Angel of Life

By Matthew Ulmer Chapter 1: A Happy Family Let me tell you, Hell really sucks. Hell is worse than spending a week straight with your bitchy ex-wife on a deserted island with nothing to drink but salt water. Hell is worse than spending a month straight strapped to a chair watching nothing but The Golden Girls dubbed in Spanish. Hell is worse than spending an entire year being burned alive every second, with your nerves never giving in and your lungs never giving out, and your flesh just keeps burning and you stay conscious as the stench makes you sick and the pain makes you pray for the sweet release of death. Hell is worse than that, because its a combination of all those things. And the release of death you keep praying for cant come, because youre already dead. So you just exist for the rest of eternity inside a furnace with 30 billion other lost souls crowded around you, either chained to posts or hanging from walls or rung up on fences, and the demons just stab you and burn you all day, every day, for the rest of days. Thats Hell. Fortunately, I blew that popsicle stand two weeks ago.

Todd Engel was a dreamy hunk of man. Six foot two inches tall, broad shoulders, two-liter bottle sized arms. His light brown hair seemed perfectly combed even in a windstorm, and his sky-at-dusk blue eyes once made a mugger hand back his wallet and apologize for handling him so rough. A squared jaw and flat cheekbones seemed chiseled by one of the old genius artists, a Michelangelo or a Bernini; he could have been the muse for The David if he had been born hundreds of years earlier.

But this morning, Todd Engels handsome features contorted into the twisted, snarling visage of a demon spitting venom at his wife. The booming hammer blows of his voice reverberated with the scraping thumping of a kitchen chair as he lifted and dropped the back legs against the floor again and again to emphasize his point. Do you even hear yourself? Thump went the chair. You arent making any sense. Thump thump thump. But Mary Engel was quite the little firecracker herself, and she wasnt taking no shit this morning. As a sleepy sun heaved itself over the flat horizon on thin strings of fading blue, Mary stood in the huge kitchen of her huge house in a huge neighborhood in Medford, New Jersey, and attached her hands to narrow hips, and screamed right back at her husband with a crackle that nearly shook the crystal chandelier in the ceiling. God, youre such an asshole, you know that? Oh, now Im an asshole. No, nows just when Im calling you an asshole. Youre such a bitch. Thats right, resort to name calling. You asshole. The altercation unfolded in the type of rehearsed movements that would reveal to anyone watching and did reveal to a hidden figure leering from beyond their kitchen window that this or something exactly like it had occurred many times before. It started as a mild disagreement, with Todd even thinking in his head okay, stay calm, I wont lose control again but then of course Marys voice rose, and Todds met it in response, and Marys cheeks boiled and reddened and expunged fire from within, and Todd started his dance with the chair, and now came the point when Todd would fling a remark that directly and perfectly scraped her latest insecurity, and next was when Mary would retaliate with an attack against his masculinity, and even as the stalking figure outside planned to intrude on their lives, he felt embarrassment at observing such a personal exchange. And then one of the couples two boys startled all of them. Mommy? Mary stopped in mid sentence, her finger pointed like a blade at her husbands heart. Her head turned slowly, lowered eyes swooping from the Spanish tile floor below her feet to the grand foyer beyond, to the bottom of the spiraling staircase, where her oldest

son stood watching. Hey, honey, she said with her voice magically devoid of malice. The sun hung in the sky like a burnt bruise, like her words had managed to damage the world itself, and it splashed rays through the skylight above and her entire body seemed to glow, her angry hand gesture now floating in air as a peaceful sign of atonement, her still damp blonde hair blazing a halo over her head. But before she could say another word, her husband stepped to the boy and cooed, Whatch you doin up, buddy? You woke me. Oh, hey there, Im sorry, pal. He stroked a round freckled cheek. William Kennedy Engel rubbed big eyes with tiny fists and turned away from his father. Are you okay, mommy? Of course she is, bud." Mommy? Yes dear, Im fine, Mary said. Lets get you dressed. As Mary took hold of her eight-year-old sons hand and lead him up the staircase, Todd flicked his arm and clutched Marys wrist and squeezed hard, and she snapped her head toward him and raised her eyebrows into great angry question marks. But Todd offered her a crinkle of his blue eyes, and her lips twitched ever so slightly into a smile, and he mouthed, I love you. I know. As she reached the top step, her heel slipped on the thick carpet, and she stumbled forward and her leg bent awkwardly and her knee tore through a thin stocking. A gash of flesh bulged from the ripped mesh, an impression of a body slumped against the spider web cuts of a shattered windshield. She clucked her tongue, straightened, and was gone. When the two were out of sight, Todd sagged into a chair at the kitchen island, burying his head in his hands and blowing air through vibrating lips, and it was at that moment that a shadow passed before his masked face. By the time he leaned back and reached for a waiting mug of cold coffee, the figure outside had moved passed the kitchen and was slipping into a small basement window. When the intruders feet landed silently

on the floor a few feet down, he readjusted the large silver revolver at his waist and disappeared into a darkened corner near the door.

Chapter 2: A Series of Coincidences No one had ever escaped from Hell before. It was the real Alcatraz, only a lot more guards, a lot better trained, and no bay to swim across to freedom. And thats why myths suck. There is no river of the damned. There is no lake of fire. There is no skeleton with a paddle bringing damned souls to meet their Dark Lord. It was just me, the razor wire wrapped around my appendages, and about 100 million pissed off demons with an eternal bone to pick. I was the first to escape, but I wouldnt be the last. Souls can return to Earth, they just have to figure out how. Id made it out, but now I was a marked man. Marked from both sides, if you know what I mean. Lets just put it this way: Angels are no angels when theyre pissed off. Which is another reason myths suck. People seem to think Heaven and Hell are white and black. That theres good and theres evil. But it doesnt work like that. Demons can have compassion. Angels can be ruthless. Theyre just like humans. Not everyone, or every eternal being, fits into one stereotype. And there is no master plan. No Gods Will, least not that I can see. I mean, you know the fate people, right; the people all like, If I had gotten into my car thirty seconds sooner or thirty seconds later than I did, would I have gotten that flat tire? Ive got a better question for you: when my perfectly healthy father, who worked out three times a week and only ate poorly on holidays, died of a heart attack the morning we were supposed to go fishing together, was it Gods great design to leave me without a dad, or some vicious way of punishing me for some adolescent mistake? Would you really want to believe that it was something other than an awful, soul-shattering coincidence? These things happen. Call it a happenstance of life. My take is that God created us, but that he doesnt govern our existence. Do you really think he could control the destiny

of 6,429,835,627 people? Do you think he is in command of every act they perform every nanosecond of every day? No, he watches from afar, seeing what we come up with, smiling with delight when we create a new vaccine for some wretched disease, and wincing in agony when we slaughter people in His name. Think of us as an ant farm. He built our home and placed us in it, but he cant control what we do now that were here. Hes a voyeur. An observer. A scientist. He wants to see what were capable of. And way too often, we let him down. We missed the point. He created us to live, and we missed the point. Didnt you ever hear of free will?

Jimmy Mitchell was a waste of space. And not much space at that: he stood just over four feet tall with stubby little arms and stocky, bulging legs. He had more hair in his ears than on his head, and his voice was raspy and weak, the result of too much gin and cigarettes. He used to be a priest. He could bring entire congregations to their feet with two sentences. His voice would rise and his body would swell to four times its size and women would cry tears of salvation in their pews. Now, he lay naked and damp on a hard cot, sound asleep, cuddled against an unconscious hooker. And he was my first stop on the path to proving I was framed and left to rot in Hell.

Free will. I believe that all humans have it. I believe that all humans have the ability to choose. Just take a look at Adam and Eve. When analyzing this story of the Bible logically, it becomes obvious that Eve chose to pick the apple from the Garden of Eden. Adam chose to eat the apple with her.

Do you think that was part of Gods master plan? Did He create a perfect place just to have His creations be banished from it? That doesnt really make much sense, does it? If Adam and Eve existed, they had the ability to choose, and that choice determined the life they would lead. Therefore, in my opinion, coincidence is just an ironic aspect of life. Take my existence as another instance. My life has been one massive chain of a series of coincidences that lead to my birth, my death, and then ultimately to my resurrection. Was it all an act of God? No, it was a fucking coincidence, and it really pissed me off. Might as well start with my death. It was one of those perfect spring days, when the sky looks like a swimming pool above your head. I took my two-seater roadster into a tight turn, barely letting off the gas, and the Porsche Boxster just floated through the curve. I was the proud owner of a hot new sports car for all of 20 minutes: a birthday present to myself, a reward for being free of the financial shackles of my ex-wife. Id ordered it special so I could get the exact color combinations I wanted: a cherry red paintjob with a jet-black top and gunmetal gray leather interior. I think my favorite part of that car was the little divots on either side of the engine they looked like gills to let the car breathe. Phew, it felt liberating to gun that engine through tight turns and floor the sucker on long straightaways. What would happen if I got pulled over? Id simply say to the cop, Im sorry, officer, but do you see what Im driving? How could I not speed? I rounded a corner on one of the few roads in southern New Jersey that wasnt overflowing by about four times its capacity and popped my transmission into another gear. The road narrowed from two lanes to one, and that just seemed to empower me to drive faster, to challenge my own skills, to shout at the swimming pool sky as my sports car leaned into the turn and the revving strain of the engine seemed to tell me it respected me for pushing it to its limits. Then I had to test my new brakes as a dark green minivan materialized out of nowhere and clunked along the one-lane road.

Ugh, you gotta be kidding me. The van chuga-chuga-chuga-chuggaded like Heinz ketchup oozing from a glass bottle, and then up ahead, I stared at it in disbelief, hung a streetlight, turning from green to yellow to red. Shit. My neck snapped as my new baby jerked to a halt. It vibrated angrily beneath me, goading me, and I drummed my fingers on the steering wheel, anxiously, expectantly. Come on, come on. A minute. Two. I swung my head to look around: nothing. Why did this light even exist? Then, finally, it turned green. The van stayed still. I tapped my toe on the gas pedal as if enraptured by a catchy beat, and the car lunged forward in spurts; attack dog waiting to be unleashed. And the van stayed still. Hello! If this frickin van hadnt been here Id be gone by now, painting tire tracks across this lonely road. And then finally, the van began to ooze forward, a second helping of ketchup squeezing itself out of the jar. And finally, the lane widened again into two. And the instant I saw the extra yellow line, I gunned the engine and zipped up to the vans bumper and swung around it and was gone, blasting into the emptiness, sucking my head into the cushiony gray seat rest. Ooh wee, it was everything I always imagined it could be. No unnecessary fights with my wife, no stress over political power plays at work just an empty stretch of road ahead of me, and a car capable of munching that road in moments. A flock of geese approached from the left, just about to pass over me. They dipped in a V-shaped chain under the fading sun, their wings flapping in controlled rhythm, lapping the sky like an old ship churning the deep ocean. Beautiful speckles of life blessing me with their presence, making me question when it was I last stopped to enjoy the world around me. Probably never. I realized I wouldnt have gotten to enjoy this sight if it werent for the van, and I threw the driver a silent thanks as I flipped a switch over my head and my cars soft-top roof disappeared into the back. My ears focused on nothing but the sweet gurgling of the

engine and the musical honking of the geese as I let the air rip through my short hair. Boy, I hadnt felt this free in a very long time.

The man with the blonde ponytail was late. Even with his cell phone sliding across the plastic dashboard of his rented Hyundai Elantra, he could still hear his bosss shriek bouncing around his eardrums. He adjusted his grip on the steering wheel and stomped the gas pedal to the carpet, and the tiny engine whirred and hissed and puttered, and though the point on his forehead where the pulled strands of his ponytail ended in an arrowhead aiming forward, and though a tuft of yellow fuzz on his chin mirrored this forward momentum, the car didn't get the memo, and for all its whizzing and whirring it went nowhere. Late, late, for a very important presentation. This man was in advertising, just like I was, and had flown in from California to meet with a client. He was to present a new marketing campaign for a pill that supposedly counteracted the effects of date-rape drugs. He knew the pill didnt work, but what did that matter? The clients had asked for edgy, and he had given them edgy: the campaign was centered on a cartoon character named Slutty Sally. This man, this blonde haired man racing to his presentation, now silently mouthing the introduction, now tripping over a word and reaching for the next line and realizing he couldnt find it and slamming, slamming, slamming his hand on the steering wheel, screaming damnit damnit damnit, how funny that he was in advertising, just like I was, and that he even had the same ambiguous job title: Marketing Executive. Whatever that was supposed to express when printed plainly on a chic off-white business card. How ironic, that he worked the same job, considering we also shared the same name first and last, as neither of our parents opted to grace us with a middle name, in case we ever achieved success as an author and needed to flash that extra initial. Same name, same job, we were even born on the same day. And not only that, but we entered the world at the exact same time. If he cut his hair as short as mine, would we see the same annoying clawing cowlick working to ruin any sense of combing?

Dont worry: Im not about to twist the narrative on you. Its not like this other guy is me, in some other time period when my hair was longer or something. Im not describing the same person and just planning to cleverly change the writing from first person to third. At least not yet. No, we really were two different people. We just had impossibly similar lives. And we happened to both be gripping steering wheels as we sped toward our ultimate destination. Whatd I tell you: coincidence. Its everywhere.

Jimmy Mitchel snored in his sleep. And sometimes, his body would jerk and the snort would suck up into his nostrils and hed just stop breathing, just lie there still, dying. When this happened, the frail arm of the hooker known on the streets as The Coyote would flop automatically against his heavy chest and the snort would resume where it had left off and his body would rise and fall in steady, ignorant breaths. The Coyote. What a cruel nickname. Sure, it was apt she knew she sort of howled during sex and yes, if she was honest with herself, perhaps it was more than that; perhaps she did look more coyote than woman, with sharp bones jutting from beneath taut skin, a long face and pointed chin with a nasty scar shining underneath, and two red pimples where breasts should have been. But just because she charged for sex and put her slim earnings into a needle didnt mean she didnt have feelings. Jimmy understood that. Its perhaps why he always called her by her real name, not Trixie or The Coyote, but Elizabeth Rose. And thats perhaps why she didnt mind when he fell asleep next to her, as if this were a real relationship, as if she had nothing else to do but spoon with a short, overweight ex-priest who nearly died in his sleep and she didnt even charge him extra for saving his life. But who was she kidding, it was more than charity: he was her best customer, she needed him. Plus, if she was still being honest with herself, she sort of liked him, in his short, fat, ex-priest sort of way.

This is what went through Elizabeth Roses mind as she lay awake on a hard cot, in a room that somehow perpetually smelled like wet plaster, listening to the snorts from the creature next to her. She felt a slight tickle on her nose and went to brush a strand of fake red hair from her face. Still the tickle, little hairs crawling across her skin, and she opened her eyes to see something blurry hanging off the side of her vision. She reached at it with two delicate fingers and came away with a soft white feather, bending slightly against gravity. Thats weird, she thought. Since when did this cheap bastard sleep on feather pillows? Hell, it sure didnt feel like the thing underneath her was feathered, unless somehow feather pillows felt like rocks. And then suddenly it seemed like the rock under her head had been dropped on her chest. Boom, something heavy and hard hit her sternum, and her head teetered up, and breath sprinted from her lungs. A choking gasp for air that went unanswered. The weight came harder and her eyes rolled into the back of her head. It pushed and pushed and blackness started creeping like nightfall across her vision and she couldnt breathe and she was dying, she realized she was dying. And then some kind of a force whooshed her upward, off the bed, and she was on her feet, wavering, about to topple over. But she didnt. She wasnt standing on her own, and she wasnt falling over. A pudding-legged limbo between the two. Then a powerful gust of wind, knocking her on her back, and she didnt hit the ground; she seemed to be floating in mid-air. Her eyes were still stuck in the back of her head The window next to her slid open and she was tossed out of it. Hair blowing wildly, like a big red flame, as she fell three stories down to the concrete below. But she wasnt hurt. Her hair folded in over her face and her body lay gently on the concrete, almost in an arch from butt to back to head. She took a deep breath and air entered her lungs. Not a desperate gasp, just soothing relief. No pain. But how could that be?

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Her eyes fluttered open, and the blackness was gone. In its place, a man standing over her. Silhouetted against the sun, the edges of his head blurring and shining with the gold, the most gorgeous thing she had ever seen. She grinned at the sight of him, and he smiled back a warm, understanding, powerfully intoxicating smile. Suddenly her skin didnt itch from the inside. Suddenly the jarring juts of her joints didnt scrape away at her. That smile, that warm loving smile, it told her all would be right with the world. Then the man punched her in the face and the blackness took over. Standing over her body, the man looked up at the outside of Jimmys apartment, where a white curtain stretched out the open window. Jimmy was still up there. Asleep. And he was all alone.

The trash man had never seen anything like it. As a bright red garbage truck screeched toward its last stop, the trash man hanging off the side cursed at what must have been three tons worth of fiber cereal piled atop the curb and spewing into the street. The owner of the house was dead. Before he died, he had been obsessed with the apocalypse, Revelations, the end of the world. He thought man would bring about Earths destruction. Robert Angstroms fear blossomed during the Cold War between America and Russia. Sensing this conflict would bring about Judgment Day, Robert spent his life savings on a bomb shelter in his basement, stocked with water, toilet paper, and three lifetimes worth of cereal exploding with bran and fiber. The Cold War ended, but the threat of the apocalypse didnt. Robert kept his bomb shelter stocked with supplies. If Judgment Day came, he would attempt to wait it out in his basement. Twenty years after the Cold War, a former Russian nuclear specialist moved to America in search of employment. He had been involved in the creation of nuclear warheads weapons that he hoped would turn America into a crater. He actually invented

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the triggering device for the weapons and oversaw the production of them at a plant disguised as a sable hat manufacturer in Minsk. But he lost his job after the war, and now lived in the United States, working as a window washer and cleaning the windows of a Lockheed Martin building where they used to design nuclear warheads to use against Russia. Robert happened to be visiting that exact building to discuss upgrades to his bomb shelter. America, after all, had just invaded Iraq, and Robert knew this time the threat of nuclear war was real. As he waited for his sales representative to return with a contract, he stared out the window, watching rain pellets begin to pelt a large sunflower planted into the impeccably landscaped garden. By the time his signature was dry on the paper, that same sunflower was shoved headfirst into the dirt by a whooshing torrent of precipitation. Normally Robert liked to take a moment to admire the Lockheed Martin garden, but with the churning rush of rain, all he wanted was to get to his car. He pulled a coat around his head jogged forward. Just my luck, thought the window washer in Russian, as a burst of rain undid the crisp shine he had just added to a row of tall windows. As he reached for the lever to lower himself, his foot slipped on the wet metal surface and he began to fall backward and he flapped his arms and the squeegee in his right hand came loose but his body leaned forward and he slapped his palms against the window and thanked almighty God for protecting him as Gods tears or spit washed over him. That squeegee tumbled through the air and Robert Angstrom jogged forward with his head covered and just as the two were about to meet, Robert heard his name and stopped and turned, and the sharp edge of the squeegee slipped right past him and clattered against the ground. Robert heard the sound and turned again but saw nothing, and turned back and saw his sales representative waving him toward the front awning. What is it? Robert yelled through the hissing rain. Your keys, the man hollered back. Rats, Robert said to himself, and then jogged under the awning.

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When he took the keys, he jingled them once, said, Just got these pants and everything just keeps slipping out the damn pockets. Well theyre damn fine pants, Mr. Angstrom. Robert glanced down to see dark dripping dampness. Yeah, thanks. Another jingle of the keys. Anyway, wouldnt a gotten very far without these, huh? No, Mr. Angstrom. Right. And he was off again, jogging out into the rain again, making it two feet before his foot stepped on the squeegee and he lost his balance and fell forward, and his legs flailed, and his shoe came down on the slick grass and then slipped out from under him, and his body went almost parallel to the ground, and his head hit a decorative rock, and thwack, it bashed his skull and invited blood into his brain. He was dead before his body rolled limp onto the manicured lawn. When Roberts estranged sister came to the house to sort through his belongings, she squeezed out a sad laugh when she saw the Mount Everest of cereal boxes packed into his bomb shelter. It took her 20 trips to schlep all the boxes to the curb in front of the house. The result: a cursing trash man who just wanted to be home with his daughter, to snuggle into the couch with a hot chocolate, watch their favorite TV show, and maybe catch a $5 hand job from The Coyote once his daughter fell asleep. Just a few feet away, a large flock of geese stood ruffling their wings and shuffling their feet, waiting for the last dump of garbage to slide its way into the landfill. A brief pit stop before continuing their migration. They couldnt believe their luck when the cereal boxes landed at their feet. They honked approvingly and dug into the bran and fiber. When they were full, they ran forward and launched themselves into the air and maneuvered into a perfect flying V.

According to his printed directions, the blonde marketing executive was nearing his destination. He attempted to scan the piece of paper for the next few turns when he noticed a flash of light ahead of him, and he looked up to see a pair of bright headlights floating

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toward him. As they came closer, he realized they were in his lane, that another car was about to collide with him. A screaming moan of the tires as he jerked the wheel to the right and the car swerved and fishtailed across the shoulder just as the other car roared passed him, rattling his windows and whitening his knuckles on the wheel. Holy bloody Christ, he said to his windshield as he steered the car back onto the road. Then he released a relieved laugh. Phew, Tomd kill me if I didnt show up with the brochure. Dying in a car accident wouldnt be a good enough excuse for him. Then, a thought passed through his brain that kept his knuckles white against the steering wheel. Did I forget the brochure? Keeping his left hand on the wheel, he swung to a pile of materials in the gray patterned seat next to him, flipping through the pile, tossing items away. Come on, come on. He studied the road and then flicked his eyes to the pile, and then the road, and then the pile. The road narrowed into two winding lanes and he looked at the pile of materials and he didn't see the brochure and man oh man this was not good. He reached for the phone and voice dialed Toms number and cradled the phone against his chin, and with his left hand on the wheel and his eyes drifting between the narrowing road and the seat next to him, he started crumpling documents and tossing them to the floor. The phone stopped ringing. A click. Then: Where are you? Tom. Tom, do you have the brochure? Stop screwing around, asshole. Im serious, Tom. Tell me you have the brochure. Something thumped under the Hyundais tires. Then again. And again and again and again. The car bounced aggressively and jerked to the right and the man looked up from the scattering of papers to find that he was drifting off the narrow two-lane road. A quick jerk and yet another screech and fishtail for the rented sedan and he was back on track. But still no brochure. His eyes and hand drifted once more to the seat next to him. You still there? Tom asked nervously.

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Yes, yes, Im here, but I cant seem to- Suddenly his fingers tightened around a smooth piece of paper. He stared at it in disbelief. The brochure. I got it! he shouted into his neck. You son of a bitch. Youre a real piece of work, you know that? The blonde marketing executive smiled a relaxed sigh and brought his right hand back to the steering wheel and his eyes back to the road just in time to see the sloping round headlights of a Porsche Boxster coming right at him.

The siren call of the geese honks, drawing my attention, beckoning my appreciation. The way they moved in unison, their stark brown bodies like paintbrushes drawing red and purple lines across the darkening sky. I released the roof of my convertible just as they flew overhead, offering me an unobstructed view of their magnificence. Why hadnt I paid more attention to the gifts of nature? Probably something I could blame on my ex-wife. As the black cloth top lowered into the back of the car, crisp night air struck at my face. I opened my mouth and felt the coolness slither down my throat. Then, it hit me. A wave of liquid. Washing over me, disorienting me. The simultaneous excretion of a large group of geese. Their feces smacked me in the face like a slap with a wet towel. Thwap, just like that, and I was covered in it. I lost complete control of my car. I dont know whether I pulled it to one side or what, but it swerved into the other lane. There is another myth I want to debunk, by the way. I dont know what exactly occurred with my car at that moment, because it all happened so quickly. Time doesnt slow down the instant you die. Life doesnt flash before your eyes. Everything moves like nothing is changing, because nothing is, except that one meaningless life is ending. This incident has no impact on the rest of the universe, so why should time be altered as a result of it?

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No, time did not slow down. My life did not flash before my eyes. I gazed in horror through bird shit stained eyes as my car roared over the road at high speeds and collided with a silver Hyundai Elantra driven by a man with the same name, same job, and same birth time as me. If they werent already, the sound of metal on metal would have made my ears bleed. The most horrific, disgusting sound Id ever heard. For all of about a millisecond, until I heard the sound of my bones snapping. The car crumbled and folded my body in half. My seatbelt snapped off like it wasnt even there and I burst through the open roof of my brand new cherry red sports car, flying a good 10 feet before skidding across the hard concrete, rattling my brain against my skull. But that didnt kill me. A shard of glass dug into my stomach, and I bled in the street for three hours before finally closing my eyes for good. The last thing I saw was a glossy sheet of paper with a girl drawn on the cover. The wind ruffled the pages and made her dance seductively. In a last dying twitch of nerves, my mind tried to read the letters that hung above her, but then everything went black, and I was in fire, falling, or feeling like falling, even though my body was firmly planted on the ground, drained of blood, of life, of my soul. Fire. Burning, churning fire, twisting around me, encircling, hugging. Even though I no longer had flesh or bones, I could feel my flesh searing off my bones, boiling and bubbling and tearing away. And still falling. I continued to fall for what would have felt like an eternity to a normal human. But I was now in eternity, and thousands of years would seem like a blink. I was falling, and I had not seen pearly white gates, I had not met Saint Peter, I had not been judged. I was immediately deported to Hell, and when I finally stopped falling, I collapsed to my knees and stared at the misshapen feet of a demonic creature. I tried to scream, but something jabbed into my throat and cut me short, and I never uttered a sound as damnation swept over me. Chapter 3:

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A Helluva Time

Todd Engel ignored his wifes butt. It curved in all the right places, especially for a mother of two at her age, and as she bent to adjust a replacement stocking, her legs stayed straight and her butt pushed out and it wiggled and she glanced behind her to catch Todds attention. And he never noticed as he stared at his reflection in a full-length mirror, adjusting the pristine knot of a tie with stripes that perfectly matched his eye color, as if knitted for him. Once satisfied with the knot, he slipped a silky Joseph Abboud jacket over his dress shirt and smoothed out the bottom, buttoned the top button, and strolled out the closet. You ready, hon? he called behind him, as long strides carried him down the hall into his oldest sons room. Two signed Philadelphia Flyers hockey jerseys hung framed over a queen-sized bed covered in a blue Superman comforter. Two hockey sticks clung to the opposite wall, crisscrossed over one another, with a baseball bat signed by Cal Ripken Jr. hovering horizontally over them. A dark wood desk in the corner, and a small bookshelf next to it, held a signed baseball mitt, a football helmet, a pair of dirty cleats, two signed baseballs, a hockey puck, a game used football, and a basketball with signatures from the entire 1992 Chicago Bulls basketball team. William Kennedy Engel had never once shown interest in any sports. As his father walked into the room, William sat on a pile of clothes on the floor, intently studying a flat-screen television in front of him. Every once in a while the black controller in his hands would jump and jerk and his straightened arms would swing and arc around him. Ooh, ooh, get em. Williams younger brother Brent, though everyone called him Beaver, sat next to him, holding a similar controller, sticking the thinnest strip of tongue sideways between his lips. Beaver looked like a normal six-year-old boy, if this world were a 1970s sitcom. Light brown hair curled into bouncy little springs on the top of his head, three light brown

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freckles dotting each cheek, big round tea cup saucer brown eyes, and two gigantic front teeth that stuck from his mouth even when it was closed. Todd approached them and bent down and kissed the tops of their heads. Ill be back tonight, kiddos. Esmeralda left out breakfast sandwiches. Beaver groaned. And what was that, young man? Essys sandwiches stink. Beavers toothy mouth twisted under his nose and William nodded in approval. Then he swung his controller around and smashed a button exaggeratedly. Well thats just a big fat lie, Todd said. Nuh uh, her sandwiches stink. And her butt does, too. Yeah, she has a stinky butt, William confirmed, though his eyes never left the television screen. Todd crossed his arms. Do her sandwiches stink like butt? William giggled, Daaaad, ew. Im just askin is all. I thought maybe she was making sandwiches out of her butt. In one fluid, graceful motion, Todd lifted his oldest son and spun him around in his arms. He sniffed his behind. Mmm, your butt smells like chocolate Dad! Put him down, Dad, Beaver demanded. I dont want him sayin I cheated when I kill him. No killing your brother. But what if he really deserves it? Beaver asked. Hmm. Well in that case, if he really deserves it, youre allowed to kill him. He does deserve it, Beaver assured him. No I dont, William defended. Yes huh. Do not. Do so.

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Not. So. Stop! Todd ordered. Brent, does William deserve to die? Yes, Dad. Todd turned his attention back to Williams butt. Sorry son. I promise Ill give you a nice funeral. Dad! Rules are rules, kiddo. Youre talking to my butt. Oh, sorry. Couldnt tell the difference. When Todd spun his son around, William noticed his mother standing in the doorway, watching with a curved smile. MOM! He beat softly on his fathers shoulder, calling Pumme down, pumme down, and as soon as he was, he ran into his mothers arms. How long will you be gone? Three days. Are you gonna bring us presents? Beaver asked. Now why would I waste money on presents for dead children? Only Williamll be dead. And I think I should get his present. Oh do you? Mary asked. Uh huh. Well that sounds fair. She turned toward her husband. Dad? I agree, said Todd. Its the only fair thing to do. Guys! William whined. Dont worry, Mary said in between kisses. Youll both get great presents when I get back. We better, William pouted. Hey! Todds eyes narrowed into little blue knifepoints. Sorry, Mom, the two boys responded in unison. Todd nodded. Oh, theyre just messing around, arent you, boys? Mary smiled and hugged her children one at a time. Then she flicked her hair behind her and looked to her husband.

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Alright, fellas, Todd said. :Mommys gotta go. As Mary turned around to walk down the stairs, Todd pinched her ass playfully, and she giggled and slapped his hand away. He kissed her softly on the neck. William and Beaver shouted Bye, Mom. We love you! and sat back down in front of the TV to return to their video game. As Todd and Mary descended the spiral staircase they heard, Ha, youre dead. Hey, you cheated! Todd saw Marys worried face and said, Dont worry, Ill be fine. The two boys heard the front door close, followed by the powerful hum of Todds Mercedes-Benz sedan. Then a figure darted passed the bedroom door. The boys stiffened. Did you see that? Beaver whispered to his brother. Mom? William shouted into the hall. Mom, you still there? Essy? There was no answer.

Before you jump to any conclusions, let me just say that Hell isnt all fire and brimstone. Its not all bad. I mean, theres a lot of funny people down there, and sometimes they can really liven up the mood, you know? I mean, even though those lively people are technically dead, but, whatever, you get my point.

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