The Dragons of Styx

by John E. Siers

  “And now she’s here…I missed you, baby.” She gave the bus a kiss on the driver’s side window.

  “We’ll try to make sure you’re never separated again,” Mark assured her. “Now let’s go finish breakfast—Lisa and I need to actually do some work today.”

  “So what’s on the agenda? Are you going to kill anybody today?”

  Lisa grinned at Spark’s question. “Not today, Honey. Today we do the boring stuff—review all the applications we’ve gotten in the past week and try to figure out who we’re going to kill in the near future.”

  “It’s not boring,” Mark insisted. “You won’t believe what kind of crazy stuff comes in here every week. We’ve got 35 applications to look at this time, and I’ll guarantee some of them are going to be totally off the wall—stuff not even Hollywood could dream up.”

  “Thirty-five!” Spark looked at him in amazement. “That many people lining up to be snuffed out? I mean…that’s just crazy in itself!”

  “When we first got started—when people first noticed we were here—we got hundreds of them every week,” Lisa said. “Then one of the suicide-advocacy groups told all their social-media followers to check us out. We got over two thousand applications in one day before our server choked.”

  “Obviously, most of those were bogus,” Mark said. “Some people will apply for anything if they can do it for free, so that’s when we decided to charge an application fee. We ended up raising the fee three times before we got it down to the point where it was manageable—where most of the applications were serious, and the volume was something we could handle.”

  “Theoretically, we could kill 50 people a week here,” Lisa said. “The building is set up to handle that many, and we’ve got the procedures down to a routine, but we’d be whacking them from dawn to dusk, and processing that many bodies would be a nightmare.”

  “But still…35…”

  “That’s 35 applications,” Lisa pointed out. “Thirty-five people who were willing to pay our application fee—currently $500—just to have us look at them. Of those, we’ll probably reject 10 or 15 of them for various reasons and send them a little apologetic notice that says they didn’t meet our standards—so sorry, have a nice life.”

  “Why would you do that? I mean…if they paid $500, they must be serious about it.”

  “Not necessarily,” Mark insisted. “For some of them, $500 is pocket change—they’d spend that much just to find out what’s behind the mysterious Ferry curtain, something they can brag about on social media. They have to give us enough information to convince us they really are serious.”

  “In addition, we run a basic financial check. The $500 is just an application fee. An actual termination costs a whole lot more, and even though we give them clues in the application process as to how much more, we still get a few who can’t possibly afford to pay us. We do some charity work—mostly referrals of hopeless cases from the Southern California Suicide Prevention Center—but we’re here to make a profit, just like LifeEnders.”

  “But that leaves at least 20 that you don’t reject.” Sparkling still found the number incredible.

  “Right.” Lisa nodded. “And those 20 will get a notice that their application has been accepted, and we’ll schedule them for an interview as soon as they post a serious, non-refundable deposit—currently $10,000—toward the contract. Those who do get an appointment to come in here and talk to us. We’ll also start a background investigation through NorthStar to find out whatever we need to know about them before we meet.”

  “I’d be surprised if 10 of the 20 respond to that,” Mark said. “We try to pick the ones we think are likely candidates, but we usually run about 40% response from accepted applicants. That deposit requirement makes them go back and do some serious thinking, and some of them decide that maybe life isn’t so bad after all.”

  “So…OK…that still means that maybe eight of them will walk through the door to get snuffed, right?”

  “Right,” Mark said. “Most people who post the deposit show up for the interview, but that doesn’t mean we have a contract yet. When we accept their application, we also tell them what a basic, no-frills termination will cost them, so there shouldn’t be any sticker shock at that point—any who weren’t willing to pay it wouldn’t have paid the deposit in the first place.

  “Still, they can back out at any time, even during the interview. We only manage to get a signed contract from about 75% of them—so now we’re down to a hypothetical six out of the 35 we’re looking at today.”

  “But—” he waved a finger in the air, “—that means success for us, because at that point they pay the full contract fee up front. Not bragging, but the current basic fee starts in the high five figures, and goes up, depending on the client’s ability and willingness to pay, not to mention any add-ons he or she would like beyond the basic whack’em-and-stack’em service.”

  “Like…pre-termination sex?” Sparkle’s grin was wicked.

  “Yes, or some special, spectacular way they want to go out,” Lisa said with a wicked grin of her own. “Last year we had a sweet little old lady—called her ‘Granny’—who was dying of a terminal illness and didn’t want to go through all the suffering of the last stages. She also wanted a spectacular finish—said she wanted to go out like Anne Boleyn.”

  “Anne Boleyn? Wait a minute! That’s history, one of the wives of King Henry the Eighth of England, right?”

  “Right. His second wife. Do you remember what happened to her?”

  “Yes! Henry had her beheaded! No—you didn’t!”

  “Yes, we did,” Lisa said with a smirk. “She paid a lot of money for it, and we always try to satisfy the client.”

  “Omigosh. I remember back in the commune they used to sing old ‘60s folk songs, and there was this one about Anne Boleyn—the title was ‘With Her Head Tucked Underneath Her Arm.’” It was supposed to be funny, but it was actually kind of gruesome when you think about the history behind it.”

  “Right.” Mark chuckled. “The song was made popular by a group called the Kingston Trio—used to perform in San Francisco. But hey, Spark, it was actually about the ghost of Anne Boleyn. That should be right up your alley.”

  “Yeah…well, nobody’s asked me to go check out the Tower of London, but if they do, I’ll be sure to ask if she’s still hanging around the place.”

  “According to that survey you did, Granny’s not hanging around here,” he replied, “but she departed the same way Anne did. Maybe she’s out there somewhere…with her head tucked underneath her arm.”

  Mark’s initial estimate proved a bit low. By mid-afternoon when they finished the review, they had only rejected 13 applications, leaving 22 who would move on to the next step. Midway through the process, Lisa looked up from one of them with a chuckle.

  “Hey…here’s one who says she wants to die by drowning. Maybe we’ll finally get a chance to try out the swimming pool.”

  “You have a swimming pool?” Sparkle looked surprised.

  “Yes we do,” Mark replied. “When I first designed the building, I planned for one, but money got tight, and construction was running behind schedule, so I scratched it—left the space empty.

  “Business has boomed since then, so we called in a contractor and had it put in at the end of last year. It’s on this floor, north end of the building—20 by 40 feet and 12 feet deep at the far end—and we opened the ceiling up into the second floor to make room for diving.”

  “But…Lisa…you say you’ve never tried it out?”

  “Oh, we’ve tried it for ourselves,” Lisa assured her. “I love to swim. We just haven’t used it for a client termination yet.”

  “And we really should,” Mark said, “to justify the tax write-off we get for it as a corporate business expense.”

  “Then let’s hope this one goes through to contract,” Lisa said. “Should be pretty simple, just tie a weight to her feet and chuck her into the pool. Can’t wait to try it!”


  “You see, Spark,” Mark chuckled again, “that’s one of the reasons we limit the number of contracts we take on. We want it to be more fun than work.”

  “Fun?” She stared at him. “Killing people is fun?”

  “Well, maybe fun isn’t quite the right word.” Lisa looked thoughtful. “It’s certainly exciting…almost to the point of being erotic. I won’t say it’s better than sex, but it’s a close second.”

  “Yeah, it is,” Mark agreed. “We could probably be out there working as regular LEI Shooters—I’m sure some of them feel the same way about it. But for some of them, it’s the thrill of the hunt. For us, it’s definitely the thrill of the kill, so we’d rather stay here and let the prey come to us.”

  “Having second thoughts about this family you just joined, Sparkle?” Lisa asked gently. “You haven’t even seen us work yet. Maybe you won’t want to be here when you find out what we’re really like.”

  Sparkling sat there for a moment, looking back and forth between them. She realized they were waiting to hear what she had to say, so she drew a deep breath.

  “I grew up on the commune, where they preached peace and love and never harming a living thing. They wouldn’t even kill the insects that were eating the crops.

  “Since then I’ve been living in the real world. I’ve done a lot of things that weren’t exactly…acceptable in society. I’ve sold my body, picked pockets on the street, shoplifted, scammed people as a fortune teller…but I’ve never killed anybody.

  “So it feels a little strange, maybe a little…sinful…but I’m kind of getting excited about it. Weird, but I feel like I want to be there when you toss that woman into the pool.”

  They had finished the reviews and were in the process of sending out notices to the successful applicants (and rejection slips to the unsuccessful) when Mark’s pad chimed with an incoming call from Martelli.

  “It’s over—we’re all clear,” he declared. “The contract has been canceled, the wizards are being reprimanded, and Waters is back on the No Hit list.”

  “That’s great!” Mark told him. The No Hit list was a special list maintained by LEI Corporate of people they did not want whacked. All Shooters were required to check the list before taking a contract and were forbidden to hit anyone on the list.

  Mark and Lisa checked the list as well and would at least consult LEI before taking a Ferry contract for anyone on the list. Corporate might be willing to allow someone on the list to suicide, but the Ferry wouldn’t sign one up without an official waiver.

  “So…what happened?” Lisa wanted to know. “Did you and Ramirez meet with Keel?”

  “No, I never got a response to my request for a meeting. Instead, I got a visit from Cynthia Witherbot—the assistant director of SAD. When she speaks, everybody listens. She told me the details, said the case was closed, and then she left. I checked both the contract and No Hit lists, and she was right…it’s like it never happened.”

  “The crazy thing is, Witherbot just showed up at my door—no advance notice. She normally works out of HQ in Dallas, and nobody even knew she was going to be in town. But she seemed to know everything about the case, spent no more than five minutes with me, and was gone.

  “I tried to find her a few minutes later—wanted to ask her about Waters’ future status—but she was really gone. Nobody in the building had seen her, and when I checked the security logs, there was no record of her coming or going through the normal building entry and exit points.”

  “You guys live in a strange world,” Mark said with a grin. “Don’t worry—I’m sure Spark will be wanting to get back to work as soon as you’re ready for her.”

  “No…let her take the week off,” Martelli insisted. “We owe her that after what we put her through.”

  They celebrated victory that evening. Lisa insisted on cooking yet another gourmet feast—Surf and Turf this time, with ribeye steak and lobster—and this time Sparkling enjoyed the feast. By the end of the meal, they were feeling quite mellow, having finished a bottle of Mark’s favorite Merlot.

  “Stag’s Leap 2016,” he proclaimed. “A very good year.”

  “It was indeed,” Sparkling agreed. Her tolerance for alcohol was lower than theirs, and she was starting to feel a little fuzzy around the edges.

  “So now you’ve got a week to get your essential stuff moved over here from your old apartment,” Lisa said. “We can at least get you settled in on the fifth floor by then, and you can take your time with the rest.”

  “Yeah. I think I’ll go over there tomorrow and at least pick up some of my clothes and personal things. Besides, I want to drive Aphrodite and make sure the guys didn’t mess her up.”

  “I’ll go with you,” Lisa said. “I’d love a ride in that beautiful little bus.”

  Besides, she sent privately to Mark, I need to be there in case some Shooter didn’t get the word. Got to keep my little girl safe.

  Right, he agreed. We’ve got nothing heavy scheduled anyway. I’ll hold the fort and get some accounting work done.

  They were getting really comfortable with mental communication. They could include Sparkle in the conversation if needed, but they had to make a conscious effort to do so. Between the two of them, however, it was as natural as pillow talk—had the same intimate quality, in fact.

  With a sigh, Mark acknowledged one of the side benefits—or drawbacks, depending on your viewpoint—they could never lie to each other ever again. At the moment, he was perfectly OK with that.

  Chapter Ten: Welcome to the Swamp

  Mark was up to his elbows in the Ferry’s books—“counting our shekels,” as he often put it—when his pad chimed with an incoming call. It was a number he didn’t recognize, but it carried a LifeEnders priority code—gold priority, to be exact, indicating someone pretty high up in the LEI ranks.

  “Charon’s Ferry—Mark Marshall,” he said as he took the call and found himself looking at a woman he didn’t recognize. She was of indeterminate age—not old, but beyond her 20s at least—with brown hair and bright eyes whose color defied description, somewhere between green and brown. She wore a severe and serious look on her face, but Mark judged her to be reasonably attractive.

  I would, he decided, applying the test that came to mind anytime he looked at a woman he hadn’t seen before.

  “Mr. Marshall,” she said with a pronounced British accent, “you don’t know me—I’m Cynthia Witherbot with LifeEnders.”

  “I’ve heard your name,” he replied, “but you’re right. I don’t actually know you. I presume you’re looking for Sparkling Waters…”

  “No,” she told him. “If I were looking for Waters, I know how to reach her directly. It’s you I need to talk to. Based on what I’m told, I presume I’m now speaking to the dragon himself—in his human persona, that is. Is that correct?”

  “You are speaking to the red dragon,” Mark acknowledged with a grin. “The blue dragon—or turquoise, as she prefers to be known—is out of the office at the moment.” Lisa had gone with Sparkling to fetch things from the apartment and would probably be at it for the rest of the day.

  “Ah, yes…Ms. Woods, your business partner and…consort. I should very much like to meet her someday. For the record, according to ancient lore, dragons are usually described by their accent colors, not their primary coloration. That would make you a copper dragon, and her a silver one.”

  “Really? I didn’t know that…you’ll have to bear with me. I’m rather new at this dragon business.”

  “Not to worry,” she assured him with a wave of her hand. “As I said, that’s just ancient lore, much of which is hearsay obscured by superstition. I would not presume to tell an actual dragon how to describe himself—or herself, as the case may be.

  “In any case, I’m calling you on business. My immediate superior, Mr. Keel…don’t know if you’ve heard of him…”

  “I have, though only in passing.”

  “Yes, well, he has informed me that he wo
uld like to see the two of you—in dragon form, that is. Would you be willing to meet with him?”

  “Uh…well, yes, but I have to tell you, we haven’t had much practice at…transforming ourselves into dragons. In fact, we’ve only done it once, and that was under duress.”

  She waved a hand in dismissal. “If you’ve done it once, I’m sure you’ll figure that part out.”

  “OK…assuming you’re right, when and where does he want to meet us?”

  “Tonight, actually—Keel doesn’t keep traditional business hours. If it’s convenient, he’d like to see you around elevenish. That’s PM, of course, and U.S. Central time.”

  “Central?”

  “Yes. His…ah…business office is located in Louisiana, somewhere southeast of New Orleans. You don’t need the details. He says once you transform yourselves, he’ll make sure you know how to get there. You’ve already proven you know how to teleport.

  “Oh…and one more thing. He says he’d like you to bring Sparkling Waters with you—and this time, please don’t forget to bring her clothing along.”

  The road was nothing more than a dirt-and-gravel track that ran along the top of an earthen causeway, winding its way through the mangrove and cypress swamps that made up much of Terrebonne Parish. They weren’t exactly sure where they were, but they knew they needed to keep going forward. It was getting near midnight, but a bright full moon lit the bayou, glinting off the water and clearly defining their path.

  “Sure is a nice night,” Sparkling remarked. She was riding in style with her legs astride Lisa’s long dragon neck. The base of Lisa’s wings had proven to be a comfortable saddle.

  “A bit noisy, though…” she added. The night was filled with a cacophony of buzzes, chirps, croaks, and other sounds, punctuated by an occasional sharp birdcall, and once by a howl that sounded like a wolf or coyote.

  Yeah, that’s for sure…Mark’s voice sounded clearly in her head. Lots of bugs in the air, too, but they’re not bothering me. How about you guys?