Delusion, chapter 1

This is the first chapter of my only completed novel to date. If all goes well, the second (Restless, working title) should be ready to have a chapter shared by the end of 2013. Disclaimer: there's strong language. Please enjoy.

Delusion

By Joe Sudar

Chapter 1

The siren filled Pullman like wax in a mold. It surged down the city streets, echoing left and right down alleys. Cars skidded to shoulders. Walkers hopped onto curbs and watched red and blue lights blur past.

The inside of the ambulance clattered with activity. There were four paramedics, hired for the circumference of their chests and their experience as offensive linemen. One filled a needle with clear barbiturates. Another prepped a gurney that jingled with straps and buckles. One untangled a straightjacket. The last one tucked a Taser into his belt, just in case.

            In the front seat, Doctor Edwin Harrison flipped through a medical file, looking for some reason to not need the muscleheads in the back of the ambulance. The papers in his lap dripped with understatement. He had enough experience in psychiatry to see past the sugar coating and into the file’s subtext. Buddy Stewart, forty-five years old, Caucasian, male. Patient suffers from extreme grandiose delusions (he thinks he’s God. Scratch that, he knows he’s God). Low remorse shown for antisocial behavior when decompensated (he hurt someone once, and didn’t mind). Poor prognosis from dialectical behavioral therapy, despite high effort rating. Only pharmaceutical treatments appear effective (he’s fought with his illness every day of his life. He wants to be normal, but his brain isn’t wired that way. There’s a good voice and a bad voice in his head. One of them is louder than the other, and cramming chemicals down his throat is the only way to change the volume. Without pills, the good voice barely makes a peep).

*

Palouse River Counseling provided therapy for Pullman and the dozen boroughs surrounding the city. Its team offered counseling, clinical work, and assessment to people suffering from mental illness. Nestled in the big tan building’s shadow was a one-floor house. A sign over the doorjamb read, ‘Harvest House.’ It was a clubhouse, where PRC clients trained vocational skills by operating a community center with lunches, business services, and a news publication.

             Services had halted. Computers blinked, waiting for input. Lunch cooled, half-made. The club members evacuated next door to smiling faces and waiting coffee. They smiled and said thank you as counselors greeted them, but they’d all noticed the club’s door as they left. It lay flat on the lawn, hinges bent. The screws that fixed it in the jamb held chunks of wood in their grooves like a crash victim clinging white-knuckled to a steering wheel.

            In Harvest House’s basement, Doctor David Port pressed his head against a locked door. A good voice and a bad voice debated on the other side in a pitch-black bathroom.

John Cooper, Dave’s grad student intern, paced behind him, shoes squeaking every time he turned. Sweat stains ruined the neck and pits of his tailored shirt. His sharp chin quivered as things to say appeared and died in his mouth.

            “This is bullshit,” Cooper said, “the state pays for his meds and he doesn’t take them. Waste of time, waste of money, dangerous and stupid…”

            “John,” Dave whispered, turning away from the door, “this house was built in an era when cost-cutting was more important than quality. Keep that, and the thinness of this door in mind before you decide to rant.”

            Cooper huffed and continued pacing.  Dave turned back to the door. “Buddy,” he called, “can you hear me, young man?”

            Silence, then a whispered, “yes.”

            “You need to open this door, Buddy. Your medication is overdue. That should be all that I need to say. Remember what happened last time?”

            In the darkness, Buddy Stewart turned to the crack of light beneath the bathroom door. He leaned, brushing the painted wood until his fingers touched a cold brass door handle. Ding ding ding, I remember what happened last time, the bad voice shouted an inch from his ear, they robbed you blind, you stupid sack of shit. Everything your grandpa left you, everything your father scrimped and saved, all of it gone. Boom. Gone. You blinked, they snatched it up. Know how much of it vanished when your head was in the sand?

            Buddy’s hand jerked from the door handle to the nape of his neck, squeezing away the stress. “I don’t care,” he said, “I don’t care, I don’t care, shut up, shut up, shut up.”

            Dave understood where the outburst was aimed. Coop didn’t.

            “Okay smartass,” Coop pushed up to the door, “third strike. There’s a team coming from Eastern right now. Open this door and take your pills before they get here or you’re out.”

            Eastern State Hospital’s sterile white corridors blinded Buddy. Doctors and nurses loomed over him, eyes sick with pity. He recoiled from the memory, clamping his hands over his ears, shutting out every outside voice, leaving him alone with the bad one.

            Dave dragged Cooper away from the door by his collar. “Go find Rebecca,” he said, “tell her to get down here, pronto.”

            Coop nursed a scowl all the way across the street. In the PRC reception area, Rebecca Collins hunched over the desk, chin mashed into her open palm. One foot reached up and itched at a pencil-thin leg. Blue eyes, so bright they were almost luminescent, glittered as she debated with Cindy, the receptionist.

            “There’s still time,” Rebecca said, “Buddy can get a grip, but not if the hospital is looming over him. It’ll scare him to death.”

            “Rebecca,” Cindy said, speaking through the hand that her head rested in, “I’m sorry but we can’t call Eastern back and say, ‘sorry, just kidding!’ Doctor Lawrence watched him rip off the door and throw it into the lawn, then told me himself to make the call. Buddy needs the hospital and they’re on their way.”

            “Dave wants you,” Coop interrupted.

            Rebecca jerked up, facing him. Her hands crept to her pants pockets, thumbs tucking in to mirror Coop. He noticed and snapped his hands to his side.

“Alright,” Rebecca said, “I was helping Cindy with an incident report. You can take it from here.” With a pinch of tact, she waited until he was out of sight to smile at his expression. The sight of Harvest House and its gaping door banished the smile.

            She arrived at the entrance as Dr. Harrison and his four hunky EMTs pulled up to the curb. ‘EASTERN’, written on the side of their vehicle, set her stomach wringing.

            “Hello,” Harrison said, extending his hand, “we’re responding to a 911 from Palouse River.”

            “Okay, we’re in the basement,” she answered, shoulders pulling back to match Harrison’s posture. “Real quick, what’s it going to take to keep Buddy from riding with you today?”

            Harrison fanned the pages of Buddy’s file with his thumb. “Something exceptional. Lead the way, miss.”

            They threaded through the living area and the kitchen, down the stairs to the basement. Dave unstuck his head from the door at the sound of footsteps.

            “Dr. Harrison.”

            “David. Any changes?”

            Dave held out his hand to the door. Swears flew through the flimsy wood. “Don’t you fuckin’… It doesn’t matter… No, God damn it… Piece of shit, don’t tell me…”

            The muscled attendants glanced at one another, scrubs tightening as they flexed their credentials. The one with the barbiturates uncapped the needle, showing a waiting bead of drug.

            “I’m hearing significant decompensation in there,” Harrison said, “almost identical to the language we heard before he snapped in ’98. If that happens again and someone gets hurt, he’ll be in the hospital for life. If we can get the door open and take him back with us now, he’ll just be looking at months, until we can get him normalized and on a schedule.”

            Months, Dave thought, the Fourth of July, his birthday, the start-of-school parade, the clubhouse camping trip, Thanksgiving, Christmas. Just months. Logic and emotion wobbled on a scale until it tipped to his clinical side. He nodded in consent.

            “He missed his medication because of a dentist appointment,” Rebecca said, “they told him it’d react with the anesthetic. It took about a day to wear off and that was enough for him to lose his footing. This isn’t negligence, it’s just bad timing.”

            “Son of a bitch, mother fucker,” Buddy snarled through the door.

            Harrison gestured towards the bathroom. “Why doesn’t matter, we’re here addressing that language and what it means. It isn’t what we want to hear from a client with a violent history.”

            “But he’s not saying it at us. That’s him arguing with his other voice. He’s still trying to resist.”

“I’m sorry. It’s unfortunate, but the fact is he doesn’t have medication in his system right now and he needs it.”

            “What if he takes it? He carries it on his person in a little red day-by-day carton. If we get him to take it and he unlocks the door on his own is that enough for him to stay?”

            “That, miss, would be the exceptional something I mentioned.”

            Rebecca turned to Dave. He peered over his bifocals. “Can you do it, young lady?”

            There was no option, so there was no question. “Yes.” She switched places with Dave, leaning hard into the door and listening to the debate on the other side. Edwin and his muscle men raised objections, but Dave’s face said, ‘watch this.’

            Rebecca wiped away everything behind her, leaving only the sounds of Buddy in the black room. She turned her head, pressing her ear against the door. Sounds leaked through, sketching in her mind to show what Buddy looked like past the door: squeaking footsteps (pacing), snickers between every other word (a toothy smile), breathless speech, endless and rapid (hunched body, hands wringing, eyes darting in the shadows to things only he could see).

            Rebecca wilted in front of the clinicians. She hunched over, head hanging low. Her hands ran over one another like a fly landed on its meal. Over her shoulder, they saw the corner of her mouth creep up into a smile. Harrison’s experience rang a bell, telling him that he should pay attention to what he was seeing.

            Buckles jingled behind Rebecca. She turned and saw one of the attendants prepping a straight jacket, coiling the fabric around his hands. The fibers strained as he pulled tight. Little squeaking sounds, like a rope taking load, twanged through the air towards her.

                  Rebecca…

            The sleeves ended in leather straps. At the back they locked in place, a design perfected over a hundred years of restraining people.

            Rebecca…

            She imagined it around her. Warm, sweaty, filling with the smell of a stressed body. Pulling, straining, nothing in response but squeaking sounds and jingling buckles. Smothering, like a pillow pressed over her face as she begged for enough air to scream…

            “Rebecca,” Dave’s voice cut through to her like a searchlight, “Buddy’s running out of time. Concentrate, you can do it.”

            She swallowed hard and turned back to the door. She bent and shriveled and wringed again. The workers from Eastern looked to Dave for an explanation. He ignored them.

            Snorts, snickers, excited groans from inside the bathroom. Buddy’s eyes glimmered at what the bad voice described to him (Rebecca’s eyes twinkled in time). The debate inside his head had shifted. The bad voice was winning.

            “Alright… Yeah I understand…” Rebecca’s ears perked like a watchdog’s to his rambling. Details swirled inside her head. All she needed was one familiar phrase, something for them to crystallize on. “Okay… I know, I’m sorry… I’m sorry, no don’t give it away… I’ll listen… Yes… Yes I want it… I want my house of gold…”

            House of gold. The crystals spread and the lies froze into a solid block. She watched him paced through gleaming pillars. His two hundred dollar shoes echoing down the polished floors. Diamonds glittered in piles to his left and right, spotted with wrinkled cash, stocks and bearer bonds, the legacy of the Stewart family. Enough money to change the world. Enough to rule it.

            “Two million gems ripped from the bones of Africa…” she shouted through the door.

            Rights to all the oil in Arabia, insisted the voice.

            “Rights to all the oil in Arabia. Silks of the Orient…”

            Silks of the Orient, ivory from titan’s mouth…

            “Ivory from titan’s mouth, buffalo land in heathen’s hands, beaches made of polished sand…”

            Beaches made of polished sand… Buddy stopped pacing. He’d heard the beaches mentioned twice. They were secret. No one but his mentor knew about them. Who was talking?

            “History and literature, all of it yours, if you just take it.” The new voice said from somewhere dark behind him.

            History and literature, all of it yours, his mentor insisted… if you just take it… Buddy knew the new voice. “Rebecca?” he called down the corridor of his golden house. “Is that you?”

            “It’s me, Buddy.”

            “Rebecca, how do you know about my assets?”

            “Because you’ve told me them all before, Buddy. Do you remember?”

            Six months ago he’d asked her to step outside. He’d wanted to talk about his mentor. He’d heard he had money, assets, everything he needed to be a made man. Bad people were keeping it all from him. They took from him and gave him pills to make him stupid so they could rob him blind. His mentor could help. He could get him everything he deserved, and he’d never wants again.

She’d listened to his story and asked if he really believed it. He’d tried, but none of it had been true. His mentor had lied.

            “Buddy,” Rebecca said, “do you have your medication with you?”

            He felt in his pocket. Seven containers, one for each day, rattling with little capsules. “Yes,” he answered.

            “This is very important, Buddy, how many days of medication do you have?”

            He took it out of his pocket, but despite all the light in the golden house, he couldn’t see the pills. When he looked at his hands he saw darkness. His other hand groped the bathroom wall until it found the light switch. The golden house burned away in a flood of electric light. He counted the pills in his one-a-day container. Sunday was gone, Monday had half a dose left. Everything from Tuesday onwards was full.

            “Rebecca, what day is it?”

            “It’s Thursday, Buddy.”

            Panic stabbed at his chest. He rushed to the sink, filled his mouth with water and swallowed Thursday’s dose. The bad voice screamed in protest. It swore that he’d lose it all again, that his money would disappear. It promised that the woman outside was next in line to inherit. She’d take it if he didn’t. It screamed that he was falling for a trap. It screamed until it went hoarse, and then it faded down to silence.

            Buddy Stewart opened the bathroom door an hour later. His shoulders filled the doorway so fully that he had to come through at an angle. He saw Dave, who smiled that the debate had closed. The four brawny paramedics had excused themselves earlier. Regardless of their skill set as hired muscle, they understood that their job was to help comfort the chronically uncomfortable, and hovering around would only stress Buddy out.

            Edwin Harrison assessed Buddy’s symptoms as he exited the bathroom. Buddy met his gaze with watery green eyes. When he held the eye contact, Harrison knew that the medication was running its course.

            Buddy looked around the basement. “Where’s Rebecca?”

            “She had something to take care of,” Dave answered.

            Through the PRC reception window, Cooper watched Rebecca emerge from Harvest House. She walked stiff and jerky, a tin soldier wound up and marching. She charged past the ambulance and grabbed her bike from a rack. She rode down the hill towards the city limits. He recognized the look on her face, the way she was walking, and what it implied. He noted the date and time in a Moleskine notebook, and smiled that he’d gotten as least one thing out of the mess.

*

Lighthouse University, Pullman’s bread and butter, sat one mile uphill from Harvest House. Two miles into campus was the Student Recreation Center, the largest in the school’s conference. Inside, clanking weights mixed with the drumbeat of punching bags, topped by the drone of treadmills. The air was perfumed by sweat and rubber. In the farthest corner of the gym sat a pair of rowing ergometers.

            The ergs were designed to mimic the movement and resistance of rowing on the water. Athletes sat on a seat that slid back and forth on a metal rail, their feet strapped in at one end. They held a handle, connected by a chain to an air flywheel that roared with every stroke, feeding data into a digital screen that told how fast they were going. Pulling harder meant the wheel spun faster and resisted more. It was the only workout machine that rewarded hard work by making it harder.

            Two best friends sat next to each other on the ergs. Muscles capable of lifting four hundred pounds straight off the ground flexed against the footpads of the machines. The flywheels roared in approval with every stroke.

            As their warm up ended, the friends caught their breath. Sweat dripped in rivulets off their faces. Here and there, their eyes met, sharing looks reserved for archenemies. The stakes were known, the competition was fierce, the rowers were ready.

            One was a heavyweight, built like a Greek statue with horse legs. The other was a lightweight, thin but trimmed down to a fatless body rippling with muscle. They wore matching navy blue tank tops, blazoned with a golden C for Cal Berkley.

 On the water, physics would even out the race, but the erg only paid attention only to power, determined by the wheel and its little computer. The lightweight took fewer meters on his machine to compensate, but the race was the same: two thousand meters, dead sprint to the finish.

They froze at attention, bodies upright and set, arms stretched out and ready to pull, legs coiled, primed to cannon at the drop of an imaginary flag.

            Attention.

Row.

Adrenaline coursed and told them both a familiar lie: ‘you feel no pain, you have no limits. Harder, faster, stronger. You can beat him easily.’ For a hundred meters, each rower generated enough wattage to power half a bank of stadium lights. Then tingles on the tops of their legs reminded them of an unwelcome truth: ‘you have nineteen hundred meters to go. It’s going to hurt, badly. You are mortal.’

            Five hundred meters in, they settled into race strategies. The heavyweight coiled up the slide after every stroke. At the catch, he floated weightless for a moment then fired in the opposite direction. His boat took another leap forward. The lightweight moved less weight, he pulled less power, but he did it faster. With almost two strokes for every one of the heavyweight’s, he was losing ground but demanded a price for it.

            Heart rates climbed past two hundred beats per minute. Muscles drank nutrition from their own cells as demand climbed higher and higher. Each rower’s brain screamed their body’s demands as they rounded the thousand-meter mark. They begged to know why they were self-destructing. Each athlete belayed explanation, using every trick they knew for mental distraction.

            The heavyweight turned the race into math. Nine hundred meters left. Ten meters per stroke. Ninety strokes left, just ninety. Eighty-nine. Eighty-eight.

            The lightweight felt the chemicals that made him hurt. Lactic acid, burning to signal that his body was working. Endorphins shouting back at the smoke signals that they don’t give a fuck, they’re too damn high. Light headedness, probably from good old-fashioned lack of blood. All the moving parts explained why he felt like he was dying.

            Five hundred meters to go. Numbers ticked down, motivation shot up. In the imaginary water, the bows of their boats pulsed next to each other, vying for the final inch of the race. The heavyweight pulled, ripping the machinery with every stroke. The lightweight upped the rate, climbing into a sprint. He kept the microns he needed and passed the finish line victorious.

            They paddled until the pain subsided long enough for their bodies and minds to angrily demand to know why they enjoyed rowing. The lightweight’s pain ignited, sparked by victory. He rested in the warm knowledge of his spoils.

            The night’s drinks were on the heavyweight.

*

The Terrell Coal Plant marked the city limits of Pullman. Lighthouse owned the property, which had once powered the entire school. Green energy had shut the operation down. Now it was a teaching tool, used once a semester by engineering students. Bleached candy wrappers and shattered beer bottles promised Rebecca some privacy. She curled against the base of the towering smokestack, her bike collapsed nearby and the road out of town beckoning.

Rebecca struggled to keep her cool like a carsick child. She gulped down air to drown the nausea that bubbled in her stomach. Voices battled inside her head. They cycled through one another like frequencies of a HAM radio. Snarls turned to moans, then to smacking lips, then lengthening out into a breathless scream. Words echoed out of the maelstrom every few seconds.

            You cunt.

            Her ringing cell phone pierced the din. She inched it from her pocket as more words thundered through the storm in her head. You think you’re fucking better than me? Dave was calling her.

            “Hi,” she croaked.

            “Where are you, young lady?”

            “I’m sorry, it’s bad.”

            “You don’t need to apologize. Are you okay?”

            “No, it’s really, really bad.”

            “Okay, please listen, Rebecca: you just need to hold on. You can make it through this and you know it. How many attacks this month?”

            “None.”

            “Exactly. You’re doing much, much better. There were some close calls but you beat them. You’re going to be okay, do you hear me?”

            Where the fuck would you be without me?

            “Dave, it’s worse than that. It hurts, I’m scared.”

            “Rebecca Collins, you are stronger than this.”

            “No, I need to go.” She hung up before he could lob another earful of support through the phone. An image flashed in her mind: orange and black light, like a smoky fire, framing a giant silhouette.

            Worthless little bitch.

            She wasn’t safe. The feeling came from somewhere she couldn’t explain, couldn’t rationalize, but it was there. She was in danger. Rebecca leapt onto her bike and pedaled towards safety.

            Palouse County rose and fell in dollops of farmland. It spread for miles in every direction, an agriculture country quilt stitched together by winding highways. She pedaled until her lungs felt like crumpled paper bags.

            You’re going to kill him.

            The land cracked ahead of her into a stony fissure where the road plummeted down a suicide grade. She tucked her body and leaned into the curving path, racing up to forty miles per hour.

And suck dicks for money.

Her left hand stretched out. A bubble of air filled her palm.

And when you die you’ll go to Hell.

She ripped the voices by their roots out and forced them down her neck. As they passed her ear a final thorn pricked at her.

            I love my little girl.

            The voices drained down her shoulder, running the length of her arm like dirty water in a gutter. At her hand they leaked out, mixing into the air bubble. She opened her palm and threw them onto the ground. They smeared on the asphalt with an oily splat.

            The grade leveled and turned into Snake River Road. It meandered, running parallel to the Snake River’s broad surface. Calm water stretched a thousand feet across to a canyon wall that shot straight up, back to farm country. Lines in the rock traced the paths of the superfloods that had shaped the region at the end of the last ice age. The scenery begged to be on a post card or a tourist brochure, but she ignored the sights. Less than a mile to safety.

            Granite Point knuckled up out of the water as her energy waned. The sunset painted it three different colors of red. She tossed her bike at its base, racing up the beaten-bare trail to its top.

            She was basted in sweat by the time she crested. The rock’s tabletop peak waited for her. Summer sun had heated it all day. Wispy tendrils of warmth seeped up through her clothes, wrapping and threading together into a blanket around her.

            No jaws could reach her up there. No voices could find her.

            The sun vanished slowly over the far hill of the canyon. Pinks and blues on the skyline faded to gray, then to black. Stars appeared over the horizon, reflected by the flat, still water below. They mirrored one another. She stared until she couldn’t tell where land ended and sky began. Granite Point floated through space, isolated from the world, surrounded by stars.

Ascension

This is the first short story I ever wrote (and the first one that got published). It dates from back in high school. I'd like to pretend that I can't tell it dates from back in the day, but that's not quite true. Regardless, it's a fun read inspired by a weird dream.

Ascension

By Joe Sudar

            The first thought that ran through George’s head as he woke up was why he wasn’t in his bed. The next was why he had fallen asleep in an office building. Then he remembered: he had just taken an accounting position through the merger of his old company and a new firm. Admittedly, it was not the best form to fall asleep on the first day at a new job.

            Getting up from the oddly comfortable apple red couch and rubbing sleep from his eyes at the same time, George noticed another disturbing fact: he was not in the right building, and he was definitely not on the right floor. Judging by the view from the window, he had to be on at least the hundredth floor, and his building didn’t go to half that.

            “How do I do this to myself?” He thought. “I need to get out of here before someone realizes I don’t work here. But why am I here? I need a cup of coffee…”

            Just as he pondered this, he recognized the beautiful smell of freshly brewed French Roast: hardly the fanciest coffee out there, but a favorite of his for years.

            Turning from the window, he saw a bubbling pot of hot coffee percolating as he stood there. “Well, if I stand to be arrested for trespassing, then a cup of coffee could only add another fifteen years at most.” Even in his own head, George’s sarcasm and poor sense of humor abounded.

            Pouring himself a full cup, which he took black (more from haste than preference) the wayward office worker searched around for anything that may have fallen from his pockets in his complex camping. Satisfied that he had everything he came with (his wallet and a pocket knife) he turned to the door from the break room. Even as he reached for the gleaming silver handle, however, the door opened, and a young man in a crisp suit with teeth like a fresh shoeshine entered and regarded him with a smile.

            “Ah, you’re finally awake.” the man said. “Do you want another cup of coffee?”

            “…Sure.” George said. “What floor are we on?” It wasn’t the most pressing thought at the moment, but keeping up the pretense that he belonged in the building could keep him out of trouble for a little while at least.

            “Two hundred and sixty-three. You’ve done pretty well to get all the way up here, definitely better than some.”

            “Two hundred and what!? What building am I in?” So much for his cover, but George just couldn’t believe he was in a building that huge, unless he had somehow sleepwalked all the way into another city. At this point, that possibility was more believable than some.

            “Definitely where you want to be, I can tell you that.”

            “What does that mean?”

            “Tell me George, do you believe in God?”

            “I went to church as a kid, I was confirmed, so I guess you could say I believe.”

            “Then can you tell me what the Rapture is?”

“It’s kind of like Judgment Day, when everyone who is meant to, goes to Heaven.”

            “Well done. Have you guessed where you are yet?”

            “At this point I’m starting to think I’m on Reality TV.”

            “Hardly, where you are is somewhere people actually want to be. George, you’re in Heaven.”

            George stood there for a full minute that could have been an hour for all he knew. Was this a joke? If it was, then it made his sense of humor look like professional standup. If not, then what was going on? The only thing he could do at this point was to play along until he found out what was happening.

            “Alright,” George said. “What do we do now?”

            “Well for starters, can I interest you in a light brunch?” With that, the young man began moving down the hall beyond the room.

            George caught up to him, determined to get more information as they walked down the pristine white hallway. “How was it that you knew me as soon as you saw me?”

            “I’ve been briefed on everything about you ever since it was determined that you would be on my floor. It wasn’t easy getting around to everyone I’m responsible for, to be honest. We were told the Rapture would bring a large influx of residents rather quickly though, so I was prepared.”

            “We?”

            “You didn’t think I was the only angel, did you?”

            “I didn’t even know you were an angel.”

            “Well I am. My name is Gabe, and it’s my job to make sure you and the other residents of level 263 have everything that you need and want.”

            “Then each floor here is a level of Heaven?”

            “That’s basically the gist of things.”

            “How many levels are there?”

            “As many as we need. Let’s just say that if you were able to climb as high as you wanted, it would take you longer than your mortal lifespan to reach the top.”

            “Have you been to the top?”

            “I don’t want to go. I was made on this level to look after this level, and I don’t want or need to go anywhere else. Everything I was made to appreciate is right here, and to be honest, I don’t think I could be happier.”

            “Hmm, I don’t think I can argue with that then.”

            “No, you can’t.”

            They walked along in silence for a time, with George pondering how massive the level they were on. They’d covered so much distance on the soft carpet that he was sure they’d gone at least four city blocks. Everywhere they went, there were more and more doors, with sounds of revelry, music, and a thousand varied activities coming from behind each. The farther they went, the more he thought that there couldn’t be a building on Earth this huge, and he began to wonder if he actually was in the afterlife. Still, he wasn’t totally convinced.

            “You know” he said. “I never pictured Heaven looking like an office building. What happened to all the clouds and the white marble columns?”

            “An office building is the most efficient way to make sure that everyone can find what they want. Enter any one of these doors and I imagine you’d find something that would appeal to you.”

            “That makes sense, I suppose, but I would’ve thought that you’d be concerned with aesthetics.”

            “Like I said, enter a door and you’ll probably find what you’re looking for.”

            “You mean that I could find fluffy clouds and huge white pillars in one of these offices?”

            Gabe paused to laugh out loud. It was like an entire studio audience laughing at a sitcom punch-line. “Do you mean that you want to sit around on fluffy clouds and walk around a huge marble forest?”

            “No, I guess I don’t.”

            “Like I’ve said twice now, you find what you want if you look for it.”

            “So can I give it a try?”

            “Hold on, you’ll have plenty of time to explore, and besides, we’re almost there.”

            With that, they emerged from the hallway into a wide forum. They had not changed floors, and yet they were in an atrium large enough to be the entry hall of any other building. The place was filled with people. Everyone circulated well and the only sounds that could be heard were happy voices and light music over an intercom.

            Gabe led George over to a table packed with everything he could’ve wanted to eat then, or any time: fresh fruits both familiar and foreign, delicious cold cut complete with baked goods hot from the oven, and an assortment of drinks he had loved both as a child and an adult.

            “Alright George.” Gabe said. “If you need anything, just call and I’ll find you. For now, enjoy the food. Anything else you want to eat will probably be on another table.”

            “There’s more?”

            “Of course. It’s Heaven.”

            From there George began to dine and socialize. Everyone was amiable and open to discussion on all sorts of topics (except for current events, as those hardly applied any more). He found that everyone was happy to see him, even if they didn’t know who he was. They all wanted to know his opinion of their circumstance, what he thought of the brunch, and if he had found anyone else he knew. It was all good and nice, but he wasn’t sure if it was Heaven or not.

            That was until he found someone who could only be in Heaven: his grandfather George, whom he had been named after. He had died when George was still in grade school, but that didn’t keep him from holding fond memories of the times they spent together. Almost on cue, as soon as he found him, other people with whom he had shared the best times of his life appeared: his mother and father, both his brothers, one of whom had died overseas, his first girlfriend, every one of his friends in high school and college. Everyone who had been dear to him as a boy was here, in this bizarre building. There was only one explanation: he really was in Heaven.

            With that knowledge firmly tucked in his pocket, he shed any disbelief of his standing and began enjoying what he had earned. The first thing he did with the people he loved was to visit a door. As it turned out, anything he could’ve wanted to do was behind a door, if he knew where to find it. In one conference room he heard an amateur artist giving a musical performance so beautiful that the room was filled with tears. Just next door was a room set up as a full bar, complete with an open microphone, which everyone took advantage of. Even farther down the hall, it appeared as though you stepped out of the building and into a forest, complete with the sun shining overhead. Every time George thought he had seen it all, a new door was waiting with another challenge or experience.

            Something was missing though, and he couldn’t decide what it was for the longest time. Slowly though, he came to realize what it was that was gone from this place. Every triumph of his mortal life, every experience and journey he had made had been made with another, someone who was so close that he was almost another brother: his best friend, John.

            As soon as he realized that John wasn’t with him, he began searching for him. He combed the whole floor, asking around but finding nothing of him. No matter where he went, no one had seen anyone who even looked like him.

            He asked the friends and family that had known John as long as he had, and though they all remembered him, they had not seen him since their arrival in Heaven. Some of them had been there far longer than George, and if they had not seen him, then where could he possibly be?

            George sat down against the sheetrock wall, pondering where John could be and what he would do if he couldn’t find him. John had been an integral part of his life up until the end, and though he had been distracted by the wonders of Heaven for a small while, everything seemed lessened without him now.

            “Having trouble George?” Gabe said, who had sidled up without notice.

            “I wouldn’t say that. Everything here is more or less exactly as I pictured it. I can do anything I want, go anywhere I please. I have no pressing responsibilities, and almost everyone I’ve ever known is here with me.”

            “Almost everyone?”

            “To be honest, I haven’t been able to find my best friend, John. It’s weird, because everyone else that I’d like to associate with is here on this level. Why wouldn’t he be here?”

            “That isn’t an easy question, George. The levels here are mostly grouped by how good of a person you’ve been. After that, we try to place you together with everyone that we think you’d like to be with, but if there’s a huge difference in where two people are meant to be, then we can’t do it initially.”

            “John lived as good a life as I did. If I’m here on level 263, then why isn’t he here too?”

            “I saw John’s credentials when it was determined where he would end up. Can’t you think of any reason why he wouldn’t be on the top of the list for who could go here? Anything about his beliefs or practices?”

            “He was a good person. He gave to charities, he helped his neighbors, he was loyal to every one of his friends…”

            “Did he believe in God?”

            “No, he was an atheist.”

            “Then that’s why he isn’t on this level.”

            “You would actually hold that against someone? I hardly ever went to church and I’m here!”

            “But you never bore false witness against God or claimed that you didn’t believe in Him. That sort of thing, no matter how small, does matter.”

            “So now you’re telling me that I’m never going to see my best friend again?”

            “I didn’t say that. There are options to get him back, if you feel like you’re up to it.

            “There’s a rule here called the Right of Ascension, and it may be just what you’re looking for. Essentially, it says that if you care enough to go to a lower level and bring up someone who willingly agreed to follow you, then you can stay together on the higher level. Basically it’s allowed on the assumption that if you care that much about the person, they must be good enough to reside on your floor.”

            “So I just have to go get him?”

            “It isn’t that simple, George. If he really was an atheist, then he is below floor twenty-five. Everything below that floor is Purgatory, which means you could say that it isn’t as friendly as the levels up here are.”

            “And what does that mean? Is it like Hell?”

            “Oh no, nothing nearly so terrible. Everything outside of this building is Hell, and for the love of God, you must not think to venture out there. If you did, then you would never make it back in here, that I promise you. Purgatory is where everyone who was just good enough to stay out of Hell is. That means soldiers who lived good lives but followed cruel orders without question, those who strayed from God without harming others in the process, and people who lived lives just on the edge of right and wrong.”

            “How do I get down there?”

            “You mean you still want to go?”

            “I know he’d do the same for me. I’m not going to leave him down there with people who lived ‘just on the edge.’ Now how do I find him?”

            “Alright, I’m not going to stop you, but I do want you to realize the danger you’re in by going down there.” Gabe produced a small key from his pocket. “This key will unlock the stairs that lead both up and down the building. It is your only link to this floor, and without it, you’ll be stuck on whatever floor you end up losing it on. What’s more, down in Purgatory there are surely people who wouldn’t think twice about taking it from you. In fact, that could very well be the reason that they’re trapped in Purgatory: unchecked ambition. If they get their hands on the key, they’ll be free to travel to any floor they please, and that could be troublesome. Some of them might even be willing to hurt you for the key. Granted, physical hurt is hardly something you have to worry about any more, but they could force you to stay on the lower level, and that’s more hurt than any you’ve had in your life, I can promise you that.”

            “So the bottom line is that I need to keep that key hidden at all costs? John was a bit of a blabbermouth, but I’ll see what I can do.”

            “It’s more than just a case of ‘seeing what you can do,’ George, this really is important and you need to remember it. Now then, the next order of business is finding where he is. For that, we need Peter.”

            They stood up and walked down the hall back towards the main forum. Things were quieting down some, with people sitting together at great round tables and talking quietly over coffee. Everyone seemed just as content as at the earlier brunch, and George wondered if he was making a mistake. What if this was the last he would see of this paradise? Was it worth the risk?

            As soon as that thought jumped into his head, he knew the answer: yes. John had been there for him at every point of his life, and he wasn’t going to leave him without the joy that he had now. Every bit of it was worth the risk.

            At the end of the forum was a large office, which they entered. It seemed that this was Gabe’s office, as there was a roster completely covered with names, a neat and ordered desk, and a telephone with hundreds of connection buttons. Gabe moved to the phone and held down one of the buttons.

            “Peter, we need you on level two sixty-three. Peter, two sixty-three.”

            He no sooner let his finger off the button than the door opened and a man dressed as Gabe (with a large beard and many years older) entered. “Hello Gabe, you called?”

            “Yes I did Peter. We have someone here who wished to invoke the Right of Ascension. Can you help him?”

            “Of course I can. You’re looking for John aren’t you George”

            “How did you know that?” George said, a little dumbfounded.

            “I’m Saint Peter, George. It’s my job to keep track of every one of you that enters this building and ensure that you are placed on the right level. I knew there would be problems in splitting you and John, but rules are rules. It’s a good thing too, otherwise you wouldn’t be able to go get him, now would you? Anyway, I digress. You’ll find him on floor number three.”

            “Three? He’s that far down?”

            “Yes, I’m afraid we aren’t very lenient when it comes to Purgatory. Not that it matters too much, since you’re going to get him.”

            “And a dangerous and foolhardy a scheme it is,” a new voice said. They all turned to see a hulking angel (for it seemed that the crisp suits denoted an angelic status) at least seven feet tall and strong like a body builder.

            “Michael!” Gabe said. “What brings you here?”

            “I heard you calling for Peter,” Michael said. “and I can say I hardly approve of the risks of travel to Purgatory.”

            “I’m going to go” George said. “I have to get John out of Purgatory.”

            “You see?” Peter said. “He’s quite determined. You’ve never approved of the Right of Ascension, Michael, but it’s quite legal and he should be allowed.”

            Michael scowled as he looked around the office at each face. “Very well, it’s your risk. I’ll let you take it. Gabe, has he been briefed on what he can expect?”

            “Yes he has, Michael.”

            “And he knows of the key?”

            “Yes he does.”

            “And he knows of the danger should he lose it?”

            “Yes I do.” George said. “I get it all, now please. Where do I go to find Purgatory?”

            Michael’s scowl darkened. “Come with me, I’ll show you.” Gabe, Michael, and George all left the office, with Peter mentioning ‘other calls’ and leaving on his own. They marched down the winding halls, going farther and farther than George had yet ventured. With every step, he felt his attachment to level 263 growing, as well as his determination to let John enjoy it as well.

            Finally, they came to what looked like a fire door with a simple sign reading ‘stairs’ next to it. Michael pointed to it with his enormous, meaty arm. “There you go, George.”

            George pushed the small key in the lock, opening the door and taking a look down the stairwell; it disappeared into infinity. “I don’t suppose there’s an elevator, is there?” He asked.

            “Well there is,” said Gabe. “But it hasn’t worked in what seems an eternity.”

            “The elevator doesn’t work in Heaven?”

            “I said it was Heaven, I never said it was perfect.”

            “Well then… wish me luck!”

            “Good luck!” Gabe said.

            Michael said nothing.

            As the door closed behind him, George felt the crushing silence of the stairwell closing down upon him instantly. His every step echoed and rebounded off the walls that surrounded him. He moved down and down, watching the signs on each door gradually slipping into lower and lower numbers. It didn’t matter how far he went, he never seemed to get any closer to his goal.

            Then another sound became apparent: the dripping of water, and the buzzing of flickering lights. He looked at the floor he was on, and he saw that he was only a few away from twenty-five. Looking down the stairwell, he saw that the ground floor was within sight, but everything below him was in darkness. He moved down farther, and saw that it seemed as though not as many of the building’s basic functions worked down here: the walls were damp and moldy, the lights did flicker as though they were about to go out. Spiders crawled and built webs in the corners, and he nearly lost his footing several times in foul smelling puddles on the stairs.

            Finally he reached level three, and worked his key into the lock. The door was so stuck with a greasy buildup that he needed to dig out his pocket knife and work it over the hinges. He finally forced it open and squeezed into the complex.

            Everything looked much the same as his level, except it seemed that upkeep had been long forgotten. It also appeared that there were far fewer activities to occupy ones time, as he saw residents huddling together on the floor and in seemingly random places all over. No matter where he went on level 263, he could hear the happy sounds of people enjoying each others company. Here, he heard only grumbles and sighs of discontent. Every second here made him love his level all the more, and he wanted to find John and return as quickly as possible. Floor three seemed larger than his though. After he felt he had been wandering for even longer than it had taken to traverse the stairs, he still hadn’t seen John anywhere.

            He was meticulous throughout his search. He had no idea where or how to find John, so he checked every room he came across. All he found were huddled people who seemed less than willing to answer any questions or even look at him.

            Finally, as he thought all hope was lost, he wearily stuck his head into one last room, and saw John, haggard and grumbling to himself, working away in front of a flickering computer screen.

            “John!” He cried.

            “Come back later, I have work to do.” came John’s hasty reply.

            “John, it’s George.”

            John’s bloodshot eyes turned to face his friend. “George? No way! What are you doing here? For that matter, where are we?”

            “Haven’t they told you?”

            “Told me what? I just woke up here days ago with a list of work to do on this filthy computer. It’s just about the most annoying job ever though; no programs work, every time I try to save a project, it restarts, the monitor cuts out at the worst times, the internet is slow…”

            “That’s not important John. Listen carefully. You may not believe it, but don’t argue and I’ll explain everything later in more detail. You’re in Purgatory, and I’ve come down from Heaven to get you back. I know that sounds completely stupid and…”

            “No it doesn’t. I’ve heard people here in this building talking about weird things like Heaven and Purgatory and something about The Streets, but I didn’t know what to make of it. I was actually starting to believe in something for once, but I didn’t want to give in to something I’ve denied for so many years. Is it really all true? Am I in Hell?”

            “You aren’t in Hell, You’re in Purgatory, and I’m getting you out of here. Come on, I have a key to the upper levels of this building, where things are better.”

            “Alright, let’s get moving.”

            They carefully made their way into the halls outside John’s office. After that George tried his best to work them back towards the stairs. This place was so confusing and huge that everywhere they went seemed like the same as before. No dripping ceilings or broken computers could dampen George’s spirits now though: he had found John and he was taking him back to where he belonged as they spoke. He had made it despite Michael’s harrowing warnings. They were going to make it without even a second of real trouble!

            “Yo, Johnny boy!” came a voice from behind them.

            “Oh no,” John said under his breath. “That’s Tony, he’s a big shot down here. Just keep quiet and we’ll get away safely.”

            “Where you think you’re going Johnny Boy?” Tony was a hulking man dressed like your typical street punk with a band of cronies behind him. “You supposed to stay in your office and mind your business! You want some of what I gave you before? Maybe then you’ll learn to stay where you are and show me some respect!”

            “I don’t have to take this anymore, Tony!” John said, barely half Tony’s size. “We’re leaving this place, and you get to stay here and rot.”

            “John no!” But it was too late. If Tony knew anything about the levels here, he already knew that one of them had the key.

            “Is that so Johnny boy?” Tony’s vagabond followers had quieted from their squabbling and now stared hungrily at George. “I been here longer than I care to know,  way longer than I planned on, and if there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that to leave, you need a key.

            “So is that it New Face?” Tony strode up to George. “You must’ve brought it, and you were gonna keep the key all to yourself? That sure isn’t how we do things down here. How we gonna handle that? Maybe if I take your key and show you the love out there in The Streets!”

            “John run!” George shouted, pushing Tony over and charging through his crowd of followers. Neither of them gave any heed to the cries of those that followed them; they simply charged down the halls of Purgatory, knowing that their very souls depended on it. No matter where they went though, George and John both felt that they were just getting more and more lost. Tony and his crew was following far too close for comfort, and as time wore on they began to gain ground.

            Then George and John rounded one last corner, and after they had just passed the point of no return, realized that they were trapped in a dead end. George quickly looked for an escape, and realized that they were at the broken elevator he had heard Gabe mention earlier. He tried his key in the lock, but the great metal doors remained closed and still.

            With a cry from behind them, Tony and his men began to close the gap in that small funnel. There was no way out, and nowhere they could go. They would be stripped of the key and tossed into Hell, and all because George had forgotten to warn John about what he had claimed to have such a keen grasp of to Michael only a short time ago.

            Then George heard small whispers from his friend. “Oh God… please help us!”

            From behind them a blinding light issued, and the two of them felt strong hands pulling them backwards. Tony and his men faltered and scrambled over each other in fear, as a strong voice shouted “Deus Ex Machina!”

            When George finally ventured to open his eyes, he saw that he was inside the elevator, which was moving rapidly upwards. Gabe was staring down at him with a great smile on his face. He looked over and saw that John was having little bits of filth brushed off of him by Michael, who wore his usual scowl.

            They had made it. With help, they had made it out of Purgatory, and out of the jaws of Hell. John was a willing traveler with George, and due to the Right of Ascension, they could stay together as they had been in life. George didn’t care anymore that he hadn’t been told that the elevator worked. He had done what he needed to, and he and his friend were safe. Everything about Heaven had just gotten a good deal brighter.

            After Michael had successful beaten John into a bit better shape, the former resident of Purgatory turned to his friend. “So, now what happens?”

            “We go back to level 263.”

            “And what are we going to do there?”

            “Whatever we please. Everyone you and I have ever known is up there, and they’re going to be that much happier when they see that you made it to. There are films, there’s dancing, huge forums where we can eat or have a drink, places just to socialize and take a break. Pretty much anything you could want.”

            “All that is up there?”

            “Of course. It’s Heaven.”

The End