A shriek of torn metal ripped me out of a torpor that felt eternal.
Chains clattered, screams tore the air, and the metallic clash of invisible blades echoed all around.
Then came the smell.
No longer the sharp disinfectant that had filled my lungs just a moment before, but an acrid, sulfurous stench that burned the nostrils and pushed straight down into the chest like poisonous smoke. I coughed, bending forward, and only then did I realize I was lying on something hard and cold.
I opened my eyes.
The first thing I saw was the ground — dark, sandy. Black sand, glossy as coal yet fine as powder, so light it slipped between my fingers as if it had no weight. I brought a handful close to my face: the grains shimmered faintly, cut thin as though some invisible craftsman had carved them with the precision of a needle.
I pushed myself upright. My legs trembled, my head throbbed.
Before me, spanning the horizon, rose a grassy hill. I couldn't see what lay beyond, but every fiber of my being warned me that something terrible was happening there. From its slope came sharper cries, guttural shouts, flashes of light tearing through a sky without stars, without moon — without even the faintest trace of life. Only an endless void above my head.
I looked down at myself — and froze.
I was dressed in a dark, elegant suit, perfectly cut. A white shirt, crisp and spotless. A black bow tie, neatly tied. Me. Rodolfo Cremaschi. I'd never tolerated even wearing a jacket when I was alive.
But what stopped my breath were the cufflinks: my favorite ones, made from the keys of my old Lettera 22 typewriter — the one destroyed years ago during a move. R and C. Rodolfo Cremaschi, engraved in metal. Clara had them made for me, so I would always carry with me the memory of what had once given me strength during those sleepless nights spent writing, when dawn crept in and I still couldn't stop.
My heart clenched. Why was I wearing them? Why now?
A chill crawled down my spine.
Then a voice shattered my thoughts.
—You there, little man!—
The tone was sharp, scraping — like fingernails on glass.
I looked up and saw it.
A creature leaned over the crest of the hill — something my mind hesitated to classify, because no mythology, no encyclopedia of monsters could have described it completely. A grotesque fusion of man and scorpion: a humanoid torso, thick and blotched, with sickly-colored skin; ears huge and misshapen; teeth like poorly tempered blades gleaming in the firelight. It moved sinuously, hind legs clawing at the sand with a rasping sound, and a curved stinger swayed behind it, glinting menacingly.
It pointed a knotted finger at me, pustules mottling the skin.
—Yes, you! Filthy biped!—
My brain, half-paralyzed by panic, managed the only reply it could find:
—What the hell…—
I never finished the sentence. The creature leapt down in a blur, crossing the distance in seconds. Its hand seized me as if I weighed nothing. I heard the fabric of my jacket tear as it lifted me effortlessly, then dropped me back to the ground with the casual ease of a child discarding a toy.
—Up. With the others!— it growled, voice deep and cavernous, as if echoing from the bottom of a well.
No need to repeat it. I obeyed, stumbling to my feet.
—Where… where am I?— I stammered.
No answer — only a brutal shove toward the hill.
The monster followed behind me, silent, oppressive.
My heart pounded. I froze for a moment, stunned.
Was it really… still beating?
I began to climb. Each step felt like a sentence. The slope wasn't steep, yet tension made it endless. The ground crunched beneath my shoes, and every time I slowed, I felt the creature's damp, heavy breath against the back of my neck.
And then the voices — louder now. Collective screams, weeping, shouted orders.
When I reached the top of the hill, I stopped dead.
Before me spread a landscape no nightmare could have conceived.
Under the light of towering bonfires, thousands of bodies moved in line. Not as individuals, but as one colossal creature — a leviathan made of flesh and despair. Souls marched without rest, prodded and whipped forward by dozens of beings like the one escorting me. Each motion was unnatural; each breath seemed choked by terror.
More figures kept descending from the surrounding hills, swallowed by the human river flowing slow but unstoppable.
And then I saw the structures.
Beyond the endless mass rose cyclopean shapes — enormous grey constructions merging stone and wood into impossible forms. Arks. Not ships as I knew them, but architectural beasts that seemed to drift upon a black, invisible sea. Not water, not earth — nothing. The void itself.
I stood motionless, breathless.
All I could do was watch that river of souls flow toward the unknown.
And I, with them.