Free Hell Rig by J. E. Gurley

back. Nowhere else to run . Bitter cold, almost burning in its intensity, swept over him: A kabala wind from hell. He shivered in its frigid embrace, his strength failing him. “Wha…what do you want?” he muttered through chattering teeth.
    “Your soul.”
    Shivering badly, he fumbled in his pocket for his cigarette lighter. His hands trembled from cold and fear. On the third attempt, he managed to light it. He held it out to view his foe.
    “You,” he sighed as the shadows pounced on him, smothering him. The face was familiar, that of Jo Beth Slocum, but not the beautiful Cajun girl he had madly loved and who had forsaken him. It was a Jo Beth Slocum ravaged by time and possessed of evil, a demon stripped of its disguise. He felt strong arms carrying him like a child. Moments later, pain, hot and brutal, erupted in his mind and coursed through his body like fire. Then he passed out.
    He awoke in agony. He opened his eyes. An indeterminate amount of time had passed but it was still dark. He looked down on the deck, swinging like a pendulum below him, illuminated by his flashlight. No, he realized in horror, he was the one swinging. His arms stretched out from his sides, almost pulling his ribs from his ribcage. Sixteen-penny nails secured his hands to a wooden two-by-four crossbeam. Luckily, they were numb from lack of circulation. The rough board pressed tightly against his naked back and drove long splinters of wood into his flesh. Heavy wire bound his feet, cutting deeply into his skin. They dangled loose below him, blood dripping from his toes.
    He was naked. His crucifix was gone. In its place was a vivid welt, burning like fire. A movement in the shadows caught his attention. Suddenly, a long sharp metal rod lanced into his side. It burned like a branding iron. Warm blood ran down his side.
    “Oh, my God!” he cried out in realization. “You’ve crucified me.”
    “You’ve crucified yourself in your mind, priest,” a voice taunted from the shadows. “Every day for ten years.”
    “Go to hell!” he snapped.
    Laughter, dark and sinister assaulted him from the shadows, a deeper, masculine voice this time. As Bale watched, a man emerged from the shadows, tall and muscular with red hair. He smiled as he looked up at Bale with empty sockets. As he spoke, flames flickered deep inside the holes where eyes once peered out.
    “I’ve been there, priest. No holy resting place for me, eh Father? I’ve come back for you, all of you.”
    “Digger Man,” Bale gasped, recognizing his antagonist. “Waters said you were dead.”
    Digger Man stopped smiling and opened his mouth. A piercing wail erupted from his mouth, continuing to open, unhinging like a serpent’s jaw until Bale could see deep into a black void where Digger Man’s head had been, a swirling ebony cloud that drew Bale’s gaze hypnotically downward and into the dizzying maelstrom.
    Bale’s life drained from him one drop at a time, his soul slipping away, drawn into the void like falling down a well he suspected led straight to hell. He fought the pull, closed his eyes and prayed aloud, asking God for forgiveness. Demonic laughter echoed in his ears. He hoped it was not too late.
    “If you’ve abandoned me, God, I’ll abhor you for all eternity!”
    Greg recognized the voice and the words as his own, spoken in a moment of drunken anger after his suspension by the Bishop. He hung his head, knowing his own words had returned to condemn him. As his life’s blood dripped onto the deck and his breathing became more labored, he looked down. Digger Man was gone.
    “I forgive you, Jo!” he screamed into the shadows. The effort tore into his chest, ripping sinew and muscle.
    “God does not forgive you, Father,” Digger Man’s voice shouted from the shadows. “Nor do I.”
    The Digger Man’s laughter followed Bale into oblivion.
    Chapter Seven
    Sid Easton shook Ed to rouse him, gently at first, then with more vigor when Ed did not