Dead & Godless (4 page)

“It’s
been years!” protested Corwin. “I’m sure I made plenty of salient points, but I
doubt how well I can remember them now.”

“Over
time the human brain grows forgetful, but when you came here we took the
liberty of installing a few upgrades.”

“Upgrades?”

“Picture
your brain as a computer, your soul as the operator. If you try looking back, I
think you’ll find your memory to be most adequate.”

It
was more than adequate. As Corwin searched his mind, the past vividly unfolded,
immersing him in a sensory flood. He saw himself typing his college essay, the
words crisp on his laptop screen. He thought back further, to his tenth
birthday. His dad had taken him to see the Yankees play. The stadium roiled
like a boiling kettle and cheers erupted at the crack of a bat. Lost in a
forest of jerseys, he smelled hotdogs and soft-baked pretzels and nacho cheese.
Years later he was stuffing suitcases and cramming them into his car. His
mother watched through the window blinds as he drove away, never looking back,
never saying goodbye.

Another
time and place, and Corwin was standing in the rain, getting drenched without a
care as a girl in a Volkswagen Beetle asked him for directions. The cold
downpour couldn’t begin to dull the warmth of her hazel eyes.

“Ikea?
That’s a big store to miss.”

“I
know,” she laughed. “Can you tell that I’m new in town?”

“I
can tell that I’d love to take you out for dinner.”

Mary
gave him a smile, but not her number.

“Just
head south on Columbia,” he said. “It’ll be on your right.”

“Thanks,
uh . . .”

“Corwin,”
he offered. “I didn’t catch your name.”

“It’s
Mary. Nice to meet you, Corwin.”

As her
car pulled away, Corwin rushed back under the awning where his lanky friend
Josh had been waiting, sipping coffee from a paper cup and watching the scene with
some amusement. Corwin didn’t stay long.

“Hey,
where are you going?” called Josh.

“I
just remembered that I’m urgently in need of a new end table!”

He
caught up with her halfway through the labyrinthine furniture store, near where
weary shoppers went to rest and recharge like families at Disney World, sating
their hunger with hot plates of Swedish meatballs and chicken tenders. She was
staring holes through a collection of colorful throw rugs.

“I
like the green one, myself,” said Corwin. “It really brings out your eyes.”

Mary
turned, her look playfully accusing.

“I’d
say it’s a small world, but it’s not
that
small.”

“Do
you like brownies—I mean the super gooey, fudgy kind—because I happen to know of
this one place . . .”

Swept
up in the memory, Corwin lost all track of time. A wistful smile crept onto his
face. In many ways, Mary was his polar opposite. Upbeat and stubbornly
traditional, she was prone to letting her emotions guide her, a trait that
sometimes infuriated Corwin when he tried to talk matters of faith or lack
thereof. Reckless as a wildfire, she was the kindest, most interesting and most
beautiful person that he had ever met, and he missed her deeply.

“Ahem,”
Ransom cleared his throat, dragging his client back to the present. “Your three
causes?”

“Yes,
well, they’re three hopes really,” said Corwin, regaining his composure, “and
they address the question of why ordinary people pursue religious faith, not
the deceitful use of religion by certain kings or clergy.”

“Misuse,
I would say, but go on.”

“First,
people turn to religion because they hope for knowledge. Second, people turn to
religion because they hope for purpose. And third, people turn to religion
because they hope for justice.”

“Knowledge,
purpose and justice,” repeated Ransom. “That should give us plenty to start
with.”

A
driving wind, black as pitch, howled outside the glass, rattling the windows
and smothering the stars. The room’s halogen lights flickered nervously.

“Now
let’s go,” said the angel. “This place won’t be safe for long.”

The Longest Night

Beyond the
classroom, the building loomed dark and deserted. Walls of stone muffled the
wind and clapped with the echoes of their footsteps upon the glossy tiles.

“What
do you mean ‘this place won’t be safe’?” asked Corwin as he hurried after the
dim beacon that was his attorney’s cigarette. “What’s going on?”

“Never
mind that,” Ransom replied without slowing. “I’m more interested in why your
essay omitted the fear of death. Many atheists are happy to blame religion on
man’s mortality and call it a day.”

“It’s
not that they’re wrong, but endless life could also mean Hell. People want more
than that. They want the things that make life worthwhile, things like peace, fulfillment
and happiness.”

“And
do you think that you would have been happier, had you believed in God?”

“No,
I don’t,” answered Corwin, who had never held much regard for the sort of atheists
who said things like “I wish I could believe” when confronted by apologists. “Ignorance
isn’t bliss.”

He
tensed visibly, his memory dredging up a vision long buried.

“So
are you going to tell me what happened?” prodded Kevin Holiday. “Did Danny give
you trouble again?”

The
evening had darkened, but sitting in the car with his father, there was no
hiding the puffy red welt that had formed beneath Corwin’s left eye. He still
wore his cleats and uniform, his jersey damp with sweat from practice.

“He
couldn’t get the ball past me all day,” boasted Corwin. “You should have seen
how red his face got! In the bathroom after practice, he said he was going to
teach me a lesson. I put my guard up like you told me. He still got one punch
in, but I nailed him pretty hard in the nose!”

“I’m
gonna have to have a talk with that coach,” said Kevin.

“No,
Dad! You can’t! I can handle this.”

“You
boys are supposed to be a team. If Coach Mason can’t keep you from each other’s
throats, I’m pulling you out of there.”

“Danny
isn’t so bad. After I hit him, he told me that I punch really good. He hopes
that we’re on the same team next practice.”

Kevin
suppressed a chuckle.
Can’t stop boys from being boys,
he figured.
Beating
each other up one day, best friends the next.

“Well
I’ll let it go for now, but good luck explaining that bruise to your mom.”

Corwin’s
spirit sank like the Titanic. Dad might understand, but stopping his mother
from making a fuss would be a battle of a whole different order.

“You
hungry?” his father asked.

“Starving!”

“How
does a bacon cheeseburger sound?”

“And
a hot fudge sundae?”

“You
drive a hard bargain, Mister.”

Kevin
turned towards the nearest McDonald’s and cranked up the air conditioner. Though
the hour wasn’t late, the streets here were already asleep. He stopped at a needless
red light, no passing traffic to be seen.

From
between two buildings a woman dashed, tawny hair flying out behind her. Seeing
their car, she ran out onto the road.

“Help!”
she shouted, waving her hands hysterically.

Kevin
lowered the windows as she pounded on the passenger-side door.

“You’ve
got to help me!”

“Calm
down,” urged Kevin. “Tell me what’s wrong.”

“Someone’s
chasing me! Please, just get me out of here!”

Peering
past her, back towards the alley, Corwin’s father searched for some sign of her
assailant, but if he was out there, he wasn’t showing himself. The night was
still, the shadows silent. Kevin popped the locks.

“Climb
in the back. We’ll take you someplace safe and you can call the cops.”

“I
don’t think so,” rumbled a harsh voice.

Kevin’s
gaze snapped to his left, finding the barrel of a revolver pointed straight at
him. Poised outside his window was a man with chrome teeth and a headscarf.

“Get
out of the car!”

“Alright,”
said Kevin. “Just take it easy.”

A
thousand thoughts and fears raced through his mind as he unbuckled his seatbelt,
looked at his son and opened the door. The woman had dropped the act and Corwin
was shocked silent.

“Don’t
worry, Corwin. It’s going to be okay.”

Jittering
impatiently, the thug thrust his gun closer.

“Get
the fuck out!” he hollered. “Now!”

His
accomplice grabbed Corwin’s hair and dragged him from the car. She held him at
a distance with one arm wrapped around his neck.

“Just
let the boy go!” pleaded Kevin as he stood, his hands raised.

In
response, the carjacker pistol-whipped him across the jaw.

“Dad!”
cried Corwin.

“Give
me your wallet!” the thug demanded. “And your phone!”

With
blood’s coppery taste on his lips, Kevin reached into his pocket.
Got to
keep it together.
The barrel came level with his forehead, the gun’s owner
glaring.

“I
don’t think I like the way that you’re looking at me.”

A
frightful rage seized Corwin. Tucking his chin, he bit the woman’s arm. Her
grip flew loose with a scream.

“You
little shit!”

As
Corwin sprinted towards his father, the anxious carjacker panicked. His
revolver swung in the boy’s direction—a sight Kevin couldn’t abide.

“Corwin,
no!”

Even
with Corwin’s enhanced memory, the next moment was hard to picture. There was a
shout, a twisting blur of bodies, and a gunshot.

“Carlos,
what the fuck are you doing!?” yelled the woman.

Pale-faced,
the thug withdrew a step, eyes flitting, hunting for witnesses that he hoped
not to find. His accomplice was already fleeing the scene. Abandoning all
thought of the car or the wallet, he turned and ran.

Corwin’s
father lay on his side, a scarlet blotch forming around the place where he
clutched his stomach. Corwin flung himself down beside him.

“Dad!
Dad!”

Several
windows in the surrounding buildings brightened. Soon Corwin heard the sirens,
saw the red and blue flashing of emergency lights.

“If
anything else comes to you, just give us a call,” said the officer, an Asian woman
whose face was easy to trust. “Every little detail helps.”

The
police departed, giving Corwin and his mother some time alone. His father had
been rushed down the hall to the ER. All they could do now was pray. But was
God really listening? Maybe his mother knew. Maybe that’s what she was doing as
she stared mutely into her lap, her body and mind drawn inwards like a turtle
retreating behind its shell.

Corwin
slid one of his hands towards her and she took it without a word or a glance. It
crossed his mind that he ought perhaps to say something, but he didn’t know
what. The past hour of questioning had left him mentally exhausted.

On
the hospital waiting room’s TV, two talking heads bloviated over the latest
piece of controversial legislation. Corwin didn’t understand the politics, but he
understood the hurling of blame, and his mind began to play a cruel game of
if-onlys.

If
only I hadn’t wanted to stop for dinner . . . If only I hadn’t broken free from
that woman’s grasp . . . Dad’s life might not be in danger right now.

A
doctor with dark circles under his eyes stepped into the room.

“Mrs.
Holiday?”

Eager
for news, Corwin and his mother quickly stood to join him.

“Is
Kevin going to be alright?” asked Samantha.

“Fortunately
the bullet missed your husband’s stomach. We were able to remove it and stop
the bleeding. His condition is stable.”

The
doctor’s words were encouraging, but his expression severe.

What
is he not saying?
wondered Corwin.

“Thank
God!” Samantha squeezed her son’s shoulder. “When can we see him?”

“He’s
still under anesthesia, but you’ll be able to talk to him soon. Before that, there’s
something else you need to know.”

Corwin’s
mother picked up on the note of apprehension in his voice.

“Was
there some problem?”

“When
we went in, the bullet wasn’t the only thing that we found.” The doctor paused
for a breath and his weary eyes softened. “Mrs. Holiday, I’m sorry to have to tell
you this, but your husband has pancreatic cancer.”

When Science is Silent

“My dad was a
good man, a good father,” said Corwin. “The cancer took everything from him. It
tore at him from the inside, until even the simplest tasks were so painful that
he couldn’t get out of bed. He couldn’t eat without vomiting. His skin lost its
color and he became so thin that you’d think he was a prisoner at Auschwitz. What did he ever do to deserve a death like that?

“It
hurts to think that he’s gone and not in some better place, but when I do think
back, at least I don’t have to tell myself that it was all part of some vain
deity’s twisted plan.”

“So
instead of a heartless God, you chose a heartless universe,” surmised Ransom.
“And that made you happy?”

“I
never said I was happy.”

“It
is well that you didn’t.” The angel took one last drag and flicked his
cigarette, its twirling filter burning down to a solitary ember before meeting
the floor. “No sane man comes to the conclusion that there is no Heaven and is
happy about it.”

“Though
he might take some consolation in the thought of no Hell,” Corwin retorted.

He
glanced back at the classroom’s lonely glow. The hallway stretched farther than
it had any right to. More than once, he felt as though unseen eyes were
watching him. A chill prickled the back of his neck and a scratch sounded from
the shadows. His gaze swung to the windowed door of Room 213. Something flitted
past the desks, or perhaps it was nothing, a sputtering cough of his dying
mind.

“Care
to tell me where we’re headed?”

“We’ve
got a long journey ahead, and it begins where your essay begins: with
knowledge.”

“As
long as knowledge takes us someplace else,” Corwin said anxiously. “There’s just
something about an abandoned school . . .”

“Schools,
like temples, are places of culture and ritual,” spoke Ransom. “In these halls,
the young undergo rites of passage. And just as sound may leave an echo, or
light an afterimage, the spirit, too, can linger in its way.”

“Next
you’re going to tell me that ghosts are real.”

“Heights,
hospitals, abandoned buildings . . . For a materialist, you certainly have a
lot of phobias. Why should mere bricks and mortar invoke any feeling in you at
all?”

“Even
I have an imagination!” protested Corwin. “Nobody thinks empirically all the
time.”

“Sadly,
there are those pitiable souls who, looking at the world, see only math and
never magic. Such an existence sounds dreadfully dull.”

“Not
so dull as living under the medieval edicts of an anal-retentive god.”

Accepting
the barb with a grin, Ransom let the matter drop.

“You
say that man hopes for knowledge. What kind of knowledge?”

“Knowledge
about our world, about the universe.”

“You
mean the physical universe?”

“I
know of no other universe,” attested Corwin. “Man seeks to understand why the
sun rises and sets, why lightning strikes, why droughts or floods ruin the
harvest. When primitive peoples desired such knowledge, but lacked the
scientific means to grasp it, they turned to religion. God conveniently fills
in the gaps.”

“Fair
enough, but must it be either-or?” pressed Ransom. “Can not both gravity and
God’s will account for why a tree falls in the forest?”

“Believers
like to say that, but they’re quick to forget should the tree happen to fall on
their house. And the point is that god isn’t necessary. We can explain the
universe without him. With each step forward that science takes, religion’s
absurd claims are forced to retreat further.”

“As
is proper. Barring the miraculous, to clash with proven science is a sure sign
of false religious thought.”

“But can’t
you see the writing on the wall? The gaps that your god fills grow ever smaller
and more insignificant.”

“You
misunderstand. The Father is not a God of the gaps. He is not some invisible
actor in nature, but rather the reason why nature exists at all—why there is
something rather than nothing.”

“The
ultimate retreat!” declared Corwin. “But if god is beyond nature, then he
cannot be observed or studied. He is unknowable, and therefore irrelevant.”

“You
speak as if science is man’s only means to gain understanding.”

“All
true understanding is scientific understanding.”

“I
wonder,” mused Ransom, his thoughts drifting off.

At the
gloomy hallway’s end, Corwin squinted to make out an oddly-fashioned door. Instead
of a doorknob, an iron wheel protruded from its center. The angel gave it a
firm twist. Metal squeaked, the wheel locking soundly into position with a clunk.
As Ransom pried the heavy door open, pale light poured into the corridor. He
motioned to Corwin.

“After
you.”

The
passage on the other side was scarcely wide enough to fit one man abreast, and
so they proceeded in single file. Steel walls were interrupted by hatch-like
doors with cables and pipes hugging the ceiling. Corwin felt a subtle sway in
the floor and heard Ransom’s voice over his shoulder.

“Our
destination is straight ahead.”

“Where
are we?”

“A
nuclear submarine in the North Pacific. You could say we’re surrounded by
twenty-thousand tons of science.”

A
crewman approached from one of the side passages. Seeing Corwin and Ransom, he
halted and snapped a salute.

“Captain,”
came the man’s greeting.

It
was only then that Corwin noticed the stripes on his sleeve. His cashmere coat
had been replaced with a beige suit jacket. For a confusing moment he stood
slack-jawed, but a nudge from Ransom prodded him onward.

“Me?
I’m the captain?” he asked in a panicked whisper.

“Sounds
like a lot of responsibility.”

“But
this isn’t reality!”

“It
may not be your reality, but that doesn’t mean that this world isn’t real.”

Corwin
regarded his attorney, who was now his first mate, with a puzzled look.

“We
can discuss reality later,” said Ransom. “Right now, it seems that your
presence is urgently required in the control room.”

The
narrow passage let out into a chamber with a low ceiling and instrument panels
crowding the walls. A half-dozen officers manned their stations, one of them
with a low-frequency radio in hand.

“Captain,
it’s Admiral Harrison.”

Corwin
stepped around the periscope that plunged through the center of the room and
hesitantly took the brick-shaped radio piece.

“Hello?”

“The
President has authorized the strike,” informed a gravelly voice on the other
end of the line. “You should be receiving the launch codes now. Proceed immediately
with operation Overkill.”

“Wait,
what?”

“You
have your orders, Captain.”

With
a click, the admiral was gone. A bewildered Corwin stood staring into space,
radio static droning in his ear. As the terminal beside him spat out a string
of letters and digits, his first mate sprang to action.

“Launch
codes confirmed. Condition red!”

The
control room dimmed, illuminated only by the crimson glow of the emergency
lights. Every officer stood poised and alert.

“Establishing
target coordinates. Captain, your key,” called Ransom.

In
the angel’s hand glinted a titanium key. Corwin reached instinctively into his
side pocket and his fingers closed on the cool, hard edge of its partner. Among
the switches and dials on the panel in front of him was the slit of a lock.

“On
the count of three!”

“Remind
me why I’m doing this?”

“One,
two . . .”

It
doesn’t matter. None of this is real,
thought Corwin, but no matter how much
he tried to rationalize it, everything about the situation felt disturbingly wrong.
An angel wouldn’t start a nuclear war, right?

“Three!”

The
captain and his first mate twisted their keys in unison. Above a bright red
button shielded by glass, the word “armed” blazed ominously. Ransom leaned over
and flipped up the guard.

“It’s
all yours, Captain.”

“Hold
on a second!” Corwin finger trembled over the fateful button. “I don’t
understand. At least tell me the circumstances!”

“What
difference does it make? Just press the button!”

“It
makes all the difference in the world!” insisted Corwin. “I don’t even know who
we’re firing at! Are we the defender or the aggressor? How many people are
going to die if I push that button?”

“Perhaps
ten. Perhaps ten million. One number is as good as the next,” Ransom said dispassionately.

“This
is insane! I must know the situation!”

“And
if I told you, would you understand which course of action to take?”

“Surely
an informed decision is better than a blind one!”

“But
I thought that all true understanding is scientific understanding. Explain to
me why firing a nuclear missile is just or unjust. Explain it with
science!”

“I, but
that is,” Corwin choked on his words. Could he quantify the value of human
life? Taking a labored breath, he struggled to think clearly. “It’s in our
genes, a feeling evolved from herd instinct.”

“You’re
dancing around the subject, Captain!” growled Ransom. “I didn’t ask you to
explain
why you feel
a sense of justice. I asked you to validate that
feeling scientifically. Show me the equation that proves why the jumble of
atoms you call a living human being is
better
than the jumble of atoms
you call a corpse.”

“I
can’t!” stammered Corwin. “There is no such equation!”

“Then
the answer cannot be known scientifically. The question must be irrelevant!”

“I
won’t do this! I won’t play your game!”

His
voice shaking, Corwin snapped shut the guard and took a fearful step away from
the button.

“Our
orders come straight from the top. To disobey is treason!” In a flash, Ransom
drew his sidearm, pressing its cold barrel to the side of Corwin’s head. “I’m
afraid I’m going to have to relieve you of command, Captain.”

“Whoa!”
Corwin threw up his hands. “I thought we were past the whole
persuasion-by-physical-abuse stage in our relationship!”

“Let
me make this easier for you. In a short time, this world’s sun will explode in
a supernova, extinguishing all human life. Why not push the button?”

“Because
. . . Because I . . .” Corwin’s mind groped for an answer, finding nothing.

“If I
pull this trigger, science can tell me the velocity of the bullet, the heat in
the chamber, the trajectory of the blood that splatters on the wall. But
science can’t tell me if I
should
pull the trigger or not. Answering
that question requires something more.”

“Whatever,
just put the gun away!”

The
astonished crew looked on, no one daring to utter a word. Beads of sweat rolled
down Corwin’s face. With a slow and deliberate motion, Ransom holstered his
weapon.

“As
long as we understand each other.”

Corwin
exhaled with relief.

“I
think we’ve spent enough time here,” said the angel.

That
was one sentiment that Corwin undoubtedly agreed with. As if the whole ordeal
were long forgotten, the submarine’s officers summarily returned to their duties,
paying little heed while the captain and first mate exited the control room.

“Is
it true that these people are doomed?” asked Corwin when they were back inside
the narrow passage.

“All
mortals are doomed,” replied Ransom. “Eventually the last star will burn out
and the last atom come undone. No universe can sustain organic life forever.”

“You’re
a real ray of sunshine,” Corwin said sarcastically. “Were you honestly going to
shoot me?”

“It’s
not as though the bullet would have killed you.”

“But
I bet it would’ve hurt like hell.”

Ransom
didn’t deny it.

“So
I’d have a horribly painful, gaping hole through my skull and yet still be
alive.” Picturing the scenario, Corwin arched his lips in a thoughtful frown.
“That makes me both terrified and strangely curious.”

Steam
hissed from a pipe suspended along one of the adjoining passages as a diligent
crewman worked the joint with a wrench.

“There’s
more of mechanism than meaning to science,” said Ransom. “Science is the wrench
in your hand. It is a means to an end.”

“And
you can use a wrench to tighten a bolt or to crack someone over the head,”
Corwin added. “I know that science is morally neutral, but there’s no getting
around the fact that a lot of supposedly good religion is bad science.”