The Soul Detective

By Scott Kaniewski

When Achilles Jackson’s latest case file makes its way to his desk, the Soul Detective has no idea it could alter the future of the Afterlife.
The longtime resident of Hell is accustomed to tracking Lost Souls through the depths of Lucifer’s world. But this case starts taking unsuspecting turns that leave Achilles questioning the end game.
The beautiful Milan Beswyck, banished to Hell for murder, lying, extortion, and adultery, is Achilles’s latest case. As his search for her takes him through Hellish cities with names like Styx, Nehet, and Outworld, Achilles learns that Hell is quickly changing and Heaven isn’t everything it’s supposed to be. Now, Achilles must prevent Lucifer from bringing about the collapse of Heaven before the Afterlife becomes one, complete blur.
In The Soul Detective, Scott Joseph Kaniewski weaves a riveting, hard-boiled detective story alternating between the Afterlife and Earth, intertwining Achilles Jackson’s past world experiences as a cop with his postmortem life as an agent of Heaven.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Scott Kaniewski
• Release date: Apr 3, 2014
• ISBN: 9781310084843

Scott Kaniewski

Scott Joseph Kaniewski lives in beautiful Colorado with his wife and son and a daughter on the way. The Soul Detective is his debut novel. When he's not working on his second novel or toiling away at his day job, he's hopefully hiking or biking. Like any road cyclist, he appreciates a wide berth.

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The Soul Detective

By Scott Joseph Kaniewski

Copyright 2013 Scott Joseph Kaniewski

Published by Scott Joseph Kaniewski at Smashwords

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your enjoyment only, then please return to Smashwords.com or your favorite retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Table of Contents

Start of The Soul Detective

Epilogue

Acknowledgements

About the Author

Connect with the Author

For my mom,

Cross it off your bucket list

Chapter 1

My office door flew open and slammed shut even quicker, startling me from my midmorning nap on the sofa. My heart raced to recover from The Dream. I fought to push the nightmare away and see who’d burst through the door. I had no cases, no appointments, no friends.

There, leaning against the door, was a boy, white-faced with terror, about to piss his pants. I looked past him through the plate-glass door. Staring back were several Lost Souls, salivating through reed-thin gums. They’d been chasing the fresh meat. The Souls looked past the boy and saw me. They scattered.

He must have been 16 or 17 when he died, so he was 16 or 17 now and forever. He took another glance over his shoulder to see if his pursuers were going to come crashing through after him.

Oh, god, he screamed. I thought they were going to catch me.

Looks like you were too quick for them, I said, standing up and walking to the chair behind my desk. What do you want?

He didn’t answer, staring at the door.

Hey!

He started, snapping out of it. He unslung his backpack and took out a manila envelope.

He looked down at the envelope. Uh, are you Achilles Jackson, Soul Detective?

You could almost smell the human still on him. He cast another glance toward the door.

Relax, they won’t touch you now, I said. Not in here.

He tried to look relaxed but wouldn’t have fooled a store-front mannequin. He handed me the envelope. I set it on my desk.

Being a messenger you’ll be coming down here a lot, so you better get used to it.

I hope not. This place is horrible.

What do you expect from Hell?

Another quick glance behind him.

Don’t worry, I told him, exasperation creeping into my voice. Like I said, they won’t touch you. If they do, pull out your Sanctifier.

I looked at his almost-adult waist. Not a holster in sight.

Kid, where is your Sanctifier? I asked.

In my backpack.

Your backpack? How the hell are you going to use it if it’s in your backpack? You’re lucky I was in the office today. If I wasn’t, you’d have been raped six ways to Sunday.

His eyes started to well.

Have a seat, I said, pointing to the sofa. What’s your name?

It’s Jimmy, sir. Jimmy Rodgers.

How long you been dead?

This time the tears did come. They streamed down his face. I sat back but looked away, at the already-closed blinds battling back Hell’s unrelenting heat. The kid could probably use a cry. Who was I to tell him to stop. I thought about turning the fan on high, but knew I’d already set it there – it was always on high, redistributing the insipid heat.

Sorry, he blubbered. Two weeks ago I was getting ready to graduate high school,. Today I’m delivering envelopes in Hell ... And nearly getting raped.

It could be a lot worse. If you hadn’t lived a decent life topside you’d be running around with those things that were chasing you. Of course, that would’ve been after you’d been tortured for years, had things done to you you couldn’t imagine.

He looked at me with fresh terror on his face. I’d always had a way with words.

Quit complaining. You’ve got a decent job, which means you’ve got a good head on your shoulders, or they never would have given it to you.

Piece of advice, if you ever get in serious trouble, tell them you’re going to Vanquish them.

The queer look on his face meant he didn’t have a clue.

Jesus, how long have you been among us?

Two weeks, he reiterated.

And they didn’t tell you about Vanquishing? Let me guess, the day you died, Peter was working the Pearly Gates, right?

He nodded.

That dumb son of a bitch. He was probably drunk. I can’t believe he’s still on duty. Fucking old man should have been retired years ago. Anyway, Vanquishing is the worst thing that can happen to a Soul. If you get Vanquished you’ll be sent to a room in the Nether Regions surrounded by complete blackness. A room just tall enough to hunker over but too small to sit in. For the rest of eternity you won’t eat anything but gruel and water. You’ll never be let out, never be talked to. Never see anyone. It’s the most terrifying thing for a Soul: To barely be considered alive, to have no point to your existence. Even in Hell, condemned Souls can do what they want.

Jimmy sat fixated.

Few people actually have the Vanquishing power, but most Lost Souls don’t know that. And even the ones who do know it, don’t know who has it. Got it?

Can I go back to Heaven now?

My last trip to Heaven flashed through my mind. It must have been about four years by Earth’s standards. It was a vacation of sorts. I’d just delivered a Soul to Heaven and thought I’d get myself a cold beer. The best they had in Hell was lukewarm. I spent two weeks in Heaven. The second half of it on the beaches of Valhalla, lounging in the saltless sea, tasting the water and relishing the feel of it every time I spit it out. On Valhalla Beach, I earned a perfect, bronze glow, a natural look that went well with my blond hair and brown eyes. By the third day I was getting envious looks from all the women and not just a few of the men. Every day was 70 degrees, with a cool breeze off the water ... I shook the memory from my head and picked up the manila envelope.

Back to Heaven? I repeated. Hell no. You’re going to tag along with me for a bit.

I looked at the envelope. It was addressed to Achilles Jackson, Soul Detective, 155 Temptation Alley, Hell.

The return address was my favorite: Heaven. Enough said.

What do you need me for?

For company, of course.

Company for what? What do you do?

I’m a Soul Detective, I told the kid. "My job is to track down condemned Souls who have found the path to enlightenment despite the delights of Hell. If that wayward Soul has been good enough, the Big Boss sends me, or other Soul Detectives, to save them and deliver them to the Great Above.

There aren’t many of us down here now. Most are like me — mugs who can tolerate the heat. Of course, there isn’t much call for us either lately. Seems like in the last century or so, the more Souls that flood Hell, the more that want to stay. I don’t know if they get off on being tortured or they just love the lifestyle, but it’s getting less and less frequent that I get a case telling me a Soul earned a trip up.

The new package felt significantly lighter than the last one, but with going so long between jobs maybe I was misremembering. I unclasped the bracket on the back of the envelope and ran my letter opener under the sealant.

I was sweating again. My desk fan whirred away, but it wasn’t preventing the beads of sweat from trickling down my sideburns and under my arms.

I pulled out the file: Two pages. The thinnest file I’d ever held.

The usual jolt a new case sent through my body doubled when I saw who I would be tracking. Milan Beswyck. A female. And a gorgeous one at that, which was besides the point. As far as I knew, the Big Boss never had a male Soul Detective track down a female. The Big Boss, the ultimate chauvinist. He didn’t hate women. Quite the opposite. He loved them, and loved every one of them he got the chance to. And by love I don’t mean teddy bears and jelly beans. (Unless that helped him get laid.) He was Johnny Depp, JFK, Romeo, and Wilt Chamberlain all rolled into one. A dreamboat that could smooth talk his way into anyone’s bed, and often did. But in my years of service to him, I’d never had a case thrust upon me to track down a woman, and never heard of a male tracking a female. I was never told why, and never asked. I had my hunches (females knew females better, and Hell was harder to escape for females), but I kept them to myself.

The other page was a color photograph of Milan. To say she was beautiful was to say Hell was hot. A woman that gorgeous was capable of anything. The long, black hair, the aqua-blue eyes. Light skin that would sauté to a perfect bronze in the heat of Hell or on the beaches of Valhalla. My sweat streamed.

I couldn’t wait to find her. And I knew where to start – the River Styx.

Jed the Boatman, a Heaven employee who knew more about Hell than most Souls in the entire Afterlife, ran the River Styx. He was in charge of the processing department that ferried new Souls to Hell.

I picked up the phone and dialed. Not unusual, nobody picked up until the 10th ring.

New Souls Entry, what do you want? came the woman’s voice, not pleasant.

This is Soul Detective Achilles, I said. Is Jed around?

Hold on. She yelled something in the opposite direction of the receiver, her hand obviously not covering it. He said he’s busy but he’ll be around tonight, after hours. Otherwise catch him about midday tomorrow. She hung up. Apparently my reply was unimportant and unnecessary.

At last count Jed was in charge of more than 400 ferries carting fresh Souls to the badlands. He once told me, at the rate Souls were descending he needed another 100 boats. He had several thousand people working for him: ferry captains, security to dole out beatings, office personnel, managers for every department and who knows what else. It didn’t stop him from complaining he was understaffed.

It’d take me a few hours to get out to Styx. It wasn’t going to be quitting time for awhile but I didn’t want to go tomorrow, Milan Beswyck’s trail was cold enough.

I glanced at Milan’s file. Something that short wasn’t read, it was breezed through. I had the time.

Come look at what you just handed me, I said. This is my next assignment.

He walked to the side of my desk and looked at the two sheets.

I set Milan’s photograph to the side – face up – and picked up the other page. Stamped across the entire page in big red letters were the words, Destination: Hell.

Case File No. 0015863271

Name: Milan Beswyck

Soul: Female

Death Date: xx/xx/xxxx

Birthplace: Denver, CO, USA

Deathsite: Phoenix, AZ, USA

Hair: Black Eyes: Blue

Height: 4.3 Cubits

Weight: 67 Links

Religion: None

Crimes: Murder, Extortion, Lying, Adultery

Not many murderers received absolution, I said. Not many want it, either. For a sinner like this to get the bump up, she must have done a lot of praying and begging for forgiveness. There were always the exceptions, drunk drivers who killed, children who killed before they knew what it meant to take a life. People who did stupid shit, they did their time in Hell, probably got more than they deserved, but paid their penance. Milan Beswyck doesn’t appear to be one of those people. She’s getting everything she deserves. Of course, according to the Big Boss she was no longer deserving.

But why was I passing judgment? That wasn’t my job. I reread the page, then flipped it over, wondering if Heaven was on a cost-cutting binge again and maybe printing on both sides. The other side was blank. If I was going to track down Ms. Beswyck, I’d need something about her. A Soul’s post-life predilections were rarely much different from its earthly desires. I once found an alcoholic, Tommy Watson, living two doors down from a liquor store. It wasn’t the alcoholism that put him in Hell – if that were the case, Heaven would be about two-thirds lighter. What put him there was driving his Earth family headfirst into a tree after pounding too much egg nog on Christmas Eve. I showed his picture around at a couple liquor stores. Several store owners recognized him and one knew him by name. Poor Tommy was still heavily into the alcohol for the first several decades of life in Hell. Eventually he cleaned up and that’s when I got the call. Took me four days to find him. It wasn’t exceptional work on my part, just info from his case file and good, clean police work. Like I did before I was dead.

I reread her measurements. She stood 4.3 cubits tall, which really didn’t mean much. The Big Boss had a sense of humor when it came to length and distance. A cubit as mentioned in the Bible, was the distance from the elbow to the fingertips. Obviously, the length of one person’s cubit differed from the length of another’s. And the Boss, being the comedian He thought He was and someone who despised the Bible for all the bullshit in it, left it at that. So there was no standard measurement. When it came to distances from one place to another, they were estimates according to the cubit of His arms. No one knew the exact measurement from His elbow to His fingertips. And if anyone bothered to try and break it down, figure it out, the numbers never exactly matched up.

So much for killing time, I said. There’s a serious lack of info in here. We’ll get to Styx early, but it beats sitting around here having hot air blow in our faces.

If I was going outside I wanted to get a jump on the heat. A little water (even room temperature) could keep me cool for a while, especially with the windows of the Quik-Cart rolled down.

I turned on the faucet in my washroom and dunked my head under the tap. The small river cascading down my neck sent goosebumps down my spine. I ran a hand through my hair and took a deep breath.

I went back into the office area, grabbed my tie off the coat rack and slid it on.

Let’s go, I told the kid.

We stepped into the heat in the alley behind the office, not knowing it was the last time we would be really hot for the next week.

* * *

I know it’s my first time down here and all, the kid started, but it doesn’t seem all that different from Earth.

I held back a snort. I remember thinking the same thing when I first got down here. Then I started to learn. You’ll see. There’s plenty different. And none of it in a good way.

My Quik-Cart was parked behind the office. I’d always think of it as a cross between Fred Flinstone’s rock mobile and a moon car. Oversized, canvas-topped and handled like a 1967 Buick station wagon. But mine was a Quik-Cart. The torque in it got you going quicker than you needed – that slice of Earth down here felt good.

The kid climbed in the passenger seat, I walked around to the driver’s. I climbed in and buckled up. Obviously, if I got in a wreck, I wouldn’t die. But I didn’t want to live out eternity with some deformity.

I turned the key. Nothing. No clunk, clunk, clunk. No sputter. Not even a clicking sound like it was trying to start. The only noise was the sound of my keys rattling against each other.

As I reached the front of the Cart to check the go-works, I stepped on a bunch of rocks. I looked down. Not rocks. Metal. Lots of metal. I popped the hood. The innards were in shreds. Wires were cut, pipes were bent. Belts were slashed. It wasn’t the first time a vehicle in Hell had taken a beating for fun. Lost Souls were known for bashing cars. But they always kept away from mine.

I closed the hood and started back around the Cart. That’s when I noticed the tire. The front left one was flat. Slashed. I did the loop around the vehicle. The three remaining tires had gashes as big as the first. Yet the windows were in tact. If Lost Souls took to a Cart, the windows were the first to go, the interior next. My windows were fine, and the interior was in the same shape I’d left it yesterday.

This was a different kind of job, one with a purpose. Someone didn’t want me going anywhere. Whatever their intention, they’d accomplished another goal: They pissed me off.

* * *

We walked back through the office and out the front door. The heat beat down. The sky was syrup red, the color of movie blood in a bad 1980’s horror film. I looked up and down the street. The buildings, all built in beige sandstone to ward off the heat, glared back angrily. The skyscrapers stretched upward, searching for cooler air somewhere in the bloody sky. The apartment buildings, packed together tighter than a fresh batch of caged Souls awaiting their first torture, hunkered beneath their taller brethren. If there’d been a sun, the apartment dwellers would have found a touch of solace in the shadows of the skyscrapers. Instead, no sun, no shade. Just everlasting heat. I hoped one or two vandals were hanging around trying to find solace not from that heat, but from me.

The alley behind my office paralleled Temptation Alley. Instinct put the vandals somewhere on the main strip, hoping to blend in to the boulevard instead of sneaking through the back streets.

Temptation was packed. Unies, Satan’s form of police, patrolled the pavement, looking for torture victims. Souls paced to wherever. Carts cruised past, some slow, looking to score sex, drugs or pain; others zoomed past on their way somewhere I was glad I wasn’t. Nobody gave me more than a cursory glance. Everybody looked guilty, but none as though they’d just administered a beat down on my Quik-Cart.

My hunch told me if somebody knew my Cart well enough to find it, they’d probably know my habits. That put them on a path between the office and my apartment around the block. So I turned toward home. And immediately spotted a head peeking out from one of the stoops on the opposite side of the street. It popped back behind the edge of the door front as quickly as it had popped out. I made like I hadn’t seen it. I walked to the next cross walk. I looked both ways like I was checking traffic. It gave me time to check the doorway. He was still there, but he’d moved to my side, back against the wall nearest us, trying to hide. I crossed. The kid followed a step behind. Now with his back to me, the Soul in the doorway wouldn’t know when his time had arrived. I walked as close to the strip of buildings as I could, well out of his view. I gently pushed the kid behind me, reached for my Sanctifier, set the shot to low and pounced.

He never heard me. As I jumped into the doorway, I grabbed him by the throat and yanked him away from the enclave of whatever storefront he was hiding in. A bag of feathers would’ve offered more resistance.

Wai … he screamed.

He was still finishing his plea when I let him go and shot off my first round, hitting him in the left shin.

You shot me, you killed my leg, he wailed.

He didn’t know he’d have complete feeling back in fifteen minutes. I hoped he’d stay numb and dumb for the duration.

A user for sure, his eyes dwarfed his face. Tufts of hair sprouted at random patches on his head. He wore only tattered shorts.

If you don’t want to lose your other leg, I suggest you start talking.

About what? he whined. I don’t know anything.

That’s lie number one. Lie number two loses your right leg. Lie three, your left arm. Lie four, your right. Then we start on the face. And I can pinpoint any area I want.

He continued massaging his shin. He’d start blubbering real soon. A stall tactic no doubt.

If you cry, you get Vanquished.

Both hands shot to his eyes, holding the tears in before they could spill.

They made me do it, he said. They gave me free Dust. I’m going to sell it.

Who made you do it?

Unies. They told me to fuck up the Quik-Cart in the alley, make sure it wouldn’t run. I’m sorry. Here, take my score.

He offered me the bag of Angel Dust. I took it and put it inside my coat. Dust was a good commodity.

Where’d they go?

A bony arm with an even bonier digit pointed back down the boulevard. Toward nowhere, everywhere.

I put my Sanctifier away and reached into my pants pocket. He cowered, using his arms to pull himself backward along the street.

Relax, I said, pulling out a couple coins.

You know which office is mine?

He nodded, his oversized head threatening to break his neck.

If you see those same Unies come tell me. I tossed the two coins between his legs. There’s more where that came from if you do that for me.

* * *

Heaven, how may I direct your call?

Automotive, I said from back inside my office.

This automotive, gruffed a voice that might have belonged to a middle-aged woman.

I need my Quik-Cart towed and fixed, I said.

Where you at?

Hell, Temptation Alley.

A pause. Gimme the address.

I did.

We’ll get to it when we can.

Let’s go, I told the kid. We’ll take yours.

I hadn’t had a Floater in years. They were similar to Earth’s motorcycles. But different. A wheel in the front, two in the back. The wheels worked on the ground, but the machine could also hover low to the ground, too — hence, a Floater. It was one of the reasons so many Souls preferred them to Carts. They were quicker and easier to maneuver in hover mode. Their look was a lot more appealing too. They were bubbly, rounded corners throughout. A windshield curved over the pilot. Platforms sticking out the sides of the engine offered rests for the feet. None of the machines had engines in the sense of the word an Earthling would understand. But they all had engines in the sense that they moved the vehicles. There were parts that made it go, but you never had to gas up or change the oil. Of course, all those parts had to be in the proper place – a big drawback for my Quik-Cart.

I’m driving, I said, climbing on in front of the kid and under the bubbled windshield. If we make it out alive down by the River, I’ll buy you a drink and we can talk about the rest of the weekend.

Rest of the weekend? But I have plan…

The rest of Jimmy’s sentence was drowned in the rev of his Floater. I didn’t want to hear about his plans. His plans had changed. I needed transportation and his Floater was the quickest option. The kid was a newbie, it’d do him some good to see some things. By the time he got back to his plans, he’d be a changed Soul. His date, if that’s what he meant by plans, wouldn’t recognize the thousand-yard stare Jimmy Boy would be wearing next time he crossed through the Pearly Gates.

* * *

The drive out to the River lasted three and a half hours. Unies staged a huge wreck a mile outside Hell City, delaying the ride a half hour. Bastards loved staging accidents. The Unies would swerve wildly into oncoming traffic or slam sharply on their brakes, forcing other motorists to slam into each other. Whoever was deemed guilty, Satan’s Black Guard would arrest and haul off for a decade of torture. They didn’t need the accidents, and they didn’t need a reason to torture, but they got a grim satisfaction out of hearing the Souls plead that it was someone else’s fault.

What do you think happened? the kid asked.

The first motorist rear-ended the second. The first guy was ejected through the front windshield. See how his neck is cocked at the wrong angle. And you can see part of his spine pushed its way through the base of his neck. Crazy how he can still scream.

The second motorist, a female, was screaming as the Unies dragged her into the road.

I had to avoid that other car, she yelled as we passed. It wasn’t my fault. He was too close.

The Unies took out their Tazing-sticks. One of them, a man built like a dwarf, started on her legs and worked his way up. The other Uni, a woman of unimaginable height, started on the motorist’s shoulders and worked her way down. By the time the two met in the middle, the woman would be in so much pain she’d find herself wishing she’d been the one to go through the windshield.

The traffic was stop and go. Which meant no airflow through my wet hair. Which meant I was hot. I didn’t let the heat get to me often, but sometimes... It made me think of Las Vegas in mid-August. That heat that makes it too hot to lay around by the pool. That heat that bakes your shirts so much they singe your arms when they rub against your sleeves. This kind of heat made me wonder not for the first time why I chose to live here. Most Soul Detectives lived in Heaven but stayed in Hell when they had a case. Not me. Heaven is great and all, but it ain’t what they paint it to be on Earth. It’s not all flying around and floating on clouds. It’s a lot of work being Saved. Get up every morning and head to work every day. For eternity. The trick is to find something you enjoy, because eternity is a long time.

We finally putted past the scene on the highway, glad to whine the Floater’s engine back up to a pace loud enough to drown out the Souls’ anguished screams. I tried not to think about the fact that her torture was just beginning. She’d be in for a lengthy session. Hell looked unfavorably on Souls deemed murderers.

I didn’t look at my unwilling passenger. I could only guess what he was thinking.

We eventually headed down the off-ramp toward Styx. The city lay 500 feet below. Looking due south was the river, black as night. I let the Floater coast to the shoulder. I wanted the kid to watch, to understand what he was seeing and where we were. His audible gasp told me he understood.

An escalator sat floating in the middle of the sky, dropping Souls from 100 yards above into the River Styx. What appeared to be waves on the far side of the river were actually Souls climbing on to a strip of land that ended in a barred fence. The river itself was still, disturbed only by the splashing Souls from above and the slow-moving ferryboats gliding back and forth.

I looked at the kid. He was staring at the Souls on land. Tens of thousands at least. They were trying to break rank, all in the same direction – opposite the river and the boats. They were shoving each other, dragging each other. Knocking each other to the ground. All with the same goal in mind: get through the fence. They didn’t know the other side was a wasteland to nowhere. A mirage. A gateway to inevitability.

I unslung my backpack and waded through it. Found some binoculars.

Here.

He didn’t hear me. He was entranced. I didn’t envy him. I remembered the first time I’d come to the River Styx. I never wanted that feeling again.

Here! His head snapped toward my voice.

Oh my god, he whispered, looking through them. Where are we?

You tell me.

Souls, all running away from the water, he began. They’re doing whatever they have to do to get away from it. It’s chaos, but with a purpose. They don’t want to be near those boats. They’re terrified of them. And they’re trying to break down those gates. They’re pounding on them, with their bare fists and bare feet. They’re kicking them. I can see their hands and feet are in pain, but they’re still slamming against the gates. Oh my god, several Souls have grabbed another, a small one, and they’re smashing it against the gates. They’re using it like a battering ram. They’re swinging it against the gates. Why doesn’t someone help him?

Now the kid was crying.

Good, I said. Now look back toward the river. Over there.

He moved the binocs away from his eyes to follow my gaze and my arm, pointing at a boat that was tying off to a landing.

Watch that boat and the men onboard.

He put the binoculars back up to his eyes.

Several men, all dressed the same, are jumping onto the dock. It looks like they have sticks in their hands. One of them looks to be carrying a bag over his back. They’re walking toward the masses.

He adjusted the glasses to focus closer. His cheeks were tear-stained, but the tracks were already dried. Interest had stopped his crying.

The boaters are running now, the kid said. They’re heading right toward the mass of Souls. They’re … oh my god, they’re hitting them with those sticks. It looks like they’re jabbing them with the sticks until the Soul collapses. Now several of them are teaming up on a big guy. They’re beating him into the ground. Jesus Christ, why doesn’t someone stop it? Where’s the police? Where’s the Seraphs?

Keep watching, I said, ignoring his questions. Keep telling me what you see.

They’re picking up some of the collapsed Souls, he went on. They’re dragging them toward the boat. Holy shit, that one with the bag, he just threw it at a woman. It’s a net! He caught her! He’s dragging her toward the loading dock. They’re throwing the captured Souls on the boat. They’re locking them into what looks to be a holding tank. The boaters are heading back toward shore, like they want more.

He held the binoculars out to me. I don’t want to watch anymore.

Where are we? I asked.

He pulled his gaze away and turned it on me: The River Styx.

* * *

It wasn’t that I liked putting him through that. I just wanted him to see what we were approaching. If I’d have thrown him into it, there was no telling what he would have done.

Let’s get checked in and see how long it’s going to be before we meet Jed, I said.

He waited for me to put the binoculars back in the bag and climb on the Floater. He climbed on behind me. His grip on my shoulders was noticeably tighter.

We cruised down into Styx, the road curving back inland a ways before finally making its way through the city toward the river. More shanties had been erected on the outskirts since the last time I’d been here. Of course, every time I came to Styx there were more buildings and more shanties.

I drove the Floater up the main drag, catching the envious eye of more than one hopeless Soul. With the light of Hell beginning to fade to a dull red, the yellow on the Floater gleamed. It was a beacon of hate for so many who had nothing. I picked up the pace and raced toward the New Souls Entry.

I drove into the employee parking lot. A guard came out of his makeshift hut, hand held at shoulder height.

S.D. Achilles, I said, flashing my identification card. The Boatman is waiting for me.

He waved us through.

We walked down a few corridors before we reached Jed’s latest secretary, a woman as squat as the building. She wasn’t here the last time I’d ventured this way. My guess was she wouldn’t be here the next time I came. Jed the Boatman’s secretaries didn’t stick around. Not many good Souls in Styx did. They wanted out as