A Dead-End Job

by Justin Alcala

  I whistled. Never would I assume that this simple farmer’s tool had taken the lives of kings and peasants alike. It was so ordinary looking. Yet here it was, likely the most powerful weapon in existence, inches from me.

  “So back to your question,” Jumbo spoke up. “How do you kill something that can’t die? Well, here you are. The scythe was given to Death by the Big Man when times were simpler. It can end anything, including immortals. Death has been using it for millennium to stop demons, undead, and anything else that tries to bypass the system.”

  I grunted. “God gave it to you, huh?”

  “The one and only,” Death answered in a plain voice. “Though he has a thousand names in a thousand cultures.”

  “I still have questions,” I cautioned. “There’re already some serious flaws in this plan. I’m a hitman, not a ninja-farmer. I can’t sneak up on this zombie guy with a six-foot scythe and make a clean kill. It’s impractical.”

  “No, it’s not.” Jumbo wagged his plastic claw. He was clearly leading me on through this conversation piece by piece. “It’s adaptable to the user. Death, who grew up in a time of farmers and pharaohs, loves the scythe.”

  “I’m a big fan of the metaphor,” Death defended.

  “But,” Jumbo continued, “it’s been other things before too. You see, Buck, you’re not the first intern ever taken on. Death had a few other assistants, but unfortunately, he’s a bit of a control freak.”

  “Thanks,” Death mumbled.

  “For Longus, it was a spear,” Jumbo went on. “For this colonial guy, it was a flintlock pistol. It is what you need it to be.”

  “This is some Harry Potter Sorting-Hat shit,” I baited. Jumbo’s forehead creased.

  “Don’t diss the Potter series man,” Jumbo hissed.

  “Yeah, sorry.” I pumped my fist. “Go Harry,”

  “Well, there’s not much more to say.” Jumbo pushed the bridge of his glasses. “Death needs a vacation, but first he needs a reliable intern. We did some research and found you. So now as a test, you’re going to take the scythe, turn it into something that suits you, and go kill Zombie Pete. If you can finish that guy, we’ll accept you into the internship program and delay your time in the pits of Hell for all the atrocities you’ve committed.”

  “Damn it, Jumbo,” I grumbled. “Do you have to put it like that?” Death pointed at me. “Poor life choices.”

  He had a point. I took a deep breath and jonesed for a cigarette. “Well.” I approached the scythe. “I didn’t see this happening when I woke up today.”

  “Go ahead,” Jumbo insisted. I reached for the scythe. The thing was heavy and unwieldy.

  I raised it to my chest and in a blink of an eye, the ancient tool changed. I was now holding a M24 Remington similar to the one I’d trained with in sniper school. The 7.62 caliber bolt-action rifle had a grimy silver barrel with a dull wood stock just like the scythe. The killing machine was complete with an advanced optic scope, deployable bipod, carrying strap, and sound suppressor. It was a gorgeous death machine, and that was always my problem. While one part of me tried to be a good guy, I tended to side with my lizard brain when it came to things like guns and destruction. Maybe I wanted to punish everyone for my rough upbringing, P.T.S.D., and losing Denise. Whatever the reason, I was just so damn good at being violent.

  Death bobbed his head. “Cool gun.”

  I held my tongue. After all, the guy controlled my fate. I needed to treat him like my superiors once upon a time. You endured the bad jokes and broken egos. Old Lilith felt good in my hands. I was surprised that Death was so willing to let me use it, but then again, I’d assumed he’d thought it through. You don’t give someone the keys to your Porsche unless it’s insured.

  “Gentlemen.” I looked through the scope. The vision magnifier had several different modifications, including lowlight lenses and something marked G.S. on the display optics. Jumbo crossed his arms while Death hovered over the rifle. I looked up and smiled. “I think this might be the beginning of a beautiful relationship.”

  4

  Death and Jumbo took me back to Chicago through the John Carpenter-themed water park. We oared to another island of bones with a single iron door built into the cave wall and went ashore. Death used the Hello Kitty key and when he opened the door, my favorite grey wall of water awaited. Jumbo sat with me near the boat. I must have given him a clue that I didn’t want to go through the gloom door again.

  “Sorry, man,” Jumbo apologized. “But it’s the only way to get through the underworld. It’s supposed to suck. It keeps people out.”

  “They say that travel,” I said as I stared at the freaky supernatural doorway, “broadens the mind.”

  “Ha.” Jumbo snapped his plastic claw. “That’s true, dude. Alright, so remember, we’ll be evaluating you. Knock this out of the park and the job is yours. I’m rooting for you.”

  “Copy that.” I stepped toward the wall of bog water. Death held the door open for me like a hotel bellman. I took one last deep breath. “Ah, this is going to hurt.” I stepped toward the gloom water. Sure enough, I was engulfed in an ocean of despair, sending warped images of the worst moments of my life spinning in and out of focus. The buddies I had lost in Afghanistan appeared one by one, lingering on my sniper partner who blew up in front of me. Then, the memory of Denise in her final moments, terrified one second and spluttering blood the next.

  Luckily, just as I’d thought I couldn’t take anymore, it stopped.

  I’d come through a janitor’s closet along the subway. I inspected a nearby L-Rail map posted over the baby blue tile walls. It told me I was at one of the Green Line stations. Perfect. I stared at the framed glass map and caught a glimpse of myself. My peppered hair had bleached bone white. Yeesh, this is getting weird. I broke away from my reflected Anderson Cooper look- alike and slipped my hand into my coat pocket to retrieve my train pass. The weight of my satchel was twice as heavy now that it kept both my old rifle and God’s instrument of destruction inside. I fumbled to get my wallet freed from my pack of cigarettes, which were calling my name. I didn’t dare. Jumbo said I couldn’t die, but he had no idea how merciless Chicagoans were to people with tobacco addictions.

  It didn’t take long for the Green Line to arrive. I checked my watch and found that hours had gone by. It was now late morning, and the train was mostly empty. I sat down in one of the corner chairs inside and listened to the robotic voice of the automated douche bag over the speakers.

  “This is Randolph,” the CTA Robot announced. “Standing passengers, please do not lean on the doors.”

  “Jim Morrison made his music for people to lean on,” I said as I rested in my chair, satchel on my lap. The laugh track never started.

  Obviously, it had already been the strangest day since the doctor made me cough, and it wasn’t even noon yet. I started to count on my fingers everything that had happened. I died in an ambush, came back like Jesus, met Death and his I.T. guy. There was a River of Styx thingy, a leviathan, and a supernatural internship. After mulling it over, I put down my fingers and decided I needed that smoke before any more math could be done.

  I didn’t have a middleman to get my jobs like some of those fancy hitmen, so I relied on word of mouth. Every one of my contracts was a reference except this last one. I should have known better, but the price was right. Some lady with a birthmark the shape of Idaho on her face had approached me in a coffee shop during my morning breakfast. She insisted on protecting the source but claimed to know who I was. She complimented me about the Tucker and Polanco jobs, so I figured she couldn’t be a cop. She offered me triple the going rate, half in advance, to take out some bad business partner of hers. I was back on the rent due to some recent liquid therapy binges, so I jumped at the chance.

  Idaho-Face was generous enough to offer me a burn-file with information on my target, which included a place across the street from his apartment where I could spy. It was a high-rise building filled with mostly empty of
fice rentals that gave me a clear line of site, and also later the place of my death…and resurrection. The burn file also had a photo of the slick haired smirking guy and times when he frequented his place. I’d only scoped out the apartment once, from my vantage point and found that the guy, whether coincidence or not, made his home pretty kill-proof. He draped his windows with red velvet curtains until dusk. The problem was after he pulled the curtains, he left the house shortly after. When I returned the next day just before sundown, I decided to jump at any chance my target gave me. But as I sat in that window spying on his home, little did I know that the hunter had become the hunted.

  The door busted down, but by the time I had whirled around a storm of bullets were buzzing in my direction. The guy went old school, filling the room with lead from a damn Thompson submachine gun. One kissed me on my forehead and that’s all she wrote. A stupid rookie mistake. Had I just turned down the job, I wouldn’t be here. Had I just secured the door better, I wouldn’t be interning for the Angel of Death. Then it hit me.

  Holy shit, I’d been brought back to life by a mythical being and was now working for him.

  I’d put the thought off while rubbing elbows with Death to keep a cool head. But now the gravity of it all was all catching up. I was literally taking a job from the man in charge of everyone’s demise. My brain began to boil with what ifs. What if this is a downward spiral? What if I become some distant supernatural monster? What if he makes me wear one of those gross cloaks? But before my head exploded from horror, I was interrupted. The smell hit me first.

  “Excuse me, sir,” said a vagrant who kind of sounded like he was trying to impersonate Arnold Schwarzenegger. He stood a few feet away by the exit, but the odor of rotten eggs and sewage hit my nose like a punching bag. He had a puffy beard, raggedy beige long coat, White Sox baseball hat and sunglasses. “But I’m on a mission from da ’future. Could you spare some change so that I may stop John and Sarah Connor?”

  I dug in my pants pocket for change and pulled out a few dimes and pennies leftover from when I bought cigarettes.

  “Here you go.” I offered it to him. The man took it with his grimy fingers.

  “Thank you, sir.” he palmed the change. “I missed the last dimensional door near Buckingham Fountain, so this will help.”

  “Well, be careful, Terminator.” I stood up for my stop.

  “T-1000,” the vagrant corrected.

  “Sorry, T-1000.” I apologized as the robotic announcer called out my station’s name. The doors opened. “Those dimensional doors aren’t what they look like on television.”

  I stepped off the Green Line to get one last look at the cyborg assassin. He stared at his palm, counting the change. I did a double take as the Green Line passed by. Not but a few seats behind him was a bizarre stranger whose eyes followed me with a lunatic’s gaze. I couldn’t tell if my voyeur was a guy or girl due to their sharp elven-like features, and I wondered how I had missed them before. The stranger had toxic green hair molded like a torch, yellow feline eyes and bright red lips wrapped around an enormous toothy grin. They wore a candy cane striped suit coat with matching tie and had silver chord around their neck clasped to a flickering light bulb. They wore a pencil skirt with fishnet stockings. The two of us exchanged stares before the train drove out of sight.

  “Chicago’s getting weird,” I said to myself as I dug for my cigarettes.

  The late summer sun beat down on me as I smoked cigarettes all the way to my apartment. I was taking the internship for Death thing very seriously, mostly because I didn’t want to burn in Hell for the rest of eternity. My head went into military mode. I processed the objectives, putting aside all the mental side banter. Zombie Pete was an undead jerk off who needed to play concerts to drain the souls out of people to survive. I’d need to do some research on where he might be playing next. I didn’t think there were many dudes like him, so it narrowed my search. As I used the key-fob to enter the main gates of my apartment complex, it dawned on me that the guy was nothing without the guitar. So, if all else failed, I could try to Karate Kid that Fender Telecaster in half.

  I reached my apartment door and noticed there was a late rent notice taped under my peephole. I grabbed it with my teeth while pulling the handle and twisting the key in the lock, pushing my way in. The air conditioner in my unit had been left on. A wave of cold ran over me. It reminded me of the gloom waters in the underworld—holy hell the underworld! I spit the notice onto my coffee table, and after lighting up another smoke, I opened my laptop in the crowded area that was meant to be a dining room for hobbits. I pushed aside the Dungeons and Dragon books and gun magazines to give myself some space to take notes. I used a promotional bank pen to write on the back of an old character sheet, and I began my internet search for Zombie Pete. Sure enough, my first search pulled up a dozen or so references.

  I clicked on the official “Zombie Pete” website and began to build a profile. Zombie Pete was what hitmen called an easy target, and what survivalists call an idiot. He was using his rotten visage as a gimmick to attract Goth kids. He had several smaller venues listed on his tour index. I put two and two together that this guy didn’t outright murder his crowd when he played, as that would have gathered police attention. He must be more of a bottom feeder, taking bits and pieces of people’s souls as he performed. It reminded me of the Grave Bard my gaming group had fought at level six. My wizard, Sarsicus, wiped him up with a single fireball. The only difference is that the Grave Bard was siphoning the souls of Princess Mary and Prince Jonathan for power while this bad boy fed on people who frequented Hot Topic.

  Zombie Pete’s next show was tonight. I found that far too coincidental. Clearly Death and Jumbo wanted me to hit the ground running. Damn. Zombie Pete was playing at a hundred-year- old bar on the West side just past the expressway. With a usual job, I’d scope out the area in search of obstacles, places I could perch, and a clean getaway. Now I’d have to rely on internet pictures. I jumped on the venue’s Facebook page and studied several photos of the place. It was your typical storefront concert hall with a basement like theater with a two hundred-person fire capacity. Since the concert was being played on a weekday, I assumed that the crowd would be light.

  Good, fewer witnesses.

  Scrolling, I mapped out a bar near the entrance, an opening with stools and cocktail tables. Past that was an area for the crowd that reached to the makeshift stage. I scrutinized every picture in an attempt to spot a bathroom or back office that I could fire from. There were a few okay places that I could take advantage of if desperate. I found the picture that showed an area of the venue that screamed “kill people from up here.” Over the bar was a balcony reserved for V.I.P. customers that could watch the show from the comfort of movie theater seating. Every picture of the reserved area showed that it hadn’t been used in ages and was now storing extra tables and chairs. Better yet, there was a single window taped by cardboard that led right to it.

  I drew up a strategy that would knock the socks off Death and Jumbo. I scribbled it down on paper and began to probe it for flaws. Nothing ever went as drawn out, but the more backup plans you had at your disposal, the better. Offing someone was one-part planning, one-part adaptability, and one-part good aim.

  I had less than eight hours. Time was of the essence.

  If there’s one thing I learned in the trenches, it’s ‘know your tools.’ I retrieved Old Lilith’s scope and toyed with its optics. The lowlight feature was handy, but nothing I hadn’t seen before. It was the G.S. lens complete with flashing ghost icon that piqued my interest. Pressing my eye to the scope, a flush of blue colored the apartment just like last time. I decided to try it out along different angles and light sources throughout the flat. I bumbled from the long dim hallway to the cramped pitch-black bathroom. There were no optic or thermal adjustments. However, as I neared the light of my front room window, something remarkable happened.

  First the icon caught my attention. The ghost token locke
d solid with red X’s over its cartoon eyeballs. As I glided the sights along the street side, a tall cerulean form strode along the sidewalk. It was a pellucid man in a Zoot suit. He spun a chained pocket watch as he strolled down the path. A gold glowing bead flickered over his chest, then a second figure ten feet away adorned in a dated postal uniform drew me to him. A semi-opaque mailman with a gold bead heart went from building to building, slipping clarion letters into nonexistent mail slots. It wasn’t until my optics passed over the building directly across my apartment complex that I truly understood the G.S. lens.

  Along the third floor, Miss Lopez played a piano from her French window as she’d done for the last decade. The local celebrity had toured with several jazz bands in her heyday but resigned herself to personal children’s lessons after retirement. I watched Miss Lopez passionately dance her fingers along the keys of her baby grand. The sight gave me chills, especially since Miss Lopez died six months ago at that very same spot. I pulled away from the scope. I couldn’t see any of the blue figures with my naked eye. When I returned my eye to the G.S. optics, there they were, swaggering down sidewalks, delivering mail, and playing piano as if nothing was amiss.

  Shocked, I returned the scope to the satchel without looking, fixed my eyes on the sparse bookshelf across the room, and stumbled over to my couch before sitting down in a stiff upright position. My back tightened as I stared at the stained spine of a George R.R. Martin novel, distraught. It took time to process the information into my new mental X-Files folder, but after a rigid and uncomfortable minute, I settled down. If there was an afterlife, which I’d confirmed by dying and returning, then it was only natural that there were ghosts. I just hoped I wouldn’t have to eliminate any of them at this point in my paranormal career.

  Now anyone who tells you that hitmen are supposed to wear plain black suits with straight colored ties is only mostly wrong. The key is to blend in with your surroundings so that you’re forgettable. Since most hits are zeroed in on business CEO’s and stock exchange folks, it only makes sense to wear sheep’s clothing. But a good contract killer is just as likely to dress up as the Xfinity employee, boring sweater guy, or construction worker. Any identity that helps you blend in.