Dead & Godless

by Donald J. Amodeo

  Ransom gulped a draught of his chocolate-brown pint and wiped the froth from his lips.

  “How about this,” he proposed. “I’ll answer your question, but first you have to answer one of mine. It’s a simple question really: Who does Satan hate the most?”

  A little too simple, though Corwin. Knowing his scheming attorney, it was certain to be a trick. Still, he thought it best to go with his gut instinct.

  “Not that I believe in the cosmic boogieman you call Satan, but isn’t the answer rather obvious? Satan is god’s arch nemesis, the Joker to your divine Batman. Naturally, I would assume that the one he hates the most is god.”

  “You would assume wrong,” said Ransom. “It’s certainly true that he detests the Father, but the one whom Satan hates the most . . . is Satan.

  “When your biases are stripped away and you see yourself as you truly are, some people find that they don’t like what they see. To understand Hell, one must understand that the damned are self-loathing. The Father’s forgiveness will not save you if you cannot forgive yourself.”

  “Then there ought not to be anyone in Hell,” replied Corwin. “To wish nothing good for one’s self . . . That kind of extremist mentality just isn’t realistic!”

  “Not realistic? You of all people should know how real those feelings can be. You’ve stood on the precipice, gazed into the abyss of despair! You know what it means to contemplate suicide.”

  A memory flickered. Corwin saw his sixteen-year-old self, red-eyed and trembling, standing before a mirror.

  They’ll miss me at first, but they’ll get over it. It’s better this way.

  He slid the razor blade out of his wallet, pressed it to his wrist.

  I’ve always been a nuisance. This is the kindest thing I can do.

  A bead of ruby blood appeared where the blade’s corner pricked his skin.

  “STOP!” Sweating, Corwin breathed with effort as the bar came back into focus. “I do know. I know that the suicidal aren’t all self-absorbed cowards as Christians make them out to be. Can you imagine what it’s like when your existence is nothing but a burden upon those that you love most? When all you want is to pour out the love inside of you, only no one wants that love, and when you try to share it, you only bring people pain?

  “At that time, I saw ending my life as an act of charity. I really believed that the world would be better off without me. And I would have gone through with it, if not for a sense of duty—if I didn’t have a debt to repay.”

  “One doesn’t need to be cast into Hell,” spoke Ransom. “The damned are quite willing to jump.”

  “But can’t people change? Eternity is a long time. Surely the souls in Hell can come to forgive themselves?”

  “Eternity is not endless time, but the fullness of time. There is no can or cannot, only what is.”

  “Wouldn’t god erase such dark thoughts from their minds?”

  “There’s a word for those who force themselves upon others. They’re called rapists. No, the Father honors man’s free will, even in Hell.”

  Corwin hung his head and stared into his drink. Could people truly hate themselves that much? God’s mercy wasn’t at fault if the gates of Hell were locked from the inside. However, that left him with another strange paradox.

  “If the damned are as suicidal as you say, they should have no lofty aspirations. So how do you account for Satan’s desire to overthrow god? The devil is always portrayed as waging war against Heaven, but if he despises himself, wouldn’t he have abandoned those ambitions by now? Wouldn’t victory over god be the last thing he wished for?”

  “Victory?” scoffed Ransom. “Satan knows God. He is an archangel, a seraph! He comprehends the Father’s power better than any human could ever hope to. How do you defeat a being whose mind is the very thing that holds you in existence? If God were to stop thinking about you or I or Lucifer for even an instant, we would cease to be. There can be no victory against such an opponent.”

  “Then why fight this hopeless war?”

  “Your error lies in thinking of Satan as though he were a villainous man, merely another Hitler or Pol Pot. For men, war is a means to an end. A just man may take up the sword to protect his loved ones, an unjust man to satisfy his greed. But what drives Lucifer is not some futile lust for power. For him, war is an end in itself.”

  To envision pure evil wasn’t easy for Corwin. It was an alien state of mind, but Ransom’s uncomfortable description felt too wrong not to be right.

  “All this talk of self-hatred . . . I thought Satan was supposed to be prideful?”

  “He is,” said Ransom, “but his is the pride of vanity, not of self-love.”

  “I’m not sure that I see the difference.”

  “If you truly love yourself, you have self-respect. The pride of a self-respecting person is not dependent upon whether one outshines others. A vain person’s pride is. Those who love themselves least are often quite vain.”

  As the bartender circled back their way, Ransom turned his attention to the menu, scrutinizing the sandwich selection as though the fate of Heaven and Hell rested on his decision. From somewhere beyond the room, Corwin heard a small voice.

  “Corwin! Corwin, please!”

  Mary?

  He slowly stood and stepped away from the bar.

  “Made up your mind?” the bartender asked Ransom.

  “Hmmm . . . the Blue Cheese Bison Burger . . . can I get that with bacon?”

  “You can get everything with bacon.”

  “I knew I picked the right place.”

  Corwin was halfway to the door. White light bled through the windows and the edges of the doorframe, growing more intense with each step.

  “If you can hear me Corwin, come back! Come back to us!”

  “I’m coming, Mary!”

  He reached for the handle.

  “Corwin, wait!” Grasping the situation, the angel shot out of his seat. “Don’t open that door!”

  But this time it was Ransom’s words that sounded far away. Cast in the glow of that radiant light, The End and everyone in it were but fading shadows. The light was calling him back to the waking world, to a place more real than any fairytale land of angels and demons and Bible stories come to life.

  He pulled open the creaking door.

  18

  The Boardroom of the Beast

  “We’ve been waiting for you, Corwin,” spoke a cold voice.

  “Who are you?” demanded Corwin. “Where’s Mary?”

  The bright light had fled, leaving him in a spacious boardroom with wood-panel walls and a million-dollar view. A long conference table stretched towards the windows, its mahogany as smooth as polished stone. Outside, other high-rises scraped at the slate-gray sky, though few were taller than his current vantage point.

  Black-suited men and women stood along either side of the table, all staring placidly at their new arrival. He instinctively shot a glance towards the exit, but two gorilla-sized guards in dark glasses flanked the double doors. He wouldn’t be getting out that way.

  “There’s nothing to fear,” said the man at his left. “You’re among friends.”

  He had platinum blonde hair, slicked back, with eyebrows so light that they almost weren’t there.

  “I guess waking up was too much to hope for,” sighed Corwin.

  “Ah, but you did wake up! You awoke to the reality that the angel’s crutch was only holding you back.”

  “And you’re going to tell me that you know the real truth?”

  The pale-faced man laughed—a joyless, cynical laugh.

  “Truth is such a rigid concept. We’re not that old-fashioned.”

  “Why don’t you have a seat and relax,” intoned the woman to his right.

  She reminded Corwin of an Egyptian queen, with too much eyeliner and gaudy bracelets clinking on her wrists.

  “You’re our guest, after all.”

  “Right, and those two fellows by the door are just there to make m
e feel secure.”

  “Our boss very much wanted to meet you,” she said. “He’ll be here soon.”

  “Great.” Corwin noticed a single empty seat opposite him at the far end of the table. “I love meeting important people.”

  “Master Isley is one of the partners of this firm. It seems that he’s taken a personal interest in your case.”

  “What does that make you? His army of demonic interns?”

  With a snide grin, it was the man who replied, “Everyone you see is an agent of the Collection Branch. They call us fallen, because we dare to think for ourselves, but we are not your enemies. You’ve always belonged with us.”

  “Aren’t you guys going about this the wrong way?” argued Corwin, straining to keep his voice steady despite the knot tightening in his chest. “I mean, if demons are real, that makes a pretty strong case for god.”

  “Don’t you see, Corwin?” The man lifted his palm as if raising a chalice. “It’s not that divinity doesn’t exist. You, I, everyone—we are all gods here.”

  He laid a hand on Corwin’s shoulder, but then quickly drew it back, his face contorted with a look of revulsion. Beneath Corwin’s collar, the golden cross glimmered as it caught the light.

  “That charm, won’t you take it off?”

  “If it’s meaningless, what’s the problem?”

  “It’s in poor taste. Master Isley might take offense.”

  “I’ll take my chances,” Corwin said stubbornly, but the man was indignant. Flexing his fingers like a claw, he reached for the chain.

  “I’m afraid I must insist.”

  If ever you are separated from me and find yourself in a desperate situation, hold onto that cross.

  Corwin’s hand went to his chest, clasping the cross, and it ignited in a sudden flash. Rays of light fought to escape his clenched fist. Hissing and screeching, the demons recoiled, and when he looked down, he found that a katana now rested in his hand. Its gold crossguard was roughly square, but with notched corners that recalled the sword’s original form. A fine blade extended from the hilt, curved and gleaming.

  Corwin had never held a sword before. It was heavier than he expected, but the weight was well balanced, and for some reason it felt natural in his grasp.

  Nursing a hand charred by the light, the fiendish man sneered.

  “A soulrender—an angel’s weapon! If that is your choice, then so be it, but you will regret not doing this the easy way.”

  There was no time to think. From his right, the dark-haired woman lashed out with a raking claw. Corwin’s blade flashed. She stumbled back with a shrill cry as jeweled bracelets spun through the air, a spray of black blood erupting from the severed stump of her arm.

  Did I just do what I think I did?

  Corwin stared in disbelief at the katana. Maybe his body had simply reacted on impulse, but it didn’t feel that way. Had the blade moved of its own accord? Before he could give it any more thought, footfalls sounded at his back, the demons closing from both sides. As two men lunged towards him, Corwin vaulted onto the table.

  “Mortal fool!” cursed the burnt man. “Do you think that you can slay us all? There is no way out!”

  “There’s one way.”

  Corwin lowered his shoulders and sprinted down the length of the table, leaping over grasping hands. I can’t believe I’m seriously about to do this, he thought to himself as he crossed his arms and dived for the windows. Like a human missile, he crashed through the glass, and then his heart lurched into his throat. The four lanes below looked pencil-thin from two hundred stories up, but they were getting wider all too fast.

  “On your right you’ll see the Regis Inferni Building, home to one of the most prestigious law firms in the nation,” announced a guide to her double-decker bus full of tourists.

  “Mom, what’s that?” asked a young boy, staring skyward from the roofless upper deck.

  His mother’s shriek split the air as Corwin’s body slammed into the center aisle with a bone-shattering crunch. Passengers ducked and covered their heads from the shower of broken glass. Several shards were lodged in Corwin’s arms, though he didn’t seem to care.

  “Fucking hell, that hurt!” he groaned as he lifted his aching body off the ground.

  Two heavy thuds rocked the bus behind him.

  “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

  Standing sorely, Corwin turned to see the burnt agent, an onyx katana in hand. He was joined by a woman with glasses and a long ponytail. She stood atop a seat, one foot on the railing and two pistols drawn.

  “He’s mine!” roared the man.

  He doubled his grip and charged. Corwin raised his sword just in time to answer. Ringing steel resounded above the din of the midday traffic. A flurry of slashes fell, the demon pressing forward, but Corwin parried each blow with miraculous luck.

  I think I’m getting the hang of this!

  His blade weaved and spun in a lethal dance, and suddenly it was the demon who was being pressured. The sword hungered. He could feel its lust for battle, a dread force coursing through him like an electric current.

  As they locked blades, shock and fury filled the demon’s eyes. Then the onyx blade cracked. He leapt away, but Corwin dashed in pursuit, his assault pushing the agent back on his heels. Corwin’s movements weren’t merely fast, they were perfect. His sword flew with expert skill. Even his stance was flawless, each pivoting step in time with his blows. He glimpsed an opening and the katana swept low, carving a gash in his foe’s leg.

  The vicious man howled. He lost his footing and Corwin planted a firm kick in his stomach, knocking him to the floor. As the demon slid down the aisle on his backside, Corwin stared again at the soulrender.

  “I’m a goddamn ninja!”

  Two shots rang out. Swift tilts of the blade deftly deflected the gunfire. One bullet ricocheted perilously into the seats between two passengers. The tour group gasped and a mother frantically tried to pull her son behind cover, but the spellbound boy refused to look away.

  “This is the best tour ever!”

  As Corwin evaded another barrage, the burnt demon crawled to his feet.

  “Disarm him!” he snarled. “He’s nothing without the sword!”

  From the roof of a passing car, a third agent hopped onto the tour bus, his legs straddling the seats. Mounting the seatbacks, he struck at Corwin’s head while Corwin slashed at his knees. Between the falling blade and the bullets, the demons were forcing him back, and Corwin was running out of bus.

  They swerved into a sharp turn and a traffic light came to the rescue. The distracted demon looked up just in time for a hundred pounds of iron to collide with his skull, tossing him over the railing. His black katana clattered on the floor.

  “Who the hell is driving this thing?”

  Bending to scoop up his fallen comrade’s sword, the burnt man fixed Corwin with a hateful glare. His twin blades whirled as he launched into a furious attack. Corwin hastily checked the road and spotted a taxi out in front of the bus. It was just close enough. He swung his katana in a wide arc, buying himself an extra second as the demon skirted out of range, then turned and leapt.

  Gunshots blared and a stabbing pain stung his side, but his boots landed safely on the taxi’s roof. The driver, however, wasn’t too happy about it. Veering wildly, he hit the brakes and Corwin was thrown onto the hood. A string of profanities issued from the cabby’s mouth as the speeding bus rammed him from behind. There was no stopping in this traffic.

  Corwin lifted his eyes. Through the bus’s windshield, a dark-suited man stared back at him.

  I should have figured.

  Just as he found his feet, the burnt demon touched down on the rear end of the taxi. They both rushed the roof, blades clashing. Corwin was quicker, but the dual-wielding agent held him on the defensive. To make matters worse, the ache in his side was starting to take its toll. Blood seeped through his coat and his wound cried out with every twist and jolt.

  A silver SUV
raced up alongside them with a short-haired woman perched atop it. She leveled the pistol in her hand. Corwin’s lightning-fast katana repelled the first two shots, but the third bullet wasn’t meant for him. Lowering the barrel, she fired a round into one of the taxi’s front tires.

  The helpless cab driver screamed and Corwin sailed airborne as the car spun out of control. He hit the ground rolling, skidding to a bruised stop. With a grinding scrape and a trail of sparks, the taxi careened towards a roadside bench. On it lay a man who had clearly chosen the wrong place for a nap. The bearded hobo opened his eyes just in the knick of time.

  “Not you again,” moaned Corwin. “Watch out!”

  I swear, if that bum doesn’t live a long and fruitful life I’m going to find him and drag his ass straight to Hell with me!

  But he needn’t have worried. In a feat of acrobatic prowess that left Corwin utterly dumbfounded, the man sprang from his bench, flipping in midair as he dodged the oncoming car.

  He landed, flapped his collar and scowled.

  “Don’t nobody know how to drive in this damn town?”

  The tour bus slid into a braking turn, blocking off both lanes. By some miracle, no one was hurt, or at least no one who wasn’t already dead. Corwin rolled over, feeling like a sack of broken bones. Waves of pain wracked his body with every breath, and worse, where was the katana?

  In a panic, his eyes darted.

  There!

  It rested only a few yards away. Corwin dragged himself towards the sword, a shaky arm outstretched.

  “Enough!” snapped a bitter voice.

  An onyx blade impaled Corwin’s hand, pinning him to the road. He yelled, unable to pull away, the sensation like being bitten and set on fire simultaneously.

  “You have insulted our good will,” spoke the burnt agent. “Now I will teach you what it means to defy us.”

  He still bore the wound that Corwin had given him earlier, his pant leg matted with blood, but if the demon was hurt, he didn’t show it. Others were approaching, slowly encircling him.