Hell's Pawn (36 page)

“G ods aren’t human,” J ohn countered. “E ven if I believed in predestination, which I don’t, you can’t tell me that gods are subject to it as well.”

“T hey will die in ba le or they will kill the last child of C haos. E ither occurrence will mean
the undoing of their kind.”

John stopped. “The creature above, that’s the child of Chaos?”

“T he last of its kind. Destroying it is beyond our capabilities, so P urgatory was requisitioned
to contain it. P urgatory isn’t a prison for human souls. T heir only function is to enforce the
barrier of souls. Purgatory is nothing more than a cage for the child of Chaos.”
J ohn shook his head. “I don’t understand. That creature is the only thing that can kill you? Is that what you’re afraid of?”

B ut it was more than that. J ohn was standing in the stronghold of O rder. I f the child of C haos was the only thing they feared, they never would have remained with it in P urgatory. He realized that the creature’s title wasn’t simply a creepy name. The beast above was literally the child of C haos, the embodiment of all that was unpredictable, inexplicable. They had said the gods would undo themselves by killing it. O nly order would remain. Their strange natures, their magic, their wonderful realms; all that couldn’t be pinned down, dissected, and explained in the universe would cease to exist. Maybe even love.

J ohn turned to the door, intending to leave and warn those above to stop their fight, but the exit was no longer there. He had been so distracted that he hadn’t noticed his own imprisonment.

“What are you?” John demanded. “You aren’t God! You can’t be!” The Wardens, for that is how J ohn now thought of them, chuckled in unison.
“The
fool mistakes his son for his father.”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“We are your creation.”

“My creation?”

“T he creation of all mankind. S ince the beginning of time you have desired security,
predictability, assurances against the terrors in the night that dragged you from your caves to
eat you. You formed tribes, finding protection in numbers, but with so many personalities there
were conflicts. T he only true resolution was to allow the strongest personality to lead. T here was
always dissent, but for the most part, the rest of humanity was content to follow and serve.

Anything rather than returning to those dark days when nothing was certain.

“T he tribes grew in number while the leaders became fewer and fewer. L aws became necessary
to keep the order. At first they were basic. T hou shall not kill. T hou shall not steal. B ut
eventually there were rules for everything. T hou shall not stand too close when speaking to
another, thou shall not belch at the dinner table, thou shall not accelerate thy vehicle above the
posted speed, thou shall not utilize inside information in trade. R ules govern every aspect of your
life, how you appear, smell, move, behave, everything. T hese rules were your choice, your desire.

W ithout them you would return to being the weakest animals on the planet. W ithout us, you
would be nothing.”

J ohn walked to the nearest Warden, bringing his face as close to its chest as he could without touching it. He peered in at its rectangular heart, stared hard until he was certain that he was seeing it correctly. Then he understood.

“We took it further than that, didn’t we?” J ohn said. “We made rules for the things we couldn’t see, for worlds we could only guess at. O ur entire lives were governed by rules, but we needed more, and so we made rules for the invisible, for when we are dead.” He tapped on the Warden’s chest without thinking. His finger clinked on warped glass the first few times. The fourth and final time it passed partially through, and with that came hope. J ohn walked to the next Warden on the wall and bent to examine its heart, just so he could be sure.

“Tell me something,” he said as he squinted. “I f all of this is part of some grand plan, then what am I doing here? W hat reason did you have for bringing me to this room? The first thing you told me is that my body is in a coma. You were hoping that the shock would send me zooming back to E arth, far away from you. And why the guard outside? Don’t you want me here?”

The resulting hesitation told J ohn all he needed to know. He reached into the glass Warden’s chest. I t wasn’t difficult. I n fact it was the easiest thing he had ever done, because J ohn suddenly believed in free will and this is what he wanted to do. His fingers wrapped around the spine of the book. I t throbbed under his hand like a living heart as he pulled. The Warden screamed, its eyes flaring with so much light that the entire room was cast in eerie red shadows. J ohn pulled it the rest of the way free, and two things died at once: The fire in the Warden’s eyes disappeared first and then the book stopped pulsating.

J ohn held the B ible up. “These aren’t rules,” he said to the two remaining Wardens,

“These are stories, parables that teach morals. This isn’t the word of G od! I t’s the word of—”

“MAN!”
the Wardens shouted.
“We serve man, not G od! T hese are your words that we
obey, your will that we carry out.”

“This isn’t my will,” J ohn said, approaching the next Warden, “and I ’m glad to hear it isn’t God’s will either.”

He tore the next book free and placed the Q uran with the B ible in his left hand. The Wardens moaned and wailed, but J ohn ignored them. He considered the tomes in his hand and shook his head, amazed at how simple words could cause so much trouble.

The books were just well-meaning manuals of morals from a time long past, not something evil. No book in the world was evil, no ma er how many people used them as justification for their actions.

J ohn was reaching for the third and final book when the only remaining Warden spoke.

“We pray for you, J ohn. E very M inister, every angel in H eaven. S leeping priests see your face
before waking up in the morning, and they pray for you. We have this power and man has
another. T hey pray for your swift recovery. Your body will awaken, and you will be taken from
this world before your work is done.”

“Then I be er not waste any time,” J ohn said as he pulled the Tanakh, the last beating heart of O rder, free from the glass chest and returned it to what it truly was.

Just a book.

Chapter Seventeen

“We should run!” Dante said for the third time.

John sighed. “There’s nothing to run from and nowhere to run to.” P urgatory had begun fading away the moment J ohn had taken the last book. I t would have been satisfying to see the crystal walls crack, for rubble to rain down around them as this realm was reduced to nothing. I nstead the walls had grown transparent before simply disappearing. This phenomenon was spreading outward, starting from the room John had been standing in. He was reunited with Dante as soon as the walls disappeared. The I rishman looked pale, and while he behaved like his usual self, John knew some injuries were invisible.

“Are you all right? Did that creature hurt you?”

“M e?” Dante puffed up his chest. “Nah. S tung me a few times and gave me some nightmares, but I came to as soon as the walls started fading. S aw that thing running away too, and let me tell you, the back of her was no more pleasant than the front.

Like a catwalk model gone wrong.”

“But she wasn’t fading too?”

“Nope. Solid as can be.”

This worried J ohn. W ith the Wardens defeated, he had hoped the remaining M inisters of O rder would fade away with the rest of their realm, but it seemed this wasn’t the case. W ith P urgatory soon gone, the M inisters would be forced to flee, but to where? The final Warden had said every angel was praying for J ohn. Unless it was being poetic, maybe Heaven really was involved in some way, and yet the Warden had said that they didn’t serve God.

Around them P urgatory continued to fade away. C ross sections of hallways were left exposed, as if the world were made of cake and someone had taken a slice. L ayer after layer disappeared, the process quickening as it continued. J ohn wondered if this would soon happen to him, if the well-wishes of his enemies really could heal his body. He’d heard of the power of prayer, of names passed around in churches and the subsequent recoveries. I f this was possible, J ohn would soon be drawn home when his body awoke. But he wasn’t ready to go. Not yet.

“Hey, check out the animals!” Dante said.

E xposed far above them was the endless warehouse that had once been filled with animals of every kind. All were free now. M any ran through empty space; others began to disappear to wherever they wished to go. B olo chased those that he could, barking with joy. S ca ered among the animals were P rops, no longer moving, that began to deteriorate and fall apart. They were only constructs, soulless manifestations fading away with the rest of their realm.

“C ome on,” J ohn said. “We be er get you to the steam coach as quickly as possible.”

“Why?”

“Because you’ll be pulled back to Hell. Purgatory won’t exist for much longer.” The floors had already disappeared, leaving them standing on nothing, so J ohn willed himself to rise. I t worked. He snagged Dante’s jacket on his way up, pulling the other man behind him.

“I ’ve figured it out now!” Dante complained half-way up. “I can do it myself, so let go of me.”

B y the time they reached the animals, the streets of P urgatory were exposed before they too dissolved into nothing. They saw no sign of the child of C haos. Perhaps it, like so many others were doing, had disappeared back to its proper home. O nly the invading armies remained behind. Deities were cheering in celebration, clapping each other on the back and boasting about their feats. J ohn rose to their level, but he couldn’t join in their gaiety, not yet. He found the coach and shoved Dante inside, but someone was still missing.

“Thank the inferno! You’re okay!”

J ohn turned and resisted the urge to throw himself into R immon’s arms, but only just. The incubus didn’t share J ohn’s reservations. He pulled him into a hug, and J ohn let himself enjoy the moment, since it wasn’t of his doing.

“I knew you would manage,” R immon said as they separated. “J ohn G rey, liberator of Purgatory. How does it feel?”

“Not bad,” John laughed. “Are the gods okay?”

“M ostly. S ome received serious injuries, but I think they learned a li le humility in the process. Tell me what happened to you!”

J ohn told him, and as he did so his audience grew until every being present was listening to his story. W hen he reached its end, the cheering began anew, except now the cheers were for J ohn. He felt very much like a hero, and oddly enough the feeling was mostly embarrassing.

“I was down there too, you know,” Dante’s muffled voice complained from inside the coach.

“We have much to thank J ohn for!” a voice boomed over the crowd. Above them was Asmoday. The portly demon had been completely absent from the ba le, probably waiting somewhere safe until the whole ordeal was over. He was here now though, and John knew why.

“J ohn’s actions were brave,” Asmoday continued, “but so was the decision all of you made by coming here today. We have shown that no force in existence can stand against us when we are united, not even Heaven! No, not even Heaven, for they were the puppet masters behind the blasphemy of P urgatory. Heaven held the souls of our people hostage, hoping to drain and weaken us, and it is Heaven that must be made to pay!”

The crowd roared. The sound was deafening. M any more pantheons had arrived, J ohn noticed. News about the ba le had spread. He saw African gods, wild and powerful in appearance. Then there was a woman dressed in white with a coyote at her side. B ehind this pair was an army of Native American warriors. There were many other beings J ohn had not met before, but he pulled his a ention away and looked at Rimmon.

To his surprise, the demon nodded without J ohn saying a single word. R immon snapped his fingers and turned away. The steam coach followed behind him as the crowd parted. No one took much notice of their departure. All a ention was riveted on Asmoday, whose speech was continuing to gain momentum. O nce outside the crowd, John was finally free to speak.

“You know what I want to do?” John asked Rimmon.

“Does it involve Heaven?”

J ohn nodded. “We have to warn them. I don’t think Heaven is behind this, at least not entirely. I want to see the truth for myself, preferably without an army at my back.”

“We should hurry, then.”

“But how will we get there? We don’t have anyone to take the driver’s seat.”

“I ’ve given that some thought.” R immon whistled. From out of the crowd B olo came bounding toward them, his tongue hanging out one side of his mouth.

“Bolo?” John asked.

Rimmon nodded and smiled. “All dogs go to Heaven.”

* * * * *

There were clouds. B ig, fluffy, and edged with a hint of blue reflected from the surrounding sky. J ohn hadn’t expected Heaven to be anything like this, mostly because it was exactly what he expected. Hell hadn’t been a pit of flames, at least not most of it, so on their way here J ohn prepared himself for anything except the pearly gates below.

The bank of clouds they landed on was filled with people, throngs that put summer crowds

at Disneyland to shame. E motional greetings and hugging were the predominate activities. J ohn was sure that many of these newly arrived souls had just come from Purgatory, and allowed himself a moment of pride as the coach landed.

Their arrival went mostly unnoticed. J ohn stepped out of the coach and went to the front seat to set B olo loose. The dog had done well. He didn’t belong in Heaven, any more than he did any other realm, but his natural seeking ability had led them here well enough. Rimmon had simply talked to the dog, and Bolo had done the rest.