Authors: Allan Burd
“No need for alarm
,” says Miguel.
“Okay… then
, what was that?” I ask.
“That, my good friends, was God. Th
e devil is not the only one who owns the ability to move souls.”
If not for everything we just went through, I would have looked at Miguel like he was one flew over the cuckoo’s nest. But there isn’t a doubt in my mind that Mi
guel is telling the truth. I knew in my gut that God just spoke with him.
“He has messages for you,” Miguel continues.
“I’m intrigued,” says Cooper. “Let’s hear ‘em.”
“Christian is with him now. He was willing to resign himself to eternal torture in Hell in order to thwart the devil’s plan. In doing so, he purified his own soul. His actions did not go unnoticed.”
Miguel gives Pa and I a moment to let that sink in. The relief in our hearts is palpable. “Thank God,” I mutter.
“You’re welcome,” responds Miguel. “Cooper… Peter James Cooper the second to be precise.”
“How did you know? Holy Hanna,” Cooper whispers.
Miguel continues, “Christian’s path is something you should take note of. You as well took a great risk. For that
He
thanks you. As of this moment your slate is clean. What you do with the rest of your days, where your ultimate destiny lies, is solely up to you.”
“Well, hot diggity. Thank you, Padre,” says Cooper, raising his beer.
Miguel stops talking and takes a bite of his steak as if he has nothing more to say. My pa and Cooper renew their meals as well. I feel like I’m back in recess, the last kid picked for the basketball team.
“And…” I say loudly, drawing it out.
Miguel looks at me, slightly puzzled. “And?” he questions me.
“Doesn’t God have anything to say to me? I mean… I did storm through the gates of Hell by my lonesome… against impossible odds, facing certain death I may add. Perhaps a little ‘hi’ might be
in order,” I suggest.
Miguel sighs. “Silas, when you fled Hell with Balzuzu about to snatch you, tear you limb from limb I may add, all this past week did you not wonder how I knew the exact mo
ment you were to emerge from the gate? Did you not ponder the odds of my impeccable timing of sealing the gate shut at that precise moment that both ended the threat of Balzuzu and saved your life?”
I gulp. “That was Him.” Miguel
smiles. I shake my head turning it into a rapid nod as I put it all together. “Okay… that totally works for me. He has my gratitude.”
“And you have his,” replies Miguel. “Oh, and when you’re ready you might find something that interests you in Tibet.”
“Tibet? Sure, next stop Tibet,” I say. “Who am I to argue with God?”
My
pa lifts his mug of ice water. “A toast.” We lift our beers in agreement. “To Christian,” my pa says.
“To the good lord and the good people that do his work,” says Miguel.
“To new friends,” I say, tapping Cooper’s mug.
“To new beginnings,” says Cooper.
We clank our glasses together and binge.
It’s a month later. I’m in bed. It’s 2:00 am., my last night here. For no particular reason I don’t like to stay in one place for too long. I guess at heart I’m a wanderer that likes to see the world. Tomorrow I’ll see where the wind takes me, though I’m not sure I’m ready for Tibet. Maybe if I stop in Fiji along the way.
My clothes and weapons are packed. Balzuzu’s head is on the dresser. I’ll either bring it with me or mount it on the wall. My bladder’s full. It can’t wait until morning. I sit up. The room is dark save for the clock and the glimmer of moonlight that seeps through the curtain. I grab a flashlight off the nightstand and flick the switch. The beam hits the ceiling. I lower it and climb out of bed following the thin lighted path. The light reflects off Balzuzu’s head. I walk to the bathroom, taking three steps before I realize that there isn’t anything on Balzuzu’s head that’s reflective. I turn fast, alert, startled.
Balzuzu’s eye is open.
It’s watching me. I nearly wet myself. If it still had a mouth
, I know it would speak to me, threaten me. I grab it by the horn, look for something to put it in. I remove the pillow from its case and throw the half-head in the pillow sack, tying the end in a knot.
Fuck!
Minutes later I’m in the garage, running the hose, mixing cement in a bucket. I drop the sack with Balzuzu’s head in it into the bucket, watch it slowly disappear into the gray gooey ooze then sit there for three hours until it dries. I’m so afraid to leave it unwatched, I pee right there in the garage into an empty beer bottle. The bucket weighs around thirty pounds. As I pack the car I take it with me. I toss it into the front seat of my mustang so I have eyes on it at all times and drive. I don’t say goodbye.
I drive for twenty hours straight, stopping only for gas and
to go to the bathroom and when I go the bucket comes with me. I eat in the car and get my food from the drive thru. I arrive at the docks and wait by the gate, refusing to even nod off for a quick nap. A friend of mine runs a freighter that transports cargo across the Pacific all the way to Korea and Japan. He opens up at four in the morning. Takes all morning to load his cargo. By early afternoon, I’m sitting on his deck as we’re pushing out to sea.
The bucket goes with me everywhere. The captain finds me an extra cabin below deck. He arranges it so someone in his crew brings me my meals. I only leave the cabin to go to the bathroom and
, once again, the bucket always comes with me. I’m sure my behavior looks odd to the rest of the crew, but my friend knows me well enough to keep them away from me and he doesn’t ask questions. I keep myself awake for another 24 hours because I know I won’t ever sleep again unless I’m one hundred percent sure.
At almost the three day mark without sleeping or showering, I’m ready. I carry the bucket up to the main deck. A deckhand is watching me.
“How deep?” I ask him.
“Rough guess… two miles,” he answers.
Good enough. I pick up the bucket, rock it back, and fling it overboard. It floats on the surface for a moment then slowly disappears beneath the murky sea. Still, I fixate on the spot, making sure it doesn’t somehow reappear above the water, until I can no longer see it because the ship moves out of distance. If that evil fuck really is still alive, his head can sit in a cement block, staring into the inside of a sack at the bottom of the ocean for all eternity. Some people, some monsters, truly get what’s coming to them.
I make it back to the cabin, my mind at ease, and fall asleep.
THE END
… Silas Hill will be back when he damn well feels like it!
My goal when writing any story is to have fun. It’s as simple as that. But as I started writing Silas, the character took on a life of his own. In my head, it started out as a short story, a pack of werewolves vs. a height challenged monster hunter, but Silas wouldn’t let it end there. That wasn’t his style. Silas wanted, no… Silas demanded answers. Then the story was going to end with the devil being sent back to his realm, but Silas wouldn’t let it end there, either. If you pissed him off or hurt anyone in his family, he’d go to hell and back to make you pay for it, no matter how big and strong you were.
Thus, All Hell was born. I hope you enjoyed it. I hope this is just the beginning. Because, quite frankly, I don’t think Silas is going to let it end here, either. I realize there are many other books out there for you to choose from. My sincerest thanks for choosing mine.
All the best,
Allan Burd
About the Author
Allan Burd is the author of The Roswell Protocols and the children’s book The Adventures of Little Al - The Lie.
Bed Bug Publishing
THIS IS A WORK OF FICTION. ALL OF THE CHARACTERS, ORGANIZATIONS, AND EVENTS PORTRAYED IN THIS STORY ARE EITHER PRODUCTS OF THE AUTHOR’S IMAGINATION OR ARE USED FICTITIOUSLY.
“All Hell - a Silas Hill adventure”
Copyright
© 2014 by Allan Burd
All rights reserved.
For more information go to
Bedbugpublishing.com
or
allanburd.com
ISBN: 0-9705588-2-1
EXCERPTS FROM
THE ROSWELL PROTOCOLS
Prologue
November 9, 2009
Colorado
Airman Charlie Faber gently applied pressure to the brake of his Ford Explorer, slowing his approach to the heavily guarded gates of the U.S. Space Command's Space Surveillance Center. He glanced over to the clock on the center of the dashboard. It read 1:30 A.M., just like it always did, he thought to himself with a sigh. Another dull evening to be spent doing the usual routine. He'd park the car by 1:35 A.M.; get to the coffee pot for a quick pick-me-up, cream with a teaspoon of sugar, by 1:45 A.M.; then be stationed at his post in Box Nine from 2:00 A.M. to 10:00 A.M. for eight boring hours of observation. Then he sighed again, knowing all too well how easy it had been to become accustomed to this position he was assigned to six months ago.
He leaned his finger against the button that rolled down the window of his car and showed the MP his badge. “Good morning, Marty.”
“Morning, Chuck. Just like clockwork,” replied the MP as he pressed the button lifting the gate.
“Yeah, every night—same bat time, same bat channel. Maybe I'll get lucky and within the next six months they'll transfer me to a real post—or at least first or second shift.”
“You and me both,” responded the MP.
Charlie nodded good-bye and drove his car into the nearby parking lot. Two minutes later he and twenty others on night shift detail boarded the military shuttle bus that would take them inside Cheyenne Mountain. This was a military installation the locals referred to as Crystal Palace because at certain times of the year, particularly in the winter, the snowcapped mountain would reflect the sun making it appear like a giant crystal. That image, combined with the incredible technology housed within, led to the nickname.
The bus rumbled along the two-way road, stopping momentarily as it approached the large, gray, thick metal blast-doors which guarded the entrance. Charlie anxiously watched the doors open sluggishly, then close menacingly behind him as the bus made its way inside. He always felt as if he were being sealed into a tomb he couldn't escape from for the next eight hours. And he was.
The bus left Charlie at a bank of elevators. He took one to the third floor, wondering to himself about the contradictory nature of the space surveillance center. The facility, even though brightly lit, always appeared dull. The temperature was high due to the man-made climate, but still, it always felt cold. Even the mood, which hung thick in the air, smacked of apathy though the entire facility was built out of an ever present sense of paranoia. All in all, Charlie thought, it was not the most pleasant place to work. At least he hadn't acquired that pasty, sallow complexion that most of the first shifters had. He couldn't imagine being locked inside from 10:00 A.M. to 6:00 P.M. every day, hardly seeing sunlight. Hmmm, he thought to himself, perhaps third shift isn't that bad after all.
After a cup of coffee he quickly made his way to his station in Box Nine, where orbital traffic was closely monitored by the government. The room was a lot smaller than one would expect. Six orbital analysts, known as knob turners, and a commander were stationed within. With the exception of Commander Stromfeld, Charlie at thirty-one was the oldest of the seven officers on duty.
Charlie took control of the console while exchanging a few pleasantries with his second shift counterpart. Maps were displayed across his computer console showing various locations across the globe. The blips on the map showed any air or space traffic above those locations. The buttons and dials on his console allowed him full access to SPADATS, the Space Detection And Tracking System, so he could isolate specific locations if it became necessary. If there was any activity in space, Charlie would know about it.
He sat behind his console and briefly scanned the status report from the previous shift. It read—No unusual air activity. He looked over to his friend, Airman Mark Jones, who was sitting at the console next to his, and nodded hello. Charlie raised his eyebrows and shrugged, silently indicating he was ready for another eight boring hours of observation. Mark rolled his eyes and nodded his agreement.
For the first one hour and thirty-five minutes of his shift Charlie kept watch on his designated zones. Nothing unusual was happening. All “blips” were flying in their recognizable flight or orbital patterns and were easily identified.
Until now! Unexpectedly a new flashing red light scurried onto Charlie's display. He quickly flipped through his manifest, making sure that he hadn't missed something which would correspond to the blip. Nothing did.
“What the…” Charlie muttered to himself. “Commander, I got a new bogey that just tripped the fence over the Mid-Atlantic—apogee reading at eighty miles and heading down.”