by Scott Colby
And just how in the hell was he going to do that? The question weighed heavier on him every time he pondered it. Billy didn’t seem particularly outgoing, suave, or funny. He was your typical melancholy emo kid with dumb, swoopy hair and a few stupid tattoos. How the hell was Kevin supposed to find a girl for a guy like that in a town fifty miles from the nearest Hot Topic? Had he known what he was going to have to work with, he might’ve thought twice about proposing his plan to Nella and Driff. Maybe Billy would surprise Kevin by revealing himself as the biggest ladies’ man in the county. Maybe his good looks would mitigate his long list of flaws. Maybe Ren’s Jaguar would grow wings and fly.
Desperate to discuss both recent events and their plan of attack, Kevin called Ren two or three times a day. Ren neither answered nor returned those calls. That was not normal; Ren was one of the most conscientious people Kevin knew. He didn’t think Ren had ever not returned one of his calls. Ren obviously knew more than he was letting on about all these crazy fairy creatures; but what did he know, and how did he know it, and why didn’t he want to talk to his best friend about it? Whatever Ren was hiding, it had to be something personal. Maybe Friday night, somewhere in between working feverishly to hook the reaper up with someone willing and trying not to get his soul yanked out through his nostrils, Kevin would have a chance to corner Ren and find out exactly what the hell was going on. Somehow, he doubted it.
Nella didn’t visit him, as they’d agreed. Kevin knew it was for the best. There was no telling what powers the reaper possessed that would give the two of them away, or what associates he might’ve tasked with keeping an eye on the water nymph. Regardless, Kevin missed her—a lot—and hoping that she’d suddenly appear in his room kept him awake most of the night, even though a few hours of fun with Nella could bring about his demise. Logically, he knew that was fucking stupid—but his heart wanted him to shove his logic right back up his ass.
Sometimes, when he was able to briefly talk himself out of thinking about Nella, he pretended to be asleep to try to lull the gnomes into a false sense of security. They didn’t show. Either Driff had been pulling his leg, or the little bastards were really damn smart. He untangled his cables Thursday night and found them twisted maliciously the next morning. Gnomes or not, there were strange forces at work in his bedroom.
Life in Harksburg took an interesting turn about an hour after lunch on Friday afternoon. While Kevin was busy checking underneath the ottoman for gnomes, his mother stormed into the living room. “I just can’t believe it!” she bellowed, her eyes dancing with hellfire and brimstone. “Have you seen what your friend, the Spuddner boy, has gotten himself up to?”
Kevin looked up at her from his hands and knees and shook his head. “What’s Oscar doing?”
Mrs. Felton planted her hands firmly on her hips and harrumphed. “That little heathen’s built himself an altar on the town common. He’s preaching!”
For a moment, Kevin couldn’t understand where the problem was. Typically, his mother wholeheartedly approved of any attempts to spread the good word. Then Kevin flashed back to the gathering in the Works four days prior, to Oscar’s little messianic performance from atop the rock by the bulldozer. Mrs. Felton certainly wouldn’t approve of that.
Neither, Kevin realized, would Driff. He didn’t know what the elf would do about it, but he was sure it wouldn’t be something Oscar would enjoy.
“I’ll go see if I can talk some sense into him,” Kevin replied, springing to his feet.
His mother nodded. “If he’s still out there blaspheming when my laundry’s done, I’m coming after him with the holy water,” she said menacingly. Abelia kept a ready supply in the garage, in the kegerator Kevin’s father had left behind. A tiny spray bottle in her purse served as a reliable weapon against barking dogs, rude heathens, and Waltman. She’d once told her son that any supernatural benefits were merely a bonus; getting spritzed by an angry old lady was usually more than enough to curb unwanted behavior.
“My old Super Soaker’s in the attic,” Kevin replied sarcastically as he brushed past her and headed for the front hall. In his haste to get to Oscar before Driff did, he put his shoes on the wrong feet. After correcting them, he couldn’t make his fingers tie a proper knot. He gave up, threw a light jacket on, and shoved his way outside through the front door with his untied laces flapping in the breeze.
The crowd gathered on the town common across the street was the sort of motley collection of old people, creeps, losers, and stay-at-home parents you can only find out and about at one in the afternoon on a weekday while everyone else is at work. There was Sweatpants Bob, a homeless old duffer who wandered around town nonstop with an old bedpost he used for a walking stick and a giant hiking pack overstuffed with who-knows-what. Mrs. Robidas stood off to the side with her three-seat stroller, cautiously eyeing Jerry Flynn, an old veteran with a bushy mustache and thick glasses who drove the type of crappy maroon van favored by kidnappers and rapists. The staff of the nearby Harksburg Rest Home had wheeled several of their residents out to watch the proceedings. Waltman and Jim Jimeson were there, too, decked out in their WJ Construction sweatshirts even though they hadn’t been able to find work in three months. There were ten or twelve others Kevin knew by face and reputation but not by name—the fat guy who used the library computer all day, the old woman who stole newspapers from the convenience store, the dude who sold home-grown mint in front of the post office every Saturday morning, and so on and so forth. The entire roster of local loons had come out for this one. Kevin refused to list himself among their number; his unemployment was just temporary, after all, and it would be only a matter of time before he was once again contributing to society—or so he tried to convince himself.
Tom Flanagan’s police cruiser was parked right in front of Kevin’s house. The beefy officer himself leaned against its hood, glaring angrily at Oscar’s little show. Kevin stopped to say hello.
“Afternoon,” Officer Flanagan spat as he shook Kevin’s hand. “Quite the fucking shindig we’ve got today.”
“How’d you get stuck playing riot squad?” Kevin asked.
“Short straw,” Flanagan replied sadly. “Rest of the boys are out in the Works with some Mary Jane we took off Johnny T. last week. These jerks better behave. I’ve got a couple of gas grenades in the trunk an’ I’m just itchin’ for an excuse.”
“My mother might get to them with the holy water first. How long have they been out there?”
“About half an hour. Believe it or not, Spuddner had the common sense to get a permit first. Nothing I can do ’less things turn nasty.”
Kevin nodded. If Driff showed up—well, who knew how nasty things might get, and he didn’t want to see Flanagan caught up in the middle of it. “I, on the other hand, am under no such restrictions.”
Flanagan tipped his cap theatrically. “It’s a free country, after all, but I’m sure local law enforcement would be mighty grateful if you got these idiots—I mean, these citizens exercising their First Amendment rights—off my damn common.”
“I’ll see what I can do.”
Kevin left his friend with a final handshake and jogged across the street. There was no sign of Ren’s green Jaguar—hopefully that meant word hadn’t reached Driff and that Kevin had plenty of time to clean up this mess. That it was, in fact, his mess, there could be no doubt. His return had driven Nella to leave Billy at the altar, which in turn had caused the reaper to shirk his responsibilities, which meant that no one in the county could die and thus made it possible for Oscar to make a stupid spectacle of himself. Anything bad that happened to his friend because of it would be on Kevin’s head.
He gave the contingent from the old folks’ home a wide berth so as to avoid their strange smell, ducking between Sweatpants Bob and Waltman as he made his way to the front of the crowd. Oscar stood atop an overturned crate in the center of the gathering, smiling benevolently and making what Kevin could only term “Jesus motions” with his arms. He wore a bagg
y white bathrobe he must’ve stolen from a hotel. Doorknob stood to his right, standing guard over a metal trough of water with the infamous pitchfork in hand. A blue duffel bag by his feet bulged at weird angles.
“Brother Kevin!” Oscar said happily. “So good of you to make it!”
Part of Kevin wanted to fade back into the crowd and hide, but he couldn’t do that. He had to talk some sense into his idiot friend—no easy task under normal circumstances, but certainly borderline impossible now that Spuddner thought himself indestructible. “Hey, Oscar. Whatchya up to?”
“That’s Oscar the Immortalist to you, heathen!” Doorknob snapped in his ridiculously high-pitched voice, jamming his finger in Kevin’s face. “You will show the proper respect!”
Kevin blinked and took a step back. Doorknob had never exhibited anything even remotely resembling a spine. Throughout his entire life he’d endured a never-ending stream of verbal and physical abuse with nothing more than the occasional meek, “C’mon, guys!” Waistband-snapping wedgies, hours spent trapped in his own locker, weeks without any lunch money, constant sabotage of his every public attempt to woo a woman—none of it had prompted any sort of aggressive outburst. It had taken nothing short of immortality to pull Doorknob out of his shell.
Kevin didn’t like it. Recklessness would do Doorknob no favors in life. He was neither smart enough nor strong enough to deal with the consequences.
“First Acolyte Knob, stand down,” Oscar said peacefully. “Brother Kevin is a good friend to the movement.”
To Kevin’s left, Waltman snickered. “First Asshole Doorknob.”
“Good friend to the bowel movement,” Jim Jimeson added with a sneer.
Doorknob eyed his tormentors maliciously, but Oscar ignored them. “Friends! Neighbors! Fellow Harksburgers!” he declared, sweeping his arms dramatically. “I come to you today bearing a gift—the gift of eternal life!”
“Bullshit!” Jim Jimeson declared.
“Do that trick with the pitchfork again!” Waltman shouted.
Kevin didn’t want to think what might happen if Oscar stabbed himself in the middle of the town common. No way Driff would let that go unpunished. “Um, Oscar,” he stammered. “I actually came out here to warn you about the weather. There’s a really bad thunderstorm heading this way.”
Oscar dismissed him with a gentle wave of his hand. “The Immortalist fears no storm. Neither lightning nor tornado nor water spout nor golfball-sized hail can silence his good word!”
“I bet a knuckle sandwich would do the trick,” Waltman growled.
“Get on with the stabbing!” Jimeson goaded.
Oscar’s brow furrowed. “Need we resort to such barbarities, gentlemen?”
“Yes!” Waltman and Jimeson shouted together. Beside them, Sweatpants Bob nodded.
The would-be messiah crossed his arms and pursed his lips. “If that’s what it takes to spread the Word of the Immortalist, then it shall be done. All those who follow the Word shalt be forever safe from harm. First Acolyte Knob has embraced the teachings of the Immortalist and everlasting life has become his. Tell me, First Acolyte: are you prepared to give of yourself for the good of the Word?”
Doorknob bowed his head and put his hand over his heart. “I am, Immortalist. If a few moments of pain will save those gathered, I will gladly suffer so that they might accept your gift.”
Oscar took the pitchfork from his friend’s grasp and twirled it high over his head, a redneck Neptune ready to strike vengefully upon a sailor who’d defiled his sea. His sparkling blue eyes burned not with violence or hatred but with twisted love and psychotic empathy. The man had fucking lost it.
“Stop it!” Kevin shrieked, rushing to put himself between Oscar and Doorknob. “Is this really the time and place for this shit? Out in the Works is one thing, but here—in public?”
Anger flashed briefly in Oscar’s face, but then firm hands took hold of Kevin’s arms and shoulders—Waltman’s and Jimeson’s.
“Don’t worry, Immortalist,” Waltman said sarcastically as they dragged Kevin kicking and screaming out of the way. “We’ll make sure this heathen doesn’t interfere.”
“Thank you, brothers,” Oscar replied happily. “Perhaps I’ve misjudged you both.” He hefted the pitchfork, testing its weight.
“Let me go!” Kevin screamed. He thrashed wildly, but his friends’ grips were solid. “This is fucking insane!”
“Maybe,” Jimeson whispered, “but it sure beats sitting at home watching Judge Judy all day.”
“It’s just a stupid parlor trick,” Waltman added quietly, “and when we figure out how these dumbasses do it, we’re going to have something to rub in their idiot faces forever!”
Kevin’s only counter-argument would’ve been to expose the entire truth: that it was no trick, that anyone in the county could die and come right back to life. But having seen the way immortality had changed Oscar and Doorknob, he knew that wasn’t an option. Who knew what forces—and what ridiculous, stupid, annoying delusions—the threat of death was keeping in check?
With no further ado, Oscar shifted his grip on the pitchfork slightly and then plunged the farm implement into his best friend’s chest with all of his might, tumbling from atop the crate in the process. Doorknob, to his credit, didn’t scream, moan, or express his pain in any way. He merely coughed up a thick gob of blood and fell straight back like a great tree brought down by a lumberjack’s saw.
The stunned crowd didn’t move or make a sound. Most of them appeared to have stopped breathing. All eyes were glued to Doorknob, lying spread-eagle on the ground with a pitchfork sticking out of his chest. No one came to help him. No one ran to get the police officer waiting across the street. Word of the miracles in the Works had spread quickly, and this was the rest of the town’s chance to see it for themselves. This was high drama—the most entertaining thing to hit Harksburg since Johnny T. got caught trying to steal Bum Watson’s prized collection of Three Stooges beer five years ago—and no one wanted to interrupt.
Oscar reclaimed his perch atop the crate and vainly tried to brush the dirt and grass stains out of his white robe. “Fear not, brothers and sisters!” he proclaimed. “No simple farm implement can overcome the First Acolyte’s belief in the Immortalist!”
The pitchfork began to quiver. At first, Kevin suspected it had been caught in a slight breeze, but then he noticed that it was actually rising, pulling itself up and out of Doorknob’s chest. It popped free with a gross slurping sound and fell away, cast aside by Doorknob’s flesh. Doorknob sat up, alive and well and looking for all the world like he’d just awoken from a deep, restful sleep.
The crowd gasped. Several oxygen machines attached to the elderly in attendance whirred into high gear. Sweatpants Bob dropped to his knees and prostrated himself.
“Did you see how the fuckers did that?” Jim Jimeson whispered.
“No,” Waltman spat. “Sneaky assholes. Any ideas, Felton?”
Defeated and angry, Kevin couldn’t resist. “Maybe Death’s taking some time off to deal with a few relationship problems,” he suggested.
Waltman slapped him in the back of the head. “This is no time to be a cheeky son-of-a-bitch. This is serious.”
“Sorry,” Kevin deadpanned. “You’re right. Those two are definitely up to something.”
Doorknob clambered back to his feet, picked up the pitchfork, and took his spot at Oscar’s side as the would-be messiah’s potbellied honor guard. “That should silence the doubters, Immortalist.”
“Indeed,” Oscar said sagely. “But let us not hold our neighbors’ skepticism against them. Forgiveness is the rock in which the Immortalist’s message has been carved. The gift of everlasting life is available to all who wish to claim it.”
Sweatpants Bob snapped upright. Tears streamed down his gritty, weathered cheeks, settling in his thick gray beard like dew in the morning grass. “Oh, Immortalist, I wish to claim it!”
Kevin would’ve slapped himself in the face
if Waltman and Jim Jimeson hadn’t been holding his arms back.
Oscar smiled like a proud father watching his son take his first steps. “Rise, Brother Sweatpants. The Immortalist is but a humble prophet, no better than any other honest man or woman. Rise, and let the world hear of your need for the Immortalist’s gift!”
Leaning heavily on his bedpost-walking stick, Sweatpants Bob eased himself to his feet. The big man moved with the all the grace and speed of a continental plate, his stiff, grimy clothing crackling as it stretched back out. Not much was known about Sweatpants Bob. Harksburg’s only homeless man lived in a camp in some undisclosed location in the woods. A friendly, easygoing fellow who went out of his way to help distressed motorists with flat tires or busted engines, no one knew Bob’s real name, why he’d decided to live in the woods all by himself, or why he used the “Sweatpants” moniker when he only ever wore camouflaged cargo pants. Despite his amicable nature, there was a certain sadness in the man’s face and bearing. It seemed he’d had a hard life, but he wasn’t one to talk about it. Anyone who tried to press him for information was quickly added to Bob’s shit list and never spoken to again.
Sweatpants Bob took a deep breath and closed his eyes. “My granddaughters,” he said slowly, “live in California. Twins. They turn eighteen in April. I’ve never met them—my son-in-law refuses to let me near them—but I was hoping I could see them graduate high school next summer.”
“A noble goal,” Oscar said gently, eliciting a few sniffles and sighs from the crowd. “How will the gift of the Immortalist help you achieve it?”
The big man hesitated, clearly gathering himself for whatever it was he was about to reveal. “A month ago, I took the bus to the free clinic in Chicago. They referred me to one of the big hospitals. I have pancreatic cancer. I—I won’t make it through the end of the year.”