Limbo 56 by Mike Morris (suggested reading .TXT) 📕

it was going to Limbo. He had a squad of goons who used to loaf about the foundry, and they owned pub with real booze and real food. My workers had to walk past every day; they weren’t allowed inside.” Shadrach frowned. “This place, these workers are not much, but they’re all we’ve got. Bobby finally got too greedy, and started stealing from the Demons. I got word to them, and they gave him up to the Angels.” Shadrach paused, frowning. “I hadn’t anticipated that, I thought they’d just drag him down to Hell. So then, of course, the Angels informed him in their usual gentlemanly way that accusations had been made, and that they would be investigated, urgently, which, in their lexicon meant about six months.” Shadrach grimaced. “Of course, they also told him the name of his accuser so that he could prepare an adequate defense.” Shadrach shook his head. “We had a civil war here. They had guns from the outside. We can’t die, but a hail of bullets to the head can change someone permanently.” The big man frowned again. “Since then, I’ve been very careful not to upset the way things are.”

“You did what you thought was right,” Arthur said. “Anyway, from what the Accountant told us, some of his schemes have a life of their own.”

The career criminal was juggling when they arrived. Awkward and bulky as his chairs were, he kept all three in the air. They crashed down when he saw them, except for one that he flung at Shadrach. “I thought I had another forty years or so before my trial,” he said.

“You do,” Arthur told him. “Shadrach, please leave us alone.” He turned back to the criminal. “We’ve come to make your life a little more comfortable.” The Criminal smiled, and Arthur was reminded of the Demon who had tried to sell him a ticket to hell after he was killed. “How come you’re not already in Hell?” he asked.

“Never killed anyone,” the Criminal answered mournfully. “And it’s too late now. Damn those Demons,” he went on. “I could have fooled the Angels forever. Now, I’m going to Hell, and I’ll never be a major player.” He shook his head. “I don’t know how I could have gone through life without killing anyone. I used to feed mice to my pet snake, but they say that doesn’t count.”

“Some of your schemes are still alive,” Arthur said. “That’s what I wanted to talk to you about. I want you to document all of your schemes and deceptions, and any new ideas you might have. It’s not for the Angels,” he added. “It’s for Limbo. We need an income, or we’re all going to hell.”

“What’s in it for me?” the Criminal asked.

“Ten percent,” Arthur told him. “No arguments, no bargaining. Take it or leave it.”

“And how am I going to run a criminal empire from in here?” the Criminal asked.

“I’ll be your contact,” Arthur said. “You run your empire from in here, in comfort, even luxury. You take a little time to write down how you’ve seen the error of your ways, how you have taken a vow of poverty, and how, obeying his instructions to make life difficult for all his subjects, your Governor keeps plying you with earthly goods. I’ll even provide you with some junk that you can have smuggled out of gaol so you can claim a few moral victories.”

“You know,” the Criminal said. “That might just work. I can fool the Angels about anything.” He paused. “It will be better, though, if I’m tempted outside gaol. “That way, my redemption will be more significant.”

“I think not,” Arthur said. “You’re too clever. I wouldn’t be able to control you.”

“It’s tempting,” the criminal said, “but not worth it. I will be a third-class citizen in Hell soon. Why should I bother?”

“You will certainly be a third-class citizen in Hell if you stay here juggling those chairs.” Arthur told him. “There’s a slight chance that I could drag this godforsaken place up closer to heaven. There’s a possibility that we will all be spared Hell.” Ignoring the Criminal’s laugh, he continued. “Even a thousand to one is a better chance than you have now.” The Criminal laughed again, a little more thoughtfully. “If, as is probable, we all go to Hell, you will have been fooling the Angels and a succession of Governors for many decades, undermining the foundations of this Limbo, even from inside gaol. At least that way you might make Demon, second class.”

The Criminal shook his head in amazement. “We could have made one Hell of a team,” he said. “What did you do in real life?”

“I made boilers in a foundry,” Arthur said, and the Criminal threw back his head for the first genuinely amused laugh of the conversation.

“What are you going to do now,” Shadrach asked when they were outside.

“I’m going to phone the Angels about the three not-yet-lost sinners, the Accountant, the Politician, and the Criminal, and then I’m going to take the map which you will draw, so that I can get in and out of gaol and have my three assistants working for me by tomorrow. Then I shall rest.”
Chapter 6 – Tunnel Rats
By 1916, Limbo56 was looking quite spruce. Thanks to Arthur’s helpers, the books were perfect, the black market was thriving, and the Politician had made several dubious deals with neighboring Limbos. This had initially made Arthur nervous, but the Politician soon set his mind at rest. “I know a crooked politician when I see one,” he said, “and most of the ones I deal with are crooked and amateur. Don’t worry,” he added, “If the Angels or the Demons decide to send in an army of investigators, we’ll see a lot fewer Limbos, but ours will come up smelling of roses.”

It was quite a shock, then, when in the autumn of 1916, a large chunk of the British Expeditionary Army in France marched out of the access tunnel into an empty corner of Limbo56. With fine military discipline, they cleared a large swath of rocky ground, setting up tents, digging trenches, excavating latrines, stringing barbed wire. Adding to the rocks they had gathered, they demolished the wretched houses of the few local inhabitants they encountered and built fortifications and blockhouses for their machine guns. The entire population of Limbo56 at that time was about 4000 undead, and the 5000-strong brigade of khaki-clad invaders jolted even the apathetic twilight dwellers.

Governor Mossop was doing what he did best when he got the news. Sweat cleared small streams amongst the sand and soot that masked his features as he shoveled tons of black sand, trimming rough edges and hauling the heavy molds to crash onto the conveyor belt. He barely felt the little man tugging at his sleeve, and indeed, a particularly violent gesture over the sand bin sent the man spinning onto the conveyor belt, from where he was carried a few yards towards the furnace before extricating himself and returning to the thin man.

“We bin invaded,” he panted. “Thousands and thousands and more thousands. Millions,” he finished, giving his fancy full reign.

“What in Hell are you talking about?” Arthur asked impatiently. “Can’t you see I’m working?”

“You’m supposed to be governing Limbo,” the little man accused, reminding Arthur of how little his office was respected here.

“Get organized,” Arthur called to his teammates. “The three of you work this bin. I have to leave.”

Ignoring their grumbles, he dragged the little man to his tiny office and listened to the incredible story. The tunnel was the quietest of the three access points to Limbo56. Occasionally a bewildered shepherd or wandering Gypsy would emerge, learn the facts of his new existence and fade into the fabric of the surrounding, hopeless society. Then, three days earlier, a platoon of motorcyclists shot from the gloom of the tunnel and began circling the area. After a while, the tunnel swallowed them up again, but a few hours later, row upon row of marching soldiers emerged blinking into the drizzle. Almost immediately, led by NCOs, they began clearing the ground and pitching their tents, commandeering houses and attempting to speak awful French to the bewildered inhabitants.

“Probably a company of soldiers from the war in Europe,” Arthur told the man who was breathlessly attempting to keep up. “The war in the real world is pretty bad. Maybe fifty, a hundred of them were killed in some big battle.”

There are more of them than a hundred,” the little man insisted.

Arthur looked at him contemptuously. “Can you count?” he asked.

The man held up two hands and looked at them short-sightedly. “Up to ten,” he said.

They dodged down an alley and emerged into the wilderness at the edge of town. More men than Arthur had ever seen scurried ant-like across fields denuded of green. Thousands of small grey tents, little more than sheets draped over a couple of poles, dotted the flat plain, fading into the distance where the tunnel poked from hazy mist. All the men were dressed in the same drab green/brown uniform. Some of them had horrific wounds that they apparently didn’t notice. A sergeant, half his neck chewed away by machine-gun bullets, was croaking orders; men with one leg, one arm hopped or dragged themselves across the ground.

Arthur shook his head slowly. He was not particularly quick thinking, but an influx of deluded men, outnumbering the entire current population of his territory, all armed to the teeth, spelt major trouble. As Governor, he worked hard to keep the place from flying apart. He organized the foundry, helping his workers to fulfill the quota of haloes, harps, tridents and miscellaneous objects demanded by both Angels and Devils; he filled out reams of paperwork, answering complaints from above and below, keeping the population at an optimal level, answering worker complaints, balancing good and evil. Friendless and unpopular, he was in a state of constant frustration.

“Stay here,” he said to the little man. He navigated the grey tents, where men were brewing tea and complaining about the tasteless concoction. One man slowly opened field rations, and Arthur wondered how these undead soldiers rationalized the tasteless food, strange surroundings, and all the other manifestations of death. But then, he could see why Limbo wouldn’t bother them. By the looks of them, they had already been through Hell.

He approached the sergeant and coughed. The man turned fierce eyes on him. “I’m sorry, Sir,” he croaked. “This is a military installation and no civilians are allowed here.” He turned and wheezed in the general direction of a two-striper, “Corporal, I thought I told you to find some wire and secure the perimeter.” He turned back to Arthur. “Dammit,” he muttered, “why can’t these Frogs learn English?”

“I speak perfectly good English, sergeant,” Arthur told him. “This is an English speaking Limbo.”

The sergeant looked at him, taking in the grimy clothes, the sooty face only partly washed by the rain. The fact of speaking in English registered with him; the exact meaning of the words obviously did not. “Very good, Sir,” he said condescendingly. “I’m glad to hear that you can speak our language.” He croaked a few more orders, turning back to Arthur in obvious surprise that the man still stood on military soil. “You will have to leave, sir,” he said firmly. “Or I shall have you escorted from camp.”

Arthur had been a foundry worker in life. He still preferred the hard dirty work to