The Ferryman Institute

by Colin Gigl

  The first section was a collection of inset folders, each containing several sealed envelopes with names hastily scrawled across them. They were for Melissa’s staff, no doubt. Charlie grimaced at the thought of passing those out—Hey there, I’m your new boss because your old one kicked the bucket just for me. Pleased to meet you. He decided he’d host a meeting with all of them tomorrow before doing individual meetings—it would probably be easier that way.

  The next section, a collection of documents, made up the majority of the binder’s contents. Most were typed, but several were clearly copies of much older, handwritten forms. As Charlie continued flipping through, he would occasionally find a sticky note from Melissa affixed to a page. The headers of the documents weren’t all that illuminating—titles like “A Treatise on the Nature of the Ferryman Artifacts” and “Notes on the Selection of Ferrymen” didn’t exactly reveal much—but Charlie hoped they would after a careful reading.

  He reached the final section, and flipped it open. Inside was a plain manila folder inserted freely into the binder, a large note attached to its front. It read:

  Thought you might be interested in this.

  —Mel

  The memo earned a raised eyebrow. Well, I am now, Charlie thought. It wasn’t like Melissa to be circumspect. He removed the note and slid out the folder. The first thing he noticed was the stamp hidden underneath, clearly blazoned across the folder’s cover: Office of the President. The second were the words written on the folder’s tab.

  Death Record: Elizabeth Crowley Dawson

  Charlie stared at the name, his brain slowly piecing together what he was looking at. Then his hands started to tremble, so much so that he had to set the folder down on the desk. The pain in his head, his leg—everywhere really—disappeared instantly. He shrank away from the folder like it was a leper.

  His wife . . . It was everything the Institute knew about his wife—including how she died.

  When it became clear after his induction into the Ferryman Institute that Charlie wouldn’t be allowed to see Elizabeth again, he’d spent a considerable amount of time trying to find out this very information. What had become of her? For years—decades even—he’d asked around as discreetly as possible. He knew the odds were minuscule—given the sheer number of Ferrymen who existed and their continual turnover, it wasn’t so much finding a needle in a haystack as in a forest. Still, Charlie went about his quest undaunted. But as the years passed, either no one he talked to had her case, or no one could remember. After eighty years, his questioning became far less frequent. By ninety, he only asked as an offhand aside every now and then. A hundred years? Maybe he asked once or twice.

  And now, lying in front of him, were his answers.

  Which, of course, was the exact moment the knock on his door came.

  Charlie cleared his throat and replaced the folder in the binder. “Come in,” he called.

  The door cracked open a bit, then Alice’s head poked out from behind it. She looked at him, then took a quick survey of the room from behind the door. Apparently satisfied that it wasn’t booby-trapped, she slid in, closing the door behind her. She stood in front of it, both her hands behind her back on the knob still.

  “Hey,” she said.

  Charlie didn’t move. He was simply too surprised to see her. “Hey” was all he managed back.

  Alice’s eyes took to studying his new office. “Nice digs,” she said. “Can I sit in one of your fancy chairs?”

  Oddly enough, that was what removed Charlie from his stupor. “Sure.”

  “Thanks,” she said, even though she was practically sitting in one before he’d replied. She folded her legs, crisscross, and let her hands fall in her lap. It looked grossly uncomfortable to Charlie, but it seemed to suit Alice just fine.

  “So, is how are you doing considered classified information nowadays given your fancy new title? I’m dying to know.” She grimaced after she spoke. “Really poor choice of words just now. Sorry.”

  But Charlie waved her concerns away. “No, and fine. Lots of things to keep me busy. In fact, I’m surprised the Council even let you come visit me with everything going on.”

  “They didn’t,” Alice replied nonchalantly. “But Cartwright might have strongly hinted at where I’d be able to find you. Besides, it’s not like I’ll ever be back here, so fuck it. What are they going to do, shoot me?” She let out a mock laugh. “But seriously, please don’t let them shoot me. I’ve had enough guns pointed in my general direction to last a lifetime. Two or three, even.”

  “I don’t know . . . What’s in it for me?”

  Alice considered that for a moment. “My undying gratitude . . . ?”

  “Please. I don’t want anything that’s undying for the rest of my mortal life.”

  Mortal life. Now, there was a phrase Charlie hadn’t thought he’d ever use again in reference to himself. But it was true . . . he was mortal. Maybe not quite a normal human, per se, but not far off. It was the only thing he’d wanted for so long—not because he wanted to be a regular person, but because he wanted to escape his life as a Ferryman so desperately. So much death, so much pain . . . and now, he could finally leave—say his farewell, bow, and wait for the curtain to fall. For the first time, that was his choice to make.

  But he no longer wanted that. The constructs of his life that had been pulling his sanity apart now stood silent. In fact, Charlie was having a tough time understanding it himself. And yet there it was . . . The girl in front of him—this strange, wonderful girl—was his reminder that there was more to living than just watching it end.

  “Nothing undying, huh . . .” Alice stood up from the chair and began to stroll around the room. “What about undying love?” She picked a random book from the bookshelf and began to absentmindedly thumb through it.

  “Exceptions to every rule.” Charlie carefully rose to his feet, barely even wincing this time. He slowly hobbled his way over to where she was standing, book open in her hands. “Do you want to go for a walk with me?” he asked blithely, and for a moment, the past and future simply melted away and he was left to exist in just that moment.

  “Around here? Won’t you get in trouble for that?” Alice replied.

  Charlie shrugged. “You only live once, right?”

  Alice laughed, genuinely and fully, at his admittedly awful joke. Her smile seemed, for the very first time, carefree. It was what Charlie knew was lurking there all along, hidden but not forgotten. Later on in his life, he would point to that moment as when he knew things he couldn’t possibly have known, but which all managed to come true anyway.

  She rolled her eyes. “I swear to God, the absolute cheesiest dork I have ever met . . .” She closed the book in her hands and set it aside on his bookshelf. “Sure, I’d love a tour of your office. Lead on.”

  Charlie held up a single finger and limped back to his desk. “One second,” he said as he pulled a pen from the canister on his desk. With a flick, he pulled off a sticky note, scribbled a brief message on it, then opened the binder to the very back and attached it to the folder Melissa had left for him. “All right, good,” Charlie said, and he circled back around to the door where Alice was waiting.

  As he opened the door, he didn’t look back at the universe floating above them in his window, at the stars flickering like lighthouses on a galactic sea, or at the poorly written note he’d left.

  Charlie closed the door softly behind them, off to show Alice a glimpse of the world between the living and the dead.

  A place they’d both already been.

  EPILOGUE

  FIVE YEARS LATER

  JAMES

  * * *

  THE REAPER

  James stared at the man sitting across from him and beamed. It had been so long since he’d had a chance to interview a potential new recruit, especially one with this remarkable of a background.

  “You sure I can’t get you anything? Water, coffee, tea?” James asked.

  The man sat,
eyes glaring, and said nothing.

  “Okay. No problem at all. Just perk up if you change your mind.” From the top of his desk, James pulled out a small manila folder and opened it, making a show of examining its contents even though he’d just about memorized the file at this point.

  For years, James had heard rumors of a rogue Ferryman. Of course, the Institute always denied it—as well they should, given all the headaches that would cause, internally or otherwise—but James had a good nose for these things. Where there was smoke, there was fire, and he’d always gotten a whiff of fumes whenever the topic came up. Now he had confirmation of its truth.

  “You know, I have to say, it’s really remarkable you found this place. We’re not an easy organization to find. To do it in only five years . . .” He whistled appreciatively. It was true. They were a group that could generally only be found when they wanted to be. For this man to seek them out on his own . . . well, it only piqued James’s interest that much more. “Let’s just say I wouldn’t want to find out what it’s like to be on your bad side.” He rattled with hearty laughter.

  For what seemed like the first time since he’d arrived, the man moved, leaning forward in his chair. “No,” he said flatly, “you don’t.”

  James smiled brightly, nodding vigorously. “Of course not, of course not.” He closed the folder and gently tossed it on his desk. With his legs crossed, he placed his hands on his knees and looked across, grinning. “So what can I do for you today, Mr. Toulouse?”

  Toulouse didn’t move, instead staring straight ahead. James got the feeling Toulouse was trying to stare through him, but he didn’t mind. The newbies only ever ignored him in the beginning. They all learned not to with time.

  “I’m here to speak with Death,” Toulouse said.

  “Oh, exciting! Unfortunately, he’s unavailable for the foreseeable future. However, I am his second-in-command if you have any questions . . . ?”

  Toulouse frowned, but continued anyway. “I’d like to work here. I have . . . business in this industry that needs finishing. And please . . . call me Javrouche.”

  James’s grin somehow stretched even wider at this. It was just as he’d hoped. The former Inspector Javrouche, sitting right in front of him. It looked like James’s sources had been right, after all. Sure, James had felt relatively confident about the man’s identity after acquiring Javrouche’s file from the Institute. But there was no doubt now—he was the real deal. And what a prize this could be! Here was a man who’d not only managed to make contact in only five years—five years!—but had done it all while avoiding capture by the Ferryman Institute. At the risk of gushing a bit too much, the whole thing was downright impressive. Javrouche was exactly the sort of recruit James had been looking for, and he’d pretty much fallen right into his lap. Of course, the Inspector undoubtedly had some attitude issues they might need to iron out, but James never had a problem with attitudes for very long.

  Javrouche’s arrival also meant something James had suspected but could never prove. Now he had his proof: the Ferryman Institute had been lying to him. James hated being lied to. He was not the man you tried to cheat, no, sir. But there would be time to deal with that. For now, it was time to settle in his greenhorn.

  “Well, that is fantastic news! We’re always looking for exciting candidates here, and let me tell you, I think you’ve got a lot of potential, Mr. Javrouche.” James extended a well-manicured hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you. My name is James. Allow me to be the first to welcome you to Death Inc.”

  CARTWRIGHT

  * * *

  INTO THE LIGHT

  William Henry Taylor Cartwright IV stood, poised motionlessly on the edge of the cliff. The gentle breeze rustled through his hair and even played with the twirled-in edges of his mustache. The last dying rays of daylight imbued the scorched earth of the canyon walls with the colors of the vanishing sun, and the sky, once a vivid blue, had been transmuted as if by some unseen alchemist into a dazzling selection of pinks and purples. Cartwright saw all this and let the beauty of it wash over him.

  Then, he jumped.

  As his body plummeted down into the canyon below, his thoughts drifted back to earlier that afternoon.

  * * *

  “I HOPE THE TEA is up to scratch,” Charlie said as he set the cup in front of Cartwright. “We don’t have any Earl Grey, but I’ve been told by a reliable source that this is good.”

  Cartwright sipped from the small cup. It wasn’t what he normally went for in the tea department, but he’d be lying if he said he wasn’t impressed by the beverage in front of him. “I must say, this tea is actually rather enchanting. It’s honey-vanilla chamomile, you say?” he said, before taking another sip. “Not my usual cup of tea, to very literally borrow a phrase, but wonderful all the same.”

  Charlie took a sip from the bottle of beer he’d just opened. “I could serve you the worst brew of tea you’ve ever had and you would tell me you find it exotic and interesting.”

  Though he tried to hide his grin behind the cup of tea, Cartwright doubted he’d succeeded. “I’m afraid I’ve not even the slightest idea what you’re talking about. I’m well known in many of my circles for my brutal honesty.” Even years later, it was still a joke they both had a good laugh at.

  Cartwright set down his tea and crossed his legs one over the other. They were out on Charlie’s deck—Cartwright’s favorite spot on the entire property, which he had no shame in saying—and the summer sun filtered through the rustling leaves of the oak trees planted in the backyard. When the chirping of the birds quieted down, which was admittedly rare at that time of the day, he could hear the creek that marked the end of the yard. He had no qualms congratulating Charlie on a job well done. It was a beautiful place for a home.

  “So, my good fellow,” Cartwright said, “you’ve officially been our president for five years now . . .”

  Charlie choked slightly on his beer at the abrupt change of topic. He coughed and sputtered for nearly half a minute afterward. “Sorry,” the former Ferryman said as he pounded his chest, “I didn’t know you were here on business.”

  “I’m not,” Cartwright replied, taking a sip of tea in between his statements. “I’m asking as a comrade, not a colleague.”

  “So as Cartwright, not Virgil?” Charlie asked, a devious grin sneaking onto his face.

  Cartwright greeted it with a snort. “Please,” he said with a dismissive wave of his hand, “you know my feelings about that name.”

  “I know. But I’ve only tormented you over it for a little while.” Charlie’s smirk deepened as he took another pull from his bottle.

  “My question, Charles,” Cartwright said as he resumed drinking his tea, “has nothing to do with work. I wanted to ask about you.”

  Charlie set his bottle down and crossed his arms. “Me, huh?”

  “Yes, you. Is that line of questioning off-limits?” Cartwright leaned forward in his chair. “It’s not a subject I broach lightly, but I feel it important to ask. Five years is a long time to most men, but not to a man who already has given service for more than two hundred. You know me, old friend—I fear I will be eternally concerned about your well-being.”

  Charlie didn’t answer immediately. Instead, his gaze ventured off into the trees that littered the several acres surrounding the house. The area immediately around the deck was nicely landscaped, but the foliage grew thicker toward the back of the lot. Cartwright watched as Charlie’s eyes lost focus, like he was looking for the answer in the trees without actually seeing it.

  “Honestly?” he finally said, returning his focus to Cartwright. “I’ve just been so lucky.” Charlie nodded at this, as if he was proud to have found the right answer. “I’m a very lucky guy.”

  Cartwright had been listening and watching intently, but he needn’t have. The words were spoken with such genuine sincerity that he knew it was the truth and nothing but. The sound of a sliding deck door interrupted his further thoughts.

&n
bsp; “I’m coming out now, and I’m not covering my ears, so if you’re talking about Institute stuff, this is your warning to shut up.”

  Both Cartwright and Charlie turned to see Alice come waddling out from the kitchen and onto the deck. Her arrival was preceded by the pronounced swell of her pregnant belly, and from what Cartwright remembered from his last visit several weeks ago, she was due in only a handful of weeks. Her wedding band flashed triumphantly in the rays of sun that found their way onto the deck. Though she was still the same Alice he’d met five years prior, her life with Charlie certainly appeared to have been good to her: even before the pregnancy, she had filled out somewhat to a healthier weight, and though her endless sarcasm hadn’t left her, it seemed to be counterbalanced by a new sense of optimism.

  Cartwright got out of his chair and took her hand, applying a gentle kiss to the back of it. “My dearest Alice, may I say that you look positively radiant. I have a hard time distinguishing what light comes from the sun and what is from your effervescent glow.”

  Alice snorted and gave the tiniest hint of a curtsy—a greeting specifically for Cartwright that she’d adopted long ago, but found more difficult to do these days, what with a nearly fully formed human being inside her—before easing herself into a deck chair. “You probably can’t tell the difference because I’m roughly the same size as the sun. So, if by radiant you mean massive, then I can’t agree with you enough. Seriously, if my hips get any wider, I’m going to need Charlie to knock down half the walls in the house.”

  Charlie went to speak, but he apparently thought better of it and instead reached for his beer. Despite his effort, the action didn’t escape his wife’s notice. “You were going to say something, weren’t you?” Charlie vehemently shook his head. Alice rolled her eyes. “You are an absolutely atrocious liar.”