“But I am being forced to go to Hell.”
“You did that all on your own,” he countered.
“But I was sick.”
“That does not matter.”
“But I was defending myself.”
“That, too, does not matter. Rules are rules, Jocelyn. They exist for a reason. This is a rare gift He gives. Whatever you choose, understand its value and realize how truly blessed you are.”
She couldn’t let it go. “But it’s so unfair,” she said, realizing she’d already tried to make that point.
Metatron seemed to be the embodiment of infinite patience. “Yes, it is, but fairness is a mortal notion. It is a side effect of mortality. It may affect how other mortals judge each other, but He knows nothing of fairness. That is why I am here, and not Him. Not because He does not deign to speak with you. He would love nothing more than to speak with you. But only I can bridge Him with his creation.”
He bent down and reached into the babbling brook that Jocelyn had created. He cupped some water in his hand and took a drink. “I thank you for that. I was thirsty . . . My child, the artist never fully understands the art he creates. Often, he says the art takes on a life of its own. The artist has set rules down, like the size and the scope of the art, the medium it is created out of, the initial conditions of the art, and even the set of paths it may take. But, inevitably, the piece of art becomes an entity unto itself. Sin is just breaking the rules, my child. You were told sin is evil. It is not.”
He paused and smiled down on her, as if in acknowledgment of how much he cared for her. Or how much the Lord cared for her. Or both.
“What is Evil then?”
“Evil is the imperfection in the creation. That which, when the creator beholds the art, says to himself, ‘You know, I really ought to change that.’ In that case, he can do one of three things: destroy it and try again; do nothing and declare it imperfect, or ‘done’; or try to fix it to his best ability. He has chosen the latter, but He needs his creation to want to change. You must choose if you want to change His story, His creation, to take part in the creation, the molding, of the art. Do you not see now, how truly great a gift He has given you?”
Jocelyn decided she did not like Metatron much. This was for her highest good? She no longer felt noble in her quest. She thought all this exchange accomplished was to make her guilty and fearful. What was she missing?
As the van passed by where Jocelyn first met Marty, while the cat meowed incessantly, Jocelyn thought wistfully of George as they flew by the dirt road turnoff in Clinton. Seconds later, both were gone, a fleeting moment that recalled a lifetime of changes.
Leaving Jize behind at Janice’s house was a mistake, a death sentence. She pondered the people she had killed and shuddered, and although their deaths were meaningless—whether or not she’d killed them had nothing to do with her quest—they fueled her determination to save mankind or die trying. It would be easy to find a place with mild winters and make a home for herself, but at what cost? To be alone with her guilt? What kind of life would that be? And then look forward to Hell?
While everyone but she and Emily sang “Ninety-nine bottles of beer on the wall”—AM, FM, and satellite radio broadcasted nothing but dead air or static—she found herself thinking about her boyfriend in California. It didn’t feel right, but she realized she had already written him off. She was sure he would forgive her little tryst with Alexander if she told him—she probably wouldn’t, why complicate things?—but the odds of him being a living, normal human being were small.
She needed to move on with her life, and she needed to save humanity.
No pressure.
“—Eighty-five bottles of beer on the wall, eighty-five bottles of beer!—”
“Meeow!”
Emily, who probably had not been exposed to the song, sat silent in Jocelyn’s lap. Jocelyn didn’t know the song, too, though the pattern was simple enough. She just didn’t feel much like singing, not after her horrible conversation with Metatron.
Highest good my ass.
“—take one down, pass it around, seventy-seven bottles of beer on the wall!—”
“Meeow!”
She tried desperately to come up with something to say to Emily, to start a conversation with her. Was she about to start kindergarten? Was she looking forward to it? Jocelyn couldn’t ask her those common questions, or about her family, or about what she wanted to be when she grew up.
Had she been to Disney World or Disneyland? Was that where the Snow White dress had come from? It occurred to Jocelyn that those places would fall into disrepair unless this outbreak was halted and reversed soon, or, at least, until the military could control the draugar population with a significant number of survivors.
“—Sixty-three bottles of beer on the wall—”
But those thoughts strayed from Emily. In the end, “Emily, I’m here for you,” was all she thought of to say. “Anything you want to say, no matter what it is, I’ll listen to you.”
Emily was silent for a while.
“—Fifty-six bottles—”
“Meeow.”
“Was Allie eaten, too?” Emily asked suddenly.
“What?!”
“My friend Allie. We had a tea party when . . . when . . . you know. I left her alone. Do you know if she was eaten like my brother?”
Aspen Sports Equipment was the only store in North Valley that sold firearms, and someone had cleaned it out, so they faced a decision. Once they continued down the road
