Hell's Pawn Read online

  Hell’s Pawn © 2011 Jay Bell

  Paperback ISBN-13: 978-1463513467

  ISBN-10: 1463513461

  Other available formats: PDF, HTML, Nook, Kindle

  AL L R I G HTS R E S E RV E D. This book may not be reproduced in whole or in part without permission.

  Warning: The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. C riminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by the FB I and is punishable by up to 5 years in federal prison and a fine of $250,000. I f you do steal this book, at least have the decency to leave a nice review or recommend it to a friend with more cash to spare. ;) This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or events is purely coincidental. They are productions of the author’s fevered imagination and used fictitiously.

  Cover art by Andreas Bell

  www.andreasbell.com

  Acknowledgements

  Surrounding me is a team of people, supporting my writing and constantly steering me away from making a fool of myself. There’s Linda Anderson, my tireless editor and champion of grammar. Then there are my early readers and safety nets: Katherine Coolon, Kira Miles, Zate Lockard, and last but certainly not least, my mom. I love all of you and couldn’t do this without you.

  Then there is Andreas, who has done so much for me that I could write an entire book about it. Maybe I will someday.

  To Zate – my kindred spirit and fellow wanderer in worlds unknown.

  Hell’s Pawn

  by Jay Bell

  Chapter One

  The world was a blanket of heavy fog, the S an Francisco Bay ahead swallowed up along with the surrounding land. O nly the two towers of the G olden G ate B ridge ju ed out, like enormous shark fins stripped down to the cartilage. O ccasionally the fog would stir, a witch’s brew that allowed brief patches of paved streets to be seen. All were hauntingly empty, perhaps closed due to the unusual weather.

  J ohn G rey breathed in deeply, wondering if the thick air was to blame for how muddled his thoughts felt. W hen he exhaled, he half expected to see streams of fog pouring from his nose like cigarette smoke.

  “It’s quite a sight, isn’t it?”

  J ohn pushed himself away from the pier’s railing and regarded the extraordinarily wrinkled man. Ancient creases deepened as Asian features smiled at him. The stranger’s clothes were simple and worn, but clean. The old man nodded in greeting before turning back to the view.

  “I never expected to see the G reat Wall again,” the old man continued in an accent so thick that J ohn marveled at his own ability to understand it. And yet the man spoke perfect E nglish. Not one consonant was forgo en, nor a single vowel pronounced incorrectly. His grammar, so far, had been impeccable. I n a way, it wasn’t really an accent at all, but more like another language that John could inexplicably understand.

  “Great wall?” he responded at last.

  The old man nodded toward the bridge. “I spent my whole life trying to escape. The wall cast a shadow over my village, one that caused me to chase the sun all the way to Beijing. I never regre ed leaving. I loved Beijing, and yet, seeing the G reat Wall again, I feel as though I am looking upon the forgiving face of my father.” J ohn stared, first at the man, then at the bridge. E ventually he turned his a ention back to the wizened old man. He seemed amiable enough for someone who was completely insane. O r perhaps he was senile. J ohn looked around, expecting to see a flustered nurse searching for her escaped patient. Aside from a worn-down warehouse, the area seemed deserted.

  “A dog! On the wall!” The man pointed to the bridge.

  J ohn humored the stranger and gazed across the bay. There was a dog. This wasn’t as surprising as the fact that J ohn could actually see him. The bridge was miles away, and yet J ohn’s eyes didn’t strain to focus on the E nglish S hepherd. Not only could he identify the dog’s breed, but he could see the hair on its back bristle before it ran from a dog catcher, darting in and out of the fog to escape.

  The old man laughed, and J ohn joined him. M aybe they were both mad. That would explain why J ohn had no recollection of how he had come to be here. They cheered as the dog repeatedly avoided capture. The S hepherd would wait until the catcher was near, seeming to pretend to cooperate, but as the catcher came within reach, the dog would race away again. This game continued until both figures were lost in the fog.

  J ohn’s head was clearing, enough that he began seriously considering his predicament. W here exactly was he? He strained to recall his last memory. Too many weeks in a row had been filled by his drafting table. He had breathed and dreamed nothing but blueprints for the corporate headquarters that was destined to turn forty acres of sleepy countryside into an institution of nine-to-five conformity. J ohn’s job as an architectural engineer was to make sure the corporate building was both functional and practical, but his personal goal was to minimize its ugliness for the poor souls who had to drag themselves there to work every day.

  Finally, the project ended, but instead of the usual release of tension, J ohn felt knots of stress so tight that he feared they would never come undone. He had retreated outside of the city, seeking a bar where no one knew him, and set about drinking his dinner.

  He must have gone on one hell of a binge to cause him to black out, his first since college. M aybe the old Asian man was a new drinking buddy he picked up last night.

  Surely something more intimate hadn’t happened between them. John was pondering the most diplomatic way of asking when the clicking of high heels caused them both to turn.

  “I knew two were missing,” the newcomer said with no warmth. Her voice, like her appearance, was all business. S he wore the sort of power suit favored by most female politicians: conservative trousers combined with a shoulder-enhancing blazer. Her blonde hair was piled atop her head and skewered by a pencil. That last touch was purely for show since the clipboard she held was clearly electronic. S he narrowed her humorless eyes at the device. “Lists be damned, you can always feel when unexpected guests arrive.”

  The woman wasted no time in herding them away from the pier. A quick glance at the Asian man showed J ohn that he had no idea what was going on either. They were guided to the front of a dreary warehouse where a motley group had gathered. M ost of them were old. S ome were dressed formally while others were wearing bathrobes and pajamas. None of them showed any embarrassment at being over- or under-dressed, nor did they take any interest in the two new members of their group.

  O ddest of all were the blue lines of light connecting each person at the waist. The chains of light were as precise and bright as lasers, except they curved and swung like common string. A feeling of unease built within J ohn as he realized that none of the group was moving. They stood perfectly still like sculpture.

  “I ’m sorry you missed the initial orientation,” the woman said, sounding anything but apologetic. “You’ll need these, of course.” S he pulled two bronze triangles from the air and handed one to each of them.

  J ohn took his and examined it. The device might have been made of thick metal were it not so lightweight. The design was simple and had no detail aside from a single red bu on in its center. Naturally he wanted to press it, but he looked first at their host for some indication of if this was allowed.

  “P ut the badges on your belts,” she instructed them in tones that were curiously hard to disobey. “Good. Now, if you’ll just push the button, we’ll be on our way.” J ohn watched as his companion pressed his bu on first. This activated a beam of light that connected with the others in the group. I mmediately, the old man’s eyes glazed over and his jaw went slack. J ohn’s unease graduated to full-blown panic. He didn’t know what was going on, or how he had go en himself into it, but he
wanted out. J ohn pulled on the triangle, trying to dislodge it from his belt, but it wouldn’t budge.

  “Here, let me help.” M oving with surprising speed, the woman’s finger struck like a cobra, pressing the button on John’s device.

  The world around J ohn dimmed, his limbs becoming heavy and burdensome. W hat li le color the gray morning had contained faded into monochrome. There was a time, shortly after leaving the longest relationship of his life, that J ohn had lost his job and struggled for six months to find work. As the credit card bills grew, so did his depression. The deeper he sank, the less motivated he became. He felt that way now.

  He knew he should be frightened and try to think of a way to escape, but it was all too much bother.

  J ohn didn’t notice the crowd of people filing through the warehouse door until he was the last one left. The businesswoman had gone ahead, no longer needing to ensure that he would follow, not with the line from his belt tugging him forward. That his thoughts and feelings were being suppressed was a mercy, for his new surroundings were the last place J ohn wanted to be right now. I nstead of a dingy warehouse interior, an endless sea of cubicles stretched beyond the horizon, as if the beast he had so recently finished designing had come to life and swallowed him whole.

  J ohn closed his eyes against the stark florescent lights and let the line pull him along. B lind now, the constant hum of the busy office lulled him into a trance. Time and distance lost all meaning as he and the others stumbled along like a heavily medicated chain gang.

  E ventually the light through his eyelids grew dark, and cool air brushed against his skin. J ohn opened his eyes to find himself in a large open room. M arble covered the walls and floor, as well as the massive pillars supporting the ceiling. Through the haze, J ohn’s engineer training helped him recognize the intent to intimidate—a tactic reserved for first impressions—which would make this reception. I n the center of the room, at a blocky desk that faced the spinning door, sat a woman who was almost a twin of their guide except that her brown hair was fashioned in an impossibly tight bun. O ne by one, the drowsy newcomers approached the desk and were each handed a generic manila folder.

  “I just have to register an extra report on our two unexpecteds,” their guide told them. “You may look in your file while you wait.”

  The suppressive blanket lifted from the group, and although the blue lines dimmed, they didn’t disappear completely. S ome of the group murmured in puzzlement, but most opened their files to examine the contents. J ohn did as well, but first he assessed his surroundings, specifically the exit. He could see a busy city street outside the rotating door. His mind reeled in confusion. They had started at the bay, and while the warehouse had been large, it couldn’t have stretched far enough to reach a densely populated area. How far had they walked while his eyes were closed?

  “I have a 263 in charitable deeds,” a middle-aged woman said to J ohn, pointing in her folder. “That sounds high. Do you think that’s high?” J ohn regarded her irritably before looking down at his own file. The page he had randomly turned to was clu ered with statistics and graphs. Under the heading of

  “Reactions in Familial Crisis” was listed:

  Fortitude: 154.87

  Recrimination: 16.2

  Avoidance of Confrontation: 53

  Placement of Blame: 120.55

  Use of Manipulation: 12.3

  The list went on and on, accompanied by charts displaying averages and correlations, predicted responses versus proven, the effect on other incarnate beings, and other endless gibberish. These made as much sense as everything else had so far.

  “Is yours so high?” the woman pressed.

  “See for yourself,” John said, thrusting his folder into her hands.

  As nonchalantly as possible, he began walking toward the door, but the blue line halted him. L ike a dog on a leash, he could only go so far, no ma er how much he struggled.

  “R ight,” their guide said as she returned. “We’ll be moving through the city now to the acclimatizing dormitories where you will be residing for your initial period here.

  One more time under the dampeners, sorry.”

  J ohn braced himself as the oppressive feeling of depression descended on him once more. Perhaps he was prepared for it, because it wasn’t nearly as bad this time. He still let the line pull him wherever he was being led, but he was much more aware of his surroundings as they exited to the street.

  They emerged into light that felt as artificial as the office they had passed through.

  Around them was a thriving downtown area. J ohn, despite resisting the forces pressing on him, still had trouble focusing on his surroundings. Pedestrians passing by in the opposite direction did so in a distorted haze, leaving smudged after-images trailing behind. He turned his a ention to the street, which was a much less hectic scene since no car was in sight.

  The car. W here had he parked it? A memory tore through his mind, firing through his synapses like a burst of lightning. There really had been lightning. Flash flooding, too. J ohn had guzzled so much alcohol that his breath had tasted like fumes. He never should have go en behind the wheel, but he had been outside the reach of public transportation and taxis were so damned expensive. He had compensated for his inebriation by driving extra slow, but he couldn’t judge how fast he was going without frequently squinting at the speedometer. W hen he had last looked up from the blurry gauge, the headlights were illuminating a tree, the detail of its bark intricate and beautiful before everything went dark.

  I’m dead.

  The realization hit John like a cold shower.

  I drank too much and like an idiot I tried to drive home. I slammed into that tree and it killed me. Now I am— where? Heaven? Hell?

  W herever he was, J ohn no longer wanted to be there. Ahead of him the rest of the group trundled along like children being led by an apathetic nanny. W hatever hold the dampening device had held over him was gone, defeated by the startling revelation of his own demise. J ohn looked down at the bronze triangle and noticed that the blue line was sparking and snapping. He reached down to break the current, even though every fiber of his being screamed that to do so would be fatal.

  J ohn laughed wildly at the idea. As if he could die again! He thrust his hand into the light and felt only a mild shock before the line flickered and disappeared. S tunned by his success, he halted on the sidewalk, the others walking on without him. J ohn didn’t dare wait to see if he’d be spo ed, so he ducked down a side street and broke into a run.

  His vision was no longer blurred, which was good considering the number of pedestrians he had to dodge. S ome turned as he passed, curious to know what he was doing, but most ignored him, aside from the occasional grumble when he got in their way. M aybe he wasn’t dead after all. M aybe he had been part of some sort of pharmaceutical trial or had go en tangled up in a bizarre cult. I t happened, right?

  People were brainwashed all the time.

  The image of the tree rushing toward him returned, reinforcing the truth. I f this weren’t proof enough, J ohn had run five blocks and wasn’t out of breath. I n fact, he wasn’t breathing at all. He skidded to a stop and sucked in air experimentally. He could breathe or at least perform some imitation of the act, but it was no longer necessary.

  G lares and a few mu ered curses were directed at him by people not happy that he was standing still in the middle of the sidewalk. W hat did they care? W here did they have to go? Forty-hour weeks were a thing of the past, or so he hoped. E veryone had the day off now, for all eternity. Defiantly returning a few glares, J ohn continued walking until he found a narrow alley to duck into. He saw no sign of pursuit, but his absence could be noticed at any moment.

  Taking advantage of his newfound privacy, J ohn took stock of himself. He was still wearing the stylish suit that he had put on before leaving town, just in case a handsome face awaited him at the bar. A careful examination of the jacket didn’t reveal any sign of tearing, blood, or any
thing else morbid. Next he moved his hands across his face, astounded that he could still detect remnants of the aftershave that conditioned his skin. He certainly didn’t feel dead. A quick sweep of his forehead and a tousling of his dirty blonde hair failed to reveal any sign of injury. S ince his arrival, he hadn’t seen anyone else who looked particularly deceased, either. M aybe this was Heaven after all.

  A noise from the entrance of the alley a racted his a ention. R unning toward him was a bank robber. This was an easy deduction to make because the robber’s clothes were pa erned with black and white stripes. I f this weren’t enough, the cloth bag he held had a single, large, dollar sign printed on it. J ohn expected he would have seen the classic black mask as well had the man been facing him, but his head was turned back toward the direction he had come from.

  J ohn was so taken aback by this completely generic apparition that he didn’t think to move out of the way. The robber collided with him, knocking them both to the ground.

  “Mine!” a male voice called out from a few paces away.

  J ohn disentangled himself from the robber to see a face staring down at him, one somewhere in its forties that had probably been a ractive at one time. Pallid skin, a fiercely stubbled chin, and manic eyes all suggested a person who had enjoyed a lifetime’s worth of illicit pleasures within a few decades. Despite this, the black spiky hair was still thick and untainted by gray. Decked out in a punk’s leather jacket and a ra y T-shirt, the man’s fashion choices hadn’t been updated since the eighties. He reached down toward John, his fingers covered in cheap tattoos.

  “Thanks,” J ohn said, reaching up to him, but the man’s hand passed his by and snatched away the bag of money.

  “I t doesn’t ma er if you knocked him down,” the stranger said. “I chased the bastard all the way here. The reds are mine!”

  “R eds?” The term could have been foreign slang, considering the I rish accent. J ohn shook his head, deciding that it was of li le consequence. His more immediate concern was ge ing out from underneath the body on top of him. He squirmed, but the robber didn’t budge. “Did you hit him over the head or something? Feels like he’s dead.”