I stare into the room, unsure of what I should be doing. A few others stand with me, clearly unable to process what’s going on.
The rest of our row react in their own unique ways:
A small prayer circle forms on the Seraphim mat, I can’t make out what they’re saying but it seems to be some type of mantra.
Some peruse the books, those that are in English at least. They would seem calm if not for the constant tapping of their feet and snapping of their fingers.
A small group are idly chatting by the fire; the topics of the day are death and post-punk.
And a final couple are grunting beside the bookshelf. “Testing their new bodies” they say. I try not to look, but get more glimpses than I would’ve liked.
Despite the variety of responses present in the room, not a single person here displays the requisite amount of terror for the situation at hand. Not a single soul seems more than a little disturbed at the fact that we all just died and were revived.
Then again, who am I to talk? To an outside observer I probably just look slightly bored, a bit miffed maybe.
My daze is interrupted by a gentle tap on the shoulder. It’s the software engineer from earlier.
I begin greeting them, “Hi!”, I wave, before having the sudden and embarrassing realization that I don’t actually know their name. “uhh…, what was your name again?”
They awkwardly clasp my hand from the air and shake it vigourously. “It’s Vladimir; not any of the famous ones, don’t worry!” They say, grinning.
I don’t find the joke particularly funny, and my face clearly shows it. They stumble.
“Uh, so anyway. These people sure seem to know what’s up.” They say, gesturing into the middle of the prayer group and the overly familiar couple.
“Are you… hitting on me? I have a husband.” I reply, raising one and a half eyebrows - It’s been about three decades since anyone bothered to hit on me. I’m honestly somewhat honoured, but I still have an oath to keep -
They stammer back: “What no, I have one too, I just mean!-”. They turn their head back towards their hand, and instantly see their mistake.
“Oh no, I meant the prayer circle, not those guys. Our relationship’s somewhat open, but I’d never do it in the middle of a room like this…”
I raise my eyebrow.
“Anyway, what I meant is-”
I feel the urge to interrupt them again - this tangent is infinitely more entertaining than anything else I’ve experienced since my really-quite-fucking-timely demise. And more than anything, it’s got the existential dread out of my head for a minute - but I let it pass.
They continue, blissfully unaware of my rich inner world. “Those religious guys sure were right huh? And to think, I had all my chips on the whole ‘permanent and irreversible death’ thing. Really would’ve gotten around to deleting my browser history if I knew this would happen.”
“Weird pornography?” I ask.
“Nah”, they reply, “Pages and pages of runescape wiki, my husband thought I was working from home; but I did a tonne more grinding than I ever did programming.”
I chuckle, “’A bit harder to pull off as a nurse, last time I played an mmo at work I cut a patient’s nose off.”
Their mouth goes agape; I smile; They laugh in return.
“But anyway,” I continue, “I’m not so sure they are right. Does this place look like any religion you’ve ever heard of? I don’t remember Judah saying anything about powerpoint introductions; and the buddha knows I don’t exactly spend my free time calling upon Dharmakara, so this could hardly be a pure land.”
This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.
“Whoever they’re praying to,” I finish, “They don’t live here.”
The circle goes quiet, and a woman about a head taller than me sits up and walks over.
“Our circle contains people of all faiths”, she starts, “we’re not stupid, I’m a Muslim and Sarah over there”, she points to someone in the circle, “is Hindu. At least one of us ought to be rotting in hell right now-”
“NAH MATE, MAYBE YOU GUYS GOT IT WRONG, BUT I WAS ON THE BLOODY MARK”, a woman in the circle shouts in our general direction.
“...Ok, well Greg was a universalist, and xi’s got something of a stick up xir arse about it. But the point remains,” she continues, clearly a bit grumpy at the interjection, “We might’ve been wrong about some of the details, but every single person in our circle was right about one fundamental fact: Life continues after death. And from where I’m sitting, or was sitting at least,” she gestures once again towards the circle - this is quickly becoming a habit of hers - “that puts us one step ahead of atheists like youse. Once we reconcile the details of our holy books, we’ll be the privileged few to witness universal truth in its purest form.”
She maneuvers into a rehearsed closer, an almost predatory smile flashes on her face and her hawk-like eyes bolt themselves onto mine. She must’ve worked sales. “But even atheistic worldviews like yours surely contain a grain of the absolute truth. So you’re welcome to join in if you want.”
She moves in close, and reaches out her hand. It’s aggressively close to mine, she thinks she’s won.
Vladimir slowly backs away, the moment they’re out of this conversations event horizon they dash for the bookshelf, where they participate in the literary equivalent of pretending to sleep so your mum doesn’t realize you’re awake.
I, on the other hand, give it a solid think.
“What I need,” I reply, “Is some sort of evidence. The whole afterlife thing is impressive and all, but it’s only one data point.”
I move in closer to her. The distance is getting somewhat awkward, but I feel compelled to do so for dramatic effect.
“If you guys can get together before we leave this room, and give me one solid prediction of what the outside world looks like, how this afterlife we find ourselves in functions, I’ll join your group.” I say, reaching out my hand for a shake.
Our hands can’t be further than a few centimetres apart at this point.
She shakes it, thanks me, and takes back off to her group.
I spend the next ten or so minutes standing near Vladimir, pretending to read what is presumably only the finest of supernatural waiting room literature, but mostly occupied by the shouting I hear coming from the prayer circle.
Soon enough, the members of the prayer circle approach me, each with a small piece of paper in their hand.
They form an orderly queue and begin handing over their predictions. I start counting, by the time they’re done, I count nine prayer circle members and ten slips of paper. I begin to consider whether this whole afterlife thing is some sort of elaborate setup, and whether I’m going to cease existing after this obvious punchline.
After politely thanking them for their effort, I read their slips:
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1) Those who have done sufficient good have been allowed into the afterlife. After we die, we will be reincarnated back into the earth.
2) Those who have done sufficient good have been allowed into the afterlife. After we die, we will be reincarnated into another heaven, as long as we have done sufficient good deeds.
3) Those who have done sufficient good have been allowed into the afterlife. After we die, we are forever erased from reality, never to return.
4) All dead human beings have been allowed into the afterlife. After we die, we will be reincarnated back into the earth.
5) All dead human beings have been allowed into the afterlife. After we die, we will be reincarnated into another heaven.
6) All dead human beings have been allowed into the afterlife. After we die, we are forever erased from reality, never to return.
7) All dead living creatures have been allowed into the afterlife. After we die, we will be reincarnated back into the earth.
8) All dead living creatures have been allowed into the afterlife. After we die, we will be reincarnated into another heaven.
9) All dead living creatures have been allowed into the afterlife. After we die, we are forever erased from reality, never to return.
10) “Good People” believe themselves inherently so. This place serves exactly one purpose. To show “Good People” that they are anything but. This place exists to separate the wheat from the chaff, but there is only chaff.
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While I’m busy contemplating how to explain “Hypothetico-deductability” to religious nuts 1 through 9, a small man with a large beard grows out of thin air in the middle of the room. Once he hits full size (still significantly smaller than most of us), he falls, and makes a loud cracking sound as his head hits the floor.
I sprint over, thoughts of how the fuck that happened kept at bay by years of medical training. If our new biology is anything like our old one, he’s gonna be in the midst of a concussion by now.
Instead, just as I get within arms reach of him, he jumps up, makes a v sign with his hand, and places it across his right eye.
“Hee-llooo everyone!~” He pirouettes on the spot, “I’m Erik the spymaster!”
“Oops!” He exclaims, “I wasn’t meant to say that part…” His hands cover his gasping mouth.
“In about thirty seconds your doors will start opening. Have fun! This is a test, and failure means death.” He enunciates death and test in the cutesiest way possible, despite the foreboding meaning of those words. “Jaa-maata!” he finishes, in a thick South African accent, before disappearing back into the aether.