by Josie Brown
This is a nightmare. To awaken, I must do my best to be the worst—not something I’d ever say to my children.
But that’s just it: I want to be able to tell them something, anything, face to face as I hold them in my arms.
I want them to hear me and see me, not just dream that they have.
“No time to dawdle,” Death warns me. “He’s waiting for us.”
I’ve hit bottom.
At first I don’t see Satan. That’s par for the course when you’re dropped in the middle of an ancient coliseum filled with the Unliving who see you as much-needed entertainment for their abysmal afterlives.
They're chanting, “Kill Donna, Kill Donna, Kill Donna…” They don’t even know me! If only I’d been given a day or two to win them over.
I’m so taken with the sights and sounds of ecstasy and agony that I barely feel the tap on my shoulder. Since Death is standing right beside me, I know it can’t be him.
I steel myself for the worst—
At least, I think I have until I realize that Satan has used his forked tongue to do the honors. Ugly can be mesmerizing. Dread can be paralyzing. If Hell is your worst nightmare, a face-to-face with its demon regent is even worse.
He is taller than the stadium. When he spreads his wings, we are enveloped in complete darkness. The cacophony of epithets being shouted by the sinners gored on his horns silences the stadium throng.
Try as I might, I can’t look into Satan’s eyes. The darkness of too many souls is reflected in them, mine included.
I’m still staring at him when I feel a presence beside me. I turn to find an extremely handsome man beside me: dark hair with light eyes above sharp cheekbones and a strong nose. His well-cut tux seems molded to his fine firm physique: broad shoulders, trim abdomen, thighs that are thick and strong.
His smile is an invitation to trouble.
“Ignore the man behind the curtain,” I say as a way of introducing myself to Satan’s alter ego.
His booming laugh confirms this. “Can’t fool a smart woman!” His head tilts inquisitively. “How did you know this wasn’t me?” He jabs a clawed talon toward the Jumbotron-sized mythologized version of himself.
“Bread and circuses, right?” I toss a hand in the direction of the crowd. “Got to keep the asses in the seats.”
He takes this as an invitation to stare at my ass. “The human form is such a delicious temptation.” He points up. “I thank Him for that.”
“We all do,” I assure him. “It’s why we do our best to hold onto it as long as possible.” I lean in. “Level with me. Why would you accept this deal?”
Satan flicks the tail that has suddenly appeared, as have two tiny horns on either side of his head. “Because it’s a win-win for me, sweet Donna. If you lose, you join these huddled masses yearning for anything other than eternal damnation.”
“And if I win?”
Satan nods in the direction of the crowd. “The rabble’s dreams of some get-out-of-Hell-free card go up in flames, once and for all. Death may have talked me into this spectacle once, but you will have broken the mold, Doll.” He looks pointedly at Death. “Don’t you have a few souls to take?” To make his point, he glances down at the very expensive Patek Philippe watch on his wrist.
I don’t know how he can tell time with it, considering that its face is shattered and covered in blood. Gee, I wonder what happened to its owner! I glance up at his horns. Ah, yes, one of those gored is missing a hand and wrist. Finders, keepers. Losers, weep tears for eternity.
Death takes Satan’s hint. Nudging me, he says, “If I don’t see you again—”
“Oh, but you will,” I assure him.
I wish I were as confident as I sound.
Death dissolves into nothingness.
A single clap of Satan’s claws summons a beautiful woman, naked from the waist up. Frankly, there are four of her: identical quadruplets, conjoined on a single hip.
Three of the sisters’ eyes have been plucked out. The fourth has lost just one eye.
I think I’ve found the missing orbs: in the snakeskin basket One-Eyed Jane holds in her hand.
“Seven eyes for seven challengers!” Satan shouts.
His much scarier illusion amplifies his silken baritone into a guttural growl that shakes the coliseum’s ancient pillars. He continues, “Each one will reunite her with a lucky challenger eager for a rematch with the lovely housewife assassin in the hope of a chance for upward mobility: Purgatory!”
The mob howls its approval.
“However, should our guest win, her opponent will burn in the Seventh Circle—for eternity.”
This dire thought subdues the crowd.
“And if our guest wins all seven events, she will go back to her mortal life.”
The crowd wails in envy. Can’t say that I blame them.
Satan strides around the arena like a motivational speaker working an auditorium packed with devotees. “Our guest will choose her weapon from three that are available to her. Once she has done so, her opponent will name the weapon of his or her choice.”
“But if I don’t know what my opponent will ask for, how will I know if I chose something that can stop him or her?”
“Aye, girlie, but there’s the rub.” A talon strokes my cheek. “A word to the wise: Nothing is probable, and anything is possible.”
Whatever the heck that means.
“You’ve stacked the deck. We both know it,” I counter. “Here’s a thought: if I win the round, shouldn’t I be granted some sort of reward?”
The mob grows silent. I have no knowledge of Satan’s wrath. Apparently, they do.
The talon on my face pauses for a moment. His eyes have darkened. I can’t read them, but I assume this is not a good thing. I may find myself carved up even before my personal Hunger Games have begun.
I steel myself to stand perfectly still. One quick move may cause an eighth eye to plop into the basket: mine.
“Fair enough,” Satan finally mutters. “I offer you this: there are a few you know in Purgatory. They’ve been angsting over Life—yours. With each match you win, you’ll be allowed a reunion with one of them. I’ll even let you ask them a question that might be useful to you—that is, if you ever get out of here.”
“You’re very generous. Thank you.” Maybe one of them will know who ordered the hit on me. It’s certainly worth asking.
“First things first, then!” Satan claps his claws. “The weapons!”
Like magic, three items appear: a sharpened wooden pole, a flame-thrower, and a grenade.
I’ll pass on the pole because I doubt my opponent will get close enough for me to kill him with it. Besides, how can you kill someone who’s already dead? And considering the torture that goes on down here, poking someone with a stick will feel like a tickle. As for the flame-thrower, the odds of getting singed in Hell are very high, so why even bother?
That leaves the grenade.
I reach for it and hold it up for the crowd to see. Might as well try to win a few hearts and minds while I’m at it…
What? They’re booing? The nerve!
The blind girls hold out the eyeball basket.
“Reach in, my darling. Don’t be shy.” Satan’s voice is as smooth as silk.
Yuck. Okay, here goes.
My hand hovers over the squishy little orbs. I must be taking too long because suddenly a snake’s head pops up. I duck just in time before it tags me with its venom.
“Not fair,” I mutter.
“Get used to it,” Satan suggests. “Nothing is as it seems.”
Duly noted. I reach in quickly, plucking one. As I stare down at it, Gunter—the dearly departed aid-de-camp of the Quorum’s leader, Eric Weber—glares back at me.
In a flash of lightning, Gunter appears at my side. He comes nose-to-nose to snarl, “You stole my life! Now I’m taking yours! You’ll never go back! Do you hear me? Never!”
I stare innocently at him. “Sprechen sie Deutch?”
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I’m sure that what spews from him is not fit for the ears of vornehme frauen.
I am fascinated with his most distinguishing feature: the bullet hole I put in this sadistic little oaf’s forehead. I had the honor of doing so after the Quorum kidnapped Jack on the eve of our wedding to coerce me into assassinating Ryan, among other devious tasks that would have put me on the International Terrorist Watch List if I hadn’t let Ryan in on my dilemma. Eric made sure that Ryan’s extermination was left for last. Only the promise of Jack’s release from a Mexican drug lord’s private prison would have made me agree to the hit, although I had no way of warning Ryan of it. Both Ryan and Jack survived.
And the bullet that now allows access to Gunter’s brain came from my gun.
I’m tempted to stick my finger into that hole to see if there was anything in there to begin with, but a gong sounds, so I guess it’s battle stations.
I look around. Gunter has disappeared. What’s his weapon, an invisibility cloak?
Apparently not. It’s an armored tank: a German Puma infantry vehicle.
And it’s headed my way.
Gunter is gunning it. He doesn’t care how many of the dazed souls staggering through Hell he runs over to get to me.
My initial instinct is to flee into the stands. But what’s the use? To get out of Hell, I’ll have to stand and fight. Ideally, I’ll be close enough to use the grenade—
Not that it can penetrate cold hard steel.
Hey, you only die once, right? These folks may be here for Eternity, but I’ve got a shot at a new lease on life if I remember…
How did Satan put it? Oh yes: Nothing is probable, and anything is possible.
I estimate the seconds before the tank reaches me. When it’s just a few feet away, I leap up—
And grab onto one of the many holds mounted on the tank. Quickly, I crawl, crab-like, toward the gun’s long turret. Finally, straddling it, I make my way to its head.
By now, Gunter is driving around in circles, trying to toss me off. When he realizes I’m climbing the gun, he swings the turret skyward.
He’s too late. I pull the grenade’s pin and toss it down the barrel before leaping as far away as I can.
The tank’s armor panels are first-rate for shielding the tank’s crew from shelling. Likewise, an explosion inside the tank makes it shake, rattle, and roll,
But it doesn’t explode.
Instead, it implodes.
The mob is awed. When the shock wears off, the crowd’s banshee-scream fills the air.
I dust myself off. One trial down, six more to go.
“I’ve got a treat for you,” Satan informs me. “Guess who’s come for a visit?”
I could use a friendly face. Sarcastically, I clap my hands like a child on Christmas morn. “Whom?” I ask.
Another minion of Eric Weber’s, Varick Velasco, materializes in front of me.
Oh, just great.
The square-jawed, dimpled-chin pretty boy is dressed in a kimono. His face is painted white, like a kabuki. He flutters his pale blue eyes over a paper fan. “Sakura, sugar!”
Needless to say, I’m disappointed. “You said I’d see a friendly face,” I scold Satan.
“You didn’t mind seeing it when his head was delivered to you in a box tied up with a pretty bow,” Satan counters.
“I was concerned I was going to find Jack’s head in there instead, so yes, I was relieved to see who it was as opposed to who it wasn’t,” I explain.
“Semantics,” Satan counters. “He’s here, so obviously he has something to say. Ask away.” He disappears in a puff of gloom.
Satan is right. If Varick was so eager to come here, it’s to give me some guidance I can use if I return to the living.
No—make that when I return.
I know better than to waste my question on a yes-or-no answer, so I ask: “Varick, tell me—who’s causing the cyber attacks that are taking place all over the country?”
Varick pulls a hand mirror from a pocket deep within his kimono in order to admire himself. Sheesh! Same old Varick. "We have a mutual friend," he purrs.
“You're talking about Eric, aren't you? But he's still in jail!" Eric is in Magic Mountain, a Federal maximum-security prison located high on a sheer mountaintop in Utah.
Varick sighs impatiently. Pointing to a blemish on his nose, he mutters, “I'm breaking out!"
“You're making no sense at all." I roll my eyes. “Even if he were behind it. He’s got to have outside help. Is it Russia? China? North Korea?”
Instead of answering me, Varick giggles as he sings:
“Three little maids in attendance come
To one little maid is a bride, Yum-Yum
Nobody's safe, for ONE cares for none
Three little maids from—"
“I know that tune! Gilbert and Sullivan, right? From…let me see—The Mikado!”
He ignores me—perhaps because he is growing smaller and smaller until he disappears.
No, I’m wrong. He’s not disappearing—
I am.
5
It’s a Sin
Written by the techno-pop duo of Neil Tennant and Chris Lowe, also known as the Pet Shop Boys. When the single was released in 1987, it reached number one on the UK Singles Chart for three weeks in 1987, and was their third Top 10 single in the US when it reached #9 on the Billboard’s “Hot 100.”
According to Tennant, the song aptly describes his Catholic upbringing and education, where he felt the message was that every pleasurable act in life was to be regarded as sinful. One would hope that he has since proven his instructors wrong.
What is a sin, exactly?
The simple definition is that it’s “a willful or deliberate violation of divine law or moral principle.”
With that in mind, take this pop quiz! True or false: which of these seven acts should be considered sins?
Setting your neighbor on fire, no matter how well deserved… and then insisting it was an accident.
Lying to cover your tracks or those of someone you wish to protect.
Taking anything that is not rightfully yours.
Thinking that in the world there is no one person more wonderful than you.
Following orders in the performance of a government-sanctioned execution.
Taking a second helping of pie before everyone else has had their first piece.
Telling the disheveled homeless person that you have no money when there's spare change in your pocket that could be put to no better use.
If you answered true to all of the above, consider yourself a pious person. Should you be considered for sainthood? That's up to a higher authority.
If you answered true to four or less, consider yourself human! All of life’s choices are nuanced by the situations we find ourselves in.
Now, if you answered false to every scenario, then obviously you lack a moral compass! So, go ahead and have fun in this life because the next one could be sheer Hell.
“—took so damn long. The only place open this late at night was The Carving Board on Wilshire,” Abu is saying. “Let’s see here… Ryan, you’re the Sweet November, right?” He takes one of the foil-wrapped sandwich bags out of the box in his arms and tosses it to our boss, who sits in one of the chairs now circling my hospital bed. The aroma of roasted turkey fills the room.
Does anyone on my mission team see the tear at the corner of my eye? No, not yet. That’s okay. At the moment, it is the only way I have to show my appreciation for their efforts to include me in their lives in the hope that it will induce me to wake from my coma, just as the doctor suggested.
Here’s hoping he was right.
Abu reaches into the box again. “Ah! Here’s your Bentley, Dominic.”
Our British operative catches his foil-wrapped steak sandwich with one hand.
“Emma, you ordered the Roughage, right, with a kale pasta salad? Reach in and grab it, will you? Oh, and take the Grilled Cheese for Nicky too.”
Emma shifts her toddler from one hip to another before grabbing her bounty. As she leans in, Nicky pats Abu’s cheek and giggles.
When Abu pretends to bite off one of Nicky’s fingers and chew on it, Nicky shrieks at the joke.
“Shhhh…” Emma admonishes him. Guiltily, her eyes move toward me.
“No, it’s okay,” Jack tells her. “Maybe Donna…” His hesitation comes with a catch in his throat—“Maybe she hears him too.”
Hearing my name, Nicky looks over at me. “Don-Dah! Sweepy!” he reaches out to me. Emma bends so that he can pat my hand.
With all my might, I strain to touch him. If only.
Suddenly, his eyes open wide. He slaps my hand. “Wake! Wake! Don-Dah, wake!”
He knows I’m here! Listen to the little sweetie!
As Emma pulls him away from me, she coos, “No, honey! Donna is still sleeping. See? Her eyes are closed.”
I try as hard as I can to open them, to no avail. Darn it! If I could, I'd wiggle my nose…
“And Arnie, here’s your Big Kahuna.” Even Abu’s gentle underhanded toss is too much for our fumble-fingered tech-op.
Thankfully, Jack’s catch saves it from hitting the floor.
“Jack, I know you said you didn’t want anything, but I got you a Clydesdale, just in case.” Abu’s tone is gentle, but his point is made: You’ve got to eat something.
Jack shrugs off his concern. “Now that Abu’s back, we can get on with the discussion of the cyber attacks.” He turns to Arnie. “How many have taken place, and who got hit?”
Arnie wipes his hands on a napkin before swiping his iPad screen. Through a mouthful of ahi tuna, he mumbles, “Right now, several public utilities have been hit, in various states: Florida, Virginia, Oregon, and Maryland. Also the databanks of a few hospitals.”
“Odd choice,” Dominic murmurs.
“Not really,” Arnie assures him. “They keep great records on patient financials, and they’re known to pay off quickly.”
“Is it ransomware, or the first stages of a terrorist attack?” Dominic asks.
