Reaper (6 page)

“I spent all damn day trying to get into just
about everywhere within a mile radius and I couldn’t get past the
front door and you just waltz in...”

“Because we have business here,” Bard
said.

“And if we don’t?”

“People don’t invite death inside. Not even
subconsciously. Would you?” He pointed. “That’s our guy.”

All Oz could see were the backs of several
heads. They all looked mostly the same, with variations in hair
length.

“Which one?”

“Fourth from the register.”

“How do you know?”

“Just do.”

Their guy was a runner. Like a billboard for
Nike, his shoes, shorts, and tank top all sported the checkmark. He
eyed the pastry case while the woman in front of him placed her
order—a half-caf, skim, vanilla latte with no foam and a shot of
coconut.

“These coffee orders...the Magna Carta was
less complicated,” Bard said.

“There’s something familiar about this,” Oz
said.

Their guy pointed to a display of large
cookies.

Oz’s mind cogs clicked into place.

“I
wrote
this,” he said, sitting a
little straighter, not sure whether to feel proud or horrified that
a death he’d designed was about to take place.

“He’s a religious gym rat. Never missed a day
for years. Totally health conscious. You know, like tofu and shit?
Then one day,”
today
, “he orders a cookie. He figures,
what’s the harm, right? But he doesn’t know that they use peanut
oil in the batter. He’s allergic.”

Bard squinted. “And apparently a moron. Sign
right there says
may contain peanuts
.”

While their guy waited on the barista to
finish concocting his drink, he took the smallest bite of the fatal
cookie. He chewed slowly with his eyes closed, clearly enjoying
every sugary morsel. Once he’d swallowed the first nibble, he
finished it off in two fist-sized bites. He licked the crumbs from
his fingers while his cheeks still bulged with masticated
cookie.

His face described an instant of satisfaction
before he clutched his neck and fell to the ground, writhing.
Someone screamed, another shouted to call 9-1-1. Someone else tried
to give him the Heimlich, but it was no use. There was nothing
lodged in his throat. His lungs just refused to draw breath because
the swelling in his throat denied them the opportunity. The scene
shrank into a vacuum. Sounds muffled and Oz could only focus on the
man’s convulsions, growing less frequent, less violent.

Jesus
. It was exactly how he’d
imagined it, with one fatal error.

It wasn’t until the guy had gone limp, and
the man who’d tried to save his life laid his body on the tile,
that Oz recognized him.

Eighth grade. Or was it the summer before?
Those months blurred in Oz’s mind. He’d ridden his bike down to the
lake, which was more of a retention pond that they called a lake,
to hide the Playboys he’d stolen from his dad. It was the perfect
plan because his dad would never mention it. His mother detested
the things and would lose it if she knew they’d been in her house.
Oz had the perfect spot picked out, but when he got there, there
was another boy, Mark, sitting atop the log he planned on rolling
over the magazines, his own smut in hand. An instant and years-long
friendship was forged over the shapeliness of Miss October’s
tits.

Now, Oz scrambled to his feet, knocking his
chair backward. “He’s dying?”

He knew him, down to the scar above his left
eyebrow—a souvenir from senior year—but he refused to believe that
this was Mark. It had to be a clone. A Martian body snatch.
Anything but his best friend.

“Dead, actually. You’re up, kid,” Bard
said.

Oz shook his head. A fog held his thoughts
and actions in suspension. “Up?”

He took a shaky step forward.

“Mark?”

A faint glow drifted upward from Mark’s body.
The glow bent and molded until it became Mark-shaped. It stood with
its back to the crowd, and made eye contact with Oz.

The Mark-shaped glow hesitated for an
instant. Then ran. With Bard yelling after him, Oz took off after
it.

“Mark! Mark, wait!” Oz called.

Crowds unwittingly parted for the
chase—through the parking lot, up the length of the street until it
split in two. Oz struggled to keep up. He pumped his arms and
willed his legs to move faster, to keep moving, but this body was
limited and Mark’s Ba was fast.
Fucking old ass overweight
tux-body
. How did they expect him to do anything with it?
Mark’s Ba took the right fork and Oz followed until the industrial
area morphed into residential. His legs ached and his lungs burned
with each breath. He slowed to a jog, his eyes locked on Mark’s Ba
as the distance between them grew longer and longer. Oz jogged
another twenty feet before that was no longer a function his legs
were willing to commit to and stopped.

Hunched over, hands clutching his knees, Oz
sucked in great, lungs-full of air. When he looked up, he could no
longer see Mark.

The sun was hidden entirely behind the clouds
that promised a forthcoming storm, but Oz was certain he saw
shadows creeping over the road in front of him.

* * *

It wasn’t the explosion that had killed Oz.
It knocked him unconscious and burned seventy-five percent of his
body, but it hadn’t killed him.

Oz’s mother had found him under a smoldering
pile of refuse. Bits of aluminum and plastic pierced his face and
arms, but he’d been breathing. Barely. The paramedics were able to
keep him alive, resuscitating him twice on the way to the hospital
where they put him into intensive care.

After the initial surgeries to remove the
charred flesh from Oz’s body, Mark had been his first visitor. Jen
didn’t come.

Oz was just coming out of the anesthesia when
he heard the squeal of Mark’s sneakers. They were unmistakably
Mark. He shuffled when he walked. Too tired to open his eyes, too
sore to move, Oz had laid in bed, struggling to breath, and
listened.

“Hey, buddy,” Mark said.

The squeal of chair legs over linoleum.

“You’re an idiot.”

Oz had tried to smile, but only the corner of
his mouth twitched.

“You and me, we been through a lot. Lots of
trouble. More than Jen cares to remember, I’m sure. Look, we’re
fighters, right? Remember that time when I almost got my ass handed
to me by that old ass marine? I don’t know why that’s relevant...”
Mark’s voice caught. “Guess what I’m saying is that we aren’t the
type to just let something like death sneak up on us. We hear it
coming and we run. Run, Oz.”

A nice sentiment, Oz had thought, when the
entire lower half of my body was mummified in gauze.

* * *

Oz walked.

He had no idea where he was going, but he had
to find Mark and for some reason he trusted his legs to lead him
there. Oz wasn’t about to go back to Bard and ask for help.
Besides, this was his friend. He deserved better than Bard.

Oz tried to convince himself that he was
crazy. That being out of touch with humanity for so long was
causing his dusty synapses to draw connections where there were
none. But, confusing as everything had been since leaving The
Department, he knew he wasn’t. At least not today. It was
definitely Mark.

Every house he passed was identical to the
last. Same slant to the roof. Same garage door. Same driveway. The
kind of neighborhood that the Mark Oz knew would never be caught
dead in. He turned a corner into a deed restricted community called
Penny Terrace. There were no trees on this block. Only street
lights—all of them lit in preparation for sunset. Each home had a
second story, a bay window and heavy shutters. The last house on
the street had a basketball hoop bolted to the top of the garage
and a bike left haphazardly in the middle of the perfectly sculpted
front lawn. Mark’s Ba sat next to it, arms wrapped around his
knees.

“I can’t get in,” he said as Oz approached
him.

“Tell me about it,” Oz said.

“Am I really... did I really just...”

Oz sat down in the grass next to Mark. “Do
you know who I am?”

Mark shrugged. He didn’t take his eyes off
the bike.

“Last day of senior year, your drunk ass
tried to slide a bike like that down the railing of the community
pool’s ladder. They’d drained it for the winter. We all thought you
were dead when you hit the ground. But then you got up—bloody
forehead and all—and said—”

“Don’t be a pussy, Oz.” Mark looked into Oz’s
face. “You look different.”

“Yeah.”

“You’re dead.”

“So are you.”

“Yeah.”

They sat together in silence for a long time.
In his head, Oz shouted. Argued. Negotiated. Cried. Tried to force
himself through every stage of the grieving process as he knew
them, and a few extra steps for good measure, while simultaneously
coming to terms with the fact that this was, in fact, his friend
and not some random idiot who stepped in front of a bus. The
advantage of dying before the people you loved was in not having to
experience the pain of loss. This wasn’t fair.

“Ok,” Mark said. “Now what?”

“I send you on, I think.”

“On?”

“On.”

“Where the fuck is ‘on’?”

Oz shrugged. “I’m new. Still trying to figure
that out.”

“They sent an amateur to usher me
to...wherever? Oh, God. What if you send me to Hell by accident?
Fuckin’ A, Oz, you couldn’t even get us to the bar some nights.
You’re directionally retarded.”

“Harsh.”

“I’m dead, Oz.”

“So am I.”

“I can’t do this.”

“Yes you can. Trust me.”

“What about my son?”

This was not a question Oz was prepared to
answer. His son? “I didn’t realize...”

“Jen got pregnant just before you...” Mark
smirked. “You would’ve been his godfather if...” And his smirk
fell. “You probably would’ve been a better father to him.”

“That’s not true.”

“Could you look after him?”

“Me?”

“You
owe
me. Besides, you’re the only
person other than Jen I trust to look after him. He’s thirteen. Can
pretty much take care of himself. He just needs... guidance.”

“Mark, I don’t think I can.” How could he
look after a boy who couldn’t see him? Couldn’t acknowledge his
existence? What was he supposed to be—this kid’s guardian
angel?

“You have to. Please.”

“I’ll try.”

“Promise me.”

Oz closed his eyes for a long time then
opened them and said, “I promise.”

Mark looked up at Oz and searched his face.
After a moment, he said, “All right, then.”

Oz tried to remember exactly what he was
supposed to do. Bard hadn’t really given him any instruction, and
the process was simple enough that Oz would undoubtedly botch it
without even trying.

He took Mark’s hands in his and wondered for
an instant if there was any chance of Mark staying with him; but
again, a deeper instinct took over and dissolved any hope of that.
Oz offered a weak smile and blew gently into his best friend’s
hands. A shimmering gold coin formed from his breath. As Mark’s Ba
faded, Oz caught a glimpse of Jamie’s bright blue eyes staring at
him from between the blinds of Mark’s front window. They
disappeared almost as soon as Oz met them.

Jamie.

Mark’s son.

There was no point in confronting him. Not
yet. Didn’t even know if he’d be able to. There’s only so much a
guy can take in one day.

* * *

What a fucking nightmare. Mark, the one who’d
talked the pair out of so much trouble; who’d saved their asses on
more occasions than Oz could remember. It didn’t make sense. It
wasn’t right. Mark had been the survivor. But now he was dead and
he had Oz to blame for it. Son of a bitch. And to think he’d been
excited to watch his handy work. What was wrong with him?

At least now Oz knew where he was. He was in
his home town. Was that planned or just some sick coincidence?

Oz didn’t remember leaving Mark’s front lawn,
or if Jamie watched him go. He didn’t remember wandering back the
way he came. It was like his brain was filled with noxious, black
smoke—too thick to think through, too heavy to want to try.
Awareness finally found him as he passed a food truck, and the
sound of crackling animal fat and the strong smell that accompanied
it punched through the fog.

There didn’t used to be food trucks. There
didn’t used to be anything.
Home
had been bulldozed, built
over, and now looked nothing like where he grew up.

As he sat down at a picnic table in front of
the food truck, it started to rain.

He laid back and let it sting his face,
keenly aware of every drop. Rain. Another thing to add to his
multiplying list of things he hadn’t seen, felt, thought about, in
ages. When Oz was a kid, and even into his teenage years, he would
stand in the driveway when it rained, just to feel it. He would
imagine that each drop clung to a small badness particle that’d
clung to his skin, and dragged it with the droplet to the ground,
away from him. There wasn’t enough rain in the world for him to
feel that way now.

The shower was brief, as Florida showers are
wont to be. Soon the heat would take away any proof that it’d
rained only moments before. Oz sat up to find Cora looking at him
from under a black umbrella.

“You’re soaked,” she said.

“You can tell Bard that it’s done. Mark’s
gone.”

“I’m not here for Bard,” she said, closed the
umbrella, and sat down next to him.

“Your ass is going to be wet,” Oz said.

“Wouldn’t be the first time.”

Oz smiled, but it faded quickly.

“I’m sorry,” she said.

“I feel like that’s not going to be the last
time I have to watch someone I care about, die.”