Don't Fear The Reaper (7 page)

As he sat up in bed the man, born Michael Scott Thompson, scanned the
bedroom, disorientated. The body that had grown weathered and weary as he
approached middle-age gave him no difficulty this morning. Normally, upon
awakening, Michael would wince at the dull ache in his lower back. His fingers
and elbows would click audibly. Bringing himself to full consciousness took a
lot of exertion. Every morning his eyelids threatened to close and sleep
invited him to its enticing comforts. 

However, this morning his heart beat with vigour. Electricity surged
through his veins. No bones clicked. No dull aches all over. His body had
rested plenty. When he pulled the quilt off him and stood, he sighed in
pleasure, stretching, feeling the muscles flex taut.

Perplexed by this alacrity he’d not experienced since his youth, Michael
ventured into the bathroom, showered, shaved and brushed his teeth. After
dressing and fixing himself breakfast, consisting of a banana, apple and a pint
glass of orange juice, Michael closed the front door behind him, stepping outside.

The visionary dream was still etched clearly in his mind’s eye. Michael
knew then that his sudden burst of energy and rejuvenated strength had been
bequeathed to him from the Grim Reaper.  

During the story depicted in his slumber, Michael had learned the best
way to face death was to do a deed for the Grim Reaper in return for his life
and vivacity.

A compulsion engineered by intuition guided his path that morning.

He strolled into the city as opposed to catching a bus or hailing a cab.
The roads were bustling with heavy traffic. The pavements were coming to life
with working class folks and students. Michael ignored them all. And they,
sensing that there was something immoral about him, gave him a wide berth.

It came to Michael then all at once what was so different about him. His
aura had altered from that of a weary, middle-aged man, enduring the first effects
of being a mortal that could no longer be ignored, to something alien.

A lady walking her son to school with her poodle trailing a step behind
sensed his presence as he overtook them on the pavement. She narrowed her eyes
at him as he strode past, nearly trampling over her faithful pet.

‘Watch it!’ she hissed.

The anger written over her face collapsed when their eyes met, replaced
with a resounding fear. She held her son back and cuddled her poodle to her
bosom, leaning against the black wrought-iron fencing.

Michael turned away and continued on his way, hearing the frightened
woman letting out a
whoosh
of breath. She had some nerve hogging the
entire pavement for herself and her family. All he wanted to do was to get past
as she was moving at a lethargic pace. Yet when she saw him a few feet apart
she looked like she’d seen the face of the hooded figure he saw last night.

Unperturbed, Michael continued to the nearest graveyard. The entrance
gate was open. He ambled inside, scanning the headstones. Some of the
headstones were basic concrete, others were marble and erect. It didn’t matter,
though. Death didn’t care about wealth, attractiveness or popularity. Death was
final.

For no reason in particular, Michael lowered himself on the nearest bench
beneath the boughs of an oak. Leaves rustled in the breeze, sounding to Michael
like the hissing of a thousand rattlesnakes.

The presence that had guided him here revealed nothing.

Then ten minutes later, a man wearing a black outdoor jacket, trousers
and polished shoes so shiny they could have been used as makeshift mirrors,
came into Michael’s peripheral vision from the other side of the cemetery. He was
roughly the same age as Michael.

When the stranger nodded, Michael reciprocated. Then the man headed down
the gravel path towards him. Michael watched, mesmerised by what would have
appeared a mundane happening to anyone passing by, sensing he and the stranger
had something in common.

Footfalls to his right made him snap his head in that direction and
Michael watched another middle-aged man in an all-black jogging outfit, slow at
the entrance and gave a fleeting glance to Michael and the man walking from the
other side of the cemetery. He too nodded at Michael. Again, Michael
reciprocated the gesture and observed the two men nearing the bench he
occupied.

The man who’d appeared at the far end of the cemetery eyed both men
curiously. ‘Did you two have the dream of the Grim Reaper offering the three
men their deepest desires last night?’ His voice was husky, similar to that of
legendary Hollywood actor, Al Pacino.

Simultaneously, Michael and the other man said, ‘Yes.’

Michael assumed the information would have startled him. Instead it
comforted him to know he wasn’t alone. He sensed the other two men felt the
same. Then he asked, inadvertently at the same time as the other two men,
‘What’s wrong with your eyes?’

A profound silence fell, broken only by the unseen serpents hissing in
the treetops.

‘What do you mean?’ Michael said.

The man from the far end of the cemetery said, ‘You both have blood red
eyes where the whites ought to be. I’m guessing mine are the same. Yes?’

The last of the three men nodded an affirmative.

The two men sat down on either side of Michael and faced the cemetery.
They decided after being reluctant to offer their names to each other that they
would call themselves Number 1, 2 and 3. Names weren’t important anyway.  

‘Old man Sacasa will permit us to use a back room to an abandoned
nightclub,’ Number 1 said. He gave Michael and the other man the address. ‘It’ll
be far more suitable for our task than rendezvousing here. For one thing it is
unethical and I don’t think it’d be wise for us to be climbing spiked fences
after closing time.’

The three did not exchange addresses, telephone numbers or emails. The
address they were given was where they’d meet every day. ‘Just like going to
work,’ Number 1 said. ‘And I hope I need not remind you that nothing that is
discussed between us is to ever be shared with the outside world. We have been
chosen to do an important deed. The child that will follow the Grim Reaper is
to be protected. The child born to be their saviour must be destroyed. If you speak
of this to anyone outside of the sect they will not believe you and the Reaper
will make you scream for all eternity. So, please. Use discretion at all
times.’

That had been how the three had formed their cult.

And the three feared the Grim Reaper exceedingly, to the extent that they
would never consider repudiation.

IT WAS TWO
WEEKS
after Aida Goldsmith had reported her son, Frank, as missing when a
resident of Brecon, Wales, reported having seen the abandoned Ford Mondeo
parked in a lay-by for more than a week now in the exact same position.
Realising something was amiss the citizen informed the local police who
investigated.

Until the discovery of the abandoned vehicle, police had filed Frank’s
disappearance with all the other “Missing Persons” unsolved cases. As Frank was
an adult his disappearance – unlike that of a child’s – wasn’t a main priority.
Thousands of men and women all over the country upped and left their mundane
lives and chose to disappear. One constable assumed that Frank had got tired
and frustrated with his nagging, overbearing mother and gone AWOL. Strange as
it sounded to people who lived contentedly, it wasn’t abnormal. Constant
pressure and stress induced crazy reactions.

Still, a female PCSO did assist Aida in putting up flyers around the
local village and queried Roland’s disappearance with some of his friends at
the pool hall. They even scanned the mountains for any evidence but found nothing
atypical, save lingering fog concealing the summit.

Nothing.

Ostensibly, Roland had found the end of the world and didn’t stop…

Aida was left in her home with a hollow emptiness. Her emotions as
baffled as she, neither knowing whether to remain optimistic or to start
contemplating grieving the loss of her only child.

She sat in her Laz-Y-Boy chair with the TV on. Anyone passing by and who
happened to glance through the living room window would see nothing out of the
ordinary. However, if they looked closer they’d see the impassive stare and the
absence of light from the green-brown eyes shrunken back into the wrinkly flesh
of a mother as lost as her son.

*

Swathed
in the swirling tendrils of unnatural fog, a shape of a man stood at the centre
of the amphitheatre at the summit of the Brecon Beacons. However, where he
stood now was as far away from Earth as the furthest galaxy. He stood with eyes
that had no colour for the whites had consumed the irises and the pupils.

The figure of a man who was once known as Roland Goldsmith to his
colleagues at the local council department and his friends at the Legion pool
hall and to his doting, dependent mother, had departed. Now the cue-ball eyes
rolled like marbles in his head. A green phosphorescent glow pulsed
rhythmically, pushing the fog up and out of the confines of the amphitheatre.

The wind caught the fog and surged forth with alacrity across the land.
No peace now or again settled in this country or any other. Roland was one of
many around the globe in each nation chosen to release the fog from the
somewhere beneath the foundations where darkness the world had never known
existed.

Bouncing on his tiptoes the body that had once belonged to a benevolent,
loving man, danced to and fro in the fog, embracing the light, urging onwards
to wreak havoc on those who least expected it.

Having danced in the glow of green light and breathed in its vapours,
Roland’s rosy-cheek complexion had now transformed into an ashen, fleshless
face glowing from within from the same pulsating beacon. His appearance was
that of a human torch, illuminating the night, like a candle in the wind.

Had Aida been present to witness this ungodly vision, she would have
fallen into the clutches of madness herself. The sight was so surreal it
couldn’t possibly be real. Her son never danced; never shone brightly, and had
the same green-brown eyes that expressed a profound love for a life of peace.

Then as though instantly overcome with bone-weary exhaustion Roland – or
whatever now resided in his mortal remains – collapsed to the earthen floor in an
entangled heap. For two whole weeks, every sunset the fissure in the ground
where the monolith had sunk issued swirls of fog, and the beacon amidst it
shone, urging it forth. Now the last tendrils of fog escaped the fissure and
were whisked away by the shrill wind down through the valley, invisible to the
naked eye.

Roland’s eyelids closed over, and had Aida only seen him now, she would
have been forgiven for believing her son was sleeping, having found peace.

*

Not
once in the two weeks since it had swept the UK was it ever forecasted that
there would be fog. No one could quite believe that none of the weather reports
on any of the channels had predicted it. Initially, the first day or two, average
people thought nothing amiss; presumably the fog had gone undetected on the
radar and satellite. However, as the fog moved its way from coast to coast,
north and south, even the most ignorant citizens started to question why this
was the case.

Perplexity rapidly evolved into anxiety when the U.S. was experiencing
the same troubles, as were Canada, and southern America. Predictably Europe suffered the same strange, unannounced weather. Yet when countries such as Japan, China, Australia and New Zealand also reported severe, unpredictable weather
patterns the world over began to conjure up all kinds of paranormal theories
that only ignited their worst fears.

Strange, unexplainable acts of random madness ensued. Husbands shot
wives. Wives stabbed husbands with sharp kitchen utensils. Pets attacked their
family members. Children killed other children, and the number of suicides
became innumerable.

At first the U.K. and the U.S. both believed this to be the work of
terrorists, leaking toxic substances that induced mad hysteria. The origins of
the fog remained a mystery. The governments ordered studious scientific
examinations of the drinking water and oxygen, assuming that an increase in
pollution and global warming was affecting people and causing bursts of
uncharacteristic behaviour. Their attempts were futile.

*

At
Larry Moretz’s funeral Rev Anthony Perkins felt out of place seated alongside
his snivelling, heartbroken sister in the front row of the pews. The pinewood
box was glossy beneath the many lights in the church. An arrangement circled
the coffin tapering the wreath that spelled LARRY at the head of the box. The
vicar spoke kindly of Larry Moretz’s sincerely, as though he’d known him
personally. Anthony had performed the funeral service for many of his
parishioners and always felt uncomfortable speaking about them to all who knew
the deceased; never knowing how accurate his words were that represented the
departed.

Anthony’s adopted parents also sat in the front row on their side of the
aisle. On the opposite side Anthony chanced a glance at Larry’s weeping
parents. He may have been unsure if he believed in God anymore, but it was at
these times he had the urge to console with all those grieving family and
friends just so he could eradicate or at least abate their pain and suffering.

After listening to Larry’s brave father recite a story of his son when
he’d been no more than six years old and singing a hymn, the vicar thanked everyone
for attending, informing them where the wake would be held and the place of the
burial.

The pall bearers hoisted the pine box onto their shoulders and, arm-in-arm
headed down the aisle to the outside. Anthony, with his arm wrapped around
Nadine, took his cue and followed. He quietly thanked the other mourners for
attending on Nadine’s behalf. Funerals were always the most peculiar
ceremonies, he thought. The loss of one soul brought so many strangers together
they were as entwined as close brothers. It was as though Larry was present and
aiding their recovery by bonding them together, giving them strength they’d
never have mustered themselves.

Yet as he thought this, in the last pew on the right-hand side two rows
away from the other attendees, Anthony’s gaze found that of a man seated in the
far corner, next to the grey stone pillar wearing a raincoat and hat pulled
down, concealing his brow.

The man appeared incongruous for two distinct reasons that rose in
Anthony’s mind immediately. One: he wasn’t wearing anything that resembled
funeral attire. You could argue that the man was unprepared and was fortunate
enough not to have attended many funerals of people close to him he’d lost and
hadn’t needed one until today. Two: he was seated two rows away from any of the
other mourners. There was plenty of room in all the rows, save the first four.
If he didn’t know anyone else that too was insignificant. Funerals weren’t
about sitting next to a friend or relative so you could discuss quietly.
Weddings maybe. Funerals never. Also, in the brief glimpse Anthony got of the
strange man it was palpable that the man in the raincoat didn’t look the least
bit upset.

As Anthony folded himself into the funeral car and buckled himself in,
the incongruous sight of the strange man took centre stage. Everything else,
the motor starting, Nadine’s weeping, and the car pulling away from the church
was secondary. What unnerved Anthony was why the man – who he deemed strange –
had taken residence in his think-box, deliberately pushing out the imperative
aspects that should have concerned and preoccupied him?

He supposed the man himself wasn’t strange. However, his presence at the
church during a funeral service was unprecedented. Also, Anthony believed it to
be extremely disrespectful.

*

The
wake took place in the Moretz family home. Larry’s mother had put on a
beautiful spread of ham, cheese, tuna sandwiches, sausage rolls, chipolatas,
and sticks of cubed cheese, bowls of different flavour crisps and chocolate
fingers. Bottles of Coors and Budweiser lined a separate table and glasses of
red wine.

Anthony cursed himself inwardly for being famished. He hadn’t eaten
anything all morning, and now it was already three-forty. On the way to Larry’s
parents’ home he could have died when his stomach grumbled loudly in the
confines of the car. He was only slightly relieved when Larry’s father said,
‘Larry would be laughing if he could see us now – what with your protesting
stomach.’

Anthony, put on the proverbial spot, didn’t know how to respond and said,
‘Oh, would he?’ Then he silently chastised himself for sounding like a knob.

Graciously, Larry’s mother came over with a paper plate filled with food
and proffered it to him. ‘There you go, love. And thank you.’

‘I should be the one thanking you,’ he said. ‘And I’m really sorry ‘bout
the stomach thing. I assure you I’m gonna have words with this gut of mine
later.’

Larry’s mother smiled amiably and shook her head. ‘I hope you retract
that silly apology. You made my husband laugh on the worst day of our lives.
Thank
you,
’ she added, emphasising the words the second time.

Anthony didn’t think, he simply leaned forward and gently hugged Mrs
Moretz, endeared by her cordial gesture when he wouldn’t have been at all
surprised if she cursed God for His selfishness. For Anthony it was people like
Larry’s mother who impressed him more than God Himself.

He sat back down next to Nadine who was nursing a glass of red wine,
staring despondently as he swirled the scarlet liquid close to the rim,
threatening to spill over her. He rested his hand on her wrist, ceasing her
motion.

As he sat on the arm of the sofa, Anthony traced the room, seeking the
man in the raincoat. He was nowhere in sight. He hadn’t attended the burial or
the wake. Perhaps he felt embarrassed for not making an effort to dress
accordingly. Or most likely, he wasn’t there for the funeral. He was there for
something else.

The mystery plagued Anthony for the rest of the evening, so much so that he
fell into a quiet solitude.