Hell''s Pawn

  He flipped to random pages, noticing that dozens were passing by even though the folder appeared to contain at most ten pages. He played with this phenomenon, watching the pages whiz by until he was sure that they numbered in the hundreds. He stopped on a random page and read:

  “Despite the promise of paternal assistance to the extent that a specific time and date had been set, subject proceeded to rebuke responsibility, engaging in subterfuge involving the avoidance of communication and intentional deception during three subsequent physical intercommunication sessions.”

  J ohn’s brow furrowed as he reread this paragraph. He mu ered a grunt of gratitude when Dante placed another beer in front of him and sipped it while scanning the text a third time. His increasing drunkenness might partially be to blame for his confusion, but there was no doubting the amount of technical jargon and run-on sentences.

  “Find something juicy?” Dante inquired.

  “I ’m not sure,” J ohn responded. “I think it’s talking about the time I promised to babysit my sister’s kid, and then blew it off.”

  “I f you farted and someone else had to smell it, it’s in there. Don’t sweat the details.

  There’s no pop quiz at the end of your time here. All that matters is getting reds.”

  “Seems pretty straightforward.”

  “I t is.” Dante’s words were beginning to slur. “This is the new system, the humanitarian way. I n the old days they used to burn the sin out, or so I hear. O ld J acobi could tell you things. He’s been here for ages. S tories that make your skin crawl.”

  J ohn wasn’t particularly sure he wanted to hear them. W hat he needed to do, once his head was clear again, was to focus on working his way out of P urgatory. Hopefully Dante could help him in this regard, since he was now his chaperone.

  “Better drink up,” Dante warned. “We don’t have much time.”

  “I’m already tipsy.”

  “Not for long. Drink! I promise you won’t have a hangover.” J ohn drank the rest of his beer, warily sizing up his new friend and wondering if there was a reason for the encouraged intoxication. W hat did he have to be afraid of? I t wasn’t like Dante could rob him, and even if he could, J ohn barely had any reds to call his own. Aside from that, he was already dead, so he couldn’t be murdered or harmed.

  Could he?

  “S o, dead means we’re okay, right?” J ohn was struggling to arrange his words. “I mean, you can’t get beaten up or anything. Right?”

  Dante looked amused and opened his mouth to reply, but a voice from the air interrupted him.

  Dante Stewart. Intoxication. 78 point demerit.

  “What was that?” John managed to say before the voice spoke again.

  John Grey. Intoxication. 78 point demerit.

  Instantly and without warning, John was completely sober. He looked questioningly to Dante, who rolled his eyes.

  “That’s all you get. Half an hour of fun before they cut you off and hit you with demerits. Kind of makes you wonder if we’re really in Hell, huh?” He pushed himself from the table. “I’ll get us another round.”

  “No,” J ohn said quickly, glad for the sudden sobriety. “L ook, what I really want to do now is focus on getting out of this place.”

  Dante sat back down with a sour expression on his face. “S o you want to graduate and go where, exactly?”

  “Heaven, I guess. Is there a choice?”

  Dante shrugged. “What religion are you?”

  “My parents were Lutheran.”

  “That doesn’t mean a thing. L ook, I know it’s an almost automatic response to think that Heaven is the ultimate destination, but maybe it’s not all it’s cracked up to be. You think they let you drink up there? You think they have women, poker games, cigars, drugs?”

  “I’m pretty sure there are women in Heaven,” John retorted.

  “You know what I mean. P urgatory might have its shortcomings, but it’s damn close to the life we had on E arth. There’s no burning in fiery pits or singing hymns to G od all day. G raduating will only send you to a prison of another sort. That’s not to say there isn’t some sense in the idea of leaving.” Dante gave a ridiculous stage wink, which John ignored.

  “You seemed pretty keen on earning those reds earlier today.” Dante shrugged. “I ’m no more interested in going to Hell than I am Heaven. I t’s a delicate balance. Too much sinful living here, and they graduate you in a different direction.”

  B efore J ohn could respond, the P rop at the table near them starting choking on its food again. W ithin seconds the other patrons were scrambling to assist and tally up redemption points.

  “Time to piss off,” Dante hissed as he stood. “I need some fresh air.” As he left, John remained in his seat, watching the Irishman as he pushed his way to the door. He seriously considered not following him, si ing where he was, biding his time until the Prop needed help again. Or maybe he could play waiter for a while. That must be worth something. B ut the hint that Dante had dropped, the idea that there might be another way out, intrigued him. He hated waiting tables anyway.

  * * * * *

  Night had fallen in P urgatory, or at least the featureless sky above had deepened into the darkest shade of gray possible. J ohn had never minded the color in life, even had a fondness for it because of his last name, but now he was beginning to despise gray. He wondered how he would feel about it after months, or even years. Dante claimed to appreciate P urgatory, but his irritation with it lurked just beneath the surface.

  J ohn cast an uneasy glance up and down the street. V isiting a new city always made him nervous, especially the first night. To him it felt like being in the den of a beast he didn’t know the nature of. E ven his palms felt sweaty, which was odd now that he considered it.

  “I don’t feel dead,” John said. “Sometimes I even feel my heart beat.”

  “Habit,” Dante answered. “Don’t expect to break it either. G irls still gasp, guys still burp, and even though most people don’t bother with bathroom stuff, I did meet one guy that couldn’t let that go. Your soul remembers what you used to be and that’s what you are.”

  “So we could be anything we wanted, if we put our minds to it?”

  “Maybe, but it’s human nature to dwell on the past.”

  S peaking of which, J ohn gave Dante’s clothes another once over. “S o you’ve been here since the eighties?”

  “No, I ’m from the eighties. There’s a difference.” Dante produced a cigare e from thin air and lit it, rolling his eyes at the announcement of more demerits. “W hen are you from?”

  “2010,” John answered.

  Dante perked up. “Wow, the future! Been up in space before?”

  “No.”

  “Have a hover car? Or maybe a sexy robot maid?”

  “Nope.”

  “O h.” Dante shrugged off his disappointment. “Well, anyway, the eighties might have been thirty years ago to you, but I ’ve only been here about eight. Time doesn’t work the same on this side, or doesn’t exist, or something. Ask J acobi if you want your ear chewed off about it. All I know is that people show up here from all sorts of times.” He pointed his cigare e across the street. “You think that samurai over there has been here for centuries? Not a chance. Nobody has been here that long. E ven J acobi only has ninety or so years under his belt.”

  “And that’s who we’re going to see?” John asked.

  Dante nodded and motioned for him to follow. The streets, despite the increasingly late hour, were still just as crowded as they had been during the day, but without any sense of nigh ime revelry. The people of P urgatory were still rushing down sidewalks as if their time was somehow limited. Dante matched their pace, and J ohn had to turn his complete attention to not losing him in the crowd.

  They walked for many blocks, but judging their progress was difficult because the streets all looked similar. J ohn began to see a pa ern, different arrangements that were used over and over again. Fake departm
ent store, fake bakery, two inaccessible apartment buildings, and repeat, like the background of a cheap cartoon.

  E ventually the monotony gave way to something slightly different. They entered an open space that, to all appearances, was intended to be a park. G rass was absent, as were any trees, but a playground, basketball court, and tennis court still gave the impression of a recreational area. The park was just as crowded as the rest of P urgatory, but here people seemed content to mill around aimlessly or simply sit. No sports were being played because, as Dante explained, no equipment was available.

  They headed toward a pristine baseball diamond. None of the white lines were scuffed and the bases showed no sign of wear. The space inside the diamond was completely empty of people, except for one man standing on the pitcher’s mound.

  J ohn breathed in deeply as he ventured into this empty area, resisting the urge to spin with his arms outspread in celebration of free space. The man on the pitcher’s mound might have had the same idea. His arms were held parallel to the ground and his face turned skyward, but he wasn’t spinning. He was standing perfectly still, eyes closed. L ong white hair flowed from his head and chin, pouring down both his back and his chest. This alone was enough to make him appear wise, but the pristine white toga drove the point home. J ohn realized with excitement that he may actually be in the presence of one of the great Greek philosophers.

  The old man opened his eyes with a gasp and turned his pale blue eyes on J ohn.

  “I’m the only tree in Purgatory!” he said.

  “J ohn, J acobi. J acobi, J ohn,” Dante said without ceremony, summoning up another cigarette to keep himself occupied.

  “It’s nice to meet you.” John said, offering his hand.

  J acobi ignored it, choosing instead to tug on his beard while his eyes darted randomly over John’s person. “He doesn’t look like much.”

  “I agree,” Dante said with a wink in J ohn’s direction, “but he did have this.” He held out his free hand, and where once was nothing, was now a bronze triangle with a red button in the center.

  “How do you keep doing that?” John asked, nervously eyeing the dampener.

  “P ure memory,” J acobi explained. “I n the afterlife, there is no physical ma er, only astral material. Forms are shaped by will and held together by memory. E verything you carry with you can be kept in your thoughts until you need it. Your head is a pocket. Mine is, too!”

  “In other words, anyone can do it,” Dante translated. “There’s time for that later.”

  “But it’s important!” Jacobi protested.

  “Only if he was telling the truth,” Dante countered.

  J acobi squinted in thought for a moment. “You’re right. M ake him put on the dampener.”

  “No!” J ohn said, backing away. “There’s no way you’re ge ing me to put that thing on again.”

  “We just want to see you escape from it,” Dante said soothingly.

  “W hy?” J ohn demanded. “S o you can figure out how to escape from one next time you get into trouble?”

  Jacobi cackled. “He’s quick!”

  “Not just that,” Dante said through gri ed teeth. “L isten, no one can deactivate their own dampener. It’s never been done. If you can, it could mean a lot of things.” John’s curiosity got the better of him. “Like what?”

  “L ike I told the old man, there’s no sense in talking about it until we know for sure.” Dante held out the device to him. “We have a deal?”

  Was there any reason not to? W hat illicit purpose could they have for wanting him under the dampener’s influence? E ven if their intentions were malevolent, J ohn had escaped from it once before.

  “O kay,” J ohn agreed, “but if I can’t shake it off in five minutes, then promise you’ll push the button and disable it for me.”

  “Deal.”

  Dante tossed it to him. J ohn caught it and pressed it to his belt, marveling at how it stuck there without any sign of clip or adhesive. Then he looked into the eyes of both men, weighing how much he could trust them, before pressing the red bu on. The lethargy descended on him with a vengeance. Despite his intentions, J ohn gave into it, welcoming a departure from the strange world he had found himself immersed in. He was vaguely aware of Dante and J acobi talking, but was too apathetic to focus on their words.

  The peace he felt slowly transformed into panic. This wasn’t right. These feelings weren’t his own. He was standing vulnerable in front of two strangers, in a world he didn’t understand. He needed his wits about him if he was going to survive. Instead he was drooling like an idiot, under the influence of some sort of magical lobotomy that he might not escape from. He threw himself into his panic as he did the first time, letting it jostle him into full consciousness.

  J ohn looked down, seeing the line of blue light. This time, with no one to connect to, it circled his waist before joining with itself. O nce again his mind screamed that to touch the light would spell his own doom, but he ignored this and used his hand to break the circuit. Time flowed back into the world, the voices of his companions becoming clear.

  “Ten minutes,” Dante said. “Not bad.”

  “I said five minutes, you asshole!” J ohn tore off the device and threw it at Dante, who dodged it and laughed.

  “Amazing,” Jacobi whispered, his pale blue eyes shining with interest.

  S ome of J ohn’s anger waned, replaced by a sense of pride. “R eally? No one else can do that?”

  “I ’ve never seen such a feat.” J acobi shook his head. “Never, and I ’ve been here a very long time.”

  “Why me, though? What makes me special?”

  “W illpower perhaps,” J acobi mused, again tugging gently on his beard. “As I was saying before, everything in the afterlife is formed and held together by sheer force of will. There is no physical ma er, only ether that can be forged by our minds. A realm such as P urgatory is shaped by one willpower, a sort of spiritual dictator that sets the rules. O therwise we could walk through walls like ghosts or float in the air, for there is no physical law here. Those who reside in P urgatory reinforce its structure by perceiving and interacting with the reality surrounding them.”

  “R eality here is nothing but a big ball of clay,” Dante chimed in, “but knowing that doesn’t make it any easier to break out. O therwise J acobi and I would have been out of here years ago.”

  “Out of here, how?” John prompted.

  “Well,” J acobi said slowly, “it’s just a theory, mind you, but if you can mentally affect a dampener, then maybe you can affect other aspects of Purgatory.”

  “Like what?”

  “Opening locked doors,” Dante suggested, “or moving walls that are in our way.”

  “Something like that, yes,” the old man agreed.

  “And just where are we escaping to?” J ohn asked. “I thought you didn’t want to go to Heaven, Dante.”

  “He doesn’t, and neither do I ,” J acobi replied. “I believe there are other options, realms belonging to other religions that might suit us be er, but even they don’t interest me. O nce reunited with the raw material of creation, we can forge our own realm from the ether, one of our own design. We can set rules or live without them!

  I magine pure creative freedom, where every whim becomes reality. The clay, as Dante put it, would be in our hands.”

  Dante nudged J ohn with his elbow. “O nce we’re out there on the astral plane, we’ll be like gods. Anything we desire will be just a thought away.”

  “In theory,” John said.

  “I t’s not all theory.” Dante pulled another cigare e from the air, this one already lit.

  “We can already create here, but only a li le. O nce we’re free, we’ll be able to do whatever we want. A keg of beer, a house, a car, even the streets to drive it on. We’ll be like millionaires!”

  John had to admit the idea was appealing. His niece had been obsessed with a video game that let the player design their own home and chara
cters to fill it with. All day long she would make her characters get up, take showers, and go to work, rearranging their furniture while they were gone. As dull as this sounded, J ohn had tried it one day and ended up wasting an entire week that should have been spent at the drafting table. S o yes, he could understand the allure of such an idea, especially since this wouldn’t be a simple game.

  E xcept in life, anything that sounded too good to be true usually was. J ohn suspected it was the same here. “How do we know that it isn’t the dampener that is defective?”

  “We tried it out,” Dante replied. “Both of us. We couldn’t break free.” J ohn supposed it wouldn’t hurt to at least try what they were suggesting.

  “Assuming I am capable of doing whatever you need me to, what’s the plan? W here do we go?”

  Now the other men looked uncertain, glancing uneasily at each other. J acobi spoke first.

  “L ogically, the way out is the way we all came in. G e ing through the administration building undetected would be impossible, but—”

  “Wait,” John interrupted. “What happens if we get caught?”

  “Nothing serious,” Dante answered quickly.

  “Well, maybe serious,” J acobi admi ed. “We could be incarcerated, which means being put under a dampener twice as strong as that one for a few years at least.” Dante rolled his eyes. “Which won’t happen.”

  “O r they could hit us with enough demerits to send us to Hell,” J acobi said thoughtfully. “They might even fire up the old sin burners, which would mean agony unlike—”

  “Shut up, old man!” Dante snarled.

  B ut J ohn had already heard enough. He was facing three years, maybe less, in a system that went out of its way to help him redeem himself. As much as he didn’t like the idea of being a hamster on a wheel, he was willing to play the game until he could graduate. Unlike his current company, J ohn had no qualms about going to Heaven, and he certainly wasn’t going to gamble everything on the schemes of two men with questionable morals. Dante had already confessed to having led an evil life, and as for Jacobi, he must have done something bad to spend so much time here.