The Reapers are the Angels

by Alden Bell

  The slug population is dense. Temple has to slow down to avoid hitting them, and she has to keep moving to keep them from congregating.

  Downtown the city is overrun, a grotesque panorama. They walk, some of them, in twos and threes, sometimes even hand in hand like lovers, lumbering along, slow and thick, blood crusted down their fronts, stumbling over the bony remains of consumed corpses. Their gestures are meaningless, but they hearken back with primitive instinct to life before. A slug dressed in black with a white preacher’s collar lifts his hands toward the sky as if calling upon the god of dead things, while a rotting woman in a wedding dress sits open-legged against a wall, rubbing the lace hem against her cheek. Here, the monstrous and the perverse, the like of which Temple has never seen before. A slug with no arms nestled up against the swollen belly of a corpse recently dead, chewing away at its exposed viscera like a piglet at the teat of its mother. These, the desperate and the plagued, driven to consume beyond their usual ken—a swarm of them pulling apart a dead horse with their hands, using their teeth to scrape the offal from the backside of the bristly skin. Some even so bubbling with abomination that they turn on one another, by instinct preying on the weak, pulling them down, the children and the old ones, digging their teeth first into the fleshiest parts to give their clawing fingers some purchase, a mob of them backing a pale-faced girl against the concrete base of a building. She opens her mouth to defend herself, sinks her teeth into the arm of one of her attackers, but there are more, a groaning, howling brood like coyotes on the concrete plain. And, too, a carnival of death, a grassy park near the city center, a merry-go-round that turns unceasing hour by hour, its old-time calliope breathing out dented and rusty notes while the slugs pull their own arms out of the sockets trying to climb aboard the moving platform, some disembodied limbs dragging in the dirt around and around, hands still gripping the metal poles—and the ones who succeed and climb aboard, mounting to the top of the wooden horses, joining with the endless motion of the machine, dazed to imbecility by gut memories of speed and human ingenuity. And the horde, in the blackout of the city night, illumined only by the headlights of the car, everywhere descending and roiling against one another like maggots in the belly of a dead cat, the grimmest and most degenerate manifestation of this blighted humanity on this blighted earth—beasts of our lost pasts, spilling out of whatever hell we have made for them like the army of the damned, choked and gagging and rotted and crusty and eminently pathetic, yes, brutally, conspicuously, outrageously pathetic.

  They collect, the horde, and she eases her car through them, pushing them out of the way or down under her wheels, which crunch over their limbs or torsos. If she stops, if the car stalls, she is dead, she knows. To go faster would be to risk damage to the car, so she pushes through at a steady pace, while the man sitting next to her watches with blank eyes the crowd of walking bodies in the pool of light ahead of them.

  This is a sight indeed, Temple says. We got armageddon every direction it looks like. They got a plague of meatskins here, don’t they? I don’t know about you, dummy, but it’s been a long time since I been reminded so of the end of things.

  She leans forward in the seat and grasps the steering wheel more firmly.

  Still and all, she says, this does give us one advantage. Brother Todd is gonna have a nightmare time following us through this mess—especially after we stirred em up like we’re doin.

  She drives the car forward, and the city of the dead moves in jerks and eddies around them.

  BY THE time the sun comes up, they have made it to the outskirts of the city, a series of rolling hills capped by multistoried gable houses with stone entries and marble steps. She has turned off the main road and is now traveling west as best as she can figure it, and the slugs have thinned out considerably.

  Beyond the clusters of houses, the road opens up and they find themselves in estate country—wide tracts of grassy land with mansions set way back in the distance. Most of the fields are enclosed by sturdy white horse fences that circle the property. Many of the fences are worn and broken through in spots, and now slugs graze where horses used to.

  The road climbs up over a rise and reveals a valley on the other side. To the south of the road is untended grassland, but to the north is the largest estate she’s seen yet. Even from this distance she can see the size of it, that mansion of gloating white, built up on the top of the hill as though it were crowning majestically the earth itself.

  She pulls over.

  Ain’t that something, she says. Let’s take a look.

  There are eight columns in the front, she can count them from where she stands in the road, and a driveway that leads from the gate straight up to the house with a circle out front and a fountain in the middle of the circle spitting water high up into the air.

  Look at that fountain, dummy. I’ll be damned if there ain’t someone livin there. And I got an idea about how they keep them meatskins away.

  The fence surrounding the property is different from the others in the area. Instead of being white wooden planks, it consists of metal wires strung horizontal about six inches apart.

  You stay away from that now, she says. You probably don’t even know what an electrified fence is, and I guess it’s best you don’t find out firsthand.

  She tells the man to stay by the car, and she approaches the wide gate and discovers that it too is wired.

  Doggone it, she says. How we gonna get in there? Here, wait, I got an idea.

  She goes to the car and gets a pistol from the duffel bag in the backseat.

  You’re lucky I’m the brains of this operation.

  She points the pistol in the air and fires three times in deliberately paced succession. The reports echo loud through the canyon.

  Now, she says, that’s gonna draw somebody’s attention. Let’s just hope the residents of Castle Cleanteeth up there get curious before our local meatskins do.

  A few minutes later, she can see a figure come around from behind the house rather than from the front door. It’s a black man, and he’s wearing a green smock, the full kind of smock that has a bib and ties neatly around the waist. He’s tall, but she notices as he gets closer, taking his time walking down the driveway with a delicate step, that he seems even taller than he actually is because of a quality of pride that emanates from him. Around his temples, his close-cropped hair is graying, and his half smile is polite but distant.

  Can I help you, miss? he says through the gate.

  What’s your name?

  Johns.

  Johns? Like John except more than one?

  That’s correct. May I help you?

  That your house?

  Belle Isle belongs to Mrs. Grierson.

  Well I don’t know what you just said, but how about lettin us come in and get some rest? We’re just travelin through, and it looks like you got some hospitality to spare.

  I’m afraid this is a private residence, miss.

  Private residence? Where you from anyway? I don’t suppose you been informed that your downtown’s got the worst slug infestation I ever seen. There ain’t no private residences anymore, mister. There’s just places where slugs are and places where they ain’t.

  I am sorry, you’ll have to try somewhere else.

  He begins to turn away.

  Wait, hold up now. Mister, do you know how old I am?

  I do not.

  I’m fifteen years old. You gonna feed a defenseless fifteen-year-old girl to the meatskins just to avoid setting another couple places for supper? How’s that gonna sit with your conscience? Because I know it would sure enough bother me.

  He looks at her for a long time, and she does her best to put on her truant waif look.

  Then he lifts a panel on the stone column and punches in a code, and the two sides of the gate roll back automatically.

  Thanks mister, you’re a right guy.

  And this gentleman is . . .

  Oh, don’t worry about him. He’s just a dummy.
He won’t steal nothin of yours.

  Johns presses a button once they are through and the gates close behind them.

  She has a desire to run up to the circle and bathe herself in the fountain and cry out to the mistress of the house, Yoohoo, Mrs. Grierson, I’m here for a visit! But she decides to play it safe and not make anyone nervous. These people seem to have it pretty good, and she doesn’t want to spook them. So she holds her hands behind her back like a little lady should, and she follows Johns up the driveway to the house.

  6.

  Inside, the house looks like something she’s seen in movies—metalwork frilly like lace, the whole place kingly and oblivious. The front entrance opens onto a long hall that extends all the way through to the back around a central staircase that winds in a circle up to the second floor. Descending from the ceiling like a shower of ice is a chandelier that seems to hold the light locked selfish in its crystals rather than giving it out. The floor of the entry is marble in black-and-white diamonds and along the walls are grandfather clocks and half-circle tables with model ships and mahogany sideboards with sprays of flowers or ancient yellow dolls under glass bells.

  The place seems untouched by the mass walking death everywhere else in the world. She looks for the stand of guns by the door, but instead she finds a rack for coats and umbrellas, a closet for muddy boots. There are no boards nailed across the windows—instead there are layers of lace and muslin tied open with thick burgundy ropes that have large toylike tassels on the ends. There is no blood crusted brown on the walls and the floors. No lookout stations. No gunner nests. It is as though she has entered a different era entirely.

  The first thing she hears when she comes through the door is a song being played on a piano. She assumes, of course, that it’s a recording—until the song stops abruptly and starts again, and she realizes someone is practicing on a real piano.

  The song is a peaceful one, but also full of chords that make her ache. It’s a sad peacefulness.

  Who’s playin the piano? she asks Johns.

  Mr. Grierson practices in the mornings.

  And who’s that on the wall?

  She points to a portrait of a man dressed in an old-fashioned gray military uniform standing beside a woman sitting on a chair in a long red gown. Behind them is a flag with an X on it, which she recognizes as the one belonging to the South of the olden days.

  They are Henrietta and William Cuthbert the Third, great-great-grandparents of Mrs. Grierson.

  I’m gettin the picture. In other words, this is the Grierson estate.

  It is called Belle Isle.

  Whatever you say. Let me just wipe the blood off my feet so I keep from trackin it in.

  Johns gives her a withering look, and she smiles back sweetly.

  How shall I announce you? he asks.

  Your normal way is fine by me.

  What name shall I give?

  Oh, Sarah Mary Williams.

  And his name?

  You can just call him dummy—me and him don’t stand on ceremony, do we, dummy?

  Johns swings open one of the tall sets of doors off the entrance hall to reveal a parlor filled with floral-patterned couches and chairs and a massive black piano with its lid propped up to reveal all the strings inside. At the side of the room a nicely dressed woman sits at a card table playing solitaire and sipping a drink with what looks like crushed leaves in it. She seems to be in her seventies, but regal seventies, handsome-looking, wearing a gown like Temple’s never seen before in real life, full of shimmer and rustle.

  At the piano sits a young man dressed in a full suit, his hair slicked back, and his body leaning and swaying with the music he’s playing. When he turns around, Temple sees his delicate green eyes and his closely shaven face, and she supposes that he must be five years older than she is.

  Mrs. Grierson, Johns announces, this young lady and her friend were traveling by and needed assistance. Miss Sarah Mary Williams.

  We don’t really need no assistance, Temple says, just maybe a bite to eat or somethin.

  Well, isn’t this a lovely surprise! Mrs. Grierson says, getting up from the table and sweeping across the room to take Temple in her arms and kiss both her cheeks.

  Sir, welcome, she says, holding out her hand to the large slow-eyed man standing next to Temple.

  Oh, never mind him, Temple says. He don’t know how to shake—

  But to her surprise, he holds out his hand and lets Mrs. Grierson shake it.

  Come in, come in, Mrs. Grierson says. I want you to meet my grandson Richard.

  The young man at the piano stands and bows slightly in their direction.

  Grandson, Temple says. With all the mister and missus talk going on, I figured the two of you was married.

  Oh my no. I’ve been a widow for as long as I care to remember. Now it’s just myself and my boys—my two grandsons and their father. Their poor father isn’t well at the moment, I’m afraid. Would you care for some iced tea?

  Temple looks at the glass on the card table.

  What you got in it, plants?

  That’s fresh mint. We grow it in the garden.

  Sure, I’m game.

  So Johns goes out and a woman who looks like she could be Johns’s wife or sister brings in a tray with glasses of iced tea on it, and sets it on the coffee table and goes out again, and they sit around on the couches and talk and Temple makes a special effort to be cordial and ladylike and she tries not to gulp down her tea like she wants to but rather sip it like Mrs. Grierson seems to be doing, and she tries to remember to wipe her mouth with the little cloth napkin by her drink rather than with her sleeve, and she sits back and crosses her legs like someone once told her she should rather than sitting forward with her elbows on her knees—which is obviously the better way to sit if you have to defend yourself all of a sudden.

  Now tell us where you hail from, Sarah Mary, Mrs. Grierson says.

  Me? I’m from the area—just two towns over.

  She pointed in a direction.

  Oh, you’re from Georgia? I could tell it. I know a Georgia peach when I see one. Which town? Lake Park? Statenville?

  Statenville. That’s the one. Me and him grew up there. He’s my brother. My mama waited fifteen years to try again after him because of the way he turned out.

  You shouldn’t be traveling by yourself, Richard says. He has a child’s voice, despite his age, and when he uses it to sound authoritative it trips over itself. It’s a good thing you found us. We’ll take care of you.

  Thank you, Richard, Temple says politely. I like the song you were playing before.

  That was Chopin. I can play others. You should stay with us, it’s not safe outside.

  Oh, Richard, Mrs. Grierson chides. Let’s not talk about unpleasant things. I can’t remember the last time we had a girl in the house, other than Maisie. You know, Sarah Mary, I never had any granddaughters. I have some wonderful frocks upstairs that I bet would fit you perfectly. Before dinner we can go up and have a look around. Of course you will both stay as long as you like. We have plenty of room for guests.

  Two grandsons? Temple asks.

  Pardon me?

  Before you said you had two grandsons?

  Oh, yes, Richard and James, my two boys. It’s just the four of us left, I’m afraid. But they are fine boys. Such handsome and talented boys.

  My older brother, Richard says, likes to seclude himself in his room when he’s not wandering in the fields. He is my brother and I love him, but he can be—

  Richard, Mrs. Grierson warns.

  I was just going to say elusive, Grandmother. Elusive. Wouldn’t you say that sums him up fairly well?

  My boys, she says to Temple. They take such good care of me.

  THE FIRST thing she does is ask Johns to open the front gate so she can bring her car up from the road and park it in the back of the house.

  Then she and her companion are shown to adjoining guest rooms by Maisie, the woman who brought them iced t
ea earlier and who Mrs. Grierson refers to as a girl even though she must be almost twice Temple’s age.

  You like it here? Temple asks when Maisie is on her way out.

  Where else is there, miss?

  I mean, they treat you all right?

  The Griersons are very kind.

  Temple nods and looks around at the lace doilies and floral wallpaper above the wainscoting.

  To wake up in this house, she says, you might never guess the world’s got half eat up, huh?

  Pardon me?

  Never mind.

  Temple finds an old-fashioned claw-footed tub in the bathroom and decides to take a soak and give her throbbing hand a rest.

  I’m gonna be in there for a while, dummy, she says. Don’t break nothin. Here, you better put your hands in your pockets.

  She makes a gesture and he does it. Then she goes into the bathroom and closes the door. Later, when she returns, he is sitting on the edge of the bed fingering something with his right hand that he must have pulled from his pocket.

  What’s this you got? she says, taking the slip of paper from his hand. First I find out you know how to shake hands like a proper gentleman—and now this. You sure are full of secrets today, dummy.

  The slip of paper has some numbers and letters on it. It looks like an address with something else written across the top.