Abandon All Hope
Aug. 13th, 2011 06:33 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
hwrnmnbsolThe line snaked back as far as the eye could see. Naked, dispirited men and women stood closely spaced, almost touching, in an uneven queue that stretched back along the dusty trail. The landscape of the bleak, treeless wilderness wasn't perfectly flat, and there were dips and rises for the trail to flow over. At the first rise back, the individual people in the line were still distinguishable; by the second rise they were so far distant as to be faceless and featureless, swimmy images in the hot air; at the third rise back one could see only a continuous pale stripe crawling over the horizon.
Every so often the line crept forwards. Step by step the people moved up the line, usually only one shuffling step every minute or so. Pulses of movement slithered back along the line, waves semi-regularly spaced along its length. Most of the people in the line were entirely numb, and they only moved when the person ahead of them moved. A few type-A personalities looked forward impatiently, craning their necks to see around those in front, trying to gauge how long it would be before they reached the gate.
The gate was a simple archway, a classic pile of fitted stones, shaped and joined in the Roman way, without mortar in the joints. It was surprisingly simple and economical for such an important entrance, for this was the gateway to Hell, as reported with moderate accuracy by Dante Alighieri. When a person passed through the archway they disappeared from sight, although the bleak wasteland seemed to continue on the other side. All persons knew very well where they were headed, but there was surprisingly little resistance and no balking of the line. Nobody cried and sobbed and refused to go; nobody broke ranks and ran. Where was there to run to? This was moving on, something the dead were generally eager to do.
Nevertheless, the dead were not entirely obedient of all the rules. For this reason the gate was staffed by the grey men, and it was their ministrations that kept the line from moving more quickly. As efficient as they were, never has more human energy or ingenuity been expended than on the movement of contraband, and never has that been more true than after the mortal coil has been abandoned.
Roger shuffled up to the front of the line. He was met by a gaggle of grey men. They wore grey sport coats with grey ties, and white shirts with a thin grey stripe. They had matching smoky grey saddle shoes and kid-leather gloves. Two grey men patted Roger down while a third asked the questions.
"Anything to declare?" asked the man. Roger solemnly shook his head.
"You left behind all your worldly possessions when you vacated the premises, right?" Roger nodded. Of course 'vacated the premises' meant dying; everybody knew that.
The grey man frowned suspiciously. "Open up your mouth," he said.
Roger blinked reluctantly. One grey man seized Roger's jaw and prised it open; another fished around in his mouth. He came out with two copper pennies and showed them to the interrogator.
"What's this, then?" asked the grey man.
"For my eyes," Roger said quietly.
"Okay, first of all, transit is free now; it's supported by taxpayer dollars. That's been true for millennia, and don't pretend you don't know that. Second, you know you can't take it with you. That's the law. Do you understand that?" Roger nodded passively.
"All right. We're confiscating these; they'll be donated to the Red Cross. Anything else?"
Roger broke down and wept. "I don't belong here," he sobbed. "Really I don't."
The grey man was sympathetic. "I know," he said. "I don't think you're a bad guy."
"I'm not!" Roger blew his nose on the proferred grey handerchief. "I never really did anything bad in my whole life!"
"Nothing super bad," the grey man agreed. "No worse than most. Better than a few."
"Then why?" asked Roger. "Why all this; why??"
"I don't know," the grey man said frankly. "It's not my department. I don't have the answers; I don't even know what's on the other side of that gate. I only know that you have to go, and just you – nothing else." He snapped his fingers.
"Let's get the beam over here," he said.
A grey man approached wearing an apparatus. He wore a heavy pack on his back, and there was a nozzle joined to it by a wide corrugated hose; it looked a little like a leaf blower. But when he turned it on, a beam came out of the end, and wherever he shone the beam, Roger's flesh turned translucent. The grey man played the beam methodically over Roger's body, showing nothing but clear flesh and the dusty landscape visible on the other side. But when he got to Roger's stomach, something else showed up. It was a thin pool of liquid, glowing golden at the bottom of Roger's belly. There couldn't have been more than a tablespoon of the stuff all told. The interrogator sighed.
"Oh, Roger," he said wearily. He pointed up to the arch of the gate. A sign hung there that read: ABANDON ALL HOPE, YE WHO ENTER HERE.
"I need that," Roger said defensively. "To get me through eternity."
"You can't have hope in Hell, Roger," said the grey man, firmly, but again with sympathy. "It's no good to you there. I'm going to have to ask you to spit that out."
"But why?" repeated Roger, tearing up again.
"Because you're taking hope out of the world," replied the grey man. "It's a precious resource, you know. There's little enough of it as it is to go around. When the dead take hope with them, even in small quantities, that's hope that's lost to the world of the living. And that's not fair, Roger. Now spit it out." The grey man's voice turned hard. "ALL of it."
With infinite reluctance, Roger turned to the side. A grey man stood there holding a small silver bucket. Roger bent his head over it and heaved. The golden fluid jetted out his mouth and into the bucket, a projectile vomiting of hope. It pooled at the bottom of the bucket and made strange shapes, rolling along the smooth surface like beads of mercury.
"Now is that really everything, Roger?" asked the grey man, holding Roger by the shoulders and looking him directly in the eye.
"That's all," said Roger dully. "That's everything."
The grey man smiled. "Good," he said. "I think you're ready." He stepped to one side.
Roger shuffled forward to the arch and looked up. He took a deep breath.
"Good luck, Roger," said the interrogator. The other grey men nodded. Roger swallowed and stepped forward. He disappeared. The line shuffled forwards.
The grey man with the bucket took it over to a cooler and opened the lid. There were several Erlenmeyer flasks inside, capped with squares of tinfoil. The grey man lifted one of the tops and carefully poured the hope inside. It poured in with the rest of the hope that they had collected. The flask was almost full. The grey man replaced the foil lid and turned to address the rest of his kind.
"I'm going to make a run," he called. He closed the cooler and lifted it by the handles. He took a single step and found himself elsewhere.
This time there was no dusty landscape. A clean, well-lit corridor stretched thirty yards down and turned a corner. The flooring was glossy white vinyl tiles, and the walls were painted a faint lavender. A Bee Gees song was playing at low volume. At the near end of the corridor, the hall ended in a doorway. There was a sign over the door that read WELCOME.
The corridor was full of black old-fashioned perambulators, each one pushed by a grey man. Inside each was a tiny baby – a newborn, or rather a not-quite-born. They all were swaddled and had tiny grey hats to keep their heads warm. The perambulators were in a line, and much like the other queue, it moved forwards in fits and starts.
The grey man carried his cooler up to the head of the line. There another grey man stood wearing a grey nurse's cap. He had an eyedropper, and for every baby that came forwards, he reached behind him, filled his dropper from a tub of the golden stuff, and squirted it into that baby's mouth. Then the baby was wheeled through the doorway and disappeared.
The grey man with the cooler refilled the tub with the contents of his Erlenmeyer flasks. "Looks like you were running low," he observed.
"Yeah," agreed the nurse. "Lots of babies, every day lots more babies, and they all get their dose."
Another baby came to the head of the line. Her eyes struggled to focus on the approaching eyedropper, and the baby frowned.
"What's this?" she asked, her voice high and breathless, like the wheeze of a squeaky toy.
"It's hope," said the nurse. "It's good for you." He squirted it into the baby's mouth. She made a face.
"I don't know if I like it," she said.
"It'll help to get you through," answered the nurse.
"How come?" asked the baby as she was wheeled forwards.
"Don't know," answered the nurse. "Not my department. But good luck!" He waved as the baby disappeared.
The two grey men looked down into the silver vat. The surface of the liquid was still very low. The nurse whistled.
"We'll get more," his companion promised. "I don't know where, but we'll get more."
"You'll have to," replied the nurse. They looked down the long line of babies, wrapping around the corner, and the next corner after that, and all the other corners as well.
Every so often the line crept forwards. Step by step the people moved up the line, usually only one shuffling step every minute or so. Pulses of movement slithered back along the line, waves semi-regularly spaced along its length. Most of the people in the line were entirely numb, and they only moved when the person ahead of them moved. A few type-A personalities looked forward impatiently, craning their necks to see around those in front, trying to gauge how long it would be before they reached the gate.
The gate was a simple archway, a classic pile of fitted stones, shaped and joined in the Roman way, without mortar in the joints. It was surprisingly simple and economical for such an important entrance, for this was the gateway to Hell, as reported with moderate accuracy by Dante Alighieri. When a person passed through the archway they disappeared from sight, although the bleak wasteland seemed to continue on the other side. All persons knew very well where they were headed, but there was surprisingly little resistance and no balking of the line. Nobody cried and sobbed and refused to go; nobody broke ranks and ran. Where was there to run to? This was moving on, something the dead were generally eager to do.
Nevertheless, the dead were not entirely obedient of all the rules. For this reason the gate was staffed by the grey men, and it was their ministrations that kept the line from moving more quickly. As efficient as they were, never has more human energy or ingenuity been expended than on the movement of contraband, and never has that been more true than after the mortal coil has been abandoned.
Roger shuffled up to the front of the line. He was met by a gaggle of grey men. They wore grey sport coats with grey ties, and white shirts with a thin grey stripe. They had matching smoky grey saddle shoes and kid-leather gloves. Two grey men patted Roger down while a third asked the questions.
"Anything to declare?" asked the man. Roger solemnly shook his head.
"You left behind all your worldly possessions when you vacated the premises, right?" Roger nodded. Of course 'vacated the premises' meant dying; everybody knew that.
The grey man frowned suspiciously. "Open up your mouth," he said.
Roger blinked reluctantly. One grey man seized Roger's jaw and prised it open; another fished around in his mouth. He came out with two copper pennies and showed them to the interrogator.
"What's this, then?" asked the grey man.
"For my eyes," Roger said quietly.
"Okay, first of all, transit is free now; it's supported by taxpayer dollars. That's been true for millennia, and don't pretend you don't know that. Second, you know you can't take it with you. That's the law. Do you understand that?" Roger nodded passively.
"All right. We're confiscating these; they'll be donated to the Red Cross. Anything else?"
Roger broke down and wept. "I don't belong here," he sobbed. "Really I don't."
The grey man was sympathetic. "I know," he said. "I don't think you're a bad guy."
"I'm not!" Roger blew his nose on the proferred grey handerchief. "I never really did anything bad in my whole life!"
"Nothing super bad," the grey man agreed. "No worse than most. Better than a few."
"Then why?" asked Roger. "Why all this; why??"
"I don't know," the grey man said frankly. "It's not my department. I don't have the answers; I don't even know what's on the other side of that gate. I only know that you have to go, and just you – nothing else." He snapped his fingers.
"Let's get the beam over here," he said.
A grey man approached wearing an apparatus. He wore a heavy pack on his back, and there was a nozzle joined to it by a wide corrugated hose; it looked a little like a leaf blower. But when he turned it on, a beam came out of the end, and wherever he shone the beam, Roger's flesh turned translucent. The grey man played the beam methodically over Roger's body, showing nothing but clear flesh and the dusty landscape visible on the other side. But when he got to Roger's stomach, something else showed up. It was a thin pool of liquid, glowing golden at the bottom of Roger's belly. There couldn't have been more than a tablespoon of the stuff all told. The interrogator sighed.
"Oh, Roger," he said wearily. He pointed up to the arch of the gate. A sign hung there that read: ABANDON ALL HOPE, YE WHO ENTER HERE.
"I need that," Roger said defensively. "To get me through eternity."
"You can't have hope in Hell, Roger," said the grey man, firmly, but again with sympathy. "It's no good to you there. I'm going to have to ask you to spit that out."
"But why?" repeated Roger, tearing up again.
"Because you're taking hope out of the world," replied the grey man. "It's a precious resource, you know. There's little enough of it as it is to go around. When the dead take hope with them, even in small quantities, that's hope that's lost to the world of the living. And that's not fair, Roger. Now spit it out." The grey man's voice turned hard. "ALL of it."
With infinite reluctance, Roger turned to the side. A grey man stood there holding a small silver bucket. Roger bent his head over it and heaved. The golden fluid jetted out his mouth and into the bucket, a projectile vomiting of hope. It pooled at the bottom of the bucket and made strange shapes, rolling along the smooth surface like beads of mercury.
"Now is that really everything, Roger?" asked the grey man, holding Roger by the shoulders and looking him directly in the eye.
"That's all," said Roger dully. "That's everything."
The grey man smiled. "Good," he said. "I think you're ready." He stepped to one side.
Roger shuffled forward to the arch and looked up. He took a deep breath.
"Good luck, Roger," said the interrogator. The other grey men nodded. Roger swallowed and stepped forward. He disappeared. The line shuffled forwards.
The grey man with the bucket took it over to a cooler and opened the lid. There were several Erlenmeyer flasks inside, capped with squares of tinfoil. The grey man lifted one of the tops and carefully poured the hope inside. It poured in with the rest of the hope that they had collected. The flask was almost full. The grey man replaced the foil lid and turned to address the rest of his kind.
"I'm going to make a run," he called. He closed the cooler and lifted it by the handles. He took a single step and found himself elsewhere.
This time there was no dusty landscape. A clean, well-lit corridor stretched thirty yards down and turned a corner. The flooring was glossy white vinyl tiles, and the walls were painted a faint lavender. A Bee Gees song was playing at low volume. At the near end of the corridor, the hall ended in a doorway. There was a sign over the door that read WELCOME.
The corridor was full of black old-fashioned perambulators, each one pushed by a grey man. Inside each was a tiny baby – a newborn, or rather a not-quite-born. They all were swaddled and had tiny grey hats to keep their heads warm. The perambulators were in a line, and much like the other queue, it moved forwards in fits and starts.
The grey man carried his cooler up to the head of the line. There another grey man stood wearing a grey nurse's cap. He had an eyedropper, and for every baby that came forwards, he reached behind him, filled his dropper from a tub of the golden stuff, and squirted it into that baby's mouth. Then the baby was wheeled through the doorway and disappeared.
The grey man with the cooler refilled the tub with the contents of his Erlenmeyer flasks. "Looks like you were running low," he observed.
"Yeah," agreed the nurse. "Lots of babies, every day lots more babies, and they all get their dose."
Another baby came to the head of the line. Her eyes struggled to focus on the approaching eyedropper, and the baby frowned.
"What's this?" she asked, her voice high and breathless, like the wheeze of a squeaky toy.
"It's hope," said the nurse. "It's good for you." He squirted it into the baby's mouth. She made a face.
"I don't know if I like it," she said.
"It'll help to get you through," answered the nurse.
"How come?" asked the baby as she was wheeled forwards.
"Don't know," answered the nurse. "Not my department. But good luck!" He waved as the baby disappeared.
The two grey men looked down into the silver vat. The surface of the liquid was still very low. The nurse whistled.
"We'll get more," his companion promised. "I don't know where, but we'll get more."
"You'll have to," replied the nurse. They looked down the long line of babies, wrapping around the corner, and the next corner after that, and all the other corners as well.
