Council of the Dead

I

Marcus Jones was driving home with his eight year old daughter in the seat beside him. It was around eight at night and they were returning home after having just seen the new Spider-Man movie. The two of them were close, closer than her and her mother could have hoped to be, and it was because of nights like these. Nights where Marcus could let go of all of his worries and just have a night of fun with his daughter.

The roads were empty, but that was common in middle-of-nowhere Oklahoma, they were plenty used to it. They pulled up to a four way intersection and stopped as the light turned red. Normally Marcus would just drive past this due to its complete lack of purpose, but he wanted to set a good example for his daughter, so he waited. They sat in silence minus the distinct sound of a barn owl coming in through the open windows from somewhere nearby. They sat in the near silence for a moment before Marcus finally broke it.

“We gotta get home,” he said, “it’s getting close to your bedtime.”

“I don’t have school tomorrow,” his daughter responded.

“Ah, dang,” he said as he snapped his fingers in an exaggerated manner.

They both chuckle and return to the silence. The light turns green. Marcus presses on the gas and they go forward. Halfway across the intersection, a car Marcus never heard nor saw collides with his side of the vehicle. The drunk driver had been coming from their left at a speed of around eighty miles per hour, and neither of them noticed him until it was too late. There was a split second of oh no in Marcus’ mind before all went dark.

The drunk driver pushes his car door open and falls out of the car. Making various noises of worry and concern he stumbles in front of what once was Marcus’ car. He walks to the driver side to try to see who was behind the wheel and can see no more than a red and pink mush where the two cars collided. Maybe the police would be able to recover an actual body.

The drunken man walks to the passenger side, opens the door, and sees Marcus’ daughter, passed out, but unharmed. Sober thoughts began to race through his mind for the first time that night. He had just killed a man and left his daughter without a father. He was a terrible person, a murderer, completely evil.

These thoughts remained in his head as he got back in his car. They never left as he drove home, walked into his small house in the middle of a large field, and the thoughts only ended when a single shot came from the house. Both Marcus, and his murderer were dead.

II

Marcus regained consciousness…at least he thought. He woke up, and though his eyes were open, he still saw an eternal nothingness. Yet he felt as though he was lying on the ground. He focused all of his mind on moving, and all he could accomplish was closing his hand into a fist. His frustration grew as he was able to realize he was awake and - in some capacity - alive, but unable to move. He spent what felt like minutes but was really no time at all trying to move his body. At least…he thought it was minutes. He wasn’t sure, his sense of time was already fading. Time didn’t matter here, for they had an infinite amount of it.

Marcus, after an ungodly amount of effort, was able to get to his knees. Every muscle in his body trembled and every bone ached. It felt as though he had been squished between two large objects. After a short time sitting on his hands and knees, he was finally able to stand. He almost fell as he did but he was able to do so. He looked all around, despite the pure agony it caused, and saw eternal nothingness in all directions…except for one.

In what could have been any direction, Marcus saw a path outlined with torches. These were standing torches. They stood on pedestals of skulls and the torches themselves were black, metallic bowls that let out large blue flames. This path too seemed to go on forever, but there was nowhere else to go, so Marcus began to walk down it.

Away from the torches, it was cold. Marcus placed it around forty degrees, but by the torches, he felt it was perfect. Mid-seventies he assumed. All of the pedestals that the torches were placed on were as tall as Marcus was, which is to say around six feet tall. He walked…and walked…and walked.

Marcus never processed the fact that he never got tired, he never felt any sort of hunger or thirst, likely because in this world these feelings had no meaning. He continued to walk until eventually, he could see a table in the distance. A man was sitting in one seat, there was a seat across from him, and there was a man standing in front of the table. The standing man looked at Marcus and motioned for him to come to him. Marcus did as requested.

When he approached the table he got a better look at the men. The one standing was taller than Marcus and was dressed in a black suit and dress pants, a deep red undershirt, and a white tie. The man sitting looked younger, maybe mid twenties. He was dressed in jeans and a grey sweatshirt.

“Hello, Marcus,” the well-dressed man said.

“How do you know who I am,” Marcus asked.

“I know who both of you are,” the well-dressed man responded, “I know all about your past lives, I know how you died, and I know of your families.”

“Wait…I’m dead?”

“Yes, Marcus, you both are,” the well-dressed man told him, “ah, how rude of me, allow me to introduce myself.”

He held out his hand, “I am the President, and you, as well as this man right here are what I like to call The Council of the Dead.”

Marcus looked to the man at the table and back to the President without shaking his hand.

“What does that mean,” Marcus asked.

“Simple,” the President explained, “you two are dead. You two were connected in life and now again in death. You will find out how shortly. You must forgive each other for what you did.”

“What then,” the man at the table asked.

“You can move on,” the President said, “now sit, Marcus.”

Marcus did as he was told.

“Do not mind me,” the President said, “I will simply watch as you two learn to forgive.”

Marcus looked at the man across the table and reached out his hand, “Marcus…Marcus Jones.”

The man shook his hand and said, “Damien Mañel. So…how did you die?”

Marcus explained what he remembered. He was driving with his daughter in middle-of-nowhere Oklahoma, they came to a four way intersection, boom, lights out. As Marcus explained, Damiens eyes grew wider and wider.

“...What’s wrong,” Marcus asked when he finished.

Damien stuttered with his response, “I…I think that was me.”

“What,” Marcus asked.

“I was drunk,” Damien explained, “and I…I crashed into the driver's side of a car in Oklahoma. I got out and saw he had a little girl in the passenger and I…I knew I wouldn’t be able to live with that so I…I went home and...took myself out.”

Marcus stared at Damien with a look of pure hatred for a moment before jumping across the table and tackling him to the ground.

“YOU KILLED ME,” Marcus screamed in Damiens face, “YOU KILLED ME AND LEFT MY DAUGHTER WITHOUT A FATHER! WHY WOULD EVEN GO OUT ON THE ROAD IF YOU WERE DRINKING?! ARE YOU STUPID?! YOU MOTHER-”

“Marcus,” the President yelled, “we are looking for forgiveness.”

Marcus turned and glared at the President before getting up off of Damien.

“Why did you drink,” Marcus asked.

“Because I…I was addicted,” Damien told him.

“Why’d you ever start,” Marcus asked.

“Because…because I lost my son the same way you lost your life.”

Marcus was visibly shocked when Damien said this.

“I know, I know. Drunk driver kills your son so you start drinking, it doesn’t make sense,” Damien admitted, “but it’s how I dealt with it, ok?”

Marcus asked Damien, “Where were you going that night?”

“To be honest,” Damien responded, “to my boy's grave. I wanted to apologize for ever starting drinking, it was pure hypocrisy on my part. I felt horrible so I got drunk one last time and was on my way to go to his grave. I was gonna apologize and promise to quit right then and there but…”

Marcus had no idea how to respond. He was dead, there was no undoing that, and it sounded as though Damien was just making excuses, but Damien arguably lost more than Marcus. Damien had not only lost his son, but his chance to redeem himself. Marcus thought he could forgive him for it.

“Damien I…I had no idea,” Marcus said.

“Well there you go,” Damien responded, “I know it doesn’t excuse what I did but…”

Marcus thought for a moment, “It doesn’t. But…Damien, I forgive you.”

Damien stood up and looked Marcus in the eyes, “I forgive you as well Marcus.”

With that, the final sound they heard was the President clapping as they both faded away, off to decide whether they would relive their past lives, or start anew.

When they were fully gone, the President began to set the table in preparation for the next Council of the Dead.