by Silent Draco
II
Master Gunnery Sergeant Thomas F. McIntyre, USMC (ret, await. recall) took one step back from the thing it mashed into the mudhole. Espying the ranks of guards, he called in his parade-ground voice, “You! Where is your CO!” The demons looked in confusion. No one challenged them, not here! They stepped forward, spears lowered, about to teach the mortal a lesson. One deft bayonet-drill move later, McIntyre had a spear in hand, and proceeded to disarm and deflate twenty demons. “Up! UP! You, Do, Not, Sleep, On, Duty!” he shouted, punctuating each word with a heavy thump of the spear. “Where is your commanding officer? And …” looking at the spear in disgust, “Is that ichor that you snaggle-nosed excuse for a brownie dripped ON YOUR WEAPON? IS IT!?”
“All of you, DROP AND FIVE THOUSAND, ON MY MARK. MARK!!”
Striding through the ruined gate, McIntyre called to the imp, “You! Five hundred, then finish the five thousand with your buddies! I saw that look. TEN THOUSAND PUSHUPS, courtesy of Mister Weenie! GO!” Not an infernal being moved to stop him; they were too busy doing magma pushups to dare raise an eyestalk. Muttering about “… sorriest excuse for … time at Benning … even the French …”, he carried on down the corridor to the Punishment Bar.
F’zurggh’llksh, a greater demon, lurked with its nearest equivalent of pleasure behind the Bar. Usually the souls were dragged, pleading and wailing, before Its five and a half eyes. Only the most proud, the ones in greater need, would come like this. It gnashed the fangs in its second mouth and rumbled “Doomed one, come before the Bar and name yourself for punishment.” The last thing it expected then occurred: the human stepped forward, stopped three paces before the Bar, and with Silent Insolence took the position of Parade Rest, glaring back balefully. “Fool!” shrieked the demon, reaching for its poison whip, “a touch of the Acid Lash will begin teaching you manners! Down on your belly!” and the whip cracked to arc around the human.
McIntyre grasped the oily whip in both hands, flexed and pulled. F’zurggh’llksh was taken by surprise, and tipped forward over the Bar to flop onto the cavern floor. To its astonishment, the human stood there, eying it in contempt, with a cold steel blade in its other hand and a Crucifix at its neck. The demon burbled and its waste expulsion tract involuntarily moved, spreading sulfurous sludge on the coldly gleaming stone. “Oh, you did not just do that … what is your name?” the human demanded in a voice colder than the Ninth Circles’ entrance. “F-f-f- …” finally it hooted out its symbol, adding “s-s-sir.” “DON’T call me sir, I work for a living!” McIntyre snapped, “and from the looks, you have done nothing for eons! Now, where is your superior officer?” “F-f-four caverns farther in behind-d-d the B-b-bar, S-s-.” F’zurggh’llksh cringed, and hoped it had stopped in time. “Well, demon, I won’t dry-shave your ugly features with my Blessed blade. Instead, Gunny is gonna be nice. Some of that sloth and incontinence needs to be worked off your worthless carcass. Pick up that big stone,” pointing to the standing half of the Bar. “Hold it in both major claws. March in place. Quick time … now, left face! At the command, quick time march … March! You will circumnavigate Hell and return to this place, Now, move!” The demon surged out of the room, crashed through a basalt barrier, and let lurid light sift in.
Shaking his head, McIntyre growled “How they even got started, with that … never mind. Looks like a truly messed up training situation. Boys, could use some other hands on deck!” he called upwards. Six other men, all in sharply creased fatigues, appeared a heartbeat later. “This all of us?” he asked. “Naw, Mac, only the first transit. They have some weird rules on how many at a time, worse than the squids.” McIntyre grinned, “Got it, Shiv. Now, we’re working our way up to the CO, looks like the orderly room route. Stephen “Shiv” Reilly, also Master Gunnery Sergeant, USMC (ret, await recall), snorted and had the party fall in. From the mess so far, there was a lot of Entity Motivational Instruction awaiting the denizens. Just like old times on Parris Island, but hotter, he thought. Forming up in column of twos, a detachment of forty senior Marine NCOs marked time, and marched into the bowels of Hell.
Two caverns ahead, the left wall crumbled and fell in their path, blocking progress. A legion of major Imps, all shrieking and wielding jagged spears or obsidian blades. Ray Hauser (GySgt, DI, USMC, ret await recall) eyeballed the shrieking horde, and noted calmly, “Five thousand to forty. Lousy odds,” he noted. He pulled a scintillating scarlet object from his web gear, and called out; “Grenadiers, two throws! Ready one! On my mark, throw! MARK! … Ready two! On my mark, throw! MARK!” Ordinary explosives wouldn’t hurt; however, two volleys of holy water grenades, direct from the Font of Life, was a different story. About three thousand Imps went down, unmade or severely decomposed. The column drew blessed Mameluke swords, moved forward with a shout of Praise, and hemmed the dazed survivors into a knot, dispatching another five hundred. “Weapons down and appendages UP!” bellowed McIntyre, “before I get angry!”
The column reformed after treating casualties (a few cuts, two spearings, and one Unholy Wording, all healed with manna). Proceeding at slow march they herded prisoners before them; this was a prudent move, because the third cavern had a field-expedient pit dug, leading to a Greater Fiend’s maw. “Well, so much for them. Jackson, do you boys have the …” WHUMP!! “… very nice trail! C4 was one of His best gifts! Detachment, single file, pro-ceed at best pace!” They picked their way over a heap of broken granite, to the next overlord.
Ghuulgh’zzignarb the Flayer awaited them, in the next cavern, the portal to the Third Circle. A Major Devil, subordinate only to the One Below, it grinned in a way the made the strongest mortal souls, ones resilient to survive this long, gyrate in abject terror and misery. The fangs-on-fangs, in tasteful yellow and green tones of decay, always worked. “On your bellies, mortals, and beg to be spared. I shall not, but I enjoy the wailing and begging. And soon you will sing a new song of pain as your souls are slowly flayed and pressed into …” It stopped, and blinked five major eyes. Three whip tentacles paused in mid-arc. These made no effort to fall prone and beg … where were the Imps escorting them? “What do you think you are? You sniveling mortals, you are forfeit to the Master! I prepare you for his delight!”
“Detachment! Shields UP!” At McIntyre’s command, forty crucifixes appeared at their throats. Shields with St. Michael’s sigil were unslung and deployed in protection. They deployed in two ranks, dressing left, blocking the cavern. The Flayer hissed in anger and fear. That sigil! Only … He … was feared more. It shrieked; four major demons appeared, clawed and armed with dreadful spiked mauls, and they formed a wedge to strike and destroy.
“Richardson, dust them! Detachment, Psalms, … SING!” A single grenade soared high, bounced from the roof, and detonated, casting dust from the Thrones. All hands began singing Psalms of praise and joy, as instructed by the Cherubim. In two ranks, the Marines advance to engage their foes in close combat, shields bright and swords glowing with cold fire of the Spheres. Two major demons went down quickly, partly dissolved by sacred dust and hacked down by ten swords. Another broke and disapparated, leaving only Ghuulgh’zzignarb and a single demon to face them. Both backed away from the detachment, slowly, howling for reinforcements from Below. McIntyre was about to order the charge, when a deeper voice from behind them rang out:
“DEE-tach-MENT, HALT!”
A single set of feet crunched on the uneven basalt floor behind them, making their way around the right flank. Resplendent in mess dress and medals, scarlet-lined boat cloak glowing in the infernal light, an Eminence approached. McIntyre glanced, and bellowed “General Officer on Deck!” All forty snapped to attention, shields up and blades in salute.
Chesty Puller marched forward, pivot-turned, went five more paces, and pivoted to face the Marines. “PA-rade, REST!” he ordered, ignoring the devil behind him. “McIntyre, Re-PORT!” “All present and accounted for, Sir! Three wounded!” he barked in reply. Puller called, “Very well, McIntyre, at ease!” In a lower tone, the general continued, “System D, really?” McIntyre shifted in his boots, “Uh Sir, the dogfaces and squids are behaving, and the boys were getting bored. Well, we thought a three-day pass and …” Puller’s mouth barely twitched. “Boss is laughing – good one, Mac. But R&R is over, before you run athwart the Boss’s Plan.” Raising his voice, he called: “Time differential means your passes are over. Well done, Marines! Report For Duty!”
With a gold and scarlet gleam and ringing tones, they sang the Marine Hymn, vanished from the infernal plane, then returned to post.
“Should the Army and the Navy
Ever look on Heaven’s scene,
They will find the streets are guarded
By United States Marines.”
Image from: