Undead and Unforgiven (4 page)

CHAPTER

THREE

“Monday's minutes,” Cathie announced. “Betsy moved that meetings were dumb, but no one seconded it so it didn't pass.”

I glared at Marc. I'd counted on him, dammit! “I'll never forgive you for letting me swing on that one,” I hissed, and I got an eye roll for my trouble.

“She then remembered she's supposed to be in charge and lead the way of reform, and we settled in to get some work done, when she moved that Hell no longer be eternal punishment from which there is no escape. But rather—and this is a direct quote—it'd be more like jail. Or detention! You can get out, but you have to be sorry for what you did and behave for a really long time, and when you're out, we're still gonna keep an eye on you so don't go being an asshat or anything. Unquote.”

Father Markus groaned, and not for the first time.
Who knew a representative of the Catholic Church would be so resistant to change?

“I stand by my brilliant idea,” I said modestly. “Look, I always thought that was the dumbest thing. I can remember having huge problems with this in Sunday school. Presbyterian,” I added before anyone could ask. I had liked Sunday school, but mostly because we got Peeps for correct answers. So . . . much . . . marshmallow . . . “We're supposed to be good so we don't go to Hell, right? So you make one mistake—depending on what religion you were raised with—and the rule is you spend a million years in Hell because you cussed out your mom while taking the Lord's name in vain as you stole your neighbor's wife and made her tell you how pretty you were?”

“Um,” Marc began.

“How many broken commandments is that?”

“Four.” In unison around the table.

“I think Hell should be where you learn what you screwed up, where you went wrong screwing it up, and, if you're willing, how to make amends or just be a better person. Like, if you killed someone, and you were both here in Hell, you'd have to do nice things for your murder victim until they forgave you. It could take ten years or five hundred. And then you . . . you . . .” I was gratified, and horrified, to see I had their full attention. “Well, I don't know. Get born again? Leave Hell but be a ghost? Go to Heaven?” Again, part of my idea that would change the face of Hell (assuming Hell had a face), if I could pull it off. If everyone here could help me pull it off. “That's the other thing—”

“Also from the minutes,” Cathie interrupted. “Quote, So, like, are the people leaving Hell controlling where they go or are they just vanishing or is it something Satan used to do but now I have to do even though I don't know
how? Oh my God, I must have been out of my mind to agree to this shit, unquote.”

“None of that sounds like me,” I grumbled. “Those minutes are counterfeit, I bet.”

Tina kept the smile off her face, but was unable to prevent her eyes from crinkling at me. “Every last word of it sounds quite like you, dread Majesty.” Sigh. No matter how often I said she could drop the “O Dread Queen” stuff anytime, she persisted. Who knew someone from the antebellum South could be so stubborn?

“One thing at a time,” Father Markus said. “Else we'll get bogged down in all the problems to surmount and not how to surmount them.”

I liked how he said “we.” It was why I'd made the damned committee in the first place. I nodded and he continued.

“Setting aside the idea of parole from Hell—”

“Not for long, though,” Marc said quickly. “I think it's a really great idea.” At the surprised looks, he added, “What? I'm a gay atheist who knows how to perform abortions and is now a zombie. Hell being permanent does not work for me.”

“Oh,
now
you're backing me up. When it's political and stuff.”

“Well,
now
you're making sense,” the Ant cut in and Marc, who had never liked her, grinned anyway.

“The seven deadly sins,” Markus said loudly, cutting off my whine. “That's where we'll start. I've been interviewing quite a few souls down here—sorry, not
down
here, of course—not anywhere, is my understanding . . .”

I couldn't blame him. The Hell tropes were hard to shake. We weren't
down
anywhere; Hell wasn't a physical place you could go to, like Duluth. It was an entirely different dimension with its own rules, and hardly anyone was burning alive in a lake of fire. Okay, a few hard-core
Christians were burning alive in a lake of fire, and they ignored all my attempts to rescue them, shouting over the crackling flames that they'd earned their punishment. What could I do? They seemed fine. Well. Not
fine
. But not inclined to move, either. That was the stuff that made this job seem so overwhelming. You'd focus on one person or one punishment area and get totally overwhelmed. To think I found the vampire queen gig daunting!

“. . . and most of the people here understand the concept of sin. They were unsurprised to find themselves here; they understand they sinned in life and this is their punishment in death. We've got murderers, thieves, false idolaters—”

“I don't think people should go to Hell if they don't believe in the Christian God,” I interjected. “This is America, isn't it? Freedom of religion!” Oh. Wait . . .

Literal face-palms around the table, except for Tina, because at least one person in the Lego room was an adult who respected her sovereign. And, given all the religious talk, she was keeping her shivers and shudders under control. To most vampires, even hearing the word
Jesus
out loud was like a lash to the face.

“That is the entire concept Hell is based on!” Father Markus shouted, leaping to his feet. Ooh, only five minutes in and I got the eyelid twitch
and
the forehead vein. A new record! (It's not enough to set goals; you've got to reach them, dammit.) “You can't just pitch everything and start all over, you gorgeous idiot!”

“Sure I can. Wanna watch?” I hadn't moved, just stared up at him, but he must have seen something in my face because he plunked back down in his Lego chair almost as quickly as he'd leaped out of it. Good thing he'd called me gorgeous, or I'd have been
really
pissed.

“I'm sorry I raised my voice,” he managed, not quite looking at me.

“No biggie. Yelling's allowed.” Usually. “And you didn't let me finish. I think I have a way that'll make both of us happy. Just a reminder, though, for everyone here: I agreed to run Hell by committee for the
most
part, because it's a huge job and I trust everyone in here.” Unspoken:
Even you, Ant, much as it kills me to say it.
“But I've got veto power over everything happening in this place, old rules
and
new, understand? If I don't think a certain plan is the way to go, I'm open to discussion, but the final decision is always going to be mine.” This in my “how dare you try to sell me knockoff Jimmy Choos, you degenerate asshat!” tone.

“No one doubts it, Bets,” Cathie said. She'd pushed the minutes aside, thank God, and had been giving Markus a thoughtful look. Now she turned her attention to me. “Y'know, we touched on this last time, too. You were going to think about a twenty-first-century version of the Ten Commandments. Maybe nothing will get changed at all,” she added when Markus opened his mouth. And then, to me, “Did you? Think about it?”

“As a matter of fact.” I whipped out my cell phone in triumph, called up the document I'd e-mailed myself. (Yeah, cell phones work in Hell. No, I don't know why. Take it up with AT&T.) “I went through the whole list. You guys should prepare to be impressed.”

“No one is prepared,” the Ant said. “At all.”

“Shut up,” I suggested sweetly, and began.

CHAPTER

FOUR

THE TEN COMMANDMENTS REMIX

Because It's the Twenty-first Century Already, Come On

Big Number One: Thou shalt have no other gods before God. Whether that's God, Jesus, Jehovah, Allah, Yahweh, Elohim, Hu, Ishvara, Nirankar, Shiva . . . whatever spiritual being in your life you pray to.

That means your cellulite-free thighs aren't your god. Network ratings aren't your god, a fixed mortgage rate isn't your god. Your stock portfolio isn't your god, or your stylist, or your brand-new phone. None of those stupid material things are your god. Clear? Great. Moving on.

*   *   *

Number Two: Thou shalt not make unto thee any graven image, or any likeness of anything that is in Heaven
above, or that is in the earth beneath, or that is in the water under the earth.

See number one: no other gods before
the
God. So don't make a statue of whatever you're worshipping instead of your god. The earth is cluttered enough.

*   *   *

Number Three: Thou shalt not take the name of the Lord thy God in vain.

Don't throw around the big guy's name like it's meaningless. It's the opposite of meaningless. It's full of meaning! Look, I get it: we live(d) in a world where third graders drop f-bombs. I know you're gonna do it. You know you're gonna do it. I blasphemed eight times before lunch. Just . . . try not to. Or at least cut back. It's not unreasonable to show a little respect to your creator.

(I dunno, I get that God says these sins are all equally awful, but I'm having trouble punishing the guy who lived a good life but shrieked “Jesus Christ!” when his daughter came home with four piercings, with the same intensity as the serial killer who slashed his way through an Atlantic City Laundromat.)

*   *   *

Number Four: Remember the Sabbath day, to keep it holy.

God rested on the seventh day, and so should you. What, resting's good enough for God but you're above it? Your compost won't mulch itself? (That's what you do with compost, right? Mulch it?) There will never be a better time to micromanage your children as they clean their rooms? Ah . . . no. This commandment is like your mom's nap-time rules: you might not feel tired, but you are. So just rest already and when you get up you can have cookies.

*   *   *

Number Five: Honor thy father and thy mother.

Hey, they made you! And most of the time, after making you they took care of you: they put a roof over your helpless, diaper-soiling head and fed you and basically gave up a huge chunk of their lives for you (what, you thought they loved
The Lego Movie
as much as you did? they didn't; that movie sucked), and the least you can do is not be a shit about it. (All right, the least you can do is nothing.) Yes, they're annoying. Yes, they can't quite get the hang of seeing you as an adult even if you're wearing bifocals. But come on. They made you.

And some parents are utter shits. They just are. My friend Jessica's, for example; her dad molested her and her mom knew and didn't care. So “honor thy father and thy mother” is getting a somewhat looser interpretation in cases like that: don't kill 'em. No matter how much you dream about it. No matter how much you're sure they've got it coming. You think it'll fix things? It'll make your life better? It won't. So. Come on. They made you.

*   *   *

Number Six: Thou shalt not kill.

Really a no-brainer on this one. There are aggravating people in the world. (Me, for example.) There are terrible asshats in the world. (Sometimes also me.) That has always been true. There are people so depraved and violent and dangerous that the world is actually better once they're dead. But don't kill them. Not your call.

(Murder disclaimers: Self-defense is fine. War is sometimes fine. Protecting loved ones is fine. A situation that encompasses all three is fine. In this case, “fine” means, okay, it was wrong, but let's take a look at the extenuating
circumstances and see if we can cut you a break. Welcome to a kinder, gentler Hell!)

*   *   *

Number Seven: Thou shalt not commit adultery.

C'mon, it's not asking too much to expect you to keep it in your pants. You're married; that means you've acknowledged that you caught your limit. You promised each other and the priest or minister or judge or aunt who was ordained by the Internet that you wouldn't bang anyone else. So: don't bang anyone else. Easy. (Rather:
don't
be easy.) If you need it? If your life will be over if you don't fuck that particular person? Get a divorce. Then bang away, baby.

*   *   *

Number Eight: Thou shalt not steal.

Another no-brainer. That shit doesn't belong to you. Leave it alone. There's really no explaining to be done here, no loopholes. Murdering a serial killer is one thing, but stealing your neighbor's newspaper is something else. Plus, what were you thinking? You can read it on the Internet for free!

*   *   *

Number Nine: Thou shalt not bear false witness against thy neighbor.

Don't lie about him or her. Don't make up crap to get them in trouble. Yeah, they only mow their giant lawn about once a month. And their dog is constantly escaping just long enough to leave a major dump on your lawn. They call the cops every time you have a party, not because of the noise, but because they're pissed you didn't invite them. All those dead cars parked on the lawn they never mow are bringing down the value of your home. And you
know
they're the ones who fill up your recycling bins with their old newspapers.

Irrelevant. For whatever reason, that's your home. You have to take the good (the ice cream truck always starts on your block!) with the bad (the ice cream truck runs late because it has to avoid hitting the neighbor's dog). Suck it up, buttercup.

*   *   *

Number Ten: Thou shalt not covet thy neighbor's house, thou shalt not covet thy neighbor's wife, nor his manservant, nor his maidservant, nor his ox, nor his ass, nor anything that is thy neighbor's.

C'mon, this isn't the seventies and you're not throwing a key party. Don't be coveting: not his/her spouse, ox,
or
butt. Sometimes it's hard not to be jealous, especially when your neighbors have the bad taste to flaunt their good fortune: “Gosh, don't you think everyone should be driving electric cars? If people
really cared
about the environment, they'd find the money somehow.” Yeah, yeah, go plug yourself, you smug jerk.

Just . . . try to cut them a little slack. Remember, fifty thousand years ago if you didn't play nicely with your neighbors, death came a lot quicker. These days it's not death you have to worry about so much as intense annoyance. But you never know when you'll need them. So be nice. Or at least don't be terrible.

*   *   *

Addendum:

“And on the eighth day the Lord said, ‘Ye have done well in mine eyes; go ye forth to all the malls of the land and shoe you well with the shoes of designers. And avoid ye knockoffs, for if ye adorn thyself with such thou shalt know naught but blisters.'”

Yeah, I know: uproar. Can't blame a gal for trying.