George led the way down the stairs. They were each nearly two feet high and four feet deep, more like the seats of some ampitheater than a stairway. Kurt and Junior walked next to each other, Kurt helping Junior down each step.

At the bottom, the trees extended from side to side between the walls. Predominantly fruit trees, half appeared to be dead, the others weren't bearing fruit, not even a stray piece rotted on the dirt floor. There was no undergrowth, no brush to obscure the dark packed soil. A faint sound of voices could be heard up ahead. It wasn't the shouting of the mad, rushing hordes from the main plaza. Instead it sounded like... singing.

After his adventure on the third ring of Hell, George wasn't so fired up to go investigate. He remained at point, but he proceeded cautiously, making sure Kurt and Junior were following. George tried to stay alert as he pushed forward, but the singing distracted him. It grew louder faster than it should, but when they stopped moving, it stayed at the same volume. It was as if the singers only moved when they did or the trees acted as a mute.

The trees had been planted in neat rows, and though the tree tops were no higher than twelve or thirteen feet, George didn't have to duck beneath any low branches, noticing the scars of the carefully amputated lower limbs along the trunks. Someone had once tended this garden with a lot of care, but lately the trees had been neglected.

A few hundred feet up, the garden opened into a clearing. George pulled back behind a tree and motioned Kurt and Junior to take cover. Peeking out, he could see human shapes moving in the clearing. They were definitely the source of the singing. He moved forward cautiously, making sure that Kurt and Junior stayed at least a few rows behind him. As he got closer, he saw the men in the clearing moving round a large wooden structure, climbing up and down ladders. They all wore robes, some wore crowns.

The lack of undergrowth proved to be a liability as George felt a surprising tap on his shoulder. Whirling, he shoved the barrel of the Uzi up under the chin of the man behind him, his thumb flipping the switch from safety to fire as his index finger tightened on the trigger. The man, bearded and in a purple robe, froze. George glared at him, but the man merely raised a mug into George's field of view. "Wine?" the man asked.

---

Sitting under a tree in view of the giant vat in the center of the clearing, Kurt and George each sniffed tentatively at a mug as many men in robes gathered round them. "You are from the world," one said incredulously before taking a generous quaff from a wooden mug.

"Yeah," George said, "we've been through this before. We're from the world, we're heading up, and we came from down."

"No one ever gets out of down," one of the men said, an effeminate and slightly built specimen wearing a robe of purple with golden fleur-de-lis on it, his eyes wide in an incredulous look.

"We did," Kurt said, watching them warily. These men weren't harmless drunkards. They were kings, all of them. These were men who spent their entire lives plotting and scheming to stay in power. He trusted them about as much as he trusted a politician who said this is for your own good.

One of the kings left the circle without excusing himself and walked toward the giant vat, mug in hand. That was where all the fruit had gone, fermenting in a giant mash into a barely palatable brew. Kurt looked at his own. He hadn't tasted it, fearing the native food in Purgatory might have the same effect as the native food in Hell, to trap one there. He'd cautioned George against drinking as well.

One of the kings, a Richard or a Henry or a William, Kurt couldn't keep them straight, eyed Junior. "And this is a pure soul you are escorting?"

Junior, sitting between Kurt and George, moved closer to Kurt, leaning into him. "Yeah," George said, his eyes darting around the circle as Kurt put a protective arm around Junior.

"Then you must be a saint," one king said. "Would you be willing to bless us?"

"I cannot disrupt God's plan," Kurt said quickly. "It would not be right."

"God's plan has already been disrupted," a voice shouted from outside the circle. The kings all jumped, not so much in surprise as in fear, and the circle parted at the side. Striding toward them from the large vat was a huge soul. Rather than the royal purple robe, he wore furs. His crown was a Norse helmet, replete with horns. Pale, as a soul should be, his mane of red hair had an almost pinkish tint, but he was an impressive figure of a man nonetheless.

"Eric the Bold," the man said by way of introduction, "terror of the frozen wastes, and about thirty other meaningless titles." He bowed, doffing his helmet, then stood up straight. "At your service."

Kurt and George stood, following the example of the other kings. Once standing, they realized that Eric was barely five and a half feet tall, but he was broad-shouldered and wide-chested, making him an imposing figure despite his lack of height. Kurt put a hand on Junior's shoulder, pushing Junior behind him. "What do you mean, God's plan has already been disrupted?"

Eric glared around the circle, causing some of the kings to shrink back. "When I got here, this garden was in full flower. Heaven it wasn't, but it was still a nice enough home. Each night a giant serpent came," Eric nodded his head toward the far end of the garden, "to ravage the garden, but an angel of God would descend with sword in hand and fend the beast off."

Some of the kings nodded in confirmation, far-off looks in their eyes as if remembering the good old days. "Then, a few hundred years ago the angel stopped coming. A few of us gave fight, but even our best warriors were laid waste by the magnificent strength of this beast. Slowly, over the decades, as more of these weak pantywaist kings joined our lot and built this vat, more of my force went soft and we have given up this garden, row by row. A hundred yards on," Eric motioned behind him again, "is where the battle line lies, the garden beyond it in a shambles."

"Now, Eric," one of the kings, a Juan Carlos or Ferdinand said, "if there were hope, we'd fight by your side. But a wise man knows when a fight is futile."

"Would you have the serpent ravage the whole of the garden? When it finished with the garden, what would become of us? Take it from a man who has spent centuries in this fight. Just because you can no longer die does not mean you can no longer suffer."

"We've heard it all before, Eric," a voice piped up from the far side of the circle. "Have you ever tried diplomacy? Have you ever tried negotiating? What if you had given the serpent a portion of the garden at the outset? It might have been satisfied. But every night you roil its blood with battle and incite its lust to conquer the whole place."

"Ah, yes," Eric laughed, "a word from our British friend. Beware of him, lads. His version of diplomacy is to throw all of his compatriots into a pit of crocodiles, hoping the monsters will eat him last."

Eric locked eyes with George, then let his gaze drop to the Uzi, still gripped loosely in one hand. "You three are not men of inaction. You do not belong with these sycophants and schemers. You belong with me and my men. Join us in battle tonight. Perhaps with your powers behind us, we'll be able to defeat this beast."

"And what if we don't join you?" Kurt asked, not relishing the thought of a battle.

Eric's gaze shifted from the Uzi to Kurt. "The only way out of here is to go past that damned snake. You can fight your way out or sit here with these fools and drink yourself silly while you wait for an angel to come. It is your choice."

Turning, Eric left the circle and walked toward the tree line. Kurt looked at George, but the only advice George could offer was a shrug. The circle started condensing, the drunken kings gathering in around them once again, a number of them eyeing Junior in a way that Kurt did not like. "Eric," Kurt shouted, dropping his mug, "wait up."

---

As dusk fell, George stripped and cleaned both guns. They had no reason to doubt Eric. Even the other kings had confirmed his tales of the serpent. There were no fires in the garden, but as dusk grew into night, large light panels in the roof of Purgatory came on, keeping the place in a dusk-like light.

"How go the preparations?" Eric asked as he plopped down to sit next to George, his voice still only slightly quieter than a shout.

George finished screwing the barrel back into the Uzi until it clicked into the locked position. "Just fine."

"These are magnificent weapons you possess, these guns," Eric said. "I have heard of them from the others. I look forward to seeing them in action tonight."

George slapped a loaded clip into the Uzi and chambered a round. "I don't."

"Ah yes," Eric said, "I almost forgot. You are still alive. Death still holds some fear for you. Well, it's not so bad really. In fact, since that angel stopped coming, the dullness has been taken from it and it's quite bearable."

"Do you really enjoy all this fighting?" George asked, putting the Uzi down as far from Eric as he could reach without being conspicuous. "You said that you can still suffer even if you can't die. Doesn't the thought of that suffering bother you? Doesn't it bother you that you lead other men to it every night?"

Eric didn't reply immediately. In the distance George could hear some of the drunken kings still singing, otherwise it was quiet. No birds, no insects, none of the natural sounds he'd grown to expect in this kind of setting. "Pain is just pain," Eric finally said. "It goes away. 'This too shall pass.'"

Eric turned and put a hand on George's shoulder. "I put the affairs of maintaining my rule before the affairs of my own soul and my own heart, and I regret that. But these battles I do not regret. My comfort will return in time. It always does. But my home... my honor... they are not so easily regained."

"Yes," Eric said, standing, "I look forward to seeing those weapons of yours in action tonight. If we are lucky, the serpent will be defeated. And then none of us will have to court pain."

---

There were few swords in the garden. Only those kings who died with a sword in their hands had one, and most of those had gradually joined the group around the vat. The remaining kings brandished clubs or spears made from tree branches, some sporting sharpened tips or small rocks embedded in the ends. "The snake's scales are as hard as iron," Eric said, standing by the stairway with Kurt and George.

"Are there any vulnerabilities?" George asked.

"None that I know of," Eric said. "It is my hope that your guns will be able to pierce its skin."

"And what if they can't?" Kurt asked.

"Then we are lost."

A shout in the distance announced the approach of the snake and the men got ready. The trees at this end of the garden that had not been broken into stumps were stripped of leaf and fruit, bare except for scrawny branches that weren't thick enough to be used as weapons. The broken trunks had been used to create the wine vat. There was no cover, no place from which to ambush. The men stood at the bottom of the stairs in a loose battle line, waiting for their adversary.

A king, stripped to his britches, bounded down from the top of the stairs. "It comes," he shouted before tripping off one of the lower stairs, diving forward and plowing into the dirt below. He scrambled to his feet quickly, picked up a club from against a stump, then joined the battle lines.

"To victory," Eric shouted, waving his club above his head. The other kings, only about twenty in all, raised their weapons and shouted in response. George checked the weapons as Kurt turned and looked for Junior, hidden behind a trunk about fifteen yards back. Kurt felt a poking in his side as George handed him the pistol. "We don't have a lot of ammo," George said. "Maybe a couple of clips worth for each gun. Fire no more than a couple of shots. Aim for the head. If the bullets don't penetrate the scales, then drop back. Wait until the snake opens its mouth and then try to fire inside and hit the soft tissue."

"And if that doesn't work..." Kurt asked, his voice dropping low enough so Eric couldn't hear.

"Grab Junior. While the kings are busy with the snake, we'll try to get around it and get up the stairs."

The snake's head crested the stairs and the kings renewed their shouting, throwing rocks and clumps of dirt at it.

It was a huge head, easily four feet wide, with a jaw big enough to swallow a man whole, and a large body followed it. At a shout from Eric, the vanguard of the motley battallion ran forward, five in all, charging up the stairs, spears pointed forward. On the stairs, with its large body, the snake didn't have enough room or purchase to bring its tail into play as a weapon. Instead it thrashed its head side to side as it moved forward, the sheer bulk of the moving weight knocking kings out of its way as spears were blunted on its hide.

More kings rushed forward as the snake moved down the stairs, confronting it before it reached the bottom. One got around it, up a few stairs, and attacked from the side, trying to pry the point of his spear under the scales and pierce the flesh below. The snake turned its head back, taking a couple of club blows to the skull, but also knocking two kings flying into the side wall where they slumped to the ground. The king with the spear dodged away as the snake's head came at him, but it didn't go after him. Grabbing the spear which was lodged in its scales, the snake whipped its head forward, releasing the spear at the apex of the arc, sending it zooming like a javelin into the trunk of a tree.

With the kings out of the way, George leveled his gun and took aim. The constant thrashing of the head didn't give him a great shot, so he waited, timing the thrashes, and as the head was mere feet from him, he fired two shots. Both ricocheted off the scales. "Shit!"

Kurt too had taken aim and was about to fire, when a sound distracted him. It was hard to hear over the shouts of battle, but it sounded like Junior. Turning his head, he saw the French king, the gold fleur de lis reflecting a small bit of the artificial light, pulling Junior back toward where the drunken kings had gathered.

"Junior!" Kurt yelled as he turned to chase after the fleeing king. Hearing him, the king stopped and looked back. Seeing Kurt coming after him, he did what apparently had been his plan all along. Stripping the backpack from the boy, he took a good hold of Junior, wrapping his arms around the boy's neck as Junior rose.

Junior's buoyancy lifted the king from the garden floor. Kurt kicked in every ounce of speed he had as the pair lifted through the trees. Coming within a few feet, he leapt, catching onto the king's feet.

Kurt's weight, being solid and living, was more than enough to drag the pair down, but the king let go of Junior. Kurt and the king fell to the dirt as Junior rose farther into the air. Kurt got up and made a leap for Junior, but it was no use, the boy was already too far above him and was rising with increasing speed. All Kurt could do was watch him float away.

His short reverie was broken by the king's voice. "Bless me," the king whimpered, tugging with one hand at Kurt's pant leg. Kurt had dropped the gun before leaping after the two and now he found it pointed up at him. "Bless me," the king said again, more loudly now, waving the gun at Kurt.

Kurt looked down with contempt, then spat in his face. The king's finger tightened on the trigger, but surprise registered on his face as the gun refused to fire. Kurt grabbed the barrel with his left hand, clocking the king with a downward straight-right to the nose. The king released the gun and fell, sprawling out on his back. Standing over the King, Kurt leveled the gun at his head. "You forgot about the safety," Kurt said, flicking the safety off. The gun jerked in Kurt's hand as he put a bullet between the king's eyes. "Bless you."

With his attention back on the battle, Kurt noticed that the sounds of it had diminished behind him, being replaced by the screams and moans of the wounded. He ran back to see most of the kings laying around, unconscious or severely wounded. Eric, George, and a few others held the snake at bay, lunging forward with spears. George moved to dodge the head as he patiently waited for opportunities to shoot into the snake's mouth. Another advance of the snake and a whip of its head knocked Eric flying to the side. Everything seemed to slither into slow motion as Eric's shout distracted George while the snake whipped its head around, opening its mouth and catching George around the midsection.

George dropped the Uzi and screamed as the snake whipped its head side to side, its teeth grinding into his flesh. Kurt stopped and leveled his gun, but there was no clear shot without the possibility of hitting George. With a final thrash, the snake let go of George, flinging his bloodied body into one of the walls.

A blind rage filled Kurt. Rather than fire, he ran forward, and as two kings distracted the snake, he made a run past its head and leapt onto its back. It took the snake a moment to register his presence as he climbed toward its head. It began thrashing, trying to throw him off, but Kurt wrapped his legs around it, grasping the dull edge of a scale as he used his thighs to inch himself up the snake's body.

It was almost impossible to hold on and retain his grasp on his gun, but somehow he managed, moving farther up the snake. Its head led the thrashing of the upper body, and the closer to it he got, the more force there was trying to shake him off. Shoving the pistol forward, Kurt lodged the barrel under a scale on the snake's head and fired.

The thrashing stopped almost instantly as the snake slumped lifeless to the ground, blood oozing out of its mouth. Kurt fell off to the ground beside it, and lay on his back, spread eagled, his breath coming in rasps. The few kings that remained conscious tried to raise a cheer, but they were as tired as Kurt. There would be time for celebration later, when all the wounds had healed.

Kurt sat up quickly. Not all the wounds would heal so easily. "George!"

Running to the wall, Kurt found Eric kneeling by George's body. He had lain George out so as to be comfortable, but the trickle of blood on George's lips and the blood pooling around him were clue enough that the wounds were fatal. Kurt pushed Eric out of the way and knelt by George's side.

George stared up into the dusk, his eyes unfocused. "George!" Kurt slapped his cheek. "George! Come on, buddy!"

George's eyes seemed to focus slightly. "Kurt," he rasped.

"Yeah, buddy. I'm here. We got the sucker."

George smiled a moment before his body was racked with coughs, causing more blood to bubble up from his mouth. His eyes lost focus again. "George," Kurt shouted, shaking him. "George!"

George seemed to come back, but only slightly. He was almost dead. Kurt was desperate. Junior was gone, George was almost gone. He was going to be left alone. As much as the thought of George dying pained him, the thought of being left alone here was even worse. "George, ask me to forgive you," he said.

George didn't respond. "George," Kurt shouted, shaking him again. "Ask me to forgive you!"

"Forgive me," George said in a voice barely audible.

Tears were streaming down Kurt's cheeks as he put his hand on George's jaw. "There is a weight within you," Kurt said, his voice growing thick. "It is the burden of the wrong choices of your life. I draw it away from you and free you from it. I forgive you."

As Kurt slid his hand off of George's jaw, George lost focus for the final time, his eyes glazing over and his breathing coming to a halt. Kurt wanted to pound on his chest, do CPR in desperation like some dedicated doctor on a medical show, but he knew it was useless. George was dead, his soul probably materializing on the seventh ring of Hell like Mammon had said was his destiny.

There was no strength left in Kurt and he slumped over George's body, Eric's comforting hand on his shoulder. But though George's blood was supposed to be warm, Kurt began to feel an icy chill against his chest and face. Sitting up, he saw a form rising from George's chest. Like a thick rope obeying a fakir's flute, it rose from George's body, writhing and expanding, taking human shape... taking George's shape.

As the face became discernable, it smiled at Kurt. The mouth moved, but no sound came from it. And then it began to rise. Desperately, Kurt grabbed for the legs. Still not fully formed, they had substance, but were almost squishy, yet Kurt held on, refusing to let go, feeling them fill out and become solid in his hands. George's hand reached down and took hold of his arm, pulling Kurt to his feet, and Kurt wrapped his arms around George's chest, resolving not to let him go.

---

They walked along the walkway, the far wall still a few miles ahead in the distance. George wore his pack to keep him from rising upward. "How ya doing there?" Kurt asked, looking straight ahead. Kurt had stripped down, washed with a bottle of water, and replaced his bloodstained clothes with spare clothing from George's pack. He'd rid himself of most signs of the battle, but it was going to take a while for him to lose the thousand-yard stare he'd acquired.

"I'm okay," George said. The walking was difficult, balancing the backpack against his buoyancy. Without a counterweight on his chest, the pull was one-sided and he had to lean into each step to keep from toppling backward.

His body felt strange to him, almost alien, yet he was strangely at peace with it. He had sensations from the weight of the pack, the temperature of the air, even a tinny taste in his mouth, but none of it was the same as before. It wasn't as localized. Rather than feeling the pack's straps cutting narrow paths across his shoulders, the touch was diffused, like there were two wide hands pushing down and back. He kept on touching himself as they walked. Pinching his arms, tapping his chest with his index finger. He didn't seem to have any bones, any distinct nerve endings. It was like he was all cartilage and subcutaneous fat, even where his muscles should have been on his arms and chest, like a thin layer of padding beneath vinyl, covering a solid plastic structure that was exactly the same shape as his body, but just smaller.

He bent the same way, moved the same way. His strength felt like it was the same as when he was mortal. Yet there were no muscles for locomotion. When he stretched, he didn't feel anything stretch. He would move his arms out and to the sides, but in the chest, back, and shoulders there was no sense of pull or compression. His arms just moved within a certain range and could not go beyond it. He didn't have any ribs. His chest was just that same padding over a plastic mold.

"You know," he said, "this could speed things up."

"How so?" Kurt asked, still staring ahead.

"We don't have to find ways up. You just tie a rope to me and let me float up to the next level. I tie it off and you climb up. We could get through the levels in a matter of hours instead of days."

"The next level is too high. We don't have enough rope. And even if we did, I'm not strong enough to climb that far."

"You're stronger than you think," George said silently, their walk continuing on.