Eastward, The Lake of Fire realm of Hell’s Ocean burns. Bubbles of gas rise up from sea floor to surface – igniting swaths of flames across purple and green waters. Waves and currents roil with combustive spume. It is one of Hell’s terrible wonders – this expanse of burning water. Devils call it fire-paw in mockery of Earthly cat’s paw gusts rippling a far more wholesome fluid. A testament to how far into ruin the world they were entrusted to care for fell. Its once life-giving Ocean now poisonous and wracked by fire.

South and west, the Burning Lands tell their own tale of exploitation, abuse and catastrophe in their endless eruptions of black smoke. Great fields of coal up-thrust from deep below lay bare to air and fire. Fingers of lava run through it all – forming a fossil fuel caldera stretching for hundreds of miles. The lava spills out, burns the coal, reduces it to gas, liquids – much of it aflame. The busy devils of Mechanum crawl across it. Taking a hundred monstrous forms, they drive endless ranks of slaves before them to mine it, capture it, transport it from these ever-burning lands. A network of ghastly trains accepts the fruits of this dangerous toil – passing it on through crawling, flying or rolling infernal combustion engine vehicles to various globular outposts. Each engine of this vast industry possessing a mortal’s wisp. Literal mad ghosts driving terrible machines.

A lava river with flaming coal floating atop its flood winds away from those burning fields. It flickers the underbellies of clouds vomiting lightning, never rain. It flows through a land of escarpments — coiling at last around a mighty fortress before quenching its rage in The Lake of Fire.

If Myra were here, she’d be reminded of Ivan Volkov’s wall photo of a tar sands mining operation. Though that would seem but an essay to Hell’s complete diabolical work of destruction-as-industry spreading for hundreds of miles in every direction. But Myra is not here. The person, if he could be described as such, whose eyes behold this terrible scene is none other than the Curse Rider — Gibbens Crane. He sees it all from his perch at the fortress’s open gate with eyes long-since made insensitive. The fortress’s mountainous battlements rise behind him. Razor towers crawling with Hell’s monsters and machines stretch up and up. Electric eyes and the light of wisp energy crisscross its great bulk like backlit spider veins. Vapors lifting off it give the impression of a made volcano facing the ruin-of-nature volcanic land before it. Fortress Invicti. To him, this terror scene is typical. Two great catastrophes — one rising up from the world, the other cynically crafted — both terrors that long ago became normal.

He sits atop his Nightmare – a horse-like machine crafted of coiled metal, flaming claws in place of hooves, an enslaved wisp for a soul, a roaring engine for a heart, pipes blasting out pollution. He has heard the call of Asmodeus’ Chosen. He now knows the names of enemies who would steal this mighty prize. Beatrice Lushael. Robert Mori. In his descent, Asomdeus’s courtiers gathered ’round, entreating him to take every action to secure Ivan for the designs of Hell on Earth. In gestures of command, they lifted their vulture bodies to form the pose of wisp-rending capture, saying — take the offending mage wisps at all costs.

Gibbens Crane adjusts his black hat, tightens a bolo tie, straightens the baldric of bullets crossing his torso. He rests a hand on the polished obsidian and hell-silver handle of a long-barreled revolver. Upon his left shoulder, a triad of bulging worbs gleam with fickle blue light. A thousand wisps powers each. The third one is a recent gift from Asmodeus – given to aid his new hunt. Gibbens looks out into the distance, lashes his wisps with an electric whip-flick of his left wrist, and issues an order as they scream in agony.

“Serve the hunt and you will know relief. Show us the swiftest path through Hell and Earth to our quarry – Lushael, Mori. On Earth, they were last seen in Berlin. What is the closest concordant Hell Gate?”

Thus tasked, the wisps sacrifice spiritual energy to reach out, to create a map of active permanent and temporary Hell Gates, to note their relative locations on both Earth and Hell. In a pained shout that echoes through Gibbens’ uncaring ears, they affirm his command. Their energy dances, showing the way. A nearby Gate opens on an escarpment not a mile from here. It leads to a supposedly solemn chamber in Austin, Texas. There, a number of state leaders are pontificating over a decision. The larger number’s thrust is to make it harder for youth, black, and brown people to vote. The same majority is also pushing an attempt to stifle clean power sources that don’t come from the combustion of Earth’s blood fossil fuels. Pride Eaters and other demons have assembled to rend open this gateway. To stare with malign interest upon those entrusted to protect the people who elected them, but who are instead slicing away their rights while ensuring ever-more hellish living arrangements. Though Pride-Eater interest is fierce, the gate will last mere minutes.

Gibbens flicks his wrist again, releasing slave wisps from pain — for now — and kicks spurs against the Nightmare’s metal hide. Electric current arcs into the beast, it lifts its head to issue a ghostly cry of anguish, then explodes forward. A carpet of blue flame spreads beneath each clawed foot-fall as it takes flight toward the Hell-Gate. Bearing Gibbens over the molten river in a swift gallop, Its engine heart roars with effort. Black clouds of smoke spread wide behind. They blast through hot air in swift ascent, then turn toward the gathering of demons. In less than a minute, they descend toward a black vertical rift. The Nightmare lifts its head to give out another anguished wail. Demons scatter. Gibbens and Nightmare blast through.

They penetrate the outer darkness, drift toward the Arch of Time, snap through, then rise into a chamber filled with arguing legislators.

“The future needs of Texas require good energy and the kinds of jobs that matter most to Texans,” one says as he lifts a sheaf of papers. “If we wish to attract renewable factories like Tesla’s at 10,000 employed, we must stop clingin to harmful fossils which keep hurlin storms and fires at our ‘lectric grids.” He is a young man named Jeremy Seto, as indicated by the name plate on his desk.

“There is zero scientific proof, zero evidence for the representative’s taudry claims of disaster,” an older man drawls while adjusting a pair of coke-can glasses. Peter Murdlock – according to his name-plate. “Besides, our oil workers will be put out by your draconian support for expensive wind, solar, and EVs.”

“Proof? Look out the window! Look at each new report from the actual scientists of most respected agency. I don’t know what kind of science the representative refers to in his contrarian claims. But our oil workers can do good building clean geo-thermal, lithium, solar, and wind!”

Gibbens emerges in ethereal form on the debate floor. Just another evil ghost among legislators. A Pride Eater sits on Murdlock’s desk, teasing away strands of red thought with claws running through his brains. The Demon could possess him given time and enough hubris. Not yet. Gibbens is far less limited. His hundreds of enslaved wisps allow him to take form on Earth should he choose it. Just one of many dangerous traits. For the moment, he decides to remain unseen. He walks his Nightmare through the chamber, up stairs, past the security station and metal detectors, and out through the front door. A faint smell of gasoline – the only tell-tale of his passing.

Gibbens leads his Nightmare onto the sidewalk and away from the Capitol. Turning into a side-street, he flicks his left wrist in a whip-crack gesture once more. The wisps give another ghostly wail of pain as they draw forth energy to give him form. A red-orange glow passes over him – rising from the tips of boot spurs, passing up over his body before at last enfolding a black cowboy hat. When the light departs, he is fully formed. He fishes a pair of sunglasses out of a breast pocket, unfolds them, puts them on. The Austin air is a cool 105 degrees. Pleasant, compared to Hell. The orange glow leaps over to his Nightmare – shaping it into a massive black Hummer with smoke-stack exhaust pipes sprouting from the roof and huge coke-cans busting out the rear. Sides painted with streaming flames. A Confederate Flag flies from a pole near the back.

He winds up like a rattlesnake and slithers in through the already opened door. He throws it shut, revs the engine, and then roars out onto Austin’s streets. Shoving through traffic, he coal-rolls vehicles trailing behind – giving them a taste of sulfur-laden black smoke. Angry curses add to the cacophony of snarling engines. He pushes the shades up and chuckles. Griefing locals is but one of many privileges. Taking a late turn, he cuts off a whole lane of traffic, belching smoke, then guns it onto I 35 South. Honks blare behind. He flicks them a lazy bird while passing beneath a sign reading — Austin-Bergstrom International Airport – 5 miles.

(Want to read the first Chapter of Helkey? You can find it here.)

(Looking for another chapter? Find it in the Helkey Table of Contents.)