Don't Fear The Reaper

by Lex Sinclair

In the dream the Grim Reaper floated down the glossy, linoleum corridors, invisible to everyone it passed. Doctors, nurses, family members waiting anxiously for news of their loved ones. The corridors were long and identical. Had it not been a dream and the three actually pacing the channels of the hospital they would have got lost and not possessed the flair to move as gracefully as Death.

  At the time neither of the three was aware – not even subconsciously – that this was a visionary dream. As Number 3 sat in the stationary KA eating a cone of chips and sausage, blending into his surroundings to the best of his abilities, he could still smell the disinfectant and hear the lamentations of a woman giving birth.

  A twin set of doors floated past his vision and another set until he found himself in a brightly-lit theatre. The woman had long dark brown hair, matted and tousled with perspiration. The Grim Reaper floated without sound around the team of surgeons and nurses, donning bloodied gowns and surgical masks. The heart rate monitor zoomed into direct sight and then started beeping erratically, as though someone had hit the FAST-FORWARD button. The number to gauge the heart shot from 77 to 123-134.

  The scream of the young, attractive woman in labour died in her throat. Crimson liquid poured out of her gaping mouth and down her hospital gown, altering the colour drastically.

  Then she flatlined…

  In a controlled panic the surgeon and nurses acted as quickly and as professionally as they possibly could. To resuscitate the young woman and get her heart beating again the surgeon used defibrillators. The woman’s lifeless body bucked, curving her spine and would have flown through the air if it hadn’t been for the nurses pinning her down by her limbs. The procedure was performed five times until it became evident that the woman had gone.

  He’d woken sweating profusely, out of breath. It took a few minutes for his own heart to settle into its regular rhythm. Later that day Number 3 returned to the dilapidated building concealed in the forsaken alley. Old man Sacasa permitted him entry and returned to his room, leaving Number 2 and Number 3 in the dim makeshift office.

  ‘You had the vision of the birth?’ Number 2 asked without preamble.

  Number 3 took a seat and regarded his fellow sect member. ‘I was under the impression that it was a miscarriage.’

  ‘In the next couple of days we’ll know for certain. But the infant I believe survives and his mother does not. She is to be spared the End of Days; not that she or her late husband would’ve survived. The aftermath will not be for those of weak hearts and minds. The aftermath will be for those to rise from ashes and reign supreme.’

  A myriad of notions weighed down on Number 3, troubling him immensely. ‘If their saviour does survive the birth how will it endure the apocalypse and the aftermath thereafter? Surely, it’ll be doomed the moment it breathes his first breath and his first cries will echo throughout his entire existence.’

  Number 2 lit a cigarette from a Marlboro packet and offered one to Number 3. Number 3 declined the offer. After Number 2 took his first drag and exhaled a blue coiling vapour that dissipated, he said, ‘The Reaper shall provide knowledge when it’s required, not before or in case of. Whoever decides to protect the infant, should he survive, shall put themselves in indefinite peril.’

  ‘How will we survive the apocalypse?’

  Number 2 was sucking the nicotine into his lungs when Number 3 spoke. ‘The Reaper has chosen us as we are willing servants to its wishes. I very much doubt if that were the case the Reaper would allow us to succumb to the fate of so many others.’

  And although Number 2 sounded confident the blood-red eyes deliberately avoided meeting Number 3’s gaze. Number 3 knew that somewhere in the depths of the inhuman eyes there was a trace of the soul that had once occupied the body of the man leaning back in his leather upholstery chair, exuding an emotion that only those of purity could ever exude – fear.

  *

  Frank Benullo heard the sound of two letters slapping the tiled flooring in the foyer and got out of his armchair to see why the postman still found it necessary to do his job when there wouldn’t be anyone alive to pay him his weekly wage. After all, no one else deemed it necessary to go to work and carry on as though the end of the world was unrelated to them.

  At first sight the names of himself and his wife were printed on the white unmarked envelope. No postage mark to identify where it had been posted from. Curious, Frank opened the envelope with his name on and pulled out the sheet of paper. It was from the Houses of Parliament and signed at the bottom by the Prime Minister himself. The letter was no doubt typed by his secretary or someone on the payroll and informed him that his services would be required during the “aftermath”. This was both a privilege and an enormous duty upon his shoulders. In the days shortly after Christmas when the asteroids were set to break through into Earth’s atmosphere he’d be taken to an unknown “safe haven”.

  On legs as stable as sticks, Frank returned to the living room where his wife and Elias were watching the TV.

  ‘You’d better read this,’ he said, handing her the other letter with her name on it.

  ‘What is it?’ she asked, alarmed.

  Frank turned away from the TV screen showing a satellite shot of the asteroids drifting ever closer to the vast green and blue globe that was their home on the verge of being wiped out. ‘The light at the end of a long, dark tunnel,’ he said in a faraway voice.

  *

  On TVs across the U.K. and all around the world the president of the United States could be seen seated behind the famous refined desk of his office in the White House. He faced the camera with solemn eyes, throat working convulsively, clearly finding it nigh on impossible to face the crew and other members of the office out of shot. He sighed and gazed beyond the camera as though in deep thought. Then with as much courage as he could muster he steadied himself, clasped his hands together – mostly to keep his trembling concealed – and looked right into the lens of the rolling camera.

  ‘My fellow Americans and citizens the world over,’ he began in a hoarse voice. There was no second take this time however. The hoarseness was understandable. The crew were no longer concerned about perfection. Also, the emotion the president exuded mirrored every other living creature across the world. In some respects his unsteady voice and fidgeting and melancholic stare brought everyone to a halt, no matter where they were or what they were doing.

  ‘My fellow humans, in just a couple of days’ time we shall face our greatest test known to man. All our differences will be forgotten, I hope. Our enemies will become companions as we face the same terrible fate that we ourselves face, for we are all as one and one for all. United we stand, divided we fall.

  ‘I won’t lie to you. A lot of you people who are listening and watching me speak right now will no longer grace our planet – our home – with your kindness and generosity. For those of you who survive the world as we know it will be a memory of what a lot of us took for granted, and what a lot of us cherished. But no matter what happens I believe that we will rise and make a stand against the hard times that we’ll all face and endure and conquer.

  ‘Oceans will rise, cities will fall but our spirit will prevail. I could sit here and tell you all the information and facts I’ve been given about the asteroids and the largest one Freeman/Horner headed directly for Earth’s atmosphere, but nothing will prepare us for the deep impact it will have. The effects will be shocking, devastating. But I refuse to be beaten down into submission. I refuse! I used to think that people – good, honest people – deserved the truth. But the truth is this – sometimes the truth is not enough. Sometimes people – good, honest people – who have suffered so much hardship through no fault of their own, deserve more than the truth. Sometimes those people deserve to have their prayers answered! Sometimes those people deserve to have their faith rewarded!’ The president calmed himself again. Then spoke assuredly. ‘I can’t help those that need helping. I can’t save those who deserve saving. But I will help those I can. I w
ill save those who survive and need saving. I can’t help my body from succumbing to the effects of this devastation. But I can help myself by not letting the spirit inside me succumb to defeat!

  ‘My breaking heart goes out to you all as a nation, as a continent and as a planet, and most of all to each and every one of you individually. God bless you and save us in our time of need. God bless America! God bless you all!’

  The millions of millions who watched the speech on TV worldwide gave a silent “thank you” for the kind, honest words of a man who continued to stare into the lens of the camera. A single tear coursed down his quivering cheek, and the world saw the president – the most powerful man in the world – was the same as anyone and everyone else, a man.

  The leaders of every nation across the world also made similar heartfelt speeches but none had the profoundness of the American president’s.

  Number 3 got out of his Ford KA and watched the speech while he purchased a beef roll from the convenience store. He smiled inwardly, wary that he showed none of his emotions bursting to erupt into raucous laughter. Instead he stood motionless with four other customers and the Pakistani proprietor chewing his food with gusto.

  The others were captivated by the American president, hanging on his every word, believing that they could endure the eruption that was about to be inflicted upon them. Number 3 did well not to shake his head. The tidal waves alone would cause mass destruction, not to mention the impact the asteroids, which although were disintegrating into smaller sizes, would have when they struck the land. And even if by some miracle a good majority did somehow survive the aftermath, they wouldn’t offer any hope to go on – or endure as that seemed to be a popular word of the president’s.

  In the next day or soon the comets would rip through the outer layer of the Earth and tear through the skies, peeling it back like dead skin and torching both sea and land in its wake, faster than a rocket. By the time anyone “made their stand” as the president liked to put it, there would be nothing left, save smouldering wreckage that went on forever, eradicating any landmarks to identify as their home.

  The date of the famous doomsday speech was 24 December 2006.

  *

  Number 3 returned to his flat that belonged to the man formally known to the world as Michael Scott Thompson and made himself a microwave chicken dinner; he put his feet up on the pouf and watched TV shows showing what will happen to the Earth when the asteroids strike.

  Braying laughter at the sights absorbed by his crimson eyes, Number 3 fell into a deep slumber and found himself in the litter strewn alley. The towering robed figure carrying the scythe raised its right arm and pointed with an impossibly elongated skeletal finger in the direction he ought to go.

  Dutifully, Number 3 followed orders as a diligent soldier would to a commanding officer. The Grim Reaper had floated alongside him and turned to look at him but Number 3 hastily averted his gaze and bent his knees, keeping his back straight and pushing the refuse container on wheels farther down the damp brick wall. As the container eventually rolled forward, the ground beneath revealed a sewer manhole cover.

  His sides expanded and sucked in again with each breath. Nevertheless, a broad smile crept across Number 3’s face as comprehension flicked on in his mind like a brand new light bulb.

  While the world drowned and burned simultaneously, The Three and old man Sacasa would be hidden and safe.

  When he looked up from the storm drain the Reaper had vanished as hastily as he’d materialised…

  13.

  ALTHOUGH it wasn’t reported in the newspapers or discussed on TV it was common knowledge that those citizens who refused to believe that they would be eradicated in the next couple of days in their panic began looting.

  Ordinarily, John Hayes would see this behaviour as immoral, aggressive and exclusively for those who sought revenge through violence and theft. But this was as far from ordinary as you could get, and in order for he, his wife and her best friend and Anthony’s family to survive they needed to prepare diligently. It was all well and good discovering a sanctuary and finding refuge underground, similar to those in the hierarchy being taken from their homes by order of the government, but it would be as useful as a chocolate fireguard without provisions and other accessories.

  John had never broken a law or even considered it in his entire life. So in order to go through with this deed he had to rationalise it for his conscience to accept what he was doing was in fact proper.

  All the big chain superstores such as Tesco, Asda, Sainsbury’s, LIDL’s, had been broken into. The smaller convenience stores in the nearest villages and the Tesco Extra shops also had their windows smashed by desperate folk, rushing in and out, loading their cars with goods and racing off. John was well aware that he needed to act without too much deliberation in these ungodly times, otherwise he’d end up with nothing due to his hesitation.

  Leaving his Peugeot in the driveway, John drove to St John the Baptist Church and aided his wife, Natalie, in unloading the transit van. There were two boxes of Diet Coke, two bottles of concentrate orange juice, bags of crisps, two biscuit tins full to the brim, packets of chocolate bars, a bunch of bananas, three punnets of fresh strawberries, nectarines, apples and all the tin food they could find. Tuna, baked beans, spaghetti hoops; spaghetti squares; two loaves of brown bread; four cartons of butter. They also unloaded the remaining bottles of Sprite lemonade and a box of assorted chocolates and two bottles of red wine.

  Natalie was far better attuned to this madness that had not only befallen the U.K. but the world over. She had the foresight to pack as much of their clothing into suitcases for them and toiletries from the mirror cabinet in their bathroom. She also dug out the Duracell batteries she kept in the sideboard that occupied their dining room downstairs. She equipped them with an array of knives and saucepans, plates and utensils.

  Pleased, though unnerved by his wife’s studious attention to detail, John pondered whether in another life his wife had been through something like this before. He’d never mention it but she’d be an ideal nurse or guardian over soldiers preparing for war.

  A shudder coursed through him.

  If the priest in the Vatican church’s prophecy was to be believed – and let’s face it, it looked pretty darn accurate as far as present events transpired – then this could very well be only the beginning of the nightmare soon to quake the foundations they stood upon.

  After carrying their items and provisions up and down the cobbled steps into the vast bunker domain, aching from the heaving and exertion, John and Natalie leapt back into the transit and roared down the inclined path out of the entrance gates and back onto the highway.

  Pedal to the metal, the bishop of the South Wales district leaned over the steering wheel. In a white-knuckle ride he kept the van steady swerving around two men on bicycles. He shot through a red light and laughed humourlessly at the complete disregard he demonstrated for the rules of the road and danced with the devil in the pale moonlight as he steered to the right of the roundabout (instead of going around it), risking his and Natalie’s life if another vehicle came flying around the blindsided corner and took the off-ramp to Tesco superstore.

  The transit shot past the sign indicating that this was a 10-mile max limit zone in the excess of 30mph. Up ahead was a zebra crossing, practical for those commuters and shoppers who travelled to and fro the big chain store on foot. Fortunately no one was using it at the time John Hayes roared past, scattering shredded newspapers and an empty can of Pepsi Max in his wake. He fought the steering wheel as he took a sharp left. Tyres screeched, burning rubber on the white lines.

  John brought the transit to a jerking halt, not meaning to stand on the brake pedal and throw his wife’s body forward only to be yanked back by the seat belt that threatened to strangle her simultaneously.

  ‘Sorry,’ he gasped.

  ‘You’re like a vigilante,’ Natalie said, cheeks flushed rose red.

  He shrugged at that
comment, having no defence to dispute her proclamation.

  ‘Listen,’ he said, when he’d unfastened the seat belt, ‘I gotta get the petrol for the van, and see if there are any left petrol cans. If we survive this… whatever is about to happen… then we’re gonna need petrol to get us about. Otherwise we’ll be stranded. While I’m doing that you go and get us a trolley and go to the entrance and take a gander at what bedlam is going down in there. Don’t go in there without me. Even if by some miracle it’s deserted we don’t have time to go searching the store for each other. It’ll be like trying to catch Mars bar wrappers in a hurricane.’

  Natalie was pulling the handle to open the passenger door when her husband made the last comment and she laughed and slapped her knee. This had been one of the pivotal reasons why Natalie had fallen in love with John. His gaunt, sallow, pallid complexion sure as hell wasn’t the reason. Neither were the doughy, pound dog face and eyes that appeared to have sunk beneath the leathery rolls of flab. It was John’s spare-of-the-moment wit that had her laughing hard when only moments ago she’d felt the fear weigh down on her from a grey-slatted sky.

  ‘Well, you know what I mean, anyway,’ he said. Then spun the transit around and shot forward and taking the left turn into the filling station.

  A man with a moustache so thick and curly it looked as though it’d been glued on gave him the thumbs-up signal. John considered the man might be an escaped lunatic. Yet as he watched the man jogging towards a Fiat and removing the nozzle from the cradle and inserted it into the hole where the petrol cap had been unscrewed, John realised the man was saying, ‘I turned all the pumps on.’

  Silently chastising himself for pre-judging the man with the awesome moustache, John called out, ‘Thanks, man.’

  Thanks, man? What are you, a hippie?

  Once the man in blue denim jeans and a leather jacket got into his Fiat and roared past him, pumping his fist, John noticed the petrol had filled the van and was now discharging on his new Addidas trainers. ‘Bum fart!’