Free Dantes' Inferno by Sarah Lovett

right?”
    â€œI’ve been looking for you,” M whispers.
    The Pope is frightened but manages to speak. “I found out what you wanted. I’ve seen the monster. Its tentacles are growing. They’re swollen as malignant vessels and they’re spreading out all around us. The end is near . . . so very near.” He speaks with the urgent flowery tones of a street prophet. His breath carries the sickening stench of disease. His eyes are rimmed with circles. He, too, is going dark with his own blood.
    â€œYou say you’ve seen it, then?” M asks slowly.
    â€œIn the tunnels, yes.” The Pope nods, pointing up, then down dramatically. “It’s spreading, Satan’s pollution. It lusts for our souls. It is consumed with lust for our goodness.”
    â€œAnd what do you lust for, holy man? What brought you to the second circle of hell?”
    The Pope meets his gaze, unflinching. “In my life, above, out in the world of air and light, I lusted for women . . . and money . . . and the power over men’s souls. I dwelled in the fallen cities of Sodom, Gomorrah, and Babylon.” The Pope blinks, swallowing painfully, aching with this confession. “But my true sin . . . what drove me down into this hell was my lust for righteousness.” A bony hand reaches out. “Forgive me.” He sighs. “I’m hungry.”
    â€œHungry.” For a long time M stares at the Pope; then he slowly pulls a brown square from his back pocket.
    Waiting, the Pope is caught between fear and need. He is afraid of this man—this devilish apparition who wanders the tunnels each night—in the same way he is afraid of plague or murder or the big hungry rats. But he is hungry, too. And he needs money to buy food, maybe a little something to take his mind away from these sewers. He gazes down, expecting to see a few coins or a dollar bill in the other man’s hand.
    But in reality, he sees a Mylar bag.
    The Pope looks up puzzled, “Who are you?”
    â€œI’m Minos, judge of the dead.” With a wistful smile, M grabs the Pope by his grimy hair, slamming his head into the hard-packed earthen wall, sliding Mylar over skin and skull. Fits like a glove. Made to order, it tightens around the base when he tugs—creating a vacuum effect, molding to the suffocating man’s face.
    As the Pope loses consciousness, as he flails, as his eyes go red, he sees a vision: Los Angeles is a burning hell, the sky turns black, the city falls in upon herself, and only dust is left.
    â€œI’m sorry,” M apologizes to the corpse as he lets it sink to earth. Then he whispers to himself: “The city is so beautifulby daylight. It’s only the night that makes her ugly.”
    He turns his back and slowly begins his ascent to the world.
    Tonight, his job is finished—the second circle is complete.
    Tomorrow he has a big day ahead. Tomorrow he will work in daylight.
    He is used to destructive premonition. He can see the future as clearly as if it is stretching behind him, a trailing past, already written, book closed. A cataclysm will strike this city. Fire will sear her skin and engulf her features; the force of two atomic bombs will rip out her bones and sever her limbs. She will go blind and deaf and dumb, and her breathing will cease. She will be the sacrifice.
    Tomorrow they will all face the third circle.
    The Pope was right, a monster is on the loose.
    The monster is John Freeman Dantes.
    Or is it me? he wonders.
    It is us .
    Yes .
    We are the monster .

Most of the bombcops I know, they answer the door, open every package with the thought, Shit, this could be it—kaboom.
    Edward “Boomer” Toms, Folsom Prison inmate
    Tuesday—5:00 A.M. The knock was loud.
    Groggy, and emotionally and chemically hungover, Sylvia peered through the peephole in the front door of the bungalow to find herself eye to eye with law