A Date with Death

by Scott Colby

  “Tastes like shit,” Rotreego replied. He spat the head out to his left and tossed the body away to his right.

  Kevin made a point not to look at either, focusing on the gnomes instead. “Thanks again!” he said, waving to his tiny benefactors.

  “D-d-don’t mention it,” Iassonia stammered, blushing a peculiar shade of purple. “Just happy I got to practice what I learned online.”

  “Don’t forget all those cords you promised,” Yagor said greedily.

  Kevin scratched his chin, considering his next move. He still had a reaper problem to deal with.

  “Say…what would it take to get a bit of help with Billy?”

  The gnomes traded looks of concern—and perhaps fear. “That’s your business, not ours,” Yagor said softly.

  “But—”

  “That’s your business!” Iassonia snapped in a tone that left no doubt the conversation was over. Kevin flinched, surprised at the previously meek woman’s sudden explosion.

  “See you soon,” Yagor added as he ushered his shaking wife around the frame of the shattered window. “And good luck!”

  Disappointed, Kevin sighed and turned to Rotreego. The elf shook his head. “Don’t look at me,” he said as he strolled out the wide open door of his cage.

  Kevin couldn’t help feeling like he’d missed an important piece of information about his situation. “Driff had the chance to put a bullet in the back of Billy’s head,” he mused. “Why didn’t he do it?”

  Rotreego turned. “Because a reaper is death incarnate. Take a guess where new reapers come from.”

  With a gasp, Kevin froze. His answer, if it were correct, would certainly explain Driff’s reluctance to pull the trigger. It also made Thisolanipusintarex’s plan to kill Billy a lot more logical. What pixie wouldn’t want to ride around in such a powerful skin?

  “Whoever kills a reaper takes its place,” Kevin whispered, afraid to give the words too much power.

  Rotreego nodded. “And this particular reaper seems to really, really want you to kill him.”

  — CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE —

  No, I don’t owe you for rescuing me,” Rotreego called back over his shoulder as he and Kevin ascended the basement stairs. “I did my part. That shit-brained scheme of yours wouldn’t have worked if I hadn’t provided a distraction.”

  “All you did was call him names,” Kevin snapped. “I’m the one who let a gnome turn his chest into a flamethrower.”

  “Your decision, not mine.”

  They topped the stairs and stepped into the kitchen. Glancing out the window above the sink, he saw that it was past sunset. Billy had been in possession of his friends’ souls for more than six hours. Surely that wasn’t good for their empty bodies or their sanity. The overwhelming need to return to his own flesh had nearly broken Kevin’s spirit. He knew the agony his friends were experiencing and he wanted nothing more than to put an end to it—in a way that didn’t result in replacing Billy as Harksburg’s lord of the dead, of course.

  “I figured the hero of Evitankari would be braver,” Kevin goaded. His best option seemed to be finding someone else to do the deed.

  “Brave’s got nothin’ to do with it. Nothing short of his own death is going to get that reaper off your back. Seen it before. It’s the biggest ‘fuck you’ a reaper can give. He’s going to make someone kill him, and it sure as shit isn’t going to be yours truly.”

  “You could just…be a distraction. Like you were in the basement.”

  “You don’t need a distraction. You could walk up to him with a knife in your hand and stick it between his ribs and he wouldn’t try to stop you. Wouldn’t even blink. He’s checked out, man.”

  Kevin grabbed Rotreego’s muscular shoulder and spun him around. “What the fuck do I do? I don’t want to be a reaper either.”

  The elf’s eyes hardened as he shoved Kevin’s hand away. “Kid, you’ve got two choices if you want to rescue your friends before prolonged separation from the meat-space drives them permanently, irreparably insane: do the deed and take the job, or leave Billy’s territory and kill yourself. That’s it. No one’s getting you out of this one. Sack up and do something about it.”

  Death or life as a reaper? Kevin didn’t think that was much of a choice. He’d seen what the job had done to Billy, and he knew he wasn’t strong enough to deal with the burden of shepherding the county’s dying into the great beyond. If Kevin Felton became Harksburg’s avatar of death, he’d inevitably be forced to do the job for his friends, his mother, his neighbors—everyone he knew in the area. How could he face them, knowing that someday he could be the last thing they ever saw? How could he live with himself? He’d end up isolated like Billy, or worse.

  “And once someone’s a reaper—”

  “The only way out is death,” Rotreego said quickly, cutting off Kevin’s question before he could even ask it, “and if you don’t do the job, Evitankari will either make you do it or remove you.”

  An exasperated grunt from the living room put an end to their burgeoning argument. Next came a bout of sharp, desperate wheezing. Someone was in a lot of pain.

  They found Mr. Gregson sprawled against the back of his wheelchair, barely conscious. His head lolled to the side, perched precariously atop his left shoulder. Blood stained his chest, shirt, and pants, dripping from his limp fingertips to spatter on the floor. He’d managed to work the lip of Rex’s glass sphere barely out beyond the skin of his chest before the pain became overwhelming, but the rest of it was still stuck tight.

  The scene was hard to look at. Kevin directed his gaze to his shoes, considering his options. The man didn’t deserve to be left like that, but helping him finish the job would both take time Kevin probably didn’t have and be really fucking gross.

  Rotreego made the decision for him. “You hold the chair steady and I’ll do the rest,” he said, drawing his cutlass.

  Kevin couldn’t resist. “Only if you help me with the reaper.”

  “Don’t be a dick.”

  “Help me,” Mr. Gregson growled weakly, his voice cracking. Tears streaked his face and spittle flew from his lips. “I will kill your fucking reaper.”

  Now there was something Kevin hadn’t expected. He studied the old man for a moment, trying to judge if his offer were serious. He found nothing but hope in Mr. Gregson’s eyes. Could the man actually do it, though? What chance did someone who couldn’t walk on his own have against someone as powerful as Billy? Kevin dismissed those concerns, realizing that Mr. Gregson’s apparent frailty could actually work to his advantage.

  However…if Mr. Gregson killed Billy, he would become the new reaper. Could Kevin live with himself if he condemned his neighbor to such a fate? Of course he could. Mr. Gregson had volunteered, after all. If there was an ulterior motive beyond the immediate situation, Kevin could deal with it when or if it became a problem.

  “All right.”

  Digging his heels into the thin carpet, Kevin took firm hold of the wheelchair’s handles and braced himself. Rotreego examined his target, hefting his cutlass like a man determining how best to carve a Thanksgiving turkey. Slowly, the elf inserted the tip of his sword between the glass and Mr. Gregson’s flesh. He worked the blade around the circumference of the sphere to gradually enlarge the hole and remove the muscle holding it in place. The wet sound of sharp metal slicing through live meat twisted Kevin’s stomach into a knot. To his credit, Mr. Gregson didn’t so much as flinch.

  Rotreego stepped back to admire his handiwork. “I’m gonna need you to pull. On three.”

  Kevin nodded and adjusted his grip. Rotreego carefully positioned his sword between the base of the glass sphere and the flesh underneath and drove it in deep, eliciting a gasp and a fresh stream of tears from Mr. Gregson.

  “One last fuck you for pixie dick,” the elf snarled. “One. Two. Three!”

  Kevin pulled back on the wheelchair with all his might as Rotreego pushed downward on the hilt of his weapon, working it like a crowbar.
Sick pops burst from Mr. Gregson’s chest as the remaining muscle holding the back side of the sphere tore and the glass began to move. Mr. Gregson screamed and pressed himself against the back of his wheelchair, lending what little strength he had left to the effort.

  The sphere stretched the surrounding skin as its thicker middle began to push outward. Sweat trickled down Kevin’s brow and his lower back began to protest. He wasn’t sure how much longer he’d be able to pull. Rotreego, meanwhile, had adopted an expression of pained exertion usually reserved for those afflicted with extreme constipation.

  And then the opposing force keeping Kevin on his feet suddenly disappeared and he fell backwards onto his ass. The sphere popped free, flew over Rotreego as he also toppled over, and crashed through a window, followed by a quick torrent of blood that caught the elf square in the face. Kevin yelped as Mr. Gregson’s wheelchair rolled backward and over the toes of his left foot. Unable to compensate for the limp weight of its occupant, the chair capsized to its right and spilled him onto the floor.

  “Uh…Mr. Gregson?” Kevin asked.

  Rotreego, his face a crimson mask, spat out a gob of blood and crawled over to check for a pulse. “Nothing. But don’t worry—he’ll be back in a few minutes.” The elf stood, plucked a pillow off the couch, and used it to try to wipe the blood from his face. The cheap fabric didn’t absorb much.

  Although Kevin knew the answer to his next question, he felt the need to confirm it. “But the pixie’s dead, right?”

  “The pixie’s dead. He didn’t need a reaper’s help.” Rotreego paused to pick a piece of Mr. Gregson out of his ear. “I’m taking a shower. If something strange happens…I don’t know, call the damn gnomes or something.”

  Kevin watched Rotreego stroll into the front hallway and turn up the stairs, wondering if he should try one last time to enlist the elf’s help with the reaper. He wasn’t sure Mr. Gregson’s assistance would be enough. He decided not to waste his breath, choosing instead a question asked by countless former co-captors in cheesy action movies throughout the ages.

  “So what’s next for you, Rotreego?”

  The former Pintiri, however, was not one for cliché chatter. “None of your damn business! I was never here, this never happened, and we never met. If I had any dust, you’d best believe you’d be getting a schnoz full of it right now. If I find out you told anyone—and I mean anyone—about that time you and a couple of gnomes rescued the hero of Evitankari, I will cut off your balls and feed them to you. Catch my drift?”

  The elf’s burning anger momentarily stunned Kevin. “Got it,” he replied meekly.

  “Good!” Rotreego bellowed as he disappeared upstairs. For what felt like the millionth time, Kevin wondered about Rotreego’s qualifications and how such an annoying twit had reached what sounded like a lofty station. He doubted Driff cared much for the guy.

  On the floor, Mr. Gregson’s body began to quiver, sending ripples through the blood pooling atop the cheap carpet. A soft crackling sound signaled the start of the healing process. Mr. Gregson’s spirit was weaving his chest back together, tissue by tissue.

  Kevin fought back the urge to vomit and took a seat on the couch, trying his best to ignore the sickening noise by focusing on the television. The weatherman on screen, equipped with the typical inoffensive gray suit, perfectly parted hair, and glittering smile, chattered on inanely about an early cold front that had locked New England in unseasonably low temperatures for the last week. Kevin was struck by how trivial the man’s report seemed in light of everything he’d been through since returning to Harksburg. Part of him wanted to scream at the reporter, to wake him up to the strange reality beneath the surface of his banal existence. How would the weatherman’s life change if he suddenly learned all the things Kevin now knew? Would he be interested in the world of magic, or would he cower at home and try to avoid it? How would he react to the knowledge that he could conceivably live forever if only the rules allowed him to do so? Would he quit his job if his corporate overlords turned out to be demons in disguise? Whether he wanted it to or not, exposure to that world would change the weatherman’s life in ways no one could predict.

  That alone was enough to make Kevin suspect the mass deception of humanity might actually be worth it. Turn one person’s life upside-down and the potential drama is pretty minimal. Shake up billions of people all at once and everything would likely go straight to hell. His gaze glued to the reporter’s hypnotic smile, Kevin suddenly envied the man’s ignorance. There were so many things he wished he could unsee. Realistically, wiping all that away would be as easy as inhaling one handful of that damn dust. Driff would certainly be willing to help, but that would mean losing Nella, and Kevin had decided that was not a fair trade.

  On the floor, Mr. Gregson gasped sharply, his arms thrashing about as his consciousness took control. Kevin watched closely but kept his distance. He didn’t want Mr. Gregson to hurt himself, but he also didn’t want to get too close lest he catch an inadvertent backhand across the face. His return to his own body still burned fresh in his mind, and he knew the one thing Mr. Gregson needed most was time. He hoped it wouldn’t take too long.

  The spasms ended a few minutes later as Mr. Gregson’s soul and body finally got back on the same page. For several minutes, the man lay on his stomach, breathing heavily but at a regular pace. Kevin lowered himself to one knee and put a reassuring hand on his back.

  “Mr. Gregson?”

  “Call me Buddy,” he replied weakly, rolling onto his side. He smiled warmly, an expression Kevin almost couldn’t wrap his head around given its source. “Thought maybe that would fix my legs. Guess not.”

  Kevin looked away, embarrassed for his neighbor. “Here, let me help you into the chair.”

  Buddy shook his head. “I can do it. But I need you to go into the kitchen. Open the cabinet under the sink. Rex kept a stash of chloroform down there. Usually in a milk jug. You and Rotreego ain’t the first people he’s held in those cages.”

  Concerned, Kevin’s eyes narrowed. “Why do we need that?”

  “‘less you’ve got a gun I can borrow, yer gonna have to knock that punk reaper out so I can get close enough to do the deed. Bangin’ into him with my chair probably won’t get it done.”

  It was Kevin’s turn to smile. Buddy Gregson, previously such a problem for the Felton family, could very well turn into the best friend he’d ever had.

  — CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO —

  Buddy Gregson, now free of his tiny winged puppeteer, did not shut up. He rambled on and on and on about anything and everything, reveling in his newfound freedom.

  “Fucking ramp was never right,” he growled as he rolled down to the driveway. “Grade’s too steep, and the thing’s listing to the side. Wasn’t attached to the house the way it should’ve been. Got maybe two more years before I gotta replace it. Shit ain’t cheap.”

  Kevin replied with polite assent wherever necessary, just to let the old man know he was still listening. He supposed Buddy was simply overjoyed to finally be back in control of his own voice. After years spent under Thisolanipusintarex’s control, Kevin couldn’t blame him. He was painfully aware of how close he’d come to the same fate.

  “…and that little bastard never washed the damn van right. For all his fuckin’ magic, he never could figure out how to work a hose an’ a sponge properly. Look at the rust along the bottom! Shoddy work right there, let me tell ya.”

  They found a couple of planks in the garage and used them to create a makeshift ramp into the back of Buddy’s van. The old wood creaked and bounced as Kevin pushed the wheelchair across them, but they held. They stashed the planks in the back beside Buddy for use getting the man back out at Lordly Estates.

  “An elevator. One more thing I gotta buy,” Buddy moaned. “This reaper shit better pay well.”

  Realizing he still hadn’t used his Tallisker paycheck, Kevin offered his assistance. “Kill that reaper and I’ll buy you the nicest elevator I can find.” />
  “I want one with diamond buttons!” Buddy declared happily. “And railings made o’ pure ivory taken off some endangered elephants!”

  Kevin couldn’t help laughing. The man’s enthusiasm was infectious. He reminded Kevin of Fran Kesky, sans the manipulative undercurrent. He’d never thought he’d see the day when Mr. Gregson turned out to be a legitimately nice, fun guy. The thought made him wonder how badly Buddy had suffered under the control of an evil, heartless bastard like Rex. Watching his body do things it never would’ve done under its own power must’ve been excruciating.

  With Buddy secured in the back of the van, Kevin climbed up into the cab, positioned the half-gallon plastic jug of chloroform securely between his thighs, and stuck the key into the ignition. A quick twist of his wrist brought the engine chugging to life.

  “Roll on out!” Buddy hollered.

  Kevin carefully backed the van down the driveway and out into the street. He didn’t like how far he had to push the loose accelerator to give the engine gas. A typical Harksburg weeknight meant he’d have little traffic to worry about, but he’d always been antsy behind the wheel of unfamiliar vehicles. The combined nerve-racking powers of his unease with Buddy’s van and the anticipation of the looming showdown with Billy turned Kevin into a jittery ball of stress. He gripped the wheel with white knuckles, his arms shaking like a middle school boy asking a girl to dance for the first time. The world around him became a blur of dull color, his field of vision a tight tunnel between the driver’s seat and the asphalt directly in front of him.

  Buddy’s deep baritone battered its way into Kevin’s consciousness like an uppercut to the jaw. “That broad of yours is hot stuff. Where’d you meet her?”

  “She lives in the Works at Fornication Point.” Kevin smiled at the memory. “I stopped a bunch of scumbags from shitting in her lagoon.”

  “Ahh, the hero type! An’ the pretty princess, safe from the rectums of evil, rewarded her white knight with a passionate kiss, huh?”