Don't Fear The Reaper (4 page)

Larry had finished his drink, shook Pierce’s hand. ‘Maybe the fog was
nothing more than really dense after all, huh?’

Pierce shrugged. ‘Maybe. But you saw the bright green light though.’

‘Could’ve been the traffic light,’ Alex said.

Larry nodded at the plausible explanation.

Pierce shrugged again. However, he looked unconvinced.

‘Drive safe,’ Alex called out, as Larry headed for the exit.

‘Will do,’ Larry said, giving the thumbs’ up signal. ‘Take care.’

When Pierce ever thought of his best friend, Larry Moretz from that day
on, he’d envision him standing in the small foyer, smiling and content.

*

Larry
made his way to his Vauxhall. The fog had indeed dissipated and he could see
ten feet in front of him. The white blanket didn’t swirl as it had done when
he’d first seen it. Instead it sat languidly, docile in the village.

Aided by the headlights on full beam and the fog lights, Larry manoeuvred
the car out of the space and out of the gravel parking area onto the main road.
He pressed the button to open the driver’s and passenger’s door windows,
enabling him to listen out for traffic. If or when he did he’d blast his horn
to let the other road users know vaguely his location to avoid collision.

The road he needed to take was straight ahead, past all the shops on
either side, vanished from sight. For a moment, Larry wondered why he even brought
the car in the first place. He only lived half a mile away, on the other side
of the park. Then he remembered why. In five days, Sammy would turn
twenty-nine.

He’d gone to the Asda to buy her some flowers and a big box of Cadbury’s
chocolate. The flowers he intended on giving her tonight. The chocolate would
have to wait until her birthday. He’d also bought her an expensive gold
necklace; a crucifix with a diamond embedded into it.

Unlike her brother, Sammy wasn’t too sure if she believed in God. She wasn’t
an atheist or against religion, she merely had a hard time putting her faith in
something only to discover she’d been fooled. Also, not being able to bear
children of her own turned her away from God. In fairness, she didn’t ask much
out of life. She didn’t particularly care for worldly possessions, unless they
were essential. She didn’t live anywhere close to beyond her means. Sammy was
quite happy to curl up with a good book or watch an RSPCA show on TV.

Now that a “miracle” had occurred – the doctors’ words which she
reiterated – Sammy had found faith.

It brought tears to Larry’s eyes thinking about her, so grateful that she
believed in God, not for her own means, but to thank Him for granting her, her
one and only prayer.

Larry shook his head to rid himself of the reverie. He desperately needed
to concentrate on the road ahead and nothing else. He leaned forward, chest
almost touching the steering wheel and recoiled instantly at the towering
figure that had appeared through the fog out of nowhere.

‘Shit!’

Larry spun the steering wheel in haste, swerving out of the way, and
fought to regain control but went careering into an immovable object. The
windscreen shattered as the bonnet folded up like an Indian tent. The steering
wheel crushed into his chest, knocking the breath right out of him as he was
crushed between the column and the driver’s seat. The seat belt that had
initially stopped him from plummeting headfirst through the windscreen and
being thrown like a rag doll into the open now choked him. His arms were pinned
to his sides. Larry couldn’t even feel the slightest of tingling in his
fingertips, never mind be able to use his hands to click the button to remove
the harness. He shifted in his seat, hoping to fight for some room to manoeuvre
himself. His attempt was futile, and as his weary eyes searched beyond the
confines of his car he saw why.

The open tailgate of a pickup truck had smashed the windscreen and the
bollard in front of it to the right on the side of the pavement had been
uprooted and lay beneath the front tyres.

Larry had been fortunate that the bollard had been there otherwise the
open tailgate of the pickup truck would have burst through the windscreen and
buried itself in his head before he even saw it.

Fidgeting in his seat was only increasing the pressure on his crushed
larynx and constricting his lungs. If he thought he’d had trouble breathing in
the confines of the Crown Pub then this was what it must feel like to live as
long as you could without the use of oxygen.

In his peripheral vision, Larry saw a shrouded darkness gracefully float
towards him through the fog, as though it was an apparition (which was Larry’s
first assumption to its identification).

The Grim Reaper came around to the front of the Vauxhall, towing the long-handled
scythe. If Larry still had control of his bodily functions he would’ve winced
at the grating of metal scraping across concrete. Instead his chest bucked and
he coughed up a wad of crimson blood.

An arctic frost froze him to the core when the mythological entity
lowered itself so its hood and all that lay beyond it encompassed the driver’s
side window and Larry’s vision completely.

The last thing Larry saw was the perpetual darkness that welcomed him
after the most ghastly visage was revealed to him in its glowing pallid light.

*

At
9:1pm on Sunday 11 June 2006 the fog dissipated as hastily as it had enveloped
the small village on the outskirts of Bristol.

The crumpled grey heap that used to be a Vauxhall sat desolate after
having gone into the rear end of a stationary pickup truck. The front left
wheel had buckled on impact and the right front tyre had been punctured by a
steel rod protruding from the space the bollard occupied. Seven inches of the
open tailgate of the pick-up disappeared beyond the cracked glass of the
windscreen. And amidst the Stygian interior, if one cared to look close enough
(as sure enough the first witness would the following morning) was the body of
Larry Moretz – his eyes huge, shining orbs, jaw slack against the fierce grip
of the seat belt. Veins as thick as cables surfaced on the frozen face of
terror, lightening blue and maroon.

There was no sign of a towering, pale skeleton figure in a long black
cloak with a hood anywhere in sight. However, there was a very indistinctive
scratch from one side of the road to the other where Death had left its mark.

Diary
of Rev Anthony Perkins.

Fri 16 June 2006

CAN HARDLY
BELIEVE
what I’ve been told! The shock of the news hasn’t even begun to
register in my brain yet; that I do know
.
It’s the sorta thing that
happens to other people when you turn the TV on and see the news, not to
someone you know or are related to. And here am I sitting here like a fool,
writing it down in a rush to see if I can make any sense of it.

My poor sister! Hasn’t she been through enough? Obviously not,
according to my ebbing belief. Those who believe in God say that good people
(servants of God) who endure hardship are being tested. Perhaps my opinion is a
biased one, as this is my sister, but I think she’s been tested enough. She’s
proven herself to be a truly, honest, decent human being. Why this now on top
of everything else.

And what the hell was Larry thinking driving home in such treacherous
weather, anyway? I shouldn’t be thinking bad thoughts never mind writing them
down like this about the deceased, but it does make me wonder. Of course, I
know the answer. He was heading home to be with his pregnant wife.

According to the medical examiner, Larry had cracked some ribs and
crushed his larynx from the collision. What shocks me most though is the
reported actual cause of death – heart attack!

It doesn’t sit right with me somehow. Larry wasn’t the type of guy to
get scared. He didn’t show bravado; like most self-proclaimed “hard men”, his
toughness was the real deal. He didn’t need to behave in a certain way to demonstrate
a tough guy attitude. He knew what he was and was content. Larry was a black
belt in karate and had fifteen amateur boxing bouts, fourteen wins and one
disputed draw.

I’m not saying crashing won’t cause a massive shock, but a fatal heart
attack for a fit man in his early thirties? I’ve never been the sceptical type,
but even now I have to admit it does sound kinda strange.

I don’t know what I’m gonna do. I want to be by Sammy’s side. She
needs me now more than ever. She needs as much support and love as she can get,
both for her sake and the baby.

I know one thing I won’t be doing – praying.

Look where that’s got me and my sister! Thanks for the support Big
Guy. Nice to know I can count on you when the chips are down. Cheers!

*

Bishop
John Hayes caressed his sweaty brow. He and Rev Perkins were seated around a
plain oak table in the vestry. The old man with only a mop of lank hair and
indented wrinkles running over his leathery face couldn’t hide his shock,
hearing the news his colleague and friend had just given him.

‘Well, for what it’s worth,’ the Rector began, ‘congratulations on
becoming a Godfather.’

Rev Perkins nodded sardonically. ‘Aye. Don’t tell me – every cloud has a silver
lining.’

The Rector shook his head, displeased. ‘There’s no need to be facetious,
Anthony. I honestly don’t know what to say regarding the grim news. Sorry
doesn’t quite cover it. And I know you said your faith was wavering – God knows
this is hardly going to restore it by any stretch – but the parish needs you.
I
need you. Because of your laid-back approach more and more people are
coming to church; not just on Sundays but during the week as well. You played a
pivotal part in that. Don’t use this mishap, for want of a better word, as an
excuse to surrender. Please.’

Rev Perkins had hung his robe up on a hanger and now wore his jeans and a
striped hooded sweater with the numbers 84 in blue on the front. His shoulders
slumped. His whole demeanour was that of a man struggling to keep himself
vertical. ‘I gotta have some time off. I gotta be with my sister. She’s
grieving really bad. Who can blame her? And if anything happens to her baby…’

The bishop raised his hand in a gesture that said it wasn’t necessary to
say any more. ‘Of course you can have time off. But I really need you not to
give in.’

‘Do you really believe what the prophet said about there being an
apocalypse heading our way?’

The older man removed his black lens spectacles and rubbed the bridge of
his nose. ‘I believe there’s good and evil in everyone and it’s always all
around us, everywhere you go. You can’t escape it, whichever you choose.
Whatever tragedy befalls the world, what amazes me more than anything else is
how so-called non-believers even find the fortitude to do the right thing. The
good thing. Whether it’s helping someone out of rubble after an earthquake or
donating spare change to a charity. For every sign of evil there is a glimmer
of hope to show us the way. I know you’re finding that hard to believe that by
now, but when – or if – this apocalypse does hit us you will believe.’

Rev Perkins appeared more solemn than he had been all week when he said,
‘Is this the apocalypse the prophet was talking about? Is this the anarchy?’

Bishop John Hayes opened his hands, palms facing to the ceiling. ‘I don’t
think the accident involving your unfortunate brother-in-law has anything to do
with that, but I’ve been wrong before. After all, the apocalypse is a synonym
for the end of the world. Maybe for Larry he succumbed to his own apocalypse.’

Perkins resisted tears. He shifted from one foot to the other.

‘When’s the poor soul’s funeral?’

‘Next week. Probably Thursday or Friday.’

The bishop blinked surprise. ‘How come such a delay?’

‘The medical examiner wants to do some other tests and get a second
opinion. That’s what keeps me up in the night. If he’d gone through the
windscreen or the car had blown up, then he’s not Superman. But to survive the
crash and then die of a heart attack.’

‘Take two weeks annual leave,’ the Rector said. ‘Don’t dwell on this.
Stop thinking so much. Get some sleep; your eyes look like two piss-holes in
the snow… and never give up all the hard work you’ve put in. Yours is the light
that forever outshines the Devil’s darkness. Remember that when times are hard.
It’s easy to have faith when everything is going great, but not quite so in
times of suffering.’

With that the Rector rose, came around the oak table and hugged his
friend. It was then the floodgates opened and Rev Perkins cried for the first
time in thirteen years…

PAUL DICKENS
hadn’t felt himself since Monday morning when he’d awoken to the thickest fog
he’d ever seen in all his forty-six years. He’d fallen asleep the night before
at 9pm and slept right through. The nine and a half hours of undisturbed rest
had done him the world of good he vaguely recalled. His body felt energised
which he hadn’t experienced since his early thirties when he still had time to
go to the gym.

His brown Labrador, Macho, had passed on five years ago, otherwise Paul
would have taken him for a walk if not for the fog; he was feeling so
energetic. Instead he made himself a cup of tea and stood on the doorstep,
smiling to himself, thinking he wouldn’t have to go to work today because of
this impenetrable veil in front of him like a solid grey wall, yet fluxing
simultaneously.

The air seemed to have a certain tang to it, although he’d never be able
to say what. It was neither an unpleasant odour nor good. But what caught his
undivided attention was something pulsing, shining through the constant swirls
of the fog. He squinted, leaning forward, perplexed. Unless his eyes were
playing tricks on him there appeared to be a bright green light, and had it not
been for the thick fog the light as bright as that of a halogen lamp would have
blinded him.

Something that had troubled him since that Monday morning right up to today
still spun in his mind cyclone-style. For the life of him he couldn’t recall
the time it took for him to cross his front garden to the gate at the end of
the path. He assumed he must have wanted to take a closer look at the strange
neon light.

But why?

Curiosity, I suppose
.

But why had he a clear memory of standing on the doorstep and moments
later (it could only have been moments as twenty minutes had passed from the
time he’d left the house to the time he returned) standing at the gate, but
complete blankness between that time?

Shit! It’s not an early sign that I may have – or will get –
Alzheimer’s, is it?

That had been his last thought before last night’s dream. The dream where
a towering robed figure and a pale white horse came to his house and escorted
him into the luminous green light.

Now he was awake, but not alive.

*

Paul
Dickens had gone through the entire week in a dazed condition. He and his
colleagues had finished on the building site for the day, having completed the
house they’d been erecting. He usually had good camaraderie with his friends,
but after Tommy Wallace had asked him what was wrong and got a curt, ‘Nothing
is wrong,’ Paul’s workmates left him to get on with his work by himself. There were
four bricklayers and one labourer, including Paul on the site. Everyone had
tried to be extra nice so Paul would either return to his old self or tell them
what was bothering him that made him become introverted all of a sudden.

Paul didn’t even notice their upset and anger directed at him for his
drastic alteration in personality. The foreman didn’t bother inquiring as Paul
was doing more work than anyone else by almost double. This was the main reason
they got to finish ten minutes to three instead of working until dusk to finish
the job.

The last four days, Tommy had offered to give Paul a lift home. Paul
declined even after persuasion. Then he walked the mile home to his bungalow.
The trail that led through the Eucalyptus grove was bone dry. Paul recognised
it as the place where he’d first seen the robed figure and pale white horse.

Until then he’d assumed the meeting with the one he could only identify
as the Grim Reaper was something his mind had conjured up. Yet as he saw the
opening and the path give way to a road and the gate he’d reached he knew then
without doubt that what he’d seen had been as real as going to work today.

When he unlocked the front door, Paul absentmindedly went and had a
shower. The only way he knew he had been in the shower at all was when his mind
snapped back on as he stood before the window above the sink and he saw his
reflection, dripping wet with a towel wrapped around his waist. Then he dried
himself, got changed into denim jeans and a plaid shirt.

At the sound of his two children, Emma and Roy, Paul made certain to go
to his bedroom and lock the door behind him.

He stretched out on his bed and listened to his wife returning home from
work. Ann greeted her children, and then he heard her asking them where he was.
They said they hadn’t seen him or heard him. At that point, Paul shot up from
the mattress and unlocked the bedroom door then returned to the mattress and
closed his eyes.

Ann entered the room not five minutes later. ‘Oh, you’re home,’ she said,
pleasantly surprised.

Paul pretended to blink away sleep and then sat up. ‘I must’ve dropped
off to sleep,’ he said.

‘Oh, well, it’s Friday. You haven’t gotta be up early tomorrow, have
you?’

‘The job’s done,’ Paul said, matter-of-factly.

Ann smiled. ‘The kids want to eat now. Are you gonna eat with us?’

Paul was about to say no, but something he couldn’t see, only sense made
him say, ‘Yes.’

*

For
dinner they had Emma’s favourite: mashed potato, sausages and peas. Paul had
devoured his mashed potato before anyone had even began cutting their sausages
up. Then suddenly, after his second mouthful of peas and a sip of lemonade,
Paul rose and said in a voice unlike his own, ‘Excuse me, I’ll be back in a
minute.’

‘Yes, sire. Certainly,’ Emma said in her imitation of a posh voice.

Roy coughed up the peas he’d been chewing, laughing.

Paul heard the comment but didn’t bat an eyelid. He continued down the
short hallway, opened the bureau and took out a set of keys and selected the
small, brass Yale for the shed. He closed the front door gently behind him and
crossed the lawn to the timber shed.

Upon opening the shed the radiant sunlight brightened the musty interior
and revealed the dust motes. It took Paul’s eyes a moment to adjust to the
gloom, but when they did they widened when he found what he was looking for.

The axe was propped up against the side, blade glinting in the sun. Paul
hefted it up by its long, thick wooden handle, marvelling at the tool as though
he’d never seen one before. He nodded his approval, turning the axe around and
around in his grasp, then smiled.

He closed the shed door behind him but left it unlocked. Then he returned
to the house ignoring his neighbour, Bob, next door who called out to him. The
front door closed on Bob’s voice and the sunlight vanished. Paul gripped the
axe with white knuckles, his broad smile broadening into a maniacal sneer.

*

THE
DAILY MIRROR

AXE
MURDERER BUTCHERS FAMILY!

CRAIG EVENSON

Yesterday
afternoon, police were alerted when a neighbour claimed to hear screams of
terror from his neighbour’s residence in Gloucestershire, after witnessing his
neighbour, Paul Dickens (43) marching into his home, wielding an axe.

Local PCSO’s were horrified at what they saw when they arrived. They
discovered the remains of the Dickens’ family in the kitchen where the bloody
murders took place and found the body of the Paul Dickens in the bathroom, his
throat cut.

The homicide/suicide crime has shocked the local community. “Nothing
like this has ever happened in this quiet town to anyone’s knowledge,” PCSO
Daniels said.

Bob Harris (55) who phoned the police said, “I can’t fathom it for one
second. In all the years I have lived next to Dickens family, I have never
suspected any violence or shouting matches. Paul Dickens built me a brick wall
for my back yard and an alcove for my barbecue. He never once showed any signs
of distress, anger or bitterness. He looked like a different person when I saw
him with that axe and called out to him. The Paul Dickens I knew would never
have ignored me or even considered doing what he did. My thoughts and
condolences are with the rest of the family at this time.”

Police have started an investigation. Colleagues, who for legal
reasons cannot be identified, have made statements claiming, “Paul hadn’t
spoken hardly a word all week and was very distant; not at all like his
usual-self.”

Nobody quite knows or understands the momentary act of sheer madness
and rage. It is that element that makes the crime, apart from the murders
themselves, the most unsettling and horrid.

Superintendent David Atkins said this: “Although these murders and
suicide are as gruesome as they are tragic, no one really knows what goes on
behind closed doors. It appears that the perpetrator, Paul Dickens, had some
kind of mental breakdown and acted in haste and out of character. The news has
devastated our quiet, pleasant community. I am deeply saddened by this macabre
occurrence, as are the friends and acquaintances of the Dickens family.”

It has been reported that when the bodies are released the family will
be buried together on the same plot. Paul Dickens’ remains will be buried
separately.

*

Reverend
Perkins was sitting in his vicarage residence, watching TV while he ate a beef
roll before packing some of his clothes and heading to his sister’s home in
Bristol.

A news reporter who couldn’t have been any older than twenty-five with
high accentuated cheekbones and solemn expression that diminished her beauty
stared right at him through the camera lens. ‘
Yesterday morning at 8:54am an Ohio State student who moved to the U.S. fourteen years ago from the U.K. has reportedly ended his all-night rampage. Armed police chased suspect, now
identified as Lucas Thompson, down to the high school behind me where he took
position in an abandoned building across the street and proceeded to shoot
students as they filed out of the school bus. He also murdered two armed
officers before being gunned down.

‘The rampage which commenced around four a.m. yesterday by the
eighteen-year old assailant ended on this street. Five other students that
cannot be named were also injured; two in critical condition.

‘It is believed that in total, Lucas Thompson, has killed 31 innocent
people. The killing spree started in an all-night gymnasium. Police are
investigating footage of Lucas locking the front entrance, and firing at
BodyTalk’s customers. From there he used his semi-automatic to gun down a group
of women emerging from a nightclub before moving on to pedestrians and early
risers.

‘There is no concrete explanation as to what the reason was that
induced Lucas Thompson to take his father’s licensed guns from the safe in his
home and proceed the way he did. Although some, students have made similar
statements that indicate that Lucas “believed he’d been chosen by the Death
itself to give as many souls over to the dark side.” Another student said,
“Lucas said the end of times was pending.” Prior to these murders, the student
believed Lucas to be talking nonsense, and merely “attempting to scare him.”

‘More updates will follow this tragic happening that has enraged
citizens of Ohio and America, pleading with the government for “gun control”.

‘This is Angela Blackwood, reporting for the BBC news.’
     

The camera returned forgivingly to the studio where the anchorman raised
an eyebrow and muttered, ‘
That’s very disturbing. Of course, we’ll keep you
up-to-date with forthcoming news regarding that incident
.’ Then he moved on
to another grim story of a murder of a Caucasian man who was brutally battered
to death last night by a gang of Turkish men. ‘
His family will be notified
in due course.’
 

Feeling nauseous, Rev Perkins used the remote and changed channels to an
episode of
The Simpsons.
All of a sudden he no longer felt famished. He
finished the rest of his beef roll with difficulty. Then he washed it down with
some Pepsi Max.

Once that was accomplished he made his way to his bedroom and started
packing some clothes and toiletries into a suitcase, glad for something to do
to take his mind off his graphic dreams/visions and the prophecy by someone in
the Vatican that John Hayes had passed on to him.

There really needed to be some good to counter all this bad, he thought
as he finished packing. He checked he had everything for his stay with his
pregnant sister, double-checked the doors and windows were locked prior to
stepping outside and locking the front door.

He had his mobile which also received emails so there was no need to lug
his laptop with him to Bristol. The drive itself usually took just over an
hour, although with traffic it might be closer to two hours by the time he
arrived outside Nadine’s home and prepared himself for the untimely funeral of
his brother-in-law.

The confines of the car seemed to suffocate his pain. For it was then
that it suddenly dawned on him with perfect clarification that Larry Moretz
would never see the birth of his only child.

In a fit of vexation, Rev Perkins struck the steering wheel three times,
inadvertently blasting the horn and hurting his wrist in doing so. He wept for
five minutes then ordered himself to cry no more while in the company of his
grieving sister.

Then he started the motor and began his journey…