Death in the City (12 page)

“Yes, sir,” said Death meekly. “Of course.” Mr. FreePay hung up the phone and Death looked at the clock, which read 11:30. He thought that he should not mess around anymore, since his job was in serious jeopardy. Obviously, getting to Boston as quickly as possible was his main priority for the day. So, he found the first bus to the Westboro airport.

“I need a ticket to Boston,” said Death to a confused airline associate at the baggage check. “You know, Boston? The big city in Massachusetts? I need a ticket there.”

“Yeah, I know what Boston is,” said the associate. “We don’t have any planes that
go
to Boston.”

“Excuse me?” asked Death. He did not expect his plan to fall through so quickly. “But all of your commercials say you go to every major city in the country. Boston is a major city.” Death stood back and pointed accusatorily. “False advertising, that’s what that is. False. Advertising.”

The associate did not seem impressed with Death’s allegation; in fact, he looked fairly disgusted. “Yeah, we do say that, and it’s true. But Boston is, like, a half hour drive from here. Going there by plane wouldn’t make any sense.” He crossed his arms and glared at Death, who was crestfallen.

“Okay, that’s interesting,” said Death. His entire body felt hot and prickly. “Okay, well how about this? What’s the closest city to Boston these planes go to?”

“Pittsburg, Pennsylvania.”

“That’s the one,” said Death happily, slapping the countertop. “One ticket there, please.” He figured Pittsburg must be close to Boston, and from there he could probably just walk.

The associate printed the ticket, handed it to Death, and said, “That’ll be one hundred and ninety dollars.”

“A hundred what?” asked Death, looking at the ticket. There must have been some mistake. “No, I just want to go to Boston.”

The associate sighed deeply and clasped the bridge of his nose. “I understand that, sir, but then you asked for a ticket to Pittsburg. That ticket costs a hundred and ninety dollars.”

“Oh, well, you’ll have to take it back,” said Death. “Have any free tickets?”

At this perfectly innocent question, the associate could not keep his sarcasm in order, “Oh, you were looking for the
free
tickets. And here I was, thinking you wanted tickets that cost
money.
Of course,
sir,
let me bring up the free tickets for you. Oh, here we are. Here’s a ticket to Pittsburg not for a hundred and ninety dollars, but it’s
free.
How lucky.” He printed off a boarding pass and slapped it on the counter.

“Wow, that is lucky,” said Death, taking the pass. “Thanks a lot.” To the associate’s stunned surprise, Death walked off to the security gates.

After waiting two hours in a queue that snaked down a long hallway lined with police officers, he walked through a metal detector and red lights flashed in his eyes.

“Sir, what do you think you’re doing?” A large police officer with a head one could mistake for an eyed squash appeared before Death, an arm outstretched. “Get back, sir. Get back.”

“What? Oh, sorry,” said Death. “Is this not the right line?” Death found the man smelled slightly of beef and cologne, a strange but not wholly unpleasant aroma.

“The right line?” asked the officer, confused as to whether the suspect was befuddled or just stupid. “You set of the security detectors, sir. Step off to the side.” Death stepped over next to two police officers who were clutching their guns in their holsters. The big officer walked up to him, a wry smile on his face. “Would you happen to have anything metal in your pockets? Any liquids? You know, things you may be,” he raised his eyebrows and his cheek twitched slightly, “smuggling.”

“I don’t think so,” said Death, not quite understanding the question.

“Remove your jacket,” said the officer, his patience waning. Death took it off and handed it to him as he plunged his hands into the pockets.

“Uh oh,” said the officer. Death was growing nervous, feeling harassed. “What do we have here?” He pulled out a small comb with a silver metal handle. “And what do you think you’re doing trying to get this on a plane?”

Death looked at the comb, wondering if it could ever double as anything else. “I guess I would…comb…my hair?” asked Death.

The officer placed the comb back into the jacket pocket and looked at Death with narrowed eyes. Then he smiled, a malicious grin. He retrieved his wallet from his back pocket and pulled out a small square piece of paper. “We’re going to The Room,” he said. “Follow me.” He spoke slowly, darkness etched into his words. Death followed him into a very small, entirely white room. “Sit,” he said, gesturing towards a lone plastic chair. Death obeyed.

“I’m sorry, I’m just trying to get to Boston,” said Death. The officer snatched the boarding pass from him and looked it over.

“Boston?” He took the boarding pass from Death’s hand and gazed at it. Then he locked the door. “I’m not going to pretend I don’t know who you are. You’re a wanted man.”

“I am?” asked Death, flattered. “Thanks.”

“We all have pictures of you. They’re just grainy street-side surveillance shots but I have a good eye for this stuff. You thought you could take out an entire city’s worth of police and get away with it?”

“Oh, no. I mean, yes,” said Death. “I mean, I have a meeting in Boston today. If I don’t get there, I’ll be fired.”

“Boston?” asked the officer in mock curiosity. “Boston…Africa?” He tossed the boarding pass back to Death.

“Africa? No,” said Death. “No, no, Massachusetts. I can’t be in trouble for some deaths, that would just be silly.” He stood up and put the boarding pass back into his pocket, making his way out the door. The officer swung his gun out of his holster and stood at the ready, finger on the trigger.

“Get down now! You’re dead, buddy!” He rushed at Death, who tried to get out of the way. But he could not; the officer took hold of his arm and fell right to the ground, reaped.

“Oh, damn,” said Death, backing away from the motionless body. “No good at all.” He took his jacket that the officer had dropped in the fall and put it back on. When he exited the room, he nodded to two other officers standing next to the door and made his way to the terminal.

“Hello, sir, how are you?” asked an assistant at the gate. She was blond and had very little evidence of a chin beneath a tight-lipped smile. When Death gave her the boarding pass she said, “Oh, goodness, you’d better hurry. That plane is just about to take off. This hallway will lead you right to it. Hurry now, hurry.” Death heeded her advice and ran down the hallway. A stewardess on the plane checked his boarding pass and stamped it before he stumbled down the rows to find his seat.

When he arrived at seat 6A he sat down and relaxed, wiping sweat from his face. He looked over at the man sitting next to him—a large Arab in a tunic and turban. Death smiled (a gesture which was unreturned) and looked around. Quickly he noticed the whole plane was full of people who looked just like the man next to him. The men wore traditional Muslim headwear, while all the women were dressed in hijabs. They were each in their own unique tunics and all spoke in a language Death was well-versed in: Arabic. The “Fasten Seatbelt” light switched on as Death grew suspicious that something was amiss.

“Hello ladies and gentlemen,” said a voice from the PA system. “We’ll be in Marrakech in about six and a half hours, so just sit back and relax and enjoy the flight. Thank you for flying with Westboro Air.”

As a stewardess was making her way towards the front of the plane to demonstrate safety procedures, Death caught her attention. “Did he say…uh, where did he say this plane was going?” he asked.

“Marrakech,” said the woman. She was a stout, very friendly-looking woman with frizzy red hair and rosy dimpled cheeks. “Marrakech, Morocco. Please fasten your seatbelt at this point, sir.”

Death looked down at his boarding pass. Sure enough, printed across the top of it was, “MARRAKECH.” He put his head back and closed his eyes, letting out a great sigh. In his haste to print one of the special free tickets, the assistant at baggage claim must have printed off the wrong one. Death could not blame him; it seemed like an honest mistake.

Four days later Death returned to (or, if one were being pedantic, one could say deported back to) his apartment. His suit stunk of incense and his shoes were filled with sand, and he had quite a painful sunburn stretching across the entirety of his body. When he walked into the apartment, he was greeted by Brian, who was cooking bacon with a bare chest and backwards baseball cap.

“Oh, yo dude, what’s up?” asked Brian.

“Nothing really,” said Death.

“Hey, so, uh, yeah, you have some mail over there.” Death walked to the table and picked up an envelope with his name on it. He opened it to find a check from FreePay Brothers, worth $20,000. He thought he would have to find the man who used to stand outside of Freepay quickly, otherwise he would just have to keep the check for himself. “Oh, and…wait,” continued Brian. He looked contemplatively at the ceiling. Death could almost see the gears in his brain grinding weakly. “Oh yeah, that place FreePay called. They said that you’ll get your last paycheck in the mail, and that you’re fired.”

“Oh,” said Death quietly. “That’s…probably not good.”

Death walked into his room and shut the door. He emptied the sand from his shoes and clothes and laid down to get some rest, but only stared at the ceiling with nothing in particular on his mind.

A Visit from Lucifer

Death, Tim, and Maria sat on the couch in Death’s living room. “So I moved out here to make a few dollars before I go to law school in Nashville,” said Maria. “I can’t believe what happened in the HaffCaff, though. No one is saying a word about it. All I’ve heard is that there’s hardly a police officer left in the city.”

“Yeah, that’s really, um…weird,” said Death.

“What do you mean?” asked Tim. “It was your fault. You were—“

“Hey, Tim, could I see that paper on the table?” interrupted Death.

“Whose fault?” asked Maria.

Tim plopped the paper onto Death’s lap, revealing the story on the front page. It read:

“BOY STILL ALIVE AFTER TWELVE DAYS WITHOUT HEAD
Doctors puzzled over miraculous recovery”
Death swallowed a heavy mixture of saliva, guilt, and tension, before he continued reading:
“Westford: Doctors at Bathory Pass Hospital are baffled over the case of Johnny Harrison, 12, who, despite being decapitated in a boating accident off the coast of Cumberland, continues to live--even 12 days after the tragic event
  ‘All of us here are stunned,’ said Dr. Richard Kirk, lead surgeon at Bathory Pass. ‘Normally when such catastrophic injury occurs the patient would be dead on-site. When Johnny’s father called us and said his son was still breathing, we told him to bring him in.’ 

When the Harrisons brought their son in to see doctors, they were shocked. ‘Sure enough, he was still medically alive,’ Dr. Kirk said.
  Doctors say this is the first recorded case of anyone living beyond the normally allotted few seconds post-decapitation. Mrs. Penny Harrison, Johnny’s mother, had a higher power to thank for her son’s incredible condition.
  ‘Obviously this is the work of God,’ Mrs. Harrison said. ‘He is working miracles up there, without a doubt. All the other decapitation victims I guess He just didn’t want to save. But He saved my little Johnny, because obviously he’s better than the rest of the kids who get killed. God likes to pick and choose; otherwise, He would have to save people who don’t deserve it.’
  Doctors are now working on a way to reattach Johnny Harrison’s head, since it still has all senses functioning properly. But Johnny sees benefits in other plans. ‘I don’t know if it would be a good idea,’ Johnny’s head said as it sat on his headless body’s lap. ‘I mean, I can do so much with this. My friends and I can even play catch with my head. And it’d be great for Halloween. So I’ll have to think about it.’
  ‘Normally decapitated heads stop functioning entirely, as do the bodies,’ Dr. Kirk said. ‘But not in Johnny’s case. Both halves function perfectly fine, independent of each other. It’s incredible.’
  Doctors plan to use Harrison’s case in new studies on powerful mutant genes. A new era of medicine may be approaching thanks to this strange and heartbreaking accident.”

“Oh, damn,” whispered Death.

“It was whose fault?” asked Maria again.

A loud clang sounded from the kitchen, making the three friends jump. The oven door had fallen open, followed by a large, lumpy something thumping to the floor. When the door snapped shut, Death walked around the kitchen counter to see Satan standing up and brushing himself off. “Death, old friend,” he said, centering his blood red tie.

“Oh, dear,” said Death, getting sweaty. “You shouldn’t be here.” He tried to nudge Satan back into the oven, but Satan stopped him.

“I can’t visit an old friend? Oh, hello.” Tim and Maria were standing at the counter. “Names Lu—“

“Louis, his name is Louis,” said Death, running a hand through his hair.

“Hi, Louis,” said Tim. “Have you…have you been in the oven this whole time?”

Satan laughed heartily and smiled at Death, his eyes a blazing yellow. “Well this is quite interesting, Death.”