by Mark Tufo
“Please,” the figure that belonged to the wrist said, as Zakerny rubbed the redness from his eyes. “Please, I don’t know what I’m doing here.” When the serial killer’s vision cleared he saw a man, fat and doughy, with the same pasty white skin as his own. Zakerny pushed the man to the ground with a wet thud, and the flabby skin wobbled while the man protected his face with his arm.
“You’re dead.” Zakerny’s voice was harsh and cold, and the man’s expression morphed into one of agony.
“I… I don’t understand.” The man trembled, his double chin swayed gently and his bottom lip protruded when he spoke as if he were a small child chided by an adult. “My… my name is George, George Bass.”
“Welcome to Hell, George Bass,” Zakerny sneered, and he turned on his heel, the gravel crunching below his soft soles. Behind him the man whimpered. Zakerny’s thin mouth spread into a smile as he walked away from George Bass.
The sky looked like it was made of congealed blood. Now and then an opening formed, and an unseen force spat out a naked human being onto the ground. Some would get to their feet, while others lay sobbing and pleading for help. Most of the figures appeared to be confused and frightened, all were covered in the red substance. Zakerny brushed the residue off his new skin. With a feeling of satisfaction he looked at the figures around him, and noticed that while some trembled, and some called out in fear, none seemed to have the same confidence as he did.
There is nothing to be afraid of but me, Zakerny thought, as he stepped over dozens of the bodies that just did not have the strength to get up, until he found a dark path in the gravel. The dead who had gathered their senses walked the dark trail, their shoulders hunched and their faces filled with fear and wonder.
Tall shapes ushered the wandering souls along the darkness, herding them all in the same direction like a long line of cattle. When Zakerny was close enough he could see the figures were shaped like tall humans that would have been beautiful if their bodies and faces hadn’t been lined with scars, and their mouths weren’t sewn shut with thick black thread. Specks of crusted blood lined the wounds along their mouths, and their pale blue eyes were heavily lidded. The festering scabs, marble white skin covered in thick blue veins and deep set eyes were reminiscent of images from a nightmare, and whatever beauty was still transparent was robbed by the pure melancholy of their existence. Some had broken wings on their backs that hung limp from torn ligaments across their disfigured skin. Others merely had large bleeding scars where the feathery appendages had once graced their shoulders.
Fallen Angels. This must be Hell.
The flesh-covered souls pleaded with the silent angels, but the tall figures merely pointed down the road, and the human spirits moved on. Their footsteps were slow and deliberate, and Zakerny knew that their hearts were heavy with the pain and fear they felt. The serial killer followed, his step resolute, his shoulders straight and his head held aloft as he pushed the wet pale bodies out of his way. Some fell to the ground, sprawled at awkward angles, and Zakerny stepped on them to pass; he had little patience for the insipid herd.
After a while he could see where the herd was heading. Large platforms, shaped like floating islands in an endless sea, loomed in the distance. His new heart pounded in his chest, a mixture of excitement and wonder tickled his curiosity, and he quickened his pace to reach the enormous structures.
One by one the angels ushered the souls onto the platforms—there were more than the eye could see. On each a tall, solemn figure dressed in a long grey robe, a cowl pulled up over their heads, stood to receive the bodies. All around, murmurs and cries escaped from the mouths of the herd. The air appeared to be thick with static electricity and Zakerny felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end.
A naked woman—shaking and crying—was brought before a particularly gaunt angel. The creature carried a large black lance, and he beckoned the woman with a slender grayish hand to stand before him. She obeyed with trembling knees. The woman stood, her head bowed, long strands of soft red hair falling past bony naked shoulders, and across small pointed breasts. Her skin was the same as Zakerny’s but her body mimicked the malnutrition she’d obviously suffered from during her life. If he would have met the woman in the streets of Bratislava, he would have pegged her for a drug user. The new skin—however—did not show any of the telltale signs, such as needle marks.
The Angel towered above her as he pulled back the lance and stabbed her straight through the heart with such force Zakerny thought the woman would die a second time. Her head flew back, eyes fluttered open as she screamed in agony, but the woman did not crumple. Instead of blood a dark mist escaped from the wound, dripped down her body as if it were a liquid, and oozed to the floor.
Several pools developed around her, and the fog formed into shapes. To his surprise, Zakerny saw faces, some filled with agony, others with rage and fear, but all were whispering at the woman in the center. Zakerny couldn’t hear what they said over the murmurs around him, he could only hear the woman’s voice ring out clearly above the soft muttering.
“No, please… forgive me…” She sank to her knees and clutched her face, her soft red hair covering her features. The faces ignored her pleas, they pushed outward, long arms appeared and grabbed for her arms and legs. She screamed for mercy, but none came.
Zakerny, distracted, glanced at the other platforms. Each person suffered through their own trial, and the results were always different. Some had bigger pools of darkness, while others were standing in a pool of light that flowed from the holes in their chest.
The serial killer turned his attention back to the woman on the first platform, who now lay curled in a fetal position. She clutched at the ground, her face moist from tears and saliva, and begged for the shadows to stop. The angel knelt next to the woman, his stitched mouth a thin line, and he bent over to hear her. She whispered something in his ear, her lips quivering and her mouth contorted; tears and snot covered her pretty face. The angel nodded and rose. The shadows of the pool moved more freely now, pulsating back and forth as if they were the waves of an ocean, and with one swift movement they engulfed the female on the ground. Seconds later she was gone.
Blue eyes looked at Zakerny, and the angel beckoned him to step onto the platform. The serial killer obeyed, a thin smile on his face.
“This is where we weigh your sins,” a bodiless voice spoke with a tone of authority. The angel never moved his lips, but just stared at him through heavy lids.
This is not Hell… not yet, Zakerny thought.
“Do your worst,” he said to the dark figure, and he spread his arms as he had when he invited death only hours before. The angel stabbed the lance through Zakerny’s new heart, and though the pain was strong, and he felt his legs wobble, he bore it with his head held high. A dark substance—between a gaseous and liquid form—spilled from his heart and left an icy trail along his body. Unlike the sins of the other woman, Zakerny’s soul kept spilling more and more of the black gas, which covered the platform within seconds. Still more came. The substance swirled and bubbled, its movement like that of a restless animal. Zakerny watched the angel, and to his satisfaction he saw the eyes of the creature widen as the endless stream of darkness flowed from his heart.
“I lived for sin,” he told the silent creature. “I dedicated my life to torment… to pain.”
The shadows took the shape of his victims. Children screamed and cried as they died at Zakerny’s hand. He saw the real pain in the eyes of his victims, not just the pain inflicted by knife or fire… but also the pain inflicted by the death of hope, by the feeling of abandonment.
“Behold your sins, soul. Behold and face them. These are the choices you made in life.”
“Look at my sins, Angel,” Zakerny said, his hands still raised. “Look at who I am. All these victims, whether they are in heaven or in hell, they still fear me, even in death. I’m their tormentor, their master.” He pointed at the semi opaque hands that clawed at his legs. �
�Do you think the sight of them will make me feel regret?” He shook his head, his eyes sparkling with delight. “Not I, there is no remorse for anything I have done, except perhaps that I wish I could have done more. I’m not like these other creatures.” He waved his arms with a gesture of grandeur at the souls around him. “I’m superior. Whatever made me, be it god or demon, created me to torment.”
“You are ruled by Pride, lost soul. You are filthy. There is only one place for you to go. I ask you now, what should be your punishment for the life you have led?”
Zakerny scoffed and threw back his head.
“Punishment?” He laughed, “Lord Lucifer should reward me for the life I led. I have dedicated my every waking moment to Hell’s very purpose. My actions have corrupted souls, my name is whispered with the same awe as the Lightbringer’s own name. There will be no punishment. Bring me to the Lord of Hell and let him elevate me to the highest rank of his demons. I have a gift. I can look into a human’s eyes and see what torment would suit them. If this is not a desirable gift in Hell, then I don’t know what is.”
“As you wish, Proud One,” the voice said.
The movement of the gaseous substance was triggered by an unspoken demand, and Zakerny felt the shadows engulf him, pulling him down. The man struggled, but it was no use, and he felt cold clammy fingers tug at him as the platform around him dissolved.
***
Where am I? Zakerny’s hand glided down his body, tentatively touching the scar on his chest where the lance had pierced him. He looked to his surroundings, his eyes stinging from the bright light that greeted him. Everything around Zakerny resembled a meadow, from the full green grass, to the pink fragrant flowers, and for a moment he was convinced he’d returned to earth somehow.
No… this is not a meadow, I was wrong, it’s a lawn in a very large garden.
The whole area would look like an ordinary patch of grass if it hadn’t been for the strange illumination and the fluorescent colors of the local flora. The light attempted to mimic sunlight, but it lacked the sharpness and the warmth, instead it lit the garden with a rather weak artificial glow.
Why am I here? Surely this can’t be hell? Where are the fire and brimstone, the tormented souls, the demons? Where is the pain?
Zakerny stared along the garden, his eyes stopping at a large white mansion in the distance. The front was mainly made from large glass windows that nestled behind the wood of the elegant veranda. Fields of pink flowers surrounded the building, as well as peach blossom trees, and a white picket fence which looked out of place next to the size of the building. The slanted roof, covered with dark gray slates, gleamed in the eerie light. The mansion looked picture perfect, but the friendly effect that the architect tried to portray by painting it white or surrounding it with flowers and a picket fence, was lost in the austerity that the building emanated.
The passing of time muddled Zakerny’s senses; the walk to the mansion was an eternity and brief at the same time. For the first time in his existence Zakerny felt a hint of doubt. This must be Hell, he thought, what other place could make me feel small? With heavy legs he climbed the few marble steps up to the veranda. The light that shone from the sky fell through the holes in the woodwork, casting a pattern of golden triangles onto the porch. The mansion looked out of proportion to Zakerny’s eye, as if everything was just slightly too large. The windows were too high and too broad, the wooden door—the only dark thing about this bright white mansion—too big. The entrance gaped at him like the maw of an enormous beast, and Zakerny felt dwarfed by the sheer size of it. A large brass knocker—shaped like a surly gargoyle—gleamed in the center of the door, and Zakerny’s fingers wrapped around the ring held in its ugly mouth with mild trepidation. The smooth metal glowed under his touch, not hot—but tepid. Zakerny put all his strength behind knocking on the door, and his effort echoed beyond the solid wood.
Agonizing moments passed before a man dressed in a black tailcoat and grey trousers opened the door. A butler? He was considerably taller than Zakerny, who always considered himself a tall man. White hair peppered with grey looked plastic under the amount of grease used to slick it back. The skin of his face was ashen, and dark circles lined his eyes. His face bore no visible wrinkles, yet the man looked old. Zakerny guessed him to be in his late sixties.
“Adolf Zakerny?” the man asked in a dry old voice that made the hairs on the back of the serial killer’s neck stand up. The butler didn’t seem perturbed by his nudity, and barely cast Zakerny a glance.
“I am he.” His soft voice could have been mistaken for humble.
The expression on the butler’s face remained neutral and uncaring. “Please follow me.” A hint of disdain resonated in his voice, but the face remained devoid of emotion. “The master is expecting you. He will see you personally.”
Zakerny wondered if the master was the one called Lightbringer himself. He had always assumed that Lucifer would see him personally, but this Hell was different from what he expected.
There was a spring in his step as he trailed after the stiff figure of the butler through the many rooms. The prospect of his future in Hell excited the serial killer. My destiny, he thought, and a smile curled on his lips.
The inside of the mansion surpassed the beauty of the outside. The furnishings were a perfect marriage of design and color, and Zakerny couldn’t help notice the cleanliness of the interior; as if he’d stepped inside a ‘beautiful homes’ magazine. Every corner was spotless and gleamed as if recently polished.
They walked through long corridors, crossed rooms that were all different but equally chic, until his guide led Zakerny to a large, square room that appeared to be an office. The furniture in this room was bulky and made from polished mahogany. A large desk, ornate with carvings of vine leaves and little gargoyles crawling up the sides, stood as the centerpiece.
By a set of tall glass terrace doors a figure stood staring at a beautiful garden—this one filled with more splendor and different colored flowers than the one Zakerny had passed on his way to the mansion. He followed the gaze of the figure, and examined a hedgerow labyrinth so large he couldn’t see the end of it. The front of the maze lay shining in the faux sunlight, while the back trailed off into darkness. His focus switched from the view to the man. He stood at least seven foot tall. His skin was dark and reddish in color, and on his head he bore two horns that looked like those of a large ram. The man, or creature, was clad in armor, an even deeper red than his skin, nearing black in tone. Large shoulder plates, glowing with the heat of molten metal, adorned his broad shoulders. The face was too angular to be really handsome, though Zakerny perceived a certain attractiveness in the features. “My lord,” the butler said softly. “The new soul—”
Before he finished his words, Zakerny stepped forward, blocking the space between the butler and the demonic figure.
“Lord of Hell.” Zakerny straightened his shoulders and held his head high. “I have brought my talents and my gifts to your kingdom, and am eager to be here.”
The demon looked taken aback for a moment, and then he laughed, his voice a low rumble. He shook his head and stepped aside to reveal a leather chair behind the desk. The chair turned with a gentle squeak and a second figure came into view. This man was much less imposing. For a moment Zakerny believed the figure to be a human, but then he saw something in the new man’s eyes that made him realize he couldn’t be more wrong.
This is him, the Lord of Hell. How could I have ever thought that the inferior demon could be the master of the underworld?
Zakerny swallowed his anger. He never felt like a fool around humans, yet his mistake made him feel the pang of humiliation in front of the Master of Hell. This new man was beautiful and of undistinguishable age; he appeared young, but felt old. Words could not describe what it was about his presence that emanated ‘ancient’.
Zakerny—who in life cared very little about physical beauty—was overwhelmed by the appearance of the Lightbringer, who wasn
’t merely handsome—handsome had some imperfections—but was perfection itself. His skin flawless, his eyes as blue as the clearest sky, his face friendly and open, yet behind that winning smile Zakerny recognized cruelty. This creature is my equal, Zakerny thought. Only he will understand.
Dark blond hair, a rich golden color, lay in thick tousled curls over his forehead and ears. His blue eyes sparkled as he leaned forward across the desk.
“Thank you, Azazael.”
“What do you want me to do with the soul of Fatima Oni?” The butler’s face was still the same stolid mask.
“I’ll speak to her after I’m done with Mister Zakerny. I’m interested in what she has to say.”
“She simply does not belong in Hell, my Lord. There are rules. I don’t know why the judges let her through.”
“That’s for me to worry about, Azazael.” Lucifer waved his hand dismissively, and the butler gave a curt bow, and turned on his heel. He shot Zakerny a distasteful glance before he left.
The Lightbringer swirled his chair towards the Demonic figure to his side.
“Zepar, I believe it’s best if you go too. We’ll finish our discussion at a later date. I wish to deal with this gentleman myself.”
The red skinned demon was obviously displeased. He puffed out his chest and adopted a threatening stance, his legs spread and his hands on his hips.
“You dismiss me for the soul of this creature? I am a duke of Hell, and that—” he pointed at Zakerny with a finger topped by what appeared to be a talon, “is a filthy soul.” A smile curled on the lips of the Master, but it was a cold smile, and he held up a warning finger.
“Do you presume to tell me who I shall or shan’t dismiss?”
Zepar stiffened, his pointed features betraying a range of emotions, and the large creature struggled to find his words with care. “No, my Lord, I just meant… This creature…”
