Eternity's Echo

by H. C. Southwark

  Ellie could see it for what it was—a puppet. There were gears to articulate joints, and the eyes looked oddly like the plastic white-and-black googlies that children glued on paper. There were also little sticks, strings, and knots attached to the limbs, which fed back down to the rat-spider lurking underneath like a puppeteer.

  But to Keith Smithson the thing looked real.

  The man screamed an octave higher than Ellie thought possible. He was already terrified of damnation, and here it was in front of him, mouth and arms wide. The thing had him in its claws before he could think to turn and run the other way. Not that this would have helped him escape; Ellie would have caught him.

  You can have him. The words were on Ellie’s lips, but she thought better just in time.

  The puppet was about to take a bite—a big, fat chunk—before Ellie yelled:

  “Drop him, asshole! I am so done with this!”

  The demon paused. Ellie halted four paces away. Two eyes like live coals peered at her from the rat-thing in the smoke surrounding the puppet. Keith Smithson was screaming like a goose—with big, heaving breaths that made him sound like he was honking. In another few hours, Ellie would probably look back and find this funny.

  For now, she was too angry. Ellie stuffed a hand into her breast pocket, whipped out her pocket-watch. The dials glinted as they turned in perfect time. The demon did not move. But she knew that it recognized a reaper’s tool all the same.

  “I’m serious,” said Ellie. She would have liked to sound big, brave, like a movie heroine, but she was still puffing from her run, which ruined the effect. She managed to straighten, and stomped her boot on the ground.

  The threat was clear: I’ll squish you.

  In the smoke, the rat-thing’s glowing eyes narrowed. Just as Ellie thought that it might try to run with its prey—and that would have been a nightmare, she was already tired—the thing must have made some sort of risk calculation, because it dropped Keith Smithson and scuttled back for the bushes, puppet evaporating into air.

  Still shrieking, Keith Smithson fell ten feet and landed on his head, went quiet.

  At least that shut him up, Ellie thought. Before he could recover, she marched over and seized him by the wrist, making sure that she had him securely. No more running.

  Keith Smithson groaned when she pulled him into a sitting position. He did not seem aware that she did this with hardly any strain, despite being perhaps a hundred pounds lighter. He stared up at her, blinked, felt at his head with his free hand.

  “I’m still alive,” he said, confused. Clearly he had expected the fall to kill him.

  “Wrong,” said Ellie.

  She tugged, hauling him to his feet, then lifted her pocket-watch and clicked the knob.

  * * *

  Upstairs looked like usual. For Ellie, upstairs took the form of a hotel lobby her family had stayed in when she was six. She could not remember the hotel’s location. But she did recall the golden pillars, the couches with tassels, satin pillows in red and purple splayed everywhere. In retrospect, it looked rather like a brothel.

  Keith Smithson’s still-buggy eyes goggled at the room. Ellie tugged his arm, and when he did not respond she simply pulled him along. Then Keith Smithson decided to struggle. He yanked, huffing with effort, grabbed his caught arm with his free hand and tried to wrest from her grip. Ellie did not bother telling him that this was useless.

  Souls could not escape reapers.

  And so Ellie dragged him forward through the pillars—his shoes squeaking and squealing on the marble tiles. She stopped before the front desk. Keith Smithson halted behind, panting.

  Susan was there, dressed in Victorian-era bustle and corset, with one stripe of grey curled through her dark hair and into her lacy hat. She was flipping through a stack of files, humming to herself. Ellie caught a couple bars of “O Holy Night”—Susan was one of those weird people who listened to Christmas music all year long.

  “Colorado Springs,” said Ellie. “Age sixty-four, Keith Smithson.”

  “Oh, hello, Ellie,” Susan said. “Glad to see you back in time.”

  She sounded surprised, as if she was not expecting Ellie right then. Absurd—Susan handled the files, so she should have been aware of when each reaper would return with a soul. But people were always weird. Ellie had no reply, merely shrugged.

  “Did everything go well?” said Susan, who could probably see how Ellie was still panting from the run. She glanced down to flick through her files. Oddly, there were fewer on her desk than usual. She stopped when she found Keith Smithson’s file.

  “No,” Ellie said back, flatly. “He’s a runner.”

  “Is he?” Susan’s eyed Keith Smithson, who sweated and shook like hypothermia. This was not unusual in souls, but running was. Susan frowned.

  “What seems to be the problem, Mr. Smithson?”

  Susan’s manner was like a concierge. At first, Keith Smithson was bewildered. His mouth bobbled like a fish, and then he begged: “Don’t put me in Hell.”

  “We don’t put anyone anywhere they don’t want to go,” said Susan, calmly. Ellie rolled her eyes—she had seen Susan explain this to souls before, and it never worked.

  “I don’t want to go to Hell,” said Keith Smithson, still focused.

  “Well, what do you mean by that?” said Susan. Always best to ask for clarification.

  “I don’t want fire. I don’t want Hell.”

  “Fire?” said Susan, baffled. She had been dead now for half a millennium and seemed to no longer remember or understand what the living thought the afterlife would be like. The woman had even stopped updating her personal fashion two centuries ago—a shame, Ellie thought, because that meant an afterlife in a corset.

  “He thinks Hell is made of fire,” Ellie supplied. “Literal fire.”

  “Which one?” said Susan. Always more clarification, thought Ellie.

  Keith Smithson was blubbering out another version of the same request, but Ellie spoke over him: “He’s annoying. Can we just get this over with?”

  “All right,” said Susan. She flipped open Keith Smithson’s file and addressed him.

  “Sir. What would be your ideal afterlife?”

  This broke Keith Smithson’s mind from circling around his terror. He said, “What?”

  “Your ideal afterlife,” said Susan. “If you could imagine the perfect reality. Or, to put it another way, What do you want more than anything else?”

  Keith Smithson stared at her. Then, something in him seemed to pull itself together, some higher purpose rearing its head within his mind. He straightened, took a deep breath to inflate his chest, and said, “I would imagine a perfect planet Earth.”

  Ellie rolled her eyes—that could mean anything.

  Susan was more patient. “What do you mean by ‘perfect’?”

  “Ecology, of course,” said Keith Smithson. He was lecturing. “Humanity is threatening the planet. We must curb emissions, use carbon credits, and avoid further damage. In this century alone half the species on Earth will go extinct if we do not take action now—the world’s temperature will rise almost three degrees by the end of the century as the planet warms from human pollution.”

  “I see,” said Susan. “That sounds terrible.”

  “Yes,” said Keith Smithson. He looked relieved, as though Susan’s interest was reassuring enough that he could forget he was in a golden-pillared brothel-like entryway to the afterlife. He did not seem to notice Susan’s out of place clothing.

  He tried to shake his arm free of Ellie but she would not let go. Ellie would take no chances—having a runner here, upstairs, would make her a laughingstock for months. Glaring at her, he added, “And that is why I fight for the preservation of planet Earth.”

  “That sounds very important,” said Susan. Ellie snorted.

  “It is,” Keith Smithson said. “The most important thing in the world: to save the world.”

&n
bsp; “Do you find this fulfilling, then?” said Susan. “This saving of the world?”

  “Of course,” declared Keith Smithson. “I would gladly spend every moment of my life—” and he faltered, just for a breath—“fighting for Earth. I’ve fought some hard battles, but each victory is a smaller piece of the puzzle needed to stop climate change.”

  Susan nodded. Ellie could imagine what she was thinking: Sounds like a Hell to me. She turned to Ellie for confirmation, since Ellie had done the weighing of his heart.

  “Yeah,” Ellie said. “Guy’s obsessed. Saving wetlands or whatever.” Keith Smithson huffed. “Liked some girl but couldn’t stop talking about Earth. Doesn’t believe in God, Earth is more important, yadda yadda... totally flubbed a proposal. She said no.”

  And Ellie added, with glee, “He punched her.”

  Susan frowned at Keith Smithson like a grandmother overhearing a curse word. Flustered, Keith Smithson began stammering out excuses. Shaking her head, Susan pulled her fountain pen from its holster and hovered the tip over the file, asking,

  “Mr. Smithson, if you could keep fighting for the environment forever, would you?”

  “Of course,” the man said, as though the very question was offensive.

  “Then I can confirm this soul’s center,” said Susan, writing in her flowing, elegant script. Ellie could hardly read the handwriting, so Susan had taken to reading files out to her when Ellie got new assignments. Worse than a doctor’s note, Ellie thought.

  Confusion crossed over Keith Smithson’s face. “What?”

  “This way, sir,” said Susan, emerging from behind the desk to direct them left. Ellie dragged Keith Smithson along behind her, watching Susan’s bustle swish.

  Behind the desk was a wall of doors. Some were cut glass windows, but opaque inside. Others were steel slats with rivets, industrial, like restaurant freezers. There were doors that looked to slide open, like elevators, and doors that were big circles with gears and locks, like bank vaults. One entryway did not have a door at all—just a bloody cloth, torn in two, and narrow so a person had to turn sideways to squeeze in.

  That, or so Ellie had been told, led to Heaven.

  Reapers were not allowed there. If Ellie tried, she would never cross the threshold.

  Just one of the many pieces of evidence Ellie had concerning the nature of a reaper’s afterlife. A question that plagued her: were reapers in the lowest level of Heaven, or the highest circle of Hell?

  The inability to enter Heaven’s gate seemed to suggest the latter...

  But it was not conclusive proof.

  Their strange procession halted in front of a big wooden door with black metal trim and carved leaf motifs. Keith Smithson stared openmouthed. As Susan approached the door and tapped the wood to unlock it, he whispered:

  “What is this? I’ve seen this door before...” He paused, frowned, confused. “In a dream. Yes. I remember now—it was one of those scary dreams where I was being chased by a monster I couldn’t see. I made it to this door, and I was safe.”

  “That was God, dear,” said Susan. She pulled the handle.

  “God?” murmured Keith Smithson. “God is behind this door?”

  “No,” said Susan. “God was the monster.”

  “What?” said Keith Smithson, and then Susan pulled, the hinges creaked, and the door opened.

  Inside was a town street with paved cobblestones and the sound of a horse clopping. Sunlight directly overhead, tree leaves rustling. A warm scent of baking goods.

  Keith Smithson looked afraid.

  Ellie often saw this—just when she thought the souls would think there was nothing to fear, something in them would twist and they would be troubled. Once, a barren woman saw a door open to a child claiming to be hers, but then tried to run. Another time a banker had seen an enormous pile of gold coins, but made an about-face. A sex deviant had seen a dungeon and begged to be placed somewhere else.

  They all went in eventually.

  Ellie kept her hold on Keith Smithson. Usually souls just cowered for a bit and went in on their own time, but runners—well, they had already proven themselves. The trick was to only let go when you were certain they were going in, not escaping.

  Last time, Ellie thought, worst ever. The man had been a drunkard yet refused to enter the bar he was presented with. He had not been wearing any clothes. She had chased him for so long that she was nearly late to her next assignment.

  But Keith Smithson made very little fuss. He stepped forward, close enough to stick his head through and get a good look. Then he smiled, said—

  “Smell that fresh air!” He turned to Ellie, spoke like explaining to a child, “Why did you say that the Jesus freaks have it right? I’d be happy to spend my life here!”

  —and walked through. The door swung shut behind him automatically.

  The boom echoed through the pillars and reverberated through the upstairs halls.

  Idiot, thought Ellie. No place is happy.

  “Oh,” said Susan, with a sigh. With him gone, her demeanor turned distraught, staring at the shut door. “Sometimes I feel so sorry for these people.”

  “Right,” said Ellie. She knew what would happen to Keith Smithson, in theory. Souls lived out their obsessions. But Keith Smithson’s obsession, the environment, would never satisfy. In a trillion years of endless fighting for his cause, he would hate the environment with every fibre of his being, but be unable to stop. His afterlife was automaton, a robot following the programming his life had written for him.

  At least he doesn’t have to reap souls, came the thought. Ellie’s mouth tasted bitter.

  Susan smacked her hands together, like brushing off dirt. She turned to Ellie and smiled. “Well, I have another file for you, dear.” She started back to the desk. Ellie followed, her hand pulling the end of her scarf until the bruises burned like fire.

  “You’ll like this one,” said Susan. “Six-oh-seven in the evening, woman named Nancy Clarke, pushed from a window. Read to me like a murder mystery!”

  In the evening? Ellie did not check her pocket-watch, but she was fairly certain that it was only around noon. That meant six hours of waiting around. An unusual layover.

  “Great,” Ellie repeated. They reached the desk.

  “I was thinking you could use the break to get yourself a coffee or something,” said Susan. “You’re still very new at this, after all. Not quite into the rhythm of things.”

  “Thanks,” said Ellie, but thought, Forever. Reaping forever.

  A reaper’s motto: Work, work, work.

  Susan read her the new file. Against Ellie’s ribs, the pocket-watch thrummed. But time did not stop. Busy listening and memorizing new information, Ellie absently put her hand into her coat and touched the watch. Ticking away like usual. Must have been a fluke.

  She had no way of knowing that in two hours, the world would end.

  Chapter Five: Calling Foul on a Reaper’s Duel.

  A six hour layover, Ellie thought. She reappeared on Earth in the parking lot behind Stella’s Café and Bakery, beside Keith Smithson’s Prius. A couple passed her to walk inside. Relieved that a tow truck had not fetched the car yet, Ellie tapped the door, opening the lock, and sat inside the front passenger seat.

  “Nobody better pester me,” she said.

  The car should have been safe, where none would think to look. But on the driver’s side came another tap, and the door opened, a blast of wind carrying a girl inside.

  “Hey Ellie!” Cookie cheered. Her teeth looked very white in her mouth, contrasting to her skin. Cookie could never help seeming like the Cheshire Cat—and part of that was because she was always grinning. “I got an old lady in the old folks’ home up the street.”

  Of course you do, thought Ellie. Susan likes you.

  “Who do you have?” asked Cookie, pulling at her fingerless gloves. They went up to the elbows and had ruddy brown patches around the wrists, but did
not look actively wet. Cookie had been gifted—actually gifted—them by one of her assignments.

  “Murder mystery,” said Ellie.

  “Wow,” Cookie said. She slumped in the seat, tugged her beanie down over her eyes in a pout, but the effect was ruined by her grin. “I never get ones like that. What should we do? Should we go hang out around him and try to figure out whodunit beforehand?”

  Is this a game to you, Ellie wanted to say, but kept the words down. Cookie was not that bad. Other reapers—they had issues. Cookie not so much. Yet, even as Ellie thought this, Cookie’s face went sour and she popped the car door to lean out and vomit. A side effect of how she had died—pills, slit wrists, the whole teenage shebang.

  Not as many issues as some of us, anyway, Ellie amended. When the retching had continued for some time, she leaned forward and asked, “All right, there?”

  “Sorry,” Cookie’s voice was small. “Sorry. Sorry.”

  “Not your fault,” said Ellie, even though she had the feeling she was not the one being spoken to. She settled back into her seat and waited for Cookie to stop heaving.

  On her fourteenth birthday, Cookie had slept with her middle school teacher. Three months later, missing another period, she snuck to a women’s hospital. The facility had offered to do her right then, discount price, won’t-you-think-of-your-future, and there was not even the hint of reporting to the authorities. She paid cash from her allowance.

  She ran into protestors on the way out. Back then there were no laws about how far out said protestors could protest, so they lurked just outside the door. Still loopy from pain killers, she faced a poster. Took her a moment to figure out what it was.

  A dime. But blown up to the size of a car tire. And beside it—the unmistakable outline of a human hand. Translucent, except for the blood. A seedling. A stump.

  Baby killer. Murderer. Holocaust. Slut, monster, whore. Look what you’ve done.

  Over the next two weeks Cookie spiraled. She cried all the time. She lied to her parents that she was raped by a boy, who was arrested. She stopped going to school. She spent three hours a day on the telephone with her teacher, who said all the right things like he would pay her back the money and don’t you know I still love you, Cookie.