Chapter One
“W AKE UP now! We’re on a schedule, you know.”
Shed-yewl? What? Was his mother watching Downton Abbey again?
Brian opened his eyes. He definitely was not in his living room at his parent’s house, and that wasn’t the TV. The first thing he noticed was the light. He was in a room that was entirely white and it was filled with the most indescribable light. It was cool in color like frost, but it sank into him with an oozing warmth like the perfect sunlight on a perfect beach. He smiled, drinking it in. With a content sigh, he gently closed his eyes.
“Now! Wake up!”
A bit annoyed, Brian opened his eyes and looked around. He was standing in a large, round space with a white floor. There were risers on all sides, like at a stadium, but they rose into a brightness so dense he could only sense vague silhouettes. There was a crowd of thousands watching him, or it felt that way. There was a high desk in front of him and a towering apparatus that was all gleaming metal and numbers.
Brian found his voice. “What? Where am I?”
A man peered down at him from the desk. He had thick white hair worn a bit long, but his face didn’t look old. His blue eyes were sharp, impatient, and ferociously intimidating.
“Pay attention,” the man said. “In short: you are dead. Your lifetime as Brian Scott Matheson has come to an end.”
“Huh?”
Wow, this was some crazy dream. Brian shook his head. It felt strangely loose , like the tension he normally carried in his neck from an old softball injury was gone. He held out his arms—they were… glowing.
“Whoa,” Brian said. That must have been one hell of a party.
“You’re not high and this is not a dream,” the man said perfunctorily. “It was a car accident. In the vain hope of saving time: watch.”
The man snapped his fingers impatiently and a semitransparent screen appeared in front of Brian from out of nowhere. On the screen he saw his car, a 1984 gray Mustang with a blue racing stripe, driving down a surface street near campus. He was going a bit fast, as usual. The day was cold and it was sleeting. A vague memory tickled. On my way to the liquor store for beer . Early Halloween party at the house tonight.
Brian watched as he tried to brake at a stop sign and hit ice. His car slid into a busy road in slow motion. He saw himself fighting the wheel, panic on his face. A semi roared toward him, horn blaring. It was like a scene out of an action movie—an action movie that really, really sucked.
“No,” Brian whispered. Fear tingled up his spine.
The truck hit the Mustang, plowing into the driver’s side head on. There were low moans and sounds of sympathy from the invisible peanut gallery in the stands.
Fuck. Gotta be dreaming. That did not happen. This is a nightmare. Wake up, Brian! Any second now I’ll wake up and be sooo relieved. And I’ll never, ever drive fast again. Swear to God. Subconscious fears duly acknowledged; behavior amended.
The cold stone of dread in his stomach, however, whispered, too late .
The man at the desk snapped his fingers and the screen vanished. “Not pleasant to review, I know, but unfortunately we don’t have time to ease you into it.” He spoke coldly, and so quickly Brian could barely keep up. “You died on January twenty-fourth at the age of nineteen. This is your judgment. Now please, step onto the scale.”
Judgment? Scale? What?
Please, please let me wake up.
A short, older man with bushy dark hair, eyebrows like caterpillars, and a craggy face appeared suddenly on Brian’s right. “I’m Brutus. Allow me.” He gently took Brian’s elbow and guided him forward.
The apparatus had a flat metal stand, something like a large doctor’s scale, and a gleaming steel post that ran up to a white readout. The readout flickered and a circle appeared. It looked like a pie chart with a gold area that took up more than three-quarters of the circle, then a section of bright red.
“Go ahead.
“W AKE UP now! We’re on a schedule, you know.”
Shed-yewl? What? Was his mother watching Downton Abbey again?
Brian opened his eyes. He definitely was not in his living room at his parent’s house, and that wasn’t the TV. The first thing he noticed was the light. He was in a room that was entirely white and it was filled with the most indescribable light. It was cool in color like frost, but it sank into him with an oozing warmth like the perfect sunlight on a perfect beach. He smiled, drinking it in. With a content sigh, he gently closed his eyes.
“Now! Wake up!”
A bit annoyed, Brian opened his eyes and looked around. He was standing in a large, round space with a white floor. There were risers on all sides, like at a stadium, but they rose into a brightness so dense he could only sense vague silhouettes. There was a crowd of thousands watching him, or it felt that way. There was a high desk in front of him and a towering apparatus that was all gleaming metal and numbers.
Brian found his voice. “What? Where am I?”
A man peered down at him from the desk. He had thick white hair worn a bit long, but his face didn’t look old. His blue eyes were sharp, impatient, and ferociously intimidating.
“Pay attention,” the man said. “In short: you are dead. Your lifetime as Brian Scott Matheson has come to an end.”
“Huh?”
Wow, this was some crazy dream. Brian shook his head. It felt strangely loose , like the tension he normally carried in his neck from an old softball injury was gone. He held out his arms—they were… glowing.
“Whoa,” Brian said. That must have been one hell of a party.
“You’re not high and this is not a dream,” the man said perfunctorily. “It was a car accident. In the vain hope of saving time: watch.”
The man snapped his fingers impatiently and a semitransparent screen appeared in front of Brian from out of nowhere. On the screen he saw his car, a 1984 gray Mustang with a blue racing stripe, driving down a surface street near campus. He was going a bit fast, as usual. The day was cold and it was sleeting. A vague memory tickled. On my way to the liquor store for beer . Early Halloween party at the house tonight.
Brian watched as he tried to brake at a stop sign and hit ice. His car slid into a busy road in slow motion. He saw himself fighting the wheel, panic on his face. A semi roared toward him, horn blaring. It was like a scene out of an action movie—an action movie that really, really sucked.
“No,” Brian whispered. Fear tingled up his spine.
The truck hit the Mustang, plowing into the driver’s side head on. There were low moans and sounds of sympathy from the invisible peanut gallery in the stands.
Fuck. Gotta be dreaming. That did not happen. This is a nightmare. Wake up, Brian! Any second now I’ll wake up and be sooo relieved. And I’ll never, ever drive fast again. Swear to God. Subconscious fears duly acknowledged; behavior amended.
The cold stone of dread in his stomach, however, whispered, too late .
The man at the desk snapped his fingers and the screen vanished. “Not pleasant to review, I know, but unfortunately we don’t have time to ease you into it.” He spoke coldly, and so quickly Brian could barely keep up. “You died on January twenty-fourth at the age of nineteen. This is your judgment. Now please, step onto the scale.”
Judgment? Scale? What?
Please, please let me wake up.
A short, older man with bushy dark hair, eyebrows like caterpillars, and a craggy face appeared suddenly on Brian’s right. “I’m Brutus. Allow me.” He gently took Brian’s elbow and guided him forward.
The apparatus had a flat metal stand, something like a large doctor’s scale, and a gleaming steel post that ran up to a white readout. The readout flickered and a circle appeared. It looked like a pie chart with a gold area that took up more than three-quarters of the circle, then a section of bright red.
“Go ahead.
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