The Apocalypse Stops For No Time Lord [Part Six]
Part Six
As it turned out, Dante’s theory of the underworld was completely wrong. Nine circles of Hell, each with its own sin and in the centre Lucifer? Ridiculous. A nice piece of literature and there can be no denying that Dante was brilliant in his own right, but his idea of Hell could not be further from the truth.
The first thing you notice about Hell is the simple insanity of it. There is no order, not even the definite description of chaos can be given to Satan’s realm. Sure, the remnants of souls are strung up where they’re supposed to be but they’re only supposed to be there because that is where they happen to be.
Yes, those demons that thrive in the liquid-splatter of Hell are torturing the people they are meant to torture but it’s not allocated. You just torture whichever helpless soul happens to be closest to you. There is no structure or routine. Sometimes demons will rip each other apart over who is torturing who.
The worst thing about Hell is the floor plan, or indeed, the lack of one. You need a floor for a floor plan. There is no ground or ceiling in Hell, no sky or any indication of direction at all. You can easily find yourself upside-down, well upside-down according to the person strung up above you.
Gravity, it seems, revels in this idea. It obeys no Earthly laws, instead choosing to take Hell’s madness to heart. You might be suspended above someone but their blood and intestines and tears and other bodily fluids you’re glad you can’t name will all be dripping onto your face.
Meanwhile, there is no sense of time. You could have been tortured for five minutes or five years but your torturer will tell you it has only been five seconds. It doesn’t really matter of course. You’re stuck in Hell and nothing will change until you turn on your fellow humans.
Why keep time? On the surface they will know the hours, months, years that you’ve been gone, but what does it matter down below? Time’s just another human construction that you will lose. It’s just another part of your humanity being peeled away. It’s another thing that you can’t control or count and once the blades touch your flesh, you won’t remember it either.
That, of course, leads to the torture. This is the very defining reason of Hell, the meaning of its existence. It’s not just a knife pressing into flesh and the lancing agony screaming through your nerves. It’s the sound of crunching bones and the wet splat of blood against your skin. It’s the sight of your insides falling from the hole in your abdomen. It’s the smell of flesh roasting in the flames that keep you warm.
In Hell, you don't pay for your sins in blood. In Hell, you lose your mind; you pay for your sins in sanity, the highest cost. When you can no longer face another club smashing your bones or another knife scooping out your eye, you give up. You get off the rack and you become the one with the power, the torturer.
Then you think that it has finished, that your Hell is over. You think that the torture has ended and you will never feel that pain again. It’s a small price to pay, black eyes for the end. The whip rips open skin and you feel the vibrations run up the handle. It takes a while but when the screams reach your ears you’ll realise the truth.
Your torture has only just begun.
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Blood was trickling down Bela’s arms in a constant warm river. Crowley was lazily dragging the Knife between her fingers now, slicing through the soft webbing in between. There were cuts on her legs, arms, stomach, all of them starting to heal thanks to the demon part of her. Bela choked down a sob and forced tears from her eyes.
Hell flashed in her mind, glimpses and montages, years of flames and torture burned so deeply into her mind. It had taken a long time until she could close her eyes and not see a crackling film of memories spread across her eyelids. Now every cut reminded her of the faces of souls she had tortured. Every time Crowley laughed her memories laughed with him, eyes black holes in her head.
All this time, she had been lying to herself, she realised that now. She had adopted this naive idea that she could be human, this pathetic dream that it would all be okay. The Knife dug deeper and her memories screamed and howled in her mind. The Knife dug deeper and she was the one pressing it through soft flesh.
“All I need to know is where the weak point of the rift is.” Crowley’s voice hissed in her ear, breath wet against her skin and her mind jerked back from the Hellfire images of a different time. Gritting her teeth, she forced herself to focus on the present, on the King of Hell demanding answers.
Barely managing to keep her voice steady she choked out, “Find it yourself.”
“I can’t,” Crowley growled, spinning away from her momentarily. “That damned Doctor’s hidden it with some kind of cloaking device. There’s no one I can find who knows where it is.”
“So-” Bela coughed a splatter of blood onto the floor. “Why don’t you ask Jack.”
Crowley slowly turned to her, a smirk on his face. “You don’t know anything about your beloved Captain Harkness, do you?”
“I know enough,” she snapped, the defensive walls she had long ago mastered fending off Crowley’s words.
“Surely you know he’s immortal, completely incapable of being killed.” The cold metal of the Knife slipped under Bela’s chin as Crowley forced her head up. “Demons can’t possess him either, I don’t know if you’ve tried. There’s something very wrong with your man.”
“So long as he’s not you,” Bela spat, trying not to think about the Knife’s edge pressing into her throat as she spoke.
“If only you knew all the things he’s done.” Crowley gave a chilling laugh. “All the people he’s killed and all the friends he’s let die.”
“I know.” Bela’s voice was hoarse, rasping painfully in her throat. All those records of the dead, all those who weren’t immortal. “It doesn’t matter.”
“You’re very obstinate about his innocence, darling. We’ll see how long it lasts. He certainly hasn’t come to save you, now has he?”
A loud click echoed through the room, the sound of gun cocking that could be salvation or damnation. “I wouldn’t be so sure of that.” It took all of Bela’s will power not to cry with relief. Jack was standing in the doorway, a tall angular man Bela recognised as Sherlock Holmes and another who had to be John Watson, standing behind him.
“You’re sure that’s not Moriarty?” John’s face was terse and pale, disbelief and uncertainty written across his face. “It bloody well seems like him.”
“No it’s not, John.” It was Sherlock who replied, eyes flicking up and down Crowley’s body. “Moriarty’s dead.”
“Yes, and so were you.”
“We don’t have time for this,” Jack said. He stepped into the room, gun trained on Crowley. It wasn’t until he moved under the bright lights that Bela recognised the markings on the weapon. She knew that gun, knew it as well as the knife in the hand of the King of Hell’s. It was the Colt.
“How did you get that?” Crowley’s eyes were narrow slits, not small enough to hide the surprise in them.
“I got it from an old friend,” Jack replied with a humourless smirk that seemed to twist his face. “He was going to give me a knife rather like yours but apparently there was some kind of paradox problem.”
“The Doctor,” Crowley hissed angrily. “I suppose I should have known.”
Jack levelled the Colt at the demon’s head. “Let Bela go.”
“Of course,” Crowley replied, voice silky smooth. His hand tightened on the Knife and Bela was reminded of how venerable she was, strung up to the ceiling.
Suddenly there was an explosion of movement. Crowley lurched to the side then froze as a gunshot echoed around the room. The bullet buried itself in the wall behind Bela, leaving a small hole in the demon’s blazer, inches from his body.
“Let Bela go,” Jack repeated calmly, chambering another round. “Or the next bullet will find flesh.”
“You make an excellent argument.” Crowley waved a hand and the chains slipped away from Bela. Gravity took hold and she collapsed on the ground, legs giving up. Seconds later hands were helping her up, Sherlock taking one side, John taking the other. Carefully they lifted until her feet found the ground again.
“Now tell us how to stop the zombies.”
“What makes you think I can stop them?” Crowley asked, the Knife still resting easily in his hand.
“I know how the virus works,” Sherlock cut in. “Interesting but simple. You send instructions to one ‘mother’ zombie who acts as an aerial, projecting it to the others. Take out the mother and the signal falls apart. The aggression goes dormant and the zombies return to the nest.”
“We just need to know where that nest is,” Jack finished.
“And you think you’re going to make me tell you?” Cautiously Bela took a step forward, leaning on the detectives as little as possible. Her legs shook for a moment, the dull remnants of the torture sparking pain in her muscles, but they held. Unhooking her arms from around Sherlock and John’s shoulders, she limped around Crowley and came to stand next to Jack, her human crutches following.
“He might not be able to,” Bela hissed at the King of Hell. “But I sure as Hell can. Give me the gun, Jack.”
“You’re mad, right?” John asked then turned to Jack. “She’s just insane from the shock.”
“I’ve always been mad.” Bela let her eyes fade to black and a smirk that had been born in front of screaming sinners pulled her mouth back. “That’s just what Hell does, right Crowley?”
She held out her hand and the cold metal of the Colt fell into her fingers. Automatically her hand curled around it but Jack didn’t let go. She turned to him, forgetting her black eyes. He didn’t wince or flinch away, just searched her face for something.
“Trust me.” It seemed stupid, asking the military man to let go of the gun, asking him to give his weapon to a demon with coals from Hell as eyes. Why, she wondered, why would he ever trust her? Jack let go of the Colt and Bela decided she could untangle her emotions later. “You should wait outside.”
“Okay,” Jack nodded and muted relief flashed in her mind. She didn’t want any of them seeing this.
Slowly Bela walked up to Crowley, gaze meeting his squarely, as footsteps left the room. Taking a vivid from one of the nearby tables she drew a pentagram around Crowley, small enough that she could reach him from outside the symbol. The door closed behind them with a click like a safety thumbed back. Eyes never leaving Crowley’s, Bela pressed the Colt to his knee.
“Let me remind you of Hell,” she hissed, face inches from the King of Hell’s. Then she pulled the trigger.
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Five minutes later Bela opened the door to find her three rescuers milling in the corridor beyond. They glanced over to her, eyes going wide at the red liquid splattered across her face and over her arms. The Colt was in her hand, barrel red with sticky, congealing blood.
Bela blinked slowly at them, not quite processing what was happening. It was strange going from the blaring white of the tiled torture chamber to the cool, dim light of the corridor. Bela couldn’t help feeling she had stepped from a dream into reality, a reality where the dream was a nightmare and the nightmare was real.
She had seen Hell again, had gotten lost in the memories that once more came so easily. It had been easy to forget the people, the humans, waiting outside for her. It had been easy to be a demon when they weren’t looking. It had been so easy, too easy, to be the torturer again.
Jack was in front of her, hands held up before him, showing he had no weapons. That hurt more than Bela thought it would, seeing her boss, the joker, approaching her as if she might hurt him. Shakily she offered the Colt to him, trying to smile but not quite getting there.
“I’m sorry.” Bela said the words before she had really thought about it, just a fleeting thought in the turmoil of Hell and Earth. Jack took the gun, flicked the safety on and dropped it into one of his pockets. “I just-” To her dismay, Bela’s voice cracked and a sob slipped out. “It’s all I can remember; Hell. The fire, the torture-”
A second later her legs gave in as the sobs turned her muscles to jelly. Instantly arms wrapped around her, lowering her gently to the ground. They pulled her in close against the coarse wool of the military coat Jack wore. Later on she knew she would regret this display of weakness but for now she clung to the body holding her up.
“Hey, hey, come on.” Jack’s voice was soft, rumbling in his chest. There was a pause as he jerked his head to the side and two pairs of footsteps slipped into the other room. “You’re alright, everything’s going to be alright.”
“No.” Abruptly the sobs dropped away, stamped down by waves of uncontrollable anger, burning everything in its path. “No it won’t.” She pushed away from the military man, forcing herself to meet his eyes. “The things I’ve done, Jack. I’m a demon, a monster.”
“Bullshit.” There wasn’t anger in Jack’s voice or exasperation at the teary girl in his lap. Just that calm confidence, waiting like a brick wall for Bela to smash up against or lean back onto. “You’re not like Crowley and you know it. I’ll tell you as many times as I need to. I trust you with my life.”
“Why?” It seemed like such a simple question but the answer was silence, a hesitation stretching for too long to be just a pause. “Why? I’ve killed people.”
“So have I.” The reply was quiet, a secret whispered in confession that they both knew but have never spoken aloud.
“I’m a creature from Hell, Jack. I’ve tortured people, stripping their rights away until they couldn’t control their own bodies. I’m not human. I don’t die, I don’t grow old.”
Jack shrugged and for a second there was a rueful smile on his face. “Neither do I.”
Bela didn’t bother thinking then, didn’t bother trying to be the stoic soldier or the damsel in distress. She forgot to maintain the mystery and hide her emotions under the carefully constructed barriers in her mind. She forgot about everything and pressed her lips against Jack’s and felt his press back.
A hand found its way into her hair as her arms looped around his neck. It was an uncomfortable position, twisted and tangled. It was words that no longer needed to be spoken. She could love this man, Captain Jack Harkness, and Bela had never felt so human.
Then an awkward cough came from behind them and suddenly they were jumping apart. John was standing in the door to the white-tiled room, trying to both look at them and desperately avoid their eyes.
“Right.” Bela’s voice was shaky and in her mind she hurriedly attempted to push her defensive walls back into place. “Sorry.” She moved to stand when Jack’s hands caught her hips.
“See, what did I tell you?” He was smirking at her, nothing but humour in his eyes; no horror or regret in his expression. “I’m irresistible.”
Bela had to laugh. “You keep telling yourself that, sir.” Carefully she extradited herself from his lap, Jack releasing her from his grip. Once she was on her feet, she offered him a hand, pulling him upright with a smile.
“Hurry up!” Sherlock called from in the torture chamber. Bela slipped past John, valiantly managing not to blush as Jack followed her. Crowley was standing in the pentagram where he had been lying when she left him. His clothes were dotted with holes as if someone had attacked him with a hole-punch. Blood was seeping in puddles over the floor but the wounds in the demon’s meatsuit were healing rapidly.
“Would you like me to tell them,” Bela asked Crowley with a twisted smile. “Or are you going to?”
“Allow me.” The demon straightened his blazer, fingers catching on various holes in the material. “The infected individual you’re looking for is in a quarry by Coed y Ddylluan. You certainly have some inventive names around here.”
“I know that quarry,” Jack said, eyes narrowed. “It’s not far from Mary Immaculate High School.”
“Well in that case,” Crowley smirked and Bela knew there was something wrong. “You had better hurry.”
“What do y-” Jack’s words were cut short by a burst of movement. Pulling the Knife out from one of his pockets, Crowley flung it across the room. Instantly Bela dived at Jack, trying to shove him out of the way. At the same time the military man threw himself at her. They collided in mid-air, falling to the ground awkwardly but unhurt.
Hurriedly Bela struggled to her feet but it was too late. The Knife was buried between tiles a metre from where John was standing in front of Sherlock, gun drawn. Crowley was gone. On the floor, black threads swirled in red liquid where the slowly spreading blood was washing away the pen-drawn pentagram.
“Move, John.” It was Sherlock who spoke first, pushing past his blogger to stand in front of Jack. “The quarry is 10 minutes away. You need to leave now.” He shoved a case into the military man’s hands. “This is enough to cure the mother zombie and others. We’ll start making more and curing anyone we find.”
“Okay.” Jack nodded slowly. “Be careful.”
“We’ll be fine,” John said, coming to stand next to Sherlock like a protective shadow. “I’ll keep him safe.” For a moment the mysterious detective looked exasperated then his expression softened to something akin to tired acceptance.
“Come on,” Jack was tugging at her arm, all but dragging her along. “We don’t have time to stare at the lovebirds.”
Once more they were running, this time dashing through rooms that Bela had never seen. Crowley seemed to have adopted a small shop as his hideout, converting the basement into his rumpus room. Bela took a two second pit-stop to wash the incriminating blood off her hands before following Jack out to the Torchwood SUV.
“Go!” She said as soon as she was inside. The car lurched away from the pavement, wheels screeching momentarily. “Impressive,” Bela commented with a laugh.
“Thank you.” Jack inclined his head, smiling at her. They swung around a corner and down another road. A few seconds later and the SUV was crossing a small bridge.
“Do you have any idea where you are going?”
“The A48 will take us right past the quarry.”
“Right,” she nodded, remembering what he had said. “You’ve been there before.”
“A friend of mine dropped me off a cliff there once.” There was a small smile on his face, not yet tampered down by the pain of loss.
“Figures,” Bela muttered, inwardly cheering as the smile widened instead of fading. “So, how did you find me?”
“Oh, I have-” Jack trailed off, reaching into one of his coats pockets. His hand reappeared again, holding Bela’s slightly more scratched tablet. “Here.” She took it with a strangely strong wave of happiness. It had felt wrong not having the little device with her.
“So you managed to use it?”
“Yes,” Jack shot her a soft smile. “It’s a good thing you were able to give that to me before you were gone. We were able to write a program to pick up on the summoning spells residue to locate you.”
“I-” Bela hesitated. “That’s very impressive, Jack. Did it take you long?”
“An hour or so,” the military man confessed. “Why?”
“So I was being tortured and not telling Crowley how to destroy the world for...” She glanced down at the time displayed on the tablet. “Two hours, whilst you were writing a program to find me?”
“Well, yes.”
“You know, I turned on my GPS.” Bela couldn’t stop herself bursting into laughter as they reached the motorway and started dodging between lanes. “You could have just opened up the tracking program and found me instantly.”
“Oh,” Jack replied and Bela just laughed harder.
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| Part Seven |