The familiarity of the voice had him lifting his head slightly, but he didn't want to believe it until he turned to meet Errol Partridge's gaze. The book became heavy in his hand, as if he'd forgotten that he'd picked it up and it was weighing him down. The rest of the new world seemed very insignificant in light of seeing a dead (incin cremated) man in the flesh.
"Cleric." John's voice was unusually small and uncertain. Little more than a whisper of a word lost in a breath dissipating between them. This Cleric had a name, of course. But he didn't trust himself to say it.
While under Prozium's oppressive thumb John had never considered what happens after one dies. The concept of a soul eluded him, the religion they had all subscribed to only talked of death as a means to a drug-induced end, and when he'd looked upon William Blake's works of art one lifetime ago before it went up in smoke, it invoked little more than a fleeting curiosity within him.
Is he dead? Is this where the dead go?
When the book dropped, the sound (always aware, always ready) made John tear his eyes away from Errol. When he looked down the book laid unmoving on the floor, but when he looked up again Errol was still standing there.