by Robert Ryan
“They believed they were working for God. Allah.”
“They were wrong.”
“Are they down here with you?”
“Of course. They have their own wing, so to speak. Stuck in those planes forever. Just them, with no windows to jump out of to escape the inferno.”
Zeke felt a grim satisfaction even as he knew it was a hollow victory.
“What about the eternal strife between the world’s religions? No matter how pure their intent, Man corrupts it into something to kill over. Countless innocents have been slaughtered in an endless religious war to prove who are The Chosen or which Path to follow. The perversion of something good into something evil would seem to be your handiwork.”
“Ah, yes. The Chosen. All religions are man’s creations. There is only one God. And one Me. All else is window dressing. It is a beautiful spectacle, to watch all your pathetic little groups scurrying around, yelling and beating their chests as if to say: ‘We’re the chosen ones, God! We’re the only ones who truly understand You and the Bible! Pick us! Pick us!’
“What fools. By competing they keep hatred alive and stay divided. They do my job for me. You believe Halloween is my favorite day, but you are wrong. Christmas is. I watch the killing and the bickering about Jesus Christ and God around the world—people fighting over whether they can put up a cross or some little fucking statues—and my faith in Mankind is restored. Mankind. Now there’s an oxymoron.”
“Religious strife is not as bad now as it was long ago.”
“‘Long ago’ has meaning only for you creatures. Your entire existence on Earth—from the beginning to its fast approaching end—is but one long night to me. All your wars, all your struggles—merely hors d’oeuvres to the main course. Mere gambits in the chess game between your God and myself, to see who will win control of all those luscious souls. Of course there has never been any doubt. I will win. Evil is stronger than good. Have you noticed?”
“If you are so all-powerful, why didn’t you just overtake God in your initial rebellion, rather than allowing yourself to be banished down here?”
“He had me greatly outnumbered then. His army was much bigger than my little band of followers. My original faithful minions, by my side forever.”
He pointed to the foul things to his left that continued to watch from their invisible posts. Loyal subjects to their king, in his kingdom of the damned.
“So the battle lines were drawn,” said Satan. “It is a war that is won one soul at a time. From every new soul that I possess I take its energy. That is how I get my power. And new recruits are coming over to my side faster all the time. Fewer and fewer people are going to church. Oh yes, I am winning.”
Satan paused, as if waiting for disagreement, but Zeke realized the utter futility of having a debate he could never win. Instead, he had been staring into the eyes of the Devil, trying to read his soul. And for one fleeting instant he felt he had glimpsed the truth:
Satan respected God’s power. Despite his bravado, he was not sure he would be the ultimate victor.
At least that’s what Zeke thought he saw. What he believed. If so, there was still hope.
He kept staring and waited for Satan to continue.
“Besides,” said the Beast, “it is much more fun this way—to inflict so much suffering on so many of God’s creatures. Every day brings such a smorgasbord of delights. Perfectly good souls blown to bits, babies murdered, throats of young girls being cut, pregnant mothers becoming addicted to crack. Crack. I love that word. The drug is like a crack you can peek through into my world. Beautiful. Onomatopoetic.”
With an affected air of nonchalance, he dropped his bomb.
“Mowing down people with a rifle is one of my latest hobbies.”
Zeke flinched. Satan saw it and smirked.
“Your little Leah gave me special pleasure. Oh yes, I was there.”
Zeke’s control was faltering. He was thinking of how quickly he could open the pack and get to his arsenal. He needed to wait for a good opening rather than allow Satan to goad him into making an ill-timed rush.
Hold on. Hold on. Ignore this son of a bitch. Stand your ground. “What did you mean before when you said that the end is ‘fast approaching’?”
“Things were coming to a head anyway, but you have hastened it, my overzealous young fool. You have discovered my home. Others will follow. I must end the game before that happens. You are an ex-football player. Consider this the two-minute warning.”
“The human race has been around for thousands of years and you haven’t won yet. If you are more powerful than God, why are you still down here in this hellhole?”
Satan let out a roar as he extended his arm and snatched Zeke up. From a distance of no more than ten feet Zeke looked directly into the enormous face of the Devil. He was being squeezed so hard he could barely breathe. Sudden pain in his eyes made him think they might burst. Satan used the tip of his long thumbnail to push Zeke’s chin back against his neck, further cutting off his air. The edges of the nail drew blood.
The Devil slowly drew him closer. His breath was the vilest stench Zeke had ever smelled. He vomited instantly. It flowed down the side of Satan’s hand. The Prince of Darkness seemed not to notice or care. This close to the monstrous face for the first time, Zeke saw eyes that were fiery slits tilted up at the corners. No pupils or whites, only glowing demonic red. Two pointed spikes that might have been ears or horns shot upward from his temples at least three feet. From his cheeks two larger, broader spikes angled up alongside the horns. The teeth were even rows of long, sharp fangs, glistening like polished silver needles.
“You are starting to get on my nerves, Mr. Sloan. Your next display of disrespect will be your last. I would hate to kill you before you’ve had the grand tour of my kingdom. But if you fuck with me again, I will. Do you understand?”
His head still pinned by Satan’s gigantic thumb, Zeke barely managed enough of a jerk to let him know he understood. He needed to play along if he wanted to live. Heroics could wait. You’ve always wondered what Hell was like. Now you’re going to find out.
Good boy,” Satan said, loosening his grip and upturning his palm. Zeke fell into a sitting position in the gigantic hand. “Come then, let me show you my humble abode.”
Satan wrapped the hand back around him, this time in a firm but not painful grip. Only Zeke’s head jutted out from the gigantic fist. With surprising grace the Devil stood. Huge black wings materialized on his back. He flapped them once, twice, and effortlessly took flight.
They glided into position some fifty yards above the fiery sea. Zeke looked straight down into eternal damnation. Flames leapt greedily all around him, threatening to sear his face. They always veered away at the last moment, as if clearing a path, the heat never quite reaching the harmful stage. Satan had total control over his dominion, and was protecting him.
The Beast glided effortlessly, wings outstretched, riding the air currents rising from the heat below as he proudly conducted his guest on a tour of his Den, showing off his trophies collected over thousands of years. On and on they went, above a seemingly endless ocean of fire that wound its way deeper and deeper into the bowels of the underworld. Zeke saw a sea of lost souls, its boundless expanse filled with all the writhing, screaming, tormented damned since that fateful day when Evil began to walk the earth. Whatever its name, wherever it came from, it was locked in a battle to the death against Good.
As they sailed above the inferno, Zeke deadened himself to the horror. Only by going numb could he shield himself from the overwhelming despair emanating from the pathetic shapes that constantly receded beneath them. He could make out people of all ages, even children. At Satan’s approach, all arms below would rise up in supplication, hands and fingers desperately beseeching their Master to pull them out of their unrelieved agony, begging for salvation that would never come. Satan would sail by without the slightest acknowledgment, and all the arms would dejectedly go back down.
They veered to the right and descended back onto solid ground. As they touched down, Zeke saw what appeared to be a gigantic cavern, carved into the rock wall up ahead. A flickering glow danced on the walls, indicating fire somewhere deeper within. Satan closed the distance with a few enormous strides. At the entrance to the cavern, he put Zeke down.
“Welcome to my Hall of Shame,” he said, proudly surveying the immense chamber. “This is my favorite part of my kingdom. Very special things happen here.”
Despite being free from the Devil’s clammy grip, Zeke was finding it increasingly hard to breathe. The deeper they went, the more fetid the air became, forcing him to breathe shallowly. The relentless onslaught of rank cruelty had him wondering how much more he could stand.
Satan stared in rapt attention at the scene ahead. Zeke looked to see what he found so fascinating.
The cavern was so huge Zeke could only guess at its dimensions. The ceiling might have been a mile away. The rough-hewn walls and vast craggy floor ran for at least a mile before disappearing into darkness. Here and there were smaller openings, leading off into other rooms. Everywhere little fires flickered, almost decoratively, creating a macabre battle between light and shadow on the walls. As Zeke scanned it all, perversely fascinated, he realized that these various chambers were too symmetrical to be natural phenomena. They had been carved out of solid stone. The labor required would have been enormous. Where did it come from?
Satan read his mind. “Those who dug in the earth while alive put in a little overtime after death. Many times, during their insignificant lives, they complained about how hard their jobs were. Jobs that drove them to drink and all sorts of infidelities—drove them to shake hands with the Devil.” He snapped his hands open and closed like lobster claws, causing his own claws to click together loudly. “Do you think they would be thankful to have those old jobs back?”
The sound of pure gloating evil rumbled in his throat. Zeke ignored it by trying to figure out what was happening up ahead, too far to make out distinctly. He saw regular rows of shapes, seeming to move in unison, with a single shape off to the side.
“I see you have noticed the main exhibit. My Master Creation. We will go there shortly. But first I want to show you some of the other special exhibits along the way.”
Satan scooped him up and they quickly reached the right side wall of the vast cavern. Openings into the smaller rooms were carved at more or less regular intervals, maybe fifty yards apart. Satan put him down and they entered the first one.
They stood in a 19th-century London cobblestone street. Rundown row houses ran behind sidewalks on either side. Near where they stood, a narrow alley disappeared into the darkness. Milling around its entrance was a group of women, no longer human but entities of fire. Streetwalkers, judging from their garish, rundown appearance, and the coarse torrent of abuse they were unleashing on someone in the alley. Each held either a straight razor or large knife.
A commotion came from somewhere in the alley. A humanesque fire, in the shape of a man wearing a hat and overcoat, staggered out of the darkness. Blood spurted from a gaping slash across his neck. Another female fire-shape followed him out and threw her blood-stained razor at his feet. The others descended on him, hacking and slashing furiously.
“Jack the Ripper and his victims, getting even for all eternity. Each time, he experiences all the agonies of death—but death brings him no rest. As soon as he dies, he rises up again, his murderer goes to the back of the line, and the next one takes her place. Who says I’m not fair?”
Zeke knew he should keep quiet but couldn’t. “Why are the women here? They were innocent victims.”
“Innocent? Nonsense. You know nothing about the sins these harlots committed. I, on the other hand, was there.” Satan picked him up. “Come, let us continue.”
In the next room they touched down in front of a guillotine. Someone was about to be executed. A long line of people stretched away from the wooden structure. An endless supply of victims, Zeke thought.
The executioner pulled the release. Zeke watched in horror as the blade slid noisily along the rails.
Choonk.
The head tumbled into the basket.
A cheer went up from the crowd. The executioner shuffled away as the next person came up the stairs. Zeke expected her to take the beheaded person’s place. Instead, she went to the executioner’s post and began pulling the cord to raise the blade back into place. When it was secured at the top, the severed head rose up from the basket and reattached itself to its body.
“Robespierre and his victims,” said Satan. “His head has been lopped off millions of times in the last two hundred years.”
Down came the blade again, and that grisly unmistakable final sound.
Choonk.
It took a moment for Zeke to find his voice. “You said the people doing the executing were his victims. Why are they here?”
“I said victims. I didn’t say innocent victims. These are the ones the good Monsieur was right about. They were guilty as hell. Pardon the expression.”
Satan snatched Zeke up and headed for the next room.
“Some people thought Robespierre was a hero,” Zeke managed to say as they went.
“Fuck him,” Satan said. “He was behind all those heads being lopped off. When you condone that much cruelty, you are my willing accomplice, and there’s going to be Hell to pay.”
Satan chuckled.
Zeke steeled himself for whatever horror awaited in the next chamber.
A 17th-century slave ship stood on wooden supports, the side cut away to reveal the interior. The white captain and crew were in shackles below, being whipped by their African slaves.
“Another variation on the theme,” said Satan.
“But the slaves did nothing wrong,” Zeke protested. “They were innocent victims. Why are they down here?”
“Those aren’t the original slaves. They’re just stand-ins: crack dealers, gangstas, and other solid citizens. All God’s chillun, getting back what they gave out. What goes around comes around.”
Zeke felt disgusted with himself for almost smiling at Satan’s use of street slang. Before he could dwell on the feeling, Satan’s huge hand wrapped around him again and the tour continued.
In the next room several enraged spirit-flames, wielding various cutting instruments, hacked a screaming man to pieces, then began eating the body parts. A spurt of vomit burned the back of Zeke’s throat. “Dahmer?”
The familiar gloating leer gave him his answer.
Into room after room they went, each depicting some grisly moment in history.
Satan apparently saw that Zeke was shutting down. As they flew to the next exhibit he said, “Time to show you that first scene, as I promised, while you can still appreciate it.”
In an instant they were there. Satan made a proud, theatrical sweep of his arm to indicate the spectacle before them.
“My masterpiece.”
Marching by in front of them were row after precise row of goose-stepping troops. Despite their recognizable shape and uniforms, these were not human soldiers. These were their souls, their evil residue, perpetually encased in flame. As they paraded by from left to right, their right arms shot up to salute the lone figure that stood to the side inspecting them.
Their leader.
Der Führer.
Adolf Hitler.
There he stood, with his unmistakable little mustache, proudly surveying his army. Replete with uniform and swastika armband, still in power. It struck Zeke that being here might be more of a reward than a punishment. A documentary he’d seen on Hitler and the occult had presented a conspiracy theory saying Hitler purposely committed suicide on Walpurgis Night to commend his spirit unto Satan.
The scene suddenly changed.
Columns of smoke hissed up, as though from invisible jets in the earth. The smoke became a cloud that completely enshrouded the Führer and his troopers. As the poison took effect, their deat
h moans started low, then quickly swelled into a collective roar of soul-shattering agony that filled every inch of Hell. Zeke clamped his hands over his ears while standing transfixed in morbid fascination, every muscle tensed against a hurricane blast of evil worse than anything he had yet encountered.
He wanted to rejoice that there was justice after all, but it was another hollow victory. If he ever told his Jewish friends of this, would it bring them joy or pain?
Satan broke in on his thoughts.
“The spawn of the neo-Nazi movement and its various offspring,” he proudly announced. “The Jews were an hors d’oeuvre.”
Zeke was unable to stifle a moan. Satan noticed with delight and went on, unfazed.
“Every time a new group is thoroughly trained, they are sent above to infiltrate. Ethnic hatred is big business, and I’m a worldwide conglomerate.”
He paused to savor the effect he was having, then continued with relish.
“Luckily for me, you pathetic creatures do not learn from your mistakes. Remind yourself all you want with your little memorials, but they will change nothing. All of God’s creatures will soon be mine.”
Zeke was teetering on the brink.
“There is so much more to show you,” Satan said, “but, alas, I can see that you are not up to it. So many superstars you will have to miss: Herod, Pilate, Vlad the Impaler, Mussolini, Stalin, Attila. Attila. They called him Flagellum Dei. The Scourge of God.
“Not to mention the endless parade of minor but important supporting characters: John Wayne Gacy, Eddie Gein, Richard Speck, Andrei Chikatilo—all the rest will have to wait.
“All except one. Come along, weakling. One more and I will put you out of your misery. You cannot leave without seeing the honorary general of my army.”
Satan grabbed him and flew what seemed like many miles downward to a much deeper region. Finally they touched down.
“You’ve often heard the expression ‘the nethermost region of Hell.’ Well, here we are. A fitting place for humanity’s ultimate outcast.”