A Tale Of Two Reapers

by Jack Wallen

  “Where?” Darth stood to my other side and then immediately added, “Fuck. I see it. I don’t want to see it, but I most certainly do.”

  The Scythe was coming our way. As it drew nearer, I could feel a tension rise in my core to make the act of breathing a challenge. There was no logical reason for me to suffer such fear. I’d reaped Scythes before, so this should be no different.

  Or so my brain insisted. My gut, on the other hand, begged me to follow a very different path of logic—one of dire and dark conclusions. Grab X and hide. That course of action would leave the living vulnerable to unimaginable consequences. The rise of the next genocidal maniac; a takeover by a fascist regime; fissures in reality to spew forth unheard-of evil.

  “Jons!” X screamed. “You disgusting piece of human offal. I’m waiting for you; ready to see if you’ve got what it takes to handle this much woman.”

  It took every ounce of restraint I could call forth to stop me from rushing to the pier, grabbing X, and disappearing into the darkness of night. I knew, however, there was no escaping this fate.

  The Scythe was close enough now to see. The black shadow was only part of the fun. Mark Jons—in all his slimy glory—floated above the water, the dread shadow trailing in his wake. There was something different about the man; he’d lost the fragile, toad-like countenance and had been inflated with ego and pride. His stance matched X’s. He mimicked her, the human cross, with an irreverence that elicited another bout of fear from deep within my psyche.

  Jons hovered a few yards from the pier. His eyes glowed like two tiny fireballs as the oily shadow writhed around his levitating body; caressing him, protecting him from whatever we could throw his way. Even with the Scythe as his only means of defense, the confidence permeating Jons was obvious. There was no doubt, no thought of retreat or failure.

  “I have returned,” Jons’ voice was deep and resonant. “For you.” He pointed to X. “I cannot wait to dine on what little remains of your eternal spirit. I would imagine you taste of cloves and absinthe. Oh, how I long to drink you in…imbibe your soul, devour the flesh of your sex.”

  Jons touched down onto the pier, the Scythe flitting and flailing about in the surrounding air, like a kite threatening to be untethered by a gusting wind. I leaned over to Darth and whispered, “On the count of three, follow my lead. You’ll grab X and get her to the car. Understood?”

  “Yeah,” Darth replied, his voice choking behind a wall of fear.

  “One.”

  I steeled my nerves against an onslaught of doubt.

  “Two.”

  I would only get one chance at this.

  “Three.”

  I would not fail.

  “Go,” I whispered, and then took off at a sprint.

  As I reached Jons, he spotted me and screamed, “Reaper!”

  Too late.

  I dove into the man. The second I pierced the host’s flesh, the construct of time became utterly irrelevant.

  Chapter 17

  White.

  I never expected such a brilliant array of illumination within the confines of a recursive Scythe. I’d always assumed it would be devoid of light and life. Instead, a glaring array of sun-bright illumination, reflected from every possible angle, threatened to render sight nearly useless. Wherever I now stood was the absolute opposite of the NetherRealm.

  Confusion bore deep into the pit of consciousness. I’d expected to wind up trapped in a quagmire of blistering hellfire and clichéd damnation. Instead, I found myself caught up in what many might have considered the direct passageway to the elusive Promised Land.

  After over five centuries of plying life and death, I knew better than to believe the dogma and rhetoric of old. There was no passage…only a return to zero for another chance to get life right. And that was a crap-shoot so rarely won, some might conclude why bother?

  Nihilism: it’s what’s for dinner.

  “Hello?” I called out. My voice echoed back to me…only spoken in reverse.

  “Olleh?” I tested my theory and was rewarded with confirmation when I heard, Hello?

  “Fate? Please tell me this is a joke,” I voiced the only justifiable conclusion that would explain my current situation. This time, my words echoed and then faded to silence.

  “Reaper.” The whisper shook the world to its core…me.

  “I have a name, you know,” I replied.

  Silence.

  “Grim.” The whisper returned, only this time louder and from every direction.

  “Fine. So you know my name. Be fair and tell me yours; otherwise, the date’s off.”

  “I have no use for names,” the voice answered.

  “Judging from your realm, I’m guessing you want to project a false facade of holiness. You know…black and white, good and evil.”

  “You think too small, Reaper. Existence isn’t binary.”

  “The very idea behind religion, however, is. It was always advertised as good versus evil. How do you—”

  “Enough!” The whisper rose to a bellow. “You’re in my realm now. I own you.”

  For whatever reason, I thought it a good idea to venture away from my location…find some shade from the blinding light of…

  “The Antirealm,” the voice said smoothly. “You have a need to compartmentalize. Without a name, my world cannot possibly be framed in any form of logic, or even exist, to you.”

  No matter how long I walked, the scenery remained the same—stark white in every direction.

  “Show yourself!” I shouted. My voice bounced off whatever existed beyond the blinding light and returned to me, twisted and bent beyond recognition.

  “I have such delight to show you, Grim.”

  Before me, an image flickered against the pristine white nothingness until it coalesced into form.

  “X,” I whispered.

  Black streaks of mascara raced down her cheeks to dot her white sleeping gown. The color of her dress sent a shock of realization screeching through my mind. White was not X’s color. Something was amiss. X sobbed and screamed in silence, her hands clenched into fists and the muscles in her neck straining against the effort.

  “This is nothing but trickery,” I said with building confidence.

  “And you can be sure of that?” Jons questioned.

  He was right; I couldn’t be certain that Jons—or whoever this was—didn’t have X. The only thing I could be sure of was that I was trapped in the Antirealm and had no way of knowing anything at the moment.

  “Where is she?” I demanded.

  “Doubt is such a delicious taste for one like me. The flavor dances on the tongue, slightly bitter and metallic, but with overtones of sweet; blood and honey. Delicious mana, to suckle from the tit of humanity. You are all such flawed creatures—consumed with self-aggrandizing and so easily cut down by the slightest folly. As you—”

  “Shut up!” I shouted. “There’s nothing worse than an ego-maniacal, serial failure with a God complex.”

  A wash of laughter erupted. The sound bounced off the vast nothingness and came at me like a swarm of hate-filled bees. When the swarm abated, the voice returned.

  “I am God.”

  “Prove it,” I dared.

  “The great contradiction of power bares its nasty fangs. An omnipotent being does not need to prove its wealth of knowledge or strength. My very existence is proof enough.”

  “Bullshit,” I reacted. “You’re stalling; hoping to lull me into a state of inaction.”

  The image of X became whole; her voice joined in on the fun.

  “Grim!” she screamed into the Antirealm…clearly not seeing me ten feet from her. “Come back!”

  “Taste her fear; nothing is sweeter,” Jons whispered.

  I tossed caution to the wind and stepped into the vision of X. The second I crossed through what would be the threshold of her flesh, she vanished.

  “I’ve been at this too long, Jons.”

  A drop of red hit the pure white groun
d, sounding like a drummer tapping a tight-wound tom. Another fell, followed by another and another. Soon it was raining red, descending in thunderous splats and hits. Before long, the floor of the Antirealm was a flood of scarlet…the coppery stink of blood permeating the air.

  Jons’ whispered voice returned. “The blood I have spilled over the years is unrivaled. All in the name of putting an end to the plague of man. I saw to it to unmake the reproductive gender. Let the waters of purification wash over you and reclaim your spirit unto me.”

  “Once again, we’re back to God.”

  “Fuck God,” Jons bellowed.

  As the sound of Jons’ voice faded, I realized there was only one way I’d survive this nightmare-level ride. I had to really piss him off.

  The blood continued to rise at my feet, past my ankles and to my knees. I splashed through the red river in search of something, anything to lend me inspiration.

  Something bumped my right thigh. I glanced down to see Jons’ last victim floating by. As she passed, her eyes snapped open and her arms wrapped around my legs. With one quick twist, the woman pulled me under the surface of the bloody wash. I flailed as blood rushed into my lungs; the thick liquid felt like inhaling fire. I opened my eyes against the river of deceit to see the woman’s face inches from mine—her eyes open wide and glaring my way. She pressed her lips to mine and inhaled deeply. My lungs strained to fight the vacuum and my arms struggled against her inhuman strength.

  I was being reaped from the outside in and was losing the battle. My extremities grew cold and weary; the fire within my lungs burned hot with death. My only hope was to return the favor. I wrapped my arms around the woman and pulled her to me. As my body passed into hers, I inhaled until there was nothing left to drain.

  Inside the woman, I watched Jons do his thing—break and unmake. Over and over he raped and tormented his victim, until her will snapped and she came to accept her fate…that she was nothing more than an object, a plaything in the toy-box of a madman.

  When I broke the surface of the crimson tide, I held the aura within, waited for it slowly seep into every molecule and cross from synapse to synapse. The second I felt the aura cease its struggle to escape, I exhaled the stale air from my lungs in a single gasp, and sucked in deep lungfuls of tangy air.

  “Nice trick, Reaper,” Jons laughed. “But my army of darkness will have its way with you. I long to watch you give in to the madness. Shall we begin the show?”

  Without pause for fanfare, a woman walked toward me, treading effortlessly on the river of blood; her bare feet padding against the surface as if it were solid as marble. Crimson tears streaked her cheeks, spilling from hollow sockets where her eyes once blinked. I stopped wading through the stilled waters and braced for impact.

  The woman launched herself at me, wailing a cry only mother who’d lost her children could produce.

  Her aura tasted of hope. I had never really understood the concept and conceit of hope, but the moment I entered the sightless woman, I knew—knew beyond knowing, beyond needing—anything beyond this was folly.

  Jons had robbed her of freedom, sequestered the woman away in his basement of betrayal. He took her and began a vicious cycle of impregnation and abortion. She’d lost track of all time; her only saving grace was the hope the children she’d left behind would overcome the loss of their mother and lead happy, healthy, and productive lives. That singular thought allowed her to survive the brutality of Jons. With each affront to her being, desire for life slipped further and further from her truth.

  To me, she gave the gift of hope. I breathed it in like sweet relief.

  As I stepped beyond the shell of the woman, I held my breath…again refusing to release the soul. I could feel the spirit of the woman merge with that of the previous victim and my own. That was when the idea hit me.

  I could beat Jons and leave the Antirealm.

  “Is that the best you’ve got?” I shouted.

  Jons replied with a resounding laugh. Along with the menacing sound, the tide of blood rose to meet my hips; the current strengthening enough to push me against my will.

  Ahead, three women broke the bloody surface. Blood dripped and drained from hair and flesh until they stood naked before me, cleansed of the scarlet stains. Their breasts were covered with bite marks, their flesh purple and blue with bruises. The jaw of one woman had been viciously dislocated and hung loose and useless.

  I rushed at the women as best I could, fighting the red current, targeting the center body. When I crashed into the woman, my senses were overtaken by a flood of fear and sorrow.

  Every so often a reap cuts a bit too deep; the connection between souls too profound. Immediately I knew this would be one such instance. The taste was like no other—empty, a vortex of faithless grief. This woman had been oppressed and abused all her life by men who would do everything in their power to keep her from rising to any occasion. She’d resorted to prostitution to support her child—a sweet child stricken with some form of debilitating disease. Her pimp had beaten her to near death on several occasions; and yet she faithfully returned to keep a promise to herself that she’d never let her child down.

  And then came Jons; a john with a roll of bills large enough to make her his for as long as he wanted. In the end…too long. The deviant acrobatics she was made to suffer would have broken any human with a modicum of sanity. I relived each and every one. Moment to moment I felt crushed by an overwhelming desire to flee. How she had endured, I could not know.

  I pulled out of the woman and dropped to my knees, the river of blood lapping at my shoulders. Tears washed down my cheeks to mingle with the flood of life threatening to drown me on the spot. The aura in my lungs lashed out for release. I fought the urge to expel the blackened mist so that it would mingle with those before it.

  Next and next and next.

  I held fast, until the force of life enmeshed with my own.

  One by one, the victims came at me; each time, I reaped and did not sow. With every aura I consumed, I could feel my strength rise faster than the red tide now at my neck. After what had to have been the twentieth victim, I screamed, “Jons!”

  This time it was the power of my unleashing which rattled the realm.

  “Show yourself,” I growled.

  The bloody wash receded. When it finally drained away, the bodies of every victim remained…lining the floor of the Antirealm like a morbidly paved causeway. I did not dare move, for fear of desecrating the lifeless bodies at my feet any further. Death had painted me into a corner, and I saw no means of escape.

  That was when Jons finally appeared, walking with purpose on the backs of his victims. “My domain is resplendent, is it not?” Jons asked. “They each gave their lives so that I may reign as overlord in the underworld.”

  I remained silent, focusing every ounce of energy I had on the chess game playing out before me. With each move Jons made, I had to consider four, five, six steps ahead. Allowing him to have the upper hand meant the end for me and so many more.

  “Where is your army of support, Reaper?” Jons stopped, his bare feet balancing him on the face-down head of a victim. “You’re alone. You’ve always been alone.”

  I conjured up a retort, but was stopped before the first syllable could venture from my lips.

  “Oh, please,” Jons mocked. “Don’t tell me you’ve developed feelings for that gothic cunt of a creature. If only you knew her past.”

  “I do,” I spat.

  “You don’t. There are truths not meant to be shared; trespasses we all keep locked away in our mental safes—life’s most valuable treasures, if I may say. Care to unlock her box and see what’s inside?”

  “No, Mark, I don’t.”

  Jons’ face blazed red. He closed his eyes and smiled. “Oh, yes, Reaper, you do.”

  The King of the Antirealm snapped his fingers and X appeared before me—naked and trembling—hovering inches above the back of a dead woman.

  “Ask her a questio
n, Grim. She’ll tell you no lies. In fact, in the bitch’s current state, she’s incapable of speaking false truths.”

  “Fuck you…Mark.” I spoke the name with a belittling staccato.

  The red hue of Jons’ face brightened. “Don’t call me that.”

  “Why not…Mark? Is that what the bullies called you back in school?”

  Jons began to tremble. “I will end you, Reaper.”

  “And when you do, you’ll have Fate to deal with,” I responded with an almost casual tone.

  A symphony of auto-tuned laughter assaulted the realm. Jons lifted his arms and, as he did, the bodies rose like cadaverous marionettes. Jons stepped from the head of the woman beneath him so she, too, could rise. He moved his arms about as if controlling the strings of his macabre puppets and commanded them to come at me.

  The broken soldiers shambled a zombie-stomp my way; necks, backs, arms, and spirits broken beyond repair. Jons was lost in the sea of bodies. I drew in a deep breath and prepared to break one of Fate’s cardinal rules—do not reap the reaped.

  Stepping through the flesh of a reaped soul was a dark and dangerous affair. The emptiness within threatened to purge what remained of my will. A recursive reap could end with the two souls joined as one. The last thing I wanted was to become a permanent part of the Scythe known as Jons. And yet…I had no choice. On the other side of the motley wall of rotting flesh was my target.

  “Jons!” I screamed as loud as my lungs could manage, as havoc toyed with my heart.

  “Dead rover, dead rover,” Jons teased. “You’ll never cross over.”

  This time I could almost pinpoint the location of the voice. I had to keep the bastard talking.

  “The world will forget you,” I taunted. “They always do. You’ll fill a single news cycle and then you’ll be lost in a sea of political gaffs, economic downturns, and reality star bullshit.” I offered the slightest pause. “Twenty-four hours, tops.”

  “Oh, how wrong you are, Reaper. I will return to the firmament and ensure the living never forget me.”

  “Mark Jons is already nothing more than a back-page footnote. You’re irrelevant. Your fifteen minutes is over.”