The winds were deceptively calm — serving as a portent for the storm to come — on the grounds of Saint Kevin’s Orphanage in Pittsburgh on that historic night; a night its residents would come to celebrate as the night The Pyro of Pittsburgh was apprehended, but at a terrible cost.
The government’s sentinels kept their unwavering eyes on every possible point of entry into the orphanage. The pyro had already burned down two other orphanages, and the government was not about to let a third become yet another pile of charred rubble and bone — not when it might lead to the citizens questioning their competency.
At 3 AM sharp, he arrived. The sentinels didn’t make an arrest at first as he played his role as a passerby all too well. By the time the head sentinel saw through the act, it was, tragically, too late; the pyro pulled a Molotov cocktail from his backpack, ignited it and threw it through the first story window of the orphanage.
The overconfidence of the sentinel team led to their notorious decision to use the orphans as bait for the pyro, and — like fishermen luring a shark — they were woefully unprepared for the outcome.
Sentinels tasked with escorting the orphans outside in the event of a fire found that the flames had spread to the second floor of the three-story building before the evacuation procedure had begun. The sentinels made a desperate climb up the fire escape to the third story, but their efforts were in vain as they were obstructed by a wall of fire at the top.
A fire truck on standby for the unfolding scenario screeched to a stop out front — almost flattening the sentinels who were cuffing the pyro.
The firemen hosed the mountain of flames, if only to save the building, as they knew that no one could have survived within the Everest they fought.
In the light of the pyro’s handiwork, the head sentinel scanned the mass murder’s face with his government-issued eyeware implants, which were connected to his brain computer chip. The criminal database on the chip matched the pyro instantaneously to his file: Sam Huxley.
Sam’s trial would commence that same night. He was brought into the courtroom restrained to a wheelchair and sporting a spit hood. The courtroom consisted of an empty room, save for a camera and monitor on the wall that Sam faced. The monitor then listed all the crimes Sam was guilty of: Armed Robbery: 4 Counts. Aggravated Assault: 7 Counts. First-Degree Arson: 3 Counts. First-Degree Murder: 286 Counts. His list of past evils faded away on the monitor, replaced by text which read ‘Verdict: Guilty. Punishment: Hellfire program 2.0 for 286 consecutive life sentences.’
“‘Hellfire program 2.0’, what’s that?!” Sam asked, but was met with silence.
Sam was then wheeled out of the courtroom and taken to a different room, this one more capacious and lined with rows of cylindrical pods. As Sam passed by these pods, he saw the tormented faces of the damned within.
The wheelchair stopped at a vacant pod, its door open as though it were an eagerly awaiting beast ready to be sated. Sam attempted to break his restraints, all the while, a uniformed group assembled by him, they had with them an array of high-tech paraphernalia. Sam was injected with a sedative before the removal of his spit hood. The group then got to work on drilling into the skull of the mass murderer. Once the skull was breached, a microchip — with a six-foot electrode cord — was placed onto the surface of Sam’s brain.
Sam, now adequately sedated, had his restraints removed before the group hoisted him from the wheelchair and into the pod; the electrode cord was then connected to the pod before the door was slammed shut.
Sam Huxley awoke — not in the pod — but in another world, the domain of Satan himself, it was hell. Everything he saw exceeded his childhood preconceptions of the place: Winged demons flew across the ensanguined sky; on the ground, giant shadows strode with thunderous steps. Omnipresent screams provided an apt soundtrack for Sam’s new home — a soundtrack that only the Devil could find melodic.
Sam’s first instinct was to search for shelter; he sloshed his foot through a waist-deep pool of an unknown liquid upon taking his first step. He dipped a finger in the liquid and took a whiff: gasoline.
A match was struck ahead of Sam; holding the matchstick was a gruesomely burned child.
“NO!” Sam screamed!
The child’s face contorted into a sadistic smile as it dropped the match, igniting — not a pool — but an ocean of gasoline in which Sam stood at the center.
Sam crouched to drown the flames that enveloped his upper body; however, when Sam dropped to his knees — they hit dry ground.
The flames that were presently incinerating Sam wouldn’t be extinguished for a lifetime; then the process would start over again until he had served his 286 life sentences, covered in flames that grew more scorching with each lifetime.
