by Saul, Jonas
“I had just taken a drink from that Pepsi,” Scott continued to explain. “When you grabbed it, I forgot, and I, oh man, this is not good.”
I wiped the sides of my mouth and came away with a tiny brown smudge. I brought it up to my nose and smelled the distinctive aroma of peanut butter. When I tried to stand, my legs went out from under me.
“Get me to Tabitha. She knows how to use the Epi-Pen. I need a shot of epinephrine.”
Scott leaned down and supported me until I got to my feet. With an arm wrapped around his shoulder, the two of us headed for the cabin. Halfway there I heard rustling in the bushes. Oh, great, a bear is coming and we’re all going to die, I thought.
Fear enveloped me. That was the first symptom of my anaphylactic reaction: fear, along with abdominal pain. But now it was mixed with what I just saw watching us from the bushes.
Goatee’s eyes. He was smiling.
My face felt flushed, my lips itchy. I heard Scott shouting Tabitha’s name. My mouth grew tight. I couldn’t warn anyone. Liquid began dripping from the corner of my lips. When I tried to speak, my voice sounded different. I suddenly felt tired, even though my heart was racing. The setting sun was on my back, but I had chills. My nose fought the air that struggled to enter it.
I was dying, and my friends would too if I couldn’t warn them.
When I opened my eyes again I was on the cabin floor, looking at the wood that formed the ceiling. Tabitha ran by me, shouting something about the medicine bag and that it was still in my Buick. The last thing I remember was Scott shouting into his cell phone for an ambulance.
Then a spurt of red shot out of his chest like a small fountain. Then another. I heard a cannon roar somewhere in the distance. I heard screaming. I couldn’t keep my eyes open. I shut them as Scott fell beside me.
I walked to the front door. When I looked back, I saw myself on the floor of the cabin. Scott lay beside me.
The three Vago’s bikers from the liquor store were standing over the two bodies. Tear Drop leaned down, a white bandage on his cheek. He put his gun in my face and checked my neck for a pulse. He looked up at Goatee and shook his head. Then he checked Scott’s pulse and shook his head again. I was dead, and so was my friend. I felt weightless, emotionless. It was an empty feeling, but at the same time I felt like I had more life in me than at any other time.
All three men moved away from the bodies and disappeared into the rooms at the back of the cabin.
Tabitha ran back in, flipped the cap off the Epi-Pen, and prepared to inject me with it, but stopped and stared at Scott. She screamed and jumped back, her head spinning around to see if anyone else was in the cabin.
All three Vago’s MC members stepped out of the back rooms. They all had guns out and aimed. All three were smiling.
Then Tabitha did the smartest thing she could think of at the time. She dropped to her knees and rammed the Epi-Pen into my thigh. She needed me and knew that sometimes it could work fast.
I blinked and the cabin disappeared. Tabitha and the bikers were gone.
I could feel pain in numerous places as I struggled to breathe, and I felt a gentle shaking. At first I thought my headache had rhythm, but then I identified the drilling sound in my ears as a siren, and the shaking as the movement of a vehicle. I was in an ambulance.
I fought the weight of my eyelids and struggled to open them. The paramedic told me that everything would be fine and that we would be at the hospital soon.
By the time I got to North Bay’s hospital, I had enough strength back to ask what happened. The paramedic said an officer would be by later.
As promised, the same cop who’d taken our statement about the bikers came to my hospital room.
I was dazed, reeling from what had happened. I hadn’t talked to Tabby yet either. I needed to know if she was okay.
I asked myself, was it real, or did I dream it all? Each time I asked myself that, I realized that it wasn’t a dream. It couldn’t have been.
What happened to everyone else, then? What room were they in? Had Scott really died?
The cop removed his hat and looked down at his shoes.
“I’m sorry we didn’t get there sooner.” He lifted his head back up and stepped closer to the bed. “They had police scanners. They heard the call to come out to your cabin to take your statement, and they followed us. That’s how they knew where you were.”
I motioned for him to continue. “Where. Are. My. Friends?”
“I’m sorry. Scott was shot.”
“Tabitha?”
“She was found by the water.”
I frowned, saying as best as I could with my face, what does that mean?
“They had done things to her that I can’t talk about. She’s dead. I’m sorry.”
My eyes watered. Why did I deserve to live? How could I move on? I couldn’t protect her when she needed me the most. I wasn’t there for her. This all started because I was a hothead at the liquor store.
“The other girl is being hailed a hero,” the cop continued. “She got behind the wheel of the Jeep and instead of leaving, she turned the vehicle toward the water and drove over all three men. They were crushed and drowned under the Jeep’s wheels. Problem was, she had rolled up the windows and locked the doors to stay protected. As the Jeep sank, she couldn’t get out. I’m sorry. Everyone died but you.” He paused and put his hat on again. “Maybe tomorrow, when you’re feeling better, you can tell me your side of the story. Like, why did they leave you alive? I’ll come by later.”
He stepped out of the room, closing the door behind him. I was alone, truly alone. I had died that day, and wanted nothing more than to die again. It was all my fault.
Since that day, I’ve quit school. I left my job and now I travel state to state, hunting Vago’s bikers. Their club’s numbers are getting smaller, one by one. I’ve killed eighteen so far. Each one, I slice their throat. Each one, I violate in some inhumane way as they did to Tabitha. And to each one I whisper, “For Tabitha” in their ears as they struggle for their last breath.
Until I die, which I could care less about, I will continue to hunt bikers. If I’m ever caught and go to jail, I’ll kill them in prison. My hands are weapons now, they’re lethal. Nothing has stopped me yet. I’ve been stabbed, shot and beaten to within an inch of my life, but you know what stops them from killing me? Fear, which is something I don’t have anymore. That’s their weakness.
I had no idea that dying would save my life but kill me in the process.
The Reaper
The day had finally come to kill. To remove a soul. What I do is a form of cleansing. I take great pleasure in easing the world of the souls that burden it. The only problem is, each soul has to be worked and—after eight years on this one—I need to move on. I’m old, tired and ready to hand off some of my responsibilities to the younger generation. But first I have to continue the ruse. What’s one more hour in the life of someone as old as me?
“What bothers me,” I started, “is our own child doesn’t like us using the name we gave him.” I turned around in my seat to glance at my sleeping son, my little reaper, Jacob. Or Mark, as he would rather be called.
“I know, honey, but all we can do is continue on to Novar and prove to him that what he’s been saying can’t be right. We’ll take Jacob to where he thinks he was born and show him evidence to the contrary.”
Grumpy and moody, I was angry this day had taken so long to come. I don’t wait for people to die like my cousin the Grim Reaper. We take people—think souls—early. It’s justified. It’s right. The problem for me is that I’m the only one powerful enough to know our purpose. My husband, John, has no idea who he is, and won’t for another hour. He actually thinks he’s my husband and Jacob actually sees himself as my son.
If the world only knew how crazy I am, how much fun I have reveling in their misery, they wouldn’t hunt me with pitchforks as they did hundreds of years ago—they’d send an army to decapitate me.
I s
at in the front seat of our Nissan and stared at the passing trees, my arms crossed. The colors were a vibrant green this time of year. Normally that would inspire me, cause me to snap a picture or two of the July sun, if only to add another prop to my stage dressing. But I didn’t, because this play was coming to an end and there would be no encore.
“I’m just tired of always hearing about his mother,” I stated, fully encompassing my role in this incarnation. “How she washed clothes with her hands and how she made bread at home in an outside bread oven. His mother this and his mother that. Never memories of his first eight years with us.” I raised my hands in frustration. “I know he remembers getting a PlayStation at Christmas and lots of other things since he was born, but I’m talking about what he says happened that isn’t true. I mean, come on, we haven’t let him watch that much television.”
John put his hand on my leg to calm me. He knew all too well that I could really get fired up about this stuff. I am Jacob’s mother. I wash clothes in a machine. I buy bread at a large grocery store and we live in a city, not a village. We have electricity and only use candles for a romantic dinner. At least that’s how it all appears.
At first, I wondered if Jacob knew who he really was and what his mission had become for this incarnation. There were times when I was sure of it, but then I realized that he wasn’t as old as I am, and only ones older than five-hundred years can do what I do with all the knowledge that goes with it. I’m eight-thousand-two-hundred years old this June and as I said earlier, ready to retire. My husband is a pawn, my son, my successor.
I realized a few years ago when Jacob began remembering a past life, that it was only a phase he was going through. But it didn’t stop. Jacob continued talking about his past like he’d actually lived it. When he said he was born in the village of Novar, my husband and I decided to drive there to show him Novar so we could put his delusions to rest and I could complete my task for this incarnation.
“Everything will be fine,” John said, attempting to reassure me, but failing. I appreciated his efforts, but I had a nagging feeling that something was amiss. On this, the day of atoning, John still didn’t indicate that he knew who he was. I worried that he wouldn’t come around. If he didn’t come around, I would have to kill him, too, and that could become a problem.
My son had given details about a previous life that he couldn’t have gleaned from watching TV. Barney a few years ago, then Blues Clues, and now PlayStation. There was no way he could know about churning butter, poverty and a one-building school house. It didn’t stop there, though.
Jacob had said just last week that if we drove to Novar, he would direct us to where he used to live. He would even show us the tree where he carved his name and the year he was born, 1931. He said that if we went this week he had a surprise for us, one that I would be happy to learn. The mystery was enough for my husband and I to say we’d go. I should’ve known then that Jacob was well aware of my plans—our plans.
I wore a vibrant yellow, flowery dress, one of my favorites. I had wanted something bright, yet calming and happy. I was prepared for a revelation of some kind, Jacob’s mystery surprise, and a disgruntled husband. My human nerves were rattled.
“Ten kilometers left,” John said.
I looked back and saw Jacob waking. He pushed himself up and glanced out the window as he rubbed his eyes.
“Hi baby, how’re you feeling?” I asked.
“Okay, I guess.”
“Are you worried about coming here?”
“No, I miss being here. We had great times when I was little.”
We? What the hell does that mean?
“You still are little, Jacob. There are lots of great times to come,” I said. If he only knew.
He looked at me. “Can you call me Mark for today? At least while we’re in Novar?”
I stole a glance at John. He nodded and I looked back at our son. I forced my teeth apart to say, “We can do that. But just for today.”
John put the turn signal on to exit the highway and I was immediately hit with déjà vu. I shook my head and came back to the present. John mumbled something beside me.
“What?” I asked him.
“Are you okay? You slumped down in your seat and paled, like you were frightened.”
“I’m fine,” I stuttered. “I just thought for a second that I recognized this place.”
What was it about Novar? Strange. An odd feeling.
“That’s ridiculous,” John said. “We’ve never set foot in this town.”
He gave me a look that shouted, Don’t start talking like our son.
Jacob directed his dad down a number of streets while I gawked at the familiar terrain. Why did I feel like I’d been here before? This was crazy. We were in Novar for Jacob—and our mission—and I was starting to feel like I’d been here before, too. If I had, I would’ve known about it. Odd.
“Where are you taking us, Mark?” I asked, feeling as awkward as always when using that name.
“To where I used to live. I think you’ll recognize it, Mom.”
What the hell? How could he say that? Better yet, why would he say that? He’s not old enough to know who or what I am. Information like that can only be acquired at death.
I looked at my lap to avoid seeing the passing buildings. My right leg bounced up and down, my hands shaking even though I clamped them together on my lap.
“Why do you think I should recognize Novar?” I asked him. I heard my voice crack. Even John looked over at me. And the play continues. Damn, am I good at this shit.
“Because you were my mom in 1931. We lived here until our house burned down in the great fire.”
I turned around and gaped at Jacob. What could I say? It was the first time he had said that his delusions of another life included me. In this incarnation, he wasn’t supposed to know why he’s here, and yet he focused on this town and even said he used to live here. Something weird was happening. Something I didn’t understand. I wanted no part of it. It fucked with my current reality. But should I react with how I was feeling about Novar? All I could do was turn back around and stare out the front windshield at the oddly familiar landscape. I was too close to the end to allow the ruse to be taken from me. No one could stop the killing now.
Jacob directed his dad to pull over. There wasn’t much of a shoulder on the narrow road, but John did his best to keep the car from going down a small embankment. He put the hazards on and we all got out.
The afternoon sun was warm and bright but I took off my sunglasses. I wanted to enjoy every moment as the killing time approached, see everything, feel all of it.
I smiled to myself as John and I silently followed Jacob through tall grass and weeds. We walked across a small clearing, and then my pulse raced as if I was in free-fall. I felt faint. I grabbed my chest. John reached for my arm to steady me. What the hell was happening? This had never happened before in any of my thousands of incarnations I’ve lived. Maybe my age was catching up with me. Perhaps it was my soul that was to be stolen?
“We lived right here,” Jacob said, his arms wide.
I realized he was right. The earth under my feet was once my garden. I could see everything and understand nothing. I should remember it if I had lived here before. I looked around and noticed indentations in the foliage that resembled a pattern. When I pushed a few shrubs aside, I could see pieces of the foundation of a building that once stood here. When I looked up, Jacob was thirty meters away and moving fast.
“Jacob. I mean Mark! Where’re you going?”
“I want to show you the tree,” he yelled back over his shoulder. “And then you can have your surprise.”
I’d had enough surprises for one day. I was having an involuntary epiphany. I didn’t want to know what I was discovering. A part of my rational side rebelled. Anger rose in me—violence too. The killing was coming, along with it the sweet rush of murder. So delicate and yet so satisfying.
Humans do it every day. They kill each
other. They kill animals for sport. Everything down to a fly swatter kills and they take great pleasure in it. I live on another scale, another plane, one greater than all the others. My pleasure in death is immense. Watching it, causing it, feeling it, being killed myself. Everything to do with it is why I exist.
I am, therefore I kill.
I followed Jacob another fifty yards, with John close behind. We came to a clump of trees and there, scraped into the bark of the largest tree was the name Mark and the year, 1931.
I looked at John. If he didn’t figure out who he was soon, he would wonder what all this meant. Was his son reincarnated or psychic? John would have questions. We were down to the end. I didn’t want to have to kill him without the knowledge of who he is. It hurt when their last breath came out, their eyes darkened, and they had no idea why. Knowledge is power. I love death when we know why. It’s a rich power. The only kind. That’s why I do what I do and I’m so good at it. The power. The power of death and the power over death.