The Book of Doom - By Barry Hutchison Page 0,6

all directions, extending far beyond the limits of his vision. There were no hills, no buildings, just an endless plane of wispy white, and a dome of bright blue sky overhead.

Then there was the gate. It was, Zac realised, actually two gates, fastened together in the middle. They stood fifteen metres high, an elaborate tangle of silver and gold. There was no fence, just the gates themselves, standing proud and alone.

And a small desk. He hadn’t noticed it at first, but there it was, right at the foot of one of the gateposts. It was fashioned from dark oak, with faded gold-leaf gilding decorating the carved legs.

A rectangle of cardboard had been propped up on the desktop. On it, someone had written:

GONE TO LUNCH

BACK IN 20 MINS

“Well?” asked Gabriel, seamlessly shifting his smile from friendly to encouraging. “Any ideas?”

“I’m in a coma,” Zac said. “That’s the only explanation.”

Michael made a sound like the growl of a wild animal. “This is a waste of time.”

Gabriel’s smile faltered, just briefly. “No, you’re not in a coma, Zac. Would you like to try again?”

“Not really,” Zac said, with a shrug. “Because the only other explanation is that I’m dead, and this is Heaven.”

“Aha!” began Gabriel.

“And I don’t believe in Heaven.”

“Oh.” Gabriel’s smile fell away completely, but rallied well and came back wider than ever. “Well, believe in it or not, that’s exactly where you are. Or on the outskirts, at least.”

“The outskirts?”

“Yes. Heaven itself is beyond the gates. This –” he gestured around them – “is sort of the suburbs. Outer Heaven, if you will.”

“No,” said Zac. “It’s not. That isn’t possible.”

“The Monk tells us you evaded him. Twice,” said Gabriel. “Congratulations. That’s two more than anyone else ever has.”

“His boss,” Zac muttered. “He said his boss wanted to see me.”

“Correct. That would be me,” said Gabriel. Michael gave another growl. “Or rather, us. We have need of your... talents.”

“So you had me killed? Couldn’t you have, I don’t know, phoned or something?”

Gabriel ran a hand through his golden locks. “I suppose, when you put it like that, it does sound a touch drastic.”

Zac shook his head. “No, this is all nonsense. I’m dreaming. This can’t be real.”

“I assure you it is real, Zac,” Gabriel insisted. “I’m afraid you have to face facts, my boy. You are dead.”

“You killed me,” said Zac quietly. “You had me killed.” He took a sudden step towards Gabriel, his hands balling into fists. Gabriel didn’t flinch.

There was a sound like silk tearing. A sudden pressure across Zac’s throat stopped him moving any further. The blade of the sword felt uncomfortably warm against his skin.

“Make another move and I slice,” Michael warned.

“What difference does it make if I’m already dead?”

“Oh, there are many worse things than death,” Gabriel said, still smiling. “I can think of at least a hundred off the top of my head.” His smile widened and his blue eyes seemed to darken. “Would you care to pick a number?”

He waited a moment, until he was sure his point had been understood, before gesturing to Michael to step back. The man in the golden armour hesitated, then removed the blade from Zac’s throat and slid it back into its sheath.

“And the whole fate-worse-than-death issue is precisely why we wanted to talk to you, Zac,” Gabriel continued. “You see, what with all your exploits – stealing and whatnot – I’m afraid you’ve booked yourself a place in Hell.”

Zac rubbed his throat. He could still feel the heat where the sword had touched his skin. “Hell?”

“Yes. You know, fire and brimstone; demons poking spikes into places you’d really rather they didn’t; etcetera, etcetera. It’s one of the Four Suggestions, see? ‘Thou Probably Shouldn’t Steal’.”

“Four Suggestions? What are you talking about?”

“The Four Suggestions,” Gabriel said again, as if that explained everything. When he saw it didn’t, he continued: “That God gave to Moses on Mount Sinai.”

“You mean the Ten Commandments?”

“Ah, of course, I forgot. You’re a human,” said Gabriel, giving himself a tap on the forehead. “That was an error in translation. Much of the Bible’s spot-on, of course, but sometimes the authors took a few liberties, or just missed the meaning completely. God doesn’t give out commandments. What would be the point in that? Ordering people around all the time? No, it’s not His style. He’s quite laid-back, really.”

“But He does make suggestions,” Michael added. “And if you don’t follow them, you’ll burn for ever in the fires of Hell.”

“Doesn’t sound very laid-back,” said Zac.

“I said He was