A Tale Of Two Reapers

by Jack Wallen

  Both Ammy and Darth nodded, a slight bit of fear in their eyes.

  “Good. I’m going back into the house to wait for the arrival of our mark.” I turned my attention to Amnesia. “Do me a favor. If you see a dude that screams molesto-change-o, text me when he enters the house. Can you do that?”

  Amnesia nodded. “Of course. Why? What does it mean?”

  I took in a deep breath before saying, “Life or death.”

  “Son of a bitch,” Ammy mumbled, and showed me her phone. “I’m on it. Battery charged and four full bars.”

  “Good for you.” I planted a sarcastic wink into the moment, just for fun. Amnesia was too caught up in the thrill of her first stakeout to catch my snark. “I’m going in.”

  “He’s going in, Darth,” Ammy delighted in the announcement.

  “I see that,” Darthaniel was too busy rolling his dinner to get involved with the conversation.

  I spun on my heels and made my way back to the house to dig in for what would, with my luck, be a very long wait.

  You’d think someone as old as I am would have the patience of a planetary body in perpetual motion. What’s a few hours, after all? Given the circumstances, the pressure, and the magnitude of the situation, my mind spun out of control with scenarios…none of which ended with the same conclusion. The end game of this courtship had to resolve in a manner I found agreeable, or Fate and I would…

  Fuck.

  The lightning bolt sent my eyes blinking back sunspots. I felt the energy grab at my wrist and pull me from one dimension to another.

  The NetherRealm.

  “Goddamn it!” I shouted into the void. “You have the worst timing.”

  “Time is—” Fate started.

  “A man-made construct. I get it, Fate. Everything is irrelevant when you pretty much rule the universe.”

  “Your point?” Fate demanded.

  “You know what the hell is going on and you’re jerking me around to prevent my plan from succeeding. We’ve played this game many times, Fate.”

  “Your insolence could be your undoing,” Fate’s threat rang hollow.

  Anger rose from deep within. I had to conjure up every ounce of control at my disposal, else wind up falling prey to a temper most unbecoming to one of Fate’s minions. As I ran through my list of calming tenets, a damning conclusion spread across my mind.

  “You’re hoping I’ll snap,” I whispered.

  The NetherRealm sighed…as if it had been given a life of its own to further stretch the boundaries of possibility.

  “I’m hoping you’ll lose our wager…nothing more, nothing less. Whether your fragile sanity gives way to madness is of no concern to me. You can serve my needs in a straightjacket or naked…so long as souls are reaped.”

  The bubble of anger boiled over. “Then why am I here?!”

  “Because I know,” Fate said in a soothing voice that betrayed the moment.

  I hesitated…afraid I already knew the answer to my question. “Know what?”

  “You plan on killing that man.”

  Busted didn’t really do the situation justice.

  Before me, a form coalesced. At first, the shape was nothing more than an amorphous blob. The specter folded in upon itself and released a blinding light. When my vision finally returned, Fate appeared before me…made whole. I’d never before beheld the truest shape of Fate; it had only ever revealed itself to me as a shadow.

  I had to say, Fate was gorgeous—like you’d expect an anthropomorphized immortal to be. Perfect in form and shape, glistening muscle, and glistening skin. Part David Bowie, part Aishwarya Rai. The only disconcertion was the third eye blinking from Fate’s forehead.

  This could not be good.

  “Grim,” Fate’s voice had taken on a breathy quality, as if it exerted too much energy to retain its current form. “The universal laws you are planning to brush aside will have everlasting consequences. You have no idea what you are about to confront. Are you certain your lady is worth such a risk?”

  “Is that a leading question?”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “You’re trying to sway me to your truth. You know me better than that, Fate. I may have only ever served your purpose, but I’ve done so without sacrificing my soul. You, more than anyone, should understand X and I were brought together for a very good reason.”

  “I do,” Fate answered.

  “Then why are you questioning me on this? If you already know how this ends, just let it play out.”

  Fate fell silent.

  “If X and I weren’t meant to be together…”

  The NetherRealm sighed again.

  “Your days are numbered, reaper. Your toy has yet—”

  “She has a name, Fate.” My anger simmered.

  A dangerous hum rose and fell before Fate continued. “X has yet to prove her worth. You have two days remaining before the last tick of my patience marks the end of her journey and your little experiment. Although I shudder at the thought of searching for a reaper to take your place—”

  “It won’t be necessary, Fate. She’ll reap.”

  “We shall see, Grim. I do believe, however, you have far more dangerous issues to attend.”

  Another sun-bright flash stole my vision. I could feel the NetherRealm bleed away from around me, to be replaced by the oppressive stench of rot and death. Anger was replaced by confusion. Why on earth hadn’t Fate vanquished me to the Null for my insubordination? Could I have been right about X and me? Was there some good greater than Fate for me to serve?

  The answers would have to wait. The ceiling above me creaked. Someone was walking across the floor. A muffled cry rang out, immediately followed by a larynx-ripping scream. I didn’t have to guess as to the nature of her anguish.

  The door leading to the basement opened. A sliver of light slashed the dirty floor before a body tumbled down the wooden steps.

  She was naked and bloody; alive…only just.

  Slow, methodical footfalls clunked against the stairs. I half expected Frankenstein’s monster to appear from the shadows and roar his disapproval. Instead, the man I waited for descended the steps.

  This was it. Go go gadget death ray time.

  I slowly rose from my darkened corner…just in time for Fate’s warning to scramble out of memory and tumble into the now. This was not the time to have a conscience…or concern for consequences; not a time to be afraid. I was the one to be feared.

  And yet…everlasting, I thought. In the thinking, the image of X made its way to my frontal lobe. I hadn’t felt this level of need in such a long time…decades. I never considered myself a model romantic, but my heart beat with a quickening pace at the thought of Christine.

  “You’ll do just fine,” Mr. Creeptastic mumbled as he dragged his newest toy to the mattress. His ability to heft the dead weight around belied his diminutive size and treble clef posture. He rolled her onto the bloody heap and busied himself with securing the woman to the wall with chains and shackles. “We can’t have you trying to get away, now can we? You are going to be delightful and delicious. You should be proud of yourself, as I hand-picked you from hundreds of very similar girls.” He leaned down, pried open the woman’s jaw, inserted his large, protuberant nose into her mouth, and took a great sniff. “Your scent is intoxicating.”

  This was it. I wouldn’t get a more opportune moment than this.

  To hell with Fate, I thought as I leapt into action and dove headfirst into the man huddled over the soiled mess of a bed.

  Reality shattered into a fractal pattern of chaos.

  I wasn’t ready for what lay in waiting inside the broken man’s mind. Within the confines of Mr. Mark Jons’ existence was a barrage of imagery. Stabbing, strangling, starving; bleeding, breaking, boning; raping, rending, wrecking; flensing, flaying, filleting. No form of torture or means of death was out of the question. Jons had no remorse…not even a smattering of regret. He went about the business of unsealing life as if it we
re his job. Mark Jons’ numbers were as staggering as was the subtext of his cause—something unseen drove the man into the great depths of evil. I wanted to feign eternal ignorance, but couldn’t deny myself the need to glance into the source. Each time I dug beneath the superficial, I was rejected back to the surface to continue the Grand Guignol Cinéma Vérité.

  The kills filled my mind to overflowing. With each fresh death, what remained of my sanity begged me to pull away. I tried. Something blocked my exit. This had happened once before—when an untold story prevented me from escaping a reap. The soul demanded my audience until its name had been revealed. Death’s bell rang hollow, and I would remain until the song’s truth returned. That was then, this is now. That was Himmler, this was Jons.

  Patience was a virtue I did not lack. No matter how hideous, no matter how slow-moving, I could wait and I would win.

  The freak show faded to black…not to the black of a midnight show intermission—this black had depth and the promise of pain.

  A flicker of light caught my attention. I gave chase, hoping to track down whatever I was supposed to learn in this dread moment. My miserable journey into the long, bleak night led me to a show I didn’t want to see. Another man dying…his soul escaping to seek out a new vessel to inhabit. Gein, Dahmer, Bundy, Gacy, Lopez. These bastards of evil held a particular taste for those incapable of remorse, insouciant to the wake of suffering they’d leave behind. To that list, history would append the name Jons.

  The realization slammed me in the gut and shot me from the host. I crashed into a wall and dropped to the floor, out of breath and filled with desperation. I should have suspected something was wrong with X right away; but how could I have known the soul of Mark Jons was a scythe? Once those bastards settle into a new mortal, they fade away until the need to spread their special form of malice takes hold. Another killer from another time, another place. Over and over the serpent swallowed, an ouroboros of death.

  A recursive Scythe.

  Jons turned on me. “I don’t have a penchant for the flesh of men, but when you intrude upon my work, you must pay the consequences.”

  That word. Consequences. Fate’s voice rang against the bony confines of my skull. Fuck.

  Without thinking, I stood and ran at Jons. When our bodies collided, stars instantly danced within the periphery of my vision. I shook off the rattling and grabbed Jons by the collar. “I have something very special for you.”

  I landed a single, bone-crunching blow to Mark’s right cheek. His head snapped back and consciousness splashed from his eyes. I released my grip and let the man crash down to the floor. The crunch of his head promised twisted visions for a paused reality. Before making my exit, I checked on the chained woman; she had a strong pulse…so there was time.

  Much to my surprise, I was able to scoop Jons up in a fireman’s carry and ascend the stairs.

  Once outside, I picked up the pace until the dead weight on my shoulders threatened to topple me over. Desperation gave me strength; cause gave me stamina. At the hearse, I slammed Jons onto the hood, released him, and ran to the back door.

  “Watch the car, dude,” Darthaniel mumbled as he rolled down the window to release a cloud of peace train smoke.

  I opened the back door, ready for X to drop, and scooped her into my arms.

  “What’s going on?” Amnesia asked as she exited the hearse.

  “No time to explain.”

  I gently laid the body onto the hood and focused all of my attention on X. With a quick slap of the cheek, I called out, “X. You there? I really need you to hear me.”

  Nothing.

  “God damn it!” I screamed. “Come on, X…let me know if you can hear my voice.”

  Her vacuous, blackened eyes remained constant.

  “Is there something I can do to help?” Ammy asked.

  “I wish there were, but no,” I snapped, and then added, “I’ll need you to call 911 and let them know there’s another woman in the basement of the house.”

  Amnesia grabbed her phone. I stopped her short. “Not yet. We need to be long gone before you dial those particular digits.”

  Jons moaned. I had to do something. “Darth,” I called out.

  The Rastafarian exited the car, his eyes wide with focus. “What you need, man?”

  I burned a gaze deep into the darkness of his eyes. “Do not let this man so much as move or speak. Can you do that?”

  Darthaniel nodded. “Can do, friend.”

  “Good.” I returned my focus to X. There was only one thing to do. Unfortunately, said thing involved Amnesia and Darthaniel being privy to the unknowable. There was no time for explanation, but I needed them here to prevent Jons from escaping. I snapped a glance to Darth and then to Ammy. “What’s about to happen, I can explain…only not now and maybe not ever. Promise me you won’t lose your shit.”

  My cohorts stared at one another, confusion and concern lining their faces.

  “Goddamn,” I sighed. “Forget I said anything.”

  Without another word, I expelled every ounce of breath from my lungs, and dropped into X.

  Considering my burgeoning feelings for the woman, I did everything in my power to not take in the show of her subconscious. Would I learn she found me deplorable? Was I nothing more than a booty call? Or were my growing feelings for her requited? Instead, I inhaled as deep a breath as possible to draw the Scythe into my lungs. The bastard fought me…which was a first. Scythes were powerful entities, but usually ignorant of my ways. The bitter tang of rust and hatred crossed my palate, challenging my gag reflex to a death match. I fought against the need to retch and continued to draw in the darkening breath. As my diaphragm came to the end of its journey, the last vestiges of the Scythe entered my system.

  The first step of the transference complete, I immediately withdrew.

  The cool air of night caressed my skin. X remained prone on the hood of the hearse…her eyelids now closed. I wanted so badly to check for a pulse, but there was no time.

  “What the fuck just happened?” I heard Darth call out before I dropped into Jons. This was the part of my plan that ventured well into the land of the unknown. I’d never unreaped a soul. In fact, the thought had never crossed my mind. I’d assumed the task akin to putting toothpaste back into the tube; equally impossible and improbable. Yet…here I was, about to blow a soul into its original owner. Strike that. Second owner. Or third. Who knew how deep this recursion went?

  Without pomp or circumstance, I blew into the infinite nothing. The Scythe fought against my lungs, winding itself deep within the folds of my bronchioles. No matter how hard I exhaled, the malevolent ghost refused to budge. The soul battled hard to inhabit me from within, sending filaments of darkness through my system. A particularly cold collection of tendrils sought purchase on my mind; it grappled and scrambled my sanity.

  It couldn’t end like this. I couldn’t end like this, or lose something so precious when I was this close, for the first time, to true and very real happiness. The image of X filled my thoughts…her beautiful lips and even lovelier heart. Ours was a connection fabricated by the universe, ordained by the stars, and unwittingly forged by the hand of Fate.

  Go to Hell, I thought, and then unleashed a flood of screams against the backdrop of madness. The atonal roar morphed into a triple-digit decibel wall of incoherent babble, which immediately evolved into a torrent of profanity-laden rage-speak. The Scythe fought, tooth and bone, but was forced back into Jons. Before the thing could change course and return to the dark folds of my lungs, I exited Mark and fell back to the cold, hard ground. My diaphragm pulled and tugged until unblackened air passed into my system. Breath came in desperate, ragged gasps…but I lived to tell the tale. The Scythe was returned to its rightful, rageful owner.

  From above, I could hear the very much living cough of X. At that particular sound of music, a flood of tears washed from my eyes. The sorrow was born of a very real place, and I would carry it with me so long as my ex
istence was tolerated. Had I been mortal, I’d have already called my therapist and booked a year’s worth of appointments.

  I’d seen the face of evil so many times before, but never one so filled with purpose, so bent on spreading merciless woe.

  Ammy’s face hovered over my field of vision. “You alive down there?”

  I locked onto Amnesia’s gaze and nodded, hoping she’d never look away. I could remain trapped in this one moment forever. At least that way I could avoid dealing with the caustic reality I knew awaited.

  “Speak to me, Grim,” Ammy’s gentle voice tugged and teased at my will.

  I nodded. Amnesia helped me to a seated position. The world around me spun violently until a gut-full of bile soup splashed into my lap.

  “Dude,” Ammy sang out. “When I see people hurl….” Amnesia didn’t reach the end of her thought before spinning on her heels and adding her own slop to the ground.

  “Dar—” I attempted to call out, pointing at Jons. The power of speech eluded me.

  Darthaniel turned from Jons. “Don’t worry, Grim, the bastard is—”

  A retina-threatening corona of perfect white light erupted from every pore on Jons’ body. The brilliant display was followed by what sounded like a seventies-era station wagon being crushed by the force of a thousand hydraulic presses. The metallic squeal of relenting steel pummeled my ears until I was forced to cover them. Even then, my eardrums were accosted.

  The light exploded with a bass-challenging thump. The sonic and visual pressure released, and I was finally able to pull hands from ears and open my eyes to assess the damage.

  When the ten thousand degree kelvin spots faded from view, Jons was no longer placed carefully on the hood of the hearse. Instead, he hovered some four feet in the air, the unmistakable look of death carved onto his face. His creep-lined visage had morphed into a demonic form, glistening red skin stretched tight over a lumpy, craggy skull. Malachite eyes with glowing red pupils locked onto me. A bony hand reached forward to point X’s way. Jons opened his mouth to speak, the sorrow-filled sound both heartbreaking and threatening. Jons wanted something…I just couldn’t be sure what.