Read Online Jeffrey Thomas, Voices from Hades by Jeffrey Thomas - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Jeffrey Thomas
Ads: Link
himself.
««—»»
Petty’s heart, or the ectoplasmic replica of his heart, awakened him with a jolt as if defibrillators had been applied to him—again. He had been dreaming of his final living moments. Riding in the ambulance. Hearing its siren. The last sound he’d heard with his mortal ears, that banshee siren. Like a wailing cry of lamentation. It was as if the ambulance had driven him here, to the plane of the afterlife, instead of to the hospital.
He sat up on his cot, and listened to the boat’s puttering. They were moving very slowly. He raised his bulk with a groan of strain, and emerged from the shaded forecastle to see what was going on up front.
"Look at this, Steve!" cried Rule over his shoulder, crouched even more avidly at the harpoon gun. "Not much sport in shooting these three, but it might make good target practice!"
"Sorry this spot was a bit out of the way, gentlemen," Captain Eridan called above the motor sounds, "but I thought you might find it of interest!"
The boat had found its way among a series of small islands, some no larger than a manhole cover, the largest as big as a parking lot. All were flattish, and Petty had the impression that these were not the peaks of underwater rock, covered in a congealing slime of blood; instead, he grew convinced they were essentially giant blood clots floating atop the calm surface of the sea in this area. These masses were gelatinous, and so dark a red they were nearly black. Toward their centers, the matter went from a glossy pudding to a hard, flaking crust. Immense scabs, Petty realized. And if the normal scent of the Red Sea wasn’t bad enough—that iron reek of blood—these islets gave off a stench like rotting meat.
On the largest of these raft-like blood clots, somehow a windmill had been erected. It was a tall, metal framework with a fairly small blade at its top, which didn’t even stir in this becalmed air. The whole structure was encrusted with layers of dried gore. At the foot of the windmill, three naked figures stood with their hands chained high above their heads. The legs and support struts of the windmill obscured them, but Eridan began to casually coax his boat around the rim of the island so they could get a direct view of the prisoners.
"The wind should be along any moment," he informed them cryptically.
How grateful Petty was, seeing things like this, that he wasn’t one of the Damned. How foolish these poor people had been! He had gone to church like he went to the toilet; in an automatic, unthinking way—all that it had cost him for an afterlife-long membership to the celestial country club. It wasn’t like one had to be a contemplative monk, teach catechism, do volunteer work. Once he and Brenda left that high-ceilinged, gilded room with the solemn lisping voice of their priest lulling them nearly to sleep, Brenda would begin to gossip about this fellow parishioner or that, and glare at them when they cut her off as they all drove out of the parking lot. That didn’t matter. All that mattered was making an appearance, chanting the words the Creator wanted to hear from you, and you were safe. Was that so hard? Look what these creatures had brought upon themselves by being agnostics, atheists…running away from their Father.
They had almost reached the opposite side of the island, and as Eridan had predicted, a breeze had come up, turning sharp very quickly. He seemed to have almost cut his engine entirely, as if he didn’t want to reach the far side until the wind had mounted to its full strength. But Petty still began to make out more of what lay at the foot of the windmill…
A cage of tight wire mesh covered each of the three captives. These cages, in turn, were connected by chains woven through a mechanism of gears and cogs.
And the eels. About a dozen of them wriggled through the air, circling around the cages, sinuously winding their way through the girders of the windmill’s base. Once in a while one of
««—»»
Petty’s heart, or the ectoplasmic replica of his heart, awakened him with a jolt as if defibrillators had been applied to him—again. He had been dreaming of his final living moments. Riding in the ambulance. Hearing its siren. The last sound he’d heard with his mortal ears, that banshee siren. Like a wailing cry of lamentation. It was as if the ambulance had driven him here, to the plane of the afterlife, instead of to the hospital.
He sat up on his cot, and listened to the boat’s puttering. They were moving very slowly. He raised his bulk with a groan of strain, and emerged from the shaded forecastle to see what was going on up front.
"Look at this, Steve!" cried Rule over his shoulder, crouched even more avidly at the harpoon gun. "Not much sport in shooting these three, but it might make good target practice!"
"Sorry this spot was a bit out of the way, gentlemen," Captain Eridan called above the motor sounds, "but I thought you might find it of interest!"
The boat had found its way among a series of small islands, some no larger than a manhole cover, the largest as big as a parking lot. All were flattish, and Petty had the impression that these were not the peaks of underwater rock, covered in a congealing slime of blood; instead, he grew convinced they were essentially giant blood clots floating atop the calm surface of the sea in this area. These masses were gelatinous, and so dark a red they were nearly black. Toward their centers, the matter went from a glossy pudding to a hard, flaking crust. Immense scabs, Petty realized. And if the normal scent of the Red Sea wasn’t bad enough—that iron reek of blood—these islets gave off a stench like rotting meat.
On the largest of these raft-like blood clots, somehow a windmill had been erected. It was a tall, metal framework with a fairly small blade at its top, which didn’t even stir in this becalmed air. The whole structure was encrusted with layers of dried gore. At the foot of the windmill, three naked figures stood with their hands chained high above their heads. The legs and support struts of the windmill obscured them, but Eridan began to casually coax his boat around the rim of the island so they could get a direct view of the prisoners.
"The wind should be along any moment," he informed them cryptically.
How grateful Petty was, seeing things like this, that he wasn’t one of the Damned. How foolish these poor people had been! He had gone to church like he went to the toilet; in an automatic, unthinking way—all that it had cost him for an afterlife-long membership to the celestial country club. It wasn’t like one had to be a contemplative monk, teach catechism, do volunteer work. Once he and Brenda left that high-ceilinged, gilded room with the solemn lisping voice of their priest lulling them nearly to sleep, Brenda would begin to gossip about this fellow parishioner or that, and glare at them when they cut her off as they all drove out of the parking lot. That didn’t matter. All that mattered was making an appearance, chanting the words the Creator wanted to hear from you, and you were safe. Was that so hard? Look what these creatures had brought upon themselves by being agnostics, atheists…running away from their Father.
They had almost reached the opposite side of the island, and as Eridan had predicted, a breeze had come up, turning sharp very quickly. He seemed to have almost cut his engine entirely, as if he didn’t want to reach the far side until the wind had mounted to its full strength. But Petty still began to make out more of what lay at the foot of the windmill…
A cage of tight wire mesh covered each of the three captives. These cages, in turn, were connected by chains woven through a mechanism of gears and cogs.
And the eels. About a dozen of them wriggled through the air, circling around the cages, sinuously winding their way through the girders of the windmill’s base. Once in a while one of
Similar Books
