Chapter Twelve
Twelve
The sun rises steadily during our walk, but its position is impossible to pin, thanks to the plum clouds that rolled in shortly after dawn.
They collect overhead, a foreboding presence that casts everything in shadows.
We’re following the tracks, keeping them to our left and the unending forest to our right.
Luke deduced we made it far enough by train to nearly get out of Pennsylvania—aka the Department of Mining—which might have felt like a success if we hadn’t started there, albeit in a different world.
“You keep looking up at the sky,” I observe.
“A storm’s coming,” Luke replies. He still carries his backpack and my duffel, neither of which seem to be slowing him down. I, on the other hand, am on the brink of exhaustion. My knee throbs, my ribs ache, and the cavernous pit that is my stomach has been growling for the past two hours.
“Very cryptic,” I comment. “Do we need to find shelter?”
He shakes his head. “It wouldn’t help. Those clouds aren’t a normal storm. They signify…”
He trails off ominously. “What?” I ask, trotting a few steps behind him. His gaze is locked on something in the distance.
“Oh, thank God.” I sigh in relief. “A diner!”
I pick up my pace, heading toward the quaint establishment.
There’s a little sign next to it telling us we’re at the next train stop.
The diner itself is planted on the side of the tracks in a silver boxcar that gleams despite the blocked sun.
Across the length of the front, in neon-green letters, are the words “Sullivan’s Diner & Delights. ”
“Brie, wait.” Luke stops me as I stride up to its propped open door. He glances around, lowering his voice even though it’s just us out here. “We should keep moving. We’re farther from the next town than I thought.”
“Sounds like we need to ask for directions,” I wager, planting a hand on my hip.
“I don’t need directions.” Luke’s jaw clenches in annoyance. “I know where we’re going.”
“So you’ve said super convincingly over the past six hours while I’ve kindly pretended not to notice the way you keep looking around and pulling out the coffee-stained map in your back pocket while your frown gets deeper and deeper.
But I’m getting hangry, so the kindness is on its last legs. You can say it: we’re lost.”
“We are not lost,” he argues. “Things just look different than I remember.”
“Another thing,” I muse, continuing toward the diner. “You still haven’t told me how you know your way around so well. Or much about anything, actually.”
“I’ve spent the past six hours telling you about all the hell beings here.”
“With very long stretches of silence in between,” I remind him, though our conversation has been helpful.
While not every hell being fits into a category, per se, I did my best to explain to Luke some of the ones I saw on the train.
Those with green skin and pointed ears are usually goblins if they’re small, or redcaps if they’re large, which are basically extra violent and murderous goblins.
Either way, they eat anything and everything, including me.
Monsters with blue skin typically are cold-blooded and belong to a reptilian genus.
Demons are either composed of shadows and darkness and decay, or take on a human form, like Melinda.
Vampires and werewolves also are easy to mistake for humans, but are good at minding their own business.
Luke reiterated that staying away from large bodies of water is a must, as water demons and sirens can coax you to drown.
Which, I pointed out, sounds a lot like mermaids are real. He rolled his eyes, but didn’t deny it.
“Besides, aren’t you hungry?” I ask.
He hesitates. “A bit.”
I roll my eyes. “Well, I haven’t eaten in nearly a day, so a bit doesn’t even cover it for me.”
“Fine,” he relents. “But diners here have some…stipulations.”
· · ·
Inside, the stipulations Luke warned of are 1,000 percent clear: the menu is chaotic at best, stomach-turning at worst. There are normal items, like burgers and fries and milkshakes, and then there are very not-normal items, like goat hearts and woodland finches and a glass of mortal’s tears.
I try not to think too hard about where they get that last one and if they might be in the market for more.
The clientele is less surprising. While a corner booth adjacent to ours hosts a very mean-looking fang-toothed being, the few other patrons around the diner seem normal.
“Stop staring.” Luke taps my menu to redirect my attention. “You’re going to give us away.”
“It looks like there are other humans here,” I observe quietly, looking at the dessert special. Spleen pie. Great.
“Human-appearing,” he corrects. “And there’s a possibility we might run into actual humans. Ones who make deals with demons or nail a satanic ritual end up here. The longer they’re here, of course, the less human they become. But they start that way at least, so we’re not entirely alone.”
“And monster hunters come here, I presume?” I prod.
“Only if they have to.” He peers out the grime-covered window. “And most don’t come back.”
“You did.”
His eyes latch onto mine. “I got lucky.”
The itch to know more burrows under my skin, but a petite woman who could pass as human at first glance comes up to our booth. On second glance, the strange, wrinkled texture of her pale skin, like dried paper that was previously soaked in water, makes me think not.
“What can I get ya?”
Her voice is low, with a raspy edge. She wears straight jeans and a button-down black shirt that slips off one shoulder. Dirty bare feet stick out beneath the frayed hems of her pants.
“A burger, rare, and fries,” Luke says, handing her the menu. “And tea, if you have it.”
I scrunch my nose up but don’t comment. “I’ll have chocolate chip pancakes. Full stack. And coffee, black. Thanks.”
She nods, taking my menu and retreating to the kitchen. Luke quirks a brow at me. “Chocolate chip pancakes? Really?”
“The menu says breakfast all day.” I shrug. “I’m in the mood for something sweet. Any meal could be my last, you know.”
He cuts me a glare, glancing beyond our booth to make sure the other patrons didn’t hear that. “Watch it.”
“What is she?” I ask, nodding at our server.
“Likely a minor demon or a young hag.”
“And what is all this?”
“All what?”
“The diner. The train. The clothes.”
“Did you think everyone walked around naked all day in hell?”
“Kind of,” I admit. “I certainly didn’t expect pancakes, with chocolate chips, no less.”
A laugh barks out of him, but the bastard covers it up by pretending to cough.
“Yeah, well, not everyone here thrives on misery and blood and deception. Some need to eat regular food, and some don’t need to eat at all.
Turned humans and half-demons—those born of both a demon and human parent—are prone to eating normal food.
Sometimes because they have to, and sometimes just for the comfort of it. ”
“But how is it made?” I press. “Are there farms? Factories?”
“All of it. Iowa is hell’s Department of Agriculture. Most apparel is imported from overseas, but the Department of Textiles is roughly in Georgia’s whereabouts. Since we’re still in the Department of Mining, you haven’t seen many buildings and skyscrapers yet. But they exist.”
“I can’t believe hell beings go to work every day. It’s just like Monsters, Inc.”
He frowns. “I have no idea what that is.”
“You’re deprived,” I comment as plates of steaming food get set in front of us. “It’s an animated movie about monsters who make their living by scaring kids. It was one of my favorites growing up.”
“It’s not like that here. Some monsters might be in places of power, but most aren’t responsible for bottom-tier work.”
“Who is?” I soak my pancakes in syrup and shove the first bite into my mouth. Something is off about it, whether the syrup is too sweet or the pancakes are, but I’m too ravenous to let it stop me.
Luke picks up his burger, which looks like every other diner burger I’ve ever seen. “The souls.”
My giant bite of pancake turns papery in my mouth. I force it down with a sip of my water, which I nearly spit out at the strong sediment flavor that sticks to it. I guess they don’t have Britas or filtration in hell.
“Like the ones who stopped the monsters from attacking me on the train?”
Luke nods. “They’re on their way to the other side of the country, where the boss will sort them to their positions for the rest of eternity.
The hell beings themselves are more suited for office jobs.
Meanwhile, souls work in factories and on farms and pretty much anywhere that manual work needs to be done.
But souls are used for something else, too. ”
One word sticks out, making my hunger ebb. I set down my fork. “The boss?”
“The devil. Hades. King of Demons. Prince of Darkness. The Leader. He has a lot of names. Pick your favorite.”
“He’s real?” A chill sweeps over me. I figured he must be, if everything up until now wasn’t some ludicrous dream. But still, the idea of some greater being sitting on a throne behind it all is a reality check I didn’t need. I take a sip of my coffee to warm me, but it’s too bitter.
“Think of it like all of hell is a huge corporation,” Luke explains, keeping his voice low as he bites into a fry.
“Hell beings serve as employees at varying levels of management. You have the ones directly below the devil, in what is aptly called the D-Suite. The right-hand man, or Designated Operations Officer, makes sure things are running smoothly. He’ll advise where the souls are needed most. Then there’s the left-hand man, the Designated Financial Officer, who oversees hell’s economy.
And then the Designated Executive Officer, the devil, also called the DEO, is above them all. ”
I pick my fork back up, but I’m not half as hungry as I was moments ago. “He passes judgment on the souls, dooming them to a life of servitude?”