Adolf awakes in his promised heaven

It was a wonderful day for America, France, Britain, even, despised Russia, and, and the world.

Confirmed dead, with his mistress no less, the two of them and their probably obscene love, alone, together, to face...the end, the very real end.

It WAS him, confirmed, undeniably, there was no way out of that bunker. It was thoroughly checked and double-checked for exit tunnels, found none. GODAMMIT!! WE FINALLY KILLED THE BASTARD! Hooray!

He felt cold.

It surrounded him, hemmed him in, smothered him down.

That's what woke him up.

Achh! Why so cold?

He opened his eyes, well tried to. The blackness with them closed was the same inky murkiness with them open. Are they open?

He tried to feel them with his fingers, but could not feel his fingers. At first he couldn't move, entombed by a pressing force. He tried raising his arms to his face, couldn't feel his arms. He scrambled and ran his fingers over his body.

Couldn't feel his body.

The first fear struck, "What is this?" he thought.

Then louder, opening his mouth, "Where am I?" but he couldn't hear his voice.

He shouted again, much louder. "Phase, wo ich bin, Where am I?" and still, heard nothing.

Panic started, but he was a soldier, and used to panic, so tamped it down.

"There's always a way out," he thought aloud.

Still cold, but not freezing, he sensed no goosebumps.

He felt his body again, but felt nothing, literally nothing. First he felt for his arms, the right hand running up and down the left arm, then left hand running up and down the right arm. Still he felt...

Nothing.

Nothing but cold, but not the biting cold, not the freezing of the Alps.

There was no wind, no breeze.

He felt like he was outside though, in the open, since he felt no enclosure.

He had perfect freedom of movement.

Was he lying down?

No, standing up.

He called, "Anyone there?" Silence and more silence. Again, this time louder. Silence, not even an echo.

In fact he only heard his voice ... in his mind.

"I have my mind. I am a person," he thought.

He got up, but realized he was already up, because he felt a cold surface beneath his feet, but that's all.

He took a step. Only cold surface. More steps. More cold surface.

"There must be a door here, a window, an opening, somewhere," he told himself, but if it was spoken by his voice he wasn't sure.

Still no sound.

He couldn't hear his feet padding on the cold, metallic, smooth, flat surface.

He was still walking he thought, since when he stopped, nothing changed.

"Anybody there?" Again, shouting but not shouting, wanting to hear a return voice, but not sure what

or who would reply.

Then his imaginary foot stubs against an object.

Not an object, a change in the surface, rising now, inclined. "Do I follow it left or right? Do I walk up?

What should I do?" and panic begins, again.

But being an indomitable man, he shakes it off.

"I can see nor feel nor hear nothing, so it makes no difference which way I go. Or does it? Hell, I'll walk up."

And he does. First one step, then two then twenty, then forty, a hundred, three, more and more, keeping his untouchable body inclined as he tiptoes, as he walks, takes strides or tromps, makes no difference.

Not sure if he will run into anything.

"Achtung! Hey, dammit! Answer! Anybody there?"

Silence.

In the inky blackness, all he can do is feel.

Just as sudden the incline flattens. Made it! He moves ahead, "I'll find something," he thinks.

He plants both feet on the new, flat, hard, cold, impossibly smooth surface.

Phase, wo ich bin, for the hundredth time, knowing that saying the words aloud will not invoke response,

but also thinking, "I must keep my wits. There must be a way out. There must be!" and this time he shouts.

No response, no noise, no sound, only gloom and silence, deep gloom and deep silence, deafening gloom and dead silence.

Tentatively he takes a few steps forward on the hard surface. More flatness. He walks what he thinks is ahead, what he thinks is a straight line, not turning except to peek back and non-shout, "Anyone there? Can you help me home?" to the now expected no-response.

"I must be climbing ... out of here" he thinks. "Must be a door." It had been days, weeks since he had woken up. How long have I been here?

Time is not responding either.

No urge for food, or drink, or any thing but walking ahead enters his mind.

Except for sure uncertainty.

Of a sudden, the surface drops from out beneath him.

"Hilfe! Help, I'm falling!" he shouts, to no one and no thing.

Falling and falling. Freefall now, in the air, but there is no air. He hears no swish or swoosh or sound of any kind, and still falling, falling hours, days, weeks, afraid, scared, tumbling, shouting, calling out in fear until ...

"A wall!'"

On his left, under his left hand, brushing his back, then his arm then supporting his body, as if curved, as if a mammoth bowl made of hard cold marble, sliding under his non-feeling skin.

And the fear of how he might stop grips him.

For he is sliding faster... and faster, and is tumbling, burning, brushing the same cold surface, smooth beyond blemish.

Still downward, ever downward.

 "Nein!" he shouts to no one and no thing,

"No!" and the impossible, long, years-long slide, continues and goes on and he stutters "There is no end! ...What will I do?... What can I do?... Where... the ... hell...am... I?" and he keeps sliding, and grasping, and tumbling, and falling, screaming at the very top of his lungs.

But he has no lungs....

Screaming forever the fate he deserves

           eternity itself not listening

                       to his hollow cries

                                  until Hell

                                               open's wide its maw