Reaper (2 page)

Oz took the woman’s jacket and held the chair
out for her.

“You’ll figure it out,” he said.

He was two steps out of her cube before he
heard her staccato, unsure tapping begin. She muttered nonsense
about
amber eyes
and
sparkling vampires
.

She must still be in shock, Oz thought.
Everyone knows vampires don’t sparkle.

If nothing in The Department made sense,
which it didn’t, it was kind of comforting that no matter how
reluctant they were when they arrived, when you place a writer at a
desk, instinct takes over.

“It’s too bad about that whole celibacy
thing.”

A voice like tar and a disposition to match,
Vlad usually confined himself to a corner office where no one knew
exactly what he did. No one cared. Their fearless leader only
emerged to either make someone squirm or to usher them, a little
too enthusiastically, to his or her judgment.

Oz swallowed hard and turned toward the
voice.

“Pardon?”

Vlad nodded in the direction of the new
woman, thrusting his fleshy pelvis.

“Nice ass on that one. Tight. A little old,
though.”

“She can hear you.”

“She’s lost, kid. Not a clue in that pretty
head. A shell running on autopilot until she accepts what’s
happened. You remember that, don’t you?”

Vlad tapped his head.

“Still,” Oz said.

“If you called dibs, all you had to do was
say so. No need to be a pussy about it.”

“I didn’t call dibs. And since when do you
say ‘pussy’?”

Vlad smirked. “Of course
you
didn’t.”

He licked his lips and adjusted the girth
over his belt. He eyed the girl once more before waddling in the
direction of his office.

* * *

After Oz filled his “Written” bin with
another fifty-seven pages, hypothetical deaths—including a
toothbrush shiv to the larynx he was particularly proud of—the
fluorescent lights dimmed, and the hive hum faded into silence.

It was time for another lottery.

They’d been coming more frequently. With each
new writer that came in, another had to leave—be it by judgment, in
which the writer was sent to his Great Beyond (a catch-all term for
a place that Oz knew nothing about) or he was assigned another
duty. Rumor had it some of these other duties involved going back
to Earth. Back to life, in a way. Every time the lights twitched,
Oz hoped to be next.

Vlad heaved himself onto a vacant desk,
balancing precariously on the thin table, and surveyed the crowd
from above. He liked making sure they all knew they were beneath
him. His eyes locked on Oz a beat longer than the others.

“It’s that time again, ladies and gentlemen,”
he said. “Scribble your name—if you don’t remember it, just make
one up and we’ll figure it out when the time comes—and put it in
the basket making its way around the room.”

Oz tore the page from his typewriter and
wrote his name in big, capital letters at the center of the page.
He folded it, carefully creasing the seams, and waited for the
basket. He placed it with extra care at the top of the pile.

Once all the names were collected, Vlad
hoisted the basket and stirred its contents with the sharp end of a
jeweled letter opener he’d pulled from his belt loop. Oz once asked
Vlad if the letter opener was a necessary component to the process.
Would the right name come out if he’d stirred it with, say, a
pencil? Vlad had smiled that Humbert Humbert smile and said,
Wouldn’t you like to know?

Vlad reached his hand inside and there was a
collective intake of breath. He pulled a slip of paper, identical
to all the other slips of paper, from the basket and when he opened
it and silently read the name, a sneer played on his lips.

“Oz,” he said, “Meet me in my office.”

The others slid back into their
lumbar-support swivel-chairs and the typing chorus began. Oz kicked
his chair beneath the desk.
So long, suckers.

* * *

The only difference between Vlad’s office and
the cubicles the writers occupied was a heavy, steel door
impenetrable from the outside without the key or permissioned
entrance. Oz raised his fist to knock, but it opened before he
could make contact.

“Come in, Oz.”

Oz sat on the opposite side of a plain,
wooden desk. The computer monitor took up most of the space next to
an empty inbox.

“Looks like it’s your lucky day.” Vlad leaned
back in his chair. His gut was a mountain.

“Looks like.”

“A trainer is on the way to pick you up. If
there’s anything you want to take with you, though I can’t imagine
what, now would be a good time to grab it.”

Oz considered his calendar, but shook off the
idea. They could have it. “Where am I going?”

“Dirt-side, kid. You can kiss the tappity-tap
brigade goodbye.”

Dirt-side. Earth. Home. It was about
time.

“To do what?”

Vlad smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes.
“Reap.”

* * *

No one ever saw the reapers. Well, maybe they
did, but Oz never had. He’d heard stories, though. During those few
moments between pages, when the rhythm of The Department reached a
simultaneous rest, the whispers rose. Everyone had their own ideas
about what they’d seen or thought they’d seen just after their
deaths: wings, flaming swords, and the like. More archangel than
death dealer.

Oz couldn’t remember his usher into the next
life, so his vision of the Grim Reaper still came from a picture
book his older cousin showed him when he was seven. Black, hooded
cloak. Scythe. Skeletal hands and no face. Oz looked down at his
hands. They were sweating.

The chair outside Vlad’s office felt like
concrete. Oz was ordered to wait for one of the reapers to retrieve
him. He waited hours, or days, his anxiety increasing each time
someone that wasn’t a reaper walked past.

And then a thought occurred to him. What if
this was Vlad’s joke of the week?
Oz, the Reaper
. He had to
admit, it didn’t even sound convincing. Reapers should have names
like
Ivan
or
Gregorovich
. Harsh names you needed a
European accent to properly pronounce. He stood, prepared to take
the walk of shame back to his cubicle, but paused when he saw
her.

Auburn hair pulled back in a no-nonsense pony
tail showed off a heart-shaped face void of make-up. She radiated
confidence which made her way out of Oz’s league. He had more
success with the self-loathing types. She passed Oz without
acknowledging his presence and entered Vlad’s office.

If she was his teacher, he’d be the best
student they’d ever seen.

She emerged with a scowl, typical of any
woman having interacted with Vlad.

“He’s an ass,” Oz said by way of apology for
both what she’d probably endured on the other side of the door, and
for himself because that was all he was able to summon as an
ice-breaker.

“Nothing I can’t handle. I’m Cora,” she said
and offered her hand. “I hear you’re going to be joining us.”

Her grip was firm, her hand soft.

“Guess so.”

“Do you know anything about reaping?”

“Not a damn thing,” he said.

“Good. Bard likes it better when he doesn’t
have to deprogram new recruits.”

Her eyes sparkled. Oz never thought that eyes
could actually sparkle, but Cora’s did. He was so mesmerized that
he’d almost missed the part where Cora insinuated that she wasn’t
his trainer.

“Bard?”

“Yeah. He’s a good guy once you get to know
him a little. Bit rough around the edges maybe.”

It took every muscle in Oz’s face working to
their full potential to not look crestfallen.

“Speak of the devil,” Cora said.

The second reaper looked like the business
end of a burning cigar. His lips were pursed like he’d eaten
something unpleasant. Faint, but visible scars—burns, maybe—covered
most of his neck, jaw, and forearms. Oz didn’t want to think about
how much of the reaper’s body was scarred, but his mind went there
anyway. The reaper was old, but solid. Harmless at first glance,
but with something more sinister hiding; the kind of person who
probably had someone locked in the basement. As he approached, Oz
smelled cigarette smoke and vinegar.

The reaper raised an eyebrow at Cora.

“Oz, this is Bard. He’ll be training
you.”

Oz offered his hand.

Bard ignored it and reached for the pack of
Marlboros poking out from his jacket pocket. “At ease, soldier.
It’s a wasted effort. This dame don’t like dick.”

Cora punched Bard in the shoulder, knocking
him back a step.

Oz’s face burned.

“I wasn’t, I mean—”

“Got the lady fighting your battles for you
already, eh, Princess?”

“Bard, knock it off,” Cora said, though her
voice lacked sincerity.

Bard put his hands up. “Fine, fine. All in
fun.”

Nothing about his face said
fun.
Cruel
and unusual torture, maybe, but not fun.

If Oz had a gun, he’d turn it on himself if
only for the distraction. There must have been some kind of
semantic mistake. This Bard guy obviously belonged in Hell. Which
circle was it for perpetual humiliation? The third?

“Be nice,” Cora said.

Bard shrugged. “Ok, Princess. Let’s get to
it. The dead aren’t getting any deader. Cora.”

Bard tipped an imaginary hat to her before
marching away, not bothering to check if Oz was following.

He jogged to keep up with the old man and,
taking only a second to look over his shoulder to see Cora smiling
apologetically, followed Bard out of The Department.

Chapter
Three

Oz couldn’t see his hand in front of his
face, let alone to where Bard had led him. If not for the echo of
his movements, Oz would’ve guessed they’d landed in a
slaughterhouse. The air was thick with muggy heat and the distinct
stench of shit. Lights appeared overhead and, after his eyes
adjusted to the sharpness of it, Oz looked around. They stood in a
public bathroom the size of a large prison cell, walled with
yellowing tiles that harbored mold along the grout lines.

“A bathroom?” Oz asked.

“Gotta be someplace a person isn’t likely to
wander in to. The living don’t like surprises.”

Bard’s voice came from one of the stalls.

A flush. Then the stall door opened.

“And I wanted to piss.”

Oz couldn’t remember the last time he pissed.
Few things could compare to the ecstasy of relieving a full
bladder.

Bard backed into the door to open it while
plugging a cigarette between his lips.

“Think you can learn without asking too many
questions?”

“What do you mean?”

“Apparently, no. Look, questions are a waste
of time. There is no such thing as a satisfying answer, so there’s
no point in asking in the first place. Do me a favor and pay real
close attention, okay? I don’t have time to repeat myself.”

“I kind of thought that’s all we had.”

“You don’t know shit. We’ve got a bit of time
before the first pick up, so I’m going to show you where you’ll be
staying. So pay attention, because it’s not my fault, nor my
concern, if you get lost later.”

“I don’t understand. What does pick-up mean,
exactly?”

“I sure as hell hope my ears are just failing
me. That sounded like a question.”

I was right. I’m in Hell.

Oz followed Bard out of the bathroom and into
a dilapidated park. The dry grass crunched under their feet. The
trees were suffocated by moss. But it didn’t matter. They were
trees and grass; two of the many things Oz hadn’t seen in—fuck
knows. Too long. He walked ahead of Bard, drawn like a drunk moth
toward the sunlight peeking through a break in the foliage at the
edge of the park. He stepped onto the sidewalk. The sunlight
smacked him, hard, across his face and neck. Oz opened his mouth as
though he could lick the delicious rays warming his skin.

Skin.

In The Department, he’d accepted that what he
saw when he looked down at himself was the illusion of a body. His
mind hadn’t been capable of perceiving anything else. He’d been a
spirit, an amorphous
thing
; but this—he bent down and
whacked his hand against the concrete, it stung—was definitely not
the same
thing
.

“Call it a loaner,” Bard said. “Don’t bang it
up.”

“Can we get something to eat?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because.”

“Are we able to eat?”

“As in physically capable? Sure.”

“I’m hungry.”

“No, you’re not. You want to be. The routines
of life will all come back to you, but you’d be smart to ignore
them or they’ll run your existence. You don’t
need
anything.”

It was true, he wasn’t really hungry. But Oz
wanted to taste again. His mouth watered at the thought of that
first gooey, cheesy, tongue-scalding bite of the Juicy Lucy burger
from his favorite bar.

“But can’t we just—”

“No food. Work.”

“That’s it?”

“Was that another question? This way.”

The park was in a sort of city between
cities—a place forgotten by everyone except those who lived there.
Each building was a different shade of blue-gray, some stone,
others steel, with clouded windows. Pot holes deep enough to bust a
tire or break an ankle in dotted the main street that, as far as Oz
could see, ran straight into downtown a walkable distance away. It
was fucking depressing. Was the world always like this?

Looking everywhere except in front of him, Oz
was almost hit twice by oncoming motorists—one SUV and a school bus
filled with middle schoolers—during the short walk to a small
apartment building. He didn’t recognize it, or anything around it,
and Bard wasn’t sharing any details.