by Bryan Davis
I raised a hand and called out, “Wait!”
The two attendants turned. “What?” Bartholomew asked.
“Can I take Mex’s cloak?”
Bartholomew squinted. “Whatever for?”
“To send to his family in Abilene.”
He waved a hand. “Go ahead. Since no genetically compatible energy will be flowing through it, it will deteriorate in a few weeks. We have no use for it.” He turned again. After a few seconds, he and Thaddeus disappeared behind the Gateway.
I stooped with Shanghai and Sing and stared at Mex’s body. His cloak lay spread out underneath him. Blood oozed around the edges of his valve, evidence that he had pulled furiously to detach from the vacuum tube that sucked the very life from his body.
“Give me a hand.” I unfastened Mex’s clasp. With Sing and Shanghai helping, I rolled his body enough to slide the cloak away. When we pulled it free, I draped it over my shoulder, the triangular roamer’s patch hidden from view.
“Are you sure his family will want it?” Sing asked as we continued crouching at Mex’s side. “It might just remind them of the system that killed him.”
“It’s made from his hair, so I think they’ll want it. I’ll ask them before I send it.”
“What was that Bartholomew said about stretching a friendship with your father?”
“I violated protocol, and he noticed. I’ll tell you about it later.” I pulled the watch from my pocket and checked the time—eight forty. Sighing, I picked up Mex’s adapter tube and shoved it into my cloak pocket. “We’d better get back to the station. Twenty minutes till the train comes by.”
Shanghai retrieved her staff from where we left our weapons and returned to Mex’s body. Bending low, she set the staff in his hands and kissed his ashen cheek. “Safe travels, my friend.”
We shuffled slowly to our belts. While Shanghai and Sing refastened theirs, I picked up mine and Mex’s and put them both on, one above the other. I reached out to Sing and Shanghai. Their eyes teary, they linked hands with me, and we began the walk back to the station.
For the first few minutes, everyone stayed quiet. The light rain had stopped, though the boughs above still pelted us with drops now and then. I hoped my two fellow Reapers would forget about the protocol breach. Apparently Bartholomew noticed that I had kept Crandyke but didn’t want to do anything about it. His excuse seemed lame. As far as I knew, he and my father hadn’t seen each other since my final shaving ceremony more than three years ago. He probably didn’t want to bother with the reports he would have to fill out.
Finally, Sing spoke up. “Has something like this happened before… a Reaper getting killed at the Gateway?”
I shook my head. “Not during any of my transfers. Bringing smuggled medicine to the Gateway is absurdly risky, so I can’t imagine it’s happened before.”
“I’ve never heard of it,” Shanghai said, her voice low and somber. “But I keep hearing rumors of a crackdown, so maybe we’ll see more stuff like that.”
I rubbed a thumb along Shanghai’s hand. “You and I will be part of the crackdown. We’ll be reaping the souls of executed criminals.”
“Criminals,” Sing repeated with a huff. “It’s not a crime to try to save your daughter’s life.”
“Not that again.” Shanghai raised a hand. “Look, I’m not getting into politics, so leave me out of the discussion. I’m willing to try to help the Fitzpatricks escape, but that’s as far as I’ll go. The system is the system, and there’s nothing we can do about it.”
“That’s a cop-out,” Sing growled, “And you know it.”
“You’re right. I admit it. I’m copping out. But what’re you going to do? Overthrow the Gatekeeper? He’s been in control for two centuries. It’s not like you can topple a god from his throne.”
Sing gave Shanghai a hard stare. “He calls himself a god.”
Shanghai returned the stare. “Well, if he’s not a god, then what is he? No one can live—”
“Okay, okay!” I looked at them in turn. “Listen, we can’t do anything about the Gatekeeper. God or not, he is what he is. All we can do is work within the system to keep people from getting hurt. We’ll collect souls like always, but maybe when we get to the camp we can figure out how to do a little more.”
As we continued walking, Sing drew her hand back and plugged her cloak’s clasp into her valve. “I just wish we could somehow contact Mex.”
“Right. You want a Reaper to go there and come back to report.” I laughed under my breath. “We might as well wish for chocolate drops to fall from the sky instead of acid rain. It ain’t gonna happen.”
“Oh, let her dream.” Shanghai plugged her clasp in as well. “It won’t hurt anything. I daydream about stuff I can’t have all the time.”
All three of us quieted, leaving rustling leaves and our footfalls as the only sounds. After nearly a minute, Sing said, “Like what, Shanghai?”
“Well…” Shanghai spoke in a wistful tone. “Like being able to go home and see my parents, so they can have a daughter to fill the void my brother left behind when he killed himself.”
Her voice pitched higher. “Like quitting this whole Reaper thing so I don’t have to watch another pneumonia-stricken old man drown in his own fluids. Or try to be stoic while a little girl curls in her daddy’s lap, crying in horrific torture because no one has any drugs to keep her from feeling the cancer that’s eating her brain. Then she finally dies in a violent seizure while her daddy weeps… no, he wails in inconsolable torment, and I have to tell him that it’ll be all right, that she’ll go to a better place, even though I have no way to prove it.”
Another pause ensued, filled only with water dripping from leaves and more shuffling. Sing broke the hush. “If we could figure out a way to prove it, we’d all be better off—the Reapers and the grief-stricken.”
“Yeah, right.” Shanghai held out a hand. “Feel any chocolate falling?”
For the rest of the walk to the checkpoint, we stayed silent. Sing kept her head low, apparently in deep thought. It seemed that her idea to learn the secrets beyond the Gateway wouldn’t give her any peace. She was right that it would be great to know, but it was just an idea, a child’s hope for chocolate rain.
When we arrived at the checkpoint, Erin scanned our birthmarks to register that we had left the compound. We told her about Mex, but she said in her unflappable manner that she had already received word about his death and the need to remove his body. She took no notice of Mex’s cloak, still draped over my shoulder, or his belt around my waist.
She also returned Sing’s medallion. For some reason it no longer carried the luster it had before—probably just my imagination—or maybe its battery-powered inner light had faded. Everything seemed duller now—the sky, the trees, my mood.
As we drew near the station, the other Reapers were milling about on the platform, though no one seemed to be conversing. The screeching of wheels rose in the distance. We picked up our pace. It was arriving a little early, so we had to hustle. The engineer wouldn’t wait for stragglers.
We climbed the stairs to the platform. With the rain bringing cooler air, the Reapers kept their hoods up and cloaks close to their bodies. I scanned the group for the Reaper who had been watching us earlier, but with every face partially hidden, the effort was useless. Even if I found him, what could I do? I had no proof that he did anything wrong.
I touched my clasp, still loose from my valve. Now was not a good time to energize my cloak. Crandyke might get loud enough for others to hear, and his presence would raise a lot of questions I didn’t want to answer.
After the engine and lead cars blew by, whipping us with a cool blast, the last car slowed to a stop at the platform. We let the other Reapers file in first, then entered and slid into the same facing benches we had occupied before.
When the train began a squealing departure, Sing reached into her pocket and withdrew the pamphlet she had taken from Bill. As she slowly flipped through the p
ages, I scanned some of the text. The first part appeared to be an account of the history of the Gateway, including what I told Sing earlier about the location of the depots. It went on to explain how Reapers become soul carriers and that each Reaper chooses a name of one of the cities that collapsed and burned under the burden of “An oppressive regime,” a dictatorship that prefers to let people die than to allow freedom.
Of course there aren’t enough dead-city names to go around, so there are many Reapers named Detroit, Hanoi, and Shanghai, though only one of each is allowed in any given Jungle city, the Jungle designation assigned based on certain statistics—poverty level, crime rate, and death-to-birth ratio. Nearly all of the history appeared to be factual with only a few oblique barbs directed at the Council and other members of the ruling class.
From that point, the pamphlet diverged into the Gateway-denier theories, what “really” happens to souls that enter the Gateway—crazy stuff about becoming dinner for soul eaters who feed on life energy. Their only proof was pure conjecture—“How else do you explain a world leader who seems to live forever? Why else would he encourage procreation and not allow enough medicine to take care of growing families? And the reason younger people are more valuable to Reaper quotas? They have more life energy to consume.”
I shook my head. Utter nonsense. Although the pamphlet raised intriguing questions, its answers sounded like fairy tales. Soul eaters? Did the pamphlet offer any evidence of such a creature beyond the fact that the Gatekeeper lived a long time? No. Nothing.
And regarding our quotas, right or wrong, young souls were more valuable because their removal from the population meant a bigger relief on the government—no education needed; no medicine for the years they would live; and a lighter burden on the family, making the survivors more productive. And procreation was encouraged in order to increase the supply of workers. If the children were healthy, great. If they were sickly, it was better for them to die. The policy was callous and cold, but it reflected reality.
Sing closed the pamphlet and slid it into her pocket. “Anyone else hungry?”
“A little bit,” I said. “More sleepy than hungry. We can find something to eat at the station when we get back.”
Sing leaned her head against my shoulder. “Then let’s sleep.”
Shanghai ran a hand along the empty space next to her. “I can’t believe I called him a freak.”
“Don’t go there,” Sing said, straightening. “Save the beating up for the people who really deserve it. Those Gateway attendants are callous killers. At least Mex should have had a trial.”
Shanghai shook her head, lament in her tone. “I like your spunk, Sing, but if you keep talking like that, you’ll be next. You haven’t been around long enough to know how the system works. As long as protestors just carry signs and hand out pamphlets, the Council doesn’t worry about them, but let one of them take a step of real aggression, and it’s lights out.” She nodded toward me. “Ask Phoenix. He’ll tell you.”
Sing looked at me, waiting for my affirmation, but I didn’t really want to contribute. Although Shanghai was right, why should I try to bridle Sing’s anger at the system? It might be better to let her vent. Besides, Sing had already seen two other resistors executed. She knew what “lights out” meant. “Maybe we should all sleep for a while. We probably won’t have time when we get back.”
“You’re right.” Shanghai leaned against the window, blinking as she stared at the dreary sky. She seemed lonely, disconnected, worried. With several windows partially open in the fast-moving car, cool air circulated. Shanghai drew her hood up and shivered.
I took Mex’s cloak off my shoulder and slid toward the window, scooting Sing as I shifted. I patted the space on my other side. “There’s room for one more.”
Shanghai crossed to our bench and sat next to me. I spread the cloak over all three of us, and we huddled underneath. Shanghai looped her arm around mine and leaned her head on my shoulder, while Sing and I leaned our heads against each other’s and held hands.
Warmth radiated from body to body—the soothing warmth of friendship I hadn’t felt in three lonely years. Yet, why had Mex’s death incited this call to comfort? None of us knew him well. We didn’t treat him like a close friend before he died. Now it seemed that his sudden departure had torn our hearts open and exposed secret fears.
Maybe we were commiserating. Maybe we didn’t really believe in the joys of the afterlife, just as Bartholomew had chided. Maybe we didn’t really believe in the Gateway at all. Could our roles as Reapers be something less than the beneficial transport that dying citizens longed for? Were we providing false hope to the bereaved and instead taking their loved ones to a place of eternal horror? Maybe our lot in life had been a lie. To whom could we turn except to each other?
Now, in spite of the rules against friendships, we had become close allies. It felt good and right. So what if the other Reapers in the car could see us? They could report an infraction if they wanted to. And with Mex’s triangular patch now in plain view, they would figure out what happened and guess that we were sympathizers with a crooked roamer. But I didn’t care. The pleasure of sharing a consoling touch with these two girls was worth it. In a way, it felt like Mex was covering us. Now we were all roamers, and no one could stop us from grieving together over the death of a friend.
While I rested, an image came to mind—Misty huddling with me under a blanket while sitting on a two-person bench. Before my initiation as a Reaper, I had been given a week at home for Christmas. One evening I went for a walk, supposedly to “enjoy my freedom,” but instead I sneaked over to Misty’s foster home. As we watched the snow fall from her front porch, I felt the same comfort Sing and Shanghai now provided. Misty and I didn’t say a word. We just enjoyed each other’s warmth and companionship. Why ruin the moment with awkward conversation? Our friendship needed no words.
Chapter Nine
After sleeping on and off during the trip back to Chicago, I awoke to the usual squeal of the slowing train. Now that it was close to noon, a crowd of people walked in and around the station, many of them out-of-work men and women hawking homemade goods and food to travelers. I took in the aroma of spicy soup, mustard, and freshly baked bread. My stomach growled for lunch.
When we disembarked, we walked behind the line of other passengers through the turnstile leading to the street, letting them take the brunt of shouting marketers and waving arms.
“Beef stew! Hot and hearty on this cool day!”
“Bread! Fresh from the oven! Meat for sandwiches at my cart!”
Sales transactions created a bottleneck, giving me time to survey the city block. Dozens of men and women poured out of three-to-four-story office buildings, a few in business suits, most in service-personnel clothes. The damp, blustery wind funneling between buildings hurried them along, sweeping skirts and flapping jackets. It seemed that no one paid attention to their fellow Chicagoans. They just wanted to buy their lunches and get out of the breeze and back to work. With unemployment so high, they knew they were expendable.
I spotted the cart I frequented standing well away from the bustle—Flo’s Odds and Ends. Taking Sing and Shanghai by the hand, I pushed through the crowd, ignoring the bleating calls from other vendors. When we arrived, we stood in line, two customers in front of us. I folded Mex’s cloak and waited.
Flo, a thin-faced lady with silver hair and deep laugh lines, stood behind a counter loaded with sandwich meats and breads; pots of soup; and bowls of lettuce, pickles, onions, peppers, and the like. In the midst of slicing through a sub roll with a long knife, she noticed us and smiled. “Phoenix! Welcome!”
The other two customers—a young bearded man in a coat, tie, and turban and a middle-aged woman wearing a smock dress and baseball cap—turned and backed out of the way.
I waved a hand. “No. Go ahead. We can wait.”
Smiling, the man spread out an arm. “By all means, take my place. I will not be the one to delay a trio of
Reapers.” The woman nodded, though she didn’t smile.
When I stepped up, Flo wiped her hands with a towel. “What’ll it be, Phoenix? Corned beef on wheat, lettuce, mayo, and pickles, right?”
“Good memory, Flo. And a cup of your chicken soup.”
“Colder, isn’t it? A foul wind, it seems.” Flo lifted her brow. “And for the ladies?”
Sing joined me at the counter. “I’ll have the same, except no mayo.”
“Just soup,” Shanghai said from behind me. “Thank you.”
“Something to drink?”
I nodded. “A large bottle of water. We’ll share it.”
While Flo prepared our food, I punched my Reaper’s code into a numeric pad attached to her cash register. After Sing and Shanghai did the same, I turned and again scanned the street. A dark-skinned man stood alone at the opposite corner, leaning against a building. Kwame? Why would he be here?
Kwame gestured with his head, as if beckoning me to follow. I nodded at the cart, hoping to indicate that I’d be along after we got our food. He nodded in return and sauntered away, his short sleeves making him appear immune to the buffeting breeze.
We gathered our food and walked toward the park between the station and my district, Shanghai on my left carrying the water bottle, and Sing on my right. Sing gave me an elbow nudge. I needed no explanation. It was time to tell Shanghai the rest of my plan.
After I swallowed a bite of my sandwich and took a sip from my soup cup, I turned to Shanghai. “We might as well get our plan going right away. You go to the camp and tell Alex you want me to help you with the reapings. Since you’ll eventually get a permanent roommate afterward, ask her if it’s okay to request me now.”
A smile emerged on Shanghai’s face. “That’s fine with me, but how does that help us get the Fitzpatricks out?”
“It’s a stepping stone. Get Alex used to the idea of putting us together so when I ask to get rid of the cameras, it won’t sound so bold. The key is for us to be able to plan in secret, so the cameras have to go.”
