by S. C. Green
My whole body itched with the call of my kind, the desire to take each soul and conduct it safely to the world beyond. But I could do nothing to quell the tide of spirits that choked the skies. There were too few Reapers for too many dead, the work would never be complete, and many of those souls would never know peace. There was nothing I could do, especially not now. I had my own family to think of.
“There it is.” Jack’s voice wobbled in his throat.
Ahead of us, the tall skyscraper’s entire facade was adorned with bulletproof mirrored glass that could be turned to an inky black with the flick of a switch. The building appeared like a ghost, not a single light penetrating its smooth face. But this was the local government headquarters – housing the Reaper Institute (previously Reaper Affairs), alongside other government research facilities – and I knew it was never truly asleep.
We drove straight past the lobby and entered the basement parking garage. Jack used his ID to unlock the security gate.
As the gates rolled up, he turned to me and squeezed my leg. “Are you sure you want to do this?”
I nodded, taking his hand and removing it from my leg.
“Are you sure, Jack? You don’t have to come with me. There’s no going back from this. You could just leave me with the car and tell them I acted alone, that I fought you. I wouldn’t hold it against you if you backed out here.”
“I’m in this, Raine.” His intense gaze pinned to mine, the edges of his irises flickering with spears of light. “You know I am, for Lacey.”
“Then let’s do it.”
We had some tools and other gear in the back of the truck. We strapped what we thought might be useful inside our coats – Jack’s grey duffel, my long black trenchcoat (the same one every Reaper wore as a mark of our Order) – smoothing down the pockets so no bulges could be seen.
Jack removed his pistol from the glove compartment, loaded the magazine with bullets, and tucked it into his belt with a wince. He hated carrying that gun, but he wouldn’t let me touch it. “Only one of us needs to carry blood on our hands,” he’d said to me the last time I offered to take it.
We jogged across to the entrance, our shoes echoing like gunshots through the silent parking level. Being back here felt so odd. Once upon a time, more than a decade ago, I’d loved working here, back when it was the Reaper Affairs office. It had been my first real job out of college, a new cadet with a chemistry degree, anxious to prove myself. When I did, I’d been promoted to the wraith unit and to the rank of lieutenant. Arnold encouraged me to ask questions and search for answers – a practice often frowned upon in the rigid Reaper Order. I felt as though my life had some higher purpose, some meaning.
As I walked passed the bike racks, I almost expected my phone to start buzzing – Arnold calling to bug me about a report or suggesting I pick up a box of donuts for the team. I’d had some happy memories in this building. But that was before … before the dome, before the government didn’t need a Reaper Affairs office any longer (for Reapers no longer had rights that needed protection), and the Reaper Institute became something very different.
When the dome came down, I’d gone to Arnold, the only man I trusted, to beg him to let me go in and collect my family. That was when I learned I’d been pulled off the project I’d dedicated my career to. The government had not only trapped my family, they labelled me a traitor, a dangerous cancer within their ranks, just because I was a Reaper. It appeared certain factions had been looking for an excuse to be rid of Reapers ever since they’d learned of our existence. The appearance of the wraith was the perfect chance. I went to prison for a couple of years, along with every other Reaper they could get their hands on.
When the backlog of unreaped souls became too great for the government to ignore, they let me out to go deal with them. I was one of the lucky ones.
I reaped souls as a government slave for seven grueling months, then they put me in a breeding programme, trying to get a new generation of genetically-engineered Reapers, ones who would tow the government line. Three times I became pregnant through artificial insemination, and three times the fetus died before I could carry it to term. Each death was a knife twisting in my soul, a reminder of the living child I had already lost. The grief and guilt rotted my body and soul.
Finally, they retired me from the breeding programme and sent me into the desert with Jack. It was a life of sorts, a living, a chance to be near my family in exchange for my cooperation. That was more than most Reapers in my situation got.
Jack’s card beeped as his ID registered, and a quick scan of his retina confirmed his identity. The door swung open, and we entered a short, wide hallway, the walls decorated with tasteful modern art. The receptionist’s desk sat empty at the other end of the room, and beyond it, a wall of elevators. Thankfully, there was no one else around, but voices sounded from inside the rooms further down the hall.
I had my story all plotted out in case someone should stop us in the hall, but no one emerged to greet us. Jack buzzed down the elevator and we waited, both our postures rigid. We had this planned out perfectly. As soon as we did our little daylight robbery, security would lock out my card. But if we were fast, we could still escape using Jack’s card.
The elevator doors flew open with an ominous clang. No one got out. We filed in to stand in front of two businesswomen, and Jack hit the button for sub-basement level 12. We exchanged glances, and a droplet of sweat ran down the side of his brow.
The ride down into the sub-basement seemed to take an eternity. No one else stopped the elevator. Jack and I continued to share glances in tense silence. He dared a smile and reached for my hand. I pulled away. No distractions now.
With another clang, the elevator doors opened into a short hallway. Thick metal doors lined each side, designed to withstand a nuclear attack. Each one was locked with a state-of-the-art security system. Only people like me with level-12 clearance--provided my card still worked-- could get beyond those doors. But they weren’t really designed to keep people out. They were made to keep something in.
As soon as we stepped off the elevator, the doors banged shut behind us, and the cab moved back up the shaft with a whirring noise. I searched the doors along the hall, murmuring their inhabitants’ names under my breath, until I came to the one I was looking for.
Lucky Number 13: Red Rider.
“Here goes nothing.” I wrapped my shaking fingers around my ID card and swiped it through the slot, my breath trapped in my throat.
The door swung open, revealing a long, dark room. Computers lined one wall--ancient operating systems, well out of vogue, monitored different vital statistics. In the centre of the room, a single, dim bulb illuminated a long, grey tube standing on a silver plinth. In front of the tube, a control station beeped continuously, displaying a rolling series of data about the object beneath the tube.
Every surface was covered in a fine layer of dust. Some of the screens flashed system upgrade warnings. This room hadn’t been visited in awhile. Not surprising. The government didn’t care about the wraith when they were all locked up inside the dome. Who needed to figure out a way to kill the undead when you had a race of upstart raven shapeshifters to destroy?
I swiped my card in the station, and the screen lit up. I typed frantically, surprised and relieved my old passwords still worked. The computer presented me with a series of menus, and I navigated through them as though I’d just done it yesterday.
A new window popped up onscreen. OVERRIDE CONTAINMENT FIELD, it read, followed by WARNING in huge red font.
“Here goes nothing,” I whispered. I hit enter.
With a sound like a metallic hum, the tube destabilised. The thick grey cover folded away, becoming nothingness. Inside, a man stood, his outfit looking to be straight out of a Clint Eastwood western: blue jeans, a checkered shirt, leather cowboy boots. Around his neck, he wore a yellow handkerchief, and a black Stetson sat on top of his head – most people were buried in their finest clothes, but R
ed had wanted to lie in his rodeo gear – a hobby he’d indulged throughout his life.
Through Red’s transparent body, I could make out all the beeping monitors. Where once had been a thin-lipped mouth and two gold teeth, there was now only a gaping black hole.
I tried to speak, but no sound came out. I cleared my throat and started again. “Red, do you remember me?”
Red Rider – real name unknown – had been my primary subject during my time in the wraith laboratory. I’d worked with him for six months before the dome came down, and for a few months afterward, before I was rounded up and imprisoned. Red was different from other wraith. He could talk, and he wanted to talk, to learn, to understand. He held some memories from his life, snippets of emotions that he described in vivid detail. He knew he loved cowboy films, and a girl named Annabelle McVey, who’d died ten months before Red came into the Institute’s possession.
My superiors hadn’t wanted to talk to Red. All they wanted to know was how he functioned, how he could be killed, whether his energy could be harnessed and used in some way. I did some terrible things to him, and he never complained. He even asked about my own life, my family, my own lost love. We were friends, if such a thing was possible with a wraith.
But I’d been silent for nearly ten years. He might have forgotten me. Or worse, he might hate me for deserting him.
The wraith turned to face me, glaring down at me with cold, malicious blue eyes. If I’d misjudged this, Jack and I would be nothing but husks in a few moments. On the wall behind Red, several alarms sounded. The computers had triggered that something was amiss.
“Howdy, Rrrrrraine,” Red hissed. At least he recognised me. “It’s been a coon’sss age since I last sssaw you. Who’sss thisss gentleman?”
I didn’t have time for chitchat. “That’s Jack. Don’t worry about him. Focus on me. When I worked here, you promised that if I ever needed your help, I’d have it, if I got you into the dome. Are you still willing to uphold this bargain?”
“I ssswear on mah sssweet Annabelle’sss grave.”
“Good. Then we have an accord.” I held out my hand.
Red glanced at it for several moments, as if trying to decide if I was serious. Finally, he stretched out his fingers. Icicles froze through my veins as his flesh disappeared into mine. We’d shaken on it, or as near as he was able.
I’d just made a deal with the undead. Hopefully that decision wouldn’t come back to haunt me in the ass. Or bite me there, either.
“Raine.” Jack jabbed his finger at the monitors, which still buzzed with hundreds of alarms and warnings.
As Red stepped down off the podium, an even louder siren wailed overhead. That was bound to get someone’s attention.
“Follow us!” I yelled to Red, still not one hundred percent certain he’d obey.
Only Red’s upper torso was visible, his legs dangling through to the floor beneath. If he wanted to, all he’d have to do is float in a different direction and be out of the building in a flash. I’d never be able to capture him again.
But as Jack and I fled into the hall, Red followed. Apparently, I could take this particular wraith for his word. For now.
While we waited for the elevator to arrive, Red glanced at the names scrawled on the plates above the doors. “There are other wraith here?” he asked. “I reckon we bussst them out.”
“No time,” I said firmly.
Red hissed, swinging his gaping black mouth around to face me, his blue eyes fierce.
I staggered away, my heart leaping into my mouth. “I mean, we don’t have time right now. But we’ll come back for them, if we can.”
The elevator pinged open, and we crowded inside. I swiped my card, and the elevator hummed to life. So they still hadn’t shut off my access yet. It was only a matter of minutes--maybe seconds--before they figured out what I’d done. They’d probably be waiting for us at the top of the shaft, which meant we had to surprise them. Luckily, we already had a plan for that.
Jack and I stared at the metal grate on the ceiling, which housed a flickering light. I half-expected at any moment for it to be smashed out of the way and a gun pointed down at our heads. But the elevator kept rolling upwards, and no guns came through the grate.
I pulled my tools from my pocket and went to work on the screws holding the panel in place. A few twists with my wrench, and it came off in my hands. Behind it was the light fitting and a smaller trapdoor – a maintenance entrance in case the elevator became jammed in the shaft. I shoved a knife edge up between the trapdoor and the panel, hoping to dislodge the latch from the inside.
My knife blade came up against something hard. I’d found the latch. I shoved a second tool into the gap, this one with a hook on the end, and tried to manoeuvre it into place. If we could get outside the elevator without them detecting us … I dared to hope we might make it out of here without a gunfight.
Jack didn’t appear as hopeful – he’d dragged his pistol from his pocket and trained it at the doors. A muscle in his jaw bounced as some of the color in his face drained away. He wanted a shootout as much as I did.
“I think I’ve...” Just as I felt the latch start to give, the elevator shuddered, then stopped its ascent.
Jack punched the button for level three again, but nothing happened. The light above our head flickered once more, then went out. The glowing panel for the door blinked out, too. The gloom seemed to outline Red’s yellow handkerchief in a neon glow. His gaping black mouth turned toward me.
“They’ve jammed the elevator,” Jack cried.
“The fucking bag of dicks.” That meant they’d be coming down for us. We’d lost our only advantage – the element of surprise. I reached up again and continued to work on the latch, grunting as my arms started to ache. If I could get the panel free, maybe we could find some manual override.
“Raine, do you want me to do that?” Jack called, his voice wavering.
“While I hold the gun? No, thank you. I can do this.”
“Sssilence,” Red hissed. “They are coming.”
Sure enough, something clanged in the elevator shaft above my head, followed by a series of bangs. Jack punched the door button in vain. With a jerk, the elevator started to move again. But this time, it was heading back down.
“They’ll close us in down here,” Jack said, the pitch of his voice rising. “And probably flood the bottom levels with something poisonous.”
At that moment, my hook slipped through the latch, and I lifted it away. “Let them do it. We won’t be down there when they do.”
I lifted down the panel, revealing a square of dim light. I hadn’t thought to bring my cellphone with me since the signal wouldn’t work this far below ground.
“I wish I had a light,” I said, shoving the tools back into my coat. “I can barely see what’s going on up there.”
“Oh, wait,” Jack replied. Something crumpled and then a light clicked on.
Red hissed.
I squinted against the sudden brightness. Jack held a tiny torch, the kind people used to use when they needed to peer into a car engine or check for monsters under the bed.
“You are my hero,” I said as he pointed the torch up to the hole.
“This time, I am going first,” Jack said.
I didn’t argue. Instead, I cupped my hands into a foothold. He placed his boot on my fingers, and I boosted him up. He grabbed the grating on the top of the shaft and disappeared through the hole. A moment later, the beam of the torch shone down into the elevator. He thrust his hand down to me.
“No need,” I said and transformed.
It had been months since I’d last become a raven, the form from which a Reaper conducted his or her vital work. Even out in the Dream Desert, the call of the world’s forgotten souls tugged at me day and night, begging to be ferried over to the underworld. But the Institute had a taskforce of brainwashed Reapers who dealt with the backlog as best they could. I was too far from the city to do any real good there, and eve
ry time I changed, I risked detection by another Reaper, one who might have been under the influence of the Institute’s drugs. So I kept my human form, only occasionally shifting to fly out over the desert when the urge became too great, enjoying the wind cascading through my feathers and keeping my eye on the few ne’er-do-wells that still resided in the scrap.
Now, I called up the raven from within me, its form swelling in my chest like a spring of water welling up. When the force of it constricted my chest, I released it, and the raven took me over. My skin prickled as sleek, black feathers burst through my pores. My bones cracked and snapped as they reformed themselves, becoming the delicate, hollow skeleton of a bird. My stomach lurched as my organs rearranged themselves, and a long, sharp beak grew from my now deformed face. I lifted my arm and unfurled my wings, the feathers catching the warm air that rose up through the shaft.
Damn, it felt good to be back.
I soared up the elevator shaft, folding my wings back like a soaring bullet. My raven eyes saw in much higher contrast, and I could make out what was going on at the top of the shaft.
Two men had opened a chute on a different floor, and they were clambering onto a metal platform that could be used to perform maintenance or emergency repairs within the shaft. One man stood on the platform, his hands on the controls, while the other climbed over the railing.
I zoomed past his face, the edge of my wing slicing the skin on his cheek.
“What the fuck!” The man clamped his hand over the wound, his eyes hunting the darkness for what had struck him.
I circled back around and came at him again, diving for his face, my talons outstretched. If I could drive him back into the hall...
“That’s a Reaper.” His partner yanked a phone from his belt and barked into it. “Security, there’s a Reaper in the shaft— Hey!”
