Don't Fear The Reaper (33 page)

‘If you don’t stop wasting my time I’m going to blow your other kneecap
off.’

Jonesy squeezed his eyes shut, inhaling and exhaling explosively. ‘Up to
you.’

‘Your friends – where are they?’

Jonesy didn’t respond. He’d become still all of a sudden. The figure
shook him. Jonesy groaned.

‘Where are your friends?’

‘Not here no more.’

‘Where are they?’

‘Gone.’

‘Where?’

‘Can’t remember; in too much pain.’

‘They hiding someplace?’

Jonesy cried out in pain again. ‘Dunno. Just gone from here.’

‘Why didn’t they take you?’

‘Didn’t want to leave.’

‘So they just left you?’

‘They begged, but I refused to go with them. If I’m gonna die, I wanna
die here in my hometown.’

‘You must know where they’re going.’

Jonesy sighed and wiped more blood that had run over his lips out of his
broken nose. ‘They weren’t sure where they were going. One of the reasons I
thought it best to stay here.’

‘They must’ve had some idea,’ the figure said. ‘They wouldn’t up and
leave without any sense of direction.’

‘I think…’ Jonesy paused. Then his head slumped to the side.

The figure waited. Then it realised that Jonesy had lost consciousness.
‘I’ll give you twenty minutes for me to go through this house and the church
then I’ll come back and grant you your wish of dying here, in your hometown.’

Jonesy groaned.

‘Are you awake or not?’

‘Somewhere west,’ Jonesy whispered.

‘What?’

‘I think they said they were headed west. Maybe to the seaside; not
sure.’

The figure watched as Jonesy became very still. Then it rose and stormed
out of the bedroom.

*

The Grim Reaper
had been watching the events that had played out at St John the Baptist Church
cemetery. It had seen the brave and stubborn actions of the gun shop proprietor.
What it had not foreseen however was Jonesy’s studiousness in getting the
better of its followers. 

Number 3 approached warily.

‘He’s inside!’ he snapped.

Death raised its head in the direction of the man previously known as
Michael Scott Thompson.

Intuitively, Michael knew what Death wanted to find out.

‘He said it’s just him…’ He paused, catching his breath. ‘Reckons they
headed west and he chose to stay here in his hometown. There’s no sign of
anyone around nearby. The vicarage is empty, except for him.’

The Reaper raised its impossibly long arm and pointed with its emaciated
finger in the direction of the church.

Michael – or Number 3 as he was now referred to – nodded. ‘I’ll go and
check. Make sure he’s not bluffing. He’s inside,’ he said, nodding towards the
vicarage.

The Reaper swatted the stinging nettles and other foliage out of its way
and reached Number 1. The tall grass was drenched in crimson spillage. The
wound that had erupted in Number 1’s oesophagus still leaked blood. The figure
lay sprawled out, eyes bulging, lifeless. Number 1 stared unblinkingly at
something far and beyond. The Reaper lowered its massive frame to one knee
beside its fallen follower. Then, with assiduous care, cradled the head of the
deceased and lowered its own head. Their faces almost touched as though they
were about to kiss passionately. Instead a green mist escaped the Reaper’s
gaping mouth and disappeared into Number 1’s open mouth.

The fatal wound in his throat began to repair itself within seconds. Then
the eyes blinked and Number 1 coughed. He groaned from discomfort and a dull
ache that resonated throughout his entire anatomy.

After a full minute, Number 1’s gaze met the Grim Reaper’s and panic and
fright inflicted him. He covered his eyes with trembling hands from the hideous
visage staring back at him that belonged to the one who had resurrected him.

Number 1’s mouth opened and closed without sound. The Reaper rose and
emerged from the foliage and to the other fallen follower.

However, when the Reaper knelt down beside the fallen figure and turned
the remnants of his skull, it realised that its supernatural powers were
incapable of redoing the mess made. Bone and brain fragments were scattered
everywhere amidst the bloody spray. Number 2’s damaged face was beyond
reconstruction.

Even without the human soul the anatomy of the fallen required a
functioning brain to perform deeds for the Reaper. Without the brain Number 2
was worthless. Old man Sacasa would have been more use to the Reaper at this
stage.

Death rose from its kneeling posture and drifted towards the vicarage.
The white timber-slatted gate clicked open and it continued its journey down
the path. From there it stayed close to wall and made its way round back.

*

Jonesy
had seen the Reaper materialise from the tall grass and stand before the figure
who had nearly ended his life moments ago. He’d fought off the fatigue from
being pummelled and beaten within an inch of his life and crawled to the
bedroom window. He heard the man – or whatever the hell he was – speaking, but
couldn’t make out what he was saying. Blood rushed in his ears.

Once fatigue and pain overrode his
ebbing adrenaline rush, Jonesy felt numb all over. His hearing returned though
and he squinted through the glass at the two figures.

The figure explained to the most
ghastly thing he’d ever laid eyes upon what he’d told him. The hooded entity
who stood on the path as tall as the first branches said not a word. It pointed
towards the church edifice and the figure who wrestled him and could have
killed him strode down the cemetery path.

A frozen vice clamped his thudding
heart. Jonesy understood now the full ramifications of what he’d done. No
wonder Anthony had fled with Sapphire. Of course, he’d sensed his friend’s fear
from his precise premonitions, along with Jane’s story. Yet hearing a harrowing
tale and seeing it with his own naked eyes were entirely different ends of a
spectrum.

What he saw next made his testicles
wrinkle and shrink. His Adam’s apple went up and down Yo-Yo style. The fatal
wound he’d induced repaired itself in less than half a minute, and as the
hooded broad, towering figure moved away, Jonesy had to purposefully blink. For
what he saw was unthinkable. The figure he’d certainly killed gingerly got to
his feet and stared at the amount of blood from his own body that soaked the
tall grass he’d been lying on.

‘Impossible…’

The feat achieved was impossible, but
it was as tangible as every harsh breath he took.

When the hooded figure that had to be
this Reaper dude turned and floated towards the house, Jonesy felt warm liquid
pouring down his legs. He looked down and was ashamed to find he’d pissed
himself. The unpleasant smell was worse. Yet by the time, Jonesy had used the
mattress as leverage to haul himself to a vertical base the atmosphere
distinctly changed.

He didn’t know how he knew this other
than by sensing it.

Static crawled across his bloodied
face and stirred the hairs on the nape of his neck.

Then the bedroom door creaked open…

Jonesy knew then that he was going to
die. He feared not the end of his life. For years he wished he retired to bed
and never woke again. His life had been nothing but a cruel, bitter
disappointment. He was still plagued by the loss of his faithful pet in favour
of his mother’s greed for money. Thereafter, nothing had seemed to go right; on
the contrary, if anything. But now that Death finally arrived, he feared the
Reaper that wielded the shiniest and sharpest scythe he’d ever seen.

Jonesy trembled from head-to-toe, in
spite of telling himself to not show his emotions. He hated how he’d never find
out if he’d done enough to save the three women and the adorable black cat that
Sapphire doted upon. It was this reason, and this reason alone, why he bared
his teeth and clenched his fists so taut that it hurt. He’d die content if he
knew that his last deed on this earth had been accomplished. And after all the
heartache he’d endured, Jonesy believed that was the least he deserved.

‘Do what you want with me,’ he hissed,
‘but you’ll never catch up to them now. They’re long gone from here. Killing me
won’t change that.’

The Grim Reaper didn’t speak or show
any sign that it had either heard or reacted to what he said. It nonchalantly
drew closer approaching the stoic man who in spite of his fear held his ground
and didn’t budge. Jonesy stood ramrod straight, accepting his fate like a man.

No one will ever know if Jonesy felt
the curved dagger-pointed scythe slice through his neck bones, cartilage and
muscle. No one will ever know whether or not Jonesy’s brain still functioned as
his head flew from the body. And no one will ever know if he saw and felt the
geyser of blood erupting from the severed stump cascading over the mattress and
floorboards like a tropical fountain.

No one but the Reaper, anyway…

ACCORDING TO
JANE’S WATCH
more than a whole day had passed since they’d taken shelter in
the concealed bunker. She’d stayed by the heavy, rusted door and slapped a hand
over her mouth when she heard footfalls scuffing across the asphalt path.

She listened attentively, heart in her mouth.

‘No sign of them,’ she heard an adult male voice say. ‘Fuck!’

Jane daren’t move a muscle in case she gave their hideout away. Instead
she sat on the cold, hard floor. She squeezed her eyes shut and prayed to a god
she never believed in or had any reason to believe in to keep them safe and to
keep Jonesy safe.

Now a day had passed and the gunfire was a distant memory, Jane returned
to the underground door and listened again. She still wanted to be careful. The
more time passed without word from Jonesy the more risk there was to emerging
from their hideout right into the arms of the demons.

Nevertheless, at some point they would have to take a chance. Jane took
it upon herself to be the one to take that chance and check the terrain from
any intruders.

Perhaps Jonesy’s shot and killed them, but wants to be certain we’re
safe to come out
, she thought. That was hardly likely. If that was the
case, Jonesy would have checked on them just to reassure them he was all right.
No, something unfortunate had befallen Jonesy. Natalie and Sue were right about
that, if nothing else. Jane left them sitting against a wall holding each
other, crying softly. She could have succumbed and done that, but Jane wanted
to prove her worth and her gratitude to this group of survivors by being brave
and resilient.

She spent much exertion carrying the concrete lintels out of the doorway.
Then she heaved with all her one hundred and forty pounds until the door opened
and grey dull light poured into the chamber.

Jane crept up and out of the secluded curved stairs and skulked to the
side of the mulch-covered church. The cemetery was a barren, unkempt field. The
headstones appeared more damaged due to the initial asteroid strike and negligence.
Strangely, this abandoned cemetery comforted her. This was her home. This was
the place where she regained belief that there was light at the end of a long,
dark tunnel. She loathed herself for not resisting Jonesy’s urges to remain in
the bunker. Her actions were that of a coward.

Seeing that the coast was clear, Jane edged out into the open, scanning
the cemetery for any intruders lurking in the foliage. As far as she could see,
no one but her stood upon the cemetery grounds.

A trickle of assurance came over her, and Jane walked down the gradient.
She turned right onto the asphalt path and stared keenly into the yellowing
grass before she went any further. Satisfied that no one would pounce from a
hiding place, Jane hurried down the path.

She arrived at the picket fence gate and came to a halt.

Blood…

Arterial spray dappled the earthen floor by the fencing. The gate stood
wide open offering the concrete path leading to the front door. Then Jane saw
the front door was ajar. You could barely see this ominous sign as the weather
was murky. It brought to mind overcast days. However, these were not the result
of ordinary clouds, but massive ash clouds ebbing to weak light.

Trembling with uncontrollable fear, Jane followed the path and found
herself at the doorstep.

Silence.

She didn’t really know what to make of the lack of sound. What did she
expect to hear if Jonesy had returned? He’d hardly kill all the demons and then
hit the hay for more than a day. The sole reason her mind screamed OMINOUS at
her was due to the fact that the silence and absence of Jonesy wasn’t a good
sign at all.

Fighting her fear into submission, Jane stepped over the threshold into
the gloom. She wanted to call out to Jonesy but her mouth was bone dry. Not
only that, a part of her mind informed her that calling out Jonesy’s name might
draw unwanted attention to herself. Instead she eased every door open to reveal
nothing or no one.

Then she came to the master bedroom.

Her senses tingled like electricity running through wires. Somehow she knew
that pushing this half open door and revealing the interior would be
detrimental to her health. If Jane had been asked to explain this instinctive
emotion to a psychiatrist then she’d become inarticulate. Yet she
knew
.

Looking over her shoulder, Jane considered her next course of action.

Heart in her mouth, the lady with the gift of foretelling pushed the door
inwards and froze…     

*

Jane
didn’t recall anything else of that day. When she came to Smokey was sitting on
her lap purring contentedly. As she blinked her eyes open and knuckled the
blurriness away she saw the source of the heavy, incessant sobbing she could
hear.

‘Sue?’

Sue’s reddened, tear-stricken face met Jane’s gaze. ‘Jane!’

‘Sue? Sue, what happened?’

Sue hurried to her side. It was then Jane realised she was lying on the
sofa in the living room. ‘You must’ve fainted,’ Sue said, by way of
explanation.

‘Fainted?’

‘Yeah.’ Sue swept Jane’s fringe off her brow. ‘Don’t you remember?’

Then as though an avalanche struck her consciousness, it all came
flooding back to Jane what she’d seen and been doing prior to waking.

‘Jonesy!’ she snapped. ‘Oh, no!
OhnomygodohgoodGodno!’ she said holding her head in her hands, blinking
rapidly.

Sue offered a weak smile then nodded. ‘I’m afraid so.’

‘Oh shit! Oh, God! Where’s Natalie?’

Sue smoothed Jane’s brow and gently pushed her head back onto the pillow.
‘Natalie’s fine. Well, considering what happened. She’s in the bathroom. Being
sick; poor girl. We came looking for you when a couple of hours passed. Worried
to death we were. You must’ve hit your head pretty hard when you fell. You’ve
been out most of the day. It’s ten at night now.’

‘What about Jonesy?’

‘We’ve covered his corpse with a blanket,’ Sue said. ‘We’ll dig a grave
and bury him tomorrow. But don’t you think about that now. We’ve all had
ourselves a very nasty shock today.’ Sue covered her quivering mouth, fighting
back the tears. S-sorry.’

‘No need to apologise,’ Jane said, and opened her arms.

They held each other for some time, hurting with a pain that would
forever be a burden.

*

The
next day was even harder. All three women took it in turns to dig a grave. Then
they carried Jonesy’s earthly remains out of the vicarage down the path to the
hole.

The grave was plenty big enough, which aided the grieving survivors to be
able to lower Jonesy into the ground ceremoniously. Once that had been
accomplished and they caught their breath the three women stood over the grave
looking down at the headless body of Jonesy.

‘He was a great man,’ Natalie said. ‘I didn’t realise that until the very
end. Anthony was right about Jonesy. He’d lay his life down for his friends.
That is a sacrifice that cannot be equalled, not in a million years. He died so
we could live in hope. I now see not a man who cussed a lot, but a man who was
burdened by the loss of his pet and a man who wanted none of his friends to
endure the pain he did all his life. He is our hero. A proper hero. For that
Jonesy, on behalf of everyone here today and Anthony and Sapphire we thank you
from the bottom of our hearts. And we love you. We love you. We’ll always love
you.’

Sue scooped Smokey up in her arms and linked her arms around her two
grieving friends. Smokey had stopped purring some time ago. He might not have
known what exactly had gone down. However, he knew someone whom she cherished was
no longer here. Then Smokey cried, too.

*

The
Grim Reaper rode silently through the night in the confines of its carriage. In
its haunted grasp it held the severed head of the man he’d killed. A man who, quite
remarkably, never begged for his life. A man who offered no insight to the
saviour’s whereabouts. In spite of this recalcitrance and vague information,
the Grim Reaper rode west to the seaside. It studied every curve and wrinkle of
this fallen man with hidden admiration. For the man had shown courage the likes
of which the Reaper had once witnessed upon the beach of Normandy and other
parts of the world where war raged.

It stared at this man with its hideous, soul-destroying visage… and the
man stared back. Yes, there had been fear. But there had been something else
far greater than the emotion of fear. Something that banished fear and
threatened to end the existence of the Grim Reaper.

The Reaper pulled the purple drapes apart, slid the top half of the
window open and tossed the severed head away onto the road. The Reaper snapped
the window closed and sat back in his seat. Its demeanour gave it away. The
Reaper was glad to be rid of the severed head that would have otherwise been a
cherished trophy.