Purgatory: The Devil's Game Read online

  “Yep, here it is. You were Baptized at Saint Ignatius church in the Bronx on December 24th, 1999,” she said.

  She kept distracting me with these memories of who I was. I wanted to know more about the being dead part. “Wait, go back to the part about me being dead. What do you mean I’m dead? I feel alive?”

  She grunted, motioning to the shining pearly gates behind her, then said, “Are you really that slow on the uptake?”

  “But I’m an atheist,” I said, slowly remembering what that meant. I didn’t believe in religion or God for that matter. I believed that my time on earth was my time and when it was done, so was the life of Victor Goodspeed. As an aside, it still felt so good to know who I was again.

  “Yes, but you were Baptized,” she countered.

  “What does that have to do with anything?” I asked.

  She grunted again. “Because it means you were given Grace by God as a child. It means that you were and always would be part of the church unless you renounced God. Which, according to my records, you never did.”

  “Huh,” I said in surprise. “So . . . I was wrong?” I asked. “God is real? The Church was right?”

  The young woman grinned. “Oh yeah, you were very wrong. God is real and the church . . . has some things right.” She looked around then leaned forward to speak softly, “You’d be amazed how many priests and preachers get sent to the other place. Nuns as well for that matter.”

  I laughed then quickly stifled it. “So, does that mean I’m going . . . to heaven?”

  She hesitated. “Uh, not exactly.”

  “Oh, then I’m going to the other place?” I asked, swallowing fearfully as I pointed toward the clouds under my feet.

  “Not exactly,” she repeated. “See, you’ve led a decent life. Not necessarily a good life, but not a bad life either. You cheated on your taxes, coveted your neighbor’s wife . . . more than once, held a great deal of hatred for some of your past business partners, and plenty of other sins. You were also involved in more than a few shady business deals with some bad people. On the other side of things, you donated to charities . . . for the wrong reasons. But more importantly, and most impressively, you died. If not for that . . . well, it would be a lot warmer for you right now.”

  I felt horrible with each of the things she mentioned. I always told myself that I wasn’t a bad guy. I was just a money guy. It didn’t matter where that money came from or what those people did to get the money. And like she said, I did give a lot to charity . . . mostly to assuage my guilt, but still, I helped a lot of people with those donations over the years. Hearing that my death was the only reason I wasn’t already in hell confused me . . . again. “How is my death important or impressive?”

  “It was the way you died,” she answered.

  It was then I realized I couldn’t remember dying. Nothing. “How did I die?”

  She winced. “I’m not allowed to tell you. Your death was . . . traumatic. It is best if you don’t remember.”

  “Can you tell me anything?” I asked. I was sure I didn’t want all the gory details, but it would have been nice to know . . . something.

  “You died trying to do the right thing,” she answered as vaguely as possible.

  I felt kind of good about that. I could at least tell myself I died for a noble cause or something. “Hold up, isn’t self-sacrifice supposed to be a one-way ticket to heaven?”

  She answered, “Yes, but you weren’t completely selfless when you died. Again, I can’t give you details. Let’s just say, your death bought you a stay of execution.”

  I wasn’t going to complain about that. I supposed anything was better than eternal damnation, burning in the pits of hell or whatever. “Okay, so if I’m not going to Heaven or Hell, where am I going?”

  “Purgatory,” she answered cheerfully, then as an afterthought and with a giggle, she added, “2.0.”

  “What is Purgatory 2.0?” I asked. My religious knowledge was somewhat lacking.

  She asked, “You know what Purgatory is, right?”

  I nodded, “It’s like Limbo, right?”

  She smiled weakly. “Sort of. That line you were in, that was Limbo. Purgatory is where you go to prove your soul is worthy of moving on to heaven or being condemned to hell. It is one of the eternal battlefields between good and evil.”

  That didn’t sound good to me. Disregarding that there was more than one battlefield, I focused on the fact that there was an eternal battlefield at all. I asked, “Battlefield?”

  “Yeah, you fight for your soul and earn passage to the Silver City. Or you can side with the demons and the souls of the damned, though I don’t recommend it,” she explained.

  “Fight what?” I asked, my voice raising several octaves.

  “Demons and the damned,” she answered.

  I stared at her blankly. I really hoped my face was conveying my disbelief.

  “Anyway,” she continued. “You’ll be going to Purgatory 2.0 where you’ll fight for your own soul. Any other questions before I send you on to Sin City?”

  “Vegas?” I questioned stupidly.

  She laughed. “No, Sin City, or rather Sinner’s City, is where the journey through Purgatory begins. There you’ll be introduced to the system, given a little training, and then sent to fight for your eternal soul.”

  “System? What system? And how is a little training going to help me survive. You may not have noticed but I’m nearly 51 years old. I’m in no shape to fight anyone or anything, let alone the demons of hell,” I demanded loudly.

  “Right, the system,” she said. “I almost forgot to explain that to you. First, if you were to look in a mirror, you would see yourself in your prime. It is one of the perks of dying and going to the afterlife. Depending on your destination, you could arrive at your peak or . . . at your worst.”

  She continued, “Second, regarding the system, did you ever play . . . I think they were called video games . . . did you ever play one? Anyway, it’s a bit like that, or that’s what I was told.”

  I responded, “Ok . . . I know video games. I used to be rather good at video games. So, are we talking World of Warcraft and Elder Scrolls Online? Or are we talking more like Street Fighter and Mortal Kombat? Or Call of Duty and Halo”

  She looked at me with a single raised eyebrow, “I don’t know what those are. I know nothing about old games from your era.”

  Why did this girl insist on confusing me at every turn? “They aren’t that old. They just release a remake of World of Warcraft for VR a few months before I died. I was looking forward to playing once . . . I . . . retired . . . Oh, come on! I was a week away from retiring. I died a week before retiring. That’s some grade ‘A’ B.S.”

  She hummed in thought, “I can’t help the circumstance of your death. As for the games, I really don’t know. You died a long time ago and spent a very long time in limbo.”

  “How long?” I asked. That line, Limbo, did feel strange. Time passed in funny ways, or it felt like it did, but it couldn’t have been hundreds of years, could it?

  “Eh,” she started nervously. “Three . . . thousand-”

  “Three thousand years? I was in there for three thousand years?” I burst out loud, hardly able to believe what I was hearing.

  She winced then tried to finish her original statement, “Three thousand nine hundred and seventy-one years to be exact.”

  Four thousand years? I was trapped in limbo for nearly four thousand years! Was that a joke? “That’s . . . impossible.”

  “It’s called Limbo for a reason,” the young woman tried to console me.

  “What about my family? My son?” I asked.

  She quickly went into her tablet and began searching. A moment later she shook her head. “He . . . was a true atheist. You . . . and your ex-wife . . . he wasn’t Baptized and never joined a Judeo-Christian faith. When his time ended . . . so did he. I’m sorry.”

  I felt the wind suck out of me as if the information struck me like a
physical blow to the stomach. My son . . . John . . . he was just . . . he was gone.

  Looking to the young woman for answers and trying to fight back tears, I asked, “Did he . . . was it peaceful?”

  She at least nodded to that question. “He passed surrounded by family. His daughter never found religion, but his granddaughter did.”

  “And where is she?” I asked, almost afraid to get the answer.

  “She is part of the Heavenly Host. A Soldier of God. She fought her way through Purgatory and chose to be a Soldier when her time to ascend came,” the young woman explained.

  “My . . . great granddaughter has been here for . . . I died before her . . . how is that . . . what?” I stumbled over my words, not exactly sure how to say what I wanted to.

  “Again, you were in Limbo for a long time. Not everyone spends so much time there. Some . . . come directly here, others . . . may never leave limbo,” she explained. “I don’t know exactly what your great granddaughter’s story was, such that she ended up in Purgatory before you, but if you can make it past Purgatory, you’ll have a chance to ask her . . . maybe.”

  It was a goal. But I had more questions. “What if I finish Purgatory and choose to move on to Heaven? Would I still be able to see her? What about other descendants or ancestors? What about my parents?”

  She answered, sounding apologetic, “There are no guarantees that you will find your family in Heaven, nor is it likely you will ever be able to meet any of the Soldiers of the Heavenly Host if you choose to move on to heaven. The Heavenly Host guards the Silver City from demons and the souls of the damned souls. As for the rest of your family line, I am afraid I’ve already exceeded the limit of what is usually permitted. Do you have any other questions?”

  I took a few breaths, trying to process what she just said. I really wished she’d told me there was a limit on questions . . . or rather a limit on questions related to my family. At least I now knew about my son and even my great granddaughter. There was even a chance I might get to meet her someday. I wondered what she was like. Obviously, she was strong, she needed to be if she was a Soldier in the Army of Heaven. “What’s her name?” I asked, then added, “I mean, my great granddaughter, what’s her name?”

  “Sarah, Sarah Goodspeed, named for your mother,” the young woman answered.

  Her answer made me realize something, I hadn’t yet bothered to ask for her name. “And what’s your name? I’m sorry I didn’t ask sooner.”

  “Petra Androvich,” she answered. “Please to meet you. But don’t worry about not asking sooner. It is extremely rare that anyone ever asks. All this,” she paused to wave around her, “is very overwhelming, even for the devout.”

  I nodded, that statement was true enough. I still hadn’t fully come to terms with the fact that I was wrong about . . . well, everything. And now . . . now I was going to be forced onto a battlefield where I’d be made to fight my way through Purgatory. How was I going to fight demons? Petra said I would be trained but . . . what did I know about fighting?

  “Can I die there? I mean, again?” I asked.

  Petra looked solemn as she nodded. “I don’t know all the details, but yes, your soul can be destroyed there.”

  “What about this training? How comprehensive is it?” I asked, trying to find something to put my hopes into.

  “I don’t know,” Petra answered. “We’re not given much information. You will get most of the information once you’re there. I’m sorry I can’t give you more information.”

  “No, it’s alright,” I said. I knew deep down that this was already more than I deserved. But a chance was still a chance. “So, what happens now?”

  “Just tell me you’re ready, and I’ll send you along,” Petra answered.

  “I’m not ready, just to be clear. I don’t think anyone staring down the barrel of a gun is ever ready. But send me along anyway,” I said, mustering whatever courage I could.

  Petra looked at me sadly. “I need you to say the words.”

  I grunted, then reluctantly I said, “I’m ready.” With those two little words everything went dark.

  Chapter 2 – The Evaluation

  Consciousness slammed into me, forcing me up into a sitting position gasping for breath. My eyes were wide open and searching wildly, for what, I wasn’t sure. I was in a large room, lit by torches of all things. Surrounding the room, tall reddish-brown stone pillars spanned the distance from floor to ceiling, which was a few hundred feet above me. Large stone slabs were spaced evenly throughout the room, covering the floor with only a few feet between each. They were blank as near as I could tell in the limited light. It was about then I realized I was laying on top of one of those stone slabs.

  Sound echoed off the stone in regular intervals. It took me a moment to realize it was my own breathing. I was gasping for breath, feeling like a great weight was pressing down on me from all directions.

  I sat for a while, just breathing . . . trying to breathe. Slowly but surely, it was getting easier. Slowly, my breathing calmed. Slowly, it no longer felt like I was trying to breathe underwater.

  The sound of stone grinding on stone drew my attention to the far end of the room. A person stood there, holding a torch above their head.

  “Ah,” the voice of an old man echoed, “Someone new. Well, come on then.” He waved for me to follow.

  I rotated until my legs dangled from the stone slab. With a light push off I was on my feet. There was just enough light for me to look down and see my feet still bore those same sandals. I saw the same cloth pants stopping just below my knees.

  “Hurry up, before the door closes again,” the old man warned, hurrying me along after him.

  I jogged after the old man and was caught by surprise when I saw a little yellow bar appearing in my periphery and it was slowly draining.

  69/70 . . .

  68/70 . . .

  67/70 . . .

  “I said hurry,” the old man snapped as the sound of stone grinding started up again. “Better run.”

  I ran. I ran hard. I pushed myself to run harder as I saw a large stone slab starting to sink downward from above the door.

  65/70 . . .

  62/70 . . .

  58/70 . . .

  Whatever that bar was, it was draining even faster. I didn’t want to know what would happen if it hit zero. I dove across the threshold, under the door with feet to spare. Rolled to look back to make sure my feet had cleared the door when I saw the door had stopped, holding in roughly the same spot as where I crossed the threshold.

  “Hmm, decent Strength, Reflex, and Constitution. But your Recovery is lacking,” the old man said with a huff. “Come on, get up, let’s go.”

  I didn’t immediately move. Why had the door stopped? What was the old man talking about? What was Strength, Reflex, and Constitution? “What about the door? Why did it stop?” I asked, looking to the positively ancient looking human. It was the first I’d gotten a good look at him. He wore brown robes that were far too large for his emaciated looking frame. He didn’t have a lick of hair on his head that I could see, not even eyebrows. He looked jaundiced, or maybe that was scurvy. Either way, it looked like he hadn’t seen the sun in years. I supposed it could have been centuries.

  “And he’s an idiot, why couldn’t they have made Intelligence or Wisdom a stat. It would have made my afterlife so much easier,” the old man groused. “Get up and let’s go.”

  “Go where?” I asked. “And who are you? Please, at least explain what you mean about my stats.”

  The old man sighed. “I am Tanner, but most just call me old man. You don’t need to know where we’re going. Just follow me or I’ll leave you here to find your own way out. As for your stats . . . strength is how strong you are. Reflex is how you react to the environment. And constitution is part of your ability to survive the things that will be trying to kill you. Damage such as that which I may visit upon you if you don’t get moving!”

  I decided then, I really didn
’t like this old man. Still, I followed him. We went up a flight of stairs then another until we were standing in front of a third flight of stairs, where he stopped abruptly and ordered, “Run to the top.”

  “Why?” I asked.

  The old man glared at me then said, “Because I said so. Now go!”

  I frowned and started jogging up. I was maybe three steps up when something slammed into me and sent me tumbling back down. I barely took note of the new red and white bars that appeared in my peripheral or that the red bar now had a 32/60 number overlaying it while the white bar reflected 0/10. I had a feeling that was a bad thing . . . probably both of those were bad things.

  “Ow,” I groaned.

  “Not even three steps,” the old man mumbled, then looking up he asked, “Is this your idea of a joke?”

  Not waiting for an answer, the old man started back down the stairs. “Don’t just lay there, come on.”

  I was afraid to follow him. It seemed he set me up.

  “Hurry up, I don’t have all day,” the old man ordered.

  I groaned in pain as I slowly climbed back to my feet. “We’re dead, I’m pretty certain we don’t have any pressing appointments.”

  The old man snorted. “You might not, but I do. Now hurry up. I’m not going to tell you again.”

  I groaned and held my aching ribs as I followed him back down, each step sending a jolt of pain through my body. As I followed him, I kept glancing at the red bar. In most games, the red bar was related to a character’s health or HP. If that were the case, it meant I was just barely above half. Now the question was whether or not I could regenerate, and what that regeneration would look like. I felt a small amount of relief when I saw the red bar jump to 38/60. Now, I just needed to count the seconds to see how often I regenerated. That was when I saw the white bar had also jumped, it now read 2/10. I had no idea what that white bar was. I hadn’t done anything that would warrant it draining . . . unless it was a kind of natural shield ability I was given. Like I suffered enough damage to break through the shield when I fell and then took extra damage.