by D C P Fox
“Only sinners make excuses. Moses’s commandment is clear. ‘Thou shalt not kill.’ It does not say, ‘Thou shalt not kill unless because of mental defect or in self-defense.’”
“That’s hardly fair.”
“The rules are the rules,” he said. “Remember, you are all sinners.”
“But I hope to be studied. We may save the entire human race! We can’t do that if we let ourselves be killed or turned into draugar.”
Metatron stopped walking, chose a rose, and placed his nose just above the petals. He breathed deeply, pure ecstasy, sheer delight, showing on his face. It was as if he had smelled nothing for a long time. “A noble effort, to be sure. My Lord is very forgiving, and He will forgive you your sins, but only if you follow through and save the world. But I warn you, you must not waver when the time comes to sacrifice yourself. And you must try to keep your mental faculties. That is the only way you will enter the Kingdom of Heaven. This, the Lord has instructed me to say to you.”
“So even though I’ve developed Tardive dyskinesia—”
“—It is a small price to pay for saving the world. You must be prepared to sacrifice your life and the lives of others. You must use as much help as you can, even if that means putting people in danger, even if it means lying to them about it.”
“I don’t understand,” she said. “‘Thou shalt not bear false witness?’ You are asking me to sin?”
“Oh, heavens no, child. You have Free Will. You can always choose not to do this and wind up in purgatory, or Hell, depending on His mood at your time of death. But if you want to enter the Kingdom of Heaven . . . Let me put it another way. You already committed enough sin to put you in Hell for all eternity. The only way to absolve your sins is to sacrifice yourself for humanity. This is His gift to you. Therefore, if you commit any sins to further that goal, you will also be forgiven those sins.”
“So, I’m required to commit sins, then?”
“Only if you want to enter the Kingdom of Heaven,” he answered.
“That makes no sense.”
“My Lord has given you a gift. It is a gift to all of humanity. Remember, his son had to die, had to be put to death, to be sinned against, to absolve humanity of sin, including the very sin that crucified him. Without that ultimate sin, mankind would have been doomed . . . These are the rules, Jocelyn. He will absolve you of all your sins if you do not waver in your quest. Now you must choose your own path.”
Jocelyn looked down at the red bricks underneath her feet. She looked around: at the garden; at the atrium of arched, open hallways with its plethora of doors; at the altar at the other end; at the mirrored wall that reflected the temple, that reflected herself. In the reflection, she noticed that the red of her robe matched the shade of Metatron’s, except hers was green-lined while his was white-lined. “What if I confess to a Priest? Can’t he forgive my sins then?”
“Yes, but in your case, the Lord won’t allow that to happen, so don’t try to or there will be dire consequences.”
“What do you mean?”
“The priest would die before you got the words out; I imagine. He will not allow any loopholes for you.”
Her temple no longer felt like a refuge, but instead a prison, with Metatron as the warden. This was not how it should be. Why is Metatron, or The Lord, being so heavy-handed?
“Either go to Hell or die trying to save mankind,” she said. “Not much of a choice. Still, I’ve already committed to serving myself up for experimentation to find a cure. I will go to the ends of the Earth if I have to, to do it. You don’t need to coerce me.”
“You misunderstand. You possess Free Will. But you cannot possess it without consequences. You have already sinned. You now have an opportunity to make amends. The path you have chosen will do that, but in case you waver in your resolve, remember you can achieve absolution. But this is not coercion.”
“But I am being forced to go to Hell.”
“You did that all on your own,” he countered.
“But I was sick.”
“That does not matter.”
“But I was defending myself.”
“That, too, does not matter. Rules are rules, Jocelyn. They exist for a reason. This is a rare gift He gives. Whatever you choose, understand its value and realize how truly blessed you are.”
She couldn’t let it go. “But it’s so unfair,” she said, realizing she’d already tried to make that point.
Metatron seemed to be the embodiment of infinite patience. “Yes, it is, but fairness is a mortal notion. It is a side effect of mortality. It may affect how other mortals judge each other, but He knows nothing of fairness. That is why I am here, and not Him. Not because He does not deign to speak with you. He would love nothing more than to speak with you. But only I can bridge Him with his creation.”
He bent down and reached into the babbling brook that Jocelyn had created. He cupped some water in his hand and took a drink. “I thank you for that. I was thirsty . . . My child, the artist never fully understands the art he creates. Often, he says the art takes on a life of its own. The artist has set rules down, like the size and the scope of the art, the medium it is created out of, the initial conditions of the art, and even the set of paths it may take. But, inevitably, the piece of art becomes an entity unto itself. Sin is just breaking the rules, my child. You were told sin is evil. It is not.”
He paused and smiled down on her, as if in acknowledgment of how much he cared for her. Or how much the Lord cared for her. Or both.
“What is Evil then?”
“Evil is the imperfection in the creation. That which, when the creator beholds the art, says to himself, ‘You know, I really ought to change that.’ In that case, he can do one of three things: destroy it and try again; do nothing and declare it imperfect, or ‘done’; or try to fix it to his best ability. He has chosen the latter, but He needs his creation to want to change. You must choose if you want to change His story, His creation, to take part in the creation, the molding, of the art. Do you not see now, how truly great a gift He has given you?”
Jocelyn decided she did not like Metatron much. This was for her highest good? She no longer felt noble in her quest. She thought all this exchange accomplished was to make her guilty and fearful. What was she missing?
As the van passed by where Jocelyn first met Marty, while the cat meowed incessantly, Jocelyn thought wistfully of George as they flew by the dirt road turnoff in Clinton. Seconds later, both were gone, a fleeting moment that recalled a lifetime of changes.
Leaving Jize behind at Janice’s house was a mistake, a death sentence. She pondered the people she had killed and shuddered, and although their deaths were meaningless—whether or not she’d killed them had nothing to do with her quest—they fueled her determination to save mankind or die trying. It would be easy to find a place with mild winters and make a home for herself, but at what cost? To be alone with her guilt? What kind of life would that be? And then look forward to Hell?
While everyone but she and Emily sang “Ninety-nine bottles of beer on the wall”—AM, FM, and satellite radio broadcasted nothing but dead air or static—she found herself thinking about her boyfriend in California. It didn’t feel right, but she realized she had already written him off. She was sure he would forgive her little tryst with Alexander if she told him—she probably wouldn’t, why complicate things?—but the odds of him being a living, normal human being were small.
She needed to move on with her life, and she needed to save humanity.
No pressure.
“—Eighty-five bottles of beer on the wall, eighty-five bottles of beer!—”
“Meeow!”
Emily, who probably had not been exposed to the song, sat silent in Jocelyn’s lap. Jocelyn didn’t know the song, too, though the pattern was simple enough. She just didn’t feel much like singing, not after her horrible conversation with Metatron.
Highest good my ass.
“—take one down, pass it around
, seventy-seven bottles of beer on the wall!—”
“Meeow!”
She tried desperately to come up with something to say to Emily, to start a conversation with her. Was she about to start kindergarten? Was she looking forward to it? Jocelyn couldn’t ask her those common questions, or about her family, or about what she wanted to be when she grew up.
Had she been to Disney World or Disneyland? Was that where the Snow White dress had come from? It occurred to Jocelyn that those places would fall into disrepair unless this outbreak was halted and reversed soon, or, at least, until the military could control the draugar population with a significant number of survivors.
“—Sixty-three bottles of beer on the wall—”
But those thoughts strayed from Emily. In the end, “Emily, I’m here for you,” was all she thought of to say. “Anything you want to say, no matter what it is, I’ll listen to you.”
Emily was silent for a while.
“—Fifty-six bottles—”
“Meeow.”
“Was Allie eaten, too?” Emily asked suddenly.
“What?!”
“My friend Allie. We had a tea party when . . . when . . . you know. I left her alone. Do you know if she was eaten like my brother?”
Aspen Sports Equipment was the only store in North Valley that sold firearms, and someone had cleaned it out, so they faced a decision. Once they continued down the road and reached the crossroads in Henefer, they would either go east to Colorado Springs or continue south to Bullhead City.
Vin framed the issue in these terms: they did not understand how much of Colorado Springs was under military control. If one assumed the military only had control over Peterson AFB, there still was a lot of Colorado Springs to push through to get there. And the roads might be clogged such that they’d have to go on foot through the city. To do that without each adult having at least one shotgun would take on a lot of risk. Vin argued the risk in going to Bullhead City (from where there was a road that connected to Colorado Springs) was small by comparison, especially since the road from Bullhead City led right to the Peterson AFB area. And Bullhead City had a lot of stores that carried firearms. It was a persuasive argument, and they all agreed to press onward to Bullhead City.
About thirty miles after the crossroads in Henefer, the open terrain, throughout which they had not spotted a single draugar or normal, gave way to a twisty road through the mountains. This time, Vin drove with Alexander in the front passenger seat. Jocelyn, Janice and Emily occupied the middle row. Marty sat in the back.
Just over the pass, they turned a corner and faced a roadblock—two late-model Camrys and two Colfax County Sheriff patrol cars (Subaru Outbacks). Each car had crude swastikas painted on its side. Behind the cars stood four bald men, all wielding what looked to Jocelyn like assault rifles.
Vin slammed on the brakes and stopped the van, and Jocelyn’s seatbelt locked. The group ahead didn’t fire on them, but they didn’t lower their weapons either. Clearly, the people ahead of them had the advantage of cover from the cars, and anyone who left their van would be sitting ducks as at least one person had a line of sight on all but the rear of the van.
“Those ain’t sheriff deputies,” Marty said. “I know all the Colfax County deputies, and these assholes ain’t them.”
There were steep hills on both sides of the road. Driving off the road was not an option. Vin turned around, and no one argued. They rounded the bend only to find the road now covered with two more cars and two bald shooters. The roadblocks were cleverly placed, so that there were only the steep hills on both sides of the road.
Jocelyn briefly wondered where the cars for the rear roadblock had come from, but then she saw the gap in the hills just beyond. They must have been hiding behind a hill and came out from there.
They were trapped.
Vin stopped short of the rear guard in the center of the road.
“Maybe they are the new law enforcement,” Alexander said. “Maybe they have a safe place waiting for us all.”
Marty grunted. “I doubt that. Did you see they’re all bald? Do you see the swastikas? Bullhead City is known as the ‘Prison Capital of the World.’ I’ve seen their kind before. They’re a neo-Nazi gang from the prisons . . . Anyone believe we can roll down the windows and defend with our guns?”
“Too risky,” Alexander said. “We’re better off surrendering. The chances they’d kill us would be lower.”
There were a few seconds of silence.
“I’ll take care of this,” Jocelyn declared. Her weapons were stowed beneath the bench seat, and she retrieved her handgun and shotgun, leaving her sword in its holster.
“Hold on a minute,” Alexander said. “What do you plan to do?”
“Surprise them.”
“You may have survived a bunch of bullets before, but have you been hit in the brain?”
“No.” There was no sense lying—Marty, at least, knew the full truth.
But Jocelyn had made her bargain.
“If we surrender, are we going to make it to Colorado Springs?” Jocelyn asked rhetorically. “Anyone?”
Silence.
“Because even if they let us live, they’ll take our weapons for sure. And the van.” There were a few more seconds of silence as no one answered. “Right,” she said. Holding the handgun with her finger on the trigger, she opened the sliding door of the van with the hand carrying the shotgun and jumped out. Before she could get either gun at the ready, a spray of bullets fired down on her, and one hit in the upper shoulder.
Sonofabitch. Despite her healing abilities, she was reminded that she could still experience excruciating pain before the healing kicked in. The momentum of the bullet caused her to tumble, her guns spilling out of her hands and onto the asphalt, her handgun closer to her than her shotgun.
More gunfire as she crawled over to her handgun and picked it up. The pain subsided as she made her way to the front right corner of the van, sprawled out on the ground, gun pointed at the head of one man behind the cars. She fired but missed, hitting the side of the car. Gunfire all around her as she fired again, this time missing too high. She fired a third time, but she hit the car again.
Not close enough to hit accurately, she started to crawl toward the roadblock, the rapid-fire of the two men discouraging her from standing up. But she was just too slow, and once a bullet hit her collarbone, she realized she would have to brute-force this and withstand the pain.
She stood up to advance, bullets whizzing past her until one struck her in the other shoulder, buckling her but this time she held onto the handgun. She fired and dropped one of the two men.
It didn’t matter.
Before she aim her gun again, she felt the impact of another bullet, this time in her skull, followed by oblivion.
Chapter Thirty-Four
Day Nine
A spray of bullets hit the front of the van. Alexander ducked and slid off the front passenger seat and into the seat well. Vin, slumped in his chair, placed his hand over his stomach, blood running out from between his fingers, rivulets cascading down into his crotch. Alexander wondered how Vin had been shot, but at least now the dashboard in front of the engine block protected Vin’s head. Bullets and glass flew while Janice covered Emily’s body on the floor of the second row. He couldn’t tell if either of them was all right, though there was no obvious wound. The back seat obscured Alexander’s view of Marty.
The rear and side windows shattered, and the almost deafening noise of bullets on metal made Alexander panic. They were taking fire from both sides! The phrase “shock and awe” rattled through Alexander’s brain as bullets flew all around the inside of the van. He tucked his head into the corner between the seat and the center console.
The shooting stopped, but Alexander dared not move. Emily continued to scream, while everyone else was silent. Silence from Emily followed a murmur of a “shush” from behind him. He felt a chill as cool wind blew through where his window used to be.
> Moments later, a voice with a Western drawl shouted, “Everyone remain calm.” The voice came from close by, probably only a few feet from right outside his door. “Do not resist, or we will kill you. We have you surrounded. Drop any weapons you may have and put your hands up over your heads. Now if there’s anyone in the front passenger seat call out ‘aye.’”
“Aye!” Alexander yelled.
“Good. Come out slowly with your hands up.”
Silently cursing to himself, Alexander placed his handgun on the floor and opened the door a smidge. He put his hands up and used his shoulder to push the door wide, then exited.
There were several skinheads with guns pointed at him and the van doors. He guessed there would be one or two on the other side, guarding the driver’s door.
Not that they had anything to worry about over there. Last Alexander knew, Vin had his hands full of blood, trying to stop his bleeding.
As soon as he got out, Alexander said, “The driver is wounded, too wounded—“
The skinhead nearest him interrupted. “Shut up and stop. Go no further.”
Alexander complied as he was too far away to disarm any of them. Not that he knew how, anyway.
“Do not move until I give you the final word, understood?”
“Yes.”
“Okay. Now you will, slowly, staying as close to the van as possible, open the sliding door. Do you understand these instructions? Do you hear me clearly?”
“Yes, I do.” Alexander was shaking from all the adrenaline, his heart pounding. He hoped they wouldn’t kill them all.
“Okay. Everyone remain calm with your hands up. Okay, you may open the van door now.”
Alexander complied.
“Now everyone except the driver walk out slowly. Continue to keep your hands up. Do that now.”
Alexander hoped no one, especially the sheriff, would try to play the hero, because that would almost seal their doom. Certainly, they would shoot Alexander on the spot.
“We’re sending out the child first!” Janice called.
