Michael

one

Twelve months later...

Special constable Elizabeth Grant stood at the back of the processing centre watching the snaking lines of human beings queuing to be registered. 'Novices' as they were commonly called: hellslang for the newly damned. Whether their suffering had been long and drawn out, or death had sneaked up on them in a moment, the lives they'd known were over and they'd woken up in a strange world. A world many had been taught to fear before disbelief set in.

Liz could easily recall her own terror at the realisation that not only was Hell real, but she'd just taken up residence in it.

If they didn't already, they'd soon realise dark and fiery pits were not on the agenda, or not yet depending on who you talked to. Debates on what happens after Judgement Day were just as varied and acrimonious on this side of death as the other. According to those who stood on the eternal-torment side of the eschatological argument, pain and suffering was still on the cards-not exactly a cheerful prospect.

Anxiety and depression were as common here as colds back in the living world. The media loved to hype up stories about mysterious disappearances, insinuating that these people had 'been taken up': as in taken to join the Kingdom. Liz understood. Most people craved forgiveness, because the alternative was either kill yourself or turn into a monster.

There was no escape. No other way. The dead arrived in Gehenna as human beings, but if you stuck around too long, didn't repent and get redeemed or simply die the second and final death, then you slowly turned into a demon-and then you really did belong in hell.

As if dying isn't traumatic enough...

It was a lot for anyone to take in. Pity stirred in her heart, but there was precious little she could do. Even if comfort was possible, there were strict rules about contact with the novices. Rule-breaking would be doubly frowned on for her, an empath. She sighed-a mistake as she was trying not to inhale too deeply. The air was ripe with sweat and other odours she didn't want to identify. Most novices fell into two categories; the dazed and the weepers. All were helpless and terrified. They were dressed in thin silver smocks, similar in style to her own, except she had a snug-fitting mission suit on underneath.

The smock was for modesty, and it was all they'd be given to wear until processing was complete. Liz knew the drill. After the databanks manned by expressionless operators, they'd be taken for a shower and a body scan, then a debriefing, before finally being given proper clothing and their allotted room number. The accommodation would be temporary, a means of giving them time to adjust and find their feet. Cold mercy, but it was as much as they could do given the size of the task. Gehenna as a whole was roughly the size of North America, and cocoons could pop up anywhere; the truth was no one really knew how many newcomers arrived on a daily basis, or how many died.

Liz normally avoided the Intake section once they'd unloaded the survivors. Given her own peculiarities, the atmosphere in here was hard to take. Today was different though. It was her first anniversary of arriving in Gehenna. Streamers, cards and cake were definitely not on the menu. Still, she'd felt an urge to come here.

And what? Reflect on all the happy memories?

"Liz, I've been looking for you."

She turned to see Harry Gillespie, Superintendent of the Division for Civil Defence, and second-in-command to the Chief Constable, striding over with a preoccupied frown on his face. He was a tall, attractive man in his forties, quintessentially English and with a penchant for tweed and waistcoats. He was both boss and friend.