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PREFACE

In the news, in real life, or through gossip, we hear about the odd person or family who went missing and/or committed unexplainable criminal acts. Their actions are blamed on psychological deterioration due to life-related circumstances like work, family relations, and financial downfall.

Nevertheless, there are those rare occasions when the root of that change is supernatural. Those occurrences are kept secret, buried in the folds of modern times that neither accept nor admit to the existence of other planes of living.

Hellbound came to be after a friend huffed and lowered the newspaper she was reading; irked by an article about alien abduction. According to her, why couldn't people figure out that when someone goes missing or starts acting outlandishly, that it isn't about aliens; it's about human nature? People don't just fall off the face of the earth, she said.

I kept my mouth shut, smiling inwardly, for there are other explanations for disappearances or uncommon behaviors.

Here are three stories brewed out of the depths of Hell. People don't always just change, or pack up their belongings and vanish, or fall off the face of the earth.

Sometimes they are in a far worse situation.

They are in Hell!

Su Halfwerk

October 31st, 2010

THE DEADENING

1

The morgue's double doors swung inward with a loud groan announcing the arrival of another stiff. Alone, Moe maneuvered the bloody gurney into the morgue.

Bart scowled. "Another one?" He rose and gathered his shoulder-length sandy hair with an elastic band.

Moe positioned the gurney in a corner and blew on his hands to warm them. "Yeah, what else would I bring you in this godforsaken cadaver-stacking weather?"

With a sigh, Bart strode to Moe. He agreed with the ambulance driver; when the sky snowed heavily enough, then rained long enough, it created the right amount of sleet on the roads to cause fatal accidents. So far, they had received four bodies.

Bart jerked his chin in the direction of the lumpy, bloody, and covered mass on the gurney. "What happened to this one?" He unzipped part of the body bag for a glance. The jade-green eyes of a young redheaded kid stared back at him, his face marred only by few spatters of blood on his right cheek.

Moe shook his head. "You're the morgue attendant; check the report."

A smile threatened to break on Bart's lips. "Come on, Moe. Save me some time; summarize it for me."

With garlic-laced breath, Moe huffed. "You people e'spect me to do everything. Pay me the salary of a driver and want me to do the job of a senior employee. I say, get bent. The whole lot of you." Moe limped to Bart's desk, opened a drawer, and helped himself to Bart's peanut butter sandwich. The chair groaned as he parked his ass on it and crossed his legs on the desk.

Bart's favorite pastime was the delicate process of irritating Moe, who was ready for action at the twitch of a nose. Smirking, he studied the report that came with the body.

Martin Robinson-born in 1990 and weighing 170 pounds-had killed himself.

"Tsk, tsk, Martin, boy! What could've been so bad that life became unworthy of you?" Bart shook his head and donned a pair of gloves.

"You talk as if he can hear ya!" Moe sounded amused.

With the intention of leaving Martin in the positive temperature chamber for Ben, the other morgue attendant, to handle, Bart unzipped the bag, mindful not to lose any hairs or fibers, to perform his usual inspection of briefs-a usually ignored search by the medics and police officers. God bless whoever invented the brief's hidden zippered stash pocket, he or she gave him the opportunity to increase his income every now and then. He glanced up at Moe, waiting for his opinion of Bart's actions.

"Anyone hearing you just now would think you respect the dead. Anyone watching you will know you don't, for sure." Moe was the only person who knew about Bart's little hobby.

"Yeah, yeah, yea-"

Bart gasped and took a step backward. In his line of business, not much shocked him. He'd expected the body to be intact-overdosing on drugs was the most favorable method for suicides-or at least slit wrists, but not the massacre in front of him. He covered his mouth with the back of a hand and drew a long and deep breath. Mangled limbs, as though chewed by a lawnmower and then spewed into a cauldron of acid, lay entwined and held together by thin tendrils of muscles and ligaments.

On cue, Moe got to his feet and approached Bart, a crooked smile on his lips. "Ha! I knew this would get ya. According to the accident report, our feller here jumped in front of a train. There were complications that made his suicide worse."

Bart swallowed hard, feeling uncomfortable with the way the green eyes stared at him. What on earth happened to this kid to push him to commit such a hideous suicide? He must've hated himself too much to go through this painful self-mutilation.

The echo of footsteps sounded from the corridor outside. Moe glanced frantically at Bart. "Quick, or we'll be caught!"

Bart dug hastily through the body pieces. "Must be Ben, early for his shift." Ben's sense of righteousness rivaled the straightness of an arrow.

Bart's fingers brushed over a hipbone and he breathed faster, he must be closer to the briefs now. It was possible that the kid wasn't the underwear-stashing type, then again, he might be. Bart separated the clothing that covered that part, knowing that very soon he would have to abandon his search. Finally he found an elastic band and a zipper. With haste, Bart unzipped the pocket and found the secret hideout of the money of the wise. He fished out a folded note of money so drenched with blood and gore that the denomination wasn't clear anymore.

"Hey, Bartholomew."

At the sound of Ben's too lively voice, Bart turned around and backed away into the room to put as much distance between him and the other morgue attendant, giving himself more time to stuff the bloody note into his back pocket. Moe apparently had left at some stage, leaving Bart to fend for himself. The chicken!

"Hey, Ben. You-you're early."

In the main area of the morgue-where the temperature was always kept at a level barely endurable-a warm breeze blew on Bart's ear from behind. He jumped and almost turned around. Where did that sulfuric breeze come from?

Sweat gathered on his forehead as his gloved hand kept missing his pocket. Bart didn't care for the money anymore; he just wanted to hide it. He bit his tongue with relief as the money finally slipped in. Now all he had to do was walk backwards until the end of his shift to hide the bloody smudges on his pants, the evidence of his borrowing.

Ben paused in hanging up his jacket. "No, you are late. Your shift ended-" he glanced at the wall clock to his right. "Ten minutes ago."

Comforted by the pocketing of the money and the end of his shift, Bart checked the clock and smiled. He was indeed late. "Well, I couldn't leave before you arrived."

Ben frowned at Bart's words, perhaps remembering the times Bart left work before the end of his shift. He didn't comment.

Filled with excitement after dread, Bart turned around in a rush and left the room, ignoring the bloody smudges on display on his pants. He felt lucky.

2

When the clock struck eight in the evening, the doorbell rang. It had to be Moe, coming over to catch the match starting in an hour. His wife was a dedicated fan of some soap opera that ran at the same time; she wouldn't miss an episode. It was obvious who wore the pants in that household.

"Hey, you're in one piece," Moe said and lifted the six-packs and pizza he'd brought with him.

"Why wouldn't I be?" Bart ambled back to his chair by the computer, leaving the armchair in front of the TV free for Moe.

Moe averted his gaze. "Well, when I left today, you were about to be caught-I mean... " He shrugged. "Well, ya know!"

"Hmm, this goes to show what type of friend you are. You could've distracted Ben."

"If I help you and you're found out, I'll get dragged into this with you."

Moe couldn't lie to save his life. His huge frame and tough facade were nothing more than a front that hid an ogre-sized baby.

"It's okay, no hassle. It was a piece of cake anyway." Bart wiggled his eyebrows and pointed at the pizza now sitting on the small table. "You're forgiven if this is Hawaiian pizza."

Glad that he was off the hook, Moe nodded. With one swift move, he dropped in the armchair and grabbed the remote control. "One of these days, you're gonna get caught. You shouldn't steal from the dead." He paused as though remembering something. "So? How much was it?"

Bart shrugged. "Don't know. The note was covered with blood and other stuff; by the time I got home it was so soft I was worried it would fall apart, so I damp...