Jasfoup stepped out of the portal into a cacophony of screaming and the tink of something metallic hitting the stone. Before he did anything he took out a leather wallet and inserted Amanda's hair carefully inside, almost surprised it hadn't shrivelled in the heat of Hell. Only then did he bend to retrieve the source of the tink, a metal tube four inches in length. It took him a moment to place it. Of course! The barrel of a Sig-Sauer P226. he grinned as he tossed it into a pool of burning oil. Try explaining that one, Corporal Andrews.
He walked a short distance to a slight rise and looked out over the landscape to get his bearings. Before stretched the great depression, circle after circle of the tortured damned as far as the eye could see, beginning with a vast plain of red-hot sand within which figures rose and sank, screaming. Behind him was a dark forest full of twisted trees.
"Ah. I'm between the Wood of Suicides and the sands of blasphemy. Not too far in, then. Jolly good."
He waved to the few souls he knew, taking off his shoes to dig his toes into the hot sands. He crouched by an elderly spirit scrabbling at the surface, her flesh scraped away by the constant abrasion but continually renewing. "Morning, Mrs. Peterson. How's the sciatica today?"
"Not too bad, thank you Mr. Jasfoup. It's the heat, see. Does it the world of good. If they only had this treatment when I was alive." The spirit held up a hand where the bone had been scoured free of flesh. Jasfoup shook it, his palm tickled by the regrowth of skin.
He smiled. "They do, Mrs. P. It's called lava. Not generally appreciated by the living, though."