"It's easy to be a devil when you're in hell."
----------------------------------------
Something out there had a strange sense of humour, and it acted fast. It decided Joe was one of the tools it needed. Maybe it was his unfortunate closeness to the gates, maybe it was his ability to find humour in the most absurd of circumstances, or maybe it was just his dumb, cosmic luck.
Whatever the reason, something beyond the veil had zeroed in on him, as if Joe—of all people—was the hero it had been waiting for.
It was a little after one in the morning, and Joe was slumped against the curb outside the supermarket doors, nursing a dented can of energy drink.
The night felt hollow, as if the world had folded itself up and tucked itself into bed and Joe had to watch as it slept peacefully. Why the hell they stayed open that late was anyone’s guess. The only customers were the kind you’d rather not meet.
Tweakers on bath salts or the worn-out souls dragging in after a long shift, desperate for a late-night dinner.
Joe stared into the silence, letting it swallow him up as he drank. Old habits clung to him like a second skin. After all, when you’re thirty-three, fresh off kicking a pack-a-day habit and reeling from a seven-year career in finance that went up in flames—burnout hotter than the sun—you take what little solace you can find.
Patrick however, didn’t give a damn about his newly minted ex-smoker status. He lingered by the doorway, one foot already in the grave, tearing through a pack of cigarettes like he was in a race to get the other foot in there too. Joe had told the old bastard he’d quit, but he swore he was blowing the smoke right in his direction on purpose.
Joe brushed him off. This was nothing compared to his last gig. His old job had given him purpose once, something to throw himself into in his mid-twenties, but after a couple of years, the cracks had begun to show.
The bosses didn’t really care about him or anyone else; they only cared about results, making themselves look good to the higher-ups. He had sacrificed a lot for that job—his time, his energy, even parts of himself—but it never gave anything meaningful back.
He tried to find connection outside of work, a relationship that mattered. A few dates and short-term relationships here and there, but nothing ever stuck.
Maybe it was for the best. Looking back now, he realised he had been a first-class nobber during those last few years, bitter and worn out. Anyone worth keeping around would’ve seen right through him and left anyway.
He couldn’t shake the thought—if only he’d been the man he was now, back then. Maybe things would’ve played out differently. Maybe his choices wouldn’t have led to the regrets left behind him, maybe he’d have been a better person.
“Two minutes, Joe,” Patrick muttered before slinking back inside. Joe shook the can, feeling the weight of the last few drops. One final swig. He tossed it into the recycling bin and braced himself for the rest of the shift. There was something oddly satisfying about restocking shelves, aligning each product just so.
It wasn’t difficult by any stretch, but there was peace in the simplicity. A quiet kind of order he’d come to appreciate.
Still, the end of the shift was always a light at the end of the tunnel. By 4:00 AM, all he could think about was driving his beloved shitbox home.
And when he says "shitbox," it's with the deepest affection. Truth is, he loved that car more than he’d ever admit out loud. A red '71 Datsun he’d bought for a cool 50k after he quit his old job. The majority of his savings—way more than was sensible—but he didn’t care then, and he sure didn’t care now.
Worth every cent. He called her Betty, after the legend herself, Betty White.
Learning to drive a manual after years of automatics was awkward at first, but he got the hang of it. He flew out of the parking lot at a speed only 4:00 AM could excuse, hitting the long stretch of country road toward home.
Helicopters hummed above, heading toward what the news kept calling an "environmental incident." Army trucks, news choppers—it was like a warzone ten miles away. But as long as it didn’t interfere with his drive home, he couldn’t be bothered. Not his problem.
The dawn crept up as Joe finally pulled into his apartment complex, casting long shadows over the squat, uninspired building he called home. It wasn’t quite the fancy high-rise style apartment he used to have, but it did the job, at least there was a communal pool.
He slipped into his ground-floor unit, thinking about whipping up some dinner before maybe gaming for a few hours and then crashing.
Over the years, his gaming habit had shrivelled down to a once-a-year affair, usually around Christmas. He’d buy the latest console or game, get all fired up, and then forget about it by New Year’s when work inevitably dragged him back in. But since his resignation, he’d reignited that old flame and found himself enjoying it a hell of a lot more.
If you spot this story on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.
Joe poured water into a pan, his mind drifting to a video he’d watched online—an Italian family whipping up a simple spaghetti dish with butter, garlic, basil, and a handful of other basics.
It had looked delicious, and considering his fridge was a sad mix of condiments, protein powder, and beer, it was about the best meal he could pull together. Ironic, really, for a guy who worked in a supermarket.
Just as he flicked on the gas, as if his stove was connected to the end of the world, it happened.
The explosion ripped through the morning, obliterating the quiet like a war horn. The sound didn’t just hit—it hammered, a shockwave of noise that felt like God’s fist slamming into the earth. Instinct took over; Joe clamped his hands over his ears as the apartment lurched and bucked around him.
The floor shuddered violently beneath his feet, like a beast struggling to break free, and the entire building seemed to groan under the strain.
Windows rattled on the verge of shattering, until they finally gave way, exploding inward in a spray of glass. Car alarms shrieked outside, their cries swallowed by the deafening roar of what sounded like rocks crashing down from the heavens.
"Betty!" Joe shouted, scrambling toward the door, crushing glass and shattered spaghetti underfoot as he moved, the floor now a grotesque mosaic of his ruined dinner. Luckily, he still had his shoes on. For some reason, in the midst of all the chaos, his first thought was of that car—his car.
He yanked the door open just in time to see a massive rock slam into Betty’s hood with a sickening crunch. "Nooo!" The word tore from him as he sprinted towards her, but the boulders weren’t finished. Another rock hurtled across his path, missing him by inches.
If he’d been a step faster, he’d have been nothing but a smear. The rock crashed into the apartment next door, demolishing the front door. Joe didn’t know his neighbours well, but he was pretty sure that was where the little black cat lived. He hoped it was okay.
Outside, chaos took over. Glass littered the pavement, dogs barked frantically, and chunks of earth and rock lay strewn across the street. Joe's eyes locked on a glowing pulse in the distance—a warm, eerie red, like a beating heart. It pulsed in the direction of the explosion, the same place where the so-called "environmental incident" had been reported.
Joe glanced back at poor Betty, her hood now sporting a gaping dent where the rock had slammed into her. Staring at the crater, a panicked, almost hysterical voice echoed from behind him, "IT”S HAPPENING YOU DON’T HAVE MUCH TIME!"
He jolted, spinning around, only to find no one there. His heart rate spiked. He could've sworn the voice had been right next to him. Was it in his head?
His attention was yanked back to reality as residents from the complex started pouring out, wide-eyed and slack-jawed.
“Holy shit, Joe, your car!” Dan, his upstairs neighbour, shouted from the balcony. So much was going on that Joe’s head began to spin.
He gritted his teeth, watching Dan shuffle down the stairs at a snail’s pace, dressed in his ridiculous yellow duck pyjamas. Funny how the guy could only find speed when he was stomping around his apartment like a tap-dancing elephant—right above Joe’s bedroom—every time he was trying to sleep during the day.
Dan sauntered up beside him, scanning Betty’s mangled hood.
“What the hell just happened? Sounded like the earth decided to blow itself up!” No shit, Joe thought, barely restraining the urge to snap. “Yeah, blew out all my windows. Then the rocks started falling,” he said, forcing some civility into his voice. His mind was still on Betty, his poor, battered princess.
Before Joe could focus any further on the damage, something strange happened. A line of text appeared in his vision, creeping in like a glitch in reality. He blinked hard, rubbed his eyes, assuming it was one of those annoying floaters. But this was different. Bold black letters sharpened and grew larger, overtaking his sight.
Get to the glow.
“What on earth?” he said, waving his hand in front of his face, but the text stayed stubbornly in place. It hovered for a moment, then shrank and shifted to the top left of his vision before vanishing completely. He shook his head, dismissing it as a stress-induced hallucination, maybe just the aftershock playing tricks on him.
"You alright, Joe?" asked Dan, now clearly noticing his weird behaviour.
"Yeah, I’m fine thanks, Dan. Just... give me a minute." Joe ducked back into his apartment, grabbed Betty’s keys off the counter, and rushed outside. She had to be okay. Please, let that dent be nothing more than a bruise to her pride.
Dan was already hovering by the driver’s side, peering in. Joe slid into the seat and turned the key. Betty roared to life, her engine purring just like she always did.
"Thank God," he whispered under his breath.
"Sounds like she’s running smooth," Dan chimed in, his face far too close for comfort. He had this irritating tendency to invade personal space, but Joe checked himself before he could finish that thought.
Dan was harmless enough, and after everything, snapping at him wouldn’t help. The stress of the wrecked apartment, Betty’s dent, and his gnawing hunger had him on edge.
"Yeah, doesn’t seem like there’s much damage," Joe replied, trying to sound more confident than he actually felt.
"You think it was a gas leak or something?” Dan asked. Joe glanced up, one eyebrow raised. A gas leak? For all this destruction? He could tell Dan was just grasping for any explanation to make sense of the chaos.
“Probably not,” Joe replied, nodding toward the distant glow. “I think it came from over there.” They both stared at the horizon, where the ominous red light flickered. And maybe it was just a trick of the light, but Joe could’ve sworn he saw shapes—moving, maybe even flying.
Dan squinted at the glow. “Yeah, isn’t that where that thing on the news was?”
“I think so,” Joe said, still trying to piece it all together.
Dan looked between Joe and the glowing sky before his curiosity got the best of him. “You wanna go check it out?”
Under normal circumstances, Joe would’ve laughed it off and said hell no—he wasn’t about to drive toward whatever just levelled half the town.
But tonight felt different. Off-kilter. The weird text in his vision, the voice that felt like it had been inside his head, and the explosion that rattled him to his core. Now, there was this strange pull toward the glow, almost like it was calling him.
Maybe it was just morbid curiosity, or maybe something more. Either way, Betty could use a drive, and he could tolerate Dan’s company for a bit longer.
“Fine,” Joe said, jerking his head toward the passenger seat. Dan’s face lit up as he shuffled around the car and slid in, still in his ridiculous yellow duck pyjamas, giving an appreciative whistle as he ran his hands over the dash. “Damn, it’s even nicer inside,” he said, almost reverently.
Joe ignored him, buckling his seatbelt as the rumble of his stomach reminded him of the spaghetti scattered across his apartment floor. He shifted Betty into gear, her engine purring in sync with his hunger, and steered around the debris in the parking lot. The glow drummed in the distance, drawing them in, one beat at a time.