Death Co: 13 (In the Land of the Living)

13. In the Land of the Living

     It’s instantaneous. Disorientation followed by the fetid stink of a billion people cohabitating. The streets are familiar, The Devil has dropped me off in front of my old apartment. The green light on my magnum blinks warmly at me, informing me that it has been reactivated. Well, at least I’ve got that.

     I move and notice a weight in my wrist. A watch has been haphazardly soldered on. The metal still glows orange as if it had only recently been heated. When did he have time to do that? I’ll never be able to truly wrap my head around the concept of time in Hell. It’s a bit like trying to understand why hamsters like wheels so much. He didn’t program that into them, it’s just kind of something they do. Give a creature no purpose and it will find a circular goal to live around. 

     The watch on my wrist ticks down menacingly, projecting bright, red numbers to remind me that my time is slipping away faster than I wanted it to. The world around me moves in a strange haze. I can’t place what it is until someone bumps into me, knocking me to the ground. “Watch where your standing you kook!” Yells a long-haired homeless man, sporting a letterman’s jacket and a wizard’s hat. Oh God, I’m back among the living.

     I take a deep breath and smell. I am breathing! Even the stink is a fantastic reminder of the things that kept me going in life. Undeath is full of uncertainty and malaise, but life, life is full of possibilities. Even the gutter water surrounding my hands breathes a fresh reminder of senses into my long-decomposed brain.

     I stand and brush myself off. Ok, not much time. Need to find the kid. My list of names still rests within my jacket pocket, but the ability to reach all of its names does not. I am completely cut off from communication with the other side. When dead, it’s sort of like a built in cell phone. I could feel the others no matter how far, but back in life I am alone. The notion is a disturbing one.

     The street signs above me read 5th and Alder. I’m at the corner of my old apartment. From the window that used to be mine there’s a cold glow. Someone else lives there now, tricked by a realtor no doubt. “The tiles and the mirror in the bathroom are all new!” I could hear the realtor saying. Some things suffice it to say just don’t wash out.

      I look at the address on my sheet of paper. Stephen Colman: 1022, 5th Ave [CITY/STATE DELETED] (You didn’t think I was going to tell you where I lived did you?). My apartment’s glow seems even colder now. Why on Earth would he want to move there? The little creep had taken up residence in my old apartment only a month after I had died there. Come on kid, show a little respect.

     The stairs were steeper than I remember, or maybe fatigue was settling in for the first time in an age. The door looked just the same. 202 remained stenciled in the faux gold frame, and the frame still hung slightly off kinter. I’m definitely getting fired for this. Has anyone ever gotten a promotion for dealing with The Devil? Probably not.

     I knock on the door and almost immediately as it opens. Soon after I find that I’ve been knocked to the floor and a lanky adult is beating my face to a bloody pulp…