Sometimes there were corpse-quakes

Sometimes there were earthquakes. Or were they corpse-quakes?

Whatever . . . suddenly, the pile of death would move, quiver. Sometimes, heartbreakingly, the space he had been so carefully digging with his fingernails would fill again after such a quake.

But, he found it was easier to claw the space out again. And each time there was a quake, the weight on his chest was a little less. He redoubled his efforts.

Why was he here?

Was he in hell?

What had he done to deserve this?

Nothing. Somehow he knew. He was guilty of nothing. At least nothing so hideous as to be consigned here. No. He was simply in the hands of something with a capacity for infinite sadism.

Just then the mountain of the dead around him trembled again. For a moment, it seemed that the space he’d been so carefully constructing would collapse once again. But, then it held.

Another quake shook the mass. He worked harder.

Then . . . slowly . . . the hatred came to him.