"Mr President?" The aide's voice was cautious and uncertain. "The latest reports are here. They're not good, sir."

The figure in the life support chair snorted, and turned away from the bank of monitors to face the nervous young man. To his credit the aide didn't flinch, though the man in the chair had no doubt he wanted to. The sight of that ravaged face, with its cracked and suppurating skin had made weaker men than him turn away in disgust.

"They're never good," grated the President through a small speaker on the side of his chair. "Give them to me." He extended a withered claw, into which the aide placed the bundle of recon photos and computer flimsies. "Now get out."

Gratefully, the aide scurried away, not doubt relieved to escape the odour of decay and faecal matter that permeated the room. The door whispered shut behind him.

President Ventura studied the reports, though he already knew what they would tell him. They were losing, just as they had been losing for the last six months. Within a month, maybe two, the enemy would be banging on the door, demanding his surrender. Damn them all.

Ventura sucked in a breath, then winced as his ribs grazed the surface of the tumour. As always, the thing shifted slightly, repositioning itself like a sleeping cat. His doctors told him the motion was a figment of his imagination, but he knew they were wrong. He'd been poisoned with something filthy and inhuman, just like his country had been poisoned, and now that poison was taking flesh within him. Becoming him.

The poisoning had begun so long ago, it was a part of everyone now. When the city of Boston, the cradle of liberty, vanished in a ball of pure white flame, the nation was almost driven to madness. Many believed it was the judgement of God, a sign of the coming apocalypse. More saw it as a pre-emptive strike by an old enemy, once thought toothless, now rising to lash out once more. Never had the hand of an enemy reached out and struck America so hard. Breathless, the nation had waited for the second strike, but it never came. Enraged, America made accusation after accusation, desperately trying to find a focus for its rage. But there was no one to blame. No one claimed responsibility, and there was no chain of evidence. Finding no scapegoat, the media worked on creating its own.

Hardened by grief and bitterness, the USA transformed as the poison entered its consciousness. It became in truth what the nations of Islam had always believed it to be; America, the Tyrant Nation. The Great Satan. Police action became occupation, and occupation became dictatorship. The new world order, for so long held to be the paranoid fantasy of a few dishevelled conspiracy theorists, made the quantum leap from fever dream to brutal reality.

Ventura smiled bitterly. Of course, the poison wasn't just psychological or cultural. The devastation of Boston had disturbed the many fault lines that criss-crossed the area, sending hammer blows deep into the earth's crust. The quakes that followed levelled New York, destroying much of the country's financial infrastructure. In the chaos that followed, barely anyone noticed when martial law was declared. When San Francisco slid into the sea the following year, no one needed to ask the cause.

Ash from the Boston explosion had thrown weather patterns into disarray, causing crops to fail and initiating the first true famine in the continental US in living memory. Though the jet stream would normally have been expected to push the cloud of toxic debris out into the Atlantic, a freak inversion caused by El Nino pushed it over the heartland, where it was washed into the soil by unseasonable rains. Into the soil, and into the food chain. Within months the first rash of cancers were being reported. Now half the population was dying of one disease or another. Tumours were commonplace, and medical facilities were stretched to the point where only the immediately life threatening growths were treated. And then, only if you were a good party member.

Ventura smiled again. Of course, if it hadn't been for the years of chaos and the declaration of martial law, he would never have become President. When the nation threatened to rebel against it's military masters, the generals decided to create a civilian figurehead and Ventura had fitted the bill perfectly. He was charismatic and he knew what the public wanted. Ventura soon became the darling of the Republican Right, swiftly rising to the White House through a series of carefully orchestrated "elections". However, the generals had underestimated both Ventura's intelligence and his ambition. Within a few short years the reins of power were truly in his hands, and they were there to stay.

Until now.

President Ventura scanned the documents again. In addition to the coastal fighting, there was evidence of considerable unrest in the purification camps. Already one camp had been sanitised after the staff had refused to process any more of the genetically wounded and the politically undesirable. Now it looked like more were ready to turn.

Ventura pursed his dry lips, and scowled. They were all turning, all ready to take it all from him, to destroy everything he'd worked for. The tumour twitched and rolled over in response to his anger, scratching at his papery skin.

For a long moment, Ventura stared at the recon photos, then he smiled thinly and slid his chair over to the vast mahogany desk that occupied one side of the office. Reaching under the desk, he pressed a concealed switch, and a section of wood slid away, revealing a compact keyboard and a key slot. Ventura fingered the thin chain around his neck with sudden relish. If they wanted it all, they could have it all, damn them.

Damn them all to Hell.

Four minutes later, the missiles were flying.
 
 

Elsewhere

High above, in the whirling maelstrom that passed for a sky in this place, there was another catastrophic detonation. Benny glanced up, noting with horror the millions of souls plummeting downwards from the core of the explosion. He turned to his companions.

"There are so many. What's happening out there?" His voice was cracked and rasping, unused to doing anything but scream for longer than he cared to remember.

Riker shrugged dismissively. Now that they were so close to getting out, he wanted little else to occupy his mind. Francis watched the forms tumbling from the sky and whispered to himself.

"Nukes. My God."

"He's right," said their guide. They turned to look at her as she perched on a spar of bone that jutted from the moist wall. "It's the End. There's a spread of dirty nuclear weapons arcing out across the globe, in a pattern designed to irradiate every living thing. It's the apocalypse. Unfortunately, it's not our apocalypse."

Francis blinked owlishly and tried to adjust his spectacles; a foolish gesture since he was very much dead and no longer needed them. "Not your apocalypse? Are you saying someone jumped the gun?"

The guide looked at him, and smiled. "Yes, my love. Somewhere along the line, something went wrong. God's plan for this world has gone awry, and now neither side is in control. The fact that this chaos was unforeseen is what allowed me to free you. Quite simply, Hell is swamped." She glanced out across the wasteland. "We must move. Swamped or not, it won't be long before they realise you're gone. They're sure to send hunters after us."

Moving swiftly, the small group slogged across the blasted plain, trying desperately to ignore the moans and cries for help from those buried around them. In the distance, more explosions lit the maelstrom. "Tread carefully," warned the guide. "The Bolgias may not be empty. Though the major powers are occupied fighting over the new influx of souls, many of the less intelligent creatures won't yet have realised what's going on. They may still be around, and this far down I'm sure they'd relish a fresh playmate."

Benny shuddered, remembering the touch of his former master, Lord Lickspittle, and the way the creature expressed its... bestial affection for him.

After travelling for what seemed like days, the group emerged from a small cavern onto a lake of jagged ice, across which whipped vicious, stinging winds. The ice stretched on as far as the eye could see, unblemished save for a vast cracked pit in the middle distance.  "Cocytus," muttered Francis, more to himself than any of the others. "The Ninth Circle of Hell."

"There," breathed the guide as she set off towards the pit. Benny, Riker and Francis moved after her, trying not to step on the faces of those frozen into the ice. Through the biting winds, Benny called after their guide, "I don't understand how the creator of the universe can lose control?"

Riker turned and pulled him over a tall slab of ice. "Free will, Benny. He never had control in the first place."

The guide nodded her agreement. "It's true. As soon as He created sentients able to think for themselves, He gave up control of the material universe. Mankind and the other sentients do more than affect their own lives; they affect everything around them. Everything you observe, you alter in some way. It's a side effect of the spark of godhood He placed inside you all."

Francis clambered paused for a moment, squinting into the wind. "What about you?"

The guide shrugged. "I don't have a soul."

"But you have free will."

The guide nodded, raising her voice above the moaning around them. "The closest analogy I can make is that we're like very clever machines, able to make decisions and judgements, but not really alive. We're tools, nothing more. It was that realisation that caused the Lightbringer to rebel." She looked back the way they had come, and cursed in her own tongue, the Enochian words causing the air to ripple visibly. "Hunters. We have to move faster."

The group scrambled over the ice field towards the pit, ever mindful of the distant speck of darkness that was getting larger by the second.

Eventually they reached the pit and stopped, staring into its black depths. An eye watering stench rose up from the blackness.

"Tell me we don't have to go down there," said Riker, glancing at the guide.

"You can stay here if you'd prefer."

Riker turned and checked the progress of the hunters. The writhing mass of shadow was much nearer now, though it was still impossible to make out any details. He turned back. "No thanks," he muttered sourly. "How do we get down?"

The guide pointed to a narrow crevice at the edge of the pit. "There."

Moving hurriedly now, the cluster of souls clambered down the crevice into the pit, ignoring the imploring faces that stared out at them from the icy walls. Moments later they were perched on a narrow ledge. Below them, the pit dropped into infinity.

"This way."

"What is this place?" Benny asked.

Francis laughed softly. "You mean you never read Dante? This is the lake of ice, where Satan was buried up to his waist, weeping for the loss of Heaven."

The guide paused ahead, before the entrance to a large cavern carved out of the ice wall. "That's right."

"Though," Francis continued, "I'm at a loss to explain why Satan isn't home."

"The pit was left when Lucifer redeemed. As a gesture of faith he destroyed the war body that was trapped here."

Riker stopped short. "Satan redeemed?" He sounded incredulous.

"Not Satan," replied the guide emphatically. "Lucifer. Satan is a title, given to the ruler of Hell. Lucifer was the first Satan, but when he redeemed the triumvirate was formed. It's been that way for about five hundred years."

"So Lucifer's back up in Heaven?"

The guide snorted with laughter. "They wouldn't have him back like that. He was the Prince of Lies after all. They sentenced him to do penance by undoing much of the evil he'd wrought."

"How did they expect him to do that?"

The guide turned and ducked into the cavern.  "By founding SAVE," her voice echoed.

Left outside, the three friends exchanged wide eyed glances, before ducking into the cavern after her.

Inside was a treasure chamber. Vast devices fashioned from bizarre metals spun and whirred by themselves. Huge gems pulsed with a life and vitality all their own. Enthralling scents filled the air and hanging from the ceiling were immense canvasses, filled with paintings of such exquisite beauty that it actually hurt to look at them.

"You're lucky you're dead. If you were still alive these sights would strip the flesh from your bones. This way," called the guide from up ahead. "Hurry."

She was standing at the entrance to another cavern. Unlike the first, a single colossal device dominated this chamber. Vaguely spherical in shape, the machine was a maze of cogs and rods and delicate globes, all in motion, winding around and between each other in a waltz of infinite complexity. Staring at the machine, Francis felt a part of himself respond to it. The machine was singing.

"What... what is it?"

The guide moved closer to the machine, stopping before an ornate console that rose up from the floor. "It's a model."

"Of what?" asked Riker.

"Of everything."

The guide stroked the console before turning to the group of friends. "This is your way out."

Riker stared at her. "This tinker toy is going to get us out of Hell? How?"

The guide met his gaze. "Before he fell, Lucifer was one of the prime architects of the construct that you know as the universe. Specifically, he designed the physical laws of that universe. Before the project was implemented, he constructed a working scale model - mathematically perfect - to ensure that everything was working correctly. This is that model."

Francis moved closer, fascinated. "This is a scale model of the entire universe?" He reached out a hand to touch the thing as it whirred in place. The guide pulled him away gently.

"In many way it is the universe. Through its use Lucifer discovered God's plan to create mankind and grant them free will. This can provide you with access to any where you wish to go. It wouldn't normally work, but you're not meant to be here. Since you condemned yourselves to Hell, the only thing that's holding you here is your own guilt at not stopping Jophiel."

"Terrific," said Riker. "Earth's being nuked to Hell, literally, and we get a ticket back."

"There are other worlds," said the guide. "Other places you can hide."

"I'm not big on hiding," growled Riker. "How about you Benny? Francis?"

Benny was staring at the machine, and frowning. He turned to the others, and gestured at the machine. "This is a scale model of the universe, right?"

"As I said."

"And the universe naturally includes time as well, right?"

"Yes."

Benny grinned suddenly. "Does this thing have a reverse gear?"
 
 

May 1998
Boston, Earth

Slake slid the knife across the goat's stomach and held the creature up as it bucked and kicked, intestines spilling onto the floor like rope. The coven surrounded him, eager for the blessing as its blood sprayed onto their upturned faces. Slake grinned beneath his mask. They were cattle, freaks and scum who needed - no, wanted - a leader and a taste of power. He'd shown them the power, a few parlour tricks he'd picked up in New Mexico, made a few empty promises, and they were his. The women, and some of the men, were falling over themselves to pleasure him, to do whatever vile thing he commanded.

Idiots. Slake knew they were nothing; less than nothing in fact. They were mere stepping stones on the path to greater power. And tonight, with their help, that power would be his.

Turning his back on the coven, Slake inspected the pentagram inscribed on the floor of the old warehouse they had claimed as their own. Perfect. He'd attempted summonings before, and knew that if the inscriptions weren't perfect, whatever you summoned would take it out on your soul. Slake intended to hang on to his soul for as long as he could. Any bargaining to be done tonight would be done with the souls of his followers, who signed themselves over to him as a condition of acceptance into the coven. Slake smirked again. There really was one born every minute.

Slake breathed deeply, and began to intone the words. They sounded like Latin but were much older, brutal and rasping, designed for throats less delicate than that of Homo Sapiens Sapiens. Behind him, the coven chanted with him, unknowingly pledging their souls and their bodies to the service of whichever dark lord heard their call.

Slake's body began to tingle, and he felt the hairs on his arms and neck stir and rise. The sharp tang of ozone filled the air. Slake suddenly found himself deeply aroused, as if a wise and attentive lover was stroking every sensitive part of his body. The shadows convulsed, and in the distance, glass shattered.

The chanting continued. This is it, thought Slake. It's really going to happen!

Something popped in Slake's throat and he tasted blood as he forced the ancient words out, but he didn't care. Instead he felt that he couldn't stop if he tried, as if he was sprinting full tilt down a hill. He didn't want to stop. The words spilled into the air, coming less from memory now and more from the structure of his cells, from the deeply buried race memory carried in his RNA. The chant rose to a crescendo and there was a tearing sound, like flesh beneath the butcher's knife. Space spasmed before Slake and for the briefest of moments he gazed out across an endless, shrieking void.

Then it was over.

Slake stepped back, his throat raw. He hawked and spat crimson. Smoke from the candles around the pentagram brought tears to his eyes, and he had to strain to see through the holes in his mask. Behind him, the coven began to murmur amongst themselves.

Slake pulled the ritual mask from his face and wiped his streaming eyes on the sleeve of his robe. Then he looked up at the figures in the summoning circle. His jaw dropped as he stared at the naked men in the circle. Benny, Francis and Riker stared back.

"Who the fuck are you?" yelled Slake.