Marooned

by Travis Smith

  Before he could disappear into the darkness, The Stranger seized his arm and yanked him backward with enough force to tear his shoulder out of the socket.

  “Fuck!” he screamed as he clamored back to his feet. The chaos from seconds before had abruptly ended, and the cave was silent again.

  The pair peered into the darkness that had just formed before their very eyes. The tons of rock and rubble that must be tumbling into infinity were gone. No sound echoed back up to the ledge where they now stood.

  Christopher shuddered. “And if you gaze long enough into an abyss, the abyss will gaze back into you.”

  “What happened to him?” The Stranger asked.

  “Fuck should I know?” Christopher said. “It’s already Hell, so he can’t have gone far.”

  “And if it isn’t Hell?” The Stranger asked.

  Christopher turned away from the ledge and faced back the way they’d come. “Only one way to go now,” he mused, “but it’s all different.”

  The Stranger turned and observed that what he said was true. The path they had been walking was altered. It curved in the wrong direction. Even the door that was just there had vanished.

  The Stranger sighed. As he looked on, yet another man appeared from the darkness. This one was tall and slimmer than the last. He had short, neat hair that was slightly disheveled. He wore a trimmed, black goatee that was just beginning to grey around the edges. He held his hands before him and wrung them together anxiously.

  “Oh, great,” Christopher said, “here we go again. Who are you then?”

  “Erm—” the man stammered. He was dressed in a button-down collared shirt that was half tucked into his expensive-looking pants. He blinked his eyes rapidly, fighting back tears. “I’m D—Drew. Andrew Babbitt.”

  “Well, Drew, we have some bad news.”

  The man turned his face away from the others in apparent shame as his resolve broke. His stomach hitched as he sobbed quietly, and he raised a hand to cover half of his face in a gesture of vanity.

  “Christ,” Christopher muttered.

  “She’s dead,” the man wept. He continued to shake his head and fight against his tears. “They’re all dead. And he killed me, too …”

  Christopher glanced at The Stranger, but he was taking all this in with little concern or interest. “So,” he said, “how did you die?”

  Chapter 14:

  New York City

  1

  “S o how will you die?” Professor Kent asked his PHI237: Philosophy of Life and Death class. The thirty college sophomores sat in silence, eyes glazed from waking at the wee hour of 9:00 AM. Many had their heads down on their desks. Some were glancing at their cell phones. A small handful was actually looking toward the front of the room, their unfocused eyes drifting slowly.

  Christopher Cross, however, was listening intently. He was sitting in the third row of the City University of New York’s Brooklyn campus lecture hall. He’d enrolled last year for a degree in English literature, but he’d taken a particular interest in philosophy and thusly declared a minor. He wouldn’t answer the professor’s question, of course, for any aptitude he may have had for public speaking had been beaten out of him during his youth in Tennessee public schools. He felt plenty competent and eloquent in his online media, and he’d developed plenty of bite if provoked, but volunteering his thoughts in person to a group of peers would never be part of his modus operandi.

  “Anyone?” he urged. “Bueller?” The joke got fewer chuckles each year he insisted on making it. “Does anyone think that he or she can answer the question?”

  A pressured murmur of denial ran over the room.

  “Friedrich Nietzsche wrote, ‘I show you death that consummates—a spur and a promise to the survivors. He that consummates his life dies his death victoriously, surrounded by those who hope and promise. Thus should one learn to die; and there should be no festival where one dying thus does not hallow the oaths of living.’ Does anyone want to try and translate that for the rest of us?”

  More silence from the disengaged pupils.

  “How about if I pose another question in contrast,” Professor Kent continued. “How will you live?”

  He paused for effect and allowed the question to sink in before going on.

  “I bet that’s an easier inquiry to wrap your tired minds around, no? Most of you may not feel keen on answering it, but I’d bet you could, if pressed.”

  “With honor?” one of the students in the front volunteered in an obvious attempt to take the pressure off the others with a generic response.

  “Is that how you want to live?” Dr. Kent asked. “With honor?”

  The kid shrugged.

  He smiled. “It does sound like a reasonable answer. To live with honor? To die with honor? That’s what all the best heroes seek. Well, I doubt you find yourself waking up saying, ‘Today, I intend to live with honor!’” The class chuckled as he puffed his chest out and spoke in a deep, altruistic tone as if imitating a comic book hero. “But you aren’t wrong in your assessment. You’re understanding the root of my question now, though, right? I’m not asking by what process you’ll die, but more, in what manner, much in the way you might consider in what manner you want to live. Should you live with honor? With integrity? Should you live for love? For self-aggrandizement? To better a life other than your own? The possibilities are near-infinite, and every one of you should have a unique and deeply personal answer to the question.”

  The class remained unfazed by his monologue. By now it was forty-five minutes past the hour, and he had gotten more engagement than he did on most first-days.

  “Well, did anyone sort out what Nietzsche meant? I hope not, or else we’ll all have a very boring semester. I’ll email you a few excerpts to read before next class, but these are things to think about, right? Do we get to choose how we die? Should we? Does it even matter in the end? You’ll have a ten-page paper to parse it out, so I hope you’ve got more to say by May.”

  He waved a hand in dismissal and walked from his podium to take a seat at his desk as the students gathered their book bags and began shuffling out of the classroom.

  “Get some coffee before Friday’s class,” he urged over the now animated conversation that was developing.

  2

  “‘Who will separate us from the love of Christ? Will hardship, or distress, or persecution, or famine, or nakedness, or peril, or sword? No, in all these things we are more than conquerors through Him who loved us. For I am convinced that neither death, nor life, nor angels, nor rulers, nor things present, nor things to come, nor powers, nor height, nor depth, nor anything else in all creation will be able to separate us from the love of God in Christ Jesus our Lord.’ Romans 8:35.”

  Reverend David Goodwin peered out among the small group of mourners wearing their blackest Sunday’s best. Mrs. Garrison was seated in front, her head bowed. Photographs spanning her daughter Faye Anne’s twenty-some-odd years of life lined an altar otherwise covered in flowers and other gauche adornments. Her body remained undiscovered—obviously—in the good reverend’s basement, but the family sought closure after so many months of her being missing. They had approached Reverend Goodwin himself and asked that he officiate a ceremony.

  “‘Blessed be the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, the Father of mercies and God of all comfort, who comforts us in all our affliction, so that we may be able to comfort those who are in any affliction, with the comfort with which we ourselves are comforted by God.’ 2 Corinthians 1:3,” Goodwin continued. With that, he spread his arms wide and bowed his head. “Let us pray. Lord, we pray today that You will bring this beautiful family comfort from their despair. We pray that they will find answers and closure through You. Most importantly, we pray that their beautiful daughter, Faye Anne, endure only peace and grace from Your hand. Amen.”

  A somber chorus of Amens echoed this.

  “Evil may pursue us,” Revered Goodwin said, opening his eyes and raising his head
to face the crowd once more, “but the good will always win.”

  This was not greeted by the usual enthusiastic applause.

  3

  Christopher approached his professor’s desk as the other students shuffled out of the classroom and into the hallway. “Hey, Professor Kent,” he began.

  “Oh, please, call me Scott,” the young professor requested.

  Christopher smiled and pretended to consider this impossible request. He’d sooner be drawn and quartered before he called a teacher by their first name in The South. That would be a hard habit to kick. “I just wanted to say that I really enjoyed your talk today. I’m excited most for this semester.”

  Scott smiled. It wasn’t often that a pupil offered such a confession. It was high-praise from a twenty-something. “Thank you, uh …”

  “Chris.”

  “Chris. That means a lot, especially after dragging thirty students through the first session.”

  “It’s something I’ve thought about a lot. Death, you know.” He chuckled as Scott feigned a look of concern. “I just mean, like, I think about the people who we revere today … and how they maybe never had any notoriety before they actually died.”

  Scott nodded. “And only by dying did their doctrines have impact? Indeed. I look forward to reading your thoughts on it throughout the semester.”

  “What do you think?” Christopher asked with a grin. Dear God, am I flirting? he wondered fleetingly.

  “About death? Well, to me, it’s an insult to living. When a sentence ends, a period is a period.”

  “Oh,” Christopher stammered. The response was abrupt and unexpected.

  Scott allowed a brief uncomfortable silence before winking at his student and offering a charming smile. “But I’m a bit of a viva-phile. I aim to live life to the fullest, and death is my greatest fear.” He spread his arms and leaned back in the chair before pointing at Chris. “And you won’t get an A in this class by following my lead.”

  4

  David Goodwin shuddered as he plodded through the sloppy snow-melt in his drive. He’d stayed after the ceremony for an hour at least, shaking hands, doling out hugs, and offering hollow condolences to the mourners. Now it was well past lunch, and he didn’t feel much of an appetite anyway, so he drove straight home.

  “You’re workin’ too hard,” he muttered under his breath as he closed the front door behind him.

  His neck ticked to one side, and he shut his eyes tightly at the sound of his own voice. “That ain’t quite right,” he said in reply. All this church business was starting to get in the way of his real work. He glanced toward the sealed cellar door.

  “Exactly. You could use a getaway,” he said.

  Goodwin shook his head. “No, no, no. The Lord commands my—”

  “The Lord has assignments outside o’ Tennessee!”

  He paused. Now there was a notion. It’s a great big world of sin out there. “But no,” he interjected into his own thoughts, shaking his head again. “The last time I left … I can’t risk that again.”

  He approached his computer desk in the den now. He pulled open a drawer and took out a tablet from his medicine bottle. He placed it on his tongue and swallowed it with a dry click. “You know who took risks?” he asked. “David. Moses. Peter.”

  He closed his eyes and sat in silence for several minutes. Gradually, the voices ceased. When his mind was quiet, he opened his eyes and turned on his outdated Dell. The wintry afternoon sky was gray and overcast, and the monitor’s glow grew blinding in the dark den. Goodwin squinted at first until his eyes adjusted.

  Internet Explorer was open to the same page where he’d left off late the previous night before excusing himself to bed. He’d gotten lost somewhere in the sea of rage as he was browsing a blog titled Chris Cross Applesauce: Spoon-feeding for (Adults Who Think Like) Schoolchildren. This particular piece was The Curse of Christianity. He grunted contemptuously and scrolled to the bottom of the page.

  Christopher Cross is a college sophomore at City University of New York (CUNY) in Brooklyn, NY. He studies English literature and philosophy, with a particular interest in political science. This blog is one of many media that Christopher uses with the hope of helping others broaden their views and critically analyze the perspectives of their fellow earthlings. He also utilizes YouTube vlogs, Twitter, Instagram, Facebook, and has written for several local publications. Links provided below.

  Goodwin read the self-aggrandizing autobiography section. “Hmm,” he mused, “maybe some time away would do me some good …”

  5

  Christopher sat on the N train out of Manhattan across from New York City native and college friend Alisha Morrison. The jostling and clanging of the subways had grown soothing to Christopher. He’d met Alisha at The Strand bookstore where she worked before grabbing dinner at a nearby cafe. Now he was filled with a post-meal content that would make him lucky to stay awake enough to hear when they arrived at his stop. He leaned his head back against the subway’s window and closed his eyes. The rocking of the train caused a piece of his usually perfectly coiffed hair to fall down over his forehead. He didn’t mind the look this late in the day. It made him feel like a bustling, important member of the NYC culture, like he fit right in with the engaged businessman with half of his starched shirt un-tucked, the exhausted doctor with his tie undone and draped around his neck, the spent hooker with her lipstick smeared and her heels in her hands. He smiled to himself at the image.

  Suddenly something heavy fell atop his lap. His eyes snapped open to find a scruffy looking man trying to pick himself up off the moving subway car’s floor. The cloying scent of liquor filled his nostrils. Christopher reached down and hoisted the man up by the shoulder, but he could not suppress the look of disgust as he touched the dirty, sweat-stained clothes.

  “Careful, pal, these things move quick,” he warned. He cast a look across the aisle at Alisha, who was stifling a chuckle. When he looked, he noted at least two others beside her who were watching. He locked eyes with them and shared in a momentary silent conversation through expression. Their eyes asked the same question as his: What the fuck?

  The drunk man mumbled something incoherent and brushed Christopher aside before standing up and stumbling off along the moving train.

  Christopher chuckled to himself before leaning his head back against the window and closing his eyes again. New York City, man. Greatest city on earth.

  When they reached his stop, Christopher and Alisha stood and exited the train together.

  “Thought you were gonna have to bring that one home with you,” she joked.

  “Yeah, he went in for the whole handful,” Christopher laughed. “Shame I already made plans with your crusty ass.”

  “Hey, it’s nothing I wouldn’t mind watching.” She winked as Chris visibly shuddered.

  “Hey, mamí!” a man called from atop the stairs leading out of the subway station. “Come on up! Turn it aroun’ for me!”

  “Jesus fucking Christ,” Christopher muttered through gritted teeth.

  “Ignore it,” Alisha warned.

  “Why?” he asked, loudly enough for the man to hear as they approached from the bottom of the stairs. “I ignored shit my entire life. Never helped anyone.”

  “Oh, yeah,” the man cooed as they walked by. “Lemme get yo’ numba’!”

  Christopher turned to face him mid-stride and flashed his middle finger. “I’ve got a number for you right here, asshole.”

  The man’s demeanor changed as his eyes shifted from Alisha’s backside to Christopher’s hand. He lunged forward and dropped the pseudo-romantic tone. “Ay, faggot! Who asked you anyway?” He pulled his brown jacket up to reveal a knife clipped to his jeans.

  Christopher shook his head and continued walking alongside Alisha, who hadn’t broken her forward gaze.

  “You too good for a faggot, baby!” the man called. “He don’t got what you need.”

  “Fuck you, scumbag!” Christopher called
back. “Go jerk off in a sewer, you pathetic—”

  Before he got the words out, the man had seized the back of his neck and forced him flat onto the sidewalk on his stomach.

  “Ow!” Christopher called out. He opened his eyes to see the pocket knife directly in his face.

  “You better watch your pussy mouth, or I’ll cut out your teeth and give it everything I got!” the man growled in his ear.

  “Oh my God!” Alisha screamed. “Stop! Help!”

  A handful of passersby glanced at the altercation and cut their paths a little wider. One or two withdrew their phones, either to call police or to merely appear distracted.

  “Fuck you, too, uppity bitch!” he shouted at her. He reached out and snatched at her shoulder. She flexed her right arm against her chest, trying to stop him from grabbing her purse, but he only got a coarse handful of her right breast before walking briskly away in the other direction.

  6

  David Goodwin hadn’t seen so much filth and wickedness in all his days on God’s glorious earth. Here was a slut in a low-cut skirt and boots up to her ass-crack—and in winter no less! Here was a man with half his head shaved and the other half colored blue, no doubt for some Satanic ritual. Here was a homeless man begging for spare change, surely to buy drugs and other contraband, rather than to pay someone to make him a resume. Here was a false prophet with a cardboard sign around his neck reading: CHRIST COMETH NOW. REPENT OR SAVE YOUR PLACE IN HELL!

  Goodwin shuddered at the trash-lined streets. The winter’s snow was coated in a layer of black soot, pushed up over all the sidewalks so countless cars could sit and swerve and honk their horns. Metal trashcans clattered as people threw out their refuse, dogs barked around every corner, foreigners shouted in unfamiliar languages, the smell of hot dog stands and marijuana wafted atop a cloud of sewer breeze with each subway car that passed beneath the grates in the street.