Page 38 of I Hope This Email Finds You 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?”

“Nobody down here passes judgment. Not in that scope. If the souls are on that train, judgment has been made. The devils are just responsible for figuring out where they belong.”

“Devils…plural?”

Luke takes the final bite of his burger, chewing thoughtfully. For someone who was only a bit hungry, he inhaled his food. I itch to snatch one of the last remaining fries, but stay my hand.

“Plural. This same structure, more or less, is repeated for every branch. Or continent, I guess.”

“There are seven devils?” I gawk.

“Shh,” he hushes me as our waitress comes back.

“Can I get ya anything else?” she asks. I shove another bite of pancake into my mouth to disguise the fact that I’m still reeling from this new information.

“Just the bill. How far are we from the nearest entrance to the Night Market?” Luke asks.

“Probably ten miles or so,” she says.

“What about a junkyard or garage? Anything nearby?”

Bringing her pen to her lips, she gnaws on the cap thoughtfully. “On your way to the Night Market, you’ll pass through a small town with not much to see. But you might find something. Once you’re there, the market entrance is only a few miles away.”

“Thank you,” Luke says.