TERMINAL

  PREFACE

  But as for the cowardly, the faithless, the detestable, as for murderers, the sexually immoral, sorcerers, idolaters, and all liars, their portion will be in the lake that burns with fire and sulfur, which is the second death.

  (Revelation 21:8)

  The eternally relevant question of what is there, on the other side of life, is perhaps the most wondered about. People have created about five thousand religions, and most of them are aimed at finding an answer to this question. What awaits us when the heart makes its last, final beat? Thousands of centuries of wandering around Dante's circles or a blessed serene? Maybe a different, completely new life? Emptiness, perhaps?

  If we had the answer to that question, we would never be afraid of death; this is the suspense of our life. Throughout life, a person experiences an extensive array of sensations, but the only thing that remains beyond our understanding is what this universe is still capable of. Scientists say that there is no soul, and after death, there is only an inexistence, just forgotten nothingness. But most people disagree with that thesis. Indeed, how is it possible — a human has been given a hundred years to simply... be? Each subject has its own purpose, but what is human life created for?

  I've never dared to wonder about that, but now... It seems the time has come to think about it seriously. In the end, I have some time for this. How much? Not sure. But I am going to try my best to meet the deadlines given to me. Because this universe has prepared for me a rather extravagant surprise, it gave me the opportunity to understand my destiny after death. Well, so be it.

  The last breath, the fading echo of familiar sounds and, of course, the pain — all this was my initiation, the symphony, which guided me from my world, gently holding my hand.

  I'm dead.

  1. OPEN-ENDED TICKET

  "Okay, what the hell was that?"

  I scowled at my phone in the vent mount holder, tightening my grip on the steering wheel. Sophie's call was as unwelcomed and ill-timed as her reproachful voice tone.

  "Stefan unfollowed me!" She yelled.

  "What?" I winced disdainfully as I heard the name.

  "What happened between you two?" Sophie demanded, calmer now.

  "Nothing," I snapped, pulling out of the parking lot. "But you know what? A guy who doesn't understand a simple two-letter word no should be isolated from society."

  "What? Wait... Sven, you're doing it again."

  I absentmindedly braked at the red light.

  "So, you're going to die a virgin?" She asked just as I was about to defend myself.

  "I'm a hundred percent fine with it!" My voice edged up an octave.

  "Sven, this is a part of a healthy relationship."

  I hit the gas as soon as I saw the green light.

  "Look, if your healthy relationship with Tim started with a quickie in the backseat, that doesn't mean—"

  "You are twenty-seven years old!" Sophie shouted. "That's fine; you are not a Jane Austen's girl, you don't need to wait for the tenth letter from your beloved before he dies of typhus!"

  I felt exhausted from the conversation.

  "Okay, let's talk about it at work tomorrow."

  I heard Sophie sighed heavily. "I'm off tomorrow," she said.

  "Your wedding..." — I swallowed the word shit and continued — "planning again?"

  "Yes, a photoshoot in the Nymphenburg Palace," her voice suddenly became honeyed.

  I rolled my eyes.

  "Fine," I said. "See you Wednesday."

  I hung up the call; my knuckles tightened convulsively on the wheel.

  She and I had absolutely differing views on relationships, and no argument could possibly change my mind, though, it was not about my ethics or principles. My main healthy relationship goal was always to not be forced to do something that I don't want to. That sounded obvious, even for those guys who thought I'd owed my ass to them for lunch. I never thought that it was egoistic to refuse to have sex because I'd always warned them that I'm asexual right before the date. But somehow they kept believing that they could've healed me just with poppers and their enormous self-esteem.

  I turned off the Ridlerstrasse and breathed a sigh of relief, realizing the traffic was not that bad for a rush-hour.

  "The first good news for today..." I mumbled.

  I had a plan to brighten up the evening so that this day didn't receive the title of worst of this month — a bottle of Goudenband, pizza, and Netflix was a part of my self-care strategy.

  In fact, the day had been a total disaster since the very morning. I'd woke up at leg cramp, and my coffee maker had busted before I made my first cappuccino; a little later I'd received a message from the car service with the unfortunate news that the repair of my Volkswagen delayed until Friday, which meant I had to extend the rent of this awkward, ridiculously tiny Kia for another four days. Right by midday the most annoying and unpleasant client had shown up, who seemed to be visiting the bank branch I worked in just to humiliate me and complain about the slow service; at lunch, I'd managed to spill a mug of freshly brewed coffee on my white shirt, after which I'd tripped and nearly broke my jaw, and, of course, Sophie's call, as the final etude of this melancholic composition.

  There was no way this day become worse. Unless...

  The massive, anchor gray clouds curled across the sky, and I realized my evening run was canceled.

  "This is exactly what I need," I murmured, gazing at the few drops of moisture trickled down the windshield.

  In an attempt to pacify the growing irritation, I took a deep breath.

  "Wait..."

  I gasped as the brake lights of Volvo before me suddenly flashed, and disgusting tire squeal pierced my ears. I furiously thrust the brake pedal with my heel, but my driving experience, as well as my survival instinct, shouted that it was too late.

  "I won't make it," I muttered, pushing the pedal against the floor. "I won't make it, I won't make it, I won't..."

  "I won't make it, I won't make it..."

  "Sven."

  "I won't..."

  "Sven Amery Reinsch!"

  I opened my eyes, startled.

  I didn't see anything — my face was buried in my hands, trying to protect it from the inevitable blow, but... It seemed that this was no longer necessary.

  I exhaled hesitantly, ready to struggle for air through the ache in my chest, but the pain didn't follow.

  My body, literally my whole body was in agony, but... The pain was gone. The nauseous iron taste in my mouth disappeared; my heart struggling at every thud was quiet now, and the cold feeling at the tips of my fingers was gone too. My body didn't feel anything at all.

  "Sven…"

  I dropped my hands and felt... still nothing. I was surprised — I was damn shocked — but my body didn't react to this stress in any way.

  Just half a minute ago, I'd been lying on the wet hard ground, literally under a ton of metal, but now I was surrounded by the narrow white panels along the low walls of a long tunnel that led to one white paneled closed door.

  "A jet bridge?" I whispered, confused. "Um... but..." I trailed off; my weak voice seemed deafening in the empty walls of the bright white corridor.

  What was happening?

  I was somehow unscathed, although just a minute ago, I felt a distinct crack in my shoulder along with a hardly bearable pang inside my thorax.

  "Oh, it was raining!" I exclaimed and grabbed the clothes' fabric at my chest.

  It was dry, and besides... I was wearing completely different clothes. Black trousers, white shirt... No, I was in my suit, I remembered clearly — it was my blue bank uniform; my shirt was stained with coffee, but this one was a crisp white, perfectly pressed cotton shirt I've never had; all my shirts had the monogrammed cuffs and were made of much l
ess expensive fabric than this one.

  "Sven."

  I ran my hand through my hair — it was dry too, and I hadn't any wounds on my head, though I also remembered feeling the blood straining down my neck — my skull seemed to split in half.

  "SVEN!"

  I turned to an unfamiliar voice that kept calling out my name persistently. It was a woman, maybe a few years older than me; she was dressed in the same clothes as me, including classic white sneakers.

  What if I know her, but can't remember? I thought to myself.

  "Hello..." I said weakly. "Um... I must've been... I mean... You know me, right? I don't think I understand... I don't think I remember how I got here. Where am I? What happened to me? "

  She patiently waited until my stumbling monologue dried up, and looked at me sternly.

  "First of all, I'm Evi Eskau, your mentor. Let's go to the break room; a few more newcomers will arrive, we shouldn't crowd here."

  "Okay," I said and stopped short. "Newcomers? Mentor? What does it mean? Am I... in the hospital?"

  "No."

  Evi Eskau walked confidently along the corridor, and I trudged after her, my body seemed unusually light as if I lost some weight.

  That hallway looked precisely like a passenger boarding bridge, which meant I really was at the airport.

  It must have been retrograde amnesia, I realized with slight relief. Could it be... I got some head injury during the car accident, and now... Did I fly somewhere?

  All I remembered was the moment of the collision, the pain after it, and absolutely nothing else.

  Okay, I shouldn't panic, I thought.

  This woman said something about the break room, which must have meant that I could take a little time to try to remember more about what happened to me.

  Suddenly, I realized that the interior had changed a bit after I stepped over the threshold of the jet bridge and got, apparently, into the building. Bright white walls, some frosted glass doors, and... nothing else. Just a maze of damn corridors.

  "Excuse me... Ms. Eskau..."

  "Just call me Evi."

  "Right... Evi, um... What country am I in?" I asked. "This is definitely not the Franz Josef Strauss Airport."

  "You're not at the airport."

  I was beginning to get annoyed.

  "Then, where am I? Wasn't it a jet bridge?"

  "Sort of."

  "What does it mean?"

  "Unfortunately, you are dead," she said in a casual tone.

  I stopped sharply, staring incredulously at Evi's back.

  "What? Are you kidding?"

  She just turned around to smile wistfully.

  "No, Sven. I haven't joked for a long time now. Come in."

  She opened the last door and stepped aside, waiting for me to went through.

  Evi acted a hell of a serious, confident, and indifferent, but the things she had been sayings seemed like a very poor prank, though, she didn't look like a person who would harm me or something. Though, I knew I hadn't any other options but to trust her.

  I stepped through the doorway and involuntarily gasped aloud in surprise.

  It was a massive hall with an enormously high ceiling, lit by the comforting daylight, and the first thing that caught my eye was a giant black flight information electronic display board against the farthest and the widest wall.

  "An airport!" I exclaimed.

  Evi looked at me sympathetically; I guessed that was the first time I noticed her gaze sparkled with any emotion.

  "This place really looks like an airport," she said. "But you can't get on a plane to Sri Lanka or Malta from here. Just look around."

  She waved toward the display board, and I stared up at it.

  LARS DIETZSCH MMCLV00248503 WEST GATE. DEPARTURE: HELL.

  CHRISTOPH RIEDEL MMCXCIII00647921 EAST GATE. DEPARTURE: PARADISE.

  STEFAN PETER MMXIV01964258 EAST GATE. DEPARTURE: PARADISE.

  IAN HASSLER MMXVIII00150993 SOUTH GATE. MENTOR: SANAYA CHADHA.

  SVEN AMERY REINSCH MDCCCXXVIII00181278 SOUTH GATE. MENTOR: EVI ESKAU.

  "What the..." I muttered.

  Hell?

  "Sven," Evi glanced into my eyes. "I'm sorry, but you're dead. Welcome to the Terminal."

  I looked around the hall again.

  Dozens of people dressed in the exact same clothes as Evi and I were wandering around absent-minded — bored, even. Some of them gave me probing glances, while others did not notice me at all, wholly immersed in their thought. Each of them held at least one hanging file folder with identical black covers and twelve-digit numbers on the spines. That identical uniform, these strained expressions, and uptight busyness reminded me of the time I was working in the bank's head office where I could get a reprimand for a colored stripe on my sock.

  But that tense atmosphere appeared even more unreal and moronic when I heard the excerpts of casual conversations hummed here.

  "...can you imagine, Anna, the one from the North Gate, transferred her grandmother to Paradise. She was shocked, but still, she looked so happy. At least she could say goodbye to her, you know..."

  "...I've got no arrivals; it's boring..."

  "...yeah, I read his dossier. That bastard... I'm glad that he's burning in hell now, I haven't signed something with such satisfaction since my divorce."

  I turned around and looked at the two Illuminated signs leading to the opposite of each other directions. Hell, said the one that pointed to the right, and the other led to the left, respectively, guiding to Paradise.

  "Hey," some guy walking past smiled at me. "My condolences."

  "Welcome!" A young woman waved briefly. "I am very sorry!"

  "No. That can't be it..." I croaked, and my head jerked up as I heard a loud voice rang through the hall literally from the depths of the ceiling.

  "ANY AVAILABLE TRANSFER PLEASE REPORT TO THE EAST GATE."

  I peered at Evi.

  "T-transfer?" I said. "What is it?"

  "Not what, it's who," Evi smiled at me coldly. "That's all of us. And now — you too."

  I was about to ask for an explanation, but my eye fell on the name tag fastened to the collar of my shirt.

  Sven Amery Reinsch,

  Transfer, South Gate.

  "You can think of it as a new job," said Evi casually. "Except for one thing: now something more than a promotion depends on the results of your efforts."

  2. GROUNDCREW

  "Another poor guy in our midst?"

  I blinked at the man who spoke to me: he was in his late forties, his hair went gray at the temples, and the shallow wrinkles around the outer corners of his eyes confirmed his age. A welcoming smile played around the edges of his lips, complimenting his friendly, cozy appearance, although, frankly, his serenity scared me even more than the whole situation.

  "Moritz Alzen," he reached out his hand. "Glad to meet you."

  I shook his hand uncertainly.

  "Sven Reinsch."

  "Poor guy," Evi repeated, chuckling. "How joyful were you when you arrived here?"

  "Right, I was cursing everyone I saw. So actually, you're doing great, Sven."

  Did he say that to comfort me?

  "And by the way, another newbie from the South Gate seems extremely happy. I mean... unhealthy happy."

  Evi raised her eyebrows, waiting for the details.

  Moritz explained, "Sanaya has a new protégé — he arrived just a little before Sven — and although she's already had two before, she kind of weirded out. This guy is a bit... goofy. When he found out that he's dead, the first thing he did sang the anthem of Bosnia and Herzegovina, though I guess the lyrics were mainly made up by him, because Zelg said it was neither Croatian nor Bosnian. Poor Sanaya..."

  Evi didn't seem surprised.

  "Please help her. If he happens to be aggressive, that would be troublesome."

  "Sure." Moritz nodded.

  I glanced around the room Evi had brought me into.

  "Is this... Is this a break room?
"

  "Yes," Moritz shoved his hands into the pockets of his trousers, relaxed, carefree even. "It's not the place where we have lunch, but the room where you can just get away from the people and paperwork."

  Black artificial leather couches along the snow-white walls were perhaps the only thing that hinted at the intended purpose of this room.

  I sat down at the couch, and Moritz sank beside me, leaning back.

  "Take your time, man," he said and smacked my shoulder. "That's something hard to believe in."

  My throat was dry. And, it seemed... My blood pressure suddenly fell?

  "Water..." I said. "I'm thirsty. Do you have a kitchen here? I just need some water."

  Evi looked at me with pity.

  "It will be over soon."

  "What?"

  "The thirst. And hunger. The urge to take a nap will also disappear."

  I stared in blank confusion at Moritz, who nodded at Evi's words.

  "What do you mean, disappear? How does the thirst suppose to disappear if... if I won't drink water?" I asked dully.

  Moritz pursed his lips unhappily.

  "Thirst, hunger, fatigue — these are just residual phenomena. Your consciousness is accustomed to these sensations, and you're projecting them onto your current state. But, in fact, you are not thirsty. And you don't want to sleep."

  "But I... I breathe," I said and took a deep breath, just in case.

  "You will stop soon," this time, Evi answered me. "When you realize that you don't need it. "

  "We need air here just to make sounds. You know, to talk." Moritz added.

  I held my breath.

  I wondered to myself, how much longer can I hold it? Like a minute? Actually, I was always pretty good at holding my breath underwater, but... Evi was right. My lungs were filled with air, and it seemed pointless. I didn't need air. And... was it actually air?

  "But... my hands, my body..." I said, looking down at my fingers. "I feel them. As usual... I guess."

  "This is your shell," Moritz said. "Or rather... the projection. Tell me, did you have a scar?"

  I nodded sharply and pulled up the right trouser leg.

  "A dog bit me when I was twelve, and I had a..."

  It was not there anymore. A huge, oblong scar from the teeth of a neighboring Belgian Shepherd disappeared.