4

What does eternity mean? Walking a spiral into the depths of Hell certainly feels eternal to me. There’s nothing to measure time by. There’s no horizon, the path is unchanging, and the only source of light is the fiery tornado we’re circling.

Will we keep on like this until the end of time? Or are we headed toward some goal? Are there other groups of the damned ahead of us? Behind us?

I’m 45 and in decent shape, but even I’m exhausted. How must the old folks feel, dragging on apathetically beside me?

One man at the tail end has given up and collapsed. When a wave of gleaming exoskeletons and hairy legs approaches, he rises onto all fours. Then the wave engulfs him. He eventually manages to rise again, but now is covered in beetles and spiders. I notice a centipede crawling up his nose. He screams until the bugs fill his throat. Then he falls, and after a few convulsive movements, he lies still.

He never rejoins us. Just like the woman who fell off the bridge. Does that mean we each have our allotted time?

A few minutes (or hours?) later, an old lady stumbles in front of me. I reach her at the same time as a young blonde. We lift her together and let go only once we’re sure she won’t fall again. The old lady has gratitude in her tear-filled eyes. She reminds me a bit of my grandmother.

Falling from exhaustion leads nowhere. We continue silently.

How long has it been? Five hours? A day? A week? My stomach initially loudly demanded food, then gave up. Now it’s clenched in a hungry cramp. Water is now an abstract concept for me. I’d drink my urine if I could squeeze any out. But I don’t hold much hope for death by starvation or thirst.

“Please, water,” someone says behind me.

The youngest of our pack moves to the fore. He has a rich mane of red hair, and big green eyes. Up close, he looks even younger. How did a teenager end up in Hell?

This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

“Water,” he repeats, making drinking motions.

“Are you thirsty?” the devil asks.

The boy nods. We stop, and I nervously scan for the army of beetles. In the shadows, I see a black, glossy heap rolling in place.

The devil speaks quietly to the boy, finally boldly pinching his face. He then looks at the rest of us: “Friends, shall we take a snack break?”

No one even twitches.

“Now for another spell.” He wiggles his fingers like a magician at some children’s show. “Simsalabim! It’s time to eat… him!”

A body flies out of the center of our cramped group.

The man cries out, more in surprise than pain. He slams back against the upright wall to our left, as if pulled by a magnet.

It’s one of the younger ones. Babbling something in Arabic. The devil approaches him and expertly feels his belly.

“Who wants the spleen?” he asks cheerfully. His tail whips, and its bony tip slices the man from his sternum to his hips.

The man’s entrails slap on the rock.

He screams like a banshee. The devil rummages through the slick innards for a bit, then grasps a red pouch. He cuts it off with the tip of his tail. The man continues to scream.

He looks down at his entrails scattered across the rocks and screams.

“Who wants some spleen?” the devil barks over the man’s cries, holding a bloody bundle in his hand. He finally throws it to the boy. “It’s full of moisture and vitamins,” he advises.

The scene is completely surreal. The boy gazes wide-eyed at the squirming mass in his palm. The devil expertly cuts out the man’s liver and portions it. He speaks soothingly to the man as he does. The Arab surprisingly stops shrieking. He just nods shakily.

The devil tosses us more pieces, and few let them hit the ground.

Oh God, I’m hungry!

I know I’d rather die than touch human flesh. But—is that still true? Has Hell changed my values?

“No need to hesitate, friends.”

And they don’t. The first one licks the bloody piece in their hand. But the blood only excites their appetite. Some take small, discreet bites; others dive right in.

“Come on, dig in.” He’s having a good time. “Kemal invites you.”

The muscled man is the first to advance. I notice the tattooed inscription across his abdomen is a little frayed where the devil tore it apart. Kemal, stuck to the rock, starts whimpering again, and the devil quietly comforts him. The tattooed muscleman kneels and starts feasting.

Others arrive.

They shred the unfortunate one and feed like zombies in a B movie. The devil has his hand on Kemal’s face. “Shhh. Everything’s fine—it’ll grow back.”

Only a few of us refuse the feast. Beside me is a blonde woman. She covers her face and sharply exhales into her palms.

What I do next is spontaneous and foolish. I approach and embrace her. She lets me.

I meet the devil’s eyes, blue like a summer sky.