A Funny Thing Happened on My Way to Hell Today: Chapter 1

I Get a One-Way Ticket on the Southbound Train

This wasn’t quite how I imagined my promotion. Oh, it’s not like I was picturing champagne and cake and party hats or anything. As a matter of fact, I wasn’t expecting much at all. Promotions don’t tend to go noticed in my line of work. Usually, though, it means you’re heading to bigger and brighter things. Higher pay, a better office, prestigious assignments, greater recognition, that sort of thing. Not for me.

Squinting against the stinging sand of the barren windswept desert that stretched out beneath a stormy sky, I looked around in dismay at the abandoned camp in which I’d landed. There wasn’t a soul in sight. Not that I could see far through the hazy, billowing sand. I wrapped the scarf I held around my head and face to keep out the worst of the abrading particles, and fixed my eyes on the smudge of light to the south indicating a distant city. Overhead, lightning splintered across a sky that boiled with black clouds. Its illuminating flash cast my surroundings in weirdly twisted shapes.

I shuddered and tucked my hands into my pockets, fingers grazing against the strange objects there, my only aids in this wretched cesspool. I felt at them curiously: A vial of beach sand, an ampoule of water, an air horn, a Bic lighter with about one click left, a tiny LED bulb, a plastic key card, a stop watch, a tin whistle, and a toothpick. I had more useful things sitting in the junk drawer of my kitchen. Judging by the looks of this place I’d be better off with a bus schedule and a ticket home. Or an uzi.

With a sigh as tragic and resigned as my surroundings, I pulled my black duster tight and turned in place, scrutinizing this strange new environ. A banner hung from one side of a lonely gate that arched over the only road out of this place, undulating slowly in the sky as I walked toward it. Its message was just visible through the hazy ambient light. Printed in Latin in bold black letters it read Ultimi Paradisi, but those words had been marked out with red spray paint. A new message was graffitied across it: Nos mundo sine Deo voluérimus/Ecce quid fecimus nos.

I read it uneasily. “We wanted a world without God, Behold what we have done.”

Yeah, most people get promoted to a corner office with a view. Me? I get promoted to Hell. Literally.

*****

It all started this morning with a very uncharacteristic call from my very characteristic commanding officer. I answered the phone reluctantly, knowing that a call from the commander never ended well for me.

“Meet me for breakfast,” he ordered abruptly before clicking off the line.

No time, no location, no further instruction. That was pretty normal actually. What wasn’t normal was getting called up out of nowhere in the predawn darkness without even a heads up from my captain that the commander was looking for me.

I sighed and got out of bed, noticing it was practically still night outside and wondering if it even occurred to him that I might have been sleeping. Not that sleep is really necessary for our kind. But for field agents, it does help to maintain the illusion of mortality. And let’s face it, there’s something vaguely sacrosanct about sleep whether necessary or not and being roused from it before the crack of dawn tends to leave one feeling groggy and irritable.

Sighing again, I went about getting ready. I chose to forego most of my morning routine in favor of pulling a comb through my hair to release the worst of the tangles, and scraping a brush over my teeth—more out of habit than any need for personal hygiene. I dug out a clean pair of tactical pants from the bottom of the laundry pile, pulled on a gray t-shirt, and laced up my combat boots. Grimly, I studied the pale face in the mirror before deciding I looked human enough. On the way out the door, I grabbed my keys, jammed my 9mm through my waistband, pulled on my leather motorcycle jacket, and snatched up my helmet.

Once on the street I noted the dismal drizzle that was slowly soaking the world in the near-dawn dusk. “Great,” I muttered with just a hint of irony, wondering why I bothered with the clean pants. I jerked the helmet on my head, kick started my bike with more force than necessary, and roared out of the lot. The loud purr of the motor was strangely satisfying in the hush that comes before day.

I’ve been working the streets of Jersey City for a little over fifty years now so I’m pretty familiar with the layout. It didn’t take me long to navigate the early morning traffic and pull up to the diner several blocks down the street from my building. I parked in front of the beat-up blue Buick I knew belonged to the commander. His car has a bumper sticker on the back reading Netiquam erro, and a crusader’s cross hanging from the rearview mirror. Its probably the only Latin-speaking Buick/reliquary on the Eastern seaboard and I was glad I’d guessed right on the location of “breakfast”.

I swung off the motorcycle, my pants and boots now soaking wet, along with the ends of my hair not covered by the helmet. I'd never adapted to the modern custom of short hair, and today I wished I had. With helmet in hand I stepped into the diner, glanced around, and saw the commander sitting in a window booth about midway down the length of the restaurant. The waitress eyed me dispassionately when I crossed the room to join him.

He glanced up bleary-eyed while I approached, as though he too had had a sleepless night. The illusion was remarkable. “Lieutenant,” he greeted matter-of-factly.

“It’s sergeant, actually, remember? You demoted me after the Brescia incident.”

He tossed a leather badge case across the table, “Well now I’m promoting you.”

I quirked an eyebrow at him, pitching my helmet onto the red vinyl bench. “This can’t be good. Did somebody start World War Three while I wasn’t looking?”

He grimaced, “Not yet.” He gestured for me to take a seat.

I glanced around curiously, not yet inclined to jump into whatever disaster had the commander turning to me now. “I didn't think you slummed around in dives like this.”

“I like the coffee,” he muttered dryly.

Quirking one brow, I glanced down at the cup of industrial waste he was holding. “Is that so?”

"Sit down lieutenant," he grumbled irritably.

I studied him suspiciously as I slid onto the opposite bench. It’s a rare occasion for agents to be singled out by the commander, but fortunately (or unfortunately as was often the case) it was a regular occurrence for me. I still hadn’t figured out if that was a good thing or not. “Last time I was promoted to lieutenant,” I observed offhandedly, “I was sent into the heart of Sodom right before it became a smudge mark on the face of the planet.”

“Times have changed,” he shrugged, taking a sip of the coffee sitting in front of him.

They certainly had. The commander—who I will always equate with burnished bronze breast plates and a fiery sword—sat across from me in a faded denim jacket with a baseball cap pulled low over his curly hair. He had grease stains on his hands and his white T-shirt as though he’d been recently working an engine. By the looks of his car outside, he probably had. He looked tired, black bruises smudged under his eyes like the other plant workers who were coming off the night shift and drifting into the diner for a quick bite before a long nap. I couldn’t quite reconcile his current appearance with his legendary reputation.

The waitress sidled up to our table and smacked her gum. She set a ceramic cup before me and filled it with a foul-smelling brew. “What’ll you have, hun?” she asked.

“Just the coffee for now,” I answered without looking at her.

She rolled her eyes and trudged away, no doubt calculating her worthless tip on our table. Food, like sleep, was one of those things we didn’t really need. I’ve often wondered if the legends of vampires arose from observation of our strange behavior. “So what am I doing here, commander?” I asked.

“Please,” he waved away the distinction, glancing around a bit nervously at the other patrons, “Call me Michael.” He took another sip from his cup. “I wanted to ask you for a favor.”

“What favor?”

Removing manila folder out of his jacket, he slid it across the table to where I still hadn’t picked up the badge. “I have a special assignment for you.”

“Does it have anything to do with the recent rumors?” I asked, leaving the folder and badge where they lay. Special assignments are exactly that. Special. Rarely they’re direct orders, most of the time they occur on a volunteer basis. The first time I volunteered for anything I ended up down here stuck in a mortal body. Needless to say, I was a little wary of doing anyone else any kind of favors without getting the details first.

His eyes flicked to my face with a hint of surprise. “Rumors?”

“Word has it one of ours got sent down the wrong distribution line,” I glanced around uncomfortably, “if you know what I mean.”

The commander scowled, “Where did you hear that?”

I shrugged, “Some guardians I know were talking about it.”

He shook his head in disgust, “Guardians gossip worse than a knitting group.” He glanced around again and so did I, but it didn’t seem like anyone—including the half dozen or so guardians in the room—had heard him. Or at least if they had, they had prudence enough not to say anything. Guardians are good at that.

“Occupational hazard,” I told him heartlessly. I was starting to wonder if he was being cryptic for the mortals’ sake, or the guardians’. They weren't really paying us much attention, I only caught a side-eye here and there. Guardians are invisible to mortals of course, but plain as day for those who know how to see them. “So it’s true?”

“Drink your coffee and read your file,” he said instead.

But I knew better than to pick up a file without knowing what was in it and I definitely knew better than to drink the coffee in this cesspit. Instead I sat back in my booth and crossed my arms tightly over my chest. I fixed him in a steely gaze, “Do I want this promotion?” I asked pointedly.

“Probably not,” he answered bluntly. Letting loose an exasperated breath, he leaned forward, spun the file so it faced me, and flipped it open. “See this young man?” he asked, pointing to a picture.

I glanced at the image of a swarthy youth with a smile full of white teeth. “Good looking kid,” I commented neutrally.

“I’m glad you think so, because you’re about to be his guardian angel.”

I raised a brow at him questioningly. “I thought we'd all agreed I wasn't going to do that anymore.” I'd had a bad experience last century with a certain Major Summerford, otherwise known as the human lightning rod.

The waitress returned to the table carrying a short stack which she set down in front of the commander. Michael thanked her but she was staring at the open file. “I recognize that kid,” she said. “He’s the one got shot last night. It was all over the news. Gang activity they called it. Right shame. He seemed like one of the good ones.” She looked at the two of us with more interest. “Are you cops?”

“Something like that,” the commander murmured.

The waitress turned to me, “He don’t look like a cop,” she told me, waggling her head toward Michael. Her eyes did the up-down on me, “You don’t either.”

“We’re off-duty,” I explained, waving her away.

She lifted a brow, puffed huffily, and hurried off.

“Classy,” the commander wryly commented.

“So if the kid’s dead,” I pressed. “I’m betting you don’t mean guardian angel in the literal sense.”

“It’s only an expression,” he quickly amended, poking at the pancakes with a fork. “He’s been… misfiled.”

I grimaced, “Misfiled? Is that a new industry term?”

His scowl deepened. “We don’t exactly have terms for this, lieutenant.”

“So what you’re saying is…?”

“I’m sending you to Hell.”

“You’re kidding,” I muttered in disbelief.

“No jest, lieutenant.”

A brief word about the commander: he’s about the most influential and legendary soldier in history who’s successfully led the strongest armies of all time, and held the darkest evils at bay since, oh, about the dawn of time. Don’t let his looks fool you. He’s an expert with every weapon that’s ever been invented by man (though he prefers the brass short sword) and is master of every fighting style invented and forgotten throughout history. So when Michael tells you you’re going to Hell, odds are that’s where you’re headed.

I should probably explain here that he’s an angel. That’s right, flaming sword, wings, the whole bit. Although you won’t find any feathers under his dirty denim jacket, we only take them out for special occasions. You probably don’t even know how many of those faces you see in the crowd are angels too—just like him and me. Of course, most of them—the guardians chiefly who are soul-bound one to each of the race of Man—you can’t see. The ones you can, well, if we’re around that usually means something bad is going to happen. Or it already has.

Michael looked up at me from under the brim of the faded blue baseball cap. He laid one scarred and calloused hand on top of the file. “This is a sensitive matter,” he informed me. “Not like any of your past jobs, this one requires a certain kind of…” he trailed off as though searching for the right words, “approach.”

I slid the file out from under his hand and flipped through it. It looked like the usual case file: A picture, personal information, records… that sort of thing. Domingo Santiago, 18 years old, mother’s Puerto Rican and father’s from Chicago. He grew up in Michigan, volunteered at soup kitchens, active in youth organizations at church, visiting Jersey for his grandmother’s eighty-fourth birthday party. Killed twelve hours ago in a convenience store robbery. Police are investigating. I thought maybe we were dealing with some unfortunate pact with the devil and I was being sent to clean up the mess, but there were no Faustian notations in the file. “How’d a kid like this end up someplace like that?” I asked in surprise.

“An unfortunate mix up,” he sighed. “And we’re sending you in to correct it.”

“And by ‘sending in’ you mean infiltrating Hell, and by ‘correct’ you mean stealing a soul back from Satan himself. And I don’t even want to know what you mean by ‘mix up’.” My eyes lifted to Michael’s face and I glared at him. This was not what I signed on for when I volunteered for this position. That’s the only way you get sent down here, you see. You have to volunteer. Back when a third of the angels got swept from the sky there weren’t that many willing to follow them down. I was one of the idiots who did, and now as a reward for my many billennia of service, they’re sending me to Hell.

“Why me?” I asked automatically. It seemed like the most obvious question.

Michael shrugged and sat back, “You’re the most qualified.”

I didn’t want to point out that he was the most qualified. He’s an Arch after all, I’m just a lowly field agent, and he’s the one who defeated Old Nick the first time around. I couldn’t look him in the eye though, that baseball cap was destroying his reputation in my mind. The last time I’d had a real sit-down conversation with him like this we were just about to storm the beaches of Normandy, and needless to say, he’d looked a bit different in those days.

Realizing that his answer sounded as ridiculous as he looked, he smiled slightly and glanced toward the kitchen where the short-order chef stood idly flipping hotcakes. “Nobody wants to start a war over this, which is exactly what’ll happen if I go marching in there with an army at my back. You on the other hand, have a reputation for handling bad situations with a… we’ll call it grace.”

“I’ll try to take that as a compliment,” I muttered. He had a point though. Oh, it’s not that I go out of my way looking for trouble or anything. Trouble usually finds me whether I look or not. But I’ve always gotten out of it without too much in the use of miracles, though often not without collateral damage. Sighing exasperatedly, I flipped through the pages of the file again, scanning down through the pertinent data. “Explain to me,” I began, unable this time to keep the sarcasm out of my question, “how someone gets accidently misfiled and sent down the southbound train?”

Michael grimaced, “There’s actually a long story there. It was something of a fiasco all around and we’re still trying to sort out the aftermath. Internal Affairs is handling that investigation, this assignment is yours.”

I frowned unhappily, guessing at what he wasn’t saying. You see, though we’ve been doing our best since the First War, not all the demons are trapped in Hell. Yet. And it’s a sad state of affairs that the ones walking around up here want nothing more than to drag a good man down into the pit. I suppose it makes their job up here a lot easier but it’s given us all sorts of trouble all around. It’s the Powers’ department to round them up, and most of the time a good caseworker can sort the whole thing out before it gets to the til death do we part bit. Because once this mortal coil has been shuffled off, well… that’s all folks. Which left me wondering what kind of a fiasco landed a good soul in Hell and merited calling in IA. I dropped the file on the table with an angry gesture wondering if there had been any recent personnel reductions in the Powers division.

Slamming the file shut I pushed it back toward him, “I’m not qualified for this,” I told him honestly. “Never mind it’s a suicide mission, this is first sphere jurisdiction, and here I’m just a lowly…”

I floundered at that point for two reasons. One, I was about a thousand years overdue on my last performance rating and my job description is subsequently sadly out of date. And two, I’ve been reassigned so many times I don’t even actually know what I am anymore. Except of course, I was reasonably assured I wasn’t in the first sphere.

A quick word about angel hierarchy: The Archs are at the top, captains we call them. If an Arch tells you to jump you don’t even ask how high, you just jump (and sending them to voicemail isn’t recommended). There are only seven of them so they’re pretty easy to keep straight, and they come from each of the choirs. For instance, the commander is a Seraph and probably the only Seraph you’ll see in the field. Seraphim don’t really get out much. The Cherubim are like the Seraph’s field staff. If something important needs to be protected—or there’s just a dirty job to be done that no one else can do—the Cherubs are usually sent in. The Thrones are like our IT department, and the Dominions (kindly referred to as “Management”) relay orders and make up our duty rosters. I’ve been a thorn on their rosters since my inception. Anything below those choirs are the special assignments: Virtues, Powers, Principalities... and of course the choir everyone calls angels (we’re all technically angels) but to us they’re Guardians. I’ve bounced back and forth between departments so many times I don’t even know what I am anymore, and I’m pretty sure no one else does either.

I’m just the one they call when something goes wrong.

The commander sighed, “No one’s qualified for this.” And I knew he was right. “But of all the field agents between assignments right now, you’re top of the list.” Which probably meant those worth having were already assigned elsewhere. “Besides, you worked the Chicago Fire and the Watts Riots, and you’ve been on the streets of Jersey City for over fifty years now. Hell can’t be much worse than that.”

On some level, I almost wanted to agree with him.

The waitress returned to our table to refresh the practically untouched cups of coffee and probably to poke her nose in our business again. “What is that, Gaelic?” she asked, squinting at the writing on the file.

“Enochian,” I answered her, eyes locked on Michael.

“Huh,” she grunted as though she thought I was being flippant. “You decide on anything to eat, hun?”

My shoulders slumped and I rolled my eyes, “One egg, sunny-side-up with a side of bacon.” If I was going to Hell, I was going well fed.

“Coming right up,” she replied, trotting away with her internal tip-calculator ratcheting up what was owed to her.

“You know,” I said to the commander, “this isn’t one of those need-to-know situations. If you’re sending me to—” I glanced around, “that hellhole, I think I need all the information I can get.”

“This kid didn’t do anything,” he answered me. “Are you really going to let him rot down there while I fill you in on all the little inconsequential details?”

“What about ‘I’m sending you to Hell’ seems inconsequential?”

He fixed me in a frustrated glare.

I leaned in to whisper at him, “Has this even ever been done before?”

Michael shrugged and waved that off. “It’s not like we’re going to send you in unprepared.” He removed another file from his jacket, this one black with a red splotch on the front that might have been a pentacle. I didn’t get much of a chance to examine it, though, because he quickly removed a few sheets, slid them across the table, and returned the file to his jacket. I started to wonder what else he had hidden in there. “This is the latest intel we’ve got from down below.”

“We’ve got spies?” I asked incredulously. “How bad do I have to screw up this assignment to get that post?”

“Pretty bad,” he muttered back exasperatedly. “Are you going to take this seriously or not?”

“Not,” I muttered, “definitely not.” That was the only way I was keeping my sanity right now. I glanced over the sheets of intel, and I’ve got to tell you, it didn’t make me feel any better about what he was suggesting. “Do we at least know where the kid is being held down there?”

“Sorry,” he shook his head, “our reports don’t come in often enough to know precise data like that. And Hell is something of a fluid landscape anyway.”

“Fluid…” I mulled over that for a moment, “So I’m guessing that means you don’t have a map in that mysterious file of yours.”

He winced, “Sorry lieutenant,” and he actually sounded so. “There are no maps of Hell, and even if we had one it’d be next to useless. Hell is... uniquely unfixed. On the one hand it’s this wholly actual, real place, and on the other hand it doesn’t exist at all. That makes mapping it a bit of a chore.”

“I’m not supposed to actually understand that am I?”

“Not without an advanced degree in particle physics, no.”

“Uh huh,” I glanced again at the pages in my hands trying not to consider the implications of what he was suggesting.

“We have a contact, however,” he offered, “and you should recognize it if you cross paths.”

I eyed him suspiciously, “It?”

He shrugged again, “I can’t say more without jeopardizing the mission.”

I looked around again and shuddered, realizing he was probably right. This neighborhood wasn’t the most stand-up establishment after all. Anybody could be listening.

He leaned in a little closer, “Look I don’t like sending you in either. If I could, I’d take this mission myself but the Devil and I have a certain, ah, history that’s probably best left settled in this world than that one. Domingo Santiago needs you. He’ll be easy to find… only mortal there with a clean soul. More than likely the Devil will know where he is. Satan doesn’t let much go unnoticed in his realm. If you get into trouble just follow the light, it’ll show you the way.” He leaned away as the waitress plopped a plate of food in front of me, and waited until she was gone to continue. “Just ask around, lieutenant. Demons are more than willing to talk if you buy them a drink or two and for heaven’s sake, don’t let anyone find out who you are!”

I sighed and sat back, rubbing my forehead as though to banish the migraine I could feel coming on. Basically this was boiling down to me pulling on my coat, folding in my wings, and trying to look as inconspicuous as possible as the only angel on the streets of Hell. I didn’t like it, but what choice did I have?

Eyeing the rather unappetizing plate of food dispassionately, I sighed again. “How do I get there?”

Michael glanced about the diner, then got up from the booth and dropped a few bills on the table. “Follow me.”

“Follow me, he says.” And like an idiot I did. I pushed up from the table, grabbed a slice of toast and a couple crispy bits of bacon, and turned around to find every guardian in the place looking at me. The waitress hurried over and Michael settled the check before stepping out into the rain. I walked out after him, aware that the guardians were still watching me. Outside it was worse. Word had clearly spread, and there they were, lining the street and windows with gazes fixed on the commander and I. It was a little unnerving, all those eyes on me probably wondering if they’d ever see me again.

“You know, a lesser angel would be a little intimidated,” I muttered grimly.

“Come on,” Michael answered after a moment, turning away from the watchful eyes and heading up the street on foot to a sad little gas station that—judging by the posted price—has been out of business since well before the turn of the millennium. He led me around the building into the men’s restroom at the back. “This is it?” I asked.

He gave me a queer look. “Why else would we be in here?”

I guess I shouldn’t be surprised that the gate to Hell is secreted in a filthy men’s toilet in Jersey City.

Michael closed and locked the door before turning to me. “Give me your jacket.”

“Why?” I asked suspiciously.

“Just give it to me,” he said in an annoyed tone.

I slipped out of my leathers and handed the jacket over.

From… somewhere he produced a bundle of black cloth and handed it to me. “Put this on,” he ordered.

I took the bundle and held it out. It was a calf-length black wool duster straight out of a bad western. “What am I, a graphic novel character?”

“Just put it on, lieutenant.”

“You know, Hell’s supposed to be a pretty warm locale, you don’t happen to have anything in a Bermuda short, do you?”

He rolled his eyes tragically, “Just put it on!”

Grudgingly, I slipped into the coat. Solid lumps struck my legs when I pulled it around myself, and I dipped one hand in a pocket to feel around. “Well commander, I’m ready for my gunfight at the O.K. Corral now.”

I'm pretty sure at that point, Michael was ready to pitch me down the pipe, mission or no mission. He rather pointedly handed me a scarf, “This goes with it.”

I took the scarf dubiously and stared at it, “No Kevlar vest and riot gear?”

He shook his head and I could hear him grinding his teeth. “This mission is strictly covert, lieutenant. The coat will help disguise your more angelic nature. Remember, no swords, no wings, no extractions, no exceptions. Everything you need is in the coat.”

“Sure it is.” I muttered mutinously, hanging the scarf about my neck.

He pinched the bridge of his nose, eyes squeezed shut. “Those are very dangerous weapons,” he informed me closely, “don’t go playing around with them. And only use them when, and if, it is absolutely necessary.”

“And how will I know when that is?”

“Oh, you’ll know.” He told me.

“You keep saying that. I don’t think it’s as helpful as you think it is.”

Throwing his hands in the air and giving up, he turned his back on me and studied the wall. After a minute or so he started fiddling with a urinal and I hoped he was just trying to open the gate. While he had his back turned I quickly reached around and made sure my 9 mm automatic was right where I could get to it. Now I’m not sure bullets work in Hell, but I’m willing to do the necessary experimentation if the situation requires it. Satisfied that the gun was there and loaded, I crossed my arms and waited for him to finish.

The commander completed whatever he was doing and flushed the urinal. As the water swirled down the pipes, the whole wall seemed to swirl with it, rippling like the surface of a pond. You might imagine a gate to Hell with fire and brimstone and the maddened screams of tortured souls, but when the wall had stopped rippling it just looked like a very large, oddly shaped mirror reflecting back at us. When the wall finished settling, Michael turned back to face me. “Well lieutenant,” he drawled with a grim expression, “this is it.”

I eyed the looking glass to damnation warily. “No way you’re going to talk me out of this?”

“I’m starting to think this was a bad idea,” he groaned.

“This is only starting to feel like a bad idea now,” I wondered. I took a step toward the darkly reflecting mirror, eyeing it suspiciously. “Want me to send you a post card from the other side?”

He shook his head in exasperation, “Lieutenant?”

“Yes?”

“Go to Hell.”

I grinned at him then, “Admit it, commander, you’ve been waiting ten thousand years to say that to me and mean it.”

He couldn’t quite keep the smile off his face. Reaching into his jacket again he pulled out a single silver coin and flipped it through the air.

I caught it reflexively, looking at it in puzzlement. “What’s this for?”

“To pay the ferryman,” he quipped. Sobering again, he gestured at the mirror, “And lieutenant? Be careful.”

I winked and nodded, looked again at the mirror and grimaced. Taking a deep breath, I stepped through the looking glass and left behind the mortal realm to fall into the fiery depths of perdition.