double dead are adjusting iron valves and enormous levers. They inspect gauges and bleed off hurricanes of steam to keep the pressure steady.
I push my way through the mob. It’s like walking through a wheat field. They’re so insubstantial that I can barely feel the spirits around me. The meat locker goes on for miles in every direction. I could wander down here for years without ever seeing a familiar face.
I yell, “General Semyazah!”
Heads slowly turn in my direction. The motion ripples out in small waves, like I dropped a rock into a pond of the dead. No one here has paid attention to anything in a long time.
“General Semyazah!”
Nothing. I feel arouic I feelnd in my pocket and pull out Mason’s lighter. I spark it and hold it high like I’m hoping for an encore of “Free Bird.” The room fills with light. Thousands of souls that haven’t made a sound in years suddenly try to speak. It sounds like a wind from the far side of a hill. Some souls rush to me and fall to their knees, holding their hands up in prayer. They think I’m Jesus at the final judgment come down to save them. Sorry, but I don’t think any of you are high on the Rapture list.
“Semyazah!”
Someone yells back at me. The voice is faint at first, but it gets louder as the crowd shifts, parting for someone muscling his way through. I can’t tell much about him except that he’s wearing the filthy remains of a Hellion officer’s uniform. I head toward him with the lighter over my head.
It takes about twenty minutes for us to meet in the middle.
“General Semyazah?”
He hesitates, not sure if he should admit it.
“Yes,” he says.
“I’m here to get you out of here.”
“Are you? And why would the Father send an angel for me, one of his most devoted betrayers?”
“God wouldn’t send you a pizza even if it was your birthday. And I’m no angel. I’m Sandman Slim.”
Semyazah is thin but moves gracefully, like he was built to always be in motion. His face is almost as scarred as mine. When he smiles half of it doesn’t move.
“Another one? I’ve met a hundred Sandman Slims down here. You’re not any more impressive than any of them. Less, in fact, in those filthy rags. Besides, Sandman Slim is mortal. You’re Hellion.”
“No. He’s not. It’s him,” another voice says.
I close the lighter and turn. The crowd sighs and groans when the light disappears.
It’s Mammon.
“Enjoying my face, are you?”
Where his face should be is all raw red pork roast.
“Hi, General. How’s the neck feeling?”
Semyazah looks at me but talks to Mammon.
“This is who butchered you?”
Mammon nods.
“I’m afraid so.”
I hold out my hand to Semyazah.
“Shake my hand, General,” I say.
He looks at me like it’s the last thing he wants to do.
“I’m not asking you to be roommates, but I’ve come a long way to see you. It’s the least you could do.”
He lifts his hand slowly and puts it in mine. It has weight and mass. I can feel it.
“Mammon was telling the truth. They stuck you in here alive.”
“And they took great delight in watching me go.”
“I know the feeling.”
We’re both looking at Mammon, who looks right back at us.
“Rumor is you’re not a fan of Mason Faim. How would you like your legions back and a chance to stop Mason’s war from destroying your world?”
He straightens and squares his shoulders.
“Our war with Heaven was just. It was for the worthy cause of releasing angels from our existence as slaves. Mason Faim’s war is pure vanity. He’s used that and fear to gather the generals who’ve fallen in with him. I want no part of it and I believe that other generals agree with me but are too frightened to say so. As you see from my circumstances, public disagreement has a high price.”
“So you’d like to stop him.”
“Very much.”
“Good. Then let’s get you out of here.”
