The C.J. Henderson MEGAPACK ®. C.J. Henderson
Eternity knows no end. You just have to believe—”
“Believe?!” he snapped.
“Believe,” the soft voice continued, “that God is forgiving, that redemption is possible. That you can be lifted up.” There was a short pause, then the voice came to him one last time.
“You cannot give up. You can not.”
The man looked about himself once more, the chains of despair cracking within him. Suddenly, he felt the resolve which had been ebbing from his heart for so long now springing full blown within his breast anew—once again a thing of weight and substance.
And then, off to his side, hidden in the shadowy trunk and branches of a broken tree, he saw the form of one of the demon spirits that plagued the captives of eternity. Smaller than those he knew, it was a soft beast, almost colorful. It was also—the shape of its stance declared—a cowardly thing. And yet, its words had rebuilt his confidence, reminding him of what he had always believed.
Redemption was possible. The God of miracles had sent a son that threw out the laws of old. Things were not set in stone. There were no absolutes. Each soul got to negotiate its own passage. He could wipe away the ancient marks on his soul’s slate.
He could.
He just had to believe. He had to keep going. He had to persevere.
The man smiled. He would beat Hell. He would reach Heaven. God would hear his call, would see his mighty suffering. He would be redeemed.
And then, the shadow of Great Satan fell across the land once more. The small demon put a finger to its mouth and stole away quickly—fearfully. The man understood. He even smiled as the loathsome creature scurried off into the steaming darkness.
A demon that came to him in his hour of despair—that found him in his blackest moment of need and encouraged him on—surely that meant there was a God. Surely that proved he had to but try harder. Longer. For as long as it took.
From his mighty height, the Lord of Darkness and Lies noted something new stirring on the plane below. Focusing his vast attention, he saw his invisible hosts gathering around a particular soul. They were there to watch as it began a new series of torments. The foolish thing still believed in the escape clause.
That a deal wasn’t a deal.
And then, to his delight, Satan noted that the soul in question was one of his favorites—an exquisite torturer that had spared itself nothing. Of recent, the Dark One had been almost saddened by that one’s seeming final acceptance of its fate. But now, now it was like unto reborn. Satan thought for a brief sliver of time, and then sniffed the air. The odor was unmistakable. His favorite demon, Hope, had been there spreading its terrible misery.
His great mouth curling with delight, Satan stopped to watch the folly of optimism as it once more did its horrible work. His demons were laughing already. It was going to be another great show.
INTRODUCTION TO “BREAD AHEAD”
There’s a longer story following, but I thought for our second shot at bat, let’s go to the guy who started it all for me. Jack Hagee was my first series character, both for short stories and novels. He is my voice. Always has been. I understand him better than anyone living, dead, fictional or whatever. This is the shortest Hagee story there is, but it’ll give you a good idea of whom you’re dealing with—both him and me.
BREAD AHEAD
A Jack Hagee Story
I’d gone down to Caesar’s Bay to get away from everything. It’d been a foul, grey, humid day—one of disappointments—one I didn’t want to remember. I’d solved another sad little case, brought another sniveling, cheating husband to ground like the big bad hero I am. I’d made the monthly office rent by ruining a familiy with pictures of daddy grunting in the back seat of their station wagon with a woman who didn’t look anything like mommy at all. As a daily occupation, it was getting to me.
My name’s Jack Hagee. I make my living, put food on my table, buy my toothpaste and subway tokens, by rooting through people’s lives and their garbage, by turning over rocks for lawyers and crying spouses and tired shopkeepers and more lawyers. I’m a private detective and that day I was hating my job as much as anyone else. That’s why, when midnight had passed and I still couldn’t get to sleep, tossing in my bed, dying in the clogging humidity steaming in off the ocean, that I’d gotten dressed and driven down to Caesar’s.
Caesar’s is a shopping mall at the end of Bay Parkway, the main drag through the neighborhood I live in. Most people stay away from it after closing—with good reason.
After dark, Caesar’s parking lot and the park adjacent become one large dark criminal carnival land. Dopers sell their wares, Johns pick up their ladies, kids strip cars, smoke dope, shoot craps and sometimes each other. And the worst thing about it all is, it isn’t in some terribly seedy neighborhood. Not a home between my apartment building and the river would sell for under a hundred and fifty thousand. It’s not a ghetto—just simply the same as the rest of New York City, bursting at the seams from too many people, all with painfully clear visions of the nowhere they are headed.
For those who haven’t tasted the city, haven’t felt the cold, leaden knuckle it digs into the backs of those who flock to it, let me just say that it is a hell—a black, indifferent hell, one which beckons to all types, the stupid and the arrogant, the talented, the cunning, the naive the hopeful and the self-destructive, to come from around the country to lick at the festering black syrup leaking from its million and counting wounds, begging them to call it honey.
Those who had begun to catch on to what the city had in store for them, however, sat in their cars, staring, or prowled the darkness of Caesar’s. I parked my Skylark at the rail meant to keep people from driving into the ocean and got out to prowl. Lighting a cigarette, I walked down along the massive stone sea wall, looking out into the storms front crawling in toward me over the black, oily water. The Verranzano bridge was lost in the fog, as was the parachute tower at Coney Island, both usually easily visible to my spot. Not then. That night the clouds were hanging thick—waiting.
Ignoring the clouds and whatever they were waiting for, I threw myself up and over the steel railing in front of me, settling down on the foot and half of ledge on the sea side of the barrier. My legs dangling over the dashing waves below, I stared out at the ocean, my eyes not focusing on anything, my brain relaxing for the first time in weeks. I was tired. Tired and alone, dying of despairing old age while still in my thirites.
Leaning back against the rail, I pulled a cigarette and managed to light it in the wet of the surrounding mist. I sucked the smoke in deep, holding it down as long as I could, maybe hoping to choke myself. No such luck. The nicotine did start to relax me, however, which at the moment was good enough.
I’d left my apartment in a foul mood. I don’t own an umbrella—ridiculous, effeminate props—but in my anger I’d slammed my way out leaving hat and coat behind. The thickening mist was soaking into my hair and clothes, drenching me. By the time I was ready for a second ’moke the sky had started drizzling to the point where I could barely get it lit.
I downed its fumes one breath at a time, watching the lightning splash along both the far shores before me. The coasts of Brooklyn and Staten Island were illuminated over and over, the random split seconds of light revealing the increasing press of the waves below and the rain above.
The truth of the image depressed me. Even nature worked for the city. It squeezed people, crushing them, forcing them to huddle and shiver, always prepared to wash them away forever for the slightest mistake. Part of me railed at the image but a larger part spoke in calmer tones, implying that perhaps hopelessness was the only sensible feeling one could have living in New York.
I leaned back with eyes closed, the rain lashing, surf below pounding hard enough to almost reach my shoes. I thought of all the reasons people come to New York and wondered what mine had been. As a friend once said, “People don’t pull up in covered wagons to the center of Times Square and say, ‘here it is, honey—a good land,