Last Day In Hell

By Jay Phillips

Death Is Only The Beginning
A young woman wakes in a strange place without her memory, without her name, unable to recognize the sound of her own voice. All she knows, the one truth she can’t deny, is that she is dead, and this place, this world filled with inexplicable terrors, is in fact Hell.

A man named Jack and his group of lost souls struggle to collect the few innocent strays trapped in this dimension, to ferry them off to another realm, to a better place. When Jack frees this young woman from her cell, from the prison she finds herself in, she is placed in a cycle of struggle and pain from which there is no escape.
Lost in a Hell created by a vengeful angel, Jack’s group fight their way to the one safe spot in this world, their one last refuge, each of them brought to this place to repay an unknown debt, each member as clueless about their past as the young woman who quickly finds a place amongst their ranks.

Jack himself is pursued by a demon, a succubus, who claims to love him, a woman who may well know him better than he could ever know himself. Her desire for him will lead Jack and his group down a new path, a dark path, that will change everything they have ever known.

A story of redemption and sacrifice, filled throughout with action and suspense, Last Day In Hell may leave you in tears as its final question is answered.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jay Phillips
• Release date: Mar 1, 2019
• ISBN: 9780463007174

Jay Phillips

Jay Phillips (1976-) graduated from Middle Tennessee State University with a degree in English Lit. He lives on the Gulf Coast with his wife and two children. A lifelong lover of comic books, Star Wars, Doctor Who, and everything else from the nerd culture, he prides himself on writing fiction that crosses boundaries. Kingdom of Heroes is his first novel, and the critical reaction to it has been overwhelmingly positive.

Book preview

She seemed to be awake, but everything remained dark. She was on her back; the ground beneath her felt hard and cold. As she listened to the sounds around her, sounds filled with screams, shrieks of pain, and metal clashing against metal, it occurred to her that her eyes were still closed, yet as she tried to convince herself of a compelling reason to lift her lids, she couldn’t find one.

She thought for a second, trying her hardest to remember not only her name, but anything about herself. She knew she was female; that much was at least readily apparent. She was sure she had a name and some type of identity, but whatever it was, or whatever it may have been, it was missing from her memory. Other questions began to flood her mind, some arriving in a straight narrow line, most just forcing themselves over the side of her thoughts like water pouring from the top of a poorly built dam.

Who was she? Where was she? Why were there people screaming and yelling? What in the hell was that putrid odor? Was it her? Did she stink? There were people screaming; why would it matter if she smelled bad? Was she going to die like this?

And then she remembered what must have been the most important thing she had ever remembered. She couldn't die. She was already dead. She had no idea what her name was nor her birthday, but she knew, without a shadow of doubt, that she was dead. She died on January 17, 2018 at six-thirty in the evening. She couldn't remember how or why, but in both her heart and her head, she knew it was true. In defiance of her natural instincts, she did the one thing she had absolutely no desire to do. She opened her eyes.

She was in a small room, something reminiscent of a prison cell. Built entirely out of stone, small rays of light protruded from the many cracks in the far wall. Opposite of that stood another wall with a door, a thick wooden door with a small set of bars placed in the top. She sat up, realizing for the first time that she was completely nude, simply sitting there on the cold floor, totally naked, not wearing a single stitch of clothing.

The smell from earlier engulfed her; the stench of death, of rotting flesh, invaded her senses. She turned to her right and found the source sitting in the corner: two corpses, one almost decayed to the skeleton, the other with various patches of flesh still attached. She could vaguely hear the sound of a scream escape from her lips as she scooted over the rough gray floor, moving across the stone as fast as she could until she hit the other corner, placing as much space as she could between her and her silent roommates.

She peered at the bodies; as their overwhelming odor continued to force its way into her nostrils, as she listened to the screams that poured through the top of the door, another thought occurred to her. She was dead, and this, she assumed, was Hell. She couldn't remember if she had believed in the afterlife, if she had been a Catholic, a Baptist, or an Atheist, but she knew without knowing that she had just woken up in Hell itself.

She heard a voice outside of the cell, a male voice, yelling something that she couldn't quite understand. She felt herself say something back, even as another voice inside her brain reprimanded her, telling her to shut up, reminding her that there were two dead bodies beside her, and she could end up like them. She shook her head, wiping away the thoughts, remembering that it no longer mattered. She was already dead.

She yelled to the male voice outside of the door. She had no idea what she was saying, but she knew that sounds had escaped from her lips. The voice yelled back something she still couldn't understand, something forceful, something commanding. At the last second, she realized what it was telling her to do; it was telling her to step away from the door.

With no further warning, the door was forcefully kicked in; it flew open, somehow managing to stay attached to its rusted hinges. She instinctively threw her arms up to cover her face, barely blocking the wooden shrapnel that flew past her head.

A man walked inside the room, a tall man with very short, dark blonde hair. He was barefoot and wearing brown rags that had somehow been forged into pants and a shirt; she could see the hilts of two swords strapped to his back. As she stared at this man, this man who had just kicked in the cell door, this man who gave her no idea of his intentions, the only thought going through her head was wondering why he was dressed like a medieval beggar.

He looked down at her, his very handsome face well past the point of needing a shave. He reached his hand out towards her. Her first reaction was to grab it, but she hesitated, still unsure of his intent or motive. Her eyes traveled from his outstretched arm to his gray eyes, completely unsure of what she should do.

He stepped closer to her. Are you planning on staying here forever? he asked, his voice deep and not at all reassuring. He nudged his head in the general direction of the two cadavers in the corner. You want to end up like your friends over there?

She moved her head from side-to-side, understanding that those two had probably been trapped in the room the same as she had been.

He pushed his hand towards her again. Take it, he said. We'll get you out of here.

And go where? she asked, hearing her voice for the first time and finding it simultaneously foreign yet familiar.

He halfway smiled at her. Anything is better than this, isn't it?

She reached up and grabbed his hand; he pulled her to her feet before guiding her to the door.

Stay behind me, he said as they approached the room's exit. No matter what you see, don't be afraid. Just know that you're safe with us... He paused before adding, ...and with me.

She wanted to ask a whole list of questions, but before the words could form on her lips, they stepped through the doorway. She found herself inside of a massive stone hallway; a long dark passage waited in front of them, to the back, a long set of stairs that seemed to go on forever. Neither way appeared particularly appealing.

He stopped in the center of the hallway, his hand still tightly wrapped around hers. She wasn't sure if he was trying to decide which way to go or if he was simply as lost as she was.

Happen to remember your name? he asked.

She glanced down and saw her long hair falling on her bare breasts. She was apparently a brunette, and obviously cold. Not exactly. Should I have?

I wouldn't get my hopes up. He reached behind his head and pulled the two swords from their sheathes. What's your death date?

My what?

He looked straight at her, allowing her to see the scars on each side of his face and neck. What day did you die?

January 17, 2018. You?

June, 1947. As he turned back, he visibly tightened the grip he held on the two blades. Stay behind me. They're coming, and I can't say for sure exactly how many there are.

What's coming? she asked, a newfound nervousness present in her voice.

He audibly sighed. And please don't freak out when you see them. I always get the ones who panic and run. Stay with me. I'll keep you safe.

She wanted to ask more questions, to dig for more answers, to find out what this place was, why she was here, where were her clothes, and what in the hell he was talking about with all of his cryptic they're coming. But before she could ask another question, before she could breathe another syllable, she saw them. And suddenly, the fear of the unknown was replaced by the fear of what she could actually see.

They walked down the lightless hallway, half a dozen of them at least, all of them holding various weapons. They appeared to be corpses who had been given something resembling life; their movements were quick yet jerky and stark, as if a puppeteer stood above them, pulling their strings to and fro, yanking them from one side of the hall to the other. She placed herself closer to him, doing her best to heed his advice and not run.

Ghouls, he said as if she had just asked a question. We call them ghouls.

What about you? she asked, partly out of curiosity, partly to try and find some kind of way of keeping herself calm. What's your name?

Jack, he answered as he took a couple of steps forward, using himself to create a barrier from her and the oncoming creatures. They call me Jack.

The first of the creatures came within a few feet of them. It swung the old, rusty ax it carried over its head and slammed it down with as much force as a badly decomposing corpse could. She watched as Jack brought his two swords up, forming them into an X shape directly in front of his face. The ax crashed against the swords, painting the hallway with a shower of sparks. Jack pulled the sword in his right hand from its defensive position and slashed the blade across the ghoul's neck, quickly separating its head from its shoulders.

Its decapitated head landed on the ground with a sickening thud a second before the creature's body crumpled in a heap beside it. Without hesitation, Jack moved forward towards two more of the monsters. In one swift motion, he thrust both swords straight out, simultaneously stabbing the two ghouls in the chest. They slid off of his swords and landed on the stone floor, mere inches from Jack’s bare feet.

She watched in silent awe as he stepped up again, placing himself in-between the remaining three. With a flurry of motion, his swords connected with two of the creatures, leaving just the one next to him still standing. The beast held what appeared to be a sharp yet small blade in its right hand. Jack took his time, seemingly gathering his senses and preparing himself for when the creature would eventually strike.

From nowhere, an arrow soared by her left ear, detectable only be the sudden whoosh of air it created as it travelled. The wooden projectile flew past her and to the right of Jack, entering the ghoul's forehead directly above what was left of its decomposing nose. As the creature slowly fell to its knees, she turned around in time to see a girl, no older than fifteen, barely five feet tall, with bright blond hair, making her way down the stairs towards them, a hunting bow in her left hand, another arrow in her right.

What in the hell are you doing? the girl asked Jack as she came closer. We seriously don't have time for you to be showing off.

Jack grinned at the diminutive blonde as she stepped beside him. Wasn't showing off; it just got a little crowded in here. Thought I would make some space.

Oh good god, she exclaimed with a shrug of her shoulders. You always show off for the pretty ones.

Do not, he added in a quiet voice as he gazed down the dark passage. His eyes returned to the blonde, his tone and demeanor abruptly becoming serious. We got a way out?

She loudly sighed. The way we came in is blocked, and the stairs went nowhere. She motioned to the hallway. I'm thinking this is the only option we have left.

Then I guess we have a winner. He moved himself into the space between the two girls. Anya, this is January. Take her to the rest. He peered at the still frightened brunette. January, this is my friend, Anya. Go with her; she'll take good care of you. He gave her a slight wink and began walking towards the darkness.

And where exactly do you think you're going? Anya asked in an annoyed tone.

I'm going to clear us a path out of here. And with those words, January watched him disappear into the shadows without a single glance back at her or the blonde standing beside her.

____________________

As he entered the corridor's thick darkness, Jack thought about Anya and her new friend. He hated leaving them like that, but he knew Anya could more than take care of herself; the other one, the extremely pretty brunette, slightly concerned him. She was far too awake, far too talkative, and was already asking way too many questions. He tried not to worry about it yet. They'd deal with it when they had to.

He silently shook his head as he thought about what Anya had said. I wasn't showing off, he said out loud to no one but himself.

A hundred feet in, the darkness that filled the hallway became much more pronounced, quickly becoming more than his eyes could overcome. As he slowed his steps, hoping to give his vision time to adjust, he found himself regretting his lack of a torch. Oh well, he thought to himself, patience had never been one of his finer virtues. He allowed the inherited katanas, one in each hand, to hang loosely in his grip.

He stopped when he saw the glowing eyes ahead of him, at least two dozen, all sensing his presence and rotating to face him. He tightened his hold on the two swords, momentarily allowing the one in his left hand to twirl around in a complete circle before bringing it up to a defensive position near his chest. He could hear their growls and lumbering movements as they began to shuffle in his direction.

He shut his eyes for a moment, allowing his heartbeat to slow and his thoughts to clear, removing any distraction from his mind, any idea or emotion that could potentially get in his way, for he knew that every battle, every test, every time he pulled the blades from their sheathes, he was one mistake away from the second and final death. And even here, in what amounted to his own personal Hell, he always had to be prepared to die again.

But not yet, he thought to himself as he opened his eyes and stared at the collection of ghouls making their way towards him.

A small assortment of sparks flew as the sword in his left hand blocked the incoming strike from the first ghoul to arrive. He stabbed his other blade up; it entered beneath the creature's chin and exited from the top of its decayed skull. As the lifeless monster fell to the floor, he tightened the grip he held on the blade's hilt and prepared himself for the rest.

____________________

It took everything she had to keep up with the young woman in front of her, and it slowly dawned on her that she was continually referring to herself as January within her thoughts. She guessed it made sense; after all, it was the only thing she could remember about who she was or, in her case, who she used to be. The handsome man had called this other girl Anya; she was young and pretty, with small features that matched the rest of her, covered in the same brown rags as the man and carrying a bow that was almost as big as she was; her blond hair flowed behind her as she ran.

While running up the stairs, all of January's momentarily forgotten questions began to invade her thoughts. Who, where, and what the fuck was happening all came to the forefront. With zero internal debate, she decided she needed answers, and she wasn't going any further until she received some.

Hold up! January yelled to the blonde; they both came to a sudden and abrupt standstill.

With zero hesitation, Anya turned around, her bow in an attack position, an arrow nocked and ready to loose if needed. What the hell is it? Anya demanded, her suddenly large and alert blue eyes scanning in every direction at once.

I have questions.

Anya slowly shook her head back and forth, her long, straight hair flowing from one side of her face to the other. Questions? she asked. You have questions?

What is this place?

Without another word, Anya resumed the steep climb. January, determined to have answers, followed her every step.

What is this place? she asked again. Why am I here?

You're dead, Anya replied while still in full stride. And this is Hell.

The Hell? With fire and brimstone and devils with pitchforks?

Anya momentarily stopped and stared back at her. Fire and brimstone? Pitchforks?

Yeah, January said in return, out of nowhere realizing that an abstract idea like Hell was clear in her mind, yet she couldn't remember what her own face looked like. You know, the way Hell is always described.

Anya rubbed the side of her neck before continuing back up the stairs. I have no idea what you're talking about, but I do know that this is a Hell. It may not be the one you're describing, but it's the one we got.

You're saying there's more than one?

I'm saying I don't know, Anya's high pitched voice almost yelled. Oh good god, I hate strays. Why does Jack always manage to find the annoying ones?

January started to say something, but Anya interrupted her before the first syllable could escape her lips. And before you ask, Anya began, her tone filled with frustration, you are a stray. You're an empty headed, naked, 'oh poor me, I can't remember my name,' stray. And the sooner I get you to the rest and shut you the hell up, the happier I'll be.

As January thought about protesting, she quickly realized that they had reached the top of the stairs, and then she saw them, more people like her, each with fear covering their perplexed faces, male, female, old and young, ranging in age from a girl who barely seemed twelve to a man who had to be at least eighty, all of them completely nude, all of them appearing exactly as out of place as she did. The presence of more people should have made her feel more comfortable, but it actually achieved the opposite effect. It only served to confuse her even more.

She saw what must have been the rest of the group that Jack kept speaking of, two more men and another woman, a very pretty redhead. They all wore the same brown rags that covered Anya and Jack. The tallest of the group, a heavyset older man with leather like skin and a thick white beard, came to attention as soon as they arrived within his line of sight.

Anya! he yelled, his voice both gravelly and deep. Where's Jack?

Downstairs, he's making us a path.

He found a way out? the tall man asked in a slow and deliberate drawl.

Not quite, Jude, Anya answered as she placed a hand on January's shoulders and began pushing her alongside the other strays. He just thinks it's an exit cause it's dark and filled with ghouls.

The large man, who appeared to be in his sixties, smiled as he shook his head. Heaven help that boy. He always thinks the most dangerous path is the right one.

He's going to get us killed, the other man yelled from the other side of the room. He was shorter than the others, five-six, five-seven at the most; his black hair and clean shaven face stood in sharp contrast to the other two men January had seen so far. He waved the large shield in his left hand up and down as he spoke, as if to emphasize his point.

The tall man's smile faded as he turned to respond. Oh shut your damn mouth, Michael. You've already died once. Dying again sure as shit ain't gonna hurt you.

Damn it, you two, we don't have time for this, Anya said to them both, appearing to be the most mature person in the room despite her youthful appearance. We have to get these strays out of here while we have a chance.

You got a plan? the tall man asked.

She nodded. Yeah, we follow Jack, like always.

Michael, May, the tall man, who Anya had called Jude, yelled. Let's get these people out of here. The other two began to push January and the rest of the so-called strays into a straight line, guiding them down the same stairs January and Anya had just climbed.

January found her place in line and looked around at her surroundings, at the medieval like castle, at the men and women in rags, at the weapons they carried. She peered at herself and at the others like her; they seemed to be as lost as she was, each with the same deer in the headlights expressions on their faces that she felt certain was covering her own.

Surreal didn't even begin to describe her current situation, and for a moment, for the briefest of moments, she tried to convince herself that this was all a dream. But that same voice, the one continually reminding her of the day of her death, kept contradicting the whole dream theory, almost forcing her to accept that this was all real, that this was her fate.

With her place in line finally secured, any thoughts of questions, any desire to place logic into what was obviously and completely illogical, slowly faded from her thoughts, replaced by the urge to simply be one of the rest, to be quiet, to be told what to do. She lowered her head and moved along with the herd, slowly and quietly allowing the hopelessness of the situation to wash away from her.

____________________

With his eyes almost completely adjusted to the darkness, Jack glanced back at the tight corridor and the many dead ghouls he had left on the floor. There had been at least a dozen, but they were only a real danger when their numbers approached twenty; any less felt more annoying than threatening. He stepped amongst the decayed bodies, being as careful as he could to avoid tripping over one of them. Nothing worse, he thought to himself, than falling face first onto a pile of dead things.

As he pushed further down the hallway, he found himself hesitating, momentarily debating whether or not to stop and go back for the rest. He listened until he could hear the sound of footsteps and voices, a positive sign that they were about to catch up with him. He resumed walking while still holding the two swords within his hands, the sharp edges hovering near his knees.

He thought about how long he had been the owner of these two weapons, but he had quit counting his time in this place long ago. All he knew was that he had been the owner long enough for the blades to feel like a part of him, the katanas becoming an extension of his own body. The swords had been a gift, an inheritance he had never felt quite worthy enough to accept.

The small hallway began to grow wider, and he could almost feel air from outside of the dungeon, meaning he was close to finding a way out of this place. He continued forward until he saw the hallway open up to a large courtyard, an uncovered area filled with light and a viable doorway barely fifty feet away from him. He stopped there without moving, allowing himself a breath from the nearly fresh outside air. He had always found the tighter confines somewhat hard to handle. Maybe, he thought to himself, he had been a bit claustrophobic when he was alive, not that he could remember enough about that life to know for sure.

He had taken two steps out of the hallway and into the courtyard when he saw her. She waited in the shadows, barely taller than Anya, with blood red hair that stretched all the way down her back, her once small and delicate hands replaced with a beast's talons; a thick layer of leather-like flesh covered the area where her left eye should have been; the right eye had been made as black as the darkest night sky. She stalked towards him; her movements were quick, almost cat-like, her every step planned and deliberate. She made her way into the light, and he could see the many scars that layered her pale body like a second skin. She opened her red lips, revealing two rows of sharpened fangs.

You can't run from him forever, Jack, she said, the sound from her throat as much a hiss as it was a voice. He will always find you.

____________________

The Cyclops

They had called her the fairest girl in the land, the most gorgeous creature in the entire kingdom. Her beauty, they would say, she inherited from her mother, her ability to bring a room of people to their knees with just a smile, from her father. Even as she aged into a young woman, her long red hair, porcelain white skin, and ruby red lips had done nothing to change their opinion. As the king's lone daughter, she had been afforded a level of luxury, a certain kind of life, others in the kingdom could only dream of. But it wasn't enough. Despite it all, she felt unfulfilled in so many ways.

She was given lessons on etiquette and manners, taught the proper way to address a royal dignitary, how to properly wave to the crowd from the castle's balcony, all in the hopes that she would be married away to some other important family, bringing yet more prestige and power to her father's crown. Yet her brothers, because they had the good fortune of being born male, were given lessons in war, taught to fight with swords, to use a bow, to be heroes. To be given the same was all she wanted in life; it was all she could think about.

She had watched so many soldiers from the villages march into battle, and she had seen the way people adored them when they had returned victorious; she had seen the pride on their faces, the sense of self-satisfaction that inherently came along with surviving a triumphant battle. These were emotions she had never felt, and as the princess, these were things she would never be allowed to know.

She formed a plan, such a simple little plan. She would steal