Better Off Undead Read online

“Bingo.’’

  “So you’ve still got that place?’’ I said.

  “Yes. At least, we’ve got it until yet another new Bishop of Rome wants to flex his muscles by messing with our system.’’

  Trying to get things back on track, I said, “Look, in all fairness, and not suggesting that I deserve special treatment, I have to say that ten thousand years in purgatory seems a little harsh for an unpaid parking ticket.’’

  “Oh, that’s merely one of your sins.’’

  “What are these ’sins’ you’re talking about?’’ I asked. “I know I’m not perfect, but I certainly wasn’t a bad man. I was a good husband and never unfaithful. I was a decent father, even when the kids were teenagers and didn’t exactly inspire feelings of paternal affection. I ran my business honestly, I gave to charity, I recycled . . . Oh, wait a minute. Is God punishing me because I fudged some of the deductible expenses on my business taxes?’’

  “Oh, no, of course not!’’ the saint assured me. “Since the Internal Revenue Service is a tool of Lucifer and its employees are his minions—’’

  “Really? I always suspected as much!’’

  “—the One True God does not frown on mortals who challenge that evil organization’s dominion.’’

  “Ah! So . . . you know how I died, right?’’

  “If you did not die rescuing virgins or puppies, I don’t need to know,’’ said Saint Lucy the Chaste. “It’s irrelevant.’’

  “Not so fast,’’ I said. “I died of a heart attack induced by the stress of trying to clear up yet another IRS screw-up. They were harassing me for not filing taxes that I had indeed filed, and that I repeatedly showed them proof I had filed. One day, after speaking to six bureaucrats in a row who all insisted there was no one in the entire IRS who could help me with this problem, and that they had no supervisors, and that there was no such thing as a complaints department there . . . I got so frustrated and agitated, I had a massive coronary on the spot.’’

  “Oh, so that was you? I heard about that.’’ Saint Lucy the Chaste seemed to warm up to me a bit. “Evil can be so trying to deal with, can’t it?’’

  “You said it, sister. And the bastards are probably harassing my wife, now that I’m dead. Er . . . can I say ’bastards’ here?’’

  “In general, we frown on profanity, but the Lord of Hosts is lenient in instances where it was obviously provoked.’’ The saint patted my hand.

  “So if I may ask, Saint Lucy the Chaste, why do I have to spend so long in purgatory?’’

  “Hmmm, let’s see . . .’’ She referred to her records. “Oh, dear. It appears that you haven’t voted in a national, state, or local election for the past eighteen years.’’

  “I’m being kept out of heaven for that?’’

  “Not voting in a democratic society?’’ she said. “You abandoned a moral duty! For eighteen years!’’

  “Have you seen the candidates we’ve had for the past eighteen years? As a citizen, I refuse to be forced to choose between the lesser of two evils.’’

  “Speaking of evil . . .’’ Lucy frowned as she glanced over my records. “Ah, now I see why you’re going to purgatory for ten large.’’

  “What did I do?’’ I tried to see the entry she was looking at.

  She glared accusingly at me. “You worked for an oil company!’’

  “Huh? No, I ran my own real estate business for thirty years.’’

  “Before that.’’

  “Before that, I was an accountant in a mortgage company.’’

  “Before that.’’

  “Before . . . Oh, wait. You mean . . .’’ I realized what she must be talking about. “Oh, my God.’’

  “Watch your tongue.’’

  “You’re kidding, right?’’ I said.

  “We never kid about taking His name in vain here.’’

  “No, I mean about why I’m going to purgatory.’’

  “We never kid about going to purgatory, either,’’ said Saint Lucy the Chaste.

  “It was a summer internship!’’ I said.

  “At an oil company.’’

  “I was twenty-one years old!’’

  “And working at an oil company,’’ the saint reiterated.

  “For ten weeks! One summer. In their accounting department. I had to get some sort of professional experience on my résumé before graduation if I wanted to find a decent job!’’

  “The follies of youth,’’ said Her Chasteness. “In the end, everyone pays.’’

  “I’m going to purgatory for ten thousand years because of that?’’

  “The Lord God feels ten millennia will give you sufficient time to meditate upon your misguided professional commitment to big oil—’’

  “It was ten weeks!’’ I cried.

  “—in a universe where He provided you with an abundance of alternative energy sources to choose from.’’

  “At ten thousand years,’’ I said, “that’s one thousand years in purgatory for every week I spent on that internship! And I didn’t even learn anything there!’’

  “Sin catches up with everyone in death,’’ Lucy said.

  “Oh, for God’s sake.’’ I saw her expression and added, “Sorry. I’m a little agitated.’’

  She pulled a few papers from her clipboard and handed them to me. “Fill these out. I need to process you.’’

  I looked at the forms. “Ten thousand years. Jesus.’’

  She flinched.

  “Sorry, sorry,’’ I said. “So who’ll be keeping me company in purgatory? A gazillion oil company executives?’’

  “Oh, no,’’ she said reassuringly. “We don’t let their sort into purgatory. They’re routed straight to . . . you know.’’ She pointed down and leaned forward to whisper, “The other place.’’

  “They go straight to hell?’’

  There was a bolt of lightning and a deafening crack of thunder.

  “Wow!’’ I blinked. “I guess that’s another word I’m not supposed to use here?’’

  “It’s considered to be in bad taste.’’

  “So purgatory is full of . . .’’ I shrugged. “Interns?’’

  “It’s full of people who need to meditate on their sins.’’

  “Sounds like a charming place to spend the next ten thousand years,’’ I said morosely.

  The saint gave me a sympathetic look. “Take heart. You’re in eternity now. Ten thousand years isn’t long.’’

  “It sure sounds long.’’

  “No, no, not at all. Most people are in purgatory for much longer than that.’’

  “Really?’’ I said.

  “Oh, yes.’’ She perused my records again. “You see, you really were a good man. If not for that one youthful sin—’’

  “It was an internship.’’

  “—you’d be out of purgatory by his time next week. Even in metric time.’’

  “Jesu—er, gosh! You’re saying that one incident accounts for virtually my entire sentence in purgatory? In that case, I repent! I repent right now. Fully and unconditionally!’’

  “I’m afraid there’s more to penance than that.’’

  “Look at my record,’’ I insisted. “I never worked again in oil after that. I worked in mortgages, then in real estate. I sold affordable homes to hardworking middle class people. I installed solar panels in my own house and drove a hybrid car. I was one of the good guys!’’

  “Yes, but—’’

  “I loathe the oil industry!’’

  “So does Yahweh, but—’’

  “I spit on big oil! Ptooey!’’

  “We don’t spit in heaven.’’

  “We’re not in heaven,’’ I pointed out.

  “Oh, right.’’

  “But in a fair universe, we could continue this conversation there, instead of in purgatory,’’ I said. “Come on, Saint Lucy the Chaste. How about giving a guy a fair break?’’

  “Well . . .’’ She bit her lip, then said, “To be
honest, the Master of the Universe can be a little harsh when it comes to the sins of nonrenewable energy sources.’’

  “Is that a fact?’’

  Saint Lucy the Chaste leaned close to whisper, “It just bothers Him so much that mankind failed what He thought was an easy test of free will. You know. On the one hand, lots of sunshine, it’s right there, and it doesn’t pollute anything. On the other hand, a finite amount of oil, it’s way underground, and it’s pretty hard to wash off egrets. The Lord God thought it was a no-brainer and you people would all make the right choices without a struggle.’’

  “The Lord God didn’t count on profit margins, did He?’’ I said.

  “There’s a flaw in every grand plan,’’ Saint Lucy the Chaste said with a sigh.

  “Look,’’ I said, “I acknowledge that my life was not entirely without sin, but do you think you could cut me some slack?’’

  “Hmmm.’’ The saint tapped her quill pen on her clipboard. “Well . . . all right. I’m really not supposed to do this for anyone who worked in oil, tobacco, or Hollywood, but you seem sincerely repentant, and the rest of your catalogue of misdeeds is fairly minor. So I will file a petition with purgatory management to enroll you in a work-release program.’’

  “Work-release?’’

  “Yes,’’ she said. “Technically, you’ll still be assigned to purgatory, but you’ll only need to check in with them once every metric annum. And if you get a good report from your work detail, you can reduce your sentence by up to sixty per cent.’’

  “So I’d have a chance of getting into heaven in a mere . . .’’ I took deep breath. “Four thousand years?’’

  “Yes. I can see by your expression that you think that still sounds like a long time. But you’ll be doing important work. And time flies when you’re busy. Whereas I’ve heard that time passes rather slowly in purgatory.’’

  “Yeah, I suppose that sitting around and contemplating your misdeeds would tend to make minutes feel like hours.’’ I frowned and asked, “But what does ’work-release’ mean in the afterlife?’’

  “You will return to the earthly plain.’’

  “I’m going to be reincarnated?’’

  “No, that’s a different classification. You will maintain your present, eternal, unearthly form. In performance of God’s work, you will probably come into contact with earthly beings—’’

  “You mean people?’’

  “Yes, people. But you will not go back to being a person.’’

  “What will I be? An angel?’’

  She snorted. “Goodness, no! Only saints become angels, and only with special training.’’ She chuckled at my naiveté.

  “So what will I be?’’

  “People have a variety of names for entities who are on earthly visitations as part of various departmental work-release programs in the afterlife: ghost, spirit, poltergeist—’’

  “Oh, my God! Er, sorry. I mean, those things are real? I thought they were just stories.’’

  Saint Lucy the Chaste sighed. “I’ve been telling Yahweh for metric decades that we need to make the nature of these entities clearer to mankind, in hopes that people would pay more attention to their work. But He’s been in such a snit about global warming, He claims there’s no point in trying to reason with mankind, we’re better off just scaring them.’’

  “So that’s what I’ll be doing? Scaring mankind?’’ I looked down at the puffy white cloud I was standing on. “Boy, I don’t know, Saint Lucy the Chaste. That doesn’t sound like very noble work. I want to reduce my purgatory sentence, but I really don’t want to harass people. Couldn’t I do something a little more like community service? Maybe clean up—’’

  “Hang on,’’ the saint interrupted me. “Message from the Lord God.’’

  “Huh?’’ I looked up and saw a plump, winged cherub fly up to Lucy’s ear to whisper something to her.

  The saint listened for a few moments, while the fluttering of the cherub’s wings made a faint humming sound.

  “Ah-hah! Splendid idea!’’ Saint Lucy smiled at the cherub. “The Maker of All Things always knows best, doesn’t He?’’

  The cherub chirped and giggled, then flew away.

  Saint Lucy the Chaste said to me, “The Lord of Hosts has suggested the perfect work detail for you.’’

  “He knows?’’ I looked around. “I mean, He knows we’re talking about this?’’

  “Of course! He knows everything. He’s omniscient and omnipotent. Also ubiquitous.’’ Lucy added, “He also speaks more than two thousand languages. But I digress.’’

  “He knows I’m trying to reduce the purgatory sentence he slapped on me? And He’s not angry?’’

  “Yahweh gets bad press,’’ the saint said. “He’s much more merciful and forgiving than organized religion would lead one to believe. Since you seem truly repentant about the oil thing, He has suggested a work-release program that I believe you can join with true enthusiasm.’’

  “Which is?’’

  “The Infernal Revenant Service.’’

  “I’m going to be a revenant back on earth?’’

  Saint Lucy nodded. “Your job will be to torment the minions of Lucifer and to protect mankind from them.’’

  “Oh? Hey! That sounds fine. I could feel good about doing work like that.’’

  “Given your own experiences with the spawn of, er, the other place—’’

  “My experiences with who?’’

  “The Internal Revenue Service,’’ she said.

  “Oh. Right.’’

  “Considering that, the Lord God thought this would be the right work-release placement for you. The Infernal Revenants are assigned exclusively to the IRS, and it’s a big job.’’

  “I see,’’ I said.

  “I’ll help you fill out the necessary paperwork in purgatory, and after you’ve served one week there for that unpaid parking ticket—’’

  “That bogus ticket.’’

  “—you can join the Infernal Revenants and start haunting the servants of Satan—’’

  “Otherwise known as the IRS.’’

  “—and wreak havoc on their evil works.’’

  “So what do I do? Rattle chains, fiddle with the lights and electricity, leave messages in blood on the walls, that sort of thing?’’

  “That sounds like a good start,’’ the saint said. “But there’ll be much more work than that before your service culminates in your application for entry into heaven. Yahweh would like to see the Infernal Revenants send the children of Lucifer back to the fires whence they came by the end of this metric millennium. So there are big plans in the making. Your team captain will fill you in on the details when you report for duty.’’

  “Excellent!’’ I said. “The Lord God sure knows His stuff. There’s no work-release detail I’d rather be on. The IRS caused my fatal heart attack, after all! They’re the reason I’m here now instead of vacationing in Hilton Head with my family.’’

  “Ah, but remember,’’ the saint cautioned me. “Haunting the IRS isn’t vengeance. It’s a sacred duty.’’

  “Understood, Saint Lucy the Chaste. Now let’s get started on that paperwork, so I can report for duty!’’

  And whether it’s duty or vengeance, I expect the next four millennia to pass rather quickly now.

  MUMMY KNOWS BEST

  Esther M. Friesner

  “Well, what do you think, Ms. Cyprien?’’ The dapper young man turned off the DVD, sat back against the sofa cushions, and smiled at Ashley. His skin, dark as finely polished mahogany, contrasted dramatically with the soft white leather. “I like to believe that I provide certain additional customer services that our promotional materials simply can’t equal, but every time I show that video to a client, it does my job for me.’’

  Ashley Cyprien crossed, uncrossed, and re-crossed her legs, a nervous habit she’d picked up early in her career when said legs had been the most bankable thing in the young starlet’s life. �
��I—I’m afraid I’m still not sure about all this, Mr. Smith,’’ she said.

  “Smith is so formal. Please, call me Tchet-Ptah-auf-ankh.’’ He leaned forward and kicked his smile-power up a notch.

  “Um . . . I can’t.’’

  He laughed without condescension. “Then call me Chet. Now, how soon would you like to tour our facilities?’’

  Ashley’s legs flailed back and forth once more. “I don’t need to do that.’’

  “Then you’ve decided to go ahead with the transformation as soon as possible? Wonderful! I admire a woman who knows what she wants. I so seldom see beauty, intelligence and determination in one—’’

  “I mean that I don’t need to do that yet.’’ Ashley blushed, loath to interrupt her visitor’s spate of flattery. “I’m still not convinced that your company’s service is something I really want to commit to—’’

  “It’s the brains thing, isn’t it?’’ Chet was suddenly solemn. Ashley didn’t reply. Her involuntary shudder told the story. He nodded sagely. “I thought so. It’s always the brains thing that’s the stumbling block. I said it was a bad idea to put the brains thing onscreen, but you know how it is: in this day and age, most folks already know about it, and there’s always a fuss about truth in advertising.’’ He sighed and rubbed the back of his stylishly shaved head. “At least it was okay to use animation to get the message across. When it’s a cartoon mouse undergoing the procedure, no one runs away screaming.’’

  Ashley lowered her eyes. “I almost did.’’

  Chet’s smile was warm and reassuring. “Almost doesn’t count. Ms. Cyprien, I wish I had a dollar for every one of your fellow actresses who shot out of their chairs even before we got to the brains thing. Some of them ran out of the room, jumped into their cars, and burned rubber getting away, even though I was making my presentation in their own homes! But you! You stayed. You’re a heroine, Ms. Cyprien; a real heroine.’’

  “No, I’m not.’’ Ashley tried to sound embarrassed, but a note of pride crept into her words. “I’m still all grossed out by the brains thing. I know it’s part of your culture, and I respect that—honestly, I do! It’s just so . . . icky. No offense,’’ she added quickly.

  “None taken.’’ Chet stood up and spread his arms wide. “Ms. Cyprien, look at me. Please.’’ He turned around once, slowly, giving her ample time to take in every aspect of his person. He was strikingly handsome, with high cheekbones, a sensuous mouth, a trim, muscular body, mesmerizing dark brown eyes, and the lithe grace of a Bengal tiger. He filled out his Armani suit in ways just this side of legal in some of the less liberal states. “What’s wrong with this picture?’’