Expiration Date

by Nancy Kilpatrick

  Death was frowning at he, and Laurel dropped her gaze to the floor, too tired to keep up eye contact. Silence stretched between them, and Laurel let her mind drift, imagining that she was already dead, and that this, this quiet, was oblivion. Eventually, she heard a sigh.

  “Fine.”

  She snapped her head up to look at him. “Fine?”

  “Yes. Fine. Clearly I’m wasting my time here, and I have souls to reap who shouldn’t have to wait any longer. But in the interest of not interfering with my system… perhaps we can compromise.” He spread his hands. “I will move your name partway up my list. Not to the top— but closer. I will do this if, and only if, you promise to stop trying to end your life before your time.”

  Laurel thought for a minute, chewing her lower lip. “How much sooner would I get to die?”

  “Oh, no.” Death shook his head. “It’s rare that I allow a mortal to learn the exact age at which they will die. You’ve enjoyed that privilege once already. I will not give it to you again.”

  “Yeah. I guess I get that.” Laurel paused. “And— someone better will take my place? Get to live longer?”

  “Someone will take your place, yes. When you say it like that, it’s hard to believe you’re willing to abide by my rules, you know.”

  “Sorry. Okay, yes. I’ll take it. It’s better than nothing, right?”

  “I should say so.” Death reached up and extracted the notebook and a sleek black pen from his pocket. He flipped the book open to show Laurel where her name was written, then laid the book flat on one palm, crossed her name out, and wrote something else just above it— presumably someone else’s name, though Laurel couldn’t read his scrawl. She watched, fascinated, as his pen slid across the page, its ink glowing incandescent purple for a moment before drying to plain black.

  When he was done, he flipped several pages towards the front of the book — Laurel tried and failed to count how many — crossed out another unreadable name, and wrote Laurel’s in its place. He held the book up to show her, his thumb carefully positioned over her new date of death. “There. Done.”

  Laurel nodded. “Thank you.”

  Death returned the notebook to his pocket, slipped the pen in beside it and rose gracefully from his chair. “I’ll see you again, Laurel,” he said. Laurel watched him walk away, twisting her hands together in her lap.

  He was almost out the door when she cried out, “Wait!”

  He stopped and looked back at her, eyebrows raised, and Laurel wondered for an instant if a being like him could feel genuine surprise, or if he was faking it for her benefit. She made herself take one deep breath, then another.

  “I just… I…” Her voice was so soft, she could barely hear it herself. “No one’s come to visit. I only have my mother, and she…” She took another breath. “Would you hold me? Just for a minute? It’s been so long since the last time someone… and I’m…” She clamped her mouth shut, not certain she could say ‘lonely’ without breaking down in front of him. She wouldn’t let that happen again tonight.

  She stared at her feet, afraid to look up and see that he was gone. But a moment later, she heard footsteps, and raised her eyes to see him standing at the foot of her roommate’s bed. He beckoned to her with one hand.

  She rose unsteadily, legs half-numb from sitting too long. As she shuffled towards him, she realized he was standing directly in a beam of moonlight, and that he cast no shadow. Goosebumps prickled along her arms. But now she was in front of him, looking up into his plain, expressionless face, and it was too late to change her mind.

  She spread her arms, and then paused awkwardly, afraid it would somehow give a bad impression if she embraced him first. Before she could decide, he leaned down and wrapped his arms around her shoulders with surprising tenderness. She curled her fingers against the front of his scrubs and pressed her forehead to his chest, letting her eyes drift shut. He didn’t seem to have a heartbeat, so she counted her own. It took fifty-two beats before she worked up the courage to slide her hands slowly up his chest, bringing them to rest around his neck.

  Laurel almost shrieked when his hand closed around her wrist. He pushed her away, twisting her captive hand palm-up to expose the black pen she’d stolen from his pocket. Her heart hammered in her chest, and she wished she could drop the pen, but she was terrified to move in case he mistook it for an escape attempt.

  Then Death laughed softly, and she jerked her head up to see him smiling at her. He released her wrist, and Laurel let her arm fall limply to her side, entirely uncertain what was happening. She raised her hand and offered the pen to him, but he shook his head and reached out to close her fingers over it.

  “Keep it. I’ll take its loss as a reminder why I should never trust a human.”

  Laurel drew her fist back and pressed it against her breastbone. “You’re not angry?”

  Death snorted. “Do you think I’d let you steal something I actually need?” He leaned over so she could see into his breast pocket. It was completely empty. “The pen is just a pen. It’s the book that matters. And you’ll need far better tricks if you ever hope to get that away from me.”

  He watched her for a moment, as though waiting for a reply. A thousand thoughts reeled through Laurel’s mind, but she couldn’t come up with a single thing to say. Eventually, he turned and strode out the door and this time, he didn’t look back.

  Laurel walked over to her bed and climbed onto the mattress, leaning back against the pillows. She closed her eyes and clutched her fist tightly around the pen, squeezing harder and harder until her knuckles ached and her palm stung from the pressure of her nails. The pain crawled slowly down her wrist, burning hotter and brighter until it filled her mind and blotted out every other thought.

  After a while, she released her fist and opened her eyes. The pen nestled on her palm just above the angry red imprints of her fingernails. She placed it gently on the mattress, and smoothed the left leg of her pajama pants across her thigh until it was almost wrinkle free. Then she picked up the pen, wrote her name just above her knee in careful block letters, and crossed it out in two swift strokes. The ink flowed black, not glowing purple, but Laurel was still pleased with the result. She moved the pen a little further up her thigh and started again.

  When she ran out of space on her left leg, she moved to her right. She knew the psych ward staff would only hate her more for this, but she didn’t care. After all, she was going to die sooner now— so maybe she’d never come back here again. Her next attempt, she might finally get suicide right, or the one after that, or the next one after that. And if she happened to die too soon, at least now she knew the worst possible scenario. Which didn’t sound all that bad.

  She crossed out her name one more time, then wrote 1990— soon??? underneath, retracing several times so the ink began to tendril out across the cotton. After a while, the words became unreadable— just a smudge of black bleeding slowly across the fabric.

  Laurel smiled a little and laid the pen on her bedside table. She reached down to touch the still-wet ink on her pyjamas, then rolled over to face the window and pulled her knees up to her chest. She closed her eyes and let her mind fall into the blackness behind them, praying, as always, that the nothingness would last forever.

  * * *

  Morgan Dambergs has had short stories published in several anthologies, including Rock ‘N’ Roll is Dead and The Big Book of New Short Horror. She hopes to one day publish a novel. She owns a small secondhand bookstore, where she happily spends her days reading, writing, and chatting about books.

  The Great Inevitable

  by Patricia Flewwelling

  Julian awoke falling. Someone shouted a word. Julian convulsed, and he fell back against the bed like a sack of hammers. Voices male and female ping-ponged across his bed. Then there was a beat of silence.

  Something nearby growled and sighed, a dry, impa
tient, frustrated sound.

  Julian heard what sounded like a metal punch press, and again his body clenched as if his chest and knees were fingers in a fist. Every bone felt broken. He fell back against the bed, banging his head on a pillow as soft as plywood. A man’s voice issued a command. Machines buzzed ominously as they charged.

  All right, I’m up! Julian thought at them, and he willed his heart to beat again. God, how long do we have to keep doing this? Come on, then. Tick-tock, leathery clock!

  Someone chuckled in the corner. As clear as day, Julian heard wood chimes rattling.

  Five or six voices in the mumbling choir tentatively congratulated themselves on a job well done. Julian sighed and faded into sleep.

  * * *

  He became aware of his sense of smell. He knew what a hospital was supposed to smell like — chemicals, cleaners and plastic — but what Julian smelled was a field of summer-baked grass and raw chicken gone bad.

  A presence kept him company. For the most part, it lingered by the window; but when it came close, nurses rushed in to check tubes and wires and veins.

  Do you ever get bored of this? he thought at his companion. Bone-chimes rattled as if startled by a brief quake. Yeah, you, in the corner. He imagined the stranger dressed in monk’s robes and carrying a scythe. But instead of a bleached skull, what Julian envisioned was a warm, if impatient, smile. So what are you really like, old man? he thought at the figure now an arm’s length from the bed. You as boney as they make you out to be?

  The figure chuckled, but said nothing.

  Dry work, this is. Day after day, here I am, making my heart pump blood around a body I can’t even feel anymore. And there’s you, watching me do it, as if you didn’t have anywhere better to be. We make a fine pair, don’t we?

  Julian sensed a question, an amused inquiry that touched his heart like a radar ping. Yeah, I know you’re there, Julian thought.

  Death heaved a sigh that blew through the room like tumbleweeds.

  Oh, relax. You’ll have me soon enough.

  For endless hours, Julian thought about all the things that keep a man awake at night: the meaning of life, unpaid cable bills, grandkids, rotten stuff he’d left in the fridge. When he caught himself thinking about bad art, Julian realized his eyes were open.

  The hospital room was empty except for hideous furniture and ugly paintings. And there in the corner was Death, as visible as the sun-blanched walls, the dirty blinds and the eggplant-colored fold-out chair. Death’s hood was pulled forward, so whether it concealed a warm smile or a skeletal grin, Julian couldn’t see, but the overall posture seemed eager. Expectant, Julian thought. Like somebody with a broom ready to smack a spider. Death emerged from the corner.

  Ever wish you could retire? Julian thought.

  Death paused.

  Must get sick of all the bargaining and the whining and the questions… But, everybody dies, eventually. So what’s the point of fighting so hard? Even if you can postpone Death, you can’t cheat him forever.

  I’m sorry we’re such a whiny bunch of people, he thought at Death. Not like it’s your fault we never made enough of the time we were given.

  It seemed ridiculous to Julian that Death should appear surprised. Death was as old as life itself. He’d witnessed every secret murder and every public execution. Death was there at the Holocaust. Death was the last to see Elvis alive on the toilet, eating a deep-fried Twinkie. Nothing can surprise Death.

  Death chuckled.

  Nobody ever asked how you felt, did they? Julian thought. He thought of Death hovering over babies’ cribs. Nobody has ever cared how Death feels. Just me.

  Julian was funny that way. He’d been a dumb kid in his day, cheating, thieving, getting a girl pregnant by the time he was fifteen… fighting, drugs, alcohol… Then Carl Larson hit him with his car in ‘82. Carl had felt horrified by the accident, so he paid Julian’s hospital bills, supported him through physio and drug rehab, brought him into his family and treated him like a brother— like somebody worthwhile. And then Carl introduced him to volunteer work. Julian loved volunteering with the kids and the addicts, because he understood their lives better than any psychologist, priest or lawyer. The smallest glimmer of hope gave Julian a high neither drugs nor religion could. The more he gave a damn, the more he craved befriending the lost.

  And maybe Death needed a friend. After all, because of Death, Julian had turned his life around. He wasn’t a religious man. He never went in for that “accept Jesus or burn in Hell” stuff. But he didn’t want to die knowing he’d wasted his life. He had mended his ways because he hadn’t wanted people standing over his coffin telling each other how bad he’d been in life. He’d changed his heart because he didn’t want to be alone at his own funeral.

  In his way, Death had given Julian a reason to live. And in really living, he discovered life could be pretty good— if you made it that way. He’d done all right, in the end.

  Elaine was doing all right too. He’d been a lousy father to her— he’d only been fifteen and strung out on meth and gasoline fumes when she was born. But in ’99, long after he’d cleaned himself up, she’d contacted him, and they became friends— not as close as a father and daughter, as he hoped, but they were on very good terms. Elaine had always been fine on her own, without a father figure. She was self-sufficient. She’d do just as well when he was gone.

  But when he first held his very own grand-daughter in his arms, he was a giant. Baby Janine looked at him, trusting and thoughtful. Suddenly he was invincible, and good, and he’d vowed never to let that precious little life wander down the same paths he’d taken. He’d wrestle a wild bear and suffer a thousand knives if it meant keeping her safe. These days, Elaine and her husband had three great kids: Janine, now nine years old; Eddy, four; and Isabel, only two. Julian taught them whatever he could, and when his grandkids spoke, he listened. He didn’t always understand what they said, but he listened. With all his heart and soul, he listened because he was terrified of missing a single word.

  But he couldn’t do any of that now— no more volunteering, no more horsing around with the grandkids, no more fixing Elaine’s sink when it clogged. Not in this body.

  You didn’t do a good job of killing me, Julian thought at Death. He wasn’t bitter, just confused. Why make us both wait so long? And he was tired. Do you ever get tired, Death? Death didn’t answer. Julian’s eyes began to drift closed. All right. We’ll do it your way. No more bargaining. No whining. Death gets a break today.

  The edges of Death’s cloak blurred and became like crawling, seeping black smoke. He leapt forward, stretching white fingers toward his face and Julian’s eyes closed before he could see if they were flesh or bone.

  Alarms went off. People ran in. Feet thumped. Wheels squeaked. Orders were called out and acknowledged. They threw back the sheets and dropped two clammy blocks of marble on his chest. Damn it, here we go again. Giant hands squeezed him from both sides like a man-sized tube of toothpaste. When they let go, he fell back as limp as ever. Let me go! he thought. They hit him again. The heart monitor whined. Let me go, you bastards. Let me go. They hit him again. The alarm blipped.

  Damn it.

  People said things to each other in cautious tones, hovering over him with life-dealing weapons at the ready.

  Death hissed a long, heavy sigh.

  Yeah, Julian thought. I know what you mean.

  * * *

  He roused at the sound of someone crying.

  Julian smelled grasslands and rotting meat. He also smelled Elaine’s perfume.

  “Why do you have to take him…?” Elaine wept. “You let serial killers go on living in luxury, but you’ll take a man like my Dad…” Her voice broke. She’d never called him that before. “All he ever wanted to do was help people!”

  If I can just wiggle my fingers or something… give her a sign that
it’s going to be okay…

  “It’s not fair,” she moaned. “He was doing so well. He was helping people.”

  It’s going to be okay, honey.

  “Dad, you have to wake up,” Elaine said. “You have something to live for, remember? They ask where you are, and when I tell them, all three of them start to cry, and I… I can’t keep telling them lies anymore!”

  Everything will be okay.

  “I just wish you would make up your mind. Either die or wake up.”

  Ooh-wee, you and me both, Elaine.

  Enraged, Elaine said, “Death, I know you’re here.”

  Death and Julian were equally surprised.

  “I know you’re here, and I’m telling you, you can’t have him. Do you hear me? You can’t have him. He’s a good man!”

  Heedless to her outbursts — or maybe because of them — Death approached Julian’s bedside. No, don’t take me now! Julian thought at Death. How do you think you’ll make her feel if I die as soon as she tells me to make up my mind? A noise like a blast furnace emerged from Death’s figure. Death had lost his sense of humour.

  “Take someone else, if you have to,” Elaine hissed, “but you leave him alone!”

  Look, Julian thought, I’ll do whatever you want me to do. Just give me five minutes awake with her!

  The edges of Death’s robes unravelled into smoke and flame, and he bellowed in outrage. Even you, Julian? Death cried. Even you would bargain with me? Death lifted his scythe and brought its end down upon the hospital floor with the awful finality of a judge’s gavel. The sound jarred Julian in his bed.

  Elaine gasped. “Dad? Oh my God— Dad?”

  Two nurses rushed in, checking alarms and tubes and wires, and one of them stopped short. She looked back at him with an expression of mild confusion and shock. A fly-by smile swept across her hard lips, and she set to work as soon as the grin had passed.