Dead & Godless (7 page)

“Ransom!
Hey, Ransom!” he hollered. “Why is it that whenever I actually need an angel,
you righteous bastards are nowhere to be found?”

One
of the bums raised a bushy eyebrow, but the ravings of a madman weren’t exactly
unheard of in these alleys that society had forgotten.

“I
must really be losing it this time.”

He
had begun to believe, just a little, that maybe there was an afterlife. A part
of him wanted nothing more than for the angel to prove him wrong, to throw back
the curtain and reveal a higher reality, one where suffering was no more and
life was everlasting. But as tantalizing as that hope was, the cracks were
showing through, cracks like Mary’s wake-up call and this sudden, seemingly
random detour through the limbo of a dismal alley. No, the more likely truth
was that his brain, or what was left of it, was finally running out of juice.

Corwin
heard the door swing shut behind him and spun for the knob. Its lock rattled to
no avail.

No
way to go but forward.

Past
the crackling flames, the alley showed no sign of ending. Plumes of steam ghosted
through a grated sewer lid. Chain-link fences barred alcoves and side streets,
and wall lamps framed retractable doors in cones of stale yellow light.
Eventually he came upon a crossing where another long alley intersected his
own. Corwin turned a slow circle, gazing in all four directions, but one way
looked as unpromising as the next. No hints of a main street, no gap in the dreary
industrial sprawl of high-rises.

Catching
a slight movement out of the corner of his eye, he snapped a quick look to his
left. Corwin had already scanned that alley, but now the steam drifting up from
the sewers was parting. A dark figure appeared, and then another. In moments
the path was crowded by wall of silhouettes marching his way, and something
told him that these strangers weren’t here to make friends.

As
one, the group halted, standing deathly still. Seconds passed in tense silence.
They were almost a block away, and yet Corwin could feel their eyes upon him. A
cold sweat tingled against his skin.

Why
should I be worried? A dead man has nothing to fear.

The
stillness broke as the sinister mob burst into a dash, and in that instant all
of his rationalizing meant nothing. Everything in Corwin’s bones screamed out for
him to run. This time he didn’t debate.

Adrenaline
propelled his limbs, his body moving on pure instinct. A nameless fear gripped
him. Who or whatever these people were that happened to be chasing him, he knew
that he couldn’t afford to get caught.

There
are fates worse than death here.

Corwin
pumped his legs like a machine, splashing through puddles of muck. In the overcast
sky, storm clouds rumbled threateningly, as if the whole world had set its will
against him. Spotting a fire escape that zigzagged up the right-hand wall, a
spark of hope enkindled his heart, but his leap fell short. The ladder was
hoisted hopelessly out of reach.

“Damn
it!”

He
darted around the following corner, rubber soles skidding as he leaned hard
into the turn. Too hard. Something snagged his foot and for a brief moment
Corwin tumbled, weightless, through the air. Then the ground came rushing up to
meet him. He crashed in a heap of trash and scrambled to find his feet again. But
it wasn’t garbage that he had tripped over.

“Crazy
bastard!” cursed a gruff voice.

Corwin
beheld the cause of his spill: a vagrant with a scraggly black beard who, until
just now, had been fast asleep on a makeshift mattress of cardboard. Recognition
dawned and his eyes went wide.

“It’s
you!”

Glaring
back at him was the same haggard drunk that he had rescued from certain death on
the subway tracks. He thought to give the ungrateful bum a well-deserved piece
of his mind, but the stampede of rapid footfalls was growing louder by the
second.

I
don’t have time for this!

Pushing
the questions out of his mind, Corwin vaulted upright, and in another instant
he was bolting down the alley at full stride. The vagrant stared after him with
a bitter scowl.

“Don’t
nobody in this town watch where the hell they’re going?”

Corwin
swerved left at the next corner, right at the one after that. The dreadful
sound of pursuit was never far behind. Sweat beaded on his forehead and his
chest heaved with gasping breaths. Adrenaline numbed the aching burn in his
legs, but for how much longer?

He
rounded another bend and lightning pealed, the flash splitting the sky with a
deafening crack. Corwin froze. Less than a block ahead, a horde of shadowy
figures was charging in his direction. Somehow they had cut him off. He
pivoted, thinking to double back, but the view behind was no better.

“Shit!”

From
somewhere nearby, a girl whispered in an urgent tone.

“This
way!”

She was
hidden in a side street, a gap in the left-hand wall that had gone unnoticed.
Without waiting for a response, she fled down the path.

A
second lightning bolt crashed and sheets of icy rain began pelting the city as
he dashed after her into a shady alley that was even more claustrophobic than
those before. The girl was prying back a loose span in the corner of a
chain-link fence. Corwin couldn’t see her face, but there was something about
the bounce of her auburn hair . . .

“Mary?”

“Through
here!” she called and disappeared through the hole.

Corwin
crouched, pulled open the fence and hastily squeezed through, the chain links clinking
as they sprung back into place. Soaking wet, he hugged his knees to his chest
and huddled behind a length of sheet metal. No sooner had he gotten out of
sight than the alley swarmed with thugs. Boots stomped past his hiding place,
close enough to splash him. There couldn’t have been fewer than twenty men.

“He
had to have gone this way,” shouted one of them.

“Find
him!” snarled another.

Corwin
held his breath. Not moving a muscle, he waited as their footsteps faded into
the night, until the only sound left was the incessant patter of the rain.

When
all had been calm for several minutes, he let out a long exhale and finally
turned to take a measure of his surroundings. There wasn’t much to see. Whether
or not his savior had truly been Mary, she was gone now. Corwin stood alone in
the dank recess of a dilapidated building. It extended for maybe twenty feet before
dead-ending beside a pair of tin trash cans. A lone doorway loomed in a pool of
golden lamplight.

Might
as well give it a try,
he figured.

Every
other door that he had come across in this bleak maze of alleyways had been
obstinately locked, but for once the knob didn’t resist. Corwin eased open the
door and stepped through . . . into the rear corner of The Cosmic Cup.

Apples and Razor Blades

“Well, what do
you know?” Ransom poked his head through the restroom door. “There really is an
alley back here!”

Corwin
followed him and stepped out onto a cobbled road. Wintry daylight shone down,
snowflakes drifting lazily in the frosty air.

“No!”
His gaze darted left and right. “This is all wrong!”

“You
were expecting a different alley?”

“A
whole different city!” said Corwin emphatically. “For one thing, it was a
stormy night. All the buildings were modern. There was concrete and graffiti
and that bum whose ass I dragged off the train tracks!”

The
foreign city in which he found himself now bore little resemblance to the one that
he had just escaped. The architecture reminded him of something out of a
Victorian era, with elegantly masonry, steep roofs and smoking chimneys
everywhere on display. Tall, narrow windows were crisscrossed with strips of
black iron that fashioned the windowpanes into exquisite patterns. A light
blanket of snow dusted the rooftops and windowsills, but along the center of
each road the ground was curiously dry. So too were his clothes. As a frigid
breeze nipped his skin, Corwin noticed gratefully that he was no longer sopping
wet.

“I
hadn’t expected them to make a move so soon,” muttered Ransom.

“Who
is
them?”

“The
prosecution. It was no lie when I told you that your trial would be a close
one. The other side is convinced that your soul belongs to them, and demons
aren’t known for playing by the rules.”

“Let
me get this straight,” said Corwin. “There’s a demonic law firm out there that
wants me condemned to Hell, and they don’t particularly care about the finer
points of the afterlife justice system?”

“If
they were to get their claws on you, well, let’s just say that it wouldn’t be
pleasant.”

Corwin
felt like pulling his hair out. It was all just too much.

“What
would they do? Tempt me? Torture me? Give me the Hell sneak preview?”

“It
would be torturous, yes, but not merely in the physical sense. They’ll show you
every dirty, ugly, sinful part of yourself, everything you keep hidden below
the surface. You’ll see every person you’ve ever hurt, everyone whose life you
could have touched with love, but didn’t because you were too lazy or miserly
or vain. They’ll replay the greatest hits of your worst moments over and over
until that’s all you believe there is to yourself. And when finally you beg for
the torture, then your soul will be theirs.”

“Yeah,
I’d say that sounds pretty unpleasant,” Corwin said dryly.

“I
doubt they would be foolish enough to try anything while I’m by your side, but
you had best not stray too far,” the angel advised. “Be wary of doors,
archways, anything that could serve as a portal.”

“Well
that narrows it down.”

As Corwin
took a stride forward, an electric crackle sounded from the road. Ransom gave a
swift tug on the back of his coat.

“Hold
up.”

Embedded
in the cobblestones were three iron rails. They ran along the middle of the
street where the snowy carpet ceased. Tiny ropes of lightning arced between the
groove in the nearest rail, and from around the corner arose a high-pitched mechanical
squeal. Corwin followed his attorney’s example and backed away, just as a steel
carriage rolled into view, sparks leaping from its metallic wheels.

Through
the window’s maroon curtains, an aristocrat peered out. The lens of a monocle gleamed
over his left eye, or was it an artificial eye? The oddly complex rim of the
device appeared to be a permanent fixture on the man’s face. He spared them but
a passing glance and then turned up his nose as the carriage trundled on its
course.

“I get
the feeling that that strange fellow doesn’t like us,” said Corwin. “Of course,
he probably thinks we look rather strange as well.”

“Speak
for yourself.”

Ransom
was fussing with a jaunty black top hat that had somehow appeared on his head,
adjusting its brim to tilt forward ever so slightly.

“Where
did you . . . Oh, never mind!” blustered Corwin.

His
attorney wasn’t listening. Ransom’s attention was focused just beneath Corwin’s
collar, his gaze resting on a small cross that dangled from a golden chain.

“I
recall giving you this cross for a reason.” He lifted the necklace briefly, letting
it drop back against Corwin’s chest. “You should have borrowed its power when
you were in need.”

“I was
running for my life! Clutching your good luck charm wasn’t the first thought
that came to mind.”

“No,
your first thought was probably that it was all
in
your mind,” groaned
Ransom, his perfectly pressed suit snapping as he strode briskly across the
rails, which now had stopped sizzling. “In any case, if the prosecution is
stepping up their pace, then so should we. It’s time we moved on to your third
hope.”

“People
turn to religion because they hope for justice,” Corwin recited. “It’s
something that’s rarely found in our world. Good people suffer while their
oppressors grow fat and happy. Who wouldn’t want to believe that there’s an
afterlife in which everyone gets what they deserve?”

“But
it’s not just about the afterlife.”

“I’ll
give you that. Whether they’re real or not, gods and devils can often maintain
order better than soldiers and barbed wire.”

“And
most humans aren’t fond of lawlessness.”

“Aside
from a few crazy anarchists, most people prefer the comforts of a civilized
society, and any functional society requires some semblance of a moral code.
Unfortunately, the simple wisdom of the Golden Rule is seldom enough. The
less-evolved among us need a bit more motivation not to brutalize the neighbors,
and religion provides that motivation.”

Listening
and nodding, Ransom reached for another cigarette.

“The
threat of spending eternity in Hell can certainly be a strong motivator.”

“Exactly!”
exclaimed Corwin. “A moral choice holds a lot more weight if it means the
difference between eternal bliss and eternal torment. And unlike an earthly
king, an invisible god is all-seeing. He knows when you’ve been naughty or
nice, so be good, because if you’re not, there’s no getting away with it.”

“If
legality is the measure of morality, then the only true evil is getting caught,”
Ransom agreed. “But surely there’s more to religion’s role here. People don’t
just seek to enforce justice. They seek to understand it.”

“As
you so elegantly put it while I was captain of the submarine,” Corwin said in a
sardonic tone, “religion provides the
why
behind moral values.”

“But
you don’t think they need a why?”

“I
think some things are self-evident. I believe in doing good for goodness’
sake.”

Ransom
fought back a laugh, grinning as he coughed out a puff of smoke.

“Your
generation of atheists is certainly different from the last. If God is dead,
are not all things permissible? Are not moral values simply another matter of opinion
in the end?”

“Oh
please, spare me that tired old argument,” drawled Corwin. “You theists are
always quick to assume that without religion, society would plunge itself into
a chaotic moral vacuum. You make it sound as if we atheists are bunch of murderous
psychopaths! Am I not a good example of just how empty those accusations are?
Religion’s fanciful threats and promises may have had their place in the past,
but humanity has come a long way since the Dark Ages. Contrary to popular
belief, most atheists make for perfectly pleasant neighbors.”

“Because
of their atheism, or in spite of it?”

Corwin
took his attorney’s jab in stride. “Morality isn’t some cosmic insight
instilled by the divine, and neither is it purely a matter of opinion. It’s an
evolved instinct, one that’s further shaped by the culture into which we’re
born.”

“It
is one thing to say that your genes and environment influence your values, and
another thing to say that they determine them,” replied Ransom. “Can man not judge
whether to follow his instincts? Can he not pass judgment over his culture, and
endeavor to shape that culture, rather than merely be shaped by it?”

“You’re
oversimplifying things.”

“That
which one passes judgment over cannot be the basis of one’s judgment. The
compass does not point towards itself.”

“Now
you’re just speaking gibberish!”

“Putting
aside the question of free will for now, I think that your godless brand of
morality overlooks one rather important consideration.”

“Do
enlighten me,” Corwin droned.

“Regardless
of how you come to them, values have implications.”

They
rounded the corner of a broad avenue and Ransom drew to a halt. Beneath the
darkened panes of a shop window, a girl huddled against the stone, her scrawny
figure swaddled in a tattered blanket. Mousy brown hair tumbled over her
shoulders and her bare feet shivered in the cold. Alone and abandoned, she
gazed up pitifully at the two travelers, but her quivering lips had lost the strength
to speak.

“This
one will not last the night,” judged Ransom.

“Then
help her!” demanded Corwin. “You’re an angel, aren’t you?”

“To
help her is man’s job, not mine.”

“Apparently
it’s not your god’s job either,” Corwin said with a dark look. “What use is he,
if he can’t even save one little girl?”

Shedding
his cashmere coat, he attempted to wrap it around her, but as he reached down,
both his hands and the coat only passed through.

“I’m
afraid that won’t work,” informed the angel. “But so that you might understand,
I’ll bend the rules a bit. The girl is starving. You may offer her one of these
two apples.”

His hands
disappeared briefly into his suit, producing a pair of ripe apples. One was a
bold red and the other a pastel green. He extended them to Corwin.

“What’s
the difference between them?” Corwin inquired, inspecting the two apples
suspiciously. No choice was ever arbitrary when it came to his wily attorney.

“The
green one is more on the tart side,” answered Ransom. “Also, it’s stuffed with
razor blades.”

Corwin
stared aghast, his jaw dropping as he recoiled from the green apple.

“What
kind of demented, sadistic asshole are you?”

Ransom
smiled like a knife.

“So
you’ll be choosing the safe and nutritious red apple, then?”

“Damn
right I will!” Corwin snatched it out of his hand. “And before you ask, no, I
don’t feel the need to offer some longwinded justification of
why
doing
the right thing is important.”

“But
you do believe that there is a right thing? To give a starving child an apple that’s
harmless or one that hides a razor-edged surprise—those two choices are not morally
equivalent to you?”

Corwin
stooped and held out the red apple. The girl hesitated at first, the dark pools
of her eyes wavering, unsure whether this stranger was a friend or a phantom,
but hunger proved stronger than fear. She clasped the fruit in her slender
hands.

“Not
every atheist is a relativist,” said Corwin. “I used to think like that, but if
one truly believes that all values are relative, then whether you kill yourself
or have a cup of coffee, it really is all the same. I decided that life is
worth cherishing, both my life and the lives of others. I don’t need the
infantile promises of religion to motivate me to act like a decent human
being.”

“A noble
ideal, but those words have deep ramifications,” spoke Ransom. “To say that one
course of action is ever preferable to another is to say that there is a way man
is meant to live.”

The
girl sank her teeth into the apple with a crisp crunch, juice dribbling down
her chin. So vibrant was the fruit’s color that it seemed almost to glow, and
as she hungrily devoured it, sparing not even the core, the chill wind began to
lose its bite.

“If
there is a way—a true way—that man is meant to live,” Ransom continued, “then
that implies intentional causality behind man’s existence.”

Corwin
screwed up his face. “Intentional causality?”

“To
put it simply: if man is intended to live a certain way, there must be someone
who intended it.”

“Hence,
god,” concluded Corwin. “I see where you’re going with this. You mean to brand
me as a Christian despite myself!”

“It
certainly sounds to me like your values imply faith in a personal God,” alleged
Ransom. “Or does logic tell you otherwise?”

Knuckling
his chin, Corwin searched for a weak link in the chain of implications. He
mumbled as he reasoned to himself.

“If
any decision is truly better than another . . . then there is a way man is
meant to live . . . and therefore an intention behind man’s existence . . .” He
paused, then snapped towards his attorney, lifting a finger for emphasis. “But
that doesn’t have to imply a divine creator! It’s evolution that ‘intended’ for
us to think this way.”