Deadline (54 page)

The more he thought, the angrier Doc became.
How could God do this to me? If God was a God of love, he would offer me a way out.

He would not allow himself to realize God’s love had indeed made a way out, and at immense cost to himself. Or to realize this way had been explained to him many times, by one of his best friends and others as well. He had rejected the way. He wanted another way, a way that would not force him to confess to wrongdoing. A way that would recognize and reward his goodness, those he had helped, his contribution to humanity. A way that didn’t require him to crawl on his knees like a sniveling beggar. He would find his own way. He always had before.

Yet even as he said this to himself, he sensed the ropes slipping through his hands. Verses of the Bible he had tried to ignore, thrust upon him by Finney, flashed back into his mind. Jesus said, “I am the way, the truth and the life—no man comes to the Father but by me.” No other way. “Neither is there any other name under heaven given among men, whereby we must be saved.” No other way. It was God’s way or none.

Very well
Doc thought.
Then none it will be.

He would have to make the best of this world. Anything would be better than the alternative. At least there would be no rules and church services and hypocrite evangelists and pansy angels and interminable do-gooder boredom.

The aloneness was becoming stifling. He could hear nothing, feel nothing, see nothing, sense nothing. He had only himself. He considered the unthinkable—that this was not a phase, a part of a transition, but the final destination. That this was hell. Or at least the beginning of hell.

He felt a burning. A fury welled up inside him. Anger and bitterness, unfocused hostility, frustration leading him to lash out. But there was no one to lash out at. No incompetent nurse, no demented patient, no Christian bigot, no wife, no children. And there was no audience to convince he was being treated unjustly. No one to cower in fear at the power of the great athlete, the scholar, the renowned doctor, the skilled surgeon. No one to admire the champion of women’s rights who courageously provided them abortions.

Abortion—there was no longer a lack of clarity, no longer a pretense. It was killing children. He had known all along that’s exactly what it was. What else could it be? The images of mutilated babies consumed his mind.

The pain began to sink in deeper, creating a desperate desire for relief. It was a pain far worse than any he had ever felt before. Doc thought of all the times he had loosely used the word
hell.
“I had a hell of a day in surgery.” “Jake and I raised hell that weekend in Miami.” Even “War is hell.”

No, this was hell; all else paled in comparison. And this was only the first hour of hell, and there was no calendar to check off the days until the sentence was finished. How could he endure even a day, much less an eternal night? How long would tomorrow be? He could not bear the thought of it.

But if he could escape, what was the alternative? Heaven? The thought of being there sickened him. To be under those rules, that constant self-righteous oppression, would be intolerable. More intolerable, even, than this place. Yes, the doors of hell were locked all right, but they were locked from the inside. If God attempted to enter this world, Doc would double bolt the door and put his shoulder against it. This was his place, his world. God had no right to intrude.

Doc thirsted for help, but not redemption. He hungered for hope, but not righteousness. He longed for friendship, but not with those who followed God. He could see in his mind’s eye Dante’s sign that hung over the entrance to hell’s inferno. “Abandon hope all ye who enter here.”

Already his last shred of hope was fleeing from him. He panicked. He had lived by goals and aspirations and hopes. But here there was room for none of these. He had lived by the pursuit of excellence. Here there was no excellence to pursue. Here there was nothing.

Where were the great people Twain said would inhabit hell? There were no great people here. No people at all. No company of the damned with whom to commiserate and strategize an escape, like in all the prison movies. Commiseration is the one desirable element of suffering, and hell had nothing desirable to offer. No camaraderie. No family. No sports, no music, no movies. Not even a television to watch a sitcom or laugh at those phony preachers.

Doc had fantasized that if there was a hell, it would be like a pirate ship where the most shrewd and powerful would rise to the top. Better to be a captain in hell than a harp strumming eunuch in heaven. If there were Hiders and child murderers here, which he doubted, he would just stay away from them. He would find the great men of hell, join their fraternity, work his way to the top. Yet even as he thought this, he sensed it was not true. He would never again see another human being. Except one day there would be a long and terrible line leading to judgment.

The God he insisted did not exist, and he did not want or need, had granted him his wish—to have him once and for all out of his life. He realized now there was no life without the Creator and Sustainer of Life. This was existence, not life. This was eternal death. For a moment Doc was filled with grief, but it was quickly replaced with anger and outrage, much deeper than before. How dare God do this to him?

Suddenly he heard a sound, a terrible sound, so awful it proved him wrong when he’d thought that any sound would be welcome. It was an almost human sound, but more like an animal writhing in agony. A sound of moaning building to a horrible scream. It went on and on, torturing him, its only consolation the fact that someone or something else must be here with him.

Suddenly he realized the terrible truth—the scream was his. He was still alone, and there could be no comfort in this hideous scream. The animal nature of it shocked him. He had once put his hope in the thought that he was but an animal, a higher one, but he’d always known he was something more. Now he felt he was becoming something less.

He had rejected heavens call to selflessness for hell’s call to selfishness. And why not? What could matter more than self? He would not let go of himself, entrust himself to the will of another. He wanted to set the ground rules, for himself and others. He wanted control. But now he felt out of control. No one was reporting to him. When he still had opportunity to choose, he had chosen a path he could not turn back from now.

He would gladly spit in the face of God, if only he could do it without looking at him. To look at that face would be hell itself. He could not imagine even a moment in his presence. He longed for relief, yet said to himself, “If the door to heaven were opened I would run from it. No hell could be worse than the hell of hearing narrow-minded Christians say ’I told you so.”’

In his mind’s eye, from what source he did not know, he could now see that coming day of change from the state he now found himself in. He saw a great kingdom, a thousand year reign of unparalleled peace on earth. But the one who ruled was … no, it could not be. The carpenter from Nazareth? The self-proclaimed God of the Christians? And with him, ruling with him, were none other than the Christian bigots themselves. How could this be? What gave them the right to control and oppress the inhabitants of the world?

And at the end of that thousand years, he could see a great parade. No, not a parade. A march. A march of criminals, prisoners of an oppressive government, champions of freedom unjustly accused, going one by one in front of a great white throne. He could see himself marching along with many others, each to stand before a terrible judge, a tyrant, a despot. They were no doubt to be punished for their progressive ideas.

Doc saw many ordinary people. No one seemed to recognize him. He did not stand out from the crowd. He was just another person. No one else cared. Every mind was directed inward at itself and its plan to deny or escape or accuse or blame others for its choices.

But no denial would work, for Doc could see great books being opened, books that had accurately logged every thought and word and deed. These books were what would determine his future, and he realized they contained adulteries, lies, and betrayals of his wife and children, as well as neglect and failure to guide them into truth and integrity. But he had given them plenty of material things that should more than compensate, he was sure, if the Judge was fair. Doc would defend himself before the court of heaven. He would appeal to the jury, a jury of his peers, and they would be won over by his eloquence. They would let him off.

But hard as he looked, he couldn’t locate a jury anywhere. Only the Judge.

There was one Book beside these other books. It was written in a strange language, but somehow he could read it. The Lamb’s Book of Life. It contained the names of people who were as guilty as all the others, but who would be pardoned because they had bowed their knees to One who had been slain for their crimes. Doc could see many names in that book, names of people from every nation. A few he recognized. There was Finney’s, and each member of his family. Why were some names there and others not? This was intolerable discrimination.

His name was not there. He had made sure it would not be. Why would he want it to be? He was glad he had not seen Jake’s name either, though he knew he’d seen but a tiny fraction of the names there.
At least Jake and I will be together
, he thought, he hoped. As soon as he thought it he realized it was not true. Even if they were together in hell, it would be in utter misery. But misery loves company, and there was love of nothing in hell. Even if Jake were here they would not be together. He was alone. All alone. For eternity. Grief and rage warred with each other for control of his mind. Hell was not just confinement, but a growing cancer, gnawing at him, eating away at him, devouring him.

The most frightening thing in the scene that ran through his mind was people bowing their knees before the One who sat on the throne. The sheer power and magnitude of the Judge seemed to fall upon them, and every knee bowed, not out of repentance or loving submission, but out of inability to bear the weight of judgment laid upon them. Doc shuddered at the thought of his knee touching the ground before such a tyrant. No. He would not allow it. And yet … many once mighty men further up in the line were falling to their knees in terror.

The future scene vanished from his mind as inexplicably as it had come. He turned his memory to his days on earth, but panicked as he found it increasingly hard to remember what had happened there. He wanted to, for memories of what he had accomplished, things he had done, awards he had won, were at least a distraction, something to occupy his mind, a sort of solace. But everything was closing out on him, leaving nothing but the desperate reality of the moment.

He wanted to think of something else, anything else. But all he could think of was timeless unending aloneness. An eternal fire fueled by hate and bitterness and … yes, and bigotry toward those he had loved to call bigots, hate toward those he had called hatemongers. He rejected all that was not himself. And all that was left was himself, a shrinking shriveled version of himself that could not thrive without the presence of the Other he so despised. Now, finally, the self he had loved he began to despise.

Words from the past haunted him. “But the fact is, there is a God and you will stand before him.” No! The thought of suicide came to him. Physician-assisted suicide, he mused, still thinking of himself as a doctor, though there was no one here to heal, neither was there the power to heal.

Yes, I’ll end this. I’ll just go to sleep. I’ll cheat death and hell.

He had no tool with which to inflict harm on himself, nor did this body, though capable of great suffering, seem capable of being harmed. His body was like a bush that burned but was not consumed. The pain that could neither end nor be relieved seared his mind, now in a fearful craze.

Thirst without water to quench it. Hunger without food to satisfy it. Loneliness without company to assuage it. There was no God here. He’d gotten his wish. On earth he’d managed to reject God while still getting in on so many of the blessings and provisions of God. But it was now clear, excruciatingly clear, the absence of God meant the absence of all God gives. No one could have good without the God who is the source of all good. No God, no good. Forever.

Doc was overwhelmed with the horror of it all. Doctor Gregory Lowell had wanted a world where no one else was in charge, where no order was forced upon him. He had finally gotten it.

He missed the sound of laughter. There was no laughter here. There could be no laughter where there was no hope. The awful realization descended on him that there was no storyline here. No opening scene, no developing plot, no climax, no resolution. No character development. No travel, no movement. Only constant nothingness, going nowhere. This was Doc’s first day in hell. And he knew, despite every protestation erupting from within him, that every day would be the same, and of his days here there could be no end. Excruciating eternal boredom. It was all so terribly unfair.

For a moment he longed to be in heaven, to be in the very presence of God. But he could not allow this God-hunger to continue. He could not face God’s existence, much less his goodness and justice, and the commentary it made on all the inexorable choices that had shaped his life in the other world, and determined his destiny here.

A wave of something came across him. He sensed it was some extension of the presence of an omnipotent God, like a wind blowing through the deserts of hell. It was the same presence that in heaven caused men to be filled with joy and awe and love. But here even God’s love felt like wrath and his joy like torture. The consuming fire of God that was purity and goodness and comfort to those who loved the light was blinding searing punishment to those who loved the darkness. The same fire of God that was life-giving warmth in heaven, drawing all to huddle around it rejoicing, here was a destructive life-consuming inferno compelling all to flee in terror.