“You could have fooled me.”
“Thanks.”
I look out the window. The wind has died down.
“Listen. When I get you in the Room, I’ll bring you some of your books. Maybe pens and paper, if you want. Not regular stuff. Like necromantic school supplies. Stuff to occupy yourself until I figure out the next move. I already put the 8 Ball there. Think of it this way. You’re not some poor schmuck stuck in a room. You’re what’s-his-name. The knight who guarded the Holy Grail.”
“Arthur was supposed to have guarded it in some legends. The descendants of Joseph of Arimathea in others. There’s the story of Parsifal. Also stories about the Templars.”
“Damn. You do know some trivia. No. I mean the three knights who guarded it.”
Traven looks at me.
“I think you might be thinking of a movie.”
“Probably.”
Warmer now, he puts the guard’s coat on over his jacket.
“Thank you. I don’t know what else to say.”
“I’m sorry I dragged you into Kill City.”
“I’m not. I’ve looked into God’s face and I’ve tasted the worst of his wrath. After that, I suppose I’m prepared for a room, a grail, or whatever else might come.”
“Stay here and keep warm. I’m going to check on that hellhound outside. And maybe something else.”
I take a gun from one of the dead soldiers and give it to Traven.
“If anyone but me comes through the door, don’t ask questions. Shoot. You’re in Hell, Father. Don’t worry that you might shoot any schoolmarms.”
“I’ll think about it,” he says, and puts the gun in his pocket.
Silly me. He’ll never use it. He’s still a priest. Sentimental.
I go out and worry about him for the hour I’m gone.
WHEN I GET back, Traven, the crazy bastard, has practically opened a soup kitchen in the Quonset hut. A hundred damned souls who’ve wandered up from the valley huddle inside trying to work the feeling back into their dead limbs.
“Can’t leave you alone for a minute, can I?”
“Old habits die hard,” says Traven. “Wait. I think I just made a joke. My first joke as a dead man.”
“Congratulations. I’ll send you roses and a rubber chicken. It’s time to go.”
I pull him outside. As we go, he gives his heavy coat to a woman in rags afraid to go into the warm building. She stares at him and kisses his hand.
“Move it, Gandhi.”
He gives her a smile and comes over to me.
“Can’t we take some of them back with us? How big is the Room?”
“Sure, Father. Which of them gets rescued and who has to stay in Hell forever? You choose.”
“I see the dilemma.”
“Lucifer, the first Lucifer, always told me my problem was that I didn’t think big. Well, I’m trying to now. And stashing a few souls in the pantry isn’t the way to do it.”