Letters From Hades by Jeffrey Thomas

gray cloud; actually I’d noticed a lot of sweeping going on, and that there was a powdery ash between the cobbles in the streets and sidewalks. Everything seemed dusty, in fact, even the citizens. I wondered if great storms of volcanic ash blew into the city; maybe it had come from that erupted volcano I myself had witnessed.
    Before beginning any kind of job hunt, I still intended to try my luck at the bank, so I worked my way in that direction. I entered onto another of the infrequent wider streets, this one too with twin rails set into it, though I had yet to see a streetcar or train.
    Two sphinxes of black marble flanked the arched front entrance to the bank, looking like bipedal lions with eagle’s wings, the comely breasts of human women and denuded human skulls. From the shorn-off tops of their marble skulls, lurid violet flames lapped at the air. As I trudged up the glassy ebon steps, I was almost afraid one of the giants would come to life, seize me and cram me into its fiery cranium.
    The interior of the bank seemed to consist primarily of one huge room with a high echoing ceiling. Little open offices ran along the walls, with people lined up waiting to either approach the main counter or be seen in one of those side cubicles. All of the clerks I saw were Damned souls, though two Demon warriors, naked but carrying sheathed swords and tall spears, flanked the front door while two more stood at either end of the long main counter. And in a sort of huge black birdcage suspended from the ceiling, like an imprisoned sun, rested a somewhat smaller version of the half dozen serenely smiling, orange-glowing Overseers in their watchtowers surrounding the city.
    After viewing the variety of transactions from afar, I decided on which queue to enter. (And not a moment too soon; it looked like one of the Demon guards wanted to give me a poke with his lance). Some tellers were handing over small bags of coins from shelves or cabinets behind the counter, which suggested that citizens could actually trust their savings to be safe here. Well, if money were so hard won here, it made sense to protect it from other citizens. Other tellers, however, were accepting goods across the counter, and giving bags of money in trade. Did the bank then turn around and sell these goods directly to vendors, supply the goods to stores it owned itself, trade them with other cities, or use them to pay their human employees? Possibly all these things, though I supposed that it really didn’t matter; the bank was just a way to create some order, some system, in the city. Money can do that, too.
    While I was slowly shuffling along in line, I watched workers behind the counter load food, clothing, various crafts and wares into wagons and drag them off through doors along the back wall. From one of these far metal doors, I saw one of those bubble-headed, part-insect, part-skeleton Demons of the administrative caste emerge. I didn’t doubt he was the bank president, at least one of its primary supervisors, though whether he or the Overseer were of higher rank I had no idea.
    Yes, it was beyond obvious now that—unlike Caldera, which had been entirely founded, built and populated by humans—Oblivion is a city that has been provided for the Damned. The Demons keep their presence to a minimum, but they are in the rafters, pulling the strings where necessary. But I didn’t want to fall into the trap of seeing them as our benefactors. I had to remind myself that Oblivion is not a refuge but just a different setting for suffering. Also, as I had learned, the Angels find it entertaining to visit Hell in full armies on occasion, so as to do battle with certain cities. To rape and pillage like lusty Vikings. Oblivion is like a child’s intricate castle of building blocks, stacked neatly up so that he can sadistically trample it down.
    The skeletal Demon stalked off in ghastly slow motion, and then it was my turn at the counter. The teller was a pretty Asian