Old No.7 | An Alastor x Reader Story

The Question Of Double Hell

Time seemed to slow to a crawl while at the same time everything seemed to happen at once. Armed with the Tommy gun, I crept down the stairs, where the sounds of condensed warfare were wreaking havoc in my club. I grit my teeth, straining to control my temper. As much as I wanted just to let loose on every encroaching sinner here, being stupid would surely get me bumped off.

Did dead sinners go to double Hell?

The first of McKenny's crew to come into my line of sight was a portly sinner with a piggish face. A macabre smile spread across my face as I unloaded several rounds into his squishy flesh. He went down, seemingly popped like a water balloon filled with red syrup. 

I lost count after the fourth or fifth jobbie, focusing instead on keeping count of my bullets while still trying to remain bullet-free myself. At this point, time seemed non-existent. It wasn't until Alastor set a hand on my shoulder with a reassuring grin that I finally lowered my piece. 

My poor club looked like a war-torn nightmare. Everything I had spent decades working on was either broken or so soaked in blood and innards that it was beyond saving. Even the picture above the bar showcasing myself, my original crew of eight, and our newly opened club was shot through. 

Picking up the bullet riddled photograph from among the shards of glass, I stared at the faces of sinners who had found out whether or not there was a double Hell. Lester was the only one remaining that remembered the old days, besides myself of course. We knew the risk we ran in this trade. We knew what price would eventually need to be paid.

"Ma'am?" It was Lester's voice that made me look up. The burly sinner was shouldering a shotgun and an equally grim expression.

"Everyone still standing is gathering upstairs." He continued, "We want to know the next move."