Chapter Six

Isidora lay down on the operating table. She clenched her fists reflexively, as if preparing for battle. “I’ve asked you before, but just to be sure… you put the thing in our heads, and then we just live out the rest of our lives normally, correct? Because I don’t want to die just yet.”

“Ideally, yes, however, there is a very high risk of complications. But the priest and the scary man are fine; they’re in recovery,” said Dr. Whalen.

The glaring surgical lights above Isidora illuminated the drab, grey operating room. She was surrounded by a team of medical professionals, led by Dr. Whalen. Her heart began to race when she noticed Dr. Whalen’s blood-shot eyes—a tell-tale sign of a night of full-out partying without a wink of sleep. The anesthesiologist yawned. His hair was tousled, his eyes crusty. He pushed aside the medical student who had set up the IV in Isidora’s arm and played around with it painfully. He leaned toward her and she caught a whiff of his morning breath and gagged a little. She watched the IV in her arm fill with general anaesthesia.

“No, no, this is all wrong, Sarah,” the anesthesiologist told the medical student as he continued tugging at the IV. With those words echoing in her brain, Isidora went under.

* * *

“What is ‘all wrong’? I’ll sue you, I swear,” threatened Isidora, upon waking up in the recovery room.

“Seven,” said Quentin, from the bed to her left.

“What?” Isidora said, noticing the curtains on either side of her.

“That’s the seventh time you’ve done that,” said Father Peter from the bed to her right. “Pass out from all the drugs and wake up threatening everyone you’ll sue them. You’re starting to make Karl nervous. He keeps going on about how you can’t sue them, that the agreement we signed is a flawless legal masterpiece.”

“We’re alive?” asked Isidora.

“Yes, we’re fine,” said Quentin. He sat up and pulled the IV out of his arm. “An’ honestly, I don’t feel like spendin’ me next nights here with you people. See you in the afterlife!” He stepped out of bed and collapsed on the floor. Nurses rushed in, heaved him back into his bed, and attached restraints.

* * *

In addition to considering herself a little bit psychic, Darcy McGovern considered herself a little bit religious. Not enough to bother going to church every Sunday morning, but enough to follow the Pope on Twitter, wear a necklace with a golden cross around her neck, and visit the church when she needed to clear her head. Since the Florida trip, she avoided attending Mass since priests made her giggle at the thought of Father Peter, but she liked the paintings, as well as the peace and quiet that empty churches offered. She also believed the environment was good for developing her psychic abilities. She entered her favourite church and dipped two fingers in the holy water at the entrance of the church. She made the sign of the cross, bringing her fingers to her forehead, her chest, and to each shoulder. The water was cold, and she wondered whether it would be a sin to wipe it off her forehead. The smell of wood inside was calming. She took a deep breath as she sat on a bench, preparing herself for a mental conversation with God. Her eyes rested on a particularly bloody scene of Jesus being nailed to the cross.

“Hello, God, it’s me again, Darcy McGovern,” she said aloud unintentionally. She looked around to see if anyone might have heard her. Reassured that she was alone, she carried on.

Hello, Darcy, she felt Him reply.

“I was wondering, do you think Dalton’s experiment is a good idea? A lot of people seem upset about it. There are all those protests outside all the time, and there are all those movements to try and have the virtual afterlife banned. What do you think of all that?”

What do you think I would think of all that?

“I suppose you would think it’s rubbish, that the afterlife is your thing, and that he shouldn’t be trying to compete with you.”

No one can compete with me. I’m literally almighty.

“You sound just like me brother. Anyway, I can’t exactly tell him to stop, this project’s the only thing that’s kept him going since the incident, you know? It’s nice he has a hobby. But it seems a little risky, playing with people’s lives and afterlives. I’m not sure what to do about it, because I always try to be supportive of him. We never had it easy, Dalton and I.”

Sorry about that.

“It’s not your fault. Or maybe it is, but the Christian thing to do is to forgive, so I forgive you. At least Dalton and I have each other, and our health.”

Not your mental health.

“Can’t have it all. Anyhow, if there’s anything I could do to help, without discouraging me brother too much, just send us a sign or something.”

Thank you for letting me in.

“No, thank you. Have a nice day.”

Darcy got up and left the church. She’d only started hearing God when she’d gotten her head injury, so in a way, she considered her fall down the coconut tree a blessing. This belief was strengthened when she’d met Father Peter—he who was at least in part the cause of her accident. It was probably all part of some divine plan, she thought to herself. This thought comforted her as she walked home.

* * *

“All right, you’re free to go,” Dalton told Quentin, Isidora and Father Peter, who were seated in front of his desk. “Enjoy the rest of your lives and I’ll see you when you die. Unless you all outlive me, in which case someone else will be overseeing the experiment.”

The three remained seated expectantly.

“Go along now!” Dalton waved them away.

“And what will you be doing?” asked Isidora.

“Oh, I’ll keep developing the simulated reality. Presently it’s more of a prototype, it looks a lot like the Albert Dock.”

“That’s exactly how Heaven is described in the Bible,” said Father Peter.

“That’s not possible. The Albert Dock didn’t exist when the Bible was written,” said Dalton.

Father Peter grinned. “Haven’t you heard of the pilgrimage?”

“What, to the Albert Dock? No, there’s no such thing,” said Dalton, perplexed. What an ignorant priest! he thought.

Darcy walked into the room. “He’s not serious, love,” she said to Dalton. She sat down next to him and turned to the three subjects. “I thought it would be nice if we could all keep in touch. At the very least, exchange our contact information. I’d love to add you to my list of holiday card recipients. They’re always good fun. Last year, a little reindeer was wearing an ugly Christmas jumper on the front and when you opened the card—”

Quentin got up and started to walk away. Isidora stood up, put her purse on her shoulder and followed him, but Father Peter stayed seated, his eyes glued on Darcy. He grinned broadly as she stopped mid-sentence. Her eyes rolled back, and she slammed Dalton’s desk with both hands. Dalton fell from his chair, startled. Father Peter leaned forward in his chair, his eyes shining with excitement like a spectator at a championship football match.

“Defy my will, defy my command, and evil shall roam the Earth once more. Those led into temptation shall fall, and their souls shall be reclaimed. When the unnatural, the natural, and the supernatural become one, so begins the War of the Heavens.”

Darcy lost consciousness, her head falling between her hands on the desk. Dalton gingerly tapped his sister’s shoulder. She sprang up and was back to her usual self.

“You fuckin’ twins give me the creeps,” said Quentin, standing in the doorway. “I don’t want your bloody demonic Christmas card.” He left, slamming the door behind him.

“What’s demonic about a reindeer in a jumper?” Darcy asked a horror-struck Isidora, who stood as if frozen in place for a moment and did not respond to Darcy’s question. Perhaps they don’t celebrate Christmas, Darcy thought.

Father Peter, though, was still seated in his chair, looking calm and even cheerful. “Nothing is wrong with a reindeer in a jumper, my dear. Whatever puts you in the spirit of the season,” Father Peter told her. “I believe it’s time for us to go, right, Izzy?”

Isidora took a few deep breaths as she regained the power of movement. “Don’t call me that,” she told the priest as she grabbed her purse and rushed out the door. Father Peter stood up and shook hands with Dalton and Darcy before leaving the room.

“They are an odd group,” observed Darcy.

* * *

It was two p.m. in Vatican City and the Pope sat on his bed drinking red wine directly from the bottle with one hand and holding his iPad with the other. For the hundredth time, he was rewatching old videos from the sixties of former President of France Charles de Gaulle comparing Quebec’s situation in Canada to Nazi-occupied France during the Second World War, and declaring Quebec’s need for freedom.

“Vive le Québec libre! Peut-être qu’on serait libre si les Québécois n’étaient pas une gang de lâches!” the Pope yelled at the screen. He was about to throw the iPad to the wall when the screen went blank and then on it appeared a message from God. It made the Pope laugh. He got out of bed, dressed in his casual white outfit with the little round hat and went for a walk in the Vatican Gardens.

“Soon, we all die!” he told three Swiss guards as they crossed paths. They looked at each other, shrugged and carried on.

An Italian cardinal overheard the Pope’s remark and pulled him aside, looking around to make sure no one would overhear their conversation.

“Your Holiness, do you mean the plan has come into effect?”

The Pope nodded. “It’s all going to go down soon.”

“And what about God’s Paladin?”

“He will die any minute now.” The Pope laughed.

“And he still doesn’t know about the plan?”

“He knows about a plan. The plan… no, he doesn’t. I gave him some bullshit plan that I wanted him to test some stupid theory of his.”

The cardinal said nothing but avoided making eye contact with the Pope. It was clear to the Pope that the cardinal was uncomfortable with his decision to lie to Father Peter.

“Don’t feel so weird about it. If Father Peter was not this smug bastard, he figure it out by now.”

The cardinal sighed and nodded. “If it is your will, I trust it is for the best. Your Holiness… this is simply some friendly advice… perhaps a little more discretion would be a good idea.”

The Pope laughed. “Sorry, I am drunk.” He carried on with his walk and took out his phone.

* * *

Quentin was rather looking forward to seeing Edward and Stanley again. While he had been in hospital, they had been in Vatican City, completing all the necessary rituals and paperwork for Stanley’s application to the Exorcist Academy. He had therefore heard very little of them during the past couple weeks. But they’d been back in Liverpool for three days now and he was surprised to feel a warm feeling in his heart at the prospect of their reunion.

He stood outside the front of the door of the flat, digging around in his pockets until he found his keys. There was a soft whimpering behind him and then something cold and hard pressed against the back of his head. A gun barrel. He raised his hands slowly, dropping his keys.

“A few years. A few years behind bars for murdering my husband,” said a woman’s voice. He stared ahead at the door.

“He deserved it, and I’d do it again,” said Quentin. A bullet blasted through his skull and fragmented into several pieces inside his head. A piece of his brain flew back onto the widow and he collapsed to the ground. She looked at the bullet wound. A glowing red light emanated from inside Quentin’s shattered skull.

* * *

Isidora struggled to keep pace with Father Peter as they left the university campus. “Tell me what you know,” she demanded. Father Peter stopped. He smiled, reached toward her and brushed a wayward strand of hair from her face.

“You’ll find out soon enough,” he said. He flagged down a cab and got in, hurriedly closing the door before Isidora could join him. He waved to her as the cab left. She began to walk home, thinking of Darcy’s perplexing outburst in Dalton’s office, not noticing a bloodhound was following her.

Twisted version of the Lord’s Prayer. Defy my will and the command of the Lord. I suppose I’ve done that. Temptation. Temptation to avoid the afterlife, most likely. I suppose it is all very unnatural.

Caught up in her train of thought, she failed to notice that two more bloodhounds were now on her trail.

Unnatural… so the unnatural is Dalton’s experiment. The natural must be… well, normal life. And the supernatural… She thought of the old man. They’ll become one. What does that mean? 

She felt a sharp pain in both her shoulders and a crushing weight pushed her to the ground. She reflexively brought her arms forward, but they were gripped and pulled back before she hit the ground. As her nose hit the cement sidewalk, a crunching sound resonated in her ears. Hounds were at each of her arms, tearing off her flesh and gnawing into her exposed humerus bones. The gnawing and tearing in opposite directions made Isidora feel as though she were being hanged, drawn and quartered. The dog on her back had a paw on each of her shoulders and she could feel the heat of its breath behind her ear. It sank its teeth into the back of her neck.

* * *

Father Peter sat in the back of a cab, calmly waiting to die. He called the Pope. “Hello, Your Holiness. It’s done. I should die any second now. All right. See you around.”

“What the bloody hell is that supposed to mean?” asked the cab driver as they passed through an intersection.

“That,” said Father Peter, pointing to a car that had just run a red light and was headed straight for the left side of the cab where Father Peter was seated. He shut his eyes and prayed for forgiveness. He felt pieces of metal and glass cut through his skin, lips, and eyes. He felt his jaw dislocate, and his teeth flew out of his mouth. His bones twisted and snapped in the most unnatural positions, severing his nerves and ligaments. His rib cage closed in on his lungs and his internal organs burst from the impact of the collision.