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  THE GEHENNA DILEMMA

  By Eric Dallaire

  Cover Illustration by Ron Lemen

  Edited by Alex Bear of Constellation Editing

  Copyright © 2015 by Eric Dallaire

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the author, except as provided by U.S.A. copyright law.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales or organizations is entirely coincidental.

  First printing. This is a novel from IF Tales imprint.

  Print ISBN 978-0-9961811-0-5

  Ebook ISBN 978-0-9961811-1-2

  CHAPTER 1

  Funerary Rights

  >> DATE: Sept. 22nd, 2039. Three days before present time.

  >> TIME: 3:21 AM.

  >> LOCATION: Atchafalaya Basin, Louisiana.

  “A perfect night for your grave deeds, sir,” Sasha whispered to me. Her cutting tone indicated a newfound grasp of sarcasm that made me smirk. Now all of the women in my life disapproved of my work, even the artificial one. My partner Spenner coaxed more speed from his black sedan to make up time. Tires screeched, and the engine's roar sent a hidden rookery of white herons soaring. The vehicle’s climate subsystem beeped an alert about the hot Louisiana evening air rushing in through the passenger side. I ignored it and left my window open. Smells of fresh rain and dank earth filled my nose. I preferred keeping all of my senses active while on the hunt. We barreled down a narrow road, riding over the encroaching tendrils and fingers of the Atchafalaya swamp. I watched the passing shadow play of silhouettes from black marsh trees performing their twisted dance. Out of the murky air, a metal sign rushed to meet us, but red rust covered its words and population numbers. Peering ahead, I saw fresh tire tracks in the muddy road, so I motioned for Spenner to pull over. He slammed the brakes hard, and we skidded to a stop next to the only gas pump.

  The sound of our arrival roused the station's elderly attendant. We exited the car to question him about our target: a truck registered to the Devereux family. He peered at us through brass glasses, the thick lenses magnifying blue eyes that twinkled a shade darker than my own.

  “We’re looking for an old 2020 green truck,” I asked the old man. “Did it pass by here recently?” The attendant shook his head and shrugged with a suspicious quickness. I wondered why he had just suffered an acute case of memory loss.

  “Buy some fuel or move along, blondie,” he snarled at me.

  With a scowl and his fists balled, Spenner stepped up with the intention of pummeling the truth out of him. I intervened before my rash partner acted. Out of my leather jacket I withdrew a small wad of cash. Widened eyes told me the man had a price. After we handed him a few bills, the man remembered a wealth of interesting information.

  “I jus' serviced that truck an hour ago,” he mumbled. “It had a big wooden box sticking out the back. They had about ten or eleven cars with 'em. Just like one of them ole time funeral processions. Some of 'em bought soda pop. Then they left.” He motioned with his thumb, pointing outside. “They headed down the south road.”

  “You've been a big help,” I replied, handing him a smaller stack of bills. “Remember, we weren't here.” The attendant nodded and counted his money with a smile that revealed neglect and a chronic pipe-smoking habit.

  Time ticked against us, so we hurried back to the car and got in. The Devereux family aimed to put that box in the ground. But they no longer owned its contents -- and that's why Spenner and I slogged through this god-forsaken marsh. Our car roared and peeled away from the gas station. We followed the trail of fresh tire tracks into a dense wooded path that could not be classified as a road, even by rural standards. After twenty minutes of blind search, we came to an overgrown thicket that engulfed all traces of the road. We rolled without a sound over the last of the winding dirt road before the black swamp ahead swallowed the vehicle whole. We slowed, and I spotted a line of parked cars, vans, and a chrome-covered aero-bike.

  “There they are,” I whispered to my partner. “Park ahead of them.”

  With a wave of his calloused hand, Spenner killed the car’s headlights. Leafy branches parted and embraced our car to provide perfect concealment. As we parked, I tapped my wrist-com to review the dossiers of the Devereux clan one last time. I flicked through the photos of the family, my eyes scanning through the thick files for anything I missed. My ears listened to mission intelligence relayed by my other, secret partner.

  “Jonah, no one in the Devereux family has any registered firearms or prior convictions,” spoke Sasha into the microscopic receiver implanted in my right ear. She served as my resident artificial intelligence program, embedded within my specially created wrist-com. Her assistance came in handy for these kinds of missions. I felt Spenner's piercing green eyes on me as Sasha talked. I wondered if he had some preternatural sense to hear her presence. My instinct told me not to divulge her existence to a new partner. I stared straight ahead and didn't respond. Satisfied with my preparation, I shut off the wrist-com and opened the car door. My body started sweating from the bayou’s night heat.

  The two of us exited the car without a sound and headed for the car's rear. Spenner opened the trunk to reveal his armory, bathing our faces in a white electric glow. The trunk's light made his scar more prominent among the natural crags and lines on his face. The old wound traced a thin trail through the brown and gray hair near his temple. It appeared and faded like the ghost of a bullet from some past lethal encounter.

  Damn. He had enough illegal military weaponry, stun-rods, and neural-paralytics to equip a small army. Expecting no resistance from the family, I opted for an easy-to-conceal tranquilizer gun and a stun-rod. Those choices prompted a contemptuous snort from my partner.

  “If you're going to pack light, I'll pick up the slack,” chided Spenner. He grabbed the double-barreled scattershot rifle, a sonic squealer modified with an illegal amplifier, and four cryo-grenades.

  “Jesus, are we hunting a stiff or going to war?” I didn't bother to conceal my concern. “My research says this family is unarmed. It's an easy collection.”

  “If these families want to act like criminals, I'll treat them like criminals,” he growled. “You want to make sure we get paid, right? My intel says your mother could really use that money.”

  I froze. Spenner had done his homework. Of course, I’d checked him out too. But it unsettled me that he knew more intimate details. My sources told me only the basics about him. Like me, he’d taken bounty jobs after the military served him with a discharge. He had a reputation for getting results, but his outcomes turned bloody. When I accepted the job two days back, I had ignored my instinctual warnings about him, passing other lower paying hacking gigs. Like he said, I needed the money. Too late for regret, I told myself. After this, my gut told me, I needed a new partner. For now, I focused on the mission.

  “If the target is damaged, we don't get the bounty,” I warned. I didn't want to let this hothead take charge. “We go in my way or not at all.”

  Spenner grinned back. “You'll need these,” he answered, tossing me a pair of noise-reducing earplugs to ward against the squealer's effects. Then he turned away and started toward the swamp. “I want you to be able to hear me say ‘I told you so’ later.” I put them on and followed.

  Together, we crept into the swamp through fetid water, with only the buzzing choir of insects scattering to herald our approach. Looking up, I s
aw intermittent shafts of moonlight pierce through the treetop canopy. Our tall frames required frequent ducking beneath the five-foot-high tangles of claw-like tree branches. I tapped my wrist-com for occasional illumination and to query Sasha for updates.

  “I hacked into a military satellite and downloaded its surveillance photos of this region,” reported Sasha. “Its thermal imaging shows a count of fourteen people one hundred yards away. I'm unable to discern what they are doing, but I calculate the odds that they are planning a surprise party for you to be infinitesimally low.” I cracked a thin smile, pleased that Sasha's ever-maturing personality sub-routines desired to cheer me up.

  “The latest geo-satellite uplink shows fourteen ahead,” I whispered aloud.

  “Looks like the whole clan showed up for the service,” he responded. “Good thing I came prepared.” I extended my middle finger behind his back as a silent response.

  Pushing through the foliage quicker, we smelled burning pine. Then we saw the telltale floating embers of multiple torches. When we reached the clearing, we found the family stacking fresh-cut logs onto a pile. I guessed they meant to use the wood as a funeral pyre. Lucky for us, the pyre remained unlit. We still had a chance, so we stepped up the pace of our approach.

  Moving closer, we heard a hushed, deep voice speaking in an ancient but familiar tongue. We crouched behind a large moss-covered rock and surveyed the clearing ahead. A family of fourteen knelt, stood, and sobbed before a simple black casket bearing the body of their withered patriarch.

  A tall robed man stood over the casket, speaking Latin. A priest performing the final rites of passage, I guessed. His weathered face featured a shaggy gray beard that hung like a clump of old moss, and his drab brown robes blended so well with the surroundings that he looked like a natural part of the forest.

  “Gloria Patri, et Filio, et Spiritui Sancto,” spoke the priest in a deep voice that reverberated around the wood. “Cinis ad cinerem, pulvis ad pulverem.”

  I didn't understand everything the preacher said, but at some point I'm fairly certain he said 'ashes to ashes', meaning he neared an end to his prayer. Spenner crouched and thrust the squealer’s barrel through the middle of the bush concealing us. He placed his finger on the trigger and aimed his rifle. When I realized that he intended to shoot first and sort it out later, I placed my hand on his gun. Without saying a word, I locked eyes on him and shook my head as if to say we have to do this my way. In that tense moment, I felt him sizing me up. His face became an unreadable wall of stoic granite. At six-foot-four, Spenner possessed an imposing four-inch height advantage and thicker muscles than my leaner frame. Holding my ground, I waited to see if he would fire anyway or even turn his fury on me. After a few moments of consideration, Spenner nodded and lowered the weapon. While I knew these collections sometimes ended in conflict, I needed to give the family the chance to surrender. I made a countdown motion for Spenner to enter the clearing ahead. On the count of three, Spenner emerged first from our cover, double-armed with his scattergun in his left hand and squealer in the other.

  “Everybody freeze! NOW!” Spenner's piercing, primal challenge shattered the serenity of the area, and the swamp erupted in chaos. A quartet of resting egrets flapped their wings to escape from the noisy predator. A trio of mangy river rats squealed from the nearby bush and scurried away. The fourteen Devereux family members jumped, cried out, gasped, and shouted obscenities at my partner. Then I emerged from hiding to present the formalities and rights.

  “Everyone be calm!” I shouted, holding a glowing blue holo-sphere over my head. “We are lawfully deputized federal agents here to collect the deceased remains of Jebediah Devereux.” The sphere possessed a portable virtual-casting generator inside of it. Since the v-cast machine only contained a simple portable mark-1 generator, the holograms it projected lacked high fidelity but looked real enough to an unsophisticated eye. Upon activation, the holo-sphere floated out of my hand and whined to life. Multi-colored shafts of lights from the sphere brightened the dark swamp. The sphere created flickering deputy IRS silver badges for Spenner and me, appearing over our jackets. Next, the sphere cast a cone of light particles that rearranged into the distorted visage of a human face. More color shot from the sphere, and the quality of the hologram increased. The sphere then transformed itself into the wrinkled face of the Honorable Judge Rutherford Prescott.

  “Pursuant to United States Code, Title 26, Subtitle Z, Section 25158 (1) (a), the Incorporeal Revenue Service has been given the mandate to collect debts from citizens who perish in a state of serious delinquency and insolvency...” the ghost judge stated, droning on longer with more legal disclaimers.

  “Shit!” yelled the largest of the family members. From what I recalled of the intel on the Devereux clan, they nicknamed this massive tank of a young man Little Scooter. “They're ghouls!”

  All of the others started to protest at the same time. Three of the women wailed and pleaded with us to go away to let them proceed with the services. Rising tall above everyone, the priest demanded that we depart, his voice cracking with anger. He argued something about 'sanctified grounds', but I couldn't hear him over the din of protestations. Besides, our legal mandate superseded the ecclesiastic when it came to this kind of collection. Over the chaos, the holographically-projected judge continued to read the lien and rights. Spenner powered his rifle and pointed its glowing barrel at the Devereux clan.

  “How dare you!” yelled a short, elderly woman. I remembered her face from my digital dossiers. Sherry, the target's wife, fumed bright red with anger and indignation. Her small frame trembled with fury. “This was a God-fearing man who deserves a proper burial! He was the mayor for Christ’s sake!”

  Scooter's mop of dirty blond hair covered his brow, but I could see his face twist into a withering scowl. He bent down to pick up an axe that he must have used earlier to cut and build the wooden pyre. I knew Spenner saw this, because he swiveled his guns towards the hulking youth.

  “Bad idea, chubby,” Spenner warned. “I will not hesitate to brain you so hard that you'll be serving your own life-debt with your gramps. That goes for all of you hillbillies. Interfere and you'll pay the same price.”

  “...the appeal process, pursuant to United States Code, Title 27, Subtitle Z, Section 21153 (2) (c), can be initiated at any local court should you elect to do so,” the holo-judge continued.

  No one moved or spoke while the judge read the rights. With every tick of the tension-laden moments, time slowed more and more. The Devereux clan glared at us with pure concentrated venom. The hairs on my arms raised, and I could hear Spenner's finger cock the trigger mechanism of his scattergun.

  My mind raced to say something that didn't sound threatening or contrived that might defuse the deteriorating situation.

  “Listen everyone, if we can all remain calm--” I stopped when I saw the old lady glance to each side, her hands balling. She readied herself. I tried to scream 'NO', but it all went to hell before that second got to tick. She broke the stand off by grabbing one of the torches lighting the area, and sprinted toward the pyre with swiftness that belied her petite body. A tinge of guilt knotted my stomach. Part of me couldn't blame her; she wanted to lay her beloved husband to rest.

  Spenner flashed a twisted, vicious smile. I knew he wanted a fight. With a flick of his finger, he fired the scattergun. A signature yellow pulse distorted the air around the weapon's barrel, and slammed Sherry with a non-lethal but painful concussive force. The poor woman, a seventy-five-year-old grandmother, gasped as the blast took the air from her lungs, broke her ribs, and knocked her to the ground.

  Scooter’s frothing mouth uttered some unintelligible curse as he hefted the axe over his head. Like a full-grown bull with horns bared, Scooter let out a roar and charged us. Unfazed, Spenner readied and fired his other weapon, the terrible squealer. The crimson-glowing rifle emitted a cone of sonic force at the whole crowd. It unleashed a piercing sound that no living bein
g should have to hear, like the amplified sound of an animal dying in pain. Scooter and his family collapsed, covering their bleeding ears, screaming the dreadful squeal of pain that gave the weapon its namesake.

  With the crowd controlled, I moved toward the deceased body of the target with only the priest standing in my way. Despite blood trickling from his ears, he stood stoic and oblivious to the pain, and remained intent on his work. He mouthed a prayer and made a gesture of the trinity. I lowered my guard too soon, because right around the cross-shaped gesture for the Holy Ghost, his hand slipped into his robe and he pulled out a Magnum hand cannon.

  I had time to curse “Damn” aloud, then I apologized in my mind for swearing in front of a clergyman. As I twirled to avoid his first shot, I swung my stun-rod down onto his shoulder. The stun-rod made a muted zapping sound and gave off an acrid burning smell from the electrical attack. With his muscles contracted, he groaned and dropped his gun. Knowing this bear of a priest still presented a threat, I lunged for the coup-de-grace and stuck the sparking end of the weapon dead-center at his chest, sending fifty thousand volts of stunning electricity through his crucifix and into his writhing body.

  “Forgive me father, for I have singed,” I joked. In that moment, I worried if Hell waited for striking the priest or for telling that joke. But the priest did draw first. At least, that's how I consoled myself.

  “I’ve got the family pinned, do you have the stiff?” Spenner called out over the cries of pain. He brandished the squealer rifle as the Devereux family members, most still trembling and clutching their ears, crawled away from him.

  “Yeah, I got it,” I yelled back. Opening my backpack, I pulled out a long syringe and popped off its protective cap. The transparent tube bubbled with a noxious-looking yellow fluid, a serum formulated and programmed for Jebediah. Looking up, I addressed the transparent, virtual face of the judge. “Your Honor, the defendant is ready for sentencing.”