2

This demonstration of power was certainly impressive—the groans of a torn man still echo from the cave—but still no one is in a rush to cross the scorching bridge. Its cooling iron snaps and slowly blackens, but the edges of its beams and nails still glow red. We stand frozen, as if we can’t grasp what is being asked of us.

“Come on, what’s with the line?” the devil sneers. “It’s like the showers in Treblinka, isn’t it Hans?” he sneers at a perhaps century-old man.

“My name is Ian,” the man protests weakly.

“So move it, please,” the devil urges us, impatience creeping into his voice. He’s also not smiling as casually anymore. Now it’s more forced, as if he’s straining to keep a good mood.

A new scream echoes from the cave. We see a muscle-bound figure crouched at the entrance. His intestines are crawling into his stomach, and his face is twitching like a fish out of water.

An old man tries to slip past the devil, whose tail, however, lashes through the air like a whip and strikes him across the face, splitting it open and knocking out one of his eyes.

“Ladies first?” the devil asks, not even looking at the man, whose blood is now pouring through his fingers.

Chaos ensues as women are mercilessly pushed toward the bridge. The crowd surges around me, but I am young and strong and refuse to be overtaken. An old lady with permed blue hair is pushed to the edge.

“Virgo Maria,” she whispers, her eyes fixed on the fiery Victorian bridge.

“No vulgarities, please,” the devil says, swatting her on the rump.

She scurries forward, reaching the middle of the bridge before turning and running back in terror.

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The devil roars like a lion. Or perhaps more like a Spielbergian T-Rex. The sound shakes my chest. The woman panics and spins for a moment—eliciting a merry chuckle from the devil—but eventually she runs back away.

“Lift those legs high, ma’am!” he shouts behind her, cupping his hands like a megaphone. When the she collapses on the other side, he cackles until tears stream down his face. “My friends,” he intones in mocked sincerity, “you must tread as lightly as you can.”

He sends each of us off with a slap to the backside. I’m still trying to make sense of it all, to come up with something—anything—that will wake me from this nightmare. It occurs to me that I may indeed be asleep.

But it’s all too vivid. And happening too fast.

The old men run clumsily after each other. They’re followed by a forty-year-old brunette. She screams and outruns everyone on the bridge, colliding with a crone who then disappears into the fiery depths with a screech.

It’s my turn.

I sweat with heat and horror.

The devil slaps me across my buttocks. I repel the senseless idea of resistance and sprint as fast as I can, barely landing on my toes. I try to ignore the endless depths and the scorching gusts of air that shake me. I pass two old-timers, and suddenly I’m on the other side.

I jump past a heap of writhing people. They cry in pain and hold their burned and peeling feet.

I don’t feel anything at all.

I glance back at the devil. He strides toward us on the bridge, his tail swishing to and fro. I instinctively flop to the ground and try to moan convincingly. I clutch at my feet, trying to hide the fact that I’m unharmed. I rock back and forth and whimper. It’s embarrassing, and I fear he’ll see right through me and rip out some of my innards just for kicks. Our guide, however, pays me no attention and briskly leads the way.

“Come on, group!” he says, and claps. “We’ve got a nice hike ahead of us!”

When the oldsters don’t rise, he hauls them up by their hair. He lashes out with his tail, leaving deep gashes on their bent backs.

I rapidly check my feet—no blisters, no burns—and quickly rise. I don’t want to give him an excuse to touch me. But he comes to me anyway. I feel his gaze and, for safety, I eye the ground, trying to sound distressed. He’ll surely soon realize I’m cheating.

But the devil is looking somewhere behind me.

The tattooed man has just crossed the bridge. Besides a crazed look in his eyes and a few drying bloodstains, he’s perfectly fine.

“Move it, dumbass, we’re not waiting for you,” the devil growls. Thankfully, he doesn’t spare me a glance. “Alright friends, follow me!” he commands like a tour guide and sets off into the dark depths of Hell. Fifty damned souls obediently follow him.