by David Welch
“No, Ari, you’re not dead,” he finally said.
Ares released a breath he didn’t know he was holding. That didn’t escape Christ’s notice.
“Okay,” Ares said. “So where is everybody? Where’s Dita?”
“Oh, they’re here,” Jesus said, then pointed to where Aphrodite had been. “And she’s right over there. They’re here, but they’re not here right now.”
“So you’re using your godly superpowers to call a time-out,” said Ares.
“Perhaps,” Jesus said with a grin. “Of course, you did hit your head pretty hard when you landed. That type of blow causes concussions, head-scrambling stuff. What your conscious mind makes of this when it’s over . . .”
“Wonderful,” Ares grumbled.
“Trust me; it’s for your own good,” Jesus replied.
Ares sighed and nodded.
“So, do you want to ask the questions out loud, or should I just answer your thoughts?” asked Christ.
Ares stared at his savior, irritated.
“You’re a lot snarkier than I remember,” he replied.
Christ laughed, and slapped Ares on the back with the arm slung around his shoulder.
“Yes, yes I am, I suppose. First time down, had to do everything just right. Say the right words in the right way, or the whole Master Plan gets thrown off,” he said. “I tell you, dying really took a load off.”
“I could see how this side of you might not inspire reverence,” said Ares.
“Bah! You’re much too serious! Even Bradley says so,” Jesus said with a wave.
Ares perked up, looking to Christ with probing eyes.
“Bradley? My grandson? You mean—”
“Two days ago,” Jesus said, his voice filled with an impossible amount of condolence. “In his sleep.”
Ares slumped back against the stone ridge.
“Damn.”
“Don’t be sad,” Jesus said. “He’s much better off now. Trust me. Oh, you’re going to be a great-grandfather again.”
Ares cocked his head quizzically.
“Excuse me?” he said.
“Turns out Brad wanted that Viagra prescription because he was screwing around with one of the nurses,” Christ said. “Forty-two-year-old. Don’t worry, though. She’s married, and her husband is over the moon at being a ‘father’ again.”
“Unbelievable,” Ares said, shaking his head. “Coveting his neighbor’s wife at that age.”
“Yeah,” Jesus said. “Not saying he won’t do some Purgatory time for that. Or for some of his other antics. But he was a good man, under it all. So don’t worry yourself, Ari, he’s in. Heck, most of your family is in. It’s remarkably hard to get yourself thrown into hell.”
“Well, I’d guess it would have to be, if you can forgive me,” Ares said.
Christ’s ever-present smile softened a bit.
“If I told you that no single human being in history has personally killed as many people as you, would you be surprised?” Jesus asked.
“No,” Ares replied gravely. “I was a monster.”
“Yes,” he said. “But enough of your soul remained for it to grow back.”
“You make it sound like a weed,” Ares replied.
“Much more resilient,” Christ replied. “You asked for help, Ari. And you’ve done a damn good job trying to live up to the ideals I taught you. Not perfect, of course, but that’s why I’m here. I’ve got grace to spare, and you are worthy of it. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.”
Ares nodded. For a moment or two, he wasn’t sure he could accept the words. Then he realized that God himself was speaking the words, so it was probably a safe bet that they were true.
“Well, fun as this has been, I guess we should get to the point,” he said. “Why are you here?”
Christ’s smile returned, and he said. “I’ve always been here, Ari. You know that.”
“You know what I mean,” Ares replied, and grasped Christ’s arm. “Why are you here in the flesh? Why the special visit after two millennia?”
“Can’t a man want to visit his old friend?” Jesus asked.
“You’re no man,” Ares replied. “Well, you know, not like the rest of us.”
“True,” Christ sighed. “But I figured it was time. Things have gotten so crazy for you lately. What with this Lenka psychopath, and your brothers dying, and this Jedrick guy saying he can make you mortal . . . and your ‘interview’ with Duscha the other night . . .”
Ares frowned.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t want to. I couldn’t think of another way.”
“Hmmm.” Christ said. “I know. But throw on top of this that you’re the last surviving apostle, and that you still blame yourself for ‘killing’ me. It’s enough to ruin a man.”
“I’m still here,” Ares said. “I can handle it.”
“I know you can,” Christ said. “But it doesn’t mean you should. And I couldn’t help but think a few minutes’ break from life was long overdue in your case.”
Ares raised an eyebrow. “That’s it? You wanted to let me rest a few minutes?”
Christ shrugged. “And maybe I missed talking to my friend, man to man. You think it’s hard always praying and getting no answer? It isn’t easy to listen and not reply, either. Well, not reply directly, of course.”
“But you’re here now,” said Ares. “Replying.”
“Well, you ‘immortals’ are a special case. Most men die so young that I can answer their questions when they walk through the gates,” he said. “But there’s an added burden on you long-lived folks. You especially. Can’t be easy believing that I was who I said I was two thousand years later.”
*“That’s nonsense,” Ari said. “After all I saw you do . . .”
“Seeing is believing,” Christ said. “You got your mother’s pragmatic streak, that’s for sure.”
Christ shifted, and dug into his pocket. He pulled out a stick of beef jerky, the kind found in any convenience store in the United States.
“Eat. You’ve been burning a lot of energy, and this ain’t over yet,” he said.
Ares took the stick. As he bit into it, Jesus laid his head back against the rock ridge, a wistful look coming over his face.
“Ari, it’s time you stop carrying all that guilt around.”
Ares stopped chewing, but didn’t reply. He didn’t need to ask what guilt he meant. It was the guilt, the weight of knowing that he’d betrayed this man.
“You did nothing wrong,” Christ said.
“I killed you,” Ares said solemnly.
“I asked you to,” Jesus said. “Your God asked you to do something for Him.”
“I know,” Ares said. “I’ve replayed that night a thousand times. I remember every word you said. But I still . . .”
“I understand,” Jesus said. “Your heart and your mind aren’t on the same track. And to tell you the truth, I knew you would try to kill yourself.”
Ares felt his soul go cold, but didn’t respond. After all, how could Jesus not have known?
“Now, that rope you used was very old,” Christ said. “But I still think it’s one heck of a coincidence that it snapped. Don’t you?”
Ares looked at him out of the corner of his eye.
“I figured you had something to do with that,” he said. “Or your Father.”
“Well, I know people. I made them. And I know that even the strongest, most weathered soul can only take so much. And thinking you killed God . . . something like that can break the strongest of men.”
Ares nodded.
“And I confess that I may have had a hidden purpose for your feeling this guilt,” Christ said, shrugging meekly.
“What do you mean?” Ares asked, genuinely surprised.
“Look,” Christ
said, “I know your time with me changed you, made you into the man you are. But the thing with changes in life, even divinely inspired changes, is that they sometimes don’t take.”
Ares looked confused.
“Didn’t take?” he said. “Of course it took.”
“It did,” Christ said. “But there was always the threat of you backsliding. And given your natural ‘abilities’ when it comes to violence, it was no small threat. I didn’t want to lose you.”
“And the guilt over killing you was meant to keep me from forgetting what I was capable of,” Ares surmised. “What I could do if I stopped trying.”
“Yes,” Christ said. “A man who blames himself for killing God thinks twice before letting himself off the leash.”
Ares closed his eyes and sighed. He felt a weight lift off him.
“That weight would be the guilt,” Jesus explained. “It’s served its purpose. You did what I asked, because only you could bear the weight of it. The others would’ve crumbled. Peter may have been the rock of the church, but you’re the ground that rock sits on. ‘Betraying’ me was necessary. Had I not died, every person in this world, every person you’ve ever loved or known, they’d all be denied Heaven. Because you chose to do what I needed you to do, this world was saved. And as you can clearly see, I got better. So I want you to stop harping on it. You don’t need to anymore.”
Ares nodded.
“And I want you to get Jedrick’s procedure done,” Christ said. “I know you want to.”
“It’s suicide,” Ares said. “My life is your gift to—”
“It’s not suicide, and it’s not spurning my gift,” Jesus said definitively. “You know, Desmond had it right when he said that even you don’t know how much time you have. Accepting mortality is not suicide. Do you think I tossed every hospital patient who signed a do-not-resuscitate order into hell?”
“I—I never thought of that,” Ares said.
“Trust me,” Christ continued. “I’m the definitive authority on this. You’re smart enough to know that living forever doesn’t make you any better than any other man. It only makes you older. They face mortality, not knowing if their decisions may shorten or lengthen their lives. You think I kick smokers out because their habit may have shortened their lives? Or people who eat too much? Or those extreme sports guys who go a little too far?”
“They may risk shortening their lives, but they don’t know. I do. If I do nothing, I won’t die,” Ares countered.
“Yes, you will,” Christ replied. “You’re not immortal, Ares. You will die, one way or the other. And hey, maybe you make yourself mortal, and scientists find some way to make everyone live forever. Who knows? You could end up living centuries more anyway. Point is, you don’t know.”
Ares swallowed uneasily, but nodded all the same.
“If you say so,” he said.
“I do,” Christ replied. “And it’s high time you truly join the human race. Try living and raising a family while knowing the clock is ticking. Try it all.”
“Is it that different?” Ares asked tentatively.
“Well, would you do what Desmond is doing? If you were in his shoes?” asked Christ.
“If I was mortal—uh, short-lived? I . . .” Ares paused, knowing he couldn’t exactly lie to this man. “I don’t know. I doubt it.”
“And yet he’s here,” said Jesus. “So there must be something to it. Something he understands that you, after all these years, don’t.”
A dim sound reached the chamber, the muffled roar of a gunshot.
“Guess that means you’re going,” Ares said.
“I am,” he said.
“If I asked you whether or not I survive this, would you tell me?” Ares asked.
Jesus got to his feet and stretched his arms.
“You know I can’t do that,” Christ replied.
“What about my family? Dita?” Ares asked.
Christ shook his head, his expression empathetic.
“If I told you, it would be your fate, which would mean you’d be robbed of your free will,” he said. “And that is something I will never do to my children.”
Ares nodded, resigned.
“One more thing,” Christ said.
“What’s that?” Ares asked.
“The girl,” said Jesus. “I want her to survive.”
“The girl?” said Ares quizzically. “Duscha?!”
“That’s the one,” Christ said.
“Duscha? Duscha Sidorov?! Do you know what she’s done? How she’s tortured Athena?!”
“Yes, I know everything she’s done,” Christ said. “And we both know even a torturer is not beyond redemption.”
Ares huffed. “You never do ask me to do anything easy.”
“No,” Jesus said. “You’re no god, Ares. But you are a man. Made in my image. I have never regretted that. This girl is not like her father. I have hope for her, even if you can’t see it.”
Ares ground his teeth, but nodded.
“Keep my faith with you . . . ,” he said.
“And I will keep my faith in you,” Christ replied.
“Fine,” he forced out. “I’ll do what I can.”
“I know you will,” Christ replied. “Now, this next part is going to hurt. You banged your head pretty hard. But it’s nothing you can’t handle. And there’s still a lot of men in these caves who want you dead.”
“I understand,” Ares said.
“And I will be seeing you again,” Christ said. “Believe that.”
He started walking toward a nearby tunnel, making his way easily over the low ridges or the rock ripples.
“Look after my family?!” Ares called as he entered a tunnel.
“Always, my friend!” Jesus replied, his voice echoing through the cavern. “Always!”
The roar of gunfire filled his ears, seconds before his eyes opened. Ares saw only the gray rock of the ripple that hid him, but he heard a maelstrom of violence. He looked around, trying to find Christ. The man had been right next to him. Hadn’t he? Ares remembered seeing him, talking to him.
Yet he was alone, lying between two low ridges of rock. There was nobody here.
Concussion, he thought, shaking his head. The Almighty certainly could be cagey when he wanted to.
A woman’s defiant yell broke out above the roar of the gunfire echoing off the cavern walls. Ares shifted a few inches up, his head instantly rebelling at the movement, flooding him with pain. He steadied himself, bit back the agony, and popped up for a second to look.
Aphrodite was closing on him at a full sprint, waving her gun as she sprayed bullets at the enemy. The men were caught by surprise by the attack, and bolted for the tunnel they’d come from.
Ares ripped himself from the ground, grabbing his gun where it lay nearby. Dita’s bravado had bought seconds, but soon the enemy would regroup and be gunning her down. Ares fired sloppily, instinctively cringing at the shoddy shooting. But right now he needed to get lead on the tunnel, to help his rescuer reach him.
The mercs flinched back at his fire, which bought enough time for Dita to slide in beside him. She swapped in a new magazine with admirable speed and kept up her fire.
“Can you walk?!” she screamed in Vesclevi.
“Yeah,” he muttered, getting his knees under him. “When did you get all gung-ho?”
“I saw that guy next to you! I thought you were gonna die!” she screamed as she traded fire.
“Guy? What guy?” he said.
“I—I don’t know,” she replied. “I thought I saw somebody next to you! He had a beard!”
“Beard . . .” Ares said, rolling his eyes to the heavens.
He smiled and shook his head.
“Is something funny?” Dita screamed.
“Well, it’s funny to someone,” h
e replied, grinning.
Dita didn’t waste time giving him the “Are you an idiot?” stare that he so richly deserved. She turned back to the fight. Still smiling, he joined her in the battle. Their fire drove the men back again, but hit none of them. They were too well covered by the mouth of the tunnel. No grenades flew to meet them. Ares figured they were out. This actually made him smile more. In a straight up gunfight, few people were more experienced, or better shots, than he.
Dita ducked back down beneath the ripple and reloaded again. She slotted in her second-to-last magazine. He had only three left himself. They needed to get out of the cavern and find another cache, or they’d run dry in minutes. Aphrodite sensed this as well, looking toward the only other tunnel leading from this cavern.
“I’m thinking it’s time to go,” Ares said between shots.
“If we stand up, they’ll have clear shots at us,” Dita said. “It’s a miracle they didn’t get me when I came for you.”
Quite the miracle, Ares thought, remembering Christ’s last words as he walked away. Ares wasn’t the type to trust divine intervention to save the day twice in a row, so he ducked down behind the ripple, examining the cavern behind him. Dita was right. Anybody standing up would be exposed from the waist up, and certainly wouldn’t reach the far tunnel before being shot down. Not at this range. But luckily the rock ripples ran in nearly parallel lines, all the way back to the tunnel.
“Okay,” Ares said, putting an arm on Dita’s shoulder to keep her from popping up to trade fire with the men. “Here’s the plan. We leapfrog back to the far tunnel, using the ripples as cover. One person covers, the other goes, got it?”
“Got it!” Aphrodite replied.
“Okay, go! I’m right behind you!”
He fired off a burst, and Aphrodite scrambled around the end of one of the ripples. The ripples shrank in height as they met the cavern wall, but didn’t disappear altogether. So for brief seconds they would be exposed. Ares moved to follow. Aphrodite popped up from the next ridge back and fired, buying him time to hurl himself over the ridge and into the next gully.
