Bombs were the last thing on his mind. Literally. Jim was struck dead-on in the head by a warhead, and, naturally, it killed him instantly.

But when Jim regained awareness, it was in a huge warehouse, cordoned off into a long line; others were standing in single-file, inching slowly toward what appeared to be some sort of bank teller's window. From the looks of the line, however, he didn't think he'd be getting service any time soon--the line doubled back on itself at least fifteen times.

Hours passed, people crept, and he eventually got within ten people back of the window. It appeared to be manned by a small man in a rumpled brown suit, black glasses perched on his beak-like nose. The man in the window was massaging his temple with one hand while asking the person in line a question and entering the answer into a ledger book with his other hand.

Jim tried in vain to eavesdrop on what questions were being asked, and eventually gave up. As each person in line was attended to, they were ushered off to a door to the right of the teller window. His turn was coming up soon.

Ten more minutes passed, and it was finally Jim's turn. As he stepped to the window, the little man put up a "Gone