Catching Hell Part One: Journey Read online

  Marc Watson’s

  Catching Hell

  Part 1:

  Journey

  FLUKY FICTION

  Newport, ME

  Catching Hell Part 1: Journey

  Print Edition ISBN: 978-0-9987173-9-5

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  All rights reserved.

  Published by Fluky Fiction

  Copyright © 2021 by Marc Watson

  www.flukyfiction.com

  For Hayden. You are the start of the only journey worth taking.

  Chapter 1

  -----------------------------------

  A “Man” Walks into a Bar…

  In all the years he'd tended bar in this dump-water town, Ollie was sure he'd seen bigger men. Those who had come from the northern mines were strong and rugged. The people of the west, where the dark-skinned warriors seemed to be bred to be intimidating, were also a sight. But Ollie was sure he'd never seen one more, for lack of a better word, powerful.

  He stood much taller than the portly Ollie, and it likely would take two of the old barman to make the scales equal in weight. If an ounce of fat was anywhere on him, it was well hidden beneath the mountains of muscle clearly visible even under the black, heavy armor he wore. Darker than night and as clean as a polished mirror. If this was a normal man, born of woman, Ollie was a dead dog's maggot. Whoever this was, they had surely embraced the forbidden ways. For that reason alone he was more trouble than an old drink-slinger wanted. His hair flowed like fire down his neck and over his shoulders (which were almost as wide as Ollie was tall). Even his eyebrows had that ethereal red shimmer, which stood out against his ghostly skin.

  The mountain of muscle took in the now-silent patrons and proceeded to walk to the bar and the sweating man behind it.

  The armor clinked and clanked as he moved, and the sword on his hip, clearly a well-maintained and valuable weapon of a style Ollie had never seen before, swung with its own rhythm like a pendulum you wanted no part of. It was large, but looked proportional next to the man's trunk-like thigh.

  Despite his visions of being manhandled by this demon for whatever purpose he desired (Ollie guessed information or a really stiff drink, which are the only true uses of a bartender), he was quite shocked and relieved when the beast sat at one of the bar stools (which had surely seen bigger men, but still seemed about to collapse), and smiled at Ollie.

  Ollie was shocked to feel the uneasiness slip from his mind (not entirely, but certainly a little).

  His smile was so well-suited to him, yet so out of place. There were even dimples at the corners of his mouth like a child. Despite his astoundingly inhuman features otherwise, this man had a smile that could make a baby sleep.

  Ollie approached the man slowly and asked him what he would like. He was disturbed again to see his eyes. Where others would have white, theirs were black like his armor. Instead of regular color, there was the same uneasy flicker of deep red and orange tones as seen in his hair. There were no iris visible. Just a red sun on a black field. They were the eyes of the devil, given flesh.

  The beastly man reached into some unseen pocket of his breastplate, produced several coins, and placed them on the bar. Most were of common enough origin to the man who’d seen many a currency in his time, but others were strange, with odd writings and pictures of men he’d never seen on them. Their metal, however, was plain as day.

  Gold and silver, enough to send an old warhorse like Ollie on a long vacation from the rabble and the drunks. The two’s eyes met.

  “A glass of your stoutest beer and a little bit of your time,” the man-beast said in an accent that was simply alien to an ear who’d heard it all. It sounded like “Ah glahs ove yer shtoutest beer and ah lit’l bih ove yer’ time.” It was understandable, but no less mysterious.

  The tender half-turned to his rows of kegs, all old and well-used for a few generations of guzzlers. Each was tapped with a spigot with a bright LED light on it, so out of place in this low-tech society it was almost offensive. Most were green, some pulsed yellow, and two flashed red like a warning beacon. Green equaled a full keg, yellow for half or less, red for a keg that needed to be changed soon. Some avoided Land’O’North Tavern for this reason alone. Even in small amounts like this, the tools of the ancient ones were sure to only bring suffering. To Ollie, the ancient ones were nothing but ghosts, and he never once had to lift a keg to check the draught levels. That was more than enough reason to dance with the devils of the dust. Despite his constant complaints and frequent post-fight blood clean-ups, he loved his life and job very much and welcomed any tool that would help him carry on a little longer.

  He kept watch on the black-eyed man as he picked the required keg and passed an old glass beneath it. A soft click as the spigot’s magic eye saw the glass and began pouring the stout as perfectly and with as much velocity as the beverage required. When it neared the top of the glass, the same click was heard, and the drink stopped flowing. Only a beer thick as molasses with a head like a crown of white remained.

  He delivered the glass to the stranger and allowed him to view his perfectly poured glass with a smirk. “I dare say a finer pint has ne’er crossed my eyes,” said the man in that strange, lilting drawl.

  “Ah, it's nothin’,” said Ollie, not really knowing what a pint was but knowing a compliment when he heard one. “The tap does all the work. I'm just the eye candy.”

  The man's smirk intensified. “Indeed.”

  He took a sip of the bitters and smiled as he swallowed. Dropping the glass, he revealed the telltale mustache of a man who enjoys his drink. As he wiped the foam away, he let out a deep breath, as if he'd ran many miles just for that one sip of stout. Ollie got a whiff of the smell as he did so. The first thing he noticed was how hot it was. The odor was one of beer and sulfur, like the kind of smell that wafted down the mountains above the many hot springs that littered the land around here.

  The barman felt his uneasiness creep back into him. All at once he was reminded that this was no ordinary man.

  “Excellent!” said the man, still smiling while raising the glass again. “Ya’ know, there are some tha’d call it 'eresy t’ use such devices.” He indicated the digital spigots.

  Ollie raised his eyebrow in mock surprise. “Really? Well, let them lift a half-full keg six times a day and see how long they cling to their half-assed notions of God.”

  The man put the glass down on the bar a little harder than Ollie would have liked and looked at him with those dark, flaming eyes. Ollie wondered if his witty banter had hit a nerve he had every intention of avoiding, but his face held the conviction he felt, even if his knees did not.

  “Well put, sir.” The glass returned to his lips. “Half-assed notions indeed.”

  Ollie didn't know how to react to this comment. Staying on caution’s side, he looked toward the coins on the bar for a change of topic.

  “You wanted a bit of my time, stranger?” he asked, not at all sure he knew what was wanted of him.

  The peaceful smile was out now in full force, and the man nodded as he put down the empty glass. “Yes, yes, o’course.”

  He placed his hands on the bar to aid him up. Even the hair on the back of his hands seemed to have that burning shimmer.

  Once upright, the man reached to his side and grasped the handle of his sword, slowly though, so as not to arouse suspicion. He pulled it out of the sheath with a soft whisper and held it sideways inches from Ollie's face.

  Ollie saw a few of the patro
ns, who had been watching the scene unfold with the same curiosity as Ollie himself, reach for hidden weapons and defenses in case of an emergency. He knew it had nothing to do with saving the bartender as much as themselves if things went a little hairy. Ollie had few friends and fewer enemies, like a bartender should.

  Truth be told, there was a veritable arsenal of weapons behind this bar. From knives to assorted guns and carefully arranged projectiles. An old rifle was just under the spot the man had chosen to sit, but going back to his first thought upon seeing this newcomer, he was sure that even his highest caliber firearm could not stop this power that sat before him.

  “I'd like ya’ t’ take a good look at this sword,” he said, “and I want ye’ t’ focus not on 'ow it looks, but 'ow it makes ya’ feel. Does it conjure any thoughts, or create any deep emotions?”

  Ollie was so confused by the words he looked away from the man and his sword and gazed around the room at the men (and occasional woman of the working variety). Many of them looked away, not wanting to get involved in this incident before it started. Others shrugged at him, as if to say they didn't know what he wanted either.

  At the back, in a dark corner sitting alone, an old man simply stared. Ollie looked back, not at the sword, but at the man.

  “Look, mister, I don't know what you're asking, really, but I...”

  “Please, sir. Just a moment and nothin’ more. I'd just like ye’ t’ look and see wha' I mean. I promise, no 'arm is intended, I'm only lookin' fer’ information.”

  Ollie relented, letting his eyes follow the blade from tip to tip. The handle was not much to speak of as far as detail and was wrapped in what looked to be some kind of reptile skin which Ollie had never seen before: dark and bumpy. The hilt and guard were unlike the standard style preferred by Riders and other military from the area. It was straight and slightly curved up at each end. It didn't wrap around but only jutted out at two sides, like a cross instead of a dome or full circle. The blade was very wide and flat with no bend. Ollie was sure he'd have a problem lifting it with two hands, but this man wielded it like a twig with one.

  Near the base of the blade were etchings in a language so abstract it was almost like pictographs, but since none of the images were at all familiar, Ollie didn’t waste time with them.

  Once he took the whole image of the sword in, it came to him.

  “POWER,” he thought instantly. “HISTORY,” “BLOODSHED,” “PEACE.” The images and feelings came quickly to his head, like a collage of infinite beauty, and just as equal ugliness.

  “GREATNESS,” “RESTLESSNESS,” “PAIN,” “BALANCE,” “LOVE“

  “HORROR”

  “HORROR”

  “HORROR”

  “DEATH”

  Ollie ripped his eyes from it as the final feelings and images continued to repeat over and over. He felt sick to his stomach.

  “Mister, I don't know what your definition of 'no harm' is, but I've never felt so violated in my life! How on earth did you get into my head like that?”

  The smile slipped away and he became very serious.

  “Have ya’ seen anything else like this?” he asked, voice lowering, his eyes reading every nuance in Ollie’s face. Tracking his eyes, watching his mouth, reading every twitch and quiver like a book.

  “In all my life, not only have I never seen anything even close to that, if I ever did again I'd likely kill myself.”

  “Rest assured, sir, if ye’ e'er saw something like this again, you'd be dead before ye’ 'ad the chance.”

  He swung the blade around and slid it back into the sheath with that same silent whisper. The man turned to the rabble and took them all in with one glance. “How ‘bout any of ya’? I can see by the looks on yer’ faces tha’ most of ya’ saw the same thin’ he did. 'Ave ya’ e'er seen somethin’ like this before? Anywhere or anytime in yer’ life?”

  He walked slowly around the tables, taking in all the people, reading them all like he read Ollie. A loud man came in, laughing uproariously with a working girl on his arm. He turned to the scene of a man, huge and demonic, walking around a stunned and silent bar with all eyes on him in a mix of fear and amazement. He quickly shut up, gripped his evening’s entertainment around her waist, and quickly led her back out the door. The motion would be quite comical in later retellings.

  The room was fixated on this man, but no one seemed to be able to help him. Shamed faces and looks of uneasiness were everywhere he looked.

  “I have seen what you seek,” said a grizzled voice from a dark corner.

  Ollie knew without looking that it was the old man he'd locked eyes with before. The large guest turned to the source of the voice and walked briskly to his table.

  “If ye'd tell the tale, old man, I'd love t’ hear it.” Once the way out was clear, the bar emptied quickly, with everyone racing for the door pushing each other and scampering like dogs to dinner.

  Ollie had to see this play out, so he held his spot behind the bar while resting his hand on the well-used rifle nonetheless.

  “If I tell you my tale, I want your word you and your damn sin-stick will get the hell out of my sight and not ever come back. I've seen your kind before and no good ever came out of it. Not here, not anywhere.”

  Ollie was dumbfounded that this old man had the gall to talk like that to someone so much bigger than him. He sat frozen, hand on the rifle, prepared for any motion toward the drunken old-timer.

  No hostile motion came though. Just a “Humph” from the man and a steely glare from the senior.

  “And wha’ kind of person am I?” the man asked. The geezer seemed to have his attention.

  A cold smirk came to a toothless mouth and the old man hissed, “A slave of the forbidden ways. A minion of the Power. Mark my words, fire-man; no good ever came out of embracing what you play with.”

  The man seemed to relax and settled into a chair across the table. “I've not the time to tell ye’ wha’ I am and how I conduct my business. And I certainly can't get into the inaccuracies of yer’ thoughts about the powers ya’ speak of, but I give my word tha’ if ya’ give me somethin' worthwhile, I will ne'er trouble yer’ ol’ eyes again.”

  The old man spat in his hand, although not much moisture came out. He extended his arm straight, like a branch from a young tree. “We shake on that, and should I ever see you again, I'll get the delightful chance to run you through myself.”

  Ollie nearly fainted as the man sat there looking at the extended hand, seeming to hesitate a moment. Could it be that this old man threw this stranger off his guard? From where Ollie stood, it sure looked that way.

  The man began to speak but was cut short by the older man shushing him and thrusting his hand into his face. “Don't burden me again until you make my deal!”

  Ollie wasn't sure it was meant to sound so forceful, but it didn't seem to faze either one of them. Ollie was glad he didn't leave.

  Without saying anything else, the man spit into his hand, which gave the bartender the shivers as he saw sparks fly like fireflies from his mouth as he did so, followed by what he guessed was steam or smoke rising from his palm.

  He wanted to stop the old man as this was clearly a deal with the Devil Himself, and then thought better of it. This was not his situation to deal with, and if he was a devil, it was better not to stop a deal in progress. Stay silent and live to tell the tale.

  The old man seemed not to care, if indeed it was hot at all, as they shook hands with force and purpose.

  “I won't trouble ya again, and I’m a man o’ my word. Now let us talk.”

  The old man looked up to Ollie and quickly asked for another drink. The man turned and requested a refill of his. Ollie brought them over, sure to be as efficient as possible, and quickly faded away back to the bar.

  “Leave us, Ollie, and lock the door, please. I promise we won't be long. The less I have to be around this godless devil, the better.”

  Ollie never questioned the order and went over to latc
h the door, not caring in the slightest about the lost income. Thanks to the coins the man had given him he had more than enough to cover the evening take. Ollie left into the kitchen, thankful to be away, though he was quite sorry he didn't get to hear the tale.

  Chapter 2

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  Melancholy Mountain

  The clean mountain air filled the lungs of a young man high above the scene in the bar. Where. despite his promises. the old man was taking a very long time to tell the demon-thing what he wanted to hear.

  That scene had nothing to do with this young man (who was an old boy not too long ago). The man was familiar with the Land’O’North Tavern, having his first drink of spirits there less than a day ago, but he doubted the old bartender would know him if he was to walk in again. His kind passed through this way all the time, as part of the ritual.

  His traveling companion was working their way up to his position, sure to be envious of his find. It wasn't often you found an item of this quality and style in such a remote place. After all the hardships of the last year, a final piece of luck was warm and welcoming.

  “You’d better not be much higher!” said a voice from below. He didn’t answer, needing a moment alone to gather his thoughts.

  He lifted his find into the air, amazed at its lightness and grace. He'd never seen one like this before. The ones he'd see were generally wider, broader, or curved. This one was thin and straight, and so much lighter than one would think just to see it.

  “Why are you up here?” he asked himself aloud. “What was my purpose in finding you?”

  Naturally, there was no answer to this. Man only finds things by chance. Rare is the item that wants to be found, and this one was no different.

  It was lodged in the rock face, clearly buried for some time. Only the base showed any passage of time, and that may have been that way for a good deal longer than it looked like it had.