Hellboy: Oddest Jobs

"How many children do you have here?" asked Hellboy, craning his neck to try and take in the enormity of this place. The walls of the cave — or whatever the hell it was — soared upward at either end like the sides of a ravine. Looking up, it seemed to Hellboy they could never meet in the darkness overhead.



He stood at the crossroad of several different paths, all strewn with random stones and loose piles of scree. Illuminated by the light from the dozens, possibly hundreds, of torches, he saw that these paths became narrow and steep, the rocks growing fewer but larger, stacked one on top of the other. In the distance he could make out something that looked like a chaotic staircase of massive, wedge-shaped boulders. This was evidently the anteroom of some vast, silent, ancient chamber.



Ahead, he could see a bluish radiance, haloing some kind of rock formation. On a small plateau, under an overhang of white calcite that curved gracefully upward like a snowdrift hollowed by the wind, stood a cluster of meticulously carved stones, each roughly the size and shape of a woman, arms outstretched, holding something whose shape he could not quite discern. Their bodies were complete but all of them lacked faces.



Hellboy turned slowly around, looking upward, and felt his breath catch in his throat.



"Holy crap," he whispered.



Crisscrossing above his head like strands of a web was an intricate network of handmade bridges, some constructed from disparate sections of metal, others made from rope and planks of wood. Below these bridges was a catwalk, also made from wood, that seemed to encircle the entire chamber. Lighted torches and battery-operated lanterns hung from the surrounding walls, and every ten or fifteen feet there would be a rope ladder, some leading down, some leading up.



And everywhere above there were hollowed spaces that looked like small tombs, each of them lit from within and tenanted by children. Hellboy could hear music coming from some of the chambers, laughter from others. Other chambers were cut off by means of curtains that had been nailed into place somehow. The more he scared, awestruck, the more apparent the ingenuity that had gone into constructing this place. The curtains were not nailed into position as he'd first thought; expandable shower curtain rods had been used in each doorway, so that if the tenant desired privacy, they had only to slide their particular curtain closed. Some used quilts, others blankets.



"How ... how many of you are there?" he asked again.



"I quit counting almost fifty years ago," replied a voice near Hellboy's side. "These catacombs go on for miles, and where one series of chambers ends, there are passageways to others just like this. There's an underground spring not too far from here — the cleanest water you've ever tasted. I'd offer to give you a tour but you don't look to me like you're up for much sightseeing at the moment. In fact, you kind of look like a sick walrus trying to climb over a rock, so I'd have a seat if I were you."



A moment later, the children erupted from their rooms with squeals of laughter and anticipation, scurrying down the ladders, running across the catwalk, dashing over the bridges. Hellboy thought for a moment that this cavern perhaps opened somewhere near the top because he was again seeing stars — some so far away they were mere pinpoints of light — but as he watched, he became aware that these distant stars too were moving, circling around other catwalks, traversing higher bridges, descending other ladders, or being lowered in their wheelchairs on wood-and-steel elevator platforms that were operated through a massive and ingeniously constructed system of chains, pulleys, winches, and counterweights, all coming toward him, not stars at all but yet more torches and lanterns being carried by children whose rooms were hundreds of feet above those he had first seen.



It was incredible. He'd thought there might be only a few dozen children living here, maybe a hundred, but now saw that their numbers were legion; there had to be at least two thousand children, maybe even more. He tried again to pull all the shadow-children into his vision but was overwhelmed with dizziness and vertigo. There were just too many of them.



"Are you all right?" asked another voice, this one a child's.



Hellboy nodded, then took a deep breath, and then shook his head. "I am feeling a bit dizzy, now that you mention it."



The children continued to descend from above until the chamber was packed; never before had Hellboy seen so many in one place. He tried to regain his balance before the dizziness got the better of him but managed only to drop onto his ass, his tail getting entangled with his oilskin coat and sending a sharp lance of pain up through his back. He looked around at the sea of surrounding faces and realized he couldn't see where the crowd ended.



"I'll be passing out now, if that's all right."



"I'm surprised you remained conscious for this long," someone said.



"I'll expect pancakes later ..."



"Beg pardon?"



"... was told ... there would always be pancakes ..."



And, as he'd always suspected would one day happen, Hellboy was cast afloat into a dark corner of the universe.



He'd known something was up before he'd even entered Tom Mannings office. The director of the B.P.R.D. had this air about him any time his authority was overridden by someone, or something, higher up. Manning had been named director while Trevor Bruttenholm was still alive — the professor had wanted to use his time for research and field work — but Hellboy knew that many in the B.P.R.D. viewed him as a simple bureaucrat, a poor replacement for the accomplished Bruttenholm. In the wake of the professor's death, Tom Manning, Hellboy suspected, needed no one to remind him that he was the consolation prize. For a while, Hellboy himself had felt this way, but as Manning proved time and again just how well qualified he was for the directorship, what had first been an outright resentment on Hellboy's part became a gruff form of respect and, sometimes, even admiration.



Still, sometimes it was easy to see that Manning, for all of his stiff-backed demeanor and even steely manner, felt as if he were sometimes reduced to the role of errand boy — especially when it came to honoring requests made by Trevor Bruttenholm prior to his death. Who would dare argue with Hellboy's dead father, after all?



So when Hellboy saw the way in which Manning did not so much walk to his office as plow through the hallway, eyes not making contact with anyone along the way, he knew something wasn't right. That suspicion doubled when he received the call not one minute later to come to the director's office immediately. If any doubts were still lingering, they vanished as soon as Hellboy closed Manning's office door and saw the look on the director's face; Tom Manning looked humiliated beyond words; helpless, ineffectual, inept.



"Hellboy," said Manning, gesturing for him to take a seat.



"Sir," replied Hellboy, hoping that the tone of his voice was as neutral as he tried making it sound.



Manning met Hellboy's gaze for only a moment before returning it to the telegram on his desk. Reading it over once more, he pushed it across the desk, then sat back and rubbed his eyes. "That arrived less than an hour ago."



Hellboy nodded, then picked up the telegram:



HB



I hope this doesn't get you into trouble. I need your help. Please get here as soon as you can. Urgent.



The Reverend



"I promised Professor Bruttenholm a lot of things before his death," said Manning. "Not the least of which was that I'd respect certain matters the two of you wished to be kept private. Your friend the Reverend was near the very top of that privacy list. I never pressed Trevor and I've never pressed you about who or what he is. I know he's helped the Bureau on several occasions and has never asked for anything in return. Hell, even in the telegram, he doesn't demand your help, he asks for it. That tells me the man's got integrity and knows how to show respect."



"That he does, sir."



Manning tried to smile, didn't quite make it. Hellboy felt kind of bad for the guy.



"One of the other things I promised Trevor," said Manning, "was that anytime the Reverend requested your help or that of the Bureau, it would be given immediately and without question. Care to guess which part of this I'm having trouble with right now?"



Hellboy placed the telegram back on the desk. "Sorry, Tom, but I promised the professor that I'd keep the Reverend a private matter, as well."



Manning stared at him for a few moments, and Hellboy could sense the director trying to search for just the right words, or some small gesture that would say, I know I'm not Professor Bruttenholm, but I could be your friend, I'm just no damn good at making the first move. A little help, maybe?



"He's never used the word urgent before," said Hellboy. "Trust me ... Tom, this is a guy who doesn't scare easy. He's not in the habit of overreacting. If the Reverend says its urgent, then its probably something that would make most people here crap their pants just to think about it, let alone deal with it."



Manning nodded. "So you have no reason to doubt that it's serious, whatever it is he needs you for?"



"I don't doubt it at all."



"You trust him that much?"



"Yeah, Tom, I do. So would you. I, um ... I could introduce you sometime." The change in Manning's expression was subtle, but it was all Hellboy needed to know that he'd put the director at ease on several unasked questions.



"I would appreciate that," said Manning. "So ... what do you need from the Bureau?"



"Just a ride to Ohio. I can make do with the chopper."



Manning tried to smile, actually made it this time. "Is there no end to the sacrifices you make?"



"Is kind of inspiring, isn't it?"



Ninety minutes later, just before one a.m., the B.P.R.D. chopper lifted off from a field one mile east of the Heath airport. Hellboy stood in the field, waited until the chopper was high enough, and then waved at the pilot. He never understood why he liked doing that so much, but he did, and what did it hurt? So he waved again, and then turned toward the direction of Cedar Hill and took off running.



He liked his infrequent visits to Cedar Hill because they allowed him the time and distance to really run, flat out, for miles at a time, across empty fields, through abandoned buildings, across construction sites, through countless alleyways ... he often wondered if the people living in Cedar Hill knew what an amazing, confounding maze their city was. And if they thought it was bad on the surface...



He ran until he reached downtown, just off the square, and ducked into the alley beside Riley's Bakery. Was it just him, or could you still smell the pastries from this morning? Have to pop in sometime and ask. Maybe his celebrity would be good for a free box of glazed, or a bagful of crullers.



He reached the end of the alley and took the five short cement steps that led down and to the right. The door was locked, but that was to be expected. The Reverend had long ago provided Hellboy with the key to this door — not that it was exactly state-of-the-art security; a strong-enough breeze would probably snap the padlock one day, but Hellboy used the key out of courtesy to the Reverend. It wasn't everyone who knew that this old door at the bottom of those five ill-kept steps opened into a series of underground maintenance tunnels that spread out underneath a full sixty percent of the city.



Hellboy went down the short flight of steps on the inside until he came to another, unlocked, door. Opening that door, he reached in and around to the side, turning on the emergency lights that were strung through every foot of the tunnels.



There was a golf cart waiting for him, a note on its windshield: Never say I don't let my friends travel in style. R.



Laughing, Hellboy climbed into the cart — impressed that the Reverend had found one that would support his weight — fired up the engine, and drove the route that he could travel in his sleep. Despite knowing that the Reverend's message was urgent, Hellboy couldn't resist the temptation to take a couple of side corridors and pull a few wheelies. Then it was back to business.



He parked the cart at the set of steps that led up into the basement of what used to be one of the fancier hotels in Cedar Hill back in the day, until a casket-factory fire took most of three city blocks on a sweltering night in August of 1969. A section of the hotel had remained all but untouched by that fire, and the Reverend had somehow convinced the city leaders to let him set up shop — a.k.a. The Cedar Hill Open Shelter — in what was left of it. So Cedar Hill boasted the only homeless shelter in the nation that had an Italian-marble floor and an honest-to-Pete crystal chandelier.



Entering the basement of the Open Shelter, Hellboy closed the door behind him and then speed-dialed the Reverend's private number on his cell phone.



"You're in the basement, right?" said the Reverend.



"Good to hear your voice, as well," replied Hellboy.



"I'll take that as a yes. Walk over toward the showers."



"I've done my hygiene routine for the day, thanks."



"Walk toward the showers"



Hellboy walked toward the showers.



"Stop when you get to the lockers on the left."



"Your wish, cha-cha-cha."



"Open locker #713."



Hellboy did — and was greeted by a well-lighted, if slightly narrow, staircase.



"My gift," said the Reverend. "Come on up."



Hellboy had to take most of the stairs sideways, but it was an easy-enough walk. The Reverend knew that, while Hellboy never scared away fans and admirers (or even the merely curious), given a choice, he preferred to move about as unnoticed as possible, for as long as possible.



He reached the top of the stairs and knocked on the inside of the other locker door he found waiting there.



A moment later, the Reverend said: "Dave's not here, man."



"Very funny." He opened the door and stepped into the Reverends office — which also served as the man's bedroom, kitchen, living room, entertainment area, and bathroom. At the moment, a little girl of about eight or nine years of age was sleeping on the little sofa in the corner of the office. She looked pale, weak, and tired, and — judging from the discolored stains that could only have been dried blood that covered her clothes like patchwork — like she'd not had the best of days. Or lives, for that matter.