Grim Reaper: End of Days

by Steve Alten

  Francesca leaned back against Paolo’s chest. Her husband entwined his fingers around hers as David Kantor worked between her spread legs, the Army medic having shed his bulky environmental suit aboard the heated vehicle.

  “Okay, Francesca, looks like you’re fully dilated.” He turned to his daughter, Gavi assisting him from the next bench seat. “Find me something clean. A towel or blanket would be great.”

  Francesca trembled, her body exhausted, her nerves overwrought with fear. “You really are a doctor, right?”

  “With all the degrees. I gave up my practice to go into business. Maybe I should have gone into pediatrics, this’ll be my second delivery today.”

  Paolo forced a nervous smile. “See, my love, God has taken care of us. The first child you delivered, Dr. Kantor… what was it?”

  David swallowed the lump in his throat. “A healthy little Hispanic girl. Okay, slight push on the next contraction. Ready… steady… push.”

  “Ugh!” Francesca bore down, her unborn infant sliding farther down her stretching birth canal, the pain excruciating. Looking up, she saw the strange-looking Asian man watching her from across the aisle. “Why don’t you take a picture, it’ll last longer!”

  “My apologies. I am simply honored to bear witness to your miracle.”

  “Miracle? You call this a miracle! I’m on a school bus, giving birth in a plague-infested city in front of a bunch of strangers.”

  “Exactly. In a city taken by so much death, you and your husband have defied the odds and managed to survive. Now, out of the darkness, you bring forth a new spark of Light. And this is not a miracle?”

  David looked up. “The man’s got a point. Okay, one more time—”

  Hunched down in one of the rear seats, Sheridan Ernstmeyer watched the medic deliver the Italian woman’s child, her anger mounting.

  World Trade Center Site

  7:42 A.M.

  The site had been sanitized. The crime scene scrubbed. Every ounce of rubble inspected, yielding everything from family photos to personal belongings to the smallest traces of DNA used to identify air passengers and office occupants. Everything except the virtually indestructible black boxes that had been aboard the two aircraft safeguarding the in-flight recordings.

  Tons of steel shipped overseas. Replaced by gleaming fortified structures rising from Ground Zero’s excavated graveyard. Out with the old, in with the new…

  Patrick slipped through a detached section of aluminum fence and entered the construction area, marking the first time he had returned to the site where his fiancée and daughter had been incinerated alive, along with three thousand other innocent people.

  Trembling with emotion, he moved to the edge of a massive pit — the foundation of what would soon be another mammoth structure. A gray morning fog had rolled in off the Hudson, obscuring the partially constructed buildings looming across the site.

  He registered the now-familiar presence and turned to his left. The Grim Reaper was standing beside him on the overlook, staring into the pit.

  “Why have you brought me here?”

  The Angel of Death raised its scythe to the heavens. The Manhattan sky was concealed behind a dense layer of swirling brown clouds — just as it had been on that day of treachery.

  A dizzying bout of vertigo. Shep dropped to one knee as a sizzling wave of energy rattled his brain and extremities as if he had touched a live wire. Gasping a breath, he opened his eyes, disoriented and beyond confused.

  The sky is a maelstrom of swirling dark storm clouds, the rain that pelts his exposed flesh as frigid as droplets cast from a frozen lake and as fierce as a monsoon. He is standing upon a raised wooden structure, towering fifty feet above a vast forest of cedar rendered into acres of stumps and saplings by the axe. The valley below is flooded. The floodwaters rising.

  Advancing toward the wooden structure are people. Thousands of them. Carting children and possessions. Desperate and angry and scared. Standing in frigid water up to their knees, shouting at him in a Middle Eastern dialect.

  His attention is diverted to a new discovery — he now has a left arm! Only it’s not his. He examines his left hand, then the right… both weathered. Knotty, and arthritic, his flesh bears a Sephardic tan. He palpates a gaunt face, the leathery skin pruned in wrinkles. He grips a handful of shaggy white hair and strokes a matching beard. His rail-thin body is cloaked in damp robes bearing the heavy scent of animal musk.

  What’s happening to me? Is this another hallucination? I’m an old man…

  The cries of the mob demand his attention. He walks to the edge of the wooden structure and realizes he is standing on the deck of an immense boat.

  A crash of thunder rattles heaven and earth. The ground trembles, then the mountainside opens, the fissures belching molten rock, the magma setting the flooded landscape to boil.

  The crowd screams. Many attempt to board, climbing atop one another, only the coracle’s steep sides and rounded bottom render the feat impossible. The raging current from the flooding Tigris River sweeps the ark from its pilings, the scalding waters searing the flesh of every man, woman, and child.

  Shep bellows an old man’s wail—

  — returning his consciousness to the edge of the construction pit.

  Hyperventilating, his chaotic mind struggled to surf this last wave of anxiety, even as a new vision took form before his eyes.

  From out of the gray mist appeared the Twin Towers. Scorched, yet still standing. The two World Trade Centers had shed their concrete facade, revealing floor after floor of steel beams. Standing in unified silence within the framework of every bared perch of exposed office space were the victims of September 11, their identities silhouetted in the shadows.

  Shep turned, registering the heavy presence of these lost souls through the supernal being standing on his left. The Angel of Death gazed at him through three thousand fluttering irises rotating within his hollow sockets like percolating molecules. Dark blood poured from the upturned curve of his olive-tinged scythe — a steady stream that rolled down the wooden shaft, pooling and dripping from the creature’s bony right fist.

  Without warning, the Grim Reaper dropped feet first into the pit, the entity’s gravitational vortex dragging Patrick Shepherd with it… into the Ninth Circle of Hell.

  Pier A

  Battery Park

  7:45 A.M.

  Pankaj Patel drove the school bus over the curb and across an expanse of snow-covered lawn. Reaching the waterfront, he jammed on the brakes, the front end of the skidding vehicle smashing through the construction fence surrounding Pier A.

  The younger children screamed. Francesca Minos swaddled her newborn to her chest, shielding him from the jolt. “Paolo, find Heath. Help him launch the boat.”

  Still overwhelmed with emotion over the birth of his son, Paolo exited the bus, Pankaj and David Kantor in tow. Pushing through the battered gate, the three men made their way to the southwest entrance of the pier, entering the dilapidated building.

  The scent of plague was overwhelming.

  Heath Shelby lay beneath the suspended hull of his ten-foot Cuddy Cruiser, the deceased still partially dressed in his Santa Claus outfit. His complexion was bluish-pale, his lips stained in blood. A plum-colored bubo was visible along his neck.

  Paolo turned away in horror.

  David repositioned his environmental hood and mask, then knelt beneath the boat by the dead man. “Your brother-in-law… he was repairing the hull?”

  “Yes. He said… he promised he’d finish before we arrived.”

  “I don’t know if these patches are going to hold.”

  “You’d better pray they do.” Pankaj inspected the winch. “Paolo, how do we launch?”

  “Start the winch, and the hatch will open beneath the boat.”

  Pankaj activated the generator, then started the winch. Two steel doors beneath the boat slowly swung open, revealing the water eight feet below the pier. They watched as the Cuddy Cruiser was l
owered into the harbor. It bobbed gently along the surface. Exhausted, the three men looked at one another, smiling at death’s reprieve.

  And then the ten-foot passenger boat lurched to starboard, its bow heaving as its aft end filled with water—

  — salvation sinking to the bottom of New York Harbor.

  World Trade Center Site

  He was falling into darkness, the sensation accompanied by a rush of voices — distant memories — echoing in his ears. Sewer ball! Go fetch, German Shepherd… Not our battle, Sergeant… Well, you gonna stay down there all day… You pitched a helluva game today, son… Damn IED. Arm’s gone, skull’s fractured pretty badly… You said your good-byes three weeks ago… It’s a lot of gear, but you’ll be glad you have it… I love you, Shep… Blood pressure’s dropping! I need another pint of blood… I thought I was your soul mate?… Now pitching for the Red Sox—

  God, why am I here?

  “Life is a test, Patrick…”

  The speck of light raced up at him from below, growing larger… wider—

  — and suddenly he plunged through, submerged in clear, blue water. He panicked, disoriented… unable to breathe. He struggled, then kicked and stroked to the crystal azure surface, his bare arms tan, muscular, and intact. Swimming to the ladder, he hoisted his bathing-suit-clad body out of the swimming pool. Disoriented, he knelt on the slate patio deck.

  An oceanfront beach house. The sun, warm on his face. Water rolled off his physique. The Atlantic Ocean pounded softly a hundred yards to the east beneath a cloudless blue August sky.

  This isn’t real, it’s the vaccine…

  “Hey, baby. How was your swim?”

  He turned as she stepped out onto the patio, her body curvy and tan and irresistible in the skimpy red bikini, the wavy-haired blonde as gorgeous as the last day he had set eyes upon her.

  “Trish? Oh God… is it really you?”

  “It’s okay, baby. Everything’s gonna be all right.” She held out the hooded bathrobe for him.

  He slipped it on, feeling light-headed. “You’re not real. None of this… it’s all in my mind, I’m hallucinating again.”

  “Not this time, baby. This was the life the Creator stole from us… all to teach you a lesson.”

  “A lesson? What lesson?”

  “Humility. The pain of losing a loved one.”

  “But the war… all that came after you and our daughter died. It doesn’t make any sense.”

  “Apparently, these were transgressions from a prior life.”

  “This is insane. Why am I being punished for something I can’t even remember? Why am I responsible for some other guy’s mistakes? And why am I here… now? Is God rubbing it in my face?”

  “This isn’t God’s doing, Shep. We’re in the eleventh dimension, a far-more-livable realm that plays by a different set of rules. All of the filtered Light here is controlled by the Adversary.”

  “The Adversary? You mean Satan.”

  “Relax, baby. There is no devil, no demonic force. In the eleventh dimension, we’re not required to jump through hoops or endure endless suffering. All we have to do is want. Don’t look so worried. Every one of us is born with the desire to receive, that’s the entire reason we were created in the first place. Lucifer isn’t the devil, Shep, he’s an angel who left Heaven to help man be happy. Our desire to indulge brings the Creator’s Light into the eleventh dimension — an endless existence of fulfillment without all the needless pain and suffering.”

  A flash of light—

  — and he was standing on the pitcher’s mound at Fenway Park, facing the Philadelphia Phillies in Game 7 of the World Series. The sellout crowd is going wild, chanting his name. The score is 1–0 Red Sox, top of the ninth inning, two outs, two strikes on the batter.

  The scoreboard revealed that he was throwing a perfect game.

  He wound up, launching a 106-mile-an-hour fastball that the batter missed by three feet.

  His teammates rushed to him from all sides, their boundless joy intoxicating his soul. Fans poured out from the bleachers, delivering scantily clad women who pawed at his uniform—

  “Enough!”

  They were back at the pool, Shep lying outstretched on a cushioned lounge chair. Trish hovered over him, her oiled cleavage tantalizingly close.

  “Baby, what’s wrong? Isn’t this what you wanted?”

  “No… I mean yes, but I didn’t want it handed to me. I wanted to earn it.”

  “Shep, honey, you did earn it. You earned it all… only He took it away. He took me away. He took our daughter away. It wasn’t right. It wasn’t fair. And do you know why He took it from you?”

  Shep felt the blood rush from his face. “Because I took it for granted. I didn’t appreciate it.”

  “Nonsense. Of course you appreciated it. Sure, there were moments you slipped, but who doesn’t? Even the fight we had over this house… I knew you still loved me. We’re soul mates, after all.”

  “We are soul mates. I swear it.”

  “The truth is, I was the lucky one. Look at how you suffered after we died. All that pain, all that emptiness. Have you experienced a single moment of joy since we were taken away?”

  He pinched away tears. “No.”

  “War… famine. Endless suffering. Is that how a loving parent is supposed to treat his children?”

  “No, it’s not.”

  “Life isn’t about suffering, it’s about indulgence. Ask the rich and powerful if they’re suffering. This beach house is a perfect example. Had I listened to you and allowed you to buy it, your daughter and I would have never been on that plane. You were right and I was wrong, and you paid the ultimate price for our ignorance.”

  “Oh, God…”

  “Forget God. God is nothing but a concept… a fictitious figure sitting upon a throne, always asleep at the wheel. We never needed God. The Adversary has grown strong in His absence. The Adversary offers us his gift of immortality without any of these hidden tests.”

  “What do I have to do, you know… for us to be together again?”

  “For one thing, stop worrying. There’s no violence involved, you don’t have to kill anyone. Simply join me in a toast.” She reached for a carafe of wine, pouring the red liquid into a gold goblet.

  “A toast? To who? Lucifer?”

  “Baby, you have got to stop watching so many horror movies.” She straddled him, still holding the goblet of wine in her right hand. “Remember that course in Latin we took together as sophomores? Do you know what Lucifer translates to in Latin? Light-bringer. Lucifer wasn’t a fallen angel, Shep, he was sent to bring Light into our world through our actions. I mean, seriously, baby, does this look like Hell to you?”

  “No.”

  “Drink with me. Let us get drunk together from the fruit of the vine and connect with the Light.”

  Connect with the Light…

  Shep’s heart raced as his mind replayed a similar conversation he’d had with Virgil hours earlier in the cemetery. “Noah made one last mistake, the same mistake Adam made. The fruit that tempted Adam was not an apple, but a grape, or the wine that comes from them. Wine can be abused, placing man in touch with levels of consciousness that cannot sustain a connection with the Light…”

  He pushed the goblet aside. “And when I’m lying here, drunk, will you castrate me?”

  She forced a smile. “Shep, honey, what are you talking about?”

  “You know… the way my son, Ham, castrated me when he found me lying drunk and naked on the ark.”

  Her expression hardened, her eyes spewed daggers. “Drink the wine, Patrick.”

  “You drink it, soul mate.” He stood, tossing her from his lap, the goblet spilling wine across her face and down her neck and cleavage—

  — the liquid melting the flesh, exposing an ancient skull, darkened with age, the eye sockets fluttering with a thousand eyes!

  Their surroundings shattered like a hall of mirrors, revealing a dark, massive pit, the skele
tal remains of the World Trade Center looming overhead. Shep was standing on a frozen lake, surrounded by thousands of animated heads, the bodies trapped beneath the ice. Treacherous traitors of humanity, babbling in tongues. Each garbled word generated a tiny spark of light that floated through the rank air like a firefly, the accumulated specks absorbed by the massive creature frozen dead center in the lake.

  Lucifer was being held chest high in the ice, and still his shoulders and three heads towered ten stories above the frozen surface. The winged demon was terrifying to behold, yet it appeared oblivious of its surroundings, as if it were a front — a giant balloon puppet. Animated by the sparks of negativity generated by the babbling heads of the tortured.

  Hovering over Lucifer’s left wing was the Grim Reaper.

  On the demon’s right was the Reaper’s soul mate.

  Santa Muerte was dressed in purple satin robes, her hooded skull adorned with a wavy ebony wig. The abomination snarled as she saw Shep. Gripping her scythe in her bony fists, she advanced, swinging the deadly blade like a pendulum.

  Shep attempted to run, only he slipped on the ice and fell. He looked up as the curved blade looped downward from its arc, slicing through his deltoid and lopping off his new left arm in one brutal motion.

  He dropped to his knees on the frozen lake, the searing pain pushing him toward unconsciousness — only Santa Muerte was far from finished with him.

  Raising the scythe once more over her bony shoulder, she swung the instrument of death downward, the bloodstained blade whistling through the air—

  — its lethal blow intercepted by the scythe belonging to her male counterpart. The Grim Reaper stood over Shep, protecting him from the assault.

  And then a golden beacon of Light reached down from the unseen heavens—

  — whisking his consciousness out of Hell.

  PART 5

  Transformation

  Day’s End

  December 21

  New Jersey/New York Airspace

  7:50 A.M.

  (13 minutes before the prophesied End of Days)