Awakening: Dead Forever Book 1 (6 page)

I don’t like the sound of this. I’d call it wiping out the dissidents. Sure, they’ve removed every scrap of variation, and created the most boring society anyone could possibly imagine.

“That’s swell. What’s it got to do with me?”

“You are no different from the many citizens we process on a daily basis. The program is for your own benefit, helping you understand the value of conformity, and in doing so, eliminate the harmful deviations you have acquired, all of which are cause for unrest, for you, and those around you. We are pleased to inform you that your journey is nearly at an end. After a series of questions, your processing will be completed, and you will be free to go.”

I like the free to go part, though rather doubt their definition of free matches my own. These creeps are oppressive, and proud of it. However, that opinion needs to stay private. Better to cooperate, and in the process, learn all I can about these pigs.

“Okay, let’s get started.”

The leader almost smiles. “Very good, Carl. I can see by your eagerness to participate that you have advanced to a higher state of consciousness. I am proud of you.”

Proud of me? Oh please, don’t make me sick.

“Let’s just get on with it.”

“Very well,” he says. “For our first question, please, tell us what you know about death.”

My heart jumps. “I wouldn’t know. I’m not dead yet, and I’d really like to stay that way.”

Though a few close calls thanks to the goon patrol. Is that what they want? Right, have me experience near-death just so I can describe the terror. A bunch of sadistic bastards. The doctor’s machine goes wild, the needle scrawling peaks and valleys across the paper. Is that thing reading my mind? I hope not. They won’t like what’s hiding in here.

“Of course you are not dead,” the leader says. “But please, Carl, tell us your beliefs. What happens when a person dies? Where do they go?”

“They don’t go anywhere. They turn into worm food.”

The needle scribbles a few peaks, then calms down. The businessmen glance at the doctor. He nods, and they appear satisfied.

“Very good, Carl. Now, let us explore the concept a bit further. Tell us what you know about Heaven and Hell.”

“Everybody knows about Heaven and Hell, that’s easy. Heaven is where the good people go, and the bad people go to Hell.”

“Go when?” he asks.

“When they die. Okay, so their body is worm food, but they get to spend eternity someplace else.”

“Tell us, Carl, where would you like to spend eternity?”

A dumb question. Like anyone wants to burn in Hell.

“Heaven, of course.”

The needle jerks, making jagged lines across the rolling paper, now collecting on the floor. The businessmen glance at the doctor. He nods, and they appear satisfied.

The leader asks, “Did you consider that Hell is unpleasant?”

That thing
is
reading my mind.

“Of course I did. Hell sucks, everybody knows that.”

The scribbling needle calms down. Now I understand, there’s no use in lying. It’s all on that paper rolling onto the floor.

“Now tell us, Carl, which was your first thought? That Heaven would be pleasurable, or that Hell is not?”

“How awful Hell would be. I don’t want to go there. I want to be good and go to Heaven instead. I’m sure it’s way better.”

“When you considered how terrible Hell would be, how did that make you feel?”

“Like I’m burning alive, that’s how. I don’t want to go there, really, I don’t. Going to Hell is the worst thing that could possibly happen to anyone. I’m scared just thinking about it.”

The businessmen crack small grins. Are they pleased? Or gloating? They didn’t even glance at the doctor. My words were enough to satisfy them this time.

“Very good, Carl. I am proud of you.”

I’m going to vomit if he says that one more time. He’s not proud of me. No, he’s proud of what he has done to me.

* * *

All this talk of the afterlife has triggered an excruciating migraine.

“Hey, doc,” I call out. “Got something for pain?”

The doctor is perplexed. “Doc? What is that?”

I think to myself,
You!
Ya dumb-ass!

The needle goes berserk and catches his attention.

“Sir, my head hurts. Do you have any drugs?” Maybe he’ll understand that. Most doctors do, and seem to enjoy the query.

“Oh, yes, of course.” He rummages through his little case.

Another businessman stands. “
No!
There will be no intoxication during the interview.”

Thanks a lot, pal. I’d like to share this fine pain, via a swift kick upside his head.

The drug-forbidding businessman returns to his seat, and the doctor cowers over his weird machine.

The leader says, “Now, Carl, we have one topic remaining.”

Good, we’re almost done. Thank—

“God,” he says. “Tell us what you know about God.”

A jolt of terror stabs my heart. They’re plugged into my mind. They’re invading my thoughts.

“I’m not sure, other than we’d better please Him, or we’re not going to Heaven. Right?”

What do I know of the Almighty God? Only that I should fear Him more than these creeps.

“Do you fear God?” he asks.

Again my thoughts are invaded. This intrusion is sickening. My heart sinks to join a foul knot forming in my stomach.

“I do, more than anything else. He will send me to Hell if I do not please Him.”

Their questions have reached a dark place where caustic emotions brew. I fear God may be watching over our conversation this very instant, judging my every word, even my thoughts, and He stands poised to punish me if I select an improper response, even an unsatisfactory consideration. I have broken out in a cold sweat. My heart is racing. I’m trembling, the needle is swinging across the paper. They have triggered a terror in me I did not realize exists—an embedded, gruesome fear—I must please God, or He will send me to Hell, without question or reprieve, ever. I cannot imagine any thought more terrifying. Absolute, eternal damnation.

The fear is intense, yet I fail to understand it. If God loves me, why would He send me to Hell? Why would He punish me at all? Perhaps He doesn’t love me. No, I must not have these thoughts. I will be punished for even thinking such a thing. Could I be so bad as to deserve eternal damnation? I don’t know, but I’m not taking any chances. I will be good and make God happy.

The leader says, “Very good, Carl, you have become well adjusted. God should be quite pleased with your obedience. You need not worry. You will not be visiting Hell any time soon.”

Any time soon? That small window of possibility remains open. As long as I behave in the future, and keep myself out of trouble, I’ll also keep myself out of Hell. I must ensure above all else, that every waking moment, I am as good as good can be.

“I’ve answered your questions. Can I go now?”

“A final process remains,” he says. “Have patience. Your enrollment in the program is nearly at an end.”

* * *

The doctor removes the pads from my chest, forehead and shoulders, then he packs his gear and collects the paper piled on the floor. The woman who recorded our conversation rises and exits through the far door, and the doctor follows her out.

It appears our little chat is over. The businessmen remain seated with their hands folded. The leader leans to the fellow beside him and whispers something, probably about me and what happens next. The final process I assume, which remains an unsettling mystery. They said I’d be free to go, but somehow, that freedom could be to go somewhere I wouldn’t choose.

The Bobs return and release my restraints. They yank me out of the chair and hold tight.

“It’s okay, Bob,” I say to one, then his partner, “And you too, Bob, don’t worry. I’m not running away this time.”

The goons aren’t taking any chances. They secure another restraint over my wrists and fasten the device with excessive force.

“My name is not Bob,” one says, then points to his buddy. “And neither is his, you stupid creature. You will cease referring to agents in this manner immediately.”

I have annoyed him. Good. I’d like to annoy him to death.

“Okay, then what’s your name? Maybe if you introduced yourself properly, I’d know what to call you.”

“That is not important.”

Sure, all the fuss over the proper name and he still doesn’t tell. In that case, I’m sticking with Bob. But then, Dickhead might work, too.

“Don’t I have a right to know who’s roughing me up? I might want to file a complaint. I think every one of you should give me your names. You’re all in big trouble.”

“Enough!” he hollers. “You will be silent.” He points to the door, and the others take every opportunity to slam me into the doorframe on the way out, inflicting additional pain that they seem to enjoy dispensing.

Boy, they’re pissed off. Maybe I should stop calling them Bob.

* * *

After an exhausting trek through a maze of corridors and stairwells, I’m completely lost. Each passage resembles every other, just like the strange people inhabiting this place. Perhaps that is the final process—confuse my sense of direction until I’m thoroughly disoriented. If so, it’s working. I can’t tell which way is which, except that we have been steadily descending. Every stairwell goes down.

Venturing still lower, I begin to wonder—how far down are we to go? We must be underground by now. Hey, hang on, we’re not going to . . .

Could it be? Could a doorway to the underworld exist below this building? Nah, that’s nonsense. We’re going to the basement. The parking garage. They’re going to give me a lift. But on second thought, a gateway to the underworld is more plausible.

The stairwell ends at a massive steel door. Could it be the door to Hell? No, that’s idiotic. They pull the door open, an enormous slab a foot thick, like a vault. A door such as this could withstand some heavy abuse, like the fires of Hell.

Stop that!
It’s not the door to Hell.

Beyond the opening is a black void. Hell’s not black, right? Hell glows, it’s on fire.

The Bobs remove my restraint and shove me through the doorway, into darkness. The door booms shut and the echo fades, giving way to sharp ringing in my ears. That too fades, and I stand alone in a dead calm of silence.

* * *

What
is that smell? Nasty. The stench is like burnt dog hair, though I couldn’t qualify that statement, can’t say I’ve ever barbecued a dog before. But still, the hideous odor is like singed hair mixed with the rotting flesh of an animal. It sure smells like hell.

As my eyes adjust to the darkness, the room’s details slowly form. A strange place, not really a room, and it sure stinks bad with that foul odor staining the cool air. The space is round, like a giant tube standing on end, pointing to the sky. Suspended across the tube is a platform constructed of metal mesh, through which gases or liquids could flow easily. Past the grated decking, the view below is utter blackness. The bottom could be ten feet down, or a mile.

Beyond the round opening high above, there is night sky, but something is different—the darkness is sprinkled with starlight. A wonderful sight, igniting fine memories of lazy evenings spent gazing into the heavens. I haven’t seen stars like that since—

What? I’ve never seen a starry night. Not since the accident. Perhaps my previous life was not so dull after all. The sight of starlight has sparked a lost memory.

Along the platform are guardrails, surely to keep us poor losers from accidentally falling to the bottom, however far down that may be. The metal railing is sticky and covered with soot, and it’s cold, like it’s been inside a freezer.

I peer over the side and search for the bottom. From the eerie quiet, a faint noise begins, coming from below. A low roar, like a furnace igniting. Warm air rises from the depths, and a dim orange glow spreads out far below.

It is Hell.

The dream, the dread—I can’t die by fire. My heart pounds, the flow of adrenaline begins. I am in complete agreement with my body—we will not burn. I search for a hold along the walls, hoping to climb out, and find the surface coated with soot and the sticky remains of every victim who stood here before me.
No!
There must be a way out of this tube. This
tube?
This tube is a smokestack. I’ll be ash blowing in the wind, and that was their intent all along. I have to get out of here, then I’m going to kill every last one of them.

A new sound comes from above, a sonorous humming and another low roar. But this sound is not fire. A strange machine is hovering over the smokestack. A flimsy rope ladder is thrown from an open hatch. Someone is leaning out. A woman.

“Adam,” she calls. “Grab the ladder.”

Who is Adam? It doesn’t matter. She’s offering a way out, and I’m taking it.

“Bring it lower!” I shout.

The ladder dangles from an aircraft straining to hover steady. I climb onto the metal railing, standing precariously on the thin edge, and reach for the ladder. It swings past, beyond my grasp, then the aircraft dips and the ladder plunges—I snatch hold of it. The aircraft is smacked by a sudden gust, shoots up fast, and I’m yanked airborne.

“Hang on!” the woman calls.

The jolt is too much—the rough cord slips through my fingers. I crash into the guardrail, except—the wrong side. I have missed the platform and now face a fiery death.

“
Adam!
” she screams.

My outstretched hand passes over the railing, my one chance. Fingers hook, too little I fear, but determination ignites. I seize hold of the railing, halting my descent, and nearly ripping my arm from the socket.

The hot railing scalds my palm. Flames shoot up and brighten the round space. Black soot covers the featureless walls, platform, and guardrails.

The rope ladder swings past, just out of reach. The woman is on her way down.

“Hang on!” she calls. “I’m coming.”