Lawyers in Hell (11 page)

And you really
don’t
feel it….

He woke, some timeless duration later,
here
.  Here in hell, where chances and challenges seemed infinite; where he could test himself against history’s greatest on a playing field laughably level.  That Guevara, the legend, saw neither chance nor challenge disgusted and disappointed Walker.

More bars.  Too many bars and restaurants, serving unpalatable food and acid drink that no man could stomach….  It was humanity’s habit in life to congregate and fight and fornicate (or try to) and fabricate all manner of dirty dealing.  So they did the same in afterlife, no better than they’d been before:  no smarter, no more inventive, with eternity beckoning and Paradise shining its unattainable light….  Either they couldn’t get drunk, or they were drunk all the time, these hellions, souls accursed with just deserts.

One of the damned lay in the gutter with his throat slashed, somehow still alive and moaning slightly.  From another alley came grunts and moans.  Walker scanned the cheap facades; worn brass, paint crackling over an infernity of rot; flickering neon here and there.  Old dead, new dead:  souls not quite either – here where the worst scum in all the hells came to meet and scheme and hate and kill and die, again and again.

Walker’s hand was never far from his gun; every so often he settled the rapier on his left hip, making sure it was free in its scabbard.  Too often in this place, guns failed.  Steel could too, but less often.

His destination was a brick building, set slightly apart from the others, its facade pitted and corroded by the sea’s salt spray.  Shattered windows seeped fumes from the darkness within, and a thuggish bouncer with a spiked club stood outside.

“Some say the Gracchi brothers hang out here.  They in tonight?”  Walker asked.

The bouncer lazily looked up, then spat something green – something that moved and writhed when it hit the ground – before answering:  “They’re always in.  Can’t leave.”

“You know where, in here?”

Contempt twisted the bouncer’s thick lips.  “Where they always are, fuck-head.  Behind the bar, serving the poor.”

*

Even in the semi-darkness, Walker could tell this place was filthier than the worst sailors’ dive on the Barbary Coast.  The floor’s carpet of putrid spills, vomit, blood and shit sucked at his boots as he walked.  Oil-lamps flickered and smoked, hung from the ceiling of the half-empty common room.  Fewer people than he’d expected; not a problem.  They clustered in knots, muttering or gambling or just quietly (out of lifelong habit and the hope that
this
time it might work) trying to get themselves wasted.  Individuals lay here and there, dead or unconscious and always with their pockets turned inside-out.

A wide bar ran along the side of the room farthest from the door, a grimy surface punctuated by the occasional broken tap-handle.  Behind it were two bartenders and rows of liquor bottles, many cracked and empty.

“There’s broken glass in my beer,” a big ponytailed man was growling at one of the two bartenders.  He wore dirty, torn workman’s overalls and there was blood in the gobbet that he spat on the floor.

“I’m
so
sorry, sir,” said one of the bartenders in a tone that made you know he wasn’t.  The bartender was short, with a narrow aristocratic face and a spill-stained toga.  “They come from the brewery with the broken glass already in the bottle – no extra charge.”

“Bless you.  You sold me shitty beer, and we got a problem.”

Good
, thought Walker, heading toward the bar.  First impressions counted, and this was his chance to make an ideal one, if the disagreement escalated.  His hand closed around his rapier’s hilt.

“Ran out of the shitty beer last night,” the bartender said.  “All we have is the broken-glass beer and the dog-vomit beer.  Selection’s on that chalkboard – can’t you read?”

“No,” said the customer flatly.  He glared at the bartender, who met his eyes and said nothing.  After a moment, the customer threw down a coin.  “Screw it, just gimme another one.”  The customer snatched his foul-smelling drink and stumbled back to his table.

Drat
.  Walker let the half-drawn sword slide back into its scabbard.

“Which do you want?” the bartender asked, as Walker reached the counter.  “You look like
you
can read.”

“Tiberius Gracchus?” asked Walker.

“I’m Gaius.”  He gestured at the other bartender, bearded and a few years older.  “That’s Tiberius.  What can I get you, sir?”

“Do you have a minute to talk?  You two have a reputation, you know.  A famous name.” 
Romans.  Nobles.  Reformers.

“Ssh
.  None of the damned who come in
here
know it, or need to,” Gaius sighed.  “But yes, we were something.  Fought for the downtrodden.  Tried to do some good.  If I’d known what some of them were actually
like
 –” he gestured around the dive “– I’d have reconsidered.”

“Maybe you weren’t wrong.  There
are
people who remember what you tried to do.  Maybe we can pull strings to get you out of here.  And maybe there’s something you can do for us.”

*

Across the room from Walker, a half-naked whore with a client atop her rolled her head sideways on the table and squinted at the little man just arrived, who was dressed like he actually had some money:  new dead.  Looked a lot like –

“Get off me,” she said to her customer.

“Ain’t done yet.”  He kept working at her, or trying to, buttocks straining.

“Ain’t gonna be.  Never.”  She reached for a derringer, pressed it to his throat.

“Not gonna pay you,” the customer said, arching back as she cocked the gun.

“Someone else gonna pay me more’n you’ll scratch in a year.  Now sod off.”

Muttering something, the customer got off her.  She yanked up her dungarees.  With another careful glance at Walker, still talking with the two bartenders, she made for the door.

*

Nouveau Paris, or at least this part of it, had degentrified rapidly since Guevara had last been here.  Once-dignified terrace houses were papered with peeling, faded posters for shows, movies or disc releases; handbills stapled over them advertised lower-level shows or amateur releases.  The street teemed with hippies, beatniks, goths, flappers and a hundred other types; their self-absorption was, after what Guevara had seen trekking here, almost refreshing in its honest naiveté.  After all, what did any damned soul have left but its self?  OK, so they should have been looking at
him,
not at themselves, but at least they weren’t nervously looking up at the sky for signs of Erra and his pitiless Seven, sent from Above to punish guilty and innocent alike.

Guevara’s trip had been productive, so far – valuable contacts made, and a
lot
of new recruits.  But the traveling had been a nerve-racking stream of insults and humiliations.  His dignity was deeply wounded.  Though they’d passed through the Roman hells unharmed, at one point a centurion
(an officer, no less!)
looked straight at Guevara without recognizing his face, his beard, his beret … nothing.  He’d wanted to shrug off his cloak, take the man by the shoulders and shake him into awareness, but Garibaldi and Kurt Cobain pulled him back at the last moment.

Here, things were no better:  no one recognized him.  Che Guevara’s star, he admitted glumly to himself, had been eclipsed.

“Scum from the wharf district ruining everything,” Cobain muttered, as the two passed a busker screeching his nails on a chalkboard.  “Wasn’t this bad when I was
last
here.”

“It’s been too long,” Guevara agreed.

“Our most fertile ground.”  Kurt Cobain, heroin-addicted rock star in life, had died before thirty, but looked forty in hell, with his long blond hair, scruffy beard, and needle-scarred arms.  He’d been one of Guevara’s top lieutenants since arriving in the underworld.  A couple of beatniks strolled by them, passing a joint back and forth; the smell was one-quarter marijuana, three-quarters pungent horse-shit.  “Never should have abandoned it.  It’s where we find
our
people.”

They turned down some surprisingly-clean stone steps into a basement club.  A big venue:  dark with a high ceiling and a real stage on the far side of the room.  A band onstage was trying to be heard above deafening squeals of feedback and a bouncy tune coming from somewhere below counseled the listener what to do “if you’re happy and you know it.”

Feedback squealed above the drummer’s attempted solo while the lead guitarist fumbled to replace a broken string.

Wincing, Cobain moved them in the direction of the bar.

“Broken glass or shit?” Guevara asked.  “Or maybe some of that dog piss these people call whisky?”

“I used to work here, before you showed up.  Maybe I can get us something better.”

“Oh,
man,”
came voices in an awed tone Guevara hadn’t heard for far too long.  “Is it
him?”

“It’s really him!”

Guevara turned around, a gracious smile on his face.  Two scraggly girls in flannel and jeans were approaching, excitement glowing on their faces.  Bad beer, insulting inattention from Authority – the love of the masses could make up for
all
of that.

“I
killed
myself over you!  And we
finally
found you!” the black-haired girl squealed.

“I told you we’d find him eventually!” came from the redhead.  “I
told
you, bitch!”

“I’m back.”  Guevara extended his hand for them to shake.

“Seriously!” said the black-haired girl.  “It’s Kurt Cobain!  Right?  It
is
you!  We
love
your music!  Damned well lived for it!”

“Died for it!” said the redhead.  “Blew ourselves away, just like you!”

Guevara gave his rock-star henchman a murderous glare.

“We’ve been waiting an eternity for you,” the redhead said.  “Shit.  Hot demon shit.  It
is
you!”

“It’s good to be back,” said Cobain.  Noting Guevara’s irritation, he added, “But screw music, unless it’s about revolution, right?”

“Right,” the girls said enthusiastically.  “Screw society.  Screw everything.  All that crap.  Die and screw everyone.”

“We’re making a
real
revolution,” said Cobain.  He inclined his head toward Guevara.  “This is Che Guevara, our leader.  We’re back!”

The girls scrutinized Guevara.

“Devil up my ass,” said the redhead.  “You’re
real?
  I thought you were made up by some tee-shirt designer.”

Guevara raised his chin and gave the girls his better profile, staring into the middle distance.

“He’s leading a rebellion against Satan Himself,” Cobain said.  “You want to fight Authority?  This is your chance.  You want to stand up for freedom?  He’s your man.”

“We were down for a while,” added Guevara, “but we’re back.  We always come back.  They can’t fight the human spirit.  Not even Satan can crush our dreams!”

“My dream was to meet Kurt Cobain,” said one of the girls.  “And it’s come true!”

Guevara gave Cobain another warning glare.

“And now you can follow us in afterlife,” Cobain said.  “Just like you did in life!”

One of the girls turned, waving at a passing friend.  “Hey, Tim!  Come over here!  It’s Kurt Cobain and the guy from the tee-shirt!”

Tim had close-cut blond hair dyed purple in spots, thick black-rimmed glasses with no lenses, and a white-and-black striped tee-shirt.  His wrists were bleeding from deep cuts.  Blood ran down his forearms; every so often he wiped the blood on his crusty jeans.

“Awesome,” he said, flat and sarcastic.

“You’ve got to excuse Tim,” said the redhead.  “He’s still kind of pissed that he ended up here.”

“We all are,” said Guevara.  “But when we overthrow Satan, we’ll make hell a better place.  Create our own heaven.  A world of brotherly love and unlimited equality!”

Feedback screamed in a deafening burst.  Guevara’s hands twitched toward his ears, and then the ‘If you’re happy and you know it …’ song came back.  One of the guitarists on stage played a few barely-audible notes before another string snapped.

“Yeah,” said Tim, maybe sardonically.  “That’s even better.”

“Tim’s pissed not so much that he ended up here,” the redhead said, “but
how.”

“Suicide, right?” asked Guevara.

“Nah.  Accident.  I wasn’t trying to die.  I cut my wrists to get those cool scars,” said Tim.  “To show my friends how smart and desperate I was.  I was supposed to look like a really cool nonconformist.  Not
die.”

“You want to be a nonconformist?” Guevara asked.  “They call us the ‘Dissidents.’  We’re organizing to challenge Authority.  Again.  And this time, we’ll win.”

“I don’t know,” said the redhead.  “Really, actually fighting Satan would be
dangerous
.  These guys aren’t hall monitors.  They’re
mean.”

“It’s
real,”
said Tim.  “A real fight.  Not just this fake hipster bullshit.”  He adjusted the empty frames of his ‘eyeglasses.’  “I’m in, tee-shirt man.”

“They can kill us,” Guevara said to the girls, “but they can’t kill our souls.  They’ve killed me – how many times?  Ten, twelve, fifty?  I come back.”  Raising his voice, he looked soulfully into first the redhead’s eyes, then the other girl’s.  “So what if they kill us? 
Si,
it hurts!  Who cares?  You can live with pain or it kills you, but either way, who
cares?
  So long as you’re fighting.  So long as you’re challenging them, fighting them, showing them an alternative!”  One by one, if he had to, he’d rebuild the revolution.  Inspire them.  Give purpose to those who had nothing with which to fill their emptiness.  “This is
hell
, guys.  This is real. 
Fighting
repression is real!”

“He’s right about it being real,” Cobain put in quietly.  “Nothing’s more real than the struggle.  Not the music, not nothing.”