sighed and found a seat across the room.

Pitch was joined by Ogilvie, an
enormous, flaming ifrit whom he had worked with before in Level
Six. There were some other demons he recognized, but he didn’t know
their names or duties. All anyone could talk about was the Secret
Santa.

In the past, Satan always
participated. And he liked everyone else to as well. It was
considered bad form not to. The actual gift exchange ceremony would
take place in the main hall in Pandemonium, the greatest of Satan’s
palaces. Satan towered over all on his immense throne, attended by
his imps and concubines, as hundreds of demons and members of his
inner circle watched and exchanged gifts. Satan commented and
praised, or, in most cases, openly mocked and derided those whose
gifts he considered less than worthy.

And he always saved himself for last.
The grand finale. If Satan picked your name, the gifts could be
phenomenal. There was talk that he had once given a two-year pass
Up Top, and another time he had presented Hitler, wearing nothing
but a spiked collar, as a personal valet. If Satan drew your name,
it could be existence changing.

On the other hand, you definitely did
not want to PICK Satan’s name. He was extremely critical of his
gifts and often punitive if he did not like them. And he liked very
few gifts. How could he? He had everything. There were stories
about how he had tortured and even imprisoned givers of
less-than-worthy gifts. Many demons swore away from the Secret
Santa gift exchange just so they wouldn’t be the one to pull
Satan’s name.

Another downside to the whole gift
exchange was that whoever picked your name would give you a
terrible gift. Last Secret Santa, Vlad’s gift was supposed to be
the thigh bone of Pope St. Fabian. At least that’s what the card
had said. Instead, it had been the leg bone of a goat. A goat. It
just wasn’t worth the aggravation.

And then there was the choosing a gift
for some demon you didn't even know. What were you supposed to get?
True, this was one of the few occasions when demons were allowed to
go Up Top to obtain a gift if they wished, but most just scrounged
around or rummaged through their belongings or the trash piles and
came up with something they didn’t want anymore. As far as Pitch
was concerned, the only reason to enter the gift exchange was for
the slight chance that Satan pulled your name. And what were the
odds of that? So why bother?

During lunch, a crowd had been growing
just outside the entrance to the canteen. After eating, Pitch
walked over and saw demons surrounding a Shade on his hands and
knees, supporting a carved wooden crate labeled “Secret Santa.” A
line of demons had formed, and he watched as they each approached
the box, one at a time, wrote their name down (or made their mark,
in the case of the Cyclopes) on a scrap of paper, fold it, and
stick it in the slot at the top of the crate. Two enormous Djinn
stood on either side of the crate, arms folded across massive
chests, their burning eyes scanning the crowd.

The crowd hushed. Pitch followed their
gaze. A trio of striking Succubi strolled over, and the demons
parted to let them pass. They wore sheer gowns, which, like their
hair, flowed around them, even though there was no breeze. They
seemed to move in slow motion as they approached the front of the
line. Even the Djinn were eyeing them. The Succubi spoke quietly,
heads together, and then each put a slip of paper in the slot. They
glanced haughtily around at the staring throng. One of them caught
Pitch’s gaze. She whispered to the other two, who looked him up and
down with their beautiful, pitiless eyes, and laughed quietly as
they strode away, hips swaying. A few of the others turned to look
at Pitch curiously. One of the SCS guys, a huge Minotaur, elbowed
another and stifled his laughter.

Pitch scowled. Who the Heaven were
they to laugh at him? He wasn’t good enough to enter the Secret
Santa? Fine. He strode up to the crate, snatched a piece of paper,
scrawled his name, folded it, and shoved it in the slot. Done. He
took three steps away and paused. What have I done?

*

A pop! woke Pitch up. A small scroll
hung suspended in the air beside him. He mumbled something and
rolled over. The scroll floated over him. Pitch tried to go back to
sleep. Something nudged his cheek. He brushed it away. Nudge.
Nudge. He opened his eyes and batted the scroll away. It zipped out
of reach and then came back to rest in front of him. Pitch sighed,
sat up, and snatched the scroll. He untied the rough twine and
unrolled it. A small, shiny paper square fell out and he picked it
up. A twelve-hour Surface Pass. For getting a gift.

He tore open the scroll and scanned it
up and down.

“
Congratulations, you have
decided to participate in the Secret Santa Gift Exchange. You will
be giving a gift to...”

Pitch closed his eyes. He opened them
again and looked at the scroll. Nope. Still there.

You will be buying a gift for
SATAN.

Pitch stared at the scroll. He put it
down, stood up, and walked to the opening of his hovel. He was
having trouble breathing. He went back to his pallet and sat down
and picked up the scroll.

How did this happen? Exactly what he
DIDN’T want. Out of all the things he wanted, this was the last. He
crumpled up the scroll and put his head in his claws.

*

“
So I hear you decided to
do Secret Santa.” Vlad leaned against the time clock.

Pitch looked up from the bottle of
insect repellant he was emptying. “Yeah. Yeah”

“
So who’d you
get?”

“
I dunno. Some minor
demon. I forget his name.” He looked away.

“
Huh.” Vlad sounded
doubtful. “I got some joker named Drizzle. Down on Level
Four.”

“
What are you going to get
him?” Pitch asked hopefully. He needed an idea. Any
idea.

“
I took a dagger off a
newly arrived Shade. Supposed to have been one of the daggers that
stabbed Caesar.” It was common practice for many Demonkind to await
the arrival of Charon’s ferryboat, which brought the newly dead to
the shores of the Underworld. The Shades’ first experience with the
hospitality of Hell was often when they were beaten, robbed, torn
limb from limb, and occasionally partially devoured. They couldn't
be killed, as they were already dead, but reconstituting themselves
from the bits and pieces left behind was a difficult, agonizing
procedure.

“
That’s a good idea.”
Pitch nodded. He paused. “So... have you heard who got Satan’s
name?

“
Nope.” Vlad shook his
heavy head. “Nobody’s said nothing. At least to me.”

Pitch pretended to think about this.
“I wonder who it could be. What do you think they’ll get
him?”

“
Hold on.” Vlad growled
and grabbed a nearby Shade that had been sneaking toward the insect
repellant. “How many times do I have to tell you?” He lifted the
Shade up, holding him by the shoulder and leg. He grunted and
pulled and tore the Shade in half, showering himself and Pitch with
gore. Blood and internal organs slid out of the body, splattering
wetly on the ground. Vlad laughed at the still struggling Shade and
threw the pieces over his shoulder. Maggots and worms burrowed up
from the ground to get at the blood and torn flesh.

“
Hey!” Pitch said, wiping
his face.

“
Sorry, buddy,” Vlad
replied, licking blood off his hands. “But anyway, who knows what
to get Satan? I’m sure as Heaven glad I didn’t pick his name.
Remember a couple times back when that satyr gave him a portrait
painted with the blood of innocents? Satan had him drawn and
quartered right there in the main hall and had the pieces nailed up
on the walls?” Vlad chuckled. “I think they’re still
there.”

Pitch stared at him,
silent.

At dinner that night all anybody
talked about was Secret Santa—who picked whose name, and what gift
they were planning on giving and/or getting. Pitch was unusually
silent, just listening, not eating. The Demonkind jabbered on about
legendary swords with jeweled hilts, skulls with eyes of flame,
enchanted rings, magical haunches of never-ending meat. But none of
these gifts spoke to him. Satan would already have all of these
things—and then some. No, Pitch had to find him something unusual,
something special... but what?

Doubt and uncertainty ringing in his
head, he got up from the table, deposited his tray, and headed
home.

Pitch had never been Up Top before,
but had heard all about it. Few of the Demonkind had, until the
advent of the Secret Santa. Sure, there was a possession here and
there, or some fool summoned up a demon once in a while, but these
were rare, and more often than not, Satan was involved.

When Pitch went Up Top, he wouldn’t be
alone. Thousands of Demonkind would be invading the Earth, in
various guises, over the next few work cycles. They couldn’t just
go Up Top in their usual forms. That would cause panic and, more
importantly, remove doubt. The Big Guy (God) was very particular
about faith. “Anyone can perform a miracle and people will
believe,” He’d once said. “But how many can NOT perform a miracle
and still get people to believe? Hmm? That’s the trick. I haven’t
done anything in thousands of years and they still believe.” He
could so smug sometimes.

*

He sat in his hovel, leaning against
the wall. He couldn’t sleep.

Satan. What do you get Satan for
Christmas? He had everything. And if he didn’t have it, he didn’t
want it. Precious gems, gold, silver, the Daggers of Megiddo in a
display case—Satan had it. A pool filled with unholy water. A
pillar of salt. A jar containing an unbaptized infant. Marble
statues, gold statues, statues made of shit, living (or unliving)
statues forbidden to move. There was nothing new in Hell. That’s
why they went to Earth to get gifts.

No one but Satan ever got a “new” gift
in Hell. Everything had to found or stolen. They called it
“regifting,” and Satan had sent a cadre of demons Up Top to spread
the concept of regifting in order to infect and spoil the “true
meaning of Christmas.” Surprisingly, the humans had taken to
regifting like flies to offal. When the demons had returned telling
tales of the vast amount of loot in the Human marketplaces, Satan
had decided to allow them to travel there to get gifts. The only
catch was they weren’t allowed to pay for anything. Apparently that
was another way for Satan to soil/ruin Christmas.

The only approved way Up Top was
through one of the portals. There were two located on each level,
and they were closely monitored and heavily guarded. Unauthorized
travel Up Top was strictly monitored. No one was allowed Up without
a pass, and the passes were only good for a few Earth hours.
Occasionally a demon was allowed out for longer, for a more
involved job like a possession. Pitch’s pass was only good for the
next work cycle, so he would have to work fast.

At this time, most of the Earth
marketplaces were crammed with shoppers, so a little extra chaos
would go unnoticed. Some of the Demons loved taking the forms of
children and heading to the toy aisles to wreak havoc: opening
boxes, tearing apart toys, screaming. Pitch had heard of a place
called “Walm-Aht” where the demons especially loved to go during
Christmas time. Chaotic. Noisy. Almost like Hell.

The portals were built into the rock
walls. They were fairly wide, so several demons could travel at a
time, which helped the line move quickly. From a distance, the
portals resembled caves. But as one got closer, you could see a
faint blue light undulating at the far end, deep inside. Pitch
waited in line, listening to the excited talk around him. He wished
he could share their enthusiasm. Once he was at the front, he
showed his card to one of the Minotaurs standing guard and was
nodded through. He stepped into the portal.