Darkness. Complete darkness. My ears pounded, and every sound grew louder. I was out of breath, like I’d just sprinted for the train and was late for work. I tried to open my eyes, but it was too bright—just a sheet of white, like looking at an icy pond at high noon. Sweat gathered on my forehead, my lungs burning as I struggled to fill them. I tried opening my eyes again. Too bright. The brightness faded into shapes, but nothing was clear.
“It’s o-kayyy.” A muffled voice reached me.
What the hell is going on?
“That’s it,” the voice said. “Keep breathing and try not to panic,” he encouraged.
Where am I? Who is this?
I kept gasping for air, stopping now and then to take deep breaths, but nothing felt enough. My lungs wouldn’t fill. A blurry figure began to take shape but stayed out of focus. I tried to sit up to breathe and see better, but I couldn’t move.
“Where am I?” I tried to ask, but nothing came out. My throat was hoarse and dry, and my lungs didn’t have the strength to let out the words.
“Your voice will come back to you,” the figure said. “Keep concentrating on breathing.” I took long breaths in and out.
“Is this him?” asked a feminine voice as a second figure appeared. “That was not a good way to go.” She dryly commented.
Good way to go? What does that mean?
A brighter light shone into my eyes. Someone twisted and straightened my head on the bed, laying me back flat.
“It shouldn’t hurt anymore,” she said, her tone shifting to something nurturing. “But sometimes there is still pain if you’re used to experiencing it.”
From what? She’s talking to me, right?
“Concentrate on breathing,” she said insistently. I continued taking long breaths in and out, still unable to make out where I was. I took a long inhale—finally, a full breath. I kept at it.
“He needs a few more hours,” she said to her colleague.
For what? Have I died?
“These are for your eyes until your vision comes back,” the feminine voice said, placing dark glasses over my eyes. The brightness was now tolerable.
“I’m going to give you something to relax. You might feel a poke,” she continued.
I didn’t feel a thing.
“Perfect,” she said. “You should feel more relaxed.”
She went on, “He’s in pretty good sh…”
The sound slowed and blurred. The light grew darker until it was nothing.
“Awake yet?” The voice made me jump internally, but I still couldn’t move. It was a male nurse now, not just a shadow. I could see the letters L.R.H. on his badge. The room was curtained off, giving me some privacy. I listened, but heard no other voices or signs of anyone else around.
I tried to speak, “Wh…” but ended up coughing hard. My throat still felt heavy, like a freight train.
“It’s okay. Good start,” the nurse said with encouragement, jotting something down on his clipboard.
“Where…” I finally got the words out.
The nurse explained, “You’re at L.R.H., the Location Rehabilitation Hospital, where we process all the incoming dead. We’ll explain it to you during orientation.”
“D, D…, D…?” I managed to stammer.
“Dead? Oh, most definitely. Sorry,” he responded, matter-of-factly. He kept fumbling with his pen and clipboard, jotting notes.
I’m dead? What happened?
“How? When?” I managed to ask.
“When?” The man paused, looking at a watch on his right wrist. “About 4 hours ago, your time. How? Well, it was an accident on your part.”
“W… What?” I asked, pressing for more details.
“It’s best to wait until after orientation for those details,” he responded, avoiding any eye contact and the question.
The upper part of my bed was raised so I could sit up for the first time. He checked my eyes again and asked me to open my mouth.
“Glad that’s all back,” he muttered dryly, building my morbid curiosity. He checked a few items off on the clipboard. “Looks like you are good to be wheeled to orientation.”
What was this mysterious orientation?
As if reading my mind, the nurse responded. “It’s where you learn the rules.” He pointed to a sign near an exit that read, “Absolutely No Names.” A very perplexing rule.
He disappeared briefly and reappeared with a wheelchair.
“Can you try to get into this chair yourself?” he asked. I checked if my body would cooperate. It did. I nodded that I’d try and squirmed from the bed into the chair.
“Careful,” he insisted.
I landed in the chair rather than sitting, which quickly ruled out running, as I knew my body wouldn’t cooperate.
“Perfect,” he said.
He wheeled me into the hallway, pulled a blanket from a warmer, and wrapped it around me. The warmth covered me as he pushed me through a maze of nearly identical hospital halls.
The hallways blurred together, and I drifted into what felt like sleep.
“Open up Orientation Intake, please?” My escort startled me awake as he spoke into his radio.
Now, where am I?
A loud buzz erupted from the reinforced glass door in front of us, and my escort propped it open to push me through. It led to an empty nurses’ station, with two long corridors filled with rooms, completely silent. I looked back at the locked door behind us.
The escort grabbed his radio again. “Orientation Intake. I have a drop-off for processing,” he said.
I glanced down the hallway again, taking in the room doors, each one firmly shut as far as I could tell.
Was one of those rooms mine? Who else is here?
“Hold your ass,” a response came back over the radio with a static click. “Finishing up a panic buster.”
My escort chuckled to himself.
“Take your time,” my escort responded after pressing his talk button.
The sound of a door opening and closing echoed down a hallway. Keys rattled as the door locked from the outside. Keys jangled in sync with the walking rhythm, filling the hallway. The sound of keys grew louder, matching the man’s footsteps.
“What is this place?” I finally asked out loud. I surprised myself by completing a sentence.
“Orientation,” the escort responded matter-of-factly. “You’ll stay here until you can go out there.” His head motioned toward one of the walls.
The keys and footsteps grew even louder, and from out of sight, a man appeared from behind the nurses’ station, towering over my wheelchair. I couldn’t help but stare. With uncharacteristic enthusiasm, the key wrangler looked down at me and said, “Welcome to Orientation, mate. I’ll get you all sorted, but first, can you stand?”
My escort applied the wheelchair’s brakes, and I took a brief stab at standing. Using my arms, I slowly raised myself from the chair, being able to stand briefly before catching myself against the nurses’ station. I took a few small steps before I could fully balance. The wrangler looked me over.
“That’ll work,” he commented. “Let’s get you to a room, shall we?”
I glanced backward at the heavy glass door.
“Don’t even think about it, mate,” the wrangler said, as if reading my mind. “I’ve already dealt with one buster today.” He cracked his knuckles. “And I’m short on rope.” He let out a smile.
“Now just follow me to your room,” he said. I began to follow. “I’ll buzz you out as soon as he’s secure,” he told my escort.
“We’ll be walking to Room 607. Just down the hall on the right. Can you manage that?” the wrangler asked, still with uncharacteristic charm. The rooms began to look like prison cells.
I nodded and took small, deliberate steps, hearing the keys jingle as the wrangler matched my stride. I approached the entrance to my room, the heavy metal door shut, with only a small window to peer inside.
The wrangler twisted the handle, and the door opened wide, revealing two twin beds on each side and a small bathroom, with one dim overhead light.
“We usually bunk two to a room,” the wrangler commented. “But it’s been a light week. It’s your lucky day, mate.”
I’m honored.
I approached one of the beds and sat down, silently accepting whatever fate had in store for me.
I began to speak, but he interrupted. “You have questions, mate. I get it. I need to gather the others, and we’ll begin soon, okay? Just hold tight.”
He began walking out of the room whistling. As he closed the door behind him, he reassured, “You’ll only be in here for a few. Try not to panic. And no names.” The whistling stopped as the door slammed shut.
That’s the second time I’ve been told not to panic today.
The door latched from the outside, and the light immediately dimmed. I was alone with my thoughts.
I stole a pillow from the other bed and made myself as comfortable as possible, staring at the ceiling. My mind was again overwhelmed. With my mind racing, I drifted back into sleep.
The bright light forced me awake. A draft of air rushed in, with the wrangler’s voice yelling, “It’s time for group. Down towards the desk, first room on the right.”
He left my door open. I slowly got up from the bed, gauging my walking (and running) ability, and decided to see if I could even make it to the desk. As I entered the hallway, I saw other people like me move towards a room near the nurses’ station, their heads low, avoiding eye contact.
Were these dead people like me?
“Move along now!” I could hear the wrangler yell down the hall, ushering the herd. I heard wheels squeak in the distance, as if something large was being pushed down the hall.
I found the medium-sized room with a row of 10 chairs lined up along one side, in a slight curve. The others found seats, as did I, with only a few glancing up and around. Everyone was silent. Nothing but strangers in a foreign room marked the occasion as out of the ordinary.
The squeaking grew louder and stopped. I could see the wrangler at the entrance, out of breath, panting. “Which one of you can help me push this beast in?”
The wrangler was pushing an old TV tower, the kind that we used to haul back when I was in grade school. They aren’t hard to push, just bulky and awkward.
We all looked at each other, looking for the lone volunteer. There was none.
What’s the harm in helping?
I stood up and walked towards the room entrance.
“Good on ya, mate,” the wrangler encouraged. “Grab that end and make sure that beast doesn’t fall off,” he said, referring to the heavy CRT on top.
With an embarrassingly awkward amount of nudging and pushing, we pushed the TV cart through the doorway and positioned it to face the group.
“Just give me a sec to hook these up,” the wrangler said to himself as I took my seat again.
The thought of grabbing his keys and making a run for it crossed my mind. I gauged my running ability again, but my curiosity got the better of me. I wanted to see what was on that TV.
He pulled out a shiny disc and placed it into the tray of what looked like a DVD player. He pressed play. The TV hummed on, and an F.B.I. warning displayed. The wrangler looked at the warning and chuckled, “Some of you will get it.”
The warning flashed away, and no one expressed amusement.
“Dead crowd today.” The wrangler commented dryly as he sat down just out of view of the others.
Static hummed as the audio tracks switched. “Welcome to Limbo City!” The announcer’s voice was loud and sudden. The screen transitioned.
An overhead flyover of a nighttime sparkling city filled the screen. It shifted to daytime as the video zoomed in on people walking through a downtown plaza, with luxuriously tall glass buildings edging skyward. The people were shown window shopping, resting in parks, and working in coffee shops—normal things.
Heaven?
The announcer continued, “You’re probably wondering, why am I here? Where is this place? What is the meaning of life? Why are there no names? We’ll answer all these questions in the next few minutes.”
The screen transitioned to a tall medical facility on a map, with an arrow indicating our current location.
“You’re at the Universe-renowned Location Rehabilitation Hospital, where you’ll learn a few important facts and ground rules before gaining access to Limbo City.”
“Questions at the end!” the wrangler yelled, as someone tried to raise their hand.
The screen changed to a classroom view, with an instructor at a whiteboard and a room full of students. “You’ll learn the culture. The lingo. And most importantly, your purpose here. Who’s ready to begin?” The fake attendees on screen all smiled and raised their hands.
The screen transitioned to outer space, showing a cluster of stars as it slowly zoomed in.
“The Universe began and grew from nothing.”
The announcer continued, “Out of immense nothingness came the opposite: immense density, both trying to occupy the same spot. This pressure became so extreme that something had to give. An explosion occurred, forming our known Universe.
The screen showed scattered rocks flying across the cosmos at extreme speeds.
“As the explosion occurred, an opposing force was created by physics to contain this explosion. This force, keeping the Universe together and filling all the gaps in between, is known as The Collective.”
The Universe, its gases, stars, and planets, was animated on screen as a giant sphere, hugged by an arm labeled “The Collective”.
“The Collective acts as the glue for the Universe, guiding it and shaping it through the chaos as the Universe expands, bridging the gap you know as space and time.”
The announcer continued, “As life formed, the Collective, too, filled in the missing gaps, allowing consciousness to form, which we in Limbo City call your Soul.
The screen changed to a skull with a slash through it. Keeping up with the upbeat enthusiasm, the announcer stated, “Now to answer why you’re here!”
The TV announcer continued, “You’ve met your mortal end!” “And the Collective doesn’t quite know what to do with your Soul just yet. Which is why you are in beautiful Limbo City.”
The animation changed to a body being buried underground at a cemetery.
“When you die, your body is eventually recycled back where it came from. Your body decomposes, returning to the planet that helped form it. When your planet’s star dies, the planet is consumed and jettisoned outward as the star explodes. Your planet, including your long-decayed body, is recycled into other parts of the Universe.”
The animation changed to the body’s soul floating out of the body and into the sky, being sucked into space.
“Most intelligent beings are made with standard components: a brain, organs to help it think, and things for that brain to control.”
The announcer continued, “When life is formed, the Universe instantly wants to destroy it. The Collective provides an opposing force, willing that being to live. This is a Soul. As the body lives, it creates an infinite amount of memory and wisdom, all of which are stored in this Soul.”
I groaned at the thought of a “Soul” and religion coming into play, but my mind allowed it.
“When a body dies, a Soul returns to its source, here at the Collective in Limbo City.”
“Which is why you’re here!” the announcer continued, upbeat. The animation returned to the aerial view of marble streets and buildings. “We don’t know what to do with your Soul yet.”
The video concluded, “Why are you here? You’re dead! Where are you? You’re in beautiful Limbo City. What is the meaning of life?” The announcer paused, then continued enthusiastically, “We’ll find out together as you live out your legacy!”
The final animation played, with a giant smiling crowd in front of a gold building yelling, “Welcome!”
The video ended. You could hear a hair blowing across the floor in a draft.
A bright light flashed as the Wrangler captured a Polaroid of the students. Breaking into laughter, he chuckled, “The look on your faces. It always gets me.” He hit his knee trying to hold back further laughter.
The wrangler stood up, ejected the disc from the player, and inserted a new one. Someone tried to raise their hand. “In a minute, mate,” the wrangler said dismissively.
A second video began playing. The screen displayed a first-person view of someone flying through clouds. Within the clouds, the words ‘Legacy’ appeared.
The screen transitioned to an animation of a long timeline, with no particular moment distinguishable. As it slowly zoomed in, I could see markers for billions of years. Then millions. You could observe small green dots as the zooming progressed. It zoomed to millennia, then centuries. The green dots became larger and longer, becoming bars. It became clear that the green areas were someone’s lifespan on the timeline.
The announcer narrated, “Your life is just a small blip on the overall timeline.” The animation showed a yellow bar extending from the green one.
“But your legacy continues.”
The yellow line grew longer as the timeline began zooming back out. The yellow line extended over centuries, then over millennia. Then began extending to millions of years.
“What was a blip of life can become a significant moment for the Universe,” the announcer continued. The animation then changed to multiple green and yellow timelines stacked on top of each other.
“As your Soul returns to the Collective, your Soul’s legacy is determined and ranked.” The animation panned to the top timeline.
“And when your legacy is complete, the Collective will find the next place for your Soul based on this ranking.”
“Since your legacy is ranked amongst others, and can be extended in Limbo inadvertently, there are absolutely no names in Limbo City.”
The video ended. The room was still silent, but there was no camera snap or hand-raising this time.
The wrangler stood up and put in another video. “Last one for today, then questions,” he promised.
This video started with a giant title, “Rules of Limbo City!”
Blaring trumpets interrupted the silence as the video showed what appeared to be a large jail building. An announcer began, “Limbo City is your new home. Here are a few house rules before you begin your stay here.”
The video shifted to a person wearing a name tag with the word “Name” crossed out.
An announcer narrated, “Absolutely no names are to be said or written down. That is a big no-no here.”
The video went dark.
Just one rule? It was the same rule I was introduced to earlier.
The wrangler laughed as he sensed the confusion. He stood up and turned the lights back on. “All right, who has questions?”
Every hand went skyward, including mine.
He pointed at the lady next to me. “Toe-jam lady, what’s your question?”
I didn’t dare look at her feet.
“I don’t look or feel how I used to. If we’re here because of our Soul, then how is my current body formed?”
The wrangler smiled. “That’s the first question? Wow. Okay. Easy one then.”
The toe-jam lady’s expression soured.
“The Collective determines your body’s current state and appearance. Think of it as how the Universe remembers you.”
“So I’ll always look like this?” she asked.
“Hopefully not.” The wrangler confessed, perhaps too honestly, “The way the Collective looks at you and remembers you can change during your time at Limbo City.”
“How is that?” another man asked.
“Too complex,” the wrangler scoffed. “Next question. You, Freckles.”
Freckles stood up to ask his question, but first commented, “I don’t appreciate being called that. I was labeled that throughout high school.”
“And you’ll be called that here, too. For eternity, if I have my way! Question!”
Disgusted, the man asked, “How long are we in Limbo City for?”
“For as long as you’re remembered,” the wrangler replied.
“And how long is that?” Freckled asked.
The wrangler explained, “The length of your legacy determines your time here in Limbo City. Once your legacy has been fully realized and completed, you’ll be able to move into the next phase.”
“Heaven?” another asked.
“Whatever you believe in, mate,” the wrangler replied sarcastically.
A few smiles and low cheers erupted.
The wrangler interrupted one of the smiling attendees with an obvious grudge in his tone, “What do you believe in? Did you have a preferred belief on Earth?”
The smiling attendee stood up. “Christian. I will spend eternity with my lord and Savior, J…”
“Don’t!” The wrangler stood, pointing a finger at the attendee. “Don’t say any names,” he warned.
“What, Je…” The wrangler placed his hand forcefully over the attendee’s mouth.
In a hushed and serious tone, the wrangler explained, “Remember the rules. Don’t say the name, or you’ll find out how pissed your lord and savior can be.”
He explained, “If you discuss someone in Limbo, it extends that person’s legacy and can potentially alter it. It’s not looked upon highly here.”
The smiling attendee, now very much not smiling, asked, “So I can’t say HIS name. Does that mean HE’s here?”
“Right up the hill,” the wrangler replied. “In mansion row, with all the fancy sports cars up front.”
Curiosity got the better of me, as I’d studied various religions: “So if the Christian savior is here, and he’s saving all the Christians, who’s letting the Christians into heaven?”
“A burning bush man!” the wrangler exclaimed, giving me my nickname. “Didn’t peg you for one of those.”
I paused, waiting for a genuine response.
“In fairness, he never thought he’d become as popular as he did. Even the founder and prophet of a religion still has to follow the rules of the Universe and spend time at Limbo City before fulfilling any world-ending or heaven-creating prophecy.”
The smiling attendee asked, “So until he’s forgotten, the Christians can’t get their heaven? I find that ironic.”
“Like a thief in the night,” the wrangler commented dryly.
“Are other prophets here, too?” The smiling attendee asked, regaining a hint of enthusiasm.
“All but one,” the wrangler replied. He let out a dry laugh. “The Collective can make exceptions at times. Limbo was getting overcrowded. Don’t worry,” he continued, “There’s plenty still here. There’s even a bus route and map for when you get out of here.”
“What about hell?” I asked, keeping with the topic of religion. All eyes were focused on me.
The wrangler replied matter-of-factly, crossing his legs, “Hell is a state of mind and consciousness, and it’s different for each soul, and can change over time. For example, an eternity of milk and cookies might sound blissful at first, but after 200 years, I would not have the same opinion.”
“So hell is not a punishment for evil?” I continued.
The wrangler uncrossed his legs and leaned forward. “Look, mate, a soul can get crushed early in existence, whether it’s because you fucked up or someone else fucked it up. That song that replays in your head is your hell. Some can pay it no mind. Others obsess over it, letting it consume them, becoming their primary reality.”
He continued, “The next time you look into the mirror and see that new reflection, take a hard look. That’s what the Collective thinks you look like. It’s based on anyone who knows you, interacts with you… Heck, it’s even based on the entire Collective’s opinion, which is anything that’s ever existed, past, present, and, depending on how long you’re here, future. That same Collective judges and ranks your legacy based on a variety of factors, including where it can end up. It’s only when you’re done with Limbo that your legacy is ranked and your soul can leave.”
The wrangler met my gaze, and the smiling lady did too, betraying their additional thirst.
“Not to heaven,” the wrangler insisted. “But if your legacy is good enough, you have your pick of where your soul can go. Depending on your choice, it could be considered heaven by some.”
“What about reincarnation?” Toe-jam lady asked.
“Some souls can move on to that, yeah. You can’t exactly pick and choose.”
“So a soul can have multiple lifetimes?” she asked.
“Yes, but only one legacy.”
Confusing.
Freckles asked another question, “How long are we in orientation for?”
“Finally, a good question,” the wrangler applauded loudly. He explained, “You’ll be in orientation for at least a few more weeks. Certain rules of Limbo are very different than what you’re used to.” He let out a slight chuckle. “You don’t want to stray from these rules, or you’ll find there’s a Limbo within Limbo, so to speak.”
He continued, “Once you learn the rules and are cleared to leave orientation,” he paused, “You’ll be given accommodation and a job in Limbo City.”
Freckles nodded with understanding. “Are you able to tell us the average stay and destination when we’re done?”
“You’re here as long as your legacy exists,” the wrangler explained. “But generally, your legacy can be divided into three groups: living, remembered, and historical. A living legacy is how people knew and remembered you when you were alive. That legacy is over now. The legacy you’re living in now is the remembered and historical phases.”
The wrangler frowned as the attendees produced more blank stares.
“If your grandmother were a great person to you, but someone discovered after her death that she was a serial killer, her living and remembered legacy would be quite different, yeah?” the wrangler asked.
I nodded, as did several others.
“The Remembered phase is how those remember and tell your stories after you have died, and can last a few generations at least. The historical phase, as some of you are finding out today, can extend a legacy into the hundreds, if not thousands of years.”
“Great,” Freckles said, “My social media post last night is going to cost me a few hundred years in this place.”
“Not necessarily,” the wrangler replied. “You know how many civilizations I’ve seen come and go? It’s a lot. You’ll be remembered for whose lives you affected in ways worth talking about, not for who you insulted on a social media platform 200 years ago. Companies go out of business. Your data gets corrupted or lost. Your country gets taken over. The language may change. Your entire region or city may be wiped out by a flood or other catastrophe, wiping out any record of your existence.”
“Or an asteroid destroys the Earth, and all its inhabitants can exit Limbo.” Freckles concluded.
“It’s happened before,” the wrangler stated, drawing confused stares. “To other civilizations,” he blurted. “What?!”
More blank stares.
“Another time perhaps,” the wrangler said. “It’s been a lot. Any lingering questions?”
“Yeah.” I said, raising my hand, “When do we find out how we died?”
The wrangler’s tone shifted to something more endearing.
“You don’t want to remember that, do you, mate?” the wrangler pressed begrudgingly, looking at the other attendees and me sincerely.
The wrangler looked at us with a fresh insistence in his eyes. “Most things want to live. Even up to the exact moment of death. Even those who long for or crave death still cling to that last moment of life, fighting until the mind and body can take no more. It struggles until the very end, often in pain. Do you really want to remember that moment? Reexperience something your soul has allowed you to forget?”
A few attendees nodded.
“Look, if you really want to know, we’ll tell ya. I’ll even pull up the video and play it for you in slow motion on the fancy big screen down at the main office. But unless it directly affects your legacy, it’s better not to know, yeah?”
I’m still curious.
“So,” the wrangler got up and clapped, “We’ll all go back into your rooms. Rest up, and tomorrow there will be new training and new rules. We’ll chat in the morning, yeah? Now what are the rules?”
“Don’t say any names.” Freckles answered.
“Correct. And what else?” the wrangler pressed.
A few of the attendees looked at each other and then smiled and said together:
“Don’t panic!”
I reached my room as the Wrangler began locking others near mine. As he approached my room, he pulled a small phone-like device from his back pocket. He handed it over to me.
“What’s this?” I asked.
“That’s for helping me earlier, mate,” the Wrangler responded. “You get a bit of a head start. The passcode is your birth date.”
He shut my door and locked it.
I glanced at the screen, pressed it, and entered the passcode.
The screen showed several tabs: Photos, Videos, and Memories. I clicked on Photos.
These were photos of me, from impossible vantage points, of things I had long forgotten. For example, there was a photo of me in the snow, helping push a car back onto the road for a fellow neighbor.
Were these photos from the Collective?
As I switched to videos, I saw the one that I was most interested in: my death. I remembered what the Wrangler had said about death, and my finger hovered over the video’s play button for several moments. But a video next to it was even more intriguing and labeled “The Jacket.”
It was a cold night, and my family was eating inside a restaurant. Outside, walking to a bus stop, was a lady shivering from the cold. I immediately ran outside and handed the lady my warm jacket.
“Why did you do that?” My son asked me.
I responded, “I can always buy another jacket.”
Beneath the video was the yellow timeline from orientation. It stretched another seventy-five years into the future.
Seventy-five years? From a jacket?
I was intrigued. What other non-consequential actions had extended my legacy?
I pressed on with the device.
For the first time since my death, I no longer cared how I died.
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