The Descent

Tristan’s eyes fluttered, struggling to blink the haze off.

A stinging sensation clawed at his arms and back as his body scraped over dirt and stones.

He tried to move his fingers—still there, but barely responding.

His chest heaved as he tried to breathe in something that didn’t feel like air. Too heavy, almost suffocating.

The back of his head bumped against something hard, jolting his foggy brain. With a blurred vision, he spaced out into a bloody sky. The moon glowed like silver, but not enough to brighten everything painted in shades of black and red.

Suddenly, his legs dropped to the ground with a thud.

There were voices, muffled and indistinct. One was rowdy, agonizingly enthusiastic. The other sounded like a young man—high-pitched, almost rebellious.

Tristan felt firm taps on his cheek, growing stronger and bolder until they were almost slaps.

“Hey, you. Wake up,” a pushy, impatient voice called.

Tristan's eyes snapped open. With a grunt, he pushed himself up a little too quickly, and his head throbbed.

“Easy, boy. Don't rush. Give it time and you’ll get used to it,” said another voice—old and raspy.

Tristan's throat was dry, and every inhale smelled like sulfur.

He looked up.

Two rough-looking teenage boys stood over him. One wore a torn black hoodie over armored streetwear, boots, and mirrored shades. The other had a patched bomber jacket, fingerless gloves, and a blue scarf pulled over his mouth.

On his other side, an old man watched him with amusement. He wore a tattered coat with chrome accents, a collared shirt, and fluff hanging over his shoulders. An old-fashioned eyepatch and silver rings for each finger completed his look.

One of the boys nudged Tristan with his boot. “Hey, newbie. Move. No slacking in here.” The other boy in shades nodded quietly.

“All right, boys, don’t be too harsh. Our guest here just had a… hell of a ride,” the jovial elder said, laughing at his own pun.

The two boys clicked their tongues, half-impressed at the joke. The old man brushed them off, annoyed at their lack of appreciation.

"Go away, you humorless brats!"

He turned to Tristan, cleared his throat, and offered a hand.

“Come, follow me. I’ve got coffee,” he invited.

Tristan grabbed his hand, stood up, and patted himself, following the man with slow, cautious steps.

Gravel crunched beneath them as they went past camps of people warming themselves with bonfires, having meals, or doing their daily work. Tristan glanced at them, while some of the residents eyed him suspiciously.

They entered a large tent, quaint yet adorned with various decorations such as an old gramophone, vinyl discs, and other unexpected items.

Once inside, the old man gestured for Tristan to sit, then walked straight toward his coffee pots. He poured coffee into two identical cups and handed one to Tristan.

Tristan stared at his steaming drink, his body still heavy from the nightmarish dimensional travel and the bullet wound to his head. Without meaning it, he touched the place where the bullet had struck. Oddly, there wasn't any wound or blood.

“You must be wondering where you are right now.” the elder said, sipping from his mug, an arm folded behind him as he looked out the window. “When I came here, I thought this place would be bad. Pain, suffering, all that.”

He turned to Tristan, arms open as if gloating.

“But look at me. And us. We’re healthy, and we’re whole. More importantly, we’re free. Just don't mind the eyepatch. I liked the vibe.”

Tristan looked at him with guarded confusion.

“Oh, by the way… Saul and this is Lazarus.”

“Tristan Grandark.”

Saul paused and twirled his mustache. “Grandark. Now, does that ring a bell?”

Tristan took a sip, savoring the sweet, bitter aroma. “What is this place?” he asked as he turned his attention to the strange scenery outside.

“Oh, they call this place Inferno, or hell I guess? Didn't look like one.” Saul chuckled. “At least it had demons, and we got that one right.”

Tristan’s brows furrowed.

“Hell? Isn’t this Limbo?” he asked himself.

“How did you end up here? You don’t look like a demon.”

“Oh, uh… You know, I died up there," Saul answered, pointing upward. "Met a guy with a mask. Trench coat. Fedora. Said I’d be cleansed in Limbo, judged at the end of days. Heaven or Hell—coin flip, probably. But goddamn, I didn’t know I’d go straight to the devil’s pits.”

Something didn't add up. Saul’s statement about Limbo and the final judgment was what Tristan had heard, too.

“Did you do anything heinous in your past life?”

“Not sure. The last thing I remember is that I was blind, and dying in a gutter. And then, here I am.”

Tristan gazed toward the horizon. In search of answers, he found more questions.

Later that day, Tristan went out of a well-kept guest tent that Saul provided him.

After a stretch, he rolled his shoulders and lit a cigarette, choking on the smoke into a fit of cough. That never happened before—must be the air.

Tristan strolled around the commune, observing everyone going about their day.

Kids ran around, chasing each other under the moonlight. Some played with sticks at the bonfires.

Men did the heavy work. Chopping wood, hunting some weird-looking but edible game, and patrolling around the commune.

Women tended the home and chores. Savory aromas filled the air. The smell of fresh laundry.

The cigarette burned faster in his fingers than usual. He sensed something—either the vague amazement at the kind of life these people were having or the quiet stress of finding out that this hell wasn't the one in his books.

For some reason, people here—in this hell—look happier than those from his.

And even he felt a freedom that's hard to explain. Imperfect, but welcoming.

Just like life with Lira.

He stared at the moon, its silver glow reminding him of her hair—fair, majestic. Pure as her heart.

Tristan smirked at himself as he recalled his times with her. He could live a thousand silly lives to make her laugh and smile.

If only he could see that smile once again. If he could hear her voice.

He took another drag, suddenly feeling the burn on his lips. With a quiet hiss, he tossed the butt of his smoke into a bonfire, the kids playing around it jolting in surprise.

Walking a little further, he noticed a few people staring in a direction.

He could hear smug laughter and sneers at a distance. He joined a mob of onlookers, helplessly as a group of thugs yanked a woman by the wrist.

Punks in jackets, baggy pants, jagged teeth, and pointed ears.

Horns.

Some bystanders clenched rocks and axes, trembling—but none dared throw the first stone. Whatever came after wasn’t worth the risk.

"Do you have anything to say, you imbeciles?" one of the demons snickered.

The onlookers flinched.

"Nothing? Then, we'll take this one away for fun..." Another thug smirked, grinning at the woman's ear.

Trembling to her knees, the lady fell in hopeless terror. She wanted to scream, but her throat froze in fear. They dragged her, legs scraping on the pavement.

Tristan looked at their faces. And at the woman. He pulled out a smoke, trying to calm his nerves.

She kept kicking and pulling back, enraging the thug grappling with her. As he raised his fist to hit her, a blur loomed overhead, speeding towards him.

The thug looked up.

SMASH.

His face crashed to the ground, stiff and twitching.

The other thugs' faces morphed into horror.

Tristan puffed, pulling his shirt's sleeves back, cocking his arms like a gun.

"If you want to have this fine lady, earn it fair and square."

The lady stared at Tristan, wide-eyed as he lifted her by her waist effortlessly.

"So, who's next?"