by D. C. Gomez
“What are you two going to do?”
Bob was already heading toward the door, and Constantine was following him.
“We got a shipment in that we need to inventory. Bob has some ideas about remodeling downstairs that we are going to discuss. In other words, business as usual. Rest, Isis. You’ve had a busy week.”
“Good night, Isis. See you tomorrow,” Bob said. He was smiling from ear to ear.
“Good night, Bob. Don’t work him too hard, Constantine.”
“Yeah, yeah. It didn’t take him three days to decide he wanted the job. So I’m pretty sure Bob is fine. Rest now.” Bob was holding the door for his evil dictator. “By the way, Isis, nice job.” They were both out the door.
I took my shake to the couch and dropped down. I couldn’t believe it had only been a week. I had been beaten up, blown up, and nearly executed several times, and somehow I had made it and saved the hostages. Not only that—I now had a family. Not your traditional family, but who needed traditional when you worked for Death? Not a bad week for a girl who had no idea what she was doing.
I finished the shake and curled up on the couch. I could see Bob and Constantine roaming the shop downstairs. Not a bad week at all. I closed my eyes and smiled to myself, wondering what tomorrow would bring.
Plague Unleashed
CHAPTER 1
ACCORDING to some studies, people have more heart attacks and strokes on Mondays than any other day of the week. It seems that the Monday-morning blues are truly dangerous for your health. I agreed with that sentiment, at least today.
I usually didn’t have much to complain about in my job. It wasn’t like I needed to punch a clock Monday through Friday, or as if I lived in a cubicle world. I had a unique position; I am Death’s Intern for North America. I might need to explain that a bit, since that sounds like I am an assassin or mercenary of some kind. We, myself and the other interns, are not allowed to kill.
I literally work for Death, the being that takes your soul to its afterlife. Death’s job is simple: she delivers souls to their final destination. She is like the UPS for the soul world. Most people wonder why I refer to Death as she. Death, as it turns out, appears to each person differently. Death takes whatever form the person imagines her to be, which at times can be confusing or disconcerting for some of us. For me, Death appears as a tall, beautiful woman with long, silky, brown hair who is always perfectly dressed. It is probably a blessing that nobody else could see my version besides Death and me, since Death resembles my dead mother.
If Death’s job is so simple, why would she need Interns? In the eight months that I have worked for her, I’ve learned a couple reasons Interns are required. One, if anyone attempts to interfere with Death’s delivery system, it is our job to find them and stop them. And two, sometimes people die and they don’t realize it. When this happens, it is our job to assist them to the Afterlife. Most of my time is spend doing number two.
Having to chase this ghost around the park was the reason for my Monday-morning blues. Here I was, Isis Black, running laps at Spring Lake Park in Texarkana, chasing the soul of a track and field runner who didn’t know he was dead. Did I mention it was six thirty in the morning? I was having flashbacks of being in the Army.
On most occasions, I am attractive—or at least exotic looking—with long black hair, a mocha complexion, and about five feet, nine inches tall. This morning I was a hot mess. Spring Lake Park had a trail around the park that claimed to be a mile and three quarters. Summer started early in East Texas and for late May, the temperature was quickly rising. My long hair was stuck to my head, and I was pouring sweat.
“Isis, this is his fourth lap. You better hurry,” Bob shouted at me. He was sitting on the tailgate of his truck, “The Beast,” with our boss, Death. If I weren’t mistaken, they were drinking coffee while I ran like a maniac behind this ghost.
“Thanks for pointing it out,” I yelled back, slightly out of breath. Bob had parked by the baseball fields near the doggy park area. The park had different sections and this side had an entrance on the service road parallel to Interstate 30. Thirty made it easy to get to many places in Texarkana.
“If you can talk, you’re not running fast enough,” I heard him yell from behind. I considered giving him a sign with my finger but remembered Death was there. Bob was spending way too much time with Constantine and he was starting to sound like him. Constantine was the Guardian, the trainer of all Interns and Death’s Right Hand person. He was also a five-thousand-year-old talking Maine Coon cat—welcome to my life. But I had to admit Bob was right. I needed to pick up the pace.
Our runner had a particular pattern. He did four laps around the park and then he was gone. According to Death, he’d died right after finishing his last lap at record speed. He was so excited by his new personal record that he missed the fact that he had died and he never saw Death. Every day, runners and walkers were being haunted by the presence of this ghost. We were running downhill now, heading toward the spring and he was picking up the pace. I had been chasing him for two laps and I was not going to lose him now. I took off at full sprint, hoping to cut him off before he hit the bridge.
I wasn’t sure if I was imagining things, but I had the horrible feeling my dead runner thought we were racing. He was getting faster. I was so busy trying to catch up that I failed to see the flock of geese coming at me. I wasn’t sure if it was the geese or the lone duck that did it, but I ended up head-first in the water. While the outside temperatures were rising, the water was still freezing. Last fall, the city had cleared the natural spring of debris and dirt, so now the lake was deep in some areas. I was standing in water up to my shoulders. My dear, dead runner looked over his shoulder and laughed. Lucky for him, he was already dead.
“Stop!” I screamed, as loud as my voice would allow. The ghost stopped. I wasn’t sure who was more surprised, me or him.
As Death’s Interns, we had the power to see and touch the souls of the dead. We were also “gifted”—I’m still debating that one—with the third eye: the power to see into the supernatural world. That gift was a blessing and a course because sometimes the things you saw were nasty. Could we control the dead? I wasn’t sure of that. I dragged myself out of the water and walked over to the soul -Constantine hated it when I called them ghosts.
“Do I know you? You’ve been following me for a while. Are you also training?”
It wasn’t fair. He wasn’t even winded. I was hoping the physical laws didn’t apply to ghosts and he just had that extra advantage.
“You don’t know me, but my boss is here to take you home.” I found it was best to keep it simple and to the point. The first time I’d tried to retrieve a lost soul, the lady beat me with her purse for fifteen minutes in the middle of Los Angeles. I was surprised I wasn’t sent to an insane asylum, since nobody else could see what was happening while I was covering myself and ducking like a lunatic.
“Home? Dear, I live down the street from here.”
Before he could turn around, I grabbed his arm. The second lesson I’d learned about retrieving souls was the sooner I touched them, the faster reality clicked. Not sure what it was about my touch, but it grounded them. He froze and started looking around. I knew the look; he realized he was dead. I prayed that his afterlife was filled with running paths in the sky.
“Are you ready?” I’d also learned to keep conversations short. Tears were rolling down his cheeks. I slowly laced my fingers with his and started walking him back in the direction we had come. I was the last human being a soul would ever be touched by, so I never hurried.
“When did I die? How is my family?” His voice was barely audible. I was grateful for Death’s gift of being able to hear him.
“Three weeks ago. Your family is coping with your loss. You were loved by many.” We were almost the same height, so I didn’t have to look up to see directly into his eyes. “They will be fine. It‘s time for you to go home.” I squeezed his hand again.
“Three wee
ks? What have I been doing all this time?” He looked even more lost.
“Oh, the usual ghost stuff—scaring the hell out of every runner in Texarkana.”
At that, he laughed. It was a full laugh that reached his eyes. The world felt a little emptier when souls like these were gone.
“So what took you so long to get me?”
I could tell he was teasing. I couldn’t help but play along. I looked at him, pretending to be highly offended, trying to hide my smile. “Hey now, it took us a while to track your running pattern. It wasn’t like you ran at the same time every day. By the time we got here, you were gone.”
He gave me a devilish grin. “I like keeping people on their feet.”
I glanced up. He looked proud of himself. I just smiled.
We walked in silence the remainder of the trail. My dead runner looked around in wonder as if he was seeing everything for the first time. Spring Lake Park had a quaint magic to it. It was in the middle of town, on the Texas side. Texarkana, Texas, has a sister city on the Arkansas side—Texarkana, Arkansas. One street, called State Line, divides the cities. Maybe it wasn’t the most original name for a street, but it worked. For most people from big cities, Texarkana was a small town with nothing to do. For me it had that small-town charm, where people waved at you on the street, men opened doors for you, and store owners still believed in being pleasant.
I led him toward Bob’s truck. Death slowly turned around to face us and my dead runner stopped.
“Death.”
That was all he said. It was hard to explain, but I knew how he felt. The first time I met Death, I knew without being told who I was facing. I am convinced that some unconscious part of our brain recognizes her essence. When Death was around, time stood still. The noises of the world faded and nothing else mattered.
Death handed Bob her cup and walked toward us. My dead runner looked stunned and I was afraid he was going to start running again.
“It’s OK. You’re ready,” I whispered to him as I gave his hand one more squeeze. He looked at me and slowly nodded.
“Thank you, Isis,” Death said. She took his hand. I was always amazed how gentle she was with each soul. Regardless of what their afterlife will be, she took full responsibility for them and exuded compassion. She smiled at the runner and he took a deep breath and visibly relaxed.
“Do I want to know why you’re wet?” Death asked me.
“A goose attacked me.” I was embarrassed. It was hard not to be when I looked like I had been dragged through hell and Death was wearing a three-piece skirt suit from Oscar de la Renta. Hey, just because I don’t dress up doesn’t mean I don’t know designers.
“I can see that. By the looks of it, they won.” Death replied with a smile and started to walk away with the runner.
“Death, wait. Question—can I control the dead?”
“To some extent. You do have some of my powers. In the same capacity that you can make a living person do certain things, you can make the dead follow your commands.” Death was still smiling at me; I was staring at her with my mouth wide open.
“Why have I been running all over the country chasing them then?” I was not happy about this and my wet hair drooped over my eyes, aggravating me more.
“That is an excellent question, dear. I figured you enjoyed it. It was in your manual.” Death winked at me. I received the intern’s manual on my first day on the job. It probably didn’t help that I still hadn’t read it. Obviously, Death knew that already. “Besides, dear, not a bad practice. Your power doesn’t always work on everyone, especially if they are recently dead.” She winked one more time and turned around. Death and runner boy took three steps and they were gone.
I walked over to Bob, who handed me a towel and a cup of hot chocolate.
“Thank you so much, Bob.” I started drying my hair with one hand while I held the mug in the other. I refused to let go of my hot chocolate. Bob made the best hot chocolate in the city. “You know, you could have helped me over there.”
Bob gave me his million-dollar smile.
“You looked like you had everything under control. Besides, you’re the Intern here. I’m just the driver. If I step too far away from Death, I won’t be able to see the guy—or lady.” Bob smiled again and it was so hard to be mad at him. I gave him my most evil glare, but looking like a wet poodle, it did not have much effect.
I was staring over the rim of my mug at Bob as he drank his coffee and looked off in the direction where Death had just vanished. I was still in awe over his transformation, or, better stated, recovery. Bob was my first friend in Texarkana. When we met, he was a homeless veteran suffering from PTSD and severe paranoia. After he’d been kidnapped by witches and made it through that mess, Death and Constantine offered him a job with us. Bob had witnessed the supernatural and was left shattered. The validation that the horrors he faced were real and he wasn’t crazy helped him collect the pieces of his shattered self and heal. He reminded me of Psalm 23—Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of Death, I will fear no evil.
He was a new man and genuinely feared no evil. His six-foot frame had filled in. His sandy-blond hair was neatly combed in a high and tight, military-style haircut. It was hard now to tell how old he was, maybe forty. But the most shocking change was in his sea-green eyes. They were no longer haunted. They shone with mischievousness and humor all the time. If Constantine was the evil dictator of our little family, Bob had become our Yoda. He was always cool, calm, and collected—and always fashionable.
Bob was staring toward the park. I glanced over in the same direction.
“What’s going on?” I wasn’t sure what I was looking at. A young guy was walking very awkwardly across the park.
“I have no idea. He is human, right?”
I glanced at Bob and then back at the guy. “If you can see him, I have a feeling he’s alive. Human, that might be questionable.” Recently I had found out that just because something looked human, it didn’t make it so. “Should we help him?”
I tried to take a step forward, but Bob stopped me. Before I could complain, the guy grabbed a squirrel that happened to be nearby. The man’s speed and accuracy were almost inhuman. He took a bite out of the squirrel.
“Oh my God!” I gasped. That was a new one for me.
“Isis, get in the truck, now.” Bob pushed me toward the passenger side and then ran to the driver’s side. He didn’t have to tell me twice. I was spooked. And I worked for Death.
Bob started the truck and was backing it up even before I managed to close the door. Bob threw the shift into drive faster than a drag racer. I looked out of the back window just in time to see the guy staring at us.
“Bob, hurry!”
That was all he needed. We were out of the park in less than three seconds and heading toward Reapers.
CHAPTER 2
Bob pulled The Beast into its designated space inside of Reapers Incorporated, otherwise known as Reapers, for short. This was our headquarters in North America. Since I had moved to Texarkana, running away from my past, Death’s team was forced to follow. The way the recruitment process for Death’s Interns worked was simple. If you killed the previous intern, you became the next candidate. It wasn’t until recently I found out that the selection was not automatic. Death had the final approval of the candidate. I had accidentally killed Trek, the previous North American Intern. While trying to climb out of New York City fire exit in a crowded apartment, I accidently pushed him off the ladder. I didn’t know he was there till I heard the screams. Now the job was mine. As strange as the job seems, it does have some incredible benefits, including a significant salary, free room and board, food, transportation, and even a clothing allowance.
Reapers is located in the Business Park in Nash, Texas. From the outside, it doesn’t look exceptional; it is a large metal building, three stories tall. The only weird distinction, if that, is the sign outside that read Reapers Incorporated in red, Gothic letters. On the i
nside, it is a different story. The first floor contains a shooting range, a gym area that I honestly hate, a new mechanic’s workshop for all the vehicles, and Bob’s quarters. He has a large master bedroom and living area. The entrances to Reapers are secured by all sorts of scanners, metal detectors, and spells.
Come to think of it, the entire building is a huge bomb shelter. The building was designed to withstand spells, ghosts, supernatural attacks, and, of course, human’s bombs. While the first floor is mostly a training area, the team has an apartment up on the second floor. The apartment is almost a third the length of the building and is separated into two main areas—the shared space and the bedrooms. The shared space, called the loft, has a fabulous kitchen, which is the first thing you see when you walk in. Right next to the kitchen is a dining area, now with a much more significant table since Bob had moved in. The far corner is the command center. It has large monitors arranged around Bartholomew’s computers.
The last member of our newly formed family is Bartholomew. I wasn’t sure how but Death is his guardian. Bartholomew is a genius and, at twelve years of age, the best-supply sergeant and gun dealer I have ever met. There is nothing he cannot procure, either equipment or information. Bartholomew is going through a growth spurt and is now five feet, six inches. His brown, curly hair is still messy and at times it hides his hazel eyes.
Bartholomew and Constantine had designed Reapers before I accepted the job. They were only expecting me, so the apartment had just three bedrooms. Bob was not offended by this at all. If anything, I was sure he loved his area downstairs. The main bedrooms in the apartment are in the back with a doorway right off the kitchen. I hated to admit it, but my bedroom, with its huge bath and walk-in closet, is my little haven. Trust me, working for Death has its perks.
The Beast’s parking space is between The Camaro, formerly called Bumblebee, and Ladybug. Constantine had named his yellow Camaro Bumblebee, and recently received a TM violation notice, long story. He is still angry about it, so we are only allowed it call it The Camaro. Ladybug is my midnight blue Mini Cooper. Bartholomew had a hard time taking in the name since the Mini isn’t red. After a while he couldn’t fight it. The Mini is as cute as a ladybug, so the name stuck. At the far end of the garage area is Death’s pale greenish/yellowish mustang, the Death-mobile. I am not brave enough to even take the cover off.