Escape From Hell Read online

  “You mean she was chaste when she died?”

  “That’s my guess. But I knew her, and I don’t think she ever regretted anything at all.”

  “No repentance. Uh–huh. All right, Allen, how will you rescue Elena? Or any of these?”

  “One at a time. All I need is a rope.”

  “Where will you find rope?”

  “In Dis. The City. It’s downslope. And before that there’s a swamp with vines. They use ropes in the construction crews, too, and that’s not far from here.”

  “Are you going to come back here, then?”

  “I hope not. Rosemary, I already got one soul out of the Winds. Let someone who led a less active sexual life than I did work on the rest.”

  “But you set out to rescue everyone!”

  “No, ma’am, I set out to make myself certain that everyone can be rescued. I’ll help those I can, and I’ll recruit a replacement before I leave. That’s got to be enough! Doesn’t it?”

  Rosemary studied my face, and I flinched a little. She said, “Not my call.”

  • • •

  Sylvia had been quiet for a long time. I broke off a small branch. Blood flowed. “Not my call, either,” Sylvia said, “but for what it’s worth I’m on your side.” She laughed, a real laugh, not the nervous giggle I’d heard before. “Of course that does mean you must show me how to get out of here.”

  “I knew that,” I told her.

  “She was waiting for her husband,” Sylvia said. “She could have gone with you, but she chose to wait. That has to count for something.”

  “Yeah. But what?”

  “Allen, I don’t know.”

  “I didn’t like it, but I left her there. And Rosemary and I did get across the Winds without being blown away.”

  “Tell me,” Sylvia said.

  Chapter 8

  Third Circle

  The Gluttonous

  * * *

  In the third circle am I of the rain

  Eternal, maledict, and cold, and heavy:

  Its law and quality are never new.

  Huge hail, and water somber–hued, and snow

  Athwart the tenebrous air pour down amain;

  Noisome the earth is, that receiveth this.

  We tumbled over the edge of the Circle of Winds. The steep slope beyond was slimed, and there weren’t any handholds. We slid down. Halfway down the slope we were in sleet driven by winds I’d have thought strong if I hadn’t just come from the circle above me. The slime turned to filthy slush. We slid right down to level ground and lay there in cold filth.

  “Bugger this for a lark,” Rosemary said. She looked awful. I remembered the neatness of her appearance when I’d found her in the Vestibule.

  “There’s worse to come.” I got up easily enough, and when I bent to help Rosemary she was heavier than she’d been back under the trestle, but pulling her up was easier. I heard a faint barking far away. “We have to keep moving.”

  We picked our way past a crowd who looked like they’d been thrown away with the garbage. They lay there in the stinking filth half covered by hail and sleet. A hand closed on my ankle and a voice said, “I was a glutton.”

  “Yeah,” I said. I shouted, “Get up and come with us! There’s a way out of here.”

  “The dog!” someone shouted. “He’ll get us!”

  “I don’t see any dog,” I said. But I remembered. Dante described the three–headed dog, Cerberus, watching over the gluttons and tearing them apart if they tried to get out of the slush. Virgil had dealt with him by throwing slush into his mouths. I remembered wondering at the time I read the poem why no one else had tried that, and why he hadn’t needed three handfuls.

  The guy clutching my ankle was too deep in slush to show features. He said, “Then I got diabetes.”

  “Uh–huh.” Gluttony seemed a good way to get diabetes.

  “I changed my diet. I lived my diet. My friends couldn’t stand me. Neither could my family. My wife left me. I couldn’t make myself go out, but by God I was a demon cook.”

  “Maybe we better hurry,” I told Rosemary. The diabetic was still clinging. I told him, “It doesn’t have to end like that. I know the way.”

  “There’s a monster dog.”

  “The dog isn’t here. Come on, there’s time!”

  “There are devils down there.” The diabetic let go. “I need to think about it.”

  Someone shouted, “And we have memories here. Remember Morton’s of Chicago?”

  “Perino’s before they closed it! Now there was a place to eat.”

  “A little pricey.”

  “Santa Maria Barbecue!”

  “The Juneau Moose Club Buffet! Best seafood buffet in the world. In the world, I tell you!”

  “Stop thinking about your bellies and come with me! I bring you hope! There’s a way out of here. Down! You go down, all the way to the bottom! I’ve done it, you can do it!”

  “You!” A woman’s voice, accusing. She was running through the slush, avoiding the inhabitants, and moving at a good clip. “You!” She stopped in front of me. She didn’t seem angry, but she was insistent. Her finger wagged just below my chin.

  “Do I know you?” She didn’t look familiar. She was built like a runner, beautifully articulated muscles that would have been more attractive on a man, but they looked pretty good on her.

  “I’m here because of you,” she said. “Catherine Woznak. Don’t you remember me?”

  “No …”

  “I told you, ‘We’re in the hands of infinite power and infinite sadism.’ ”

  “Good God! It’s you. I looked for you up there. Rosemary, this is the fat lady from the Vestibule!”

  “Yes, and it’s all your fault,” she said, but it didn’t sound like an accusation. She was almost friendly.

  “Allen?” Rosemary asked. “She doesn’t look fat to me!”

  “She was then! She looked too fat to move. The woman who banned cyclamate sweeteners.” The absurdity of the situation hit me and I almost started giggling. “Ms. Woznak —”

  “Dr. Woznak,” she corrected me.

  “Dr. Woznak, may I present Ms. Rosemary Bennett, Esquire, formerly of New Orleans. Rosemary, this is Dr. Catherine Woznak, formerly of the FDA.”

  “Department of Agriculture,” Dr. Woznak said firmly.

  “All right, Department of Agriculture. The last time I saw you, you were in the Vestibule but you looked like you belonged in here. Fat as a circus exhibit. Immobile. So how is it my fault you’re here?”

  “After you left I thought about what you said. That you were escaping this horrible place. You invited me to come with you! But you didn’t wait.”

  “You didn’t want to come.”

  “You weren’t eager to have me. Besides, I could hardly move! So you left, and I thought about what you’d said, and it seemed like a good idea. So I got up and crawled. And waddled. I don’t know how long I walked. A long time. Charon didn’t want me on his boat, but I rolled aboard and he couldn’t move me. I got to the palace, and Minos put me here.”

  “Why here? You were no glutton!”

  “I know. I think I was supposed to learn something. And I did.”

  “What keeps you here?”

  “Nothing, now. For a long time I looked for someone to go with me. I was afraid to go alone.”

  “Oh.” I could understand that. “Then come with us now.”

  “I can’t. I have to wait for a friend. We’re running all around the circle in opposite directions looking for the best way out and trying to get more to join us. We’ll meet somewhere. I promised Jan I’d wait for him, and I will.”

  “Oh. Jan?”

  “Jan Petri. He was ready to leave when I got here, but he waited until I got in better shape. He said some people had come through and told him — that was you! And your companion, a big guy with an accent!”

  “Jan Petri. Yeah, that was us.” I remembered him from the last time I’d been here wading through the
slush. It hadn’t been much fun.

  Men and women in about equal numbers, they ranged from pleasantly plump to chubby to gross. Three or four were as bad as the woman in the Vestibule. I wondered if they’d be pleased to know about her.

  And once I wiped frozen slush from my eyes, cursing imaginatively under my breath. I dropped my hand and he was staring at me: a long–haired blond man built like an Olympic athlete.

  “Allen Carpentier,” he said sadly. “So they got you, too.”

  I looked close and recognized him. “Petri? Jan Petri! What are you doing here? You’re no glutton!”

  “I’m the least gluttonous man who ever lived,” he said bitterly. “While all of these creeps were swilling down anything that came near their mouths, from pig meat to garden snails — and you, too, for that matter, Allen — I was taking care of myself. Natural foods. Organic vegetables. No meat. No chemicals. I didn’t drink. I didn’t smoke. I didn’t —” He caught himself up. “I didn’t hire you as my lawyer. Why am I bending your ear? You’re here, too. You were one of the PIGS, weren’t you?”

  “Yeah.” He meant the Prestigious International Gourmand Society, whose purpose in life was to go out and eat together. I’d joined because I liked the company. “But I’m not staying. This isn’t my slot.”

  He wiped slush from his face to see me better. “So where are you going?”

  “Out of this place. Come along?” He’d be unpleasant company till we got him a bath, but I knew he wouldn’t slow us down. There never was a health nut to match Petri. He used to run four miles a day. I figured he’d be a lot of help building the glider.

  “How do you get out of Hell?”

  So they’d convinced him, too. “We go downhill for a while. Then we’ll —”

  He was shaking his head. “Don’t go down. I’ve heard about some of the places downhill. Red–hot coffins and devils and you name it.”

  “We’re not going very far. We’re going to build a glider and go over the walls.”

  “Yeah? And then where?” He seemed to think it was funny. “You’ll just get yourself in more trouble, and for what? You’re better off if you just take what they give you, no matter how unfair it is.”

  “Unfair?” Benito asked.

  Petri’s head snapped around. “Hell, yes, unfair! I’m no glutton!”

  Benito shook his head, very sadly. “Gluttony is too much attention to things of the earth, especially in the matter of diet. It is the obsession that matters, not the quantity.”

  Petri stared a moment. Wearily he said, “Bug off,” and sank back into the freezing muck. As we left him I could hear him muttering to himself. “At least I’m not fat like those animals. I take care of myself.”

  “Jan took care of himself,” I said.

  “He helped me, I was in terrible shape when I got here.” Dr. Woznak chuckled. “I hadn’t been a glutton in life, but I sure looked like one! Jan worked with me to change that.”

  “And you’re leaving together?”

  “We are.”

  “Allen, we’re not going to stay here, are we?” Rosemary demanded. “I’m freezing!”

  “No. Dr. Woznak —”

  “Catherine.”

  “Catherine. Do you still think we’re in the hands of infinite power and infinite sadism?”

  “No. I mean, I don’t know,” she said. “How can I know? But I don’t feel helpless now.” She shrugged. “Sometimes you just have to have faith.”

  • • •

  “Faith and hope,” Sylvia said. “And don’t forget charity. She was waiting for her friend. All three of the theological virtues. What happened to her?”

  “I don’t know. We didn’t leave her, she left us. Last I saw she was running.”

  Chapter 9

  Fourth Circle

  The Hoarders And The Wasters

  * * *

  Crying “Why keepest?” and, “why squanderest thou?”

  Thus they returned along the lurid circle

  On either hand unto the opposite point,

  Shouting their shameful metre evermore.

  I helped Rosemary get across the slush. We found a steep path down toward what looked like a wider ledge below, but there were obstacles. First there was an old man sitting there. He wore a crown, and jeweled rings, but his robes were worn out and full of holes. He got up and blocked our way. He was babbling something —

  Sylvia was excited. “Papë Satàn, Papë Satàn, Aleppë!”

  “Yeah, that sounds about right,” I told her. “And a bunch of other stuff, too, but it didn’t make any sense.”

  “Interesting,” Sylvia said. “I was quoting Dante, of course. Plutus said that. You have the gift of tongues, and you still didn’t understand him. It must be nonsense. I wonder if Cellini was right?”

  “Cellini?”

  “Benvenuto Cellini. He did that eighteen–foot–high bronze Perseus in Florence, and —”

  “Sure, Cellini the sculptor. What’s he got to do with this?”

  “He wrote about Dante, Allen. He admired him. No one has ever figured out what Dante thought Plutus was saying, but when Cellini was in Paris, he got tied up in lawsuits, and he said Dante must have learned this language from the babble of the judges and magistrates in the French courts. Of course he didn’t think much of the French. How did you get past him?”

  “Same way Dante did. I used the formula. ‘This has been willed where what is willed must be.’ ”

  Sylvia giggled. “That’s not what Dante did! Virgil threatened Plutus with Michael the Archangel.”

  “Plutus.”

  “Yes. Mythical god of wealth.”

  “A mythical god in a monotheist Hell,” I said. “Does that make sense?”

  “It might. Before God revealed Himself, this world was fair game for everyone. Angels, devils, angels who wouldn’t choose sides and liked to play at being gods. Maybe even gods. In Arabia they were known as djinn.”

  “And you believe that?”

  She laughed. It was a cheery sound in an awful place. “I remember believing it when Jack Lewis was explaining it to me,” she said.

  “Plutus. You have a better memory than I do.”

  “Allen, I’ve had a long time to think about this place. I remember a lot of Dante, especially his best scenes. All right, you got past Plutus. What else did you find in the Fourth Circle?”

  • • •

  I noticed the woman first, from old habit. An amply endowed blond woman, she sat with her back against a big spherical boulder. She stood as we approached, and smiled at me. She’d been a beauty once.

  The boulder loomed above her, glowing with a blue translucency. The woman stood as if she could hide it.

  Rosemary knew her. “Vickie Lynn.”

  The blonde looked puzzled. “They don’t call me that anymore.”

  Rosemary laughed. “Anna Nicole, then.”

  “Where did you know me?”

  “Wal–Mart. We were both clerks. Before you got famous.”

  “Oh! I’m sorry, I should remember you —”

  “I’d have been shocked if you had,” Rosemary said. “Allen, you wouldn’t know about Vickie — Anna Nicole. She was Playmate of the Year, then she married a billionaire. Scandals everywhere after that.”

  Vickie glared.

  I said, “Nice rock.” She didn’t answer, so I asked, “Why are you here?”

  “I don’t know!” Vickie wailed. “Everyone said I married Howie for his money, but I didn’t! I mean, well, he knew what he was getting! And he got it! He got everything he thought he would. I made him happy.”

  “J. Howard Marshall was eighty–nine. She was twenty–five,” Rosemary said dryly. “It was her fourth marriage.”

  “Third! And I was twenty–six! And he died happy. I earned everything I got from him.”

  “I just bet you did,” Rosemary said.

  “You’re not being fair,” Vickie–Anna wailed.

  “But why here?” I asked.

&
nbsp; “I don’t know! I didn’t cheat anyone. I wasn’t unfaithful.”

  “We’re getting out of here,” I told her. “Out of Hell. Want to come with us?”

  Rosemary didn’t look happy, but she didn’t say anything.

  “I think I’ll wait,” Vickie–Anna said, her hand in touch with the blue boulder.

  “Good thinking,” Rosemary said. She pulled me down the path. It got steeper, then leveled out.

  This part of the Fourth Circle was empty. We were in a lot the size of the Rose Bowl, surrounded by hedgerows. The ground was hard clay, packed down and baked in the heat.

  “What is this?” Rosemary asked. She pointed to some deep grooves in the hard–baked clay. “What would have made those?”

  “Hoarders and Wasters,” I told her. “They roll big rocks at each other. The rocks are diamonds, big ones with the facets worn off. I’ve seen it.” I realized this wasn’t making much sense. “You’d have to read the poem, I think.”

  “I wonder if rolling rocks would be better than running after banners? There aren’t any wasps here. What makes them keep rolling the rocks if they get tired of doing it?”

  I shrugged. “Whatever it was, it must have stopped. It looks like these have escaped. One of the rocks got left, and Anna’s hoarding it.”

  “Escaped. Could that have been your doing?”

  “I don’t think so. This doesn’t look much like the way I came last time. We sure didn’t see any half–naked old man with a crown. Or Playboy Bunnies, for that matter. I still can’t figure what she’s doing here.”

  “Waster,” Rosemary said. “She got a lot of money when her husband died, and went through it all. Booze, drugs, men. Playboys and princes. Classic Waster.”

  We crossed the field and looked for a way through the hedge. Sure enough, there was an opening, as if someone had rolled an enormous rock at the hedge at high speed and crashed through.

  The ground dropped off on the other side of the opening, but not far enough to mark a new circle. We were standing at the lip of a pit. Far below was smoking waste: twisted steel, smashed concrete and black char, stench of rotted and burned meat and blood. Rising above it, rising up to the level where we stood and then far above that, were ephemeral transparent images of buildings.