Hell's Pawn (2 page)

“Reactions in Familial Crisis” was listed:

Fortitude: 154.87

Recrimination: 16.2

Avoidance of Confrontation: 53

Placement of Blame: 120.55

Use of Manipulation: 12.3

The list went on and on, accompanied by charts displaying averages and correlations, predicted responses versus proven, the effect on other incarnate beings, and other endless gibberish. These made as much sense as everything else had so far.

“Is yours so high?” the woman pressed.

“See for yourself,” John said, thrusting his folder into her hands.

As nonchalantly as possible, he began walking toward the door, but the blue line halted him. L ike a dog on a leash, he could only go so far, no ma er how much he struggled.

“R ight,” their guide said as she returned. “We’ll be moving through the city now to the acclimatizing dormitories where you will be residing for your initial period here.

One more time under the dampeners, sorry.”

J ohn braced himself as the oppressive feeling of depression descended on him once more. Perhaps he was prepared for it, because it wasn’t nearly as bad this time. He still let the line pull him wherever he was being led, but he was much more aware of his surroundings as they exited to the street.

They emerged into light that felt as artificial as the office they had passed through.

Around them was a thriving downtown area. J ohn, despite resisting the forces pressing on him, still had trouble focusing on his surroundings. Pedestrians passing by in the opposite direction did so in a distorted haze, leaving smudged after-images trailing behind. He turned his a ention to the street, which was a much less hectic scene since no car was in sight.

The car. W here had he parked it? A memory tore through his mind, firing through his synapses like a burst of lightning. There really had been lightning. Flash flooding, too. J ohn had guzzled so much alcohol that his breath had tasted like fumes. He never should have go en behind the wheel, but he had been outside the reach of public transportation and taxis were so damned expensive. He had compensated for his inebriation by driving extra slow, but he couldn’t judge how fast he was going without frequently squinting at the speedometer. W hen he had last looked up from the blurry gauge, the headlights were illuminating a tree, the detail of its bark intricate and beautiful before everything went dark.

I’m dead.

The realization hit John like a cold shower.

I drank too much and like an idiot I tried to drive home. I slammed into that tree and it killed
me. Now I am— where? Heaven? Hell?

W herever he was, J ohn no longer wanted to be there. Ahead of him the rest of the group trundled along like children being led by an apathetic nanny. W hatever hold the dampening device had held over him was gone, defeated by the startling revelation of his own demise. J ohn looked down at the bronze triangle and noticed that the blue line was sparking and snapping. He reached down to break the current, even though every fiber of his being screamed that to do so would be fatal.

J ohn laughed wildly at the idea. As if he could die again! He thrust his hand into the light and felt only a mild shock before the line flickered and disappeared. S tunned by his success, he halted on the sidewalk, the others walking on without him. J ohn didn’t dare wait to see if he’d be spo ed, so he ducked down a side street and broke into a run.

His vision was no longer blurred, which was good considering the number of pedestrians he had to dodge. S ome turned as he passed, curious to know what he was doing, but most ignored him, aside from the occasional grumble when he got in their way. M aybe he wasn’t dead after all. M aybe he had been part of some sort of pharmaceutical trial or had go en tangled up in a bizarre cult. I t happened, right?

People were brainwashed all the time.

The image of the tree rushing toward him returned, reinforcing the truth. I f this weren’t proof enough, J ohn had run five blocks and wasn’t out of breath. I n fact, he wasn’t breathing at all. He skidded to a stop and sucked in air experimentally. He
could
breathe or at least perform some imitation of the act, but it was no longer necessary.

G lares and a few mu ered curses were directed at him by people not happy that he was standing still in the middle of the sidewalk. W hat did they care? W here did they have to go? Forty-hour weeks were a thing of the past, or so he hoped. E veryone had the day off now, for all eternity. Defiantly returning a few glares, J ohn continued walking until he found a narrow alley to duck into. He saw no sign of pursuit, but his absence could be noticed at any moment.

Taking advantage of his newfound privacy, J ohn took stock of himself. He was still wearing the stylish suit that he had put on before leaving town, just in case a handsome face awaited him at the bar. A careful examination of the jacket didn’t reveal any sign of tearing, blood, or anything else morbid. Next he moved his hands across his face, astounded that he could still detect remnants of the aftershave that conditioned his skin. He certainly didn’t feel dead. A quick sweep of his forehead and a tousling of his dirty blonde hair failed to reveal any sign of injury. S ince his arrival, he hadn’t seen anyone else who looked particularly deceased, either. M aybe this was Heaven after all.

A noise from the entrance of the alley a racted his a ention. R unning toward him was a bank robber. This was an easy deduction to make because the robber’s clothes were pa erned with black and white stripes. I f this weren’t enough, the cloth bag he held had a single, large, dollar sign printed on it. J ohn expected he would have seen the classic black mask as well had the man been facing him, but his head was turned back toward the direction he had come from.

J ohn was so taken aback by this completely generic apparition that he didn’t think to move out of the way. The robber collided with him, knocking them both to the ground.

“Mine!” a male voice called out from a few paces away.

J ohn disentangled himself from the robber to see a face staring down at him, one somewhere in its forties that had probably been a ractive at one time. Pallid skin, a fiercely stubbled chin, and manic eyes all suggested a person who had enjoyed a lifetime’s worth of illicit pleasures within a few decades. Despite this, the black spiky hair was still thick and untainted by gray. Decked out in a punk’s leather jacket and a ra y T-shirt, the man’s fashion choices hadn’t been updated since the eighties. He reached down toward John, his fingers covered in cheap tattoos.

“Thanks,” J ohn said, reaching up to him, but the man’s hand passed his by and snatched away the bag of money.

“I t doesn’t ma er if you knocked him down,” the stranger said. “I chased the bastard all the way here. The reds are mine!”

“R eds?” The term could have been foreign slang, considering the I rish accent. J ohn shook his head, deciding that it was of li le consequence. His more immediate concern was ge ing out from underneath the body on top of him. He squirmed, but the robber didn’t budge. “Did you hit him over the head or something? Feels like he’s dead.”

“Him?” The stranger rolled the robber over with his foot. “He’s just a P rop, and anyway,
dead
? Bloody hell, you’re a fresh one, aren’t you?”

“Yeah.” He managed to get to his feet and offered his hand. “John Grey” The I rishman eyed it wearily, holding the money bag behind his back before finally accepting it. “Dante.”

“No kidding?” J ohn snorted. His new companion didn’t share his amusement, so John stifled his laughter. “Look, we’re dead right?”

“As nails in a coffin, yeah.” Dante shrugged, as if it didn’t ma er to him. “Did you miss orientation? I barely paid attention myself. Took ages to believe any of it until—” Dante stopped speaking and stared at J ohn’s crotch. J ohn was beginning to feel self-conscious when he realized that Dante was looking at the triangular device.

“Now that’s something,” Dante murmured. “You say this is your first day?

Shouldn’t you be in the acclimation dorms?”

John tensed and eyed the alleyway entrance.

“No need to run from me, mate. I say fuck the rules. I’m just curious is all.”

“I got a little freaked out,” John admitted, “broke away from the group.”

“They forget to switch you on?”

J ohn shook his head. “I f ‘on’ means being made into a zombie, they didn’t forget. I was out of it until I put my hand through the beam and it broke.” Dante scoffed. “Touching the blue is enough to put any soul down for weeks.

There’s no escaping a dampener.”

“Maybe mine was defective.”

“L et’s see if it still works.” Dante made as if he were going to press the bu on and laughed when John jumped backwards.

“Don’t!” J ohn protested. He reached down and tugged at the device until it came off. Dante’s eyes widened twice as much as before.

“I don’t suppose I could have that?”

“B e my guest.” J ohn tossed it to him, happy to be rid of it. Already he had worried it might contain some sort of tracking device. Now it was no longer his problem.

“Well,” Dante said after quickly pocketing the dampener and turning to leave, “I have to return this money to the bank. O r give it to an orphanage or something.

Whatever gets me the most reds.”

“Bank robbery halted.”

The voice was high-pitched and monotone and came from the fallen robber. J ohn turned the body over and looked into an empty face. The only details were two black pin pricks for eyes and a slit where the mouth should be.

“Split Reward,”
the non-living entity continued.
“Dante S tewart: 146 redemption points.

John Grey: 146 redemption points.”

“That’s just great,” Dante spat. “S tupid P rops can’t even read intention. I t’s not like you
meant
to stop the robber.”

J ohn held up his hands defensively. “Don’t blame me. I don’t even know why I would need points. You can have mine if they mean so much to you.”

“I t isn’t worth the paperwork.” Dante stalked to the end of the alley and held up the money bag. “This one is all mine, got it? Sayonara!”

“Wait! I don’t know where I’m supposed to go or what I’m doing here.”

“Read your file!” Dante shouted as he disappeared around the corner.

“But I don’t have it anymore!” John yelled after him. Silence was the only response.

“Reset complete. Returning for reassignment.”

The P rop righted itself, rising from the ground like a puppet on invisible strings. I t oriented by spinning in a slow circle before zooming away and leaving J ohn alone in a barren alley somewhere in the afterlife.

Chapter Two

S trolling the city streets, this time without being spurred on by panic, J ohn noticed a number of details that he hadn’t before. The sky, for instance. Not a cloud was in it, nor any sign of sun or gradation of light. The heavens were a uniform gray from horizon to horizon. As for the ground, no plants, trees, or even a single weed were to be found.

Perhaps vegetation didn’t have a soul and thus couldn’t be here.

W hat cities lacked in natural beauty was often balanced out with unique architecture, but the buildings here were as drab as cardboard boxes. J ohn saw no parks, fountains, sculpture or other forms of art. J ust square tomb-shaped buildings and the streets that separated them.

The inhabitants of the city were a stark contrast to their monotone surroundings.

Walking the streets were people of all colors, wearing every conceivable style of dress.

The differing fashions between nationalities provided enough variety, but wasn’t the limit. O n the busy sidewalk E dwardian frock coats brushed against primitive pelts, delicate kimonos stepped out of the way of suits of armor, while grungy jeans and T-shirts walked next to regal Parisian dresses.

M ore than once J ohn stopped to stare at the unintended costume party on parade.

He suspected that people weren’t wearing what they had died in, but what had been fashionable at the time. M ost people died in bed, after all, and not while fully dressed.

He didn’t see anyone in underwear, pajamas, or the buff, which implied a change of clothes was possible after death. As an experiment, J ohn took off his suit jacket and tossed it over one shoulder for a bit before putting it back on again. That he could do so proved it wasn’t part of his soul, but left him clueless as to what it was made of.

I f there was a place to buy new clothing, J ohn hadn’t discovered it. The shops were only for show. They had display windows, prices, and even store names, but never an actual door. Almost every building on the street seemed to have been built that way, apartments included. M uch like a Hollywood set, nothing was behind the decorative facades. The city was a hollow shell.

R estaurants and cafes were the exception, seating and serving customers, but most diners didn’t seem the least bit interested in their food. Dead or not, J ohn had always appreciated a good meal. E ven if sustenance wasn’t required anymore, he still desired the pleasure of a rich cake or a good fat steak. His senses, from what he could tell so far, hadn’t been affected by being bodiless. J ohn considered stopping to eat, but didn’t have any currency.

The financial question was just one among many. O nly so much could be learned from wandering aimlessly. J ohn was forced to admit that he would probably have all the answers he needed if he hadn’t broken away from his group. W hat had Dante said? S omething about acclimatization dorms? He had also said that his file could help him understand what to do. To get his file, J ohn would have to return to where he had last seen it, which would mean turning himself in. At this point, that would probably be for the best.

He a empted to backtrack along the route he had taken and soon came upon a building of massive proportions with large block le ers that declared it was

“Administration.” The entire appearance of the building reminded J ohn of totalitarian architecture, a style that intimidated through sheer size and a generous amount of concrete. He stared, questioning the wisdom of his actions but unable to think of any other options.