Head Dead West

by Oliver Atlas

  I shake my head. “That’s all elegant and heady, Pastor. But what does it really mean? It sounds like a bunch of flowery abstraction. How are these ‘eternal dimensions’ you mention any different than some land of make-believe I can pay you money now to visit when I’m dead? It sounds like sophisticated language that’s trying to conceal a very familiar con job.”

  “Mr. Prose,” says Pastor Jon, scowling. “Why can’t I have tough crowds every week?” He breaks into a wide smile. “We need more like you in here! How do you know the eternal dimensions are real? How do you know they aren’t part of a religious long con? Simple: you buy in, but with your eyes open. Or in other words, you start loving in the way the passage describes, while paying attention to what happens to your world. Does your world stay the same? Or does it begin opening up in new ways, into new dimensions?”

  I fold my arms and share a skeptical look with Byron before asking, “So what kind of dimensions are we talking about here? Are we talking psychological dimensions? Spiritual dimensions?”

  Pastor Jon shrugs. “I wouldn’t presume to say. That would be assuming there’s always a gulf between the two. All I’m saying is that sometimes we need to believe so that we may understand.”

  “I thought we were talking about love, not belief.”

  “Yes,” nods Pastor Jon. “Excellent point. Now recall the passage I read. It says that love always hopes and always believes. Love always entails faith and hope. In other words, if you’re seeing the world with love, you’ll also be seeing it with faith and hope. And if that’s true, we might ask this: if we don’t have faith or hope, can we have love?—and not love-the-feeling but love-the-lens? Imagine a telescope without one of its lenses or mirrors. You don’t have a telescope anymore. What if it’s the same with love? Take away one of its lenses and no matter how tightly you grasp the leftovers, you still can’t see the way you did. So we might say that sometimes we must believe—that is, we must faith-hope-love—in order to see the full depths and colors of the world.”

  Byron rolls his eyes. “It reminds me of a self-help DVD my Nana used to chant along with.”

  We all share a laugh.

  “I’d give it more credit than that,” I admit. “It reminds me of an old Irish ballad: And love is not the easy thing... / The only baggage you can bring / Is all that you can't leave behind... You’re packing your suitcase for a place none of us has been / A place that has to be believed to be seen.”

  “Ah, yes,” says Pastor Jon, beaming. “I see you know the other Apostle Paul. A place that has to be believed to be seen. Exactly. That’s what I’m saying: without love, we’ll always be half blind and stuck in a shadowland. And without a hope that’s big enough or a faith that’s bold enough, we’ll never have real love. We’ll be exiles from our best capacities, caught in violence and darkness. So there you go: if we ever want to know the true worth of life and the real nature of wonder, we’d better start asking what kind of world we really hope for and then start acting in a way consistent with it. In hope, we can imagine a life worth living. In faith, we can act on that hope. In love, we can reach out into the unseen womb of the future and bring forth a new earth.”

  Someone behind us begins a languid clap.

  Back down in the chapel’s doorway stands a man dressed all in white. “Beautiful message, preacher,” he sneers, stopping his applause long enough to tip his white hat. “I’m inspired. Inspired to reach out into the womb of the future and pull forth a word with your young parishioner there.”

  “Thank you, sir,” says Pastor Jon, visibly stiffening. “But please have a seat. I’m about to finish with how we can look upon even this infected world of ours with redeeming love.”

  “No, padre. You’re finished now. It’s my turn to say a few words.”

  I put a hand on Byron’s shoulder. “Go get your cobbler, brother. And eat a piece for me.” Then I rise to face Van Vandercain.

  Chapter Fifty

  A Good Chance

  “Hello, West,” says Vandercain, pinching the end of a black mustache. He’s shaved off his beard, revealing a pointy, cleft chin. The Eastern Ranger strolls down the aisle. “I thought I’d find you here.”

  Byron is frozen in the seat beside me. “Go on,” I whisper, giving his shoulder a nudge. “Get out of here.”

  Vandercain shakes his head, tisking. “I don’t think so, old man. You stay right where you are. You too, preacher,” he adds to Pastor Jon. “Anybody makes a sudden move, and I blast their teeth out.”

  East cocks his head in self-satisfaction. “You look so surprised, West. Did you think I was dead? I will admit our old friend, Mr. Moon, was faster than I imagined, but he didn’t have time to deal with me properly. He was too busy making sure you stayed alive. I’m not so sure he arrived in time to save the girl though. Did he? Oh. I see. You don’t know.” Vandercain’s eyes constrict and a serpent’s smile flicks on his lips. “And you care, don’t you? You really care. I’m so sorry.” His hand blurs and suddenly grips a pistol, pointed at my chest. “Give me your badge.”

  “It won’t do you any good.” My hand aches to go for Clementine. Here is the man who may well have killed—I can’t bear to think it. Skiss. Beautiful-hearted Skiss. Here he is ready to boast about it. This is the man I shot at before. This is a man I could shoot at again. This is a man I could kill.

  “Blake.” It’s Pastor Jon’s voice, low and calm. “Don’t be overcome by evil. But overcome evil with good.”

  “Overcome?” scoffs Vandercain, now only a few paces away, dark eyes piercing into mine. “This coward is no true Ranger. He can’t overcome anything. He can’t even overcome his own indecision. Can’t do anything, can you, Blake? Can’t even stand up and die like a man. Here I am. I shot your woman. I would have done worse, too. And yet you won’t even fight.” He hocks in his throat and spits on the chapel floor. “How fitting you came to the house of a God who wouldn’t fight either. You deserve each other. Now,” he hisses, “hand over the badge.”

  Oddly calm, I unpin the badge and toss it to him. “It won’t do you any good,” I say again. “Moon will know if it’s a trap.”

  “Don’t be so sure.” Vandercain begins tossing the badge up and down, grinning. “He didn’t know it was a trap the first time I killed him.”

  “I heard you had help.”

  “Oh, I’ll have help again.” Vandercain catches the badge and holds it high for an exultant moment. “Now, before I kill you, tell me where I can find Rickard Yaverts.”

  I shrug innocently. “You’ve got me. Last I saw, he was turning into a zombie.”

  Vandercain mirrors my gesture and expression. “Not good enough, West. See your friend here?” He shifts his gun to Byron and asks, “What’s your name, friend?”

  “Byron Omaha, sir. And my wife has a—”

  “Byron Omaha, do you want to die by gut shot?”

  Byron looks at me. He is sweating. His eyes are already bloodshot. He darts a look up at Pastor Jon. We’re both stony-faced. Who knows where this could be going?

  “Well,” presses Vandercain. “Do you?”

  Byron looks down at his hands. “Well, no, sir.”

  The man in white nods sympathetically. “Me neither. How about burning in hell, Byron? Do you want to burn in hell?”

  “I don’t believe in hell, sir.”

  Vandercain snorts. “Me neither. If we’re right, Byron, then when I shoot you, after a long bit of suffering, you’ll go blip. You’ll cease. If I decide to shoot you in the head, you won’t even know I pulled the trigger. But what if the preacher is right? If the preacher is right, there’s a good chance you’ll end up in hell. So tell me this, Byron: how is it justice that this man here, this hipster idiot, can make a choice that robs you of your own choice, and may well damn you in the process?”

  “It’s hardly that simplistic,” objects Pastor Jon.

  Vandercain’s wrist flashes and his pistol fires, rocking pastor Jon sideways and nearly off the pulpit. The pastor
reels, sways, and straightens, clutching the bloody side of his grazed head. The Eastern Ranger returns the gun to Byron’s stomach, but keeps his eyes on the pulpit. “Any more commentary? No? Good. Then what’s your answer, Blake? Is it right that your petty pride can send this decent old man down around the final bend to perdition?”

  Disgusted, and reckless as a result, I draw Clementine. My hand moves so quickly all Vandercain can do is blink. And in that blink he realizes he should have shot me. He also realizes that I could have shot him but didn’t. And now that leaves us each staring down the others’ barrel.

  “I don’t believe in your zero-sum scenario any more than you do, East. And I’m not going to play your game. If you want to find out whether or not there’s a hell, you’ll do it alone. That’s how it’s always done. But if you want to know about a hell any fool can believe in, look at your life, because I see flames already licking up your legs. If you shoot Byron, you’re fanning them. As for me, I’m not afraid one way or the other. So pull the trigger, East. I dare you.”

  Vandercain laughs. He laughs bitterly and the cathedral reverberates with the hollow sound. “You had the drop on me,” he says at last, wiping away an amused tear. East raises his pistol to my head. Despite all my tough talk, I’m glad he’s decided to shoot me first. Maybe the first shot will bring help and Jon or Byron will be saved. “You had the drop on me—Van Vandercain!—and you chose to give me a sermon. All right. Then I’ll find Rickard Yaverts the hard way.”

  “You got that right,” says a voice from behind me.

  An earsplitting BOOM punctuates the remark and Vandercain launches off his feet, tumbling backwards into the pews.

  Yaverts is suddenly beside the pulpit’s base, smoking shotgun in hand. “Prose! You two get back in the sacristy. And at least shoot the man in the knees next time, damn it!”

  I don’t know where Yaverts came from, but I’m even more at loss to understand why he’s still so on edge. The shotgun he won in Union Powder just sent Vandercain over five pews. I doubt he’s getting up anytime soon.

  But as soon as I’ve thought that, Vandercain stands up.

  “Run!” roars Yaverts, firing again, knocking Vandercain back into the pews.

  Okay. Run. Got it.

  I grab Byron and dart for Yaverts and the pulpit. We crash around its corner and find Pastor Jon smeared in blood and looking woozy.

  “Get them out of here,” says Yaverts, sidled up against the wooden structure for cover. “I’ll take care of this great white pain in the ass.”

  I grab his shoulder. “You just obliterated his ass and he got back up! For your information, that’s not normal. He might get up again. You need to come with us. We need to run.”

  The big man frowns, confused and disgusted, as though I’d just offered him a sweaty sock for no good reason. “Hell no,” he says. “That’s what this jerk is used to. People shoot him, he gets up, they run. No, sir. You need to run. I need to fight. All I have to do is figure out what he is, exactly . . . ” Yaverts grins with sudden pleasure, before adding, “And that first shot narrowed it down. I’m guessing we’ve got a vargulf on our hands.”

  “A what?”

  “Not the time, Prose. Now get out of here. Go straight to the Lighthouse Bookshop. It’s one block up the street. Go straight there.” Yaverts’ green eyes are fierce. He reaches into a pocket and hands me a small sealed envelope. “If I don’t join you in an hour, open this. If anyone there gives you trouble, follow Jon’s lead. He’ll know what to do. But just get to the bookshop and wait for me. We still have business to settle. Oh, and Blake, did you deliver Jenny?”

  Speechless, I nod.

  “Good. Then give me the card.”

  I fumble at my jacket and pull out the white card with the black eye.

  “Thanks,” says Yaverts, taking it. “This will be key.”

  Chapter Fifty-One

  The Sewers

  When the three of us make it out of the candle-heavy chapel and into the fresh night air, Byron doesn’t even say goodbye: he dashes away as though his old legs were suddenly young again. Everyone else in the streets has the opposite idea. Enthralled by the foreign sound of gunfire, crowds are already gathering, shouting and pointing and running for the equally foreign building fronted with crosses.

  Supporting Pastor Jon, whose arm hangs around my shoulder, we jog against traffic, heading up the hill toward a building that resembles an ancient lighthouse. It has a simple base supporting a six-sided tower that rises four stories to a lantern housing. In the midst of the chaos on the streets, its whirling lamp suggests the frenzy of an alarm.

  As we hurry for the building, a phalanx of soldiers bearing broad swords marches around a street corner. Four rows and four columns of huge, armored men. We leap aside, barely avoid getting trampled. None of the men even notice us. We may as well have been mice. So that’s law enforcement in Bentlam. As the troop speeds away, I wonder how they’ll fare against guns, should they encounter Yaverts or East.

  “Careful,” whispers Jon when we’ve come within a block of the lighthouse. He lets me go and hugs the shadows of the buildings opposite it, scanning the street, scanning the skyline. “There,” he grates, pointing with his eyes, up to a ledge on the building north of the lighthouse. I squint, studying the eaves and arches of the rooftop. But no matter how carefully I look, I can’t see anything.

  “Come on.” Jon takes my arm and pulls me down a nearby alleyway. Once we’re in its shadows, he starts to jog again. The way is clean and clear and leads toward the light of another street.

  “What’s wrong? What about the bookshop?”

  “It’s no good,” he winces, gingerly feeling at what I can now see is a wounded ear. “They must be on to the place.”

  I’m beginning to wonder if Pastor Jon lost more wits than ear. “But I didn’t see anything back there. Are you sure it’s not safe?”

  “That’s how they like it,” says Jon, panting hard. “You never see anything until it’s too late. Maybe a flicker, maybe a tease of shadow. You doubt yourself. You get lazy. Then they’re on you. Then it’s over.”

  “Who? Who are ‘they’?”

  “Come on.” Pastor Jon bends down near the end of the alley and begins struggling with a rectangular manhole cover. His hands are slick with blood and he can’t lift the marble. At first, I’m so baffled I can only watch him struggle, gaping. Has he gone crazy? “Come on!” he hisses, staring up at me with wild eyes. “Hurry! They probably saw us back there. Help me!”

  When I do bend to help, the cover comes up easily enough, revealing a ladder descending into darkness. Pastor Jon scrambles down, no doubt intending me to follow. His frantic demeanor isn’t an encouragement. The lightless murk below isn’t either. And then there is the putrified draft that is spewing its retched sweetness into my face—the whole scenario has me ready to go find Enemy and ride away for Portland, leaving all this excitement behind. But Pastor Jon calls for me to hurry and that’s enough to snap me back to focus and get me moving. I climb down onto the ladder, swipe away Jon’s blood from the hole’s rim, and pull the manhole cover back into place.

  Below us awaits a chamber filled with nothing but echoes, stench, and darkness.

  In the sewers, Pastor Jon seems calm again. He has me take hold of his shirt as he inches forward along a stone catwalk. Beside us drones the sound of running liquid, with plops from near and far at random. I try asking what we’re doing but Jon cuts me off immediately with a sharp shhhh. Apparently, down here silence is golden. Okay. But why silence? Does talk put us in danger because sound travels upwards? Or does talk put us in danger because of what lurks in the dark? I find myself holding Clementine and hoping it’s the former. The thought of zombies waiting for us in the pitch black strikes me with a thrill of terror. Something about being eaten alive and not being able to see the devouring mouth . . . .

  My ears begin to tickle. Is it a draft? No. It’s a murmur. A voice in the distance.

  Jon paus
es. He’s clearly deciding something. After a minute, we reverse direction, take a new turn, and head toward the voice. We inch ahead into the dripping pitch, tiptoeing until words begin to flash out from above. “ . . . dangerous . . . folly . . . dead . . . escaped . . . ”

  I sense Jon turn toward me and suddenly his lips are pressing into my ear. He risks the faintest whisper. It’s so faint, even now I can barely hear him. “No. Sound.”

  No sound, no matter what. Got it. That much is clear. I want to laugh, though, because that is all that’s clear. The rest of what we’re doing is as benighted as our surroundings. All the same, a spy’s curiosity draws me forward. A faint gray light spits from a grating far above. With it, the disjointed words begin to take shape.

  “Sir Gavalier has a point, my friends.” I know that voice—smooth, convivial. But from where? It continues: “We’ve put out ample bait and he still hasn’t bitten. I’ll take responsibility for much of that. I’ll also agree that it’s time to cut bait before it turns into a problem of its own.”

  “It’s already become a problem.” I recognize this voice too. Smarmy, smooth, a man’s. But from where? Maybe it’s the dark that’s throwing me off, maybe it’s the blur that my life has become. But I can’t place voice to face. “Milly Ruse survived,” it continues. “Somehow Moon got her to help before the wound took effect.”

  “‘Got her to help,’” echoes a deep, resonant voice that I definitely don’t recognize. “That means she’s in Portland, safely off the game board.”

  “But she’s not off the board! She’s trying to rally the city. She’s working insurrection against us. There are also rumors she tried negotiating with the Shamaness.”

  There’s a petulant lilt to the way the second voice says insurrection that suddenly sparks a handsome face in my mind.