Hunted Past Reason

by Richard Matheson

  His shoulders slumped as Doug said, "You really believe in life after death, huh?" There was an obvious edge to his voice.

  What do I say? Bob thought. How can I end this and not get into another corrosive discussion?

  "Well?" Doug asked demandingly. "Do you?"

  "Yes. Yes." Bob nodded. "I do."

  "Well, I don't believe in it," Doug said. "I think it's a load of shit."

  "That's your privilege, Doug," Bob told him. "Everyone's entitled to their own opinion."

  "Damn right," Doug said. "And my opinion is that it's a load of shit."

  "Well . . . okay," Bob responded. "I'm better off than you then," he added.

  "How do you figure that?" Doug asked suspiciously.

  "Well . . . look at it this way— if there is no life after death—"

  "There isn't," Doug interrupted.

  "Okay. Say there isn't. When I die, I'll never know I was wrong because it'll all be oblivion."

  "And—?" Doug demanded.

  "If there is life after death, you'll have to adjust to it."

  "Yeah, sure." Doug made a scornful sound. "Life after death. Reincarnation. It's all a load of shit."

  "Well—" Don't lose your temper now, for Christ's sake, Bob told himself. "If you don't believe in life after death, you naturally wouldn't believe in reincarnation because they go together."

  "How's that?" Doug asked, his face a mask of disdain.

  "There isn't much point in life after death if it's only a one-shot deal," Bob said. "The world would truly be a nightmare if that was the case."

  "The world is a nightmare," Doug responded.

  "That's undoubtedly true," Bob said, "but it would be worse without reincarnation."

  "Come on, Bob, what the hell are you talking about?" Doug sounded angry now.

  "I'm saying, Doug, that the world is a nightmare of injustice if there isn't reincarnation."

  "What do you—?"

  This time Bob interrupted. "A man lives his entire life doing harm to others. He cheats, he lies, he corrupts, he may even kill or have people killed. Then he dies in his mansion bed surrounded by his loving family. Is that justice?"

  "Who said it was?" Doug answered.

  "Then life is meaningless?" Bob replied, his voice on edge now. "A baby gets hit by a truck and killed. Is that justice? Government leaders oversee massacres. Is that justice? They start wars, they abuse their population, they create havoc because they're greedy and cruel and never have to pay for it. Is that justice? So many criminals never have to pay the price for their crimes. So many people pay a price for crimes they didn't commit. Is that justice? Does equity exist at all? Well, not a hell of a lot if all these crimes go unpaid for, unpunished. That's why I believe in reincarnation. So justice can exist. If not in this life then in the life to come. Or the lives to come."

  Doug stared at him in silence. Finally, he said, "Jesus, pass the basket, preacher."

  Bob chuckled. "Sorry," he said, "I get carried away sometimes."

  "I never heard you do it before," Doug said. "So this is— what?— your philosophy of life?"

  "I have a double-edged philosophy," Bob told him. "I'm almost completely cynical about what goes on at this level."

  "This level," Doug repeated.

  "Life," Bob said. "I don't see very much that's positive in it. Schools closing. Teachers undervalued, underpaid. Child care limited or nonexistent. Homeless people mounting in number every year. The wealthy growing wealthier. The poor growing poorer. Drug sales rising. Violence in the streets. Corruption in politics, in business, in law-keeping. Military spending higher all the time. The infrastructure left to collapse— roads, highways, bridges, airports, sewers, water systems. Air pollution. Mass destruction of the environment. International chaos. Endless wars. That's how I see the world and my philosophy regarding it is a bleak one, a very nearly hopeless one."

  "And—?" Doug sounded almost intrigued now.

  "And, the other side of my philosophy is that I believe in ultimate justice. No matter how cruel or brutal or greedy or stupid things are on this level, there's a higher level on which justice is inevitable, restitution inescapable."

  "For all of us," Doug said.

  "Well, sure for all of us," Bob answered. "What kind of system would it be if it didn't apply to all of us."

  "How does it apply?" Doug demanded.

  "I don't know exactly how. But—" he added quickly to cut off Doug's interrupting response, "I think that, when we die—"

  "Pass on, you mean," Doug broke in, smirking.

  "Right. Pass on. When we do, we carry with us a packet of negatives and positives, how much of each depending on the life we've led. This packet provides the blueprint for our next life. Our long-range task is to eliminate all the negatives and clear up the packet altogether."

  "And that's it, huh?" Doug said.

  "Pretty much," Bob answered. "Nothing is lost. We pay the price— or enjoy the reward— for everything we do in life. Not in afterlife, I don't believe that. In our next life, though."

  "How? How would you know you were paying the price or getting the reward?" Doug was barely containing his scorn.

  "I have no idea," Bob said. "It would all take place behind the scenes."

  "Behind the scenes? That's bullshit!" Doug snapped. "A big cop-out. You don't have to prove anything. It's all 'behind the scenes.' Well, bullshit, Bobby, bullshit! Your philosophy is pure bullshit!"

  Bob sighed. "I don't think so," he said.

  "All right, tell me this," Doug said, "if God is so damn great, how come He allows so much misery in the world? Hanh?"

  "Why does almost everyone assume that God created the world to be permanently wonderful?" Bob asked. "What if He created it as a place to grow in, to become responsible in? I don't believe God has anything at all to do with the misery in the world. Man caused it, not God. Saint Augustine said that the root of all evil lies neither in Satan nor in God; it lies in man."

  Doug stared at him in silence for a while. Then he said, "And everything happens for a reason."

  "I believe that."

  "So there are no such things as accidents," Doug said.

  "I believe that too."

  "And everything works out in the end."

  "I think so, yes," Bob answered. "In the long run, cause and effect become clear, justice prevails."

  "So Artie really died because of something wrong he did in his last life, is that it?" Doug said.

  Oh, Christ, Bob thought. Is that all this signified to Doug? Some way to take the blame off himself for his son's suicide.

  "I don't know, Doug," he said quietly. "I don't know how the details of reincarnation work, I told you that. I just know I believe in it."

  "Then you have no idea whether Artie fucked up in his last life— maybe killed somebody so that's why he had to kill himself in this life."

  "No." Bob looked at him, astounded. "How could I possibly know that?"

  "But it could be, right?" Doug challenged. "And my life is a fucking mess because of something I did wrong in my last life?"

  "Doug, you're asking me impossible questions," Bob told him.

  "So all these fucking beliefs you have add up to nothing, don't they?" Doug said. "You don't even know if what goes wrong in this life happens because of something we did wrong in our last life."

  "Doug, we do things wrong in this life too," Bob said, knowing, in the instant he said it, that it was a mistake.

  "So I fucked up my life this time around too." Doug almost snarled the words.

  "Doug, we all make mistakes. We're human," Bob said.

  "Oh, no." Doug shook his head, a look of pseudosympathy on his face. "Not you. You're fucking perfect. Everything works out for you. Your marriage. Your career. Your kids. All perfect. Perfect!"

  "Doug, let's drop this. Please," Bob said.

  "No, no, let's examine all the facts in your perfect life."

  "Doug—"

  "First off, you're a succe
ssful short-story writer. Then you're a successful novelist—"

  "Doug, please."

  "Then a successful movie writer, a successful television writer. Then a successful husband, a successful father, a successful citizen in every way."

  Bob sighed heavily. Was this ever going to end?

  "Now you're a successful philosopher," Doug went on, his voice tight, embittered. "You have this wonderful successful philosophy of life. You have all the answers, all the fucking answers in the world."

  "I don't," Bob told him wearily. "I'm just trying to get a handle on—"

  "A handle?" Doug said angrily. "Is that what your philosophy of life is, something you can get a handle on?"

  "Come on, Doug," Bob responded. "Stop jumping on every damn word I use. Try to understand what I'm saying. Try—"

  "Now I can't understand what you're saying," Doug broke in.

  "Doug, I'm not saying that," Bob told him. "I just—"

  "Too bad I'm not as religious as you are so I could understand," Doug interrupted again.

  "Goddamn it, I am not religious!" Bob said loudly, "I don't subscribe to any particular church! I have a belief system, that's it! A belief system!"

  "Which you talk about all the time."

  Bob looked flabbergasted. "Like hell I do! You're the one who started this conversation! What I believe is the foundation of my life, okay. But I don't talk about it or even think about it any more than I talk and think about the foundation of my house."

  Doug was glaring at him steadily. We have got to end this conversation, Bob thought. I can't afford to enrage this man; he's holding all the cards.

  "So what you're saying in a nutshell is that I'm responsible for every lousy, fucking thing that's happened in my life," Doug said.

  "Doug, we are all responsible for what happens in our lives," Bob replied.

  "Which means that what you've done is right and what I've done is wrong!"

  "Oh, for Christ's sake, Doug." Bob looked at him almost pleadingly. "Nothing is that simple. You know that."

  "You're saying that my life is all fucked up because of me, not because of anyone else!" Doug suddenly raged.

  "Well, what the hell do you want me to say, that everybody in your life is at fault, that nothing you've done has anything to do with anything? Be honest with yourself, for God's sake."

  "So says Mr. Perfect," Doug snapped.

  "Oh, goddamn it, Doug! Nobody's further from perfection than me! I try, that's all! The same as you! The same as everyone! We try, we try!"

  Doug didn't reply. His face hard and implacable, he poked randomly at the fire coals with a twig. What the hell is he thinking? Bob wondered. And what the hell am I doing out here all alone with him?

  8:29 PM

  It had been at least an hour since they'd spoken. Bob had kept trying to think of something to talk about that would lighten the mood of the evening. He couldn't think of anything. Finally, he'd muttered, "G'night" and got up to enter the tent. Doug didn't respond.

  Bob zipped up his sleeping bag and got inside. Oh, shit, I forgot to brush my teeth, he thought. He opened his water bottle, rinsed out his mouth, and spit the water onto the ground. Very sanitary, his mind commented. Oh, shut up, he answered it.

  After a while— he couldn't tell how long it was— Doug crawled into the tent beside him and zipped himself into his sleeping bag, exhaled heavily, then fell silent. Bob closed his eyes. What's it going to be like tomorrow? he wondered. And the day after. How far were they from Doug's cabin anyway? The prospect of two to three more days like today made him more than disturbed, it made him apprehensive. Doug obviously had undercurrents in his personality he'd never known about. How could he have? Their relationship had been, he realized, very shallow, very superficial. He was starting to see the inner workings of Doug's mind now and what he was seeing did not reassure him about the remainder of the hike.

  He was almost asleep when Doug spoke, his voice making Bob's legs twitch in surprise.

  "You think there are evil people?" Doug asked.

  Bob opened his eyes, blinking. He had no idea what to reply. "What d'ya mean?" he mumbled.

  "What I said," Doug responded, his voice tightening. "Are there evil people?"

  "Well—" Bob tried to gather thoughts together. "You mean . . . pure evil?"

  "Can evil be pure?" Doug said. Was he challenging? Goading? Bob couldn't tell.

  "I mean . . . evil without any cause," he said.

  "Now I don't know what you mean," Doug said.

  "I mean . . . someone— we call evil— when there seems to be no explanation for that evil. No cause, no background."

  "Are there people like that?" Doug asked.

  Why is he asking these questions? Bob wondered. Why had he— out of nowhere, it seemed— brought up the subject of evil?

  "Well . . . no, I don't think so," he said. "I . . . suppose it's possible. But if you look into the background of what people call evil, you usually find a good cause."

  "A good cause?" Doug was challenging now.

  "I mean an understandable cause." He hoped that if they got into a nonconflicting discussion, it might end the tension between them.

  "I saw a documentary on cable a while back," he continued. "It was called Evil. The narrator said that there were at least twelve different definitions of evil so there was no way to know which one of them was the real one. It's a value judgment, nothing more."

  "What's that supposed to mean?" Doug asked, sounding irritated.

  Don't give it back in kind, Bob told himself. Stay cool.

  "It means . . . it's a matter of opinion. It's more a label than a definitive identification. By and large, all the absolutist judgments about who's evil and who isn't come from laws and courts, politicians, religious figures. They declare that someone— or something— is evil and the majority of the people buy it. They've been brainwashed."

  "So what do you think evil is?" Doug asked. "What have you been brainwashed to think?"

  "Well, I hope it isn't having been brainwashed. I hope it's a rational decision on my part."

  "Which is—?" Doug demanded.

  "Which is that pain and suffering, deliberately inflicted for no acceptable reason, is evil."

  "That's it?" Was that disdainful smile on Doug's face again? "Pain and suffering inflicted for no reason, that's evil?"

  "That's my opinion, anyway," Bob said.

  "Well, my opinion is that someday— I'm convinced of it— evil people will all be explained away in terms of heredity and environment, period. The word 'evil' will be scrapped. 'Evil' people will all be called dysfunctional people, nothing more."

  "Possible," Bob said. "An interesting notion, anyway."

  "Tell me this—" Doug started. Bob was relieved to hear that Doug sounded interested now, not just scornful. "Why are evil people more interesting than good people?"

  "Good question," Bob answered. "I don't really know. Except that they arouse more dark reactions in people than good people do. They . . . how shall I put it . . . stir up . . . activate whatever deep-seated, negative emotions people have. And those emotions are more . . . colorful, you might say. More intriguing."

  "Damn right," Doug said. "I've played good guys and bad guys in films and on television. Guess who audiences always— always— find more interesting?"

  "Well, of course," Bob said. "Who do audiences find more interesting? Hamlet or Richard the Third? Romeo or Macbeth? Othello or Iago?"

  "No contest," Doug agreed. He was really into the discussion now, Bob saw— and thank God for that. "I played Iago in a little theater once and I'll tell you, he was the one the audience responded to, not that— goddamn moonstruck Moor."

  Bob heard Doug moving and glanced around, seeing Doug's dark shadow raised on one elbow. He was really into it— and definitely thank God for it. Maybe they could spend the remaining days in stimulating discussions and avoid the other stuff, the friction-laden stuff.

  "Audiences like to call these peo
ple 'evil,' " Doug went on, "but they enjoy the hell out of watching them. They relish all their monstrous deeds but convince themselves that those 'evil' people are different from them— even though they're not. They're all hypocrites, pretending to be above the villains they love to watch. And they're not."

  Bob was impressed by Doug's insight; it had come unexpectedly. Maybe the next few days would really be interesting after all.

  "You know what I don't like about your so-called philosophy of life?" Doug said.

  So-called, Bob thought. They weren't out of the personal woods yet. "What?" he asked.

  "I don't believe in an outside system of justice and law," Doug said. "I believe that will— individual will— is what counts in this world. Triumph of the Will that film was called by that German actress. Not that I'm defending Hitler, for Christ's sake. You want evil, there you got it, big time. But it's evolution, not divine law. Survival of the fittest. The strong win. The weak lose. Simple as that. As far as our so-called system of morality goes, it isn't written in stone. It's an agreement. A contract. And those who are strong enough to break that contract get away with it until somebody stronger puts them down."

  "But no— outside rule?" Bob said. "No higher imposition of justice?"

  "Right," Doug said. "You know what the Holocaust was? Political reality. Nothing more. Imposition of will. The Germans won, the Jews lost. Evil had nothing to do with it."

  Bob felt his skin goose-fleshing. "You really believe that?" he asked. "You don't think it was evil? You think it was just a matter of political reality, political will?"

  "You got it," Doug said.

  Oh, Jesus, Bob thought. The prospect of interesting discussions in the next few days had just collapsed like a house of cards in a high wind.

  "Too bad Hitler was a maniac," Doug went on. "With his power of will, he could have accomplished anything."

  "He did enough," Bob said quietly.

  "Sure as hell did," Doug answered. "Conquered most of Europe. If he hadn't made the same dumb-ass mistake as Napoleon and invaded Russia, he might well have won the war and our fucking national anthem would be—" Abruptly, Doug sang, "Deutschland, Deutschland, Uber Alles," then laughed sardonically. Oh, God, Bob thought. Who am I out here with?