The wheel jammed once more.
"Damn this cursed thing!"
He growled under his breath, yanking it free from a shallow crack in the baked earth. The damned thing rattled like a creaky old cart, every push sending a shiver up his arms. Not the sleek, motorized kind with buttons and dignity, this was an old, rust-bitten, manual chair. The only thing he could afford in life, and apparently the only thing Hell thought he deserved in death.
For three days, or however long it had been under this burnt-orange sky that never shifted, he'd been rolling through the wasteland. The wind clawed at him, flinging sand into his eyes, and jagged stones turned the path into a minefield. His arms had started aching in the first hour, but he kept going. If his hands gave out, he'd use his head to push the wheels.
Should've taken a loan when I had the chance, he thought bitterly, spitting grit from his mouth. Could've gotten an automatic chair. Would've made this road to Ezraphor feel less like a personal curse.
He glanced around. The number of travelers had thinned, first dozens, then a few scattered silhouettes… then nothing. Alone now, except for the hiss of the wind and the creak of his wheels.
"I've always liked being alone," he muttered. "Just didn't think it'd be in the middle of nowhere."
Something loomed through the haze ahead. A squat, cracked building squatting on the horizon, its edges wavering in the heat. He blinked, sand scratching his eyelids, but the shape didn't vanish.
A sign above the entrance, rusted, half-buried in dust, read: Ezraphor.
He rolled up to the door, shoved it open with his footrest, and wheeled inside.
The place was empty, worn-out tables and what looked like rusted hospital equipment scattered around. Several doors lined the walls, probably leading to other rooms. The air smelled faintly of ash.
A hulking red-skinned creature with two horns and a stubby tail was sweeping the floor. The ragged cloth around its waist barely clung to decency. It muttered darkly about killing the dust if it ever found where the bastard kept its heart.
If this was his first time in Hell, the beast alone would've made him shit himself. But his journey here had hardened him, enough to get used to the many horrors roaming this place.
Noticing him, the creature paused mid-sweep.
"Oy, oy…" It leaned on its broom and gave him a slow once-over. "Ya in the wrong, old man."
The creature spoke in a strange tongue, but he understood every word.
Being called an old man didn't bother him. On Earth, progeria had aged him faster than his years. By the time he died, he looked like an eighty-year-old, an extreme case, doctors said. He was used to being mistaken for old. Death was just the cousin of old age, they'd reunited to bring him here, so his looks didn't matter.
"I was told to come to Ezraphor. The sign outside says Ezraphor. So I came in. This is the place, no?"
"Oy! This is Ezraphor, alright. But no one's meant to be here. Ya heard wrong and came here. Go, go. Roll away!" The beast's tone was sharp and dismissive, like shooing a fly.
But instead of leaving, the man swallowed hard and rolled closer.
"Oy! Ya must be mad! I said leave!" the beast roared.
"Please… I can't go back out there. It's either here or nothing. Please, take this letter."
The man extended the letter. The beast shook its massive head but took it, muttering, "Ya humans are stubborn."
It tore the seal and read. Its broad eyes widened in shock, brows lifting, mouth dropping open as it gripped the letter tighter, shaking it in disbelief.
"Oy! Oy! Ya an Ezraphor indeed!! How is this even possible?" it barked, voice cracking with shock.
The man shook his head, rolling back a bit. "Honestly, I don't know much. All I know is I have to get out of here."
Still stunned, the beast muttered, "Ezraphor is back!!!" It repeated the phrase over and over, jumping and spinning like a mad dancer.
"A creature that size should be doing anything but dancing," the man muttered, looking away in embarrassment, waiting for the beast to settle.
Instead, it moved closer until they were eye to eye, just a breath apart.
"Ya have brought it back."
"Sorry, not to sound rude, but could you step back?"
The beast instantly pushed away and straightened up. "Oy! Pardon me! Ya presence has stirred somethin' in me."
Was that tears the beast was wiping from its eyes? What in Hell would make a beast feel this way about a man's resurrection?
"Come, human! We must haste ya transformation."
"Transformation?" The man blinked. "I just want to go home."
The beast laughed, a harsh, guttural sound. "Ya dead already. To live again, ya must be transformed. Ya gonna face trials. Ya wouldn't want to come back lookin' old and dusty like that, would ya?"
"Dear Ezraphor…" the beast added in a whisper.
"Transformed to what?" The confusion in his voice now edged with fear.
"A demon! Of course."
"Come on, let's go." The beast moved behind him and pushed him toward a room.
"Huh? A de…de…demon?"
"No, no, no! I don't want!"
"Oy! Ya here for a reason, Ezraphor. Ya must become ya destiny."
"Wait, wait! I was wrong! I won't be stubborn no more! Please, let me go!"
The man struggled, trying to stop the beast, but he was too small and weak to escape.
"Ya wouldn't understand now." The beast said before striking him hard on the neck, knocking him out cold.