* * *
Alan was escorted into an elevator that revealed itself when a regular-looking bit of red wall slid away. The secretary shoved him in roughly, and glowered at him. “Please hurry up,” she said. “We're almost done preparing.”
“What for?” asked Alan.
The receptionist just smiled as the elevator door closed.
The elevator was also red. It had two red buttons, oriented vertically, without labels. The elevator only stopped two places, it seemed: on the top floor, and on the bottom. Alan hit the bottom button, and the elevator started its hellish descent.
It seemed to take hours. No fewer than ten times did it seem like the elevator would finally stop, only to accelerate again. To pass the time, Alan unfolded the signed document that seemed to cause so much distress to the receptionist.
If he had any doubts that his neighbor Lou was in fact the ruler of Hell, they vanished at that moment. Firstly, when he had first been given the paper, it was scarcely larger than a typical sheet of folded notebook paper, yet when he opened it, it unfurled all the way down to his feet like an ancient scroll, complete with luxurious crimson tassels.
Secondly, the words inscribed on the parchment were made entirely of fire. Alan read them aloud.
“I, Lucifer, Lord of the Nine Circles, the First of the Fallen, the Last to be Saved, the Abaddon, the Leviathan, the Antichrist, the Lawless One, the Serpent of Old--
--Do Solemnly Decree That I Shall Return My Neighbor Alan's Lawnmower Upon Completion of the Caretaking of My Yard.” Alan read it over and over again. When he saw Lou scribble the contract out, it hadn't taken more than half a second. How he had produced such an enchanting legal document was beyond Alan's comprehension.
Alan was agnostic. He had attended church when he was young, because his parents thought it was something that families ought to do. Alan could never quite understand how someone could love a being who had no physical form, never spoke, and who didn't even attend his own worship ceremonies. As he grew up, though, he would never flat-out deny that some kind of spiritual connection existed in the world, but also acknowledged that such a connection could not be proven in any way.
He nodded, folded up the contract, and put it back in his pocket. Once again, the document assumed the form of a regular sheet of folded notebook paper. He put it back in his pants pocket just as the elevator finally came to a rest and opened its doors into the yawning depths of suffering and misery that was the final resting place for the souls of the damned.
It was pleasantly warm, actually.
Alan, confused, stepped forward. The elevator closed and ascended behind him. He turned around and stared back at it. “Hey!” he shouted as it disappeared into the blackness above. “Come back here!” He accidentally bumped into something. It was a stalagmite. It had an elevator call button on it. “Oh,” he said.
Hell, it seemed, was not how most people let on. It looked like a reddish, well-lit cave. There were rocks and stalagmites everywhere. And nothing else.
He was expecting lakes of fire from which legions of tortured hands protruded, their owners forever burning, screeching, reaching for the heaven they had been denied. But there were no screams, nor was there anybody to make them.
“Hello?” called Alan. Nobody answered. He walked forward. “Hello?” he called as he walked. “Is anybody there?”
For ten minutes he walked, until he finally met someone. It was a janitor. He was dressed in a blue jump suit and had a white mustache that could easily sweep the cave floor as efficiently as the broom he was holding. “Um, excuse me,” said Alan. “Do you know where everyone's gone?”
The janitor stopped his sweeping and stared at Alan alarmingly. “What're you still doin' here?” he asked. “Everyone's gone. Yer late.”
“Where've they gone?” asked Alan.
“Don't mock me,” said the janitor, and resumed sweeping.
“Look,” said Alan, withdrawing the contract from his pocket. “I'm Alan. I've got a signed document here from your boss.”
“Boss ain't here,” said the janitor. “I'm just sweepin' up after everyone so when they come back it'll be nice an' clean.”
“But where have they gone?”
“You work here,” said the janitor. “You must've gotten the memos.”
“No, I don't work here,” said Alan.
The janitor paused his sweeping again. He stood up and looked Alan up and down. “No,” he said. “You don't work here.”
Alan once again offered the signed document, and this time the janitor took it. He unfurled it, and read the fiery letters. A faint smile could be seen under his enormous mustache. “Lord,” he said. “You must really want yer lawnmower.”
“Not really,” said Alan. “I'm more worried about my neighbor. He disappeared one day. He never told me he was the Devil.”
The janitor folded up the document and handed it back to Alan. “Yer a good man,” he said. “Nobody every worries about the Devil. Who says he doesn't need lookin' after?”
“Well, where's he gone?” asked Alan.
“Same as everyone else here,” said the janitor. “Off to purgatory to fight the Apocalypse.”
“The Apocalypse?” asked Alan. “You mean that group of religious nuts I read about in the paper was right?”
“There's always someone proclaimin' the Apocalypse,” said the janitor. “One of em's gonna be right eventually. Can't beat them odds.”
“Well, then, if they're fighting the Apocalypse, what are you doing here?” Alan asked. “If it's the final battle, they aren't coming back, are they?”
“Oh, they never actually do it, y'know,” said the janitor as he swept. “Somethin' always comes up, and they get interrupted. Then, they come back and wait till the next End of Days.”
“Something always happens?” asked Alan. “What are you talking about?”
“Well, if I'm readin' that there document correctly,” said the Janitor, gesturing with his broom handle towards the folded contract in Alan's hand, “Looks like this time, that somethin' is you.”
Alan thought about this for a good long while. He nodded, and put the contract back in his pocket, knowing what he had to do. “Well, then,” he said, “Can you tell me how I get to Purgatory?”
“If I didn't,” said the janitor, “I'd be out of the job.”
The Free Indie Reader #1 Page 7
