“What do you mean?”

“Light. Enough light to throw shadows in the crevices in ice and mountains.”

“Sure. Lots of shadows.”

“Then it won’t take days. Turn around and lean your back against the front of the bike.”

I hand him two short lengths of rope.

“Tie each leg to the front forks.”

“What are you going to do?”

I punch him in the solar plexus. It doubles him over and motivates him to stay down and tie himself to the bike.

“What’s happening is this. I’m going to try something because I’m on a tight schedule. What you’re going to do is think real hard about Helheim and I’m going to click my heels together and we’ll be there in no time flat.”

He finishes tying his legs and stands up.

“You’re as crazy as they say.”

“No. Crazy is when I break your arms and legs and bury you alive just to see if you can dig your way out. Want to play that game, General? Bet I can find a shovel or two for sale.”

He shakes his head, clear-eyed. There’s nothing better to sober you up than the certainty of your own imminent death.

I hand him a strip of cloth.

“Tie that around your eyes. Tight. If I don’t think it’s tight enough, I’ll just slice your eyes out so you can’t see how we’re getting there.”

“I’m tying it,” he says through gritted teeth.

When I’m sure he isn’t playing possum, I push one of his arms out over the handlebars.

“Tie your arm on. Do it tight. If you fall off, you’re going to get run over.”

He has to use one other hand and his teeth, but he gets it done. I have to help him tie the other side while keeping the knife to his throat. It isn’t easy for either of us. When we’re finished, he’s spread-eagled over the front of the Hellion hog.

“How you feeling up there? Snug as a bug?”

“You are crazy. People will see us. You’ll crash the bike and kill us both.”

“The only thing that’s going to hurt us is if you don’t think of Helheim. If we end up anywhere else, you’re going to be road gravy. Understood?”

“Understood.”

I start the bike and check that my new best friend’s legs are clear of the wheels and the road. When I’m sure, I get on the bike and ease it into first and do a one-eighty turn. There’s a nice fat shadow across the street on the side of a burned-out grocery.

“Thinking of Helheim?” I shout over the rumble of the engine.

“Yes.”

“You better be. Here we go.”

I hit the throttle and accelerate all the way across the street, almost clipping the rear end of a pedicab on the way. When did they get those? Too late to worry. The wall comes up fast. I hope we don’t end up in Hellion Fresno.

And then we’re skidding on ice. The rear end starts to fishtail, so I hit the accelerator to straighten out. When we do, I throttle down and creep forward in second gear.

I’ve been in cold places, but this is ridiculous. The wind comes down from high snowy peaks. Every time I exhale, the frost from my breath almost covers my face. I can already feel ice forming in my nose and the corners of my lips. My hands are numb. If we don’t get someplace soon, I’m going to end up with frostbite.

“What’s happening?” screams Captain Sunshine.

Around the next corner I see it. Like Butcher Valley, Helheim is a deep depression surrounded by hills and watchtowers. And like the other valley, most of the towers are dark and look like they haven’t been used for years. The main difference between the two places is the temperature. Butcher Valley burns with open lava pits. Helheim is a glacier, a moving river of ice scouring the valley and increasing its size forever. There will always be room for racy nuns and naughty heretics down here.

I stop the bike by a Quonset hut encased in so much snow and ice it looks like the bottom of a life-size snow globe. There are a couple of snowcats outside and a hellhound. I can’t tell if it’s in working order or not.

I put down the kickstand and go around the front of the bike to cut down the captain. It only takes a second to see why he stopped yelling. His lips are frozen shut. I give him a little pop in the mouth. Not to hurt him. Just to break up the ice. And to hurt him a little. Remind him whose game this is. I take off his blindfold and he looks around in wonder.

“We’re here,” he says.

“Looks like it. Here’s what’s going to happen next. You’re a captain. We’re going inside and you’re going to do the meanest, most hard-ass officer impression of your life. Order people around. Make them salute and kiss your ass. Then tell them you want to see the new arrivals.”

He shivers in his thin city coat. So do I. I put up my hoodie.

The captain shakes his head.

“What if it doesn’t work? Are you going to kill me?”

“Why wouldn’t it work?”

“They might be in a different regiment. They might not take my orders. Sometimes soldiers stationed this far out for too long can go a little wild.”

“Do your best,” I say, and whisper the hoodoo that resets the glamour on my face. The captain shakes his head.

“This will never work.”

“Maybe not, but isn’t it more fun than getting drunk all on your lonesome?”

“No.”

“You’re welcome. Now go up there and be an asshole, Captain Bligh.”

He moves so fast for the door to the Quonset hut I have to trot to keep up. He bursts inside with all the subtlety of a mammoth on roller skates.

Six guards stare at us. One is standing by an old wood-burning oven and the others are scattered around several tables. There used to be more guards here. The ones that remain don’t like one another much. All good information to have.

The moment we get inside and the captain gets warm air into his lungs, he starts looking like an officer. He stands up straight, giving the scruffy guards the hairy eyeball. The bad news is that they give it right back. No one gets up when they see him. No one salutes. The Hellion by the oven nods and pours something thick and sludgy from a pot into a coffee cup.

He says, “Well, what did you do to get this shit duty?”

The captain doesn’t answer for a few seconds.

“I don’t believe I heard you say ‘sir’ at the end of that sentence, did I, soldier?” he says.

The soldier at the oven seems genuinely shocked.

“I guess not. Sorry. Sir.”

“Quiet,” says the captain. “I’m not here to correct your grammar or manners. This is an inspection. I want one of you to escort me to the new arrivals.”

A scrawny recruit with a crooked nose sitting at a table by himself says, “Who’s your friend?”

“Again, I didn’t hear ‘sir’ at the end of the sentence when addressing me.”

Crooked Nose sits up straighter but not because he’s obeying the rules. It’s sheer tension. This is how barroom brawls start.

“Who the fuck is that with you, sir? He doesn’t look like any officer I’ve seen. Sir.”

“Don’t worry about him. I’m the one who can assign you to even worse duty than this.”

“Worse than this?” says the guy by the oven.

“Do you enjoy the smell of rotten and congealed blood, soldier? Would you like to spend a few years patrolling the Styx?”

Crooked Nose raises his hand like he’s in first grade. He’s having a good time with us.

“Excuse me, sir. What general do you serve under?”

“Are you interrogating me, soldier?”

“It’s a simple question, sir. Under whose authority are you here? Who the fuck would send an officer out here to the middle of nowhere in dress shoes and no heavy coat? Sir.”

I can see where this is going. I lean in and whisper to the captain.

“Keep them talking,” I say, and go outside.

I find a good shadow behind the closer of the snowcats and slip back inside.

I come out by the stove, so I slit that Hellion’s throat before he can throw the hot cup of sludge on the captain. Let his body fall. Then step back into the same shadow. Outside, I can hear shouting over the sound of the wind. I go back in through another shadow and arrive with the SIG in my hand. I put bullets into the heads of the two guards closest to the captain. Crooked Nose stands and watches me disappear.