Don't Fear The Reaper Read online

  When the old fart suggested that if his theory was in fact true then he too must be crazy, Vince subconsciously concurred with him. Yet his debilitating fear of the Grim Reaper was far more intense and insistent. If the Reaper had specifically asked him to do something Vince would not hesitate. It wasn’t Death he feared, it was the monstrosity that had greeted him the night before. Vince didn’t have much knowledge but what he did know without needing a second opinion was if he didn’t do as the Reaper sought, he’d suffer more than anyone else would suffer even during the aftermath.

  Although another part of his conscience did concur that the people were mad and that it didn’t really matter anyway. Some would say he was putting them out of the misery soon to follow. Getting sprayed and torn to shreds by a fusillade of bullets and dying either instantaneously or shortly after was better than being struck down and drowning in the oceans flooding the land or being torched by the falling asteroids.

  Lowering himself to his haunches, Vince cocked his head and studied the sprawled shapes, admiring the art he’d made similar to one admiring and studying a butterfly collection. There was something quite astonishing and beautiful in the lifelessness of the dead, stacked helter-skelter.

  He leaned over the body of a blonde girl with her hair tied in pigtails and drew closer, as though he was going to kiss her. Instead he inhaled and felt something that wasn’t a draught but had the same texture. He performed this bizarre modus operandi to every person in the store he’d killed. Only then did Vince realise the scale of the catastrophe he’d induced.

  Having worked his way further into the store, moving towards the rear where the frozen food section was, Vince had no proclivity to feel or show an ounce of sorrow. He offered no preference to his younger victims or elderly. They were all equal.

  Rather than hear the incandescent white stallion and the old rickety carriage, Vince’s intuition informed something – not someone – had arrived. He inhaled the remnants of life out of a colleague who wore a navy blue uniform slumped against the rack of On Sale DVDs: one of his first kills. Then he rose and headed back down the aisle, stepping over carcasses doing his utmost to avoid stepping in the crimson puddles and lose his balance.

  Vince came to an abrupt halt when he saw the towering, robed figure standing by the carnations and fruit and salad section. A part of the old Vince Lawton who had grown up being an obedient, pleasant boy desperately wanted to possess the fortitude to raise the powerful assault rifle and empty the clip into the most terrifying entity anyone could have ever imagined – and Vincent had once been an avid horror movie buff. Until last night, as far as monsters and spooks hiding under the beds and in the closets were concerned, Vince sincerely believed he’d become desensitised. Evidently that was not the case.

  The Reaper nodded once in both acknowledgement and approval for the bloody massacre on the glossy linoleum, illuminated like an ice rink. Vince couldn’t help but smile meekly, still afraid but relieved that he’d satisfied the Reaper. Then Death raised its right arm and pointed with an impossibly long skeletal finger, shrouded by the long robe back towards the entrance. Vince wasn’t quite certain his translation was accurate, yet he interpreted this gesticulation as the Reaper either telling him to go outside or was indicating that the woman had escaped.

  Vince didn’t need proof to prove his suspicions – he unequivocally knew that the Reaper knew everything that had transpired here. If the Reaper disapproved of his inability to capture and assassinate the ageing woman then any attempt of lying would be futile.

  The Reaper turned its back on Vince and faced the entrance fifty yards away. As big and as powerful as he was his mortal strength had no bearing on Death. Size and muscularity weren’t of any importance. It’d backhand Vince and have the same effect if it did the same to an old, frail lady aided by a walking apparatus.

  As though the Grim Reaper read Vince’s straying thoughts, its hooded head rotated on its unseen neck and made an audible, click, click, click. Vince clapped his hands over his ears, contorting his face at the strident sound. All the bones and tendons complained from the unnatural manoeuvre. If he hadn’t seen with his naked eyes he might have believed it was the top of a medicine bottle being screwed on.

  When the manoeuvre was complete the Reaper’s visage glowed from somewhere within the chasm beneath the hood momentarily.

  Vince screamed and recoiled, tripping over his own feet. He landed awkwardly on his hip, but right then that was secondary. When he got to his feet and chanced a glance Vince frowned, perplexed. The Grim Reaper was facing him and its features were concealed in the shadows of its hood. It pointed again to the entrance and Vince moved as far to the right of the aisle, his back to the shelves, eyes bulging, breath escaping him sounding like a kettle boiling and hurried out of its impossibly long reach and darted towards the way out.

  He didn’t even see the carcass he tripped over and managed to get his hands up before the ground rushed at him. An audible slap as deafening as the clicking of the bones and tendons of a neck on the verge of snapping ringed out in the superstore. Vince’s head shot up from the tangled carcasses staring wide-eyed at where the Reaper had been and relaxed when he saw the towering figure had moved on.

  Wincing, Vince got to his feet for the second time in rapid succession and this time focused on making his way out of the superstore.

  Outside the pale white stallion regarded him with dilated pupils, reflecting his haggard, sweaty unrecognisable face. The horse and black carriage with dark velvet drapes and opaque windows blocked his exit. He was about to sidle past it out of the glass-enclosed portico when the carriage door creaked open.

  Comprehension of what the Reaper meant almost bowled him over in an instant. This was what the Reaper had been pointing at. The Reaper now demanded he ride the carriage in its company.

  Vince’s heart solidified at the thought. Yet the fear of repudiating it was unthinkable.

  Feeling and sincerely believing that he was going to die of a coronary thrombosis, Vince observed himself taking two shaky steps towards the carriage, reach out and heave himself up inside the Stygian interior.

  The door slammed shut… and Vince had a feeling that if he did somehow pluck up the fortitude to change his mind and make for the carriage door he’d find the door locked and immovable.

  In fact he was so sure of it so he didn’t even bother to try…

  14.

  REVEREND ANTHONY PERKINS didn’t know what he found most harrowing: the fact that Bishop John Hayes’ premonition had been accurate or the fact that his newly born nephew had been born into the world as an orphan.

  He stood in the hospital, nothing more than a husk of a man. The body that belonged to him felt foreign. It was as if he floated above the familiar figure like a dutiful guardian sent in this time of tremendous suffering and soul-destroying hurt.

  The maternity ward reeked of disinfectant. The walls appeared to fluctuate and float, drawing closer, suffocating him. But that wasn’t true. He never suffered with any form of claustrophobia in his life. This was something induced by a higher echelon of pain altogether. The reverend who lost his faith in God half-fell, half-sat in the nearest chair propped against the wall.

  This is worse than dying, he thought.

  He’d gone out that afternoon and attained boys’ baby clothes and nappies and baby food, preparing to return in haste with his sister and nephew, only to have his whole world shatter. In a haze of shock, Anthony had made it past the reception area to the third floor. He awaited the return of his sister when the nurse informed him that there had been some complications and would escort him to a seating area outside the operating theatre.

  The nurse reiterated that she didn’t know what had happened when he kept asking her in the lift, although the heavy silence between them said what neither of them could. Something awful had transpired.

  The nurse with short hair tied back in a bun made sure he took a seat and went to find the gynaecologist to tell him he’
d arrived. No longer than five minutes passed when a weary, middle-aged man emerged into the corridor. His tunic was undone and Anthony immediately caught sight of the droplets of blood he’d missed when washing on his cheeks.

  ‘What’s happened?’ Anthony snapped, bolting to his feet, standing nose-to-nose.

  The doctor although red-faced gently took Anthony by the arms and walked forward a few paces forcing him back into a chair and sat next to him, never once taking his chestnut-brown eyes off him.

  ‘I know it’s bad,’ Anthony blurted out. ‘I just wanna know how bad…’

  The doctor nodded. He cleared his throat, turning away and preparing himself for giving the news he was about to offload onto the young man. ‘Your wife…’

  ‘My sister,’ Anthony corrected.

  ‘I apologise,’ the doctor said, rolling his eyes at his error. ‘The thing is tomorrow or the next day is what they’re all calling Doomsday. We’re understaffed, and I don’t just mean by a little. That’s to be expected in a hospital. You won’t believe how easy it is to pick up an infection or a virus. Our sick record is probably worse than our patients, except the elderly ones.’

  Anthony glowered at him, not appreciating his nervous rambling.

  The doctor’s shoulders slumped, realising that he’d been stalling. ‘Your sister… died.’

  In Anthony’s perception his words, particularly the last word got sucked down the empty corridor. Yet he heard the word that every relative of a patient dreads to hear or even consider. The word that signifies the end for the one they loved dearly. It was this sudden realisation that struck Anthony Perkins with the same force as that of a monstrous tidal wave. He was even too stunned to cry. That would come later in bucketfuls.

  ‘I’m really sorry,’ the doctor said, still holding Anthony’s arms. ‘You have to know how so sorry I am, and the few nurses who despite their own mortality chose to stay behind. We did everything we could with the limited staff, but…’ His voice trailed off.

  Anthony shook his head slowly, both in disdain and confusion. ‘My sister lost her life ’cause there was a limited amount of staff?’ The question didn’t seem to be directed at the doctor or anyone.

  Dr Jennings was hoping he wouldn’t have to explain the cause of death, although if this had happened under normal circumstances then that would be the correct and lawful procedure to follow. ‘Not exactly,’ he said, ‘although that was a contributing factor. Had we more staff that would’ve meant more hands and assistance. No, your sister died of what we call “obstetrical haemorrhage”. It’s a medical term; mumbo jumbo in the outside world.’ Jennings gritted his teeth at his asinine attempt of a little joke. ‘Anyway, what it basically means is or refers to is heavy bleeding during pregnancy or the pueriperium, or in this case, during labour.’

  Anthony lowered his head between his legs. ‘How does that happen?’

  Jennings made a face, wishing Anthony hadn’t asked that question. ‘Well, basically bleeding may be vaginal and external, or less commonly but more perilous, internal, into the abdominal cavity. Typically bleeding is related to the pregnancy itself, but some forms of bleeding are caused by other mishaps, such as pregnant women involved in automobile collisions and so forth.’

  Anthony raised his head in haste and immediately started to topple backwards. Jennings grabbed him and restrained gravity’s pull.

  ‘Nadine was careful,’ Anthony said, slowly sliding down the slippery path into denial to relieve the burden of agony soon to follow. ‘She’d just done some light exercises as her doctor told her, ate well; reported anything unfamiliar or unusual. She never even fell, never mind wind up involved in a crash of any kind. I don’t get this at all.’

  ‘No, no,’ Jennings said, quick to cut the line to that train of thought. ‘I was just giving you an example of how some women can lose their babies or have complications during pregnancy or labour.’ He removed his tunic and slackened the collar of his shirt. ‘Your sister…’

  ‘Nadine,’ Anthony said. ‘Don’t talk as if she was just another nameless patient that you operated on. She had a name, an identity. She had a personality and a soul. Say her name. Nadine… Nadine… Nadine.’

  Flustering, Jennings nodded. ‘Okay, okay. Nadine. Nadine.’ He enunciated her name and remembered the frightened woman whom he assured would be fine. It was as if she’d known that something unspeakable was about to befall her. He brought to mind her beautiful face, even with her long mane of hair soaked and tousled, plastered to her brow. ‘Nadine b…’ Jennings stopped. He raised his eyes to Anthony and said in a voice full of sincere emotion and melancholy, ‘Are you sure you want to know the rest? Isn’t what I’ve already said enough?’

  Shaking his head twice, Anthony said, ‘Everything!’

  Jennings gulped. This was the worst part of the job by far. It was also something that no amount of education and experience could prepare you for. ‘Nadine passed away – I prefer that phrase – because she bled copiously during labour from placenta previa and placenta abruption.’

  Anthony exhaled deeply. ‘Did she die in pain? And be honest.’

  Jennings let go of his grasp on the young man. He hesitated, not wanting to answer that question. Nadine’s brother seemed to not want to be spared the pain, but rather he wanted to know every intricate detail, as if the pain wasn’t enough. Jennings’ only brief knowledge of this type of human behaviour was when a relative or loved one felt guilty and wanted to be punished. He rested his hand on Anthony’s arms. ‘You didn’t do anything wrong.’

  ‘DID SHE DIE IN PAIN OR NOT?’

  Jennings almost jumped out of his skin. He uttered an expletive as he recoiled and very nearly toppled out of his chair. ‘Ask any woman if giving birth is painful,’ he said. ‘The amount of blood lost caused her to panic. However, amazingly she still managed to push her baby out of her womb, out of her vagina and into the world. She didn’t live long enough to hear the first cries of her baby boy. She did however ask me to go into her clothes and give you a letter she wrote for you. She said it would explain “what was going to happen” and what she asked and expected of you.’

  Anthony did a double-take.

  Jennings nodded. ‘Yeah,’ he said as if to confirm his incredulous notion. ‘I don’t believe in God n’ all that, but there are times in life when a woman who isn’t merely frightened of going into labour or the end of the world, but frightened of something else altogether. Something far worse. Whatever the case, she knew. Like she had a direct message from God or whoever, and that’s how she knew what her fate was.

  ‘If I die tomorrow or somehow find myself still alive after the meteor shower that’s gonna rain down on us like hellfire and brimstone, I will always hear the lamentations of Nadine Moretz echoing in the channel of my ears.’

  The young reverend couldn’t decide what was worse, the death of his sister or the fact she’d foreseen it?

  ‘Did she say anything else to you?’

  Jennings nodded. ‘She said “It’s coming. It’s coming”. At the time I assumed she was talking about her baby, as we could see the top of his head at that time. But she must’ve meant something else.’

  ‘Something else? Are you sure she didn’t mean “someone” else?’

  Jennings shook his head, adamant.

  ‘What makes you so sure, huh?’ Anthony was beginning to lose his temper with the doctor, and he didn’t want to lash out on someone who was not only innocent but also magnanimous to have even tried to help Nadine when others had abandoned the patients and made a run for it.

  ‘The last thing she said to me is even more frightening than Armageddon.’

  Anthony gripped the doctor’s arms in a vice-like hold. ‘What did she say? What were my sister’s last words, damn you!?’

  ‘She said, “You can be a king or a street sweeper, but eventually everybody will dance with the Grim Reaper”.’

  *

  Anthony’s head was buzzing with a tornado of thoughts and images.
His head felt light and dizzy. His stomach grumbled in protest of not being fed for hours. There didn’t seem to be any air in the ward. Jennings told him to go wait outside, and he’d done as the doctor suggested. Now he stood in the foyer welcoming the cool draught of the A/C. A white hot rage that he knew even in his current disorientated condition unhealthy consumed other emotions.

  His legs barely carried him to the vacant chair. He exhaled as if he’d walked several miles all on a hill. Sitting facing the entrance seeing the dwindling daylight ebb away was both relaxing and a perfect setting for the condition of his soul. Anything that had once been good in him was dying, rotting away.

  He wondered what he’d done to anger God. He loathed the fact that Bishop John Hayes had seen this and passed on the information beforehand. Yet what he loathed more than anything else was how he’d been unprepared for these turn of events. After all, he himself had had two premonitions. They obviously weren’t dreams as everything seen in them (whether they were from the prophet in the Vatican, Bishop John Hayes or his own dreams) was now unfolding in all its unprecedented form.

  Most of all what caused him to wheeze instead of breathe and accelerate his heart was Nadine’s dying words.

  You can be a king or a street sweeper, but eventually everybody will dance with the Grim Reaper.

  For a short while Anthony couldn’t fathom what that meant. Yet, sitting here on his lonesome, doing his best to come to terms with the devastating loss of his sister, he thought he’d sussed it out. The comment Nadine meant was no matter who you are in this world everyone will die and face Death.

  But what was so significant ‘with the Grim Reaper’?

  He vaguely recalled his vision of the Reaper flowing across the land and the antichrist following obediently. That had been more than a premonition. His feet had been muddy and had blades of grass jutting from the gaps between his toes.