Chapter Four

The Arrival

"He's crazy! That's what he is, crazy!" These words spurred an angry twitch from the young man, whose bones seem to rattle from every tremor that shook through him. His thin frame seemed too fragile to support the violent shaking, yet somehow he continued to stand upright, gesturing wildly with a deep scowl on his face.

"What do you expect from the brat? Kid's a selfish little fucker," Arrow murmured, lighting up another cigarette with the expert flick of his fingers. "You guys have only been working for him for a year – I've had the son of a bitch ordering me around for twelve." The child in jeans and a hooded jumper scoffed at him, then turned away. She was sitting on the railing of the bridge, left leg swinging below her. She was intently watching the 3-D screen in which three people were being tortured vividly by creatures of Hell. It was quite a disturbing welcome to all the newcomers, and very effective considering how they all stared wide-eyed and mesmerized by the screams and wails of the victims.

She looked down at what resembled an airport terminal, except that it was enormous – the size of a football stadium. There were rows and rows of seat in the stadium and each and every one of them was filled by people. Thousands of people just sitting and waiting until they reached the end of the line where the two bulky, seven foot guards were standing in front of the glowing red door. There was a doctor standing in front of the door as well as a lawyer and the two of them were currently working on a hell bound man. The doctor was examining him while the lawyer was firing question after question with merciless severity.

The young girl, who had a nametag with the word 'Vivian' on it, jumped off the railing and onto the ground. She nudged Marcus' laptop with her foot, provoking a shriek of annoyance.

"Don't touch the laptop! Don't even come near the laptop, do you understand? You see this area around the laptop? This is forbidden. For-bid-den, you got that?" he shrieked motioning to his laptop. She stared at him, eyebrows raised.

"All right," she said, moving away. Under her breath she added, "You freak." Marcus shot her a look of pure irritation before turning back to his laptop.

"Look, could you just hurry up and hack into the damn lists? I'm getting sick of waiting." Arrow spat. "I want to get this kid, give him to Lord retard and then get on with my non-life in peace. I'm sick of running errands for this kid and playing the good butler. I want to get back in the fold – torture some sinners and strip the prisoners of all hope and whatnot, you know?"

"At least Damien will be distracted for a while," Vivian said. They other two flipped her off without even looking up. She jumped back on the railing, staring at them with innocent, wide eyes. "With his new toy he won't bother us anymore and we'll be free to…you know, wreak havoc."

"That's not enough. I want to kill the brat, to cause him misery and make him regret the day he ratted me out to his dad," Arrow snarled. "I'm going to make him beg, one day. He's going to sob for forgiveness and I will watch him and enjoy every second of it." His eyes closed as he imagined that day clearly in his mind. Vivian stared at him. Of all the people who had joined the ranks of Satan's Army, Arrow was one of the few that had done it by choice, by throwing himself into the fold and truly adoring his work. He was the sort of person who was too bad even for Hell.

"The kid's going to arrive in three minutes in Line 675 – car accidents," Marcus said.

"I thought that Damien would have gone for a more chaotic death but I guess I was wrong. The standard car crash seems…strange, but I never know what he's thinking," Vivian mused. She tied her hair back from her face, hands combing through her brown locks, before cracking her knuckles. "Come on, we've got some work to do. You know how he'll get if we're late."

"Son of a bitch. Let him wait, I want to see what's so special about this kid."

"What?"

Arrow dropped his cigarette over the railing. He waited and listened, smirking as a sudden squeal of pain was heard when contact was made. "I want to see what's so special about this kid that makes the little fucktard care so much that he'd give up everything just to watch him day and night for two years."

"Are you serious? He watches him day and night? When does he sleep? Eat?" Marcus spluttered. He shut his computer and unplugged it. The laptop whirred softly before the noise faded, leaving only the murmur of human voices. People didn't talk loudly in the terminal.

Arrow shrugged, lighting up another cigarette. "Damien's had plenty of crushes on people on Earth, but what makes this kid so unique? I'm interested to find out." He sneered down at the crowd. All of them had resigned to their fate, dully watching the screens with a few of them even crying. Some came in fighting but were quickly discouraged by the hundreds of burly guards around the airport terminal. The ones that fought were beaten within an inch of their lives and thrown down and whipped in front of all the others. In fact, looking down now, the three of them spotted a few people with shredded, bloody shirts. They had the most resigned looks on their faces.

"It's so romantic," Vivian sighed. Her eyes lighted up with childish, girly wonder and she sighed, pouting slightly. "He's in love with the boy in the orange parka."

At that moment, a commotion began. A shrill, furious scream burst from one of the lines of the terminal – Line 675. Arrow stumbled as he ran to the edge, looking over the railing and searching desperately for the source of the chaos. Marcus chuckled, his eyes wide and crazy once more.

"Holy shit, it's him. It the boy in the orange parka!"

00000

If he could compare the experience to something, it would probably be his birth. A sudden expulsion from something warm and comforting, an explosion of bright light and then suddenly a blast of cold air from a hostile atmosphere. He rolled forward and fell flat on his back, gasping for breath. The light blinded him, his vision flashing and making his head nearly split open with pain.

The first thing he discovered was that he was no longer in the car, or on the mountain or even in a familiar place. He was in a huge building, like an airport terminal that was filled with rows and rows of seats, each of them with a number at the end and a phrase underneath. Blurrily he glanced at the first one and noticed that it was labeled 'Colon Cancer'. He squinted, a feeling of terror slowly invading his senses as he suddenly realized where he was.

"No…no! No! No! No! Oh God, please no!" he whispered harshly, his voice hoarse from the aftermath of the accident. He scrambled to his feet, his legs trembling beneath him. He couldn't be back here. He just couldn't. It was impossible; it hadn't happened in two years so why now? Why? Why? Why?

Dazedly he wandered across the terminal, dragging one foot at a time in front of him, the effort making him nauseous and dizzy. His head swirled with numerous thoughts and he felt a wave of sickness slam into him. He struggled to get to a trashcan but there was none and he fell to his knees, gagging dryly, his hand clutching one of the seats. Nobody noticed him doing that; they were all stewing in their own torment.

He refused to believe that he was here again. He couldn't bear the thought that the cycle would restart, that his anguish would begin again and he would have to suffer through his mental distress – one he believed he had pushed away forever. And now Satan had decided to rip away his happiness and throw him back into this cycle of misery. He pushed himself up, wiping his already dry mouth and feeling his forehead pull into a livid scowl.

The only person who took notice was a heavyset guard that lumbered towards him, every step shaking the floor of the terminal, despite the fact that he was slightly shorter than Kenny himself. The boy pulled his hood over his head, shaking with anger as two more guards approached. He felt a sickened determination that he wasn't going to give in without a fight. It wasn't his time, and if he was forced to, he'd fight until he was bleeding and broken, because he refused to accept his fate.

"I'm not going into Hell," he snarled at the guards. They stared at him blankly, obviously unimpressed by his statement. They had most likely dealt with quite a few rebellious people in their eternal lifetime. He was no different than the thousands of others who were in denial. "I'm not going, you sons of bitches." His legs no longer felt shaky and he suddenly felt like he was new, alive – although that was highly ironic.

The first guard leapt forward with unimaginable speed, hand curled into a fist with an immeasurable amount of power behind it.

But Kenny was quicker – his fury giving him strength and speed he hadn't thought possible – and he dropped to the ground, grabbing the man's legs and flipping him over his shoulder. Then he took off, desperately searching for an escape. His feet slapped against the ground lightly, every soft tap creating a loud echo that made everybody's head turn. Many people were too dismal to even care about what was happening.

"Stop him! Stop that boy!"

He swerved roughly, running into the line labeled 'Plane crash' and pushing past numerous victims. Most were flopped onto their seats limply, eyes empty with regret and resignation. He stepped over them, on them – it didn't matter- he just had to get away somehow.

As he ran he clasped his hands together tightly. "God, please help me. You know I don't belong here, you know I don't!" His prayers turned into rough sobs as what seemed like a bolt of lightning ripped through his head, blowing his senses apart. He jolted, legs collapsing beneath him and gritted his teeth at the familiar, nauseatingly unpleasant sensation. The feeling disappeared almost immediately, followed by a dull throbbing in his head. He groaned, pushing himself into a standing position with great difficulty. He had been prepared for this feeling, which was the only thing that made him able to continue running.

The palms of his hands were horrifically burnt, worse that if boiling water had been poured upon them. The charred skin was still hissing from the heat and if he weren't so distracted he would have been screaming from the pain.

Still running, he pressed his hands together shakily and was ready to whisper another prayer to God when he stopped, realizing that the guards had surrounded him at the edge of the terminal. He froze, at a loss of what to do. He didn't have enough strength to take on all of them, probably not even one of them!

A slim guard wearing a black trench coat lunged at him, holding a metal truncheon that he swung back at the last minute. Kenny saw his chance. Heart racing in terror, he dived under his arm and snagged the gun from its holster, swerving around and pulling the trigger haphazardly in the hopes that he would hit something. A few shocked cries rang out as guards and even a few people in line were hit by stray bullets.

"Please God, take me out of here. I suffered through so much and you saved me and oh God, please don't take it back now," he gasped under his breath.

Bright red spots flashed in front of his eyes. This time he didn't even try to resist the sensation of torture that hit him and he collapsed to the ground, eyes fluttering in a weak attempt to stay conscious. He tried to imagine how the situation could get any worse and felt it when hands grabbed him roughly and tied his arms behind him and his legs together. He felt the barbed wire dig harshly into his skin and grimaced at the vaguely familiar feeling. Hell had a thing for barbed wire.

He could vaguely hear the conversation happening around him as he was lifted onto someone's shoulders. "Kid's a fucking nut, that's what he is. I've got to say, I didn't expect him to go crazy like that." The voice was rough and it belonged to someone who had been chain smoking for many, many years. He assessed that the speaker was the one carrying him.

"Know what shocked me? He managed to pray twice before giving up. And that's with holding his hands together and actually praying until his hands are scorched and his head feels like it has been smashed with a hammer while still conscious." This voice belonged to a child, a young girl most likely. In his semi-conscious state it was hard to estimate her age.

"For real? How do you know what it feels like?" The last voice was strained, as if constantly on the brink of madness, and the speaker seemed slightly hyperactive.

"I tried it once, dumbass. Believe me, it's a feeling you don't forget any time soon. And the last time I tried praying was the day I arrived in Hell. It's been seventy years and I still remember every second of that moment when I was foolish enough to put my hands together and pray."

"Sounds painful."

"You're showing worship to God in the one place where his presence is forbidden. It doesn't just hurt; it scars you mentally and physically. And it feels wrong, like…it's wicked to do something like that in a place like this. Kind of ironic, isn't it? It's evil to pray to God in a place like this."

"Gotta admire the kid for doing something as stupid as that." The man with the rough voice spoke up again. Kenny felt himself slide off and land messily on the ground, his head whacking against the marble floor. He was semi-unconscious so he barely felt the sting of the impact. He felt someone slapping his cheeks roughly, prompting him to awaken and blurrily he lifted his hand and tried to swat them away.

"Ngh…no…stop it," he mumbled, blinking quickly and trying to clear up his eyesight. He focused on the ceiling above, noting that it was all white with a chandelier hanging above him, tinkling softly. The place was slightly recognizable and he felt a tingle of relief.

Satan's house was without comparison the most pleasant place in Hell. Every other area in the underworld was filled with tortured people hanging from the rocks, crawling on the ground and howling as demons dragged them back to their lairs. Hell was a large place, but there was almost no empty space without some suffering human wailing and pleading for forgiveness. It was sickening to him because he, like most normal people, didn't enjoy the sight of a person trying to hold in their intestines desperately.

Satan often returned to his house quite tired of seeing people suffering, simply because it was an escape from his job. This meant that in his house and the area around his house was usually void of anyone except for Satan, the workers he hired and Damien.

Oh and Kenny as well, who had died so often Satan had even allowed him to choose his own room. The boy almost always took refuge in this house because it gave him a rest from the other victims. He had grown fond of this house.

"You awake, kid?" A blurry face appeared before him and he groaned softly.

"Wuh-what? What's going on?" he mumbled. The man sneered before standing up. A few seconds later he had escaped from view, along with the other two people and Kenny found himself alone. He could barely bring himself to stand up, pressing his palms against the cold marble floor and forcing his body to straighten. Everything hurt – his head, his hands and worst of all there was some strange sense of wrongness in him.

He suddenly realized that his hands were completely burnt, raw red and stinging terribly. He winced, surprised at how bad it was. The punishment usually depended on Satan's mood and it seemed that he wasn't feeling very pleasant. Kenny had never had such a terrible burn. His confusion was somewhat masking the pain because although it felt like his hand was still resting on a lit stove his mind was whirling with thoughts and it distracted him temporarily.

"Kenny? What the hell are you doing here?"

The voice was a familiar, flat tone that he had often heard but only vaguely. He lifted his head and came face to face with the Prince of Darkness' son, Damien.

The youth was quite tall in height, almost a head over Kenny who was often categorized into tall. He had pitch-black hair that seemed to have grown darker over the years during Kenny's absence. It fell into his eyes untidily, as if he hadn't cut it or even brushed it for days. His face was pale – lack of sun, Kenny supposed, a thought that was hilariously twisted – and he had bags under his eyes. The once mysteriously good-looking heir to the Throne of Darkness now looked as if he hadn't slept in ages and had lost all interest in personal hygiene. Not only that but he was so much thinner as well.

Kenny gaped at him for a few seconds, shocked by his appearance, before shaking his head and finding his voice. "I…I don't know. I…guess I died." He said this evenly, but his voice wavered and he felt like he was going to throw up. "I…I don't feel so good."

Damien crouched next to him, looking slightly concerned but otherwise bored by this display. He had never been one to show many emotions and it seemed that he hadn't changed in the past two years. Kenny shot him an irritated glance before stumbling away. The other one followed silently, keeping only a few feet away and tensing slightly, ready to catch him if he fell – a prospect that seemed very likely as he seemed to be hyperventilating.

"What am I doing here? I'm not supposed to be here. I'm not supposed to be dead!" he sobbed. "He promised that he lifted the curse. He promised and now the son of a bitch has taken it back. I HATE THIS PLACE!" He grabbed a mirror off the wall and swung it around, throwing it against the wall with a furious yell. He grabbed a vase and smashed it against the ground.

"Stop it," Damien said flatly. Kenny glared at him.

"Don't tell me what to fucking do!" he screamed. "This wasn't supposed to happen! I can't go back tomorrow! I can't start this cycle again – dying and reviving and dying and reviving until I wished I would just stay dead!" All his self-pity had transformed into a murderous rage and he blindly struck out at the first person available. His fist whacked into Damien's shoulder in what should have been a very painful punch, but the other boy didn't wince or flinch.

Damien stood there as Kenny pushed him, watching as the blond became more and more frustrated with his passiveness. He looked pitiful, receiving blow upon blow without doing anything to defend himself and finally Kenny stopped, breathing heavily. He glared at the older boy, mouth pulled down in a grimace. His cheeks were streaked with angry tears and he lifted his fist, ready to deliver the final blow. Damien did nothing, simply raised an eyebrow in disbelief before tensing himself, ready for the impact.

His stared straight into Damien's deep red eyes and slowly let his hand drop by his side. "I'm sorry, man, I didn't mean to…to…" He shook his head, feeling ashamed. He had just taken his anger out on someone who had done nothing wrong, worse, who had shown concern for him.

"It's okay." Damien's voice was soft and forgiving and it made Kenny feel even worse. The black-haired boy straightened, looking serious. "You're not supposed to be here. My father told me that your so-called curse had been lifted years ago which means that something went wrong or someone broke the rules and decided to kill you."

"I have to talk to him urgently. I can do this again, Damien. I can't be trapped between both worlds anymore; it's either one of the other. It's either Hell or Earth, but it can't be both. Please, Damien, you have to help me," he pleaded, eyes shining. He didn't realize the effect his pitiful expression was having on Damien but as he watched uncertainty crossed the boy's face and he nodded firmly.

"I'll talk to my father. Maybe he knows what went wrong," he said. A brilliant smile crossed Kenny's face and the hope lit up his expression. Damien stared at him for a few seconds, seeming to be lost for words. Then he quickly regained himself and continued. "I can't guarantee anything. My father's been quite…unpredictable lately."

Kenny's stomach dropped slightly. "What do you mean by that?"

"Well, you weren't here but a few months ago he and Saddam were dating…for the hundredth time, and he found out that Saddam was cheating on him with some guy and they were planning to de-throne my father. Well, understandably he was fucking pissed off and after he sentenced the two to eternal torture he began a new rule." His face saddened slightly.

"What does that mean?"

"It means that he's no longer the dependent, whiny little pussy he was before and now he's a crueler, harsher image of everything evil in the world. In other words he's acting like the Devil. The proper one, not the pathetic wretch he used to be. I hate it," he snarled. "Now Hell is the eternal torment that it was meant to be and it's sickening, watching the billions of people suffering for eternity for a few small, trivial sins. I never realized how truly creative my father was until he began generating different styles of torture."

Kenny felt his skin turn slightly cold as he heard the tone of Damien's voice change. His voice was frosty and filled with fury, something that Kenny had seen before but more explosive. Somehow this disappointed, vengeful tone scared him slightly more. He hesitated, then sighed, his shoulders hunched.

It was slowly beginning to hit him that he was going to suffer the same pain and torture every single day. He was going to have to sit in line, watching and feeling people's agony and then stay in Hell, waiting for the moment he'd be ripped back to the land of the living. And then he'd spent the next day on Earth dreading every second that passed, wondering if his death would be painful or easy, long or quick. And then he'd spiral into a depression and it would be like all those years ago…

Damien obviously saw how his face had saddened after his little outburst and he reached out and put a hand on Kenny's shoulder. "Hey, don't worry. I'll talk to him, okay? Maybe he can pull a few strings, get you back to life, you know?"

"Yeah…it's not the dying that gets me. It's the dying over and over and over again. I can't take it. All I want is to be either dead or alive. If you help me, I swear I'll be grateful forever!"

There was a pause in which Damien seemed to consider what he said. Then a tentative grin crossed his face and his lips twitched. Kenny was surprised by how much his face was changed by a simple smile. His features seemed to brighten and all the exhaustion disappeared from his face in that single second. Kenny was slightly taken aback by this sudden change but, without realizing it, he suddenly felt a lot more comfortable.

"Okay, I'll help you. I can't guarantee that I'll get you back to Earth, but the least I can do it convince my Dad to let you stay here. But, you have to live here, in this house. Understood?" he demanded.

Kenny was shocked by this strange command. What had spurred on such an order? "What? Why? What the hell is that about? Tell me why first," he spluttered, irritated.

Damien looked slightly embarrassed by this request. "I…I don't have any friends here and I…my father doesn't let anybody into this house, but he used to let you stay here when you died. He seems to like you…or at least he did back when…well, I was just hoping that maybe he'd let you stay here and I'd finally have someone to talk to, you know?"

For a moment, Kenny felt as though he'd known this boy for all his life. And technically, he had. He'd never really talked to Damien, but they were old acquaintances and if Damien could help him find salvation, if he could free him from the looming threat of the curse, then he would agree to any of the condition he presented.

"Done."

And when he shook hands with Damien, there was a strange, trembling feeling in his arms that he couldn't quite place. But a second later, it was forgotten, along with any fear and doubts.