Death Sucks

by Andrew Mallen

  Bobby shuffled in and along one wall, his feet sliding through the thick layer of muck coating the floor. He realized the muck between his toes was blood, the blood of the uncountable sinners that came before him. He wanted to scream but didn’t, it would only make things worse.

  This sucks.

  Most of his classmates hung upside down, suspended from nothing, in a row against the far wall. A wide mouth bucket sat below each one. Those who entered first hung limp, their buckets brimming with blood. Those freshly hung wriggled and squirmed, blood cascaded over their agonized faces and into the waiting receptacle.

  “No! In Allah’s name, please, no!” Haneef screamed.

  Bobby watched as she floated toward the gruesome assembly line, spinning head over heels as she approached. A crooked woman, as naked as a newborn and as black as his intentions, shuffled toward her. The crooked woman felt for her prey, her eyes, like her colleague’s’, were long gone. Her fingers found Haneef, deftly tucked the hood inside its collar, grabbed hold of her hair, and pulled the flailing woman toward her station as it flying a kite.

  Without thought or mercy she wrenched Haneef’s head back and cut her throat from ear to ear with the skill of a surgeon making a simple incision. Bobby tried to turn away but couldn’t, anticipation was part of the torture. Blood poured from the wound in a crimson deluge. Wide and wild, Haneef’s eyes disappeared beneath the flow, Bobby couldn’t help feeling thankful for the gruesome veil.

  The woman did not return to the line of those waiting for her blade, shuffling toward those hanging motionless at the opposite end instead. After weighting the bucket and finding it worthy she set it aside and tapped Ghede’s forehead with one finger, releasing him from his invisible tether to crash to the floor.

  “Up dog,” the woman wheezed, a thick German accent coated her words. “Take the bucket there.” She pointed one knotty finger toward a blacksmith with his hammer by his side, a blade lay waiting on his anvil.

  Ghede stood, picked up his bucket and stumbled around the circle, every step threatened to topple him. Snatching the bucket, the smithy inspected it as the woman had, set it aside, plucked the newly fashioned blade from his anvil and held it in the flames. Satisfied it reached the temperature required, he pulled the glowing steel from the fire and dunked it in the bucket of blood. Brought instantly to a boil, sizzling and spewing red steam like a geyser, the blood wicked the heat from the blade, hardening it. From a pile behind him, the blacksmith selected one of many stout poles, set the ring on the wide end of the blade over one end, and with one blow of his hammer, drove it into place. He handed the scythe to Ghede.

  “Come on you old fool,” Ghede’s guide called.

  Ghede did, carrying the scythe with outstretched arms, as if it was a bomb ready to explode.

  The efficient crew continued to hammer and harvest, and Bobby found himself at the front of the line far sooner than he’d hoped. Even if the temperature dropped two hundred and fifty degrees, and snow began falling from the flaming sky, freezing the place over, it would still be too soon.

  Bobby spun and screamed as he floated toward the crooked woman, his world turning upside down. The crooked woman hooked one finger into his gaping mouth, hauled him toward an empty bucket and set him to dangle above it. Digging one hand into his hair, she wrenched his head back to expose his throat. The blade came, it cut. His world went red, then black.

  There was pain, but it wasn’t terrible. The helplessness was. He knew he’d wake up, that his nightmare was a long way from over, that was the shitty part. If he could just die, simply cease to exist, he’d have skipped the line to get it over with. No such luck.

  “Up dog.”

  He heard the old woman’s command and obeyed, although he had no part in it. Rising on wobbly legs he took his bucket and marched toward his assigned blacksmith. He handed over his bucket of blood, waited as the smithy worked, and received his scythe in return.

  “This way boy,” Delroy called from where he waited by the doorway.

  Bobby went, it wasn’t like he had a choice.

  This fucking sucks

  “Now, now slick, the fun’s just getting started,” Delroy cried and clapped him on the back as he passed. “Now you gotta learn how to use it, trial and error is the name of that game, trial and error. But I’ll be damned if those errors don’t hurt like a motherfucker.”

  Bobby couldn’t imagine what he meant, he was better off.

  7.

  “Did you enjoy the forge?” Jones asked as the staggering class reassembled, a wicked smile curled his lips.

  Still in shock, nobody answered.

  Jones shook his head, wiggled one finger, casting them to agony. “Shall I ask again?”

  Feeble groans and whimpers echoed.

  “Let’s not forget our manners, it’s what separates us from the beasts.” He went on without releasing those writhing before him. “We are now at a very important stage of your development, one that demands an end to my leniency. The skills you must acquire are essential if you are to serve. None shall be deemed worthy until you master your scythe. Fail, which most of you will, and your journey ends here.”

  Bobby heard him but couldn’t understand a word, his body burned from the inside out, he wasn’t alone.

  “Oh, forgive me.” Jones’s fake apologies were becoming a cliché. “I forgot to release you.”

  He snapped his elongated fingers, the pain vanished.

  “Does anyone need me to repeat myself?”

  “No,” Bobby shouted, pulling himself from the floor.

  Jones turned on him. “No you don’t or no, don’t?”

  Trick question. Gotta cover all the bases.

  “Both… sir.”

  “Good Mr. Grant.” Jones smiled, his crooked teeth gleaming. “As you may or may not have noticed, depending on the limits of your intelligence, I have not yet asked you to don the hood that hangs at your back. A Reaper must earn the right to wear that hood. It is a privilege to view the world from the shadows, a privilege that enables you to walk among the living unseen. None can see you as long as your hood is in place. The caveat, one I made abundantly clear when discussing the rules, you are never to remove it when among the living. Never!”

  The warning was so loud it echoed for what felt like hours. Jones waited until it faded. “The hood is a gift, a powerful one, but one that comes with dire consequences should you abuse it. Do not, or your time beneath in will be short.”

  Jones waited, the class waited. His finger rose.

  “Yes sir.” Bobby cried out yet again.

  What the fuck is wrong with these people?

  “They are fools, gluttons for punishment, or both. Thank you, once again, for your prompt response Mr. Grant. A gold star for you again today! As a bonus for your brown-nosing I’ll call upon you later to be my victim…sorry, my volunteer when the need for one arises.”

  Bobby nodded and his guts quivered.

  Shit, what did I just do? When are you ever going to learn to shut the fuck up Bobby?

  “Where were we?” Jones asked.

  “The hood and the scythe make you invisible,” a raspy female voice responded, French and sexy even as it trembled.

  “Oh my word,” Jones groaned and winked. “Very good you sexy thing.”

  Volte studied her blood crusted feet.

  “So onto number two, this one is a mind bender so pay very close attention.” Jones searched for anyone foolish enough to ignore his warning, found none and frowned, he enjoyed torturing them far more than teaching them. “This world does not abide by any boundaries your feeble minds can understand. It is there. We are here. Here and there are not far apart, they simply don’t exist on the same plane.”

  Brows creased and heads shook amid the blank stares of those too afraid to show their confusion.

  “No worries, since there are no astrophysicists in your midst, I wasn’t expecting any of you to grasp the concept, and luckily, it’s not a requirement. What is
a requirement is that you learn the simple trick of traveling between the two worlds.” Plucking his scythe from the air, holding it high, he went on with the lesson. “This is your passport, your ticket to ride if you prefer, love that one. After my time those Liverpool lads but man do I dig their music.”

  Bobby’s mouth dropped open.

  A Beatles fan! Really?

  “Mr. Murphy, aside from blaspheming the Master, the second most offensive thing you can do is to insult the Fab Four.”

  Murphy looked fifty going on three hundred, his toilet seat of unruly red curls clumped with blood, his eyes sunken and lost. Fear aged him even more once under Jones’s scrutiny. “Just not my cup of tea Mr. Jones,” he replied, his Irish accent blended the words into a tune.

  “No, you prefer bagpipes and drums, or better yet, the screaming of a tender child while you peel their skin. Is that a better suited chorus for you Mr. Murphy?”

  “Those are all lovely Mr. Jones, as I’m sure you’d agree, and I meant no offense sir, to be sure. But as a proud son of Ireland I’ve no taste for anything English, ya know, because of the troubles up north. The rock-and-roll, the Liverpool lads, I never gave’m a chance to tell ya the truth.”

  “That old feud is long resolved Murphy and as an Englishman, God save the Queen and all that tripe, I must agree with you, both on the exquisite sound of dying children and a distaste for the rule of the monarchy. They didn’t treat me very well in the end.” Jones paused, lost in the memory. “It delights me to inform you I have seen my fair share of those blue blooded, incestuous fuckers in the Flame.”

  “And rightly so like, they’ve murdered more Irish, Scots, Danes, Indians, French, Germans, Welsh and every other poor soul they could reach since they put boats on the water, the bastards!” Murphy’s hatred pushed him to recklessness. “All in the name of their fucking crown, their fucking kings and their fucking queens, the same fuckers that hack’ em to pieces, steal their land and rape their women!”

  “Well, well Mr. Murphy! Good show! Good show! Is that why you killed and raped all those little boys and girls before feeding them to your pigs?”

  “No Lord, ’twas for the craic.”

  “The craic!” Jones screamed, shaking his head but smiling wide. “For all of you who don’t speak donkey, that quaint Irish bit of slang means ‘for the fun of it’, for shits and giggles you might say. It’s a favorite expression used by those on the southern end of the dung heap known as Ireland.”

  Murphy nodded but could not hide his anger at hearing his homeland maligned. His eyes narrowed and his jaw flexed as he fought to suppress it.

  “Although I both enjoy and respect your patriotism and your hate, I must punish you for your insult, regardless.”

  “Please my Lord…”

  The Irishman rose from his feet and floated toward the stage. Two nails appeared in the air, as long as knitting needles and honed to a deadly point. Murphy saw them and started thrashing, futilely trying to escape whatever force carried him. “It will be an excruciating experience but think of it as a lesson.”

  Murphy stopped between the nails, one on either side of his head, their wicked points poised outside each ear. “Obviously there’s something wrong with your hearing so, as a kindness, I’ll tune them up for you.”

  Not good.

  “Oh Jesus!” Murphy cried.

  “There’s no Jesus here I’m afraid.”

  The nails buried themselves in Murphy’s head, he screamed, his agony as bloodcurdling as the deed. Jones smiled, cocked his head and frowned. “Still out of tune I think.” The nails pulled free, drew back, and plunged into Murphy’s ears again, and again, and again.

  Oh man, he’s literally skull-fucking the guy with nails. Nasty.

  Murphy’s voice gave out long before Jones’s thirst for suffering. When the nails produced nothing more than the loose, wet sound of their penetration, and the Irishman’s ears were nothing more than mangled wounds, he relented. “Now that was a tune I can dance to,” Jones squealed and did a spastic shuffle to demonstrate. “Go on donkey, back in line, the musical interlude is over.”

  Slumped and broken, Murphy floated back to his place and dropped to the floor.

  *

  “Rock-and-roll ain’t noise pollution!” Jones cried out and waited. “Anyone? Anyone?”

  “AC/DC,” someone replied.

  “Mr. Kjeld, the Dane, very good.”

  Kjeld was well built and tall with a wide, hard face and a dense beard of the same bland yellow as his long hair.

  “And the Beatles?” Jones asked.

  “Excellent!” Kjeld roared.

  “Indeed, my wannabe Viking friend!” With his seemingly endless need for trauma and drama appeased, Jones switched back to his professor persona. “So where was I?”

  “Ticket to ride,” a voice replied, the words clumsy and rough.

  “Thank you Mr. Ortero. You see ladies and gents, even this rare creature, one unaccustomed to his fellow man, has the ability to listen and to learn. Very much appreciated my little murderous gaucho.”

  Ortero said nothing, his lined face didn’t even twitch, his thick mustache draped to his chin, hiding the sneer on his lips.

  “Creepy,” Jones whispered, and turned to pace the stage. “So, the scythe will take you where you need to go but you have little choice as to the destination. If your services are required, the scythe will alert you. Much like the devices that enslave the weak minds of modern society, it will hum, buzz, vibrate, you get my point. Then, and only then, you simply hold the staff in two hands, say the words, slice a hole big enough to step through, and a portal to your destination will appear.”

  Haneef raised her tiny hand.

  No way. Bad choice. This chick actually wants his attention? She can’t be that fucking stupid.

  Jones scurried to the edge of the stage and squatted in front of the girl. “Ms. Haneef, my camel-riding friend, I assume you have a question or do you simply adore my attention?”

  “You said we needed to say something to make it work,” she stared at the floor as she spoke.

  “Right you are my dear, right you are, bonus points for listening.” Jones stood tall to answer, wanting everyone to hear it. “The five who succeed will each receive a word that only they will know and...”

  “A password?” Tennen blurted out, realized his error, and quickly dropped his eyes.

  “A password, a secret word, a magic word, the title is of no importance. What is supremely crucial is that you and only you can know it, only you can recite it, and only your scythe will obey it.”

  Tennen nodded without looking.

  “Don’t fret boy, the odds are against you I’m afraid.” The kid’s head drooped even lower.

  Jones smiled, bright and wide, and returned to center stage. Facing the audience, he whispered, slashed his scythe, stepped through the portal, and reappeared a few feet away. “Easy as can be. Now spread out and try it yourselves. You may all use a generic password for the time being, let’s go with…Angels are shit.”

  Really?

  “Come on you lot! Or do you need added motivation?”

  Bumping and stumbling like children playing in the dark, trying to find space among others doing the same, they found Jones’s impatience instead. An acute blast of pain, administered by one loathsome finger, quickly restored order. Space was found and borders sorted, the fifteen remaining students stood slicing air in every direction. “Angels are shit,” echoed in every voice from every direction. Jones choreographed the mayhem, browbeating and degrading, ranting and raving, dealing pain with delight when needed, and with even more when it was not.

  Those accustomed to wielding tools were quick studies, the rest suffered. Bobby swung the unbalanced tool, slicing nothing, over and over, until he felt as though his arms and shoulders might actually fall off. Despite his bodies demand for reprieve, he didn’t dare slow his pace. Jones was waiting for someone to fail, he could feel the bastard’s hunger. Bobby push
ed himself through the pain, forcing himself to succeed and to keep his mind shut.

  At long last Jones called a halt, freezing them where they stood. “Not exactly awe-inspiring but it will do for the moment. Some of you will never need the skill, most in fact, it was more an exercise to familiarize you with your weapon than anything else, and now that you’re somewhat comfortable with your scythe we can get back to the fun stuff. Back to your places everyone, chop chop.”

  He released them and giggled as he climbed to the stage once again.

  Not a good sign.

  *

  “You hold, not just tools, but weapons. Lethal when wielded with skill but there is more to it. Killing cannot be taught, that desire lives in the dark recesses of you heart, it is up to you to find it. The enemy will not bare their breast and await your blade, they have weapons of their own. Gaudy things, ugly and pretentious, but if you fall to such a sword you will discover a fate far worse than death upon your return.”

  “What happens?” a short, dark young man, his face riddled with scars, asked.

  Jones studied the man for a moment, Jantjies held his eyes with his own. Jones shrugged. “I wish I knew. I wish mine was to devise a suitable punishment for those who fail our Master but no, mine is to teach you to avoid such failure.”

  “And if we kill them…the enemy?” Jantjies asked.

  “It’s your job to kill them, you gobshite! Do it well and continue to serve the Master, fail and its eternal torture. Simple really, even for you.”

  Jantjies nodded and dropped his gaze, leaving Jones to stare at his cornrowed crown. “Your rise through the ranks of the Ugandan death squad was quite impressive, such a tenacity for unbiased violence and merciless slaughter will serve you well.”

  Jantjies raised his head and smiled. Jones nodded and returned to his lesson.