by James Wymore
A blond man raised his hand. “Erik Johnson. I think I’ve been here a couple days.”
The next man leaned against the wall, his arms crossed. His hair was Clark Kent black and he had an uncomfortable look in his eyes. “Brad Marshall, this morning.”
“Alan, I think a couple weeks.”
“Carl, I’ve been around for a while, but I’m not sure.”
“Jamie Watson. Yesterday.”
“Mitchell Freeman. This morning, too. Did you all see the office demon?”
Everyone nodded.
“What did you all say to him?” Mitchell folded his hands on the blotter again.
Alan shrugged. “I barely remember. It’s all kind of fuzzy.”
Erik glanced at the window behind Mitchell. “I remember saying I don’t know why I’m here. I didn’t do anything wrong.”
The others nodded, a murmur of “likewise” and “uh-huh” blending together.
Carl pursed his lips. “Zoroastrianism?”
Brad popped off the wall, pointing at Carl. “Yeah. I remember that.” He snapped his fingers, blinking into space. “Something about that being the only religion that was correct. He said burning babies in a lake of fire was barbaric.”
Mitchell frowned. “Well, to be honest, that is pretty barbaric.”
“What are you?” Alan nodded to Mitchell.
“Agnostic. You?”
“Catholic.”
Jamie smiled. “I like your Pope.”
Alan nodded. “Me too! Francis is a good guy.” He blinked, frowning. “I guess he’ll end up here sometime, huh?”
That caused the mood in the room to drop. If someone like Pope Francis could end up there, what hope did anyone have?
Carl broke the uncomfortable silence. “Did you read the rules?”
Everyone looked at him. Mitchell cocked his head. “Rules?”
Carl pointed to the window. Everyone crossed the room at once to look at several billboards visible across the campus.
“Welcome to Hell.
This Hell is based on a problem plaguing men and women.
When you are ready to leave, merely explain the problem. Since it affects both men and women, one of each must be present for the explanation.
If you have correctly explained it, you will be admitted into a glorious Heaven filled with wonders and joys beyond your imagination.
During your stay, you may be interested in searching the Internet for information about Zoroastrianism. For your convenience, it is available as a link on any page and as a free app for your phone.
You are encouraged to live your life and do your accustomed job as you like. You may also change jobs, even try a new career.
We ask that you obey a few simple rules while you’re in Hell:
Be kind. Treat others as you would like to be treated. Failure to do this will bring unhappiness and misery to you and your fellow inhabitants.
Do not get discouraged. Remember, nothing lasts forever. Someday, this will be a distant memory.
All employees are required to wash their hands after using the restroom or touching uncooked meat or poultry.
Anything that goes on the Internet is there forever. Although it is possible to remain anonymous, there’s always someone out there who can hack your information. Be careful what photos you post.
If you’re killed, you will be restored to life on the following day. Please try to avoid death as much as possible.
All contracts, bonds, commitments, covenants, pledges, and promises entered into prior to your entering Hell are null and void. This includes, but is not limited to, debt, marriage, natural births and adoptions, requirements of citizenship, military obligations, student loans, etc.
Remember, you are never really alone, although it may feel like it for very long stretches of time.
There is always an Internet connection, regardless of your location, and you will not incur roaming charges. You have unlimited text, data, and phone service.
Lastly, you are here to learn something. Since it is something that happens every day, it should be simple to figure out.
We hope you enjoy your stay here. We have done all we can to make your stay a pleasant and instructive one.”
Alan stepped back first. “I can’t remember reading those before this minute.”
Carl got up and poured himself another cup of coffee. “They’re in every town.”
The others looked at him.
Erik leaned on the desk. “Are they always at the college campuses? Or are they all over town?”
“Yes to both. They are in courthouses, college campuses, and on billboards like those. They aren’t on freeways though, probably because someone would get in an accident trying to read something that long. They are on public transit, however.”
Brad shook his head and walked over to sit on a small sofa near the wall. “This doesn’t seem very…”
Mitchell also sat back down. “Hell-y?”
“Yeah.” Brad pointed to the scene outside. “I mean, look at that weather. It’s gorgeous. My student loans are gone. No commitments? Unlimited talk, text, and data?” He sat back in the chair. “Not seeing a downside here.”
Jamie nodded. “The rules even state you can try a new career, or do whatever. Carl”—he pointed—“you’re from another college, so you travel, right? You said it was like this in other towns.”
“Almost exactly. The towns themselves are different, but those signs are standard,” Carl said.
“So you can fly to Europe?” Alan’s voice was measured, but Mitchell could tell he was contemplating that career change.
“Probably. I haven’t really wanted to.”
Erik shook his head. “‘When you’re ready to leave, merely explain the problem. Since it affects both men and women, one of each must be present for the explanation.’ What kind of problem affects both men and women?”
Alan frowned. “Well, those rapes and murders are affecting everyone.”
Erik snorted. “Only because we gotta clean them up.”
“And the rapes?”
Erik raised his fingers to make quote marks. “‘Rapes.’ Whatever. Attention grabbing whores, if you ask me. There’s no way all these women have been raped.”
Brad rolled his eyes. “Tell me about it. I’m against rape and all, but to claim that every woman who says she was raped is telling the truth? That would mean that I’m surrounded by rapists.”
Mitchell’s eyes met Alan’s, and they both glanced at the reports on the desk. The discussion made Mitchell uncomfortable, realizing there were photos of dead girls behind that manila cardstock. “Hey, I’m gonna have to put a stop to that talk. This is a security office and our job is to protect those women out there.”
Erik and Brad stood, adopting a more professional demeanor. They said in unison, “Sorry, sir.”
The others mumbled similar phrases, save Carl who had not joined in the complaining.
“Let’s get back to work. I, for one, want to stay at this job for a while. It may be Hell, but I like the feel of normalcy.”
The others agreed, though Mitchell got the impression Erik and Brad might end up changing their careers before the month was out. As they filed out, Carl rose.
“You heading back?”
“Yeah.” Carl glanced at the billboards outside, draining some more of his coffee. “I’ve gotten to the point where I’ve forgotten about the rules. I haven’t thought about them for a while, though I know I’ve seen them every day.”
Mitchell turned in his office chair to look at the words again. “All commitments are gone. I wasn’t quite sure what I thought I would find at home. I don’t think my wife and daughters would be here. And one of our officers has a wife that’s pregnant.” Mitchell turned back to Carl. “Is that possible?”
Carl closed his eyes, shaking his head before taking another sip. “No. He was probably here just today too. He’s going to go home to an empty house.”
Mitchell’s gaze fell to th
e reports again. “Talk about Hell… thinking you’re gonna see your child born and ending up here.”
“Well, it’s not like he can’t hook up with something else here. There are women everywhere. It’s part of the rules.” Carl drained the cup. “Where do you want this?”
“There’s a sink in the break room. C’mon. I’ll show ya.”
Mitchell turned the key on his front door and was saddened to find it dark and empty, like Carl predicted. He tossed his keys onto the table in the entryway and flipped on the lights. He went to the fridge and opened it, not sure what he’d find. A six-pack of Shock Top chilled very nicely next to some cold fried chicken. He looked in the door and got out a bottle of honey barbecue sauce, then grabbed the chicken and a beer. He unscrewed the top and sipped it while he put the chicken on a paper plate and smeared barbecue sauce on the pieces. He licked his finger before hitting the timer on the microwave, then found the TV remote while the carousel meandered the chicken in a heart-warming tour of the nuking facility.
He plugged in his phone, then sat for a minute looking at it. His house was empty. Why did he have his wife and daughter’s numbers in his phone? Could he call them? He picked up the phone and dialed his wife. It went straight to voicemail. The automated woman’s voice reminded him of the number he’d just dialed and told him to leave a message after the beep. He shook his head and hung up.
What did I expect, seriously? That she’d answer? Hey, honey! I’m in Hell, how was your day?
The microwave beeped and he got a paper towel from the roll on the wall, then gathered his feast and made for the comfortable spot on the couch. The center of the plate was hot, so he set it on the coffee table next to his beer. He flicked through the TV stations and discovered every possible infomercial known to man, with nothing to watch.
Now I believe this is Hell.
He watched a few minutes of a cooking show selling a cucumber slicer, then turned off the television and went to his den. He started up his computer and settled in. The home screen had a bunch of icons that seemed perfectly normal to him. Four different browsers, three music players, the vast array of Microsoft Office programs. All the standard stuff. He saw an icon that said The Rules and clicked on it. Sure enough, it was a copy of the billboard information. He fired up Google Chrome and looked on Facebook. On the login screen, it had, in blue hyperlink text, Zoroastrianism at the bottom of the screen. He pulled up a few more web pages and found the same link in the same place, always in microscopic print, like the license agreement for the browser.
Carl was right. That’s simultaneously comforting and unsettling, like an old high school girlfriend suddenly stalking your page.
He tried to log into Facebook, but the email he entered was not found. He wondered why he was surprised. After all, he hadn’t been in Hell before. He filled in all the important bits and began his account. He didn’t have any pictures on his computer for the same reason, so he went into the living room and got his phone. He plugged it into the charger on the desk, then took a selfie. He had to download the app (the Zoroastrian app was recommended) before he could add the selfie to his profile. He doubted there would be anyone he actually knew here, but just to be sure, he put in his high school and college.
He clicked on his feed but then realized he had no friends in Hell. He frowned, then tried to remember the names of his men at work. Brad… Erik… Alan… James or Jeremy… Carl…
A friend request popped up.
“Well, speak of the devil.” He clicked on Carl Anderson’s picture.
Carl’s profile page had a bunch of promo shots of him with athletes, including one or two with some young co-eds. The girls had smiles on their faces and wore the ISU colors of orange and black with the Bengals logo on their tank tops. Every woman in every picture was young and pretty, almost like they were all on a brochure or poster. He had shots of football games, fishing trips, hunting trophies, a new car, and a small boat. It looked like an exciting life.
Mitchell looked at his phone and realized he had none of these things to put on his profile.
He opened a new tab and decided to surf the Internet. Nearly every website had some scantily clad girl on it in a provocative pose. When he was alive, he’d opened a site once that turned out to be porn, and he’d looked through it to see what the draw was, but had been disappointed. His wife walked in and saw the pictures. He had been too confused to be embarrassed. Several of the women had long, thick fingernails and the movements they were making with them looked more deadly than pleasurable. Several of these girls in the pictures had fancy nails like those, and the sight of them made him shudder.
He tried again to look up the statistics for suicides or rapes. He found nothing. Again. He sat back, drinking his beer. He could understand maybe having the truth on rapes and suicides being more horrific in Hell, but nonexistent? That was just odd. He glanced at the rules icon in the taskbar on the bottom of his screen. Whatever is put on the Internet is there forever. He had heard that before, when he was alive, but here? Did that mean no one had ever put a statistic up?
Two rapes that day. One, the girl went to the hospital, got a rape kit done, blood test, pictures undoubtedly. The other showered and almost didn’t report it. The outcome was exactly the same. There was no way either girl’s assailant would ever be caught or charged. Damned if they did, damned if they didn’t. It made sense that there weren’t a lot of statistics available. No point reporting what would be a waste of time. That was why he chose not to contact the police on either incident. It’s not like anything could be done to help them, and frankly, there was no way to prove the boys did it. They would just say the girls were lying and the girls’ lives would be ruined. At least this way, they could hide the rapes from future boyfriends. As his sister had been told in sex ed, no one wanted gum that was already chewed.
He finished his beer and tried to decide if he was tired or not. He decided he was. It had been a long, strange day, and it was possible this was a dream anyway. It would be nice to discover his wife next to him after a good night’s sleep. He tossed the bottle in the trash can next to the desk and got ready for bed.
Mitchell woke up and reached for his wife, but the bed beside him was empty. It took a moment to remember where she was, then he realized it wasn’t her location, but his, that was the problem.
I’m here to learn something, and it’s so common, I can’t miss it.
That rule made no sense. Obviously it was talking about the murders. They happened every day. The women never shot a man though, so Erik was right. The only thing affecting the men was that they were the ones discovering the bodies and cleaning up the messes. Doing the investigations. The women weren’t having anything happen to them except their own deaths.
Well, unless you count the rapes.
The rapes didn’t affect him any more than the murders did. He wasn’t gonna get raped. Therefore, it wasn’t a problem he would experience. He could walk anywhere, wear anything, drink, party, whatever he wanted, even at one of those frats, and suffer no ill. He hadn’t even seen anyone he knew in those folders.
He got out of bed and went into the bathroom. He urinated, then looked at himself in the mirror as the toilet flushed. He briefly contemplated the fact that he still needed to pee, which didn’t fit his idea of the afterlife, but if he got to drink beer, then this was the price one paid. He didn’t really need to shave, and his eyebrows and nose hairs were properly maintained. The shower would be practically a formality more than anything. Still, he thought it best to do so. After all, this was Hell. He may have brimstone farts from the coffee yesterday.
As he dried off, he heard a police siren coming down the street. He went to his window and saw the black and white car slow before a house diagonal from his. The side window was good for watching the scene. The patrolmen got out of the car and ran up to knock on his neighbor’s door. An older man opened it, probably mid-fifties, wearing a white tank top and a blue bathrobe. He looked very concerned and showe
d the police into the house. They came out a few minutes later, escorting the man out to the lawn. One officer talked to the man who seemed distraught, while the other cop called dispatch. Mitchell couldn’t hear anything being said, so he opened the window.
“…another suicide.”
The microphone at his shoulder crackled.
He squeezed the send button. “Yup. Young woman. Blonde this time.”
The crackle answered.
“Will do.”
Mitchell got dressed and stepped outside. He went over to a couple men standing on the sidewalk. Everyone was watching the two officers talk to the older neighbor. He nodded toward the trio.
“Anyone know what happened?”
The man next to him shook his head. “I thought I heard a gunshot about ten minutes ago. Now, there’s a cop car, so I imagine I must have.” He turned to Mitchell. “Did you hear it?”
Mitchell shook his head. “Nope. I was in the shower.”
The man sighed. “Is that gonna be what makes this Hell? Being woken up by gunshots and sirens every morning?”
Mitchell frowned. “I hope not.” He looked at the men on the sidewalk. “How long you been here?”
“Two weeks, six days. I was born in that house.” He nodded to the ranch house behind him. “I’m Alvin Martin.” He stuck out his hand.
Mitchell shook it. “Mitchell Freeman.”
The other two men nodded greeting. “Sherman Peterson. This here’s Walter Timmons.”
Mitchell shook hands with all of them. “Y’all married?”
“Nah,” Sherman nodded to the man being interviewed by the police, “But Howard there managed to get himself a girl. No doubt she’s the one who died.”
Mitchell’s brow furrowed in thought. “I thought I heard the police say suicide.”
“Oh, probably. I don’t know what’s wrong with these women, but they keep blowing their brains out.”
“Do… do they come back?” Mitchell looked at Howard, who really looked like a man going through Hell. “The rules say you come back.”
Alvin shook his head. “Not the women. That rule’s just for the men. I’ve never seen a woman who killed herself show up again.”