by Amy Cross
She can't.
There is no better plan.
The Devil is the Devil, and no amount of half-assed planning can help.
“Okay,” she says again, taking the deepest breath of her life. “Just go in, check out the situation, and come out again. Be a professional, like...” She pauses, trying to think of a suitable analogy. “Like the first person who went to check on the Fukushima nuclear reactor.” Another pause. “That person probably died. Bad analogy. Just...”
She looks down at her trembling hands.
“Just go in there and look, damn it.”
Grabbing her shovel from nearby, she stares at the bladed edge for a moment. For as long as she has been working at the cemetery, the shovel has always been the first thing she's reached for whenever there's been trouble. It's been almost a kind of comfort item, something she can use to defend herself, except now it seems hopelessly flimsy. Still, it's all she's got. Finally, she turns and heads toward the arch that leads into the next room. With every step, her inner mind is screaming at her to turn and run, but somehow she manages to keep going until finally she's standing in the archway, staring at the glass coffin.
She waits.
And waits.
And waits.
And nothing happens.
The Devil's corpse is still in there, still burned to a crisp. From this angle, Sam can't really tell whether his eyes are still open, but she takes it as an encouraging sign that he hasn't smashed the coffin open or sat up or anything like that. So far, it's almost as if the whole thing didn't happen at all, except she knows that she can't be that lucky. Forcing herself to step forward, she makes her way around the coffin until she can get a proper view of the Devil's head, and her heart sinks as sees that his yellowy-red eyes are still open, still staring straight up at the ceiling. After a few seconds, he blinks, but he doesn't turn to look at her.
“Hi,” she says finally, unable to hide the fear in her voice.
Silence.
“My... My name's Sam Marker.”
She pauses as she realizes that she probably should have come up with a false name.
“No it isn't,” she continues. “It's... Okay, it is. But don't go using that for anything, okay? And you're... Well, you're the Devil, so I guess everyone on the planet knows who you are.”
She waits for him to react to her presence.
Nothing.
“So you... You can't get out of there, right?” she continues. “You're trapped. Don't blame me, though. I mean, I'm glad you're trapped, but I didn't do it, I didn't put you in there, I don't even know how it works. I just... I'm the gardener, see?” She holds up her shovel, but he doesn't look over at her. “I've been left in charge around here. It's mostly mowing the grass and digging the occasional grave and...”
She pauses as the full absurdity of the situation finally hits her.
“Um...”
Slowly, the Devil's eyes turn to look directly at her. They still look damaged and burned, with pools of blood and blackened ash floating along the edges.
“Is it really you?” she asks. “Are you really the Devil? Like, the one from the Bible?”
She pauses again.
“Actually, that's fine, I believe you. No need to try proving it or anything.”
She makes her way around the head of the coffin until she's on the other side. Forcing herself to be strong, she kneels next to the coffin and stares directly at the side of the Devil's face. His blackened skin looks dry and brittle, as if pieces of burned flesh have formed small crusty segments that cover blood-red meat below. After a moment, his eyes turn to look at her. Although she wants to run, Sam forces herself to stay completely still and meet his stare; she knows there's a risk of seeing things that aren't really there, but she can't shake the feeling that there's some kind of great intelligence in those eyes, almost as if they can see straight into her soul.
“Hello,” she says finally.
Slowly, the Devil's lips begin to part, revealing a set of white teeth and a surprisingly pink, unburned tongue.
Sam braces herself, waiting for him to speak, trying to imagine what the Devil's voice sounds like.
Nothing comes.
“I don't know why you've woken up,” she says finally, “but if you want my advice, I think the best thing for you to do would just be to close your eyes and go back under. There's nothing for you here, nothing to do, nowhere to go. Do you really want to spend eternity in a glass coffin, staring up at the ceiling?” She looks up at the roof of the crypt for a moment, before looking back at the Devil. “That's a very boring view. You won't be missing much if you just close your eyes and go back to sleep.”
His eyes continue to stare at her.
“And don't think you can get out of there,” she adds, figuring that she needs to bluff her way through the encounter. “Believe me, there are... things... keeping you down in this crypt. It'd be better for you if you just drift off back to sleep. What do I have to do, sing you a lullaby?” Pausing, she considers the possibility for a moment, before deciding that singing the Devil to sleep would be a step too far this time. “Just drift off,” she says again, more firmly. “Come on, you can't be fully awake yet. Just go back to sleep and everything's going to be okay. Please? For me?”
She waits.
Finally, slowly, the Devil's eyes start to close again.
“That's right,” Sam whispers, “just go to -”
Before she can finish, there's a fluttering sound from the archway and a raven flies through the darkness and lands on the coffin, directly over the Devil's head.
“No!” Sam shouts, as the bird starts pecking at the glass.
The Devil's eyes open wide, as if the interruption has shocked him awake again.
“Get out of here!” Sam yells, pushing the raven so hard that it almost falls off the other side of the coffin.
Taking flight, the bird flutters around the crypt for a few seconds before heading back out into the corridor. It returns a few seconds later, just in time for Sam to swing her shovel at it, slicing it cleanly in two with such force that the blade ends up lodged in the wall. She pulls it free and looks down at the two halves of the raven, which slowly slither down the edges of the shovel and drop to the ground, spilling thick red blood onto the floor.
“Gross,” Sam mutters.
Heading back to the coffin, she looks directly down at the Devil's face and sees that his eyes are open wider than ever, staring straight at her. After a moment, she notices a mark on the surface of the coffin, and she realizes with horror that the raven's beak was able to chip away a few slivers of glass.
“That's what they're here for,” she whispers, as the awful realization starts to creep through her body. “They're here to... get you out.” Staring down at the Devil, she forces herself to stay calm. “It's okay, go back to sleep. There's nothing for you to see, anyway. It's very boring out there now. Just go to sleep and have nice dreams, okay?”
She waits, but the Devil's eyes remain wide open, and he seems more awake than before.
Running her hand across the top of the coffin, Sam feels the faint chipped section where the raven was able to get some of the glass away.
“You've been waiting for them, haven't you?” she continues. “Is that what's going on? You've been waiting for all these ravens to come and get you out? You think they're going to peck away at your coffin until they break the glass and then you'll be able to climb out and get on with whatever you've been planning? Well...” She pauses, her mind racing with different possibilities. “That means you need them,” she adds, “which means I just have to make sure they stay the hell out of here. No ravens, no broken glass, no risen Devil. See? I know your plan now.”
Stepping back from the coffin, she tries to stay calm.
“Fine,” she says finally. “If that's what I have to do, that's what I have to do. I have to fight the birds. If you think your plan's going to work, you've got another thing coming. I'm the gardener of Rippon and th
ere's no way I'm letting you come back, not on my watch.”
Turning, she grabs the two halves of the dead raven, just in case it has any thoughts about coming back to life. She hurries back out into the corridor and makes her way toward the exit. As soon as she emerges into the moonlight, she slams the door shut and turns the key in the lock, sealing the tomb. She tries the door several times, just to make absolutely certain that it's locked.
“There,” she says finally, tossing the dead raven parts to the ground. “Step one complete. Now for steps two to one million.”
Hurrying to the maintenance shed, she shines her torch around at the various benches until she finds the large set of chains that she remembers finding long ago. They're heavy, but she starts to pull them out of the shed, dragging them toward the entrance to the crypt. When she arrives, however, she spots something dark on the door, and when she shines her torch ahead she sees to her shock that a raven is perched precariously on the side of the door; worse still, the bird appears to be trying to pick the lock using its long, sharp beak.
“Get away from there!” Sam shouts, rushing over just in time to scare the bird away. It flies up into her face for a moment but she pushes it against the side of the door and it quickly flutters away, taking up a perch on top of the mausoleum so that it can get a better view of what she's doing. Seconds later, however, it flies back down and tries to get to the padlock again.
Grabbing the chains, Sam wraps them around the handle until they cover the lock, and then she uses a padlock to secure them in place. The raven is still attacking her, pecking at her head, but she knows doesn't have time to defend herself. Once the padlock is locked, however, she grabs her shovel and starts swinging it at the raven, and after a few attempts she finally manages to hit the damn thing, knocking it to the ground. Before it has time to recover, she slices the blade down, cutting the bird in half and then adding a few more cuts for good measure. Finally, she looks over at the other dead raven and realizes that they don't seem to be coming back to life. A dead raven is a dead raven.
“There,” she mutters breathlessly, taking a step back and admiring the chains on the door. “Let's see you little bastards try to get through that.” Slipping the old metal key into her pocket, she tells herself that so long as the key is in her possession, no-one else can get down into the crypt.
She takes a deep breath as she tries to stay calm, although she can feel her body almost vibrating to pieces as sheer panic continues to spread. Finally, she turns and hurries back to the cottage, bolting into the kitchen before slamming the door shut and sinking down onto her haunches. She keeps expecting a knock at the door, as if the Devil might have somehow found a way to get free from his glass coffin, but as she stares straight ahead and waits, she finally allows herself to consider the possibility that – at least for now – the situation has been contained.
“Oh God,” she whispers finally. “I just talked to the Devil. The Devil's awake.”
Two
Opening her eyes slowly, Anna finds herself staring up at a patch of light that has fallen across a Bioshock 2 poster on Scott's wall. She blinks a couple of times, surprised by the fact that somehow morning seems to have sneaked up on her, and finally she turns to see Scott sleeping next to her.
“Oh,” she whispers, as flashes of memory reach out to her. She pauses, thinking back to all the things they did during the previous night, and although her first instinct is to turn and run, she forces herself to stay exactly where she is. This is the first time she has ever woken up next to a guy before, having always preferred in her earlier life to get moving as soon as the act was over.
Holding her arm up, she flexes her fingers, still shocked by how well her body has healed. She was half-expecting to find that she'd regressed to her zombie form during the night, but now she's finally allowing herself to believe that the change is permanent. It's still not her original arm, but she figures she can live with a few cosmetic changes.
“Hey,” Scott says suddenly.
Looking over at him, she sees that his eyes are open wide, staring up at her.
“Hey,” she replies with an embarrassed half-smile.
“You okay?”
She nods.
“That wasn't a weak-ass question,” he continues. “I meant it. Are you properly okay?”
“I'm properly okay. Whatever that means.”
“You don't regret anything?”
She shakes her head.
“Me neither.”
He holds a hand out toward her, and she allows herself to sink back down onto the bed. As she feels him putting his strong, warm arms around her, Anna can't quite shake the feeling that she's in unfamiliar territory now.
“You've got some cool scars,” Scott says after a moment. “It almost looks like your arms and legs were cut off and then stuck back on again.” He runs a finger along the scar that circles the top of her arm, where just a few days earlier the new arm was sewn into place; already, the skin has almost completely fused over the wound. “Hell,” he continues, checking the scar at the top of her leg, “it's exactly like they were stuck back on. What are you, Frankenstein's monster?”
Smiling, Anna stares up at the ceiling. The situation with Scott feels simultaneously very very right and very very wrong, and she figures she's just going to have to live with those conflicting sensations for a while. Still, she has another feeling gnawing at her soul, and this one is harder to ignore: she can't shake the fear that something somewhere is very wrong, and that while it's very nice being naked in bed with Scott, there's somewhere else she's needed.
***
“Hello?” says a voice on the other end of the phone.
“Hi,” Anna replies, sitting in the cafe by the town square with a glass of soda in front of her, “um... I was wondering if David Marsh is in his office today?”
“David Marsh?” There's a pause. “David hasn't worked here for the past six months. Sorry.”
“Oh.” She pauses. “Do you... Do you know where I can get in touch with him now?”
“Sorry, I think his family moved away.”
“Okay. Sorry to bother you.” Cutting the call, Anna takes a deep breath. For the past year, she's been telling herself that it would be wrong to get in touch with her family. After all, they think she's dead and buried, and she really doesn't like the idea of bursting into a family gathering one day and then trying to explain what she's doing back in the land of the living. At the same time, now that her body is fixed and she has a possible future, she feels as if she should fine some way to get her family back. Her father, her mother... She misses them, and she hates the idea that she'll never get to be with them again.
“You okay?” Scott asks as he comes back from the bathroom and sits next to her, putting her arm around her shoulder and giving her a gentle, affectionate hug.
“Yeah, sure.”
“Did you get through?”
“Uh, no. The guy wasn't there anymore. He moved to a new job.”
“Your uncle?”
She smiles politely, preferring to keep things simple even though she feels like bursting into tears.
“Look him up online,” Scott continues. “You can use my phone.”
Taking him up on his offer, she starts searching for her family using a search engine, and it doesn't take long before she finds her father. After a few minutes, she's already managed to learn a lot about her family's movements over the past year: it turns out that after losing Anna, they decided to make a clean break and get far away from Rippon, and her father got a job in Australia. The family packed up and moved to the other side of the world, and Anna is soon able to find a social media profile that shows them in their new home.
“They've got a swimming pool,” she whispers.
“Who have?”
“No-one,” she replies, wiping away a single tear from her eye before it has a chance to become noticeable. “My uncle's family, that's all. Looks like they moved to Australia.” She swipes through t
o some more photos, and her heart leaps in her chest as she sees her mother standing by a barbecue; there's a smile on her face, but it's a sad smile that seems to hint at an attempt to move on from grief. The next picture shows her father again, this time with a beer in his hand.
“Call them,” Scott says suddenly.
“It'd cost too much.”
Grabbing his phone, Scott taps a few icons before passing it back to her. To her shock, Anna sees that the phone app is already calling a number with an Australian dial code.
“That's the number from the social media page,” Scott tells her. “Go on. Just do it. You said this guy is your uncle, right? He'll want to hear from you!”
“No,” she replies, panicking as she stares at the screen, “I -”
Before she can finish, she hears someone picking up.
“Hello?” says a voice.
She freezes, shocked to hear her father after more than a year.
“Anyone there?” he asks. “Sorry, it's pretty late at night, is something wrong?”
“I...”
She pauses.
“Who is this?”
“What's going on?” asks a female voice in the background, and Sam immediately recognizes her mother's tone.
“Is this a crank call?” her father asks.
“Say something,” Scott whispers.
“Um,” Sam mutters, “I just called to, um... Is that David Marsh?”
“Yes, who am I speaking to?”
“My name... Um... I just called to let you know that...”
She pauses, and then finally she cuts the call off.
“Why did you do that?” Scott asks.
“I... You heard what he said. It's late at night in their timezone. I don't think that's the right time to be talking to him.” She puts the phone on the table, while trying not to let Scott see that she feels like a nervous wreck. “I have to go,” she blurts out, getting to her feet and hurrying away.