“Personally, I’ve always believed in reincarnation.”
“What’s that?” Sheila asked.
“Reincarnation? It’s the belief that we’ve all had previous lives before this current one we’re living. It’s commonly accepted in many religions—not Christianity of course, or Judaism, but many others.”
“Yeah, I’ve heard of that,” Sherm said. “It means like I could have been Billy the Kid or D. B. Cooper in a past life. Wouldn’t that be the bomb?”
“No doubt,” Oscar said with a straight face. If Sherm noticed the underlying sarcasm in his voice, he didn’t let on.
“Edgar Cayce believed in it,” Oscar continued. “He was a great healer, died in 1945. Back then, they called him a ‘psychic healer,’ but today I guess he’d just be considered a homeopathic practitioner. Whatever you want to call him, he definitely left his mark on the world. He used to do readings and stuff and tell people who they were in their past lives. The transcripts of the readings are all on file at the Association for Research and Enlightenment in Virginia. There must be thousands of them.”
“Sounds like New Age crap to me,” Dugan grunted. “I never bought in to all that worshipping crystals and singing to the whales crap.”
“Some of that is a little far-fetched,” Oscar admitted, “but a lot more of it has been proven outside the mainstream scientific community.”
“So what were you in a previous life?” Sherm scoffed. “A frog or a slug or some shit like that?”
Oscar’s ears and neck turned red.
“Wait,” Sherm continued, “I know! You were a fucking tapeworm, right? A tapeworm hanging out of a dog’s ass?”
“You can laugh all you want, but I believe in it. I really do. You guys ever hear of Joan Grant?”
We shook our heads in unison.
“Her first book, Winged Pharaoh, came out back in 1937. It took place in ancient Egypt and at the time, the critics hailed it as a brilliant historical novel, because she so realistically captured what it must have been like to live back then. People couldn’t believe how accurate the descriptions were. It was like you were walking through Egypt; the sights, the sounds, the smells. But the thing is, it wasn’t her imagination. Joan Grant had lived it before, as Sekeeta, the daughter of the pharaoh and later on, a priestess-pharaoh herself. She also lived in Egypt decades later as a man named Ra-ab Hotep, and as Ramses II. Besides all of that, she also remembered previous lives in Greece from the second century B.C., in medieval England and in sixteenth-century Italy. She went on to write seven more historical novels, though she called them posthumous autobiographies.”
“And do you really believe in that nonsense?” Dugan arched his eyebrow.
“It’s not nonsense. It’s no more far-fetched than believing in ghosts or in God and the Holy Trinity, is it?”
“Blasphemer!” Martha pointed a crooked finger at him. “See how their evil influence has corrupted you? Now you commit the ultimate sin as well. You blaspheme against the Holy Spirit. Oh, the pits yawn wide for you, young man—for all of you. There must be blood, now. Great quantities of blood. Torrents and rivers and oceans of it. Only blood can wash…”
Sherm pointed his gun at her and pulled the hammer back.
“Martha. I’ll say this nice and slowly and I’m only going to say it one more time, so make sure you pay attention. Shut! The! Fuck! Up!”
Her mouth clamped shut and she did as she was told.
“I know what happens when we die,” Benjy piped up.
“Quiet down, baby,” Sheila shushed him.
“No,” Sherm shrugged, “might as well let him go. Shit, everybody else has made a contribution. Let’s hear his.”
Sheila eyed him carefully.
“Seriously,” Sherm said, “I want to hear this. It’s gotta be good, better than fat boy’s or Martha’s ideas at least.”
“Go ahead, Benjy,” I encouraged him.
He nodded.
“When people die, they go into a bright place that leads to another, bigger bright place. The first bright place is supposed to make you feel safe, but it isn’t, because it’s full of the monster people. The monster people are made out of darkness, but they can hide in the light and when they do, you can’t see them. They turn invisible in the light. All you can hear is their voices.”
Sherm jumped, and I wondered what was bothering him.
“If you’ve been bad,” Benjy continued, “the monster people won’t let you go on to the bigger bright place. Instead, they take you with them, to a dark place, and then you can see them. They’re scary-looking and they’re mean. They smell icky and they…”
Benjy shuddered and closed his eyes for a moment. Then he opened them and went on.
“That’s what happens if you’ve been bad. You don’t get to go to the bright place. You stay in the darkness with the monster people. But if you’ve been good, then Jesus comes, and he rescues you from the monster people, and he takes you to live with him in the bright place. It’s very nice there, and you get to see everybody else who’s died.”
When he’d finished, our reactions were mixed. Sheila and I smiled at each other. Roy, Kim, Sharon, and even Dugan grinned. Sherm clapped his hands in a slow, sarcastic way. Martha stared at Benjy.
“Blood of the lamb,” she muttered over and over again. “Blood of the lamb…”
“Why do you keep saying that?” Sheila snapped. “Why can’t you just shut up?”
“I keep saying it because it is true. Only blood will wash this clean now. Innocent blood. As the Lord instructed Abraham, saying to him to make an offering of his son, Isaac, so shall He command us now. The lamb for the offering.”
“I don’t understand what you’re going on about. What are you saying? What do you mean?”
The word started in Martha’s throat as a moan and increased to a sirenlike wail.
“Expiation! Expiation is what I’m talking about. Great sin has happened here today, and only expiation will set things right again in the eyes of God. We must offer up your lamb.”
Sherm lashed out with his foot, and his boot crashed across her mouth. Her dentures flew across the vault, landing next to Mr. Kirby, and blood spurted from between her crushed lips. Martha cried out more in anger than from pain.
“I told you to shut the fuck up,” Sherm screamed. He slammed the end of the pistol barrel against her forehead and thumbed the hammer back. The soft click sounded deafening.
“Sherm”—I held out my hands in protest—“hold up. Wait a second! Think about this, man.”
“Fuck that. Ain’t nothing to think about, Tommy. I’ve had it with this old cunt.”
“I hear you, dog. I hear you. We’re all sick of her shit. But think, man. If you shoot her now, the cops will rush this place. You know that. We talked about it already. They’ll be on us like white on rice, just like they would have been if you’d shot Lucas or Keith.”
At the mention of the delivery driver and the manager, he jumped. His muscles were coiled, like a snake ready to spring forward and strike its victim.
“Don’t do it, son,” Roy chimed in. “Things are bad enough already.”
“I am not afraid,” Martha spat, blood running down her chin.
Before Sherm could reply, we were all suddenly distracted by a new sound. A low, sonorous thrumming that seemed to come from overhead. As we turned our eyes to the ceiling, the noise grew louder, rapidly approaching.
THUNKA THUNKA THUNKA THUNKA THUNKA
“What the fuck is that?” Oscar shouted. His eyes were wild and scared. It was right over our heads and it sounded like the ceiling was going to collapse, like a construction crew had decided to drive a bulldozer on top of the roof or something. The bank felt like it was shaking. The steel walls vibrated against our back as the sound rocked the building to its foundation.