Like hell I was going with them.I turned around, ready to head back. I'd taken only two steps when I saw him — another poor soul running for his life, chased by two of those scorpion-like things. He wore nothing but a tattered shirt and torn pants. His jacket must have been ripped away when they grabbed him.
It was a hopeless scene. He stumbled through the black sand, tripping over the trenches that yawned like open graves, arms flailing uselessly. His pursuers, on the other hand, leapt effortlessly — perfect, predatory arcs that closed the distance in seconds."Stop!" they shouted, with no intention of being obeyed.
They reached him in a heartbeat. Stingers like blades struck his back. The man screamed — then a dull thud as he hit the ground. The impact rippled through the air. A second blow crushed his chest; I heard the sickening crack of breaking ribs, the obscene pop of a sternum bursting open like a pistachio shell.
He gasped, hands slick with blood reaching for something that wasn't there. A final gurgle rose from his throat, and his body went limp. The two scorpions grabbed him by the ankles and dragged him away, leaving a black smear behind. They threw him into a cave and vanished.
I swallowed hard. The taste of sulfur had become permanent.I reconsidered my options in light of recent events and wisely decided to follow the flow downhill. Destination: Tartarus.
The river of souls stretched like an endless serpent. Around me, there was everything imaginable: an African American man in a white tux arguing passionately with an Asian man in a black silk robe; a half-charred clown trudging along, maybe the victim of a final act gone wrong; a two-meter-tall Samoan covered in tattoos stomping through the sand; and a pair of elderly people dressed in white, walking calmly, as if unaware of the chaos surrounding them.
I envied them — serene, eyes fixed ahead, as though the end were just another stroll. With every step they took, a muffled, rhythmic clinking came from their clothes — the sound sample that made Money by Pink Floyd famous. I was mesmerized until I accidentally bumped into the Asian man.
"Watch it!" he snapped."Sorry," I muttered, then forced some courage into my voice. "Why did we stop?""We've arrived. Can't you see?" he said curtly."Sorry," I repeated.
He turned slightly. "Fu," he said."Excuse me?""My name. Fu.""Oh… Rodolfo," I introduced myself. He smiled. Strange — even there, in that hell, a name could still bridge two human beings.
"Do you know where we are?" I asked.He met my eyes, calm and narrow. "I only remember the moment of my death. Then I was here. Same for everyone — the last memory, whether beautiful or terrible."I nodded.
"I spoke with an old man from a distant place called Gallura," he added. "He said a spirit named Agabbadora came to reap his soul.""The Femmina Accabadora?" I blurted out.His eyes widened. "You know her? Did she reap yours too?""No. I died…" it took me a second to focus on my past life, "…of cancer. The Accabadora was a woman dressed in black who ended the lives of the elderly who couldn't care for themselves… with a club."
The line started moving again."Strange way to honor your ancestors," he said — without irony."It was an ancient custom, abandoned half a century ago. I didn't think anyone still called for her.""That's because not all of us died in the same time, or the same place."
A cheerful voice interrupted us."Jason MacCallister, died in 1941 in Bristol! Pleasure to meet you! Just found out how the war ended — and I'm all fired up about it!"A man in his sixties, red-haired and dressed in tweed, gave us a small bow."And you, Mr. Fu? When did you die?""In the Year of the Hare."Jason and I exchanged puzzled looks. "Meaning what?""The Year of the Hare," he repeated with monastic calm.
The murmuring around us stopped when a giant appeared ahead.He stood on a raised ledge, gazing down at the tide of souls like an emperor surveying his arena. Eyes of burning coal, beard and hair long, greasy, ghost-white skin carved with wrinkles as ancient as Hell itself. He held a colossal oar that looked capable of cracking the world in half.
"Wicked souls!" he thundered.A flash of recognition struck me. "Charon," I whispered.Fu stared at me, impressed. "Good heavens, Signor Rodolfo! You really do know everyone!""Quiet!" hissed Jason, terrified.
"Welcome to your final abode!" boomed the giant, and I thanked myself for staying well back. "Each of you will be assigned to one of my Arks. But first, the obol must be paid."
A murmur rippled through the crowd. Charon silenced it with a slam of his oar on the ground — the sound made the sand vibrate like a drumhead.
"The obol may be of noble metal… or of sentimental value. Those who possess nothing will sign a parchment and serve me until their debt expires."He laughed — a sound that scraped the bones.
A middle-aged man in Jewish attire rushed forward. "Mercy! I can't find my daughter! Please, I'll pay anyth—"The oar came down, splitting his skull like a melon. His body collapsed, limbs twitching in brief spasms as blood soaked the coal-black sand.
We all held our breath."Those who interrupt me die," growled Charon. Flames of molten magma burned now in his pupils. "Do not forget — you are already dead, but you can still die again."
The crowd straightened, terror making them docile. We were herded before a monstrous figure — a bull torso, horns adorned with golden rings and gems."Minos," I murmured, the name bitter on my tongue.
The beast assigned souls to the Arks. "Ark Two. Ark One. Ark Seven. Ark Three."Then it was Fu's turn."Ark Eight."
He looked back at me, smiling kindly. "It's a lucky number where I'm from. Honorable Rodolfo, I hope we meet again."I nodded, knowing we probably wouldn't.
"You! Ark Thirteen, under Phlegyas!" Minos bellowed when my turn came.Of course. Lucky me.
I trudged along the crimson pier leading to the Ark. It was immense — gray, granite-like, yet wooden, as if it had grown alive. I resisted the urge to touch it and joined the line.
Ahead, a small amphibian demon collected obols in a wicker basket. Greenish skin, bulging eyes, damp fingers drumming impatiently. Most of the damned signed parchments without reading; others tossed in rings, watches, necklaces.
"Obol!" it croaked when my turn came.I looked down at my hand — bare. No wedding band. I thought of the cufflinks, but how much could they be worth?"Obol," it repeated, sharper now."I… don't have anything," I stammered.
It scanned me from head to toe, nostrils flaring."Trying to be clever, are you?" it hissed, eyes glowing acid-green.
I felt the demons behind it turn toward me. The wicker basket creaked in its grip.Sweat trickled down my temples. My breath came shorter. Panic climbed my throat as more and more eyes turned on me.
My hand went to its usual place, searching for my inhaler — and in that moment… I heard something jingle.