Hell. Publishing office of the Infernal Times. Demon reporter Thompson saunters in and assumes his half of the desk shared with Demon Malacoda. Gazes languidly about the room a bit, rolls a sheet of paper into his typewriter. Having thus pretended to begin work, he murmurs to Malacoda:

When the fuck do you think we'll ever get word processors like they have upside?

Dunno. Keeping the linotypes functioning is such a Hell thing – all that molten lead. Too damned useful.

Ha ha. Too useful on the damned, you mean.

Stale, Thompson. Very stale.

Satisfied that overly long ears have now tuned out after deciding that Thompson and Malacoda are just engaging in one of their usual gripes, Thompson lowers his voice to the slightest of whispers as he fingers his typewriter keys.

Got a hot tip.


Hell. The disgusting lobby of the Infernal Cineplex. A somewhat translucent tall brunette damned woman exiting a theater corridor strolls over to Thompson, who is lounging against the wall opposite. Thompson looks skeptical.

I got the word. Don't tell me there's some flick worth reporting on, babe.

No. Same old shit. If I have to sit through "The Sound of Music" one more time, I may report to Recycling before my sentence is up.

Nah. You won't do that. You've gotten off pretty light. Surely you realize that?

Oh yes. Just whining.

So. You have something for me?

Give me a cigarette.

Thompson reaches into his jacket, pulls out a packet of Dunhills, tips one out. The damned woman takes it and places it between her lips. Thompson doesn't need a lighter. Ignites it for her with his fingertip. She takes a deep drag. Thompson waits until she exhales.

So let's hear it, hon.

She takes another drag. Then exhales and speaks in a low voice.

Was walking toward a pack of those disposable demons. They were crowded around one of those little phones they use. They shut up when I got close.

Another drag. She lowers her voice even further.

But I overheard one say, "Where's Falmouth?" Where is Falmouth, anyway?

Malacoda looks thoughtful.

England. Coast of Cornwall.

Why would anything be happening there?

Why, indeed? Good work, Reifenstahl. Another cig for you if this pans out.

Thompson strolls off. Demonic ushers come out with pitchforks and herd the damned back into the theaters.

Break's over!

Riefenstahl manages to smoke nearly down to the filter before a grinning demon takes the cigarette from her lips. Taunts her by finishing the last puff, tosses the butt onto the greasy and littered carpet.


Thompson mutters in the barest of whispers:

Source overheard some disposable demons mention Falmouth.

Falmouth? Where the fuck is that?

Coast of England.

The two silently lock eyes for a moment.

Far from Tadfield?

Not that far.

Thompson opens a deep desk drawer. Surreptitiously magics his smartphone out of his jacket and into the drawer. Pretends to be fiddling around trying to find something as he spends a minute on Google Maps. Magics the phone back into his pocket. Checks the twin dials on his watch. Malacoda in the meantime appears to be idly gazing around the room, making sure no one is watching.

Almost noon there now. Think I'll pay a visit. You can cover for me?

You bet.

Thompson gets up, puts on his hat, exits the room.


Meet Thompson and Malacoda in Chapter 77 of The Big One: Heaven Hacked