Death in the City (7 page)

War crossed next without bothering to avoid contact with anyone. The instant he set foot on the bridge, a gaunt man seemingly on the verge of disintegration stood up and sucker punched an elderly woman who was leaning against one of the jewelry shop windows. She crumpled to the ground, out cold, and mayhem erupted across the PennPenny. At first most people jumped on the man, whose action was seen as outrageously unreasonable, but then they all began attacking each other. And suddenly it was an every-man-for-himself battle.

Death crossed last. The crowd was in such havoc that it immediately swallowed him. He emerged effortlessly from the other side when it split into two piles of reaped bodies. Death arrived at the other side of the bridge and looked back at the mass of tangled corpses. “Oh, damn,” he muttered.

The Four Horsemen walked into the bakery and each chose a different type of croissant so they could try them all. Death thought Famine definitely got the best one, which was filled with raspberry jam. And when the sun set and cast a deep swirling orange-red hue across the sky, the four found themselves sitting on a bench in the park by the river, marveling at a natural scene they never quite had the time to observe before. A large generator that was presumably pumping electricity throughout the city hummed loudly in the center of the park behind barbed-wire fences, but the four friends seemed not to notice.

“Well boys,” said Death, leaning back with his hands behind his head. Pestilence had a few dollars to buy a cheap cigar, which was now casting plumes of smoke above their heads in its last few dimly-lit breaths. “What do you think?”

“I have to admit,” said War, his words deliberate and calm. “This is quite a life.”

“Welcome to retirement,” said Death, closing his eyes and feeling a gentle breeze cross his face.

“Wait, what?” asked Pestilence. Death opened his eyes and sat up, straightening out his lapel. Famine and War sat up too, and suddenly there was tension in the air. “Death, buddy, we can’t just quit like that.”

“Yeah, no way,” said Famine.

“But…but you guys had a great time,” said Death. He wanted to sound like he was not pleading but he found it to be difficult. “What about all this great food, Famine? And you could get cigars every day, Pestilence.”

“Well, that could be nice,” said War, and for the first time in Death’s memory he sounded sincere. “But we have jobs to do. We can’t just back out like that.”

Death sighed and covered his eyes with his fingers. He felt very hot and apprehensive. “Just give it a few more days. Take time off till Monday.”

“No, no,” said Pestilence calmly, blowing whirling grey smoke into the cool evening air. “Today was one of the nicest days I’ve had in a while. But it’s back to work for me.”

“Agreed,” said War. “I have a conflict in central Africa to take care of. Lord knows they’re nearing a peace treaty by now.”

“But…” started Death. He felt completely hopeless. “Okay,” he conceded.

“Ah, come on buddy,” said Famine, patting his hand on Death’s shoulder, gently pushing him back and forth. “You’ll see your way clearer, too. I hope you will, anyways. It just isn’t the same without you.”

“Couldn’t agree more,” said Pestilence. “Really hope you’ll come back.” War nodded in agreement. “We’ll get together again soon.”

Pestilence put out his cigar on the arm of the bench as he, Famine, and War stood up. The last wisps of smoke vanished into the darkening air, and the Horsemen were gone. Death was alone.

Death Finds Religion

At Freepay, a young blonde woman with a baby carriage and heavy makeup wanted lobsters for her cookout, so Death helped her. He reached into the tank with a set of plastic claws, but when he took hold of the lobster to put it into the paper bag, the creature died. He tossed it aside (since Bobby had told Death that shellfish could not be sold dead) and tried for another, but it too died. A third one died, then a fourth one, and Death was flustered. He looked at Al, who was watching what Death was doing instead of helping the five other customers at the counter. He had a gruesome scowl on his face and shook his head every time Death had to throw another lobster away.

“Can you help me, Al?” asked Death, sweat forming on his brow. Al shrugged.

“Help you? Why?” he asked. “Can’t do it? Are you stupid or something?”

Death, feeling hurt and taken aback by the hostile comment, said, “Why do you have to be that way?”

“Be what way?” asked Al, puffing out his lips. Bobby, who had heard the exchange, rushed through the back door and up to Al.

“Al, I’d
better
not be hearing you talk to another employee like
that,
” he shouted. The woman at the counter brushed her hair aside, interested in what was happening but trying to seem indifferent. “You aren’t
half
the employee he is. Help him.” Al leaned back with his hands in the air and eyebrows raised. “Like
now
,” screamed Bobby, his voice booming through the store.

Al placed a sizeable lobster into the bag and handed it to the woman. With a heinous glare, he silently walked over to help the rest of the customers. Death turned to Bobby, whose face was red and lips pursed.

When his shift was finished, Death picked up his check ($249) and gave it to the man outside the door, who jumped up in happiness. Death began walking back to his apartment, but he was stopped by the sound of bass-driven music growing closer to his ears.

Then they turned the corner. Death had been growing accustomed to seeing them every day on Maine Street. They all wore bright pink vests and harem pants and played an assortment of instruments. Some danced about while others handed out fliers. Both the men and the women had shaved heads and looked sickly and eerie to other people, but not to Death. He was mesmerized by their clothes, and found their tunes to be righteous and catchy.

Death, assuming these people were part of a band trying to sell compact discs (as so many other street performers did in the city, particularly on Maine Street), wanted to get one, so he walked up close.

“Um, excuse me,” said Death, waving one man over. He was tall and gaunt, his face full of wrinkles, and he smelt of cabbage. “Where can I get your music? I’d like to buy some.”

The man, as though Death had asked a perfectly rational question even though he had not, responded with, “Why, you can get our music from the great Lord Backspace, which is where we get ours.” He spoke as though he had rehearsed to get the correct groovy inflection. He held his arms high above his head and twirled around, sending himself into a giggling fit. Death laughed along with him, but it was more out of confusion.

“B—uh…Backspace?” asked Death. “Where can I find him?” He looked behind the man where a group of the pink-clad people had just formed a circle around a very elderly woman, who was defending herself with a cane.

“The great Lord Backspace is everywhere,” said the man. “The air, the water, the trees. Earth, sky, people. Everywhere and everything. We worship the Lord Backspace, and he gives us all we need in life.” The man held out a flier, which Death took quite willingly. After seeing how incredibly happy Backspace made the man, Death wanted some of that happiness for himself as well. “My name is Kevin. We are called the LightScribe Gate Group, and we’re always looking for new members. All are welcome. Do you ever question your beliefs? Do you ever feel unhappy, or let down? Do you think you deserve something better in life?” As Death looked at the brightly colored flier without actually reading it, he pondered the questions.

“Yeah…yeah I suppose so,” said Death, confused. He did not think unhappiness was so uncommon, but apparently the LightScribe Gate Group did not feel it. “I guess sometimes I can be unhappy.”

“See, my friend?” said the man consolingly. Death felt better already. “You need the LSGG, and we need you. Backspace needs all of us.” He looked at Death with raised eyebrows, silently nodding.

After a few questions, Death found out he was not happy with life at all. So, on a late sunny morning on Maine Street, Death became part of the LightScribe Gate Group. He was given his pink garments and danced with the group all the way to their headquarters.

As the rest of the LSGG sat down in black plastic chairs, Kevin led Death to the front of the long hallway and spoke into a microphone. “Everyone, I want to introduce our newest member, Dean.” The crowd applauded. Death did not have the heart to correct him on the name in front of everyone. “To initiate him, we will shave his head, as our Lord Backspace commands us.” Another member brought out a chair, upon which Death sat. As he did so his pink clothes stretched and threatened to break. They were made of poor material and they were incredibly abrasive--especially the pants, which Death found to be quite tight around the groin and waist. Kevin walked up to him with electric hair clippers. Death, being cautious, took them and shaved his own head. And so he was officially initiated into the LSGG to a round of applause.

“You’ve come just in time,” whispered Kevin to Death, who was thrilled to be a part of something special. The crowd of wide-eyed aliens cast their robotic gaze on him and clapped in unison. “Today is the rapture.”

Before Death could ask what the rapture was, Kevin sprung up to face the crowd, his arms outstretched again. “My fellow members,” he bellowed. “I give you our Messiah and Messenger…Kenny Silverman.” The crowd upped the volume of its eerie ovation. Kevin motioned that he and Death get off the stage, and they found two empty seats. Death sat down next to a woman, whose pretty features were obscured by deep bags under her eyes. She smiled at Death, a strained, mechanical smile, and turned back to the stage.

A man in purple robes appeared at the tip of the stage to strong waves of applause. He stood with his hands on his hips and chest puffed out, looking up towards the ceiling. His white smile gleamed like the top of his head and reflected the fluorescent lighting that poured down upon them. His charisma transcended the uniformity of the group.

“Brothers and sisters,” said Kenny in a loud, booming voice that gave even Death chills. “Here we are: the day we’ve all been waiting for.”

“Wait,” said Death to Kevin, “so what exactly is the—“

“Shhh,” whipped a harsh sound from Kevin’s tightened lips. He and all those around him were positively enthralled by the Messiah Messenger Kenny Silverman.

“I have told you for months and months that the great Lord Backspace would provide. And here he is, providing.” Death silently admired Kenny’s captivating rhetoric; the complete trance he was putting on his followers made them hang on every word. “Today he has talked to me, and agreed to take us with him to the extraterrestrial realm that he occupies,” continued Kenny. Suddenly he looked completely sober. He leaned his head forward and said in a loud whisper, “But first, we must shed our mortal shells.”

Death looked around, confused, though he seemed to be the only one. Most people in the crowd were turning to each other and nodding solemnly, while others looked up at Kenny proudly. Death saw a select few people who looked terrified.

A few men walked to the front of the crowd and began handing out small plastic cups from a silver tray. When Death received his cup he was hit with a strong aroma of pecans and chalk. “Brothers and sisters, I have filled these cups with what we need. Drink them, and we shall be free to join the Lord our Backspace.” Kenny held his arms out to his sides and looked up to the ceiling as many people without hesitation tossed their drinks back and smacked their lips together. Some people were looking at their cups for some time, but eventually everyone was finished; even Death, who thought the concoction was oddly reminiscent of something. Then Kenny withdrew a long knife from his pocket as the crowd began singing in unison:

All the children in the house,

Dejected with a frown.

The fire is coming, the Lord is coming,

Burn the mother down.

Death listened to the verse a few times before capturing all the words. The tune was winding and unnerving and Death was frightened. Kenny Silverman held his blade above his head. “Take us, oh Lord, oh greatness that is Backspace.” The crowd’s chanting melody grew louder and louder, reverberating across the entire room, pounding into Death’s skull until he needed to cover his ears.

Then everything happened very quickly. The singing stopped and the room fell dead silent as the Messiah Messenger Kenny Silverman plunged the blade into his stomach and shifted it out his side. He immediately fell over, his face a blank canvas, and the crowd collectively gasped. Some people whimpered, others stifled a scream, and all was silent again.

“Now, we wait,” whispered Kevin. “We wait until the poison takes control and we shed our fleshy outer bodies.”

Death took several seconds to register what Kevin had said, and then shot a glance in his direction. “Did you say poison?” asked Death.

“The drink. The poison will rid us of our mortal shells and take us to Lord Backspace,” said Kenny, closing his eyes gently. Death was at a complete loss for words or any coherent thought process. These people were expecting to die and, even with Death himself in the room with them, they would not. He looked around at everyone, who had their eyes closed expecting to pass quickly and fall over. But they waited several minutes as nothing happened. Then Kenny Silverman stood up.

“Is this it?” he asked, brushing himself off. Everyone heard him speak and one by one their eyes shot open, staring up in horror. “Have we shed our outer bodies? Is Lord Backspace here?” He settled his palms on his stomach, drenching them in blood and other bodily items. “What…what…” his hands darted all around his body as though he were trying to swat at a scuttling spider. Death grew hot and tense and looked down at the floor. “I’m not dead.”