Through The Valley by Yates, B.D. (feel good books .txt) 📕

The Rev grinned, wrinkling his nose as he savored the memory.

"Even the Earth," Emmit said, bringing his stinging hands to his mouth and blowing damp, warm breath into them. "If you look at it from far enough out in space, our whole planet is just a speck of dust. Which means we're just specks of dust on a speck of dust. Armies killing each other for a piece of it. It just makes you feel insignificant, in the big picture."

The Reverend cocked his head as he nodded, frowning as if silently indicating that he had never thought of such things before. Emmit wasn't surprised. Religious people never needed to think scientific thoughts. Anything they didn't understand or wouldn't understand was God.

"Do you think we're still even on Earth?" Emmit questioned, his eyes wide behind his glasses. He felt like a child firing an endless string of questions at his father, who demonstrated superhuman patience.

"I don't know your views, New Guy," The Reverend said, his voice taking on a stern tone Emmit imagined he had probably used with his congregation, "but if you want to know mine— I think we're all dead, and we're in the valley."

"The valley?"

"Of the shadow of death, yes," he said. His face was statuesque, as deadly serious as a plaster death mask. Even in the darkness, the lines in the flesh of his face seemed to deepen and he looked incredibly old. "Maybe we're in purgatory, so we can struggle for a while. Maybe we're in Hell. Pick whichever one you like, friend. But I think this is the afterlife. This is where bad people go when the lights go out for good."

  Emmit felt his lower intestine suddenly grow hot and loose, and his guts felt the same way they did when a roller coaster went over a particularly steep drop. Emmit himself had never been deeply religious; he supposed he was an agnostic, but he didn't feel strongly either way. Quite simply, he didn't care. He always had more pressing things to worry about than what would happen after he was dead. And to a sane and healthy mind, death was always far into the future, when you got old and drifted away in your sleep. No car accident victim ever left the house expecting to die.

  "What makes you think we're all dead?" He asked timidly, not really wanting the dreaded answer but somehow needing to know.  Anything seemed possible under a clear night sky where a supernova could run its course in the same amount of time it took to microwave a frozen dinner.

  The Reverend sighed again, narrowing his eyes and watching something in the woods. Emmit could hear movement, the hushed sound of cloth against wood and the brittle clicks and snaps of dead branches being disturbed, but it sounded far away.

  "I don't have anything concrete," The Reverend continued, satisfied that no danger was headed their way for the time being. "Roy wouldn't like me telling you too much, he keeps a tight leash on everyone."

  "You don't have to—"

  "No," the Reverend said, waving his hand to silence Emmit. "You're not going anywhere any time soon, you deserve to know.  For all I know, Roy could be right. It could be some sort of time warp or tear or something, Bermuda Triangle type stuff. But all of us are criminals. We led dangerous lives. Roy..."

  He dropped his voice to a whisper.

  "Roy was a hitman. He killed people for money. Maybe a job went wrong? Poke was a drug dealer and a drug user, hence the nickname. Overdose? Turf war? You robbed a bank. Maybe you had a run in with a S.W.A.T. team? Me personally, the last thing I can remember is that I was driving…”

He closed his eyes, lowering his head to rest on the end of the club.

“I'm not proud of it, but I was driving drunk.  I always end up driving drunk. What if I wrecked my car and that's what landed me here?"

  Emmit couldn't reply. His mouth had gone dry, and his tongue felt too fat.  He kept shrugging and arching his eyebrows as a default response to everything the Reverend was saying. It was all he had to offer.  It was then that he realized he had no idea just what the Reverend had done, his evil deed, a sin that had been bad enough to earn him a spot in his hypothesized Hell.

It must have shown on his face, because the Reverend smirked and nodded reluctantly, his shoulders sagging as if a tremendous invisible weight had just been dropped on them. Emmit felt the impulse to feign confusion, but the Reverend knew he wanted to know. And he did.

  "I don't like to talk about what I did, so I'm gonna make it quick. I mean I know what you did, right?"

  Emmit shrugged, his old reliable gesture.

  "I drink and drive... a lot, alright? Because I'm an alcoholic. I tried AA but all it did was make me think about drinking more. I got into an accident once, driving home with a fresh bottle. It was snowing, and the roads hadn’t been plowed yet.  I lost control, and… two little... two kids got killed. Alright?"

  Emmit couldn't mask the shock and revulsion on his face, and the Reverend's strained, dark eyes dropped to his shoes. A million other questions bloomed in his mind like poison flowers; had he gone to jail? Had he gotten off? Was he already a Reverend before it happened? Did it make him question his faith? But he didn't dare ask any of them. The Reverend had paid what he owed in full disclosure and honesty, although it had clearly hurt him to do so. Emmit extended his hand and patted the man once, twice on his frosty shoulder. A simple gesture most men seemed to want to