SHADOWS OF DEATH: Death Comes with Fury (and Dark Humor) To a Small Town South of Chicago

by Carl S. Plumer

  Back in the dark, in the space between the earth and the dead place, Ricky Martin stood, frozen, facing his fears and his biggest enemy.

  The Shadow thing attacked.

  It weaved through Ricky’s body, searching for a weak spot, a dead target.

  But the Shadow thing couldn’t kill in this domain. All Reapers only had dominion over life and death on Earth. But this realm, this dark realm of death, was neither a human place nor inhospitable to humans. It was a nether land, a waiting place for death. The place where the Reapers loomed and waited to be called to do Death’s duty. To destroy a human life. To end a life so that others might live.

  For Death has a noble calling. To control the population on earth. To free humans from suffering, whether from disease, destruction, or the ravages of time.

  Death was the release many cried for, prayed for.

  But there was not one Death. Not a single entity as understood by humans, of the shrouded figure of Death, with his scythe and his bony fingers. The Angel of Death. The Grim Reaper. The Destroyer.

  But Death, even in myth and folklore, was only supernatural, not supersonic. A single Reaper entity could not be expected to be terminating cancer patients in Alberta while at the same time taking torture victims away from life in a Central American jungle, while simultaneously pulling ten from the scene of a suicide bombing in Baghdad, and then a suicide in Brooklyn, and still be in Paris at that same moment to bring a foodie—choking to death on a bite of Beef Wellington—to the other side.

  No, there is not a single “Death,” as we understand it. But thousands, even hundreds of thousands of such entities, “Reapers”. To keep up with the growing population, the out-of-control population, on Earth. To keep up with the demand.

  But this Reaper was out of order. It was not Ricky’s time yet. So the Shadow, at least in this realm, could not touch him. The Shadow of Death had not been given “papers” on this particular Ricky Martin, this Richard Martin the third.

  So, it could try, and it did try. But it had no authority.

  That did not mean it wasn’t angry about the whole thing.

  And it tried repeatedly, dipping in and out of Ricky’s body, searching for a weakness. Looking for cancer, a heart defect, AIDS, swine flu, sleeping pills. Something to hang on to. Something to sink its teeth into. Some way to justify killing this human. But there were no such defects, no such entranceways.

  Even if there were, he had no right. But he would take it anyway, if he could find a way.

  For things had changed on the death plane. Things were not right. There was a restlessness.

  The Shadows, always sentient, had always understood their role, their place.

  But that was no longer enough, not for some. A new generation of Death wraiths, who longed to kill, loved to watch men die. Who felt that the elders were having all the fun. On the battlefields. On the killing fields. The serial killers. The kings and rulers and drug lords who ordered thousands shot and raped and tortured. There was just so much to do!

  And now, there was a way to do it.

  A rip had been discovered between the two worlds.

  And no one was watching. Not God. Not the Devil. Not Death, the original iconic figure of Death upon who all other Reapers, smaller Deaths, petit mals, were based.

  The wickedness of the new Deaths knew no bounds. The shadow things wanted to taste the blood of man, suck the soul from men, women, children, and babies. From cats, dogs, ferrets, rats—whatever pet humans kept, those too were the targets of the New Death.

  This problem had manifested itself twice before, but the tear had been fixed. The powers-that-be thought permanently. The first tear was in the Middle Ages, when the bubonic plague was released upon the Earth, the “Black Death.” But the plague was only used to cover up the mass killings by the Shadows of Death themselves. As a way for the powers-that-be to hide what had really happened, the horror that had really been done. This tear, just outside Messina, Sicily, was sealed completely by the mid-1600’s and reinforced.

  The second time the malevolent Death Creatures had escaped was in the mid-Twentieth Century, Germany. The Death Things had targeted the kindest, the gentlest: men, women, children, babies of the Jewish faith. To these monsters of Death, the time was sweet. They had an ally, who gathered the victims together for them, and made it easier. But the Shadows of Death would have been upon these gentle people all the same. And on to Poles, the French, the Russians, the British, the Americans, the Chinese, the Japanese. It was a glorious time to be the Masters of Death.

  But these miscreant Reapers were dealt with, banished to Hell themselves. A place in Hell made for the givers of Death, for they themselves to be tortured for eternity and never given rest.

  The tear, this time over Berlin, was also sealed in the mid-1940s, and triple-reinforced.

  After that, every inch of the cellular wall between the two worlds was inspected, repaired where needed, and a second layer added across the entire surface.

  There was no way a mistake like the ones in the past would every happen again.

  But the elders were mistaken about those being the last of the mistakes.

  For the biggest of all was already underway.

  Ricky lay on the ground (or the bottom area since this strange place didn’t really have substance) and stared into the darkness. His body ached in places he didn’t even know had ache-meters or nerves or whatever tells you that you’re in pain. He felt his relatively fleshy hip. It was sore and he assumed bruised. His entire back felt black and blue.

  He had no idea how long he’d been in this “place,” but he wanted out. Fast.

  He felt around on the bottom area for his glasses, but this time he couldn’t find them. Then he reached up and felt his face. There his glasses sat. He pushed them up his nose then painfully stood up.

  Ricky Martin could detect no sounds now. He could sense no motion, no other beings.

  So, he started to walk. He had no idea where he was in this crypt of blackness. He didn’t know if he was heading toward or away from where the group had first entered this other dimension. He just kept walking.

  He must have walked for an hour, then two, then who knows—perhaps an entire day. The “scenery,” if you could call it that, never changed. The “walls” and the “ceilings” looked no different here than any other part of the place he’d seen. It was more like walking on a treadmill in the dark. The sense was that he was just not getting anywhere. That he just stayed in the exact same place, walking and walking, but his surroundings stayed the same.

  Finally, after the equivalent of a full day’s walk, Ricky noticed something different in the “wall” up ahead. It appeared to be just a shade lighter. He took off his glasses, wiped them with his sweaty shirt, and put them back on again.

  Ricky Martin squinted at the wall area. Yep, unmistakable now. There was a thin section of the wall, maybe a foot or foot and a half wide at most, lighter than all the surrounding area.

  He strode closer. The area had a slight glow, as if it were heated or maybe lit from within. It was about three feet vertically and sat about eye height. Just the right height for jumping through, if one was so inclined.

  Ricky stared at the light spot. This was the way out—the way they had come in!

  Freedom!

  He pondered how he had found it, why he was so lucky. Whatever the reason, he was thankful that he had, against all odds, found the thing. He smiled and relaxed.

  Then, as he watched, the portal, if that’s what it was, faded to black and vanished.

  “No!” Ricky screamed, leaping forward.

  The portal had closed. Perhaps forever.

  And Ricky Martin stood on the wrong side of it.

  Mr. and Mrs. Croyant drove through the night in silence. Conner sat in the back seat, his head against the window, his eyes shut.

  Mr. Croyant stared at the traffic ahead, his eyes unblinking.

  “We’re glad you’re okay,” Mrs. Croyant said, br
eaking the silence. No one else spoke.

  At the next intersection, the light switched to red. Mr. Croyant glided to a stop. One finger on his right hand tapped on the steering wheel. Mrs. Croyant turned to look over her shoulder at Conner, but she said nothing and turned her attention to the front.

  “It’s green,” she whispered.

  When they pulled up their driveway and got out, Mr. Croyant finally spoke. “Go to bed, Conner. You’re grounded.” He beeped the car to lock it. “I have to work in the morning for a couple of hours at the bank. When I come back, we’ll all sit down and discuss this.”

  Conner nodded, and after the front door was unlocked, he jogged up to his bedroom and closed the door.

  “I don’t know a damn thing about that boy, Jennifer,” Mr. Croyant said as they walked to the kitchen. He tossed the keys on the kitchen table. “What could he possibly have been thinking tonight?”

  “I don’t know, Travis, I really don’t.”

  “I wish I had more information. He won’t tell us anything.”

  They sat at the table. Travis had his hands on the table, palms down. She kept her hands in her lap.

  The kitchen clock ticked slowly, counting off the minutes. Finally, Travis spoke.

  “Robinson wants to see us sometime tomorrow.”

  “Who?”

  “Our brand new lawyer. Because apparently the Croyants need a criminal lawyer these days,” Travis said.

  “Oh, yes. I had forgotten his name.”

  Travis paused and then said, “I’ll arrange it from work before I come home tomorrow.”

  “Okay.”

  “Guess we’ll see then exactly what we’re up against,” he added.

  “You should get some sleep,” Mrs. Croyant said softly.

  “So should you. Not sure I’ll be able to sleep, but we should try.”

  They stood, hugged briefly, then trudged upstairs one behind the other.

  Outside, shadows played along the driveway, dancing past the Croyants’ car and across the side of the house. The wind had picked up again. Strange shadows all over town were suddenly active as telephone wires, branches, and bushes shook in the night.

  Hundreds of dark clouds whisked by in the sky, as if late for an appointment.

  Well, I’m fucked, thought Ricky Martin, as the last sliver of light—and hope—disappeared. I wonder if anyone else got out?

  He collapsed to the ground, tears running down his chunky cheeks. He yanked off his glasses, embarrassed, and rubbed his hand across his face, erasing the tears and, with any luck, his fear.

  Ricky inhaled deeply. “I just want to be home,” he breathed, quieter than the quietest whisper.

  He pictured his house from the outside with its neat hedgerow in front, the basketball hoop to the right of the driveway, his mom’s rose garden, the cement squirrels and turtles here and there in the garden. He pictured the inside, too. The new couch in the living room facing the huge television his dad bought the family last year. He pictured his sister, Olive, sitting there now, eating caramel popcorn the way she likes to do, getting it all over the couch. He could even smell it and wished he could have some, too. Adventure Time would be playing on the TV. The one where Jake and Finn save the princess.

  “What are you doing here?” his sister asked, turning to face him over the couch.

  Olive had shortish brown hair with a hairband across the top. She wore glasses, too. Hers were pink, where his were black—a normal color. But, now that he thought about it, pink was pretty normal for a nine-year-old girl. Even the sweatshirt she was wearing was pink.

  “When did you get home?” she asked, continuing her investigation.

  “I’m not home, you idiot. I’m imagining you,” Ricky Martin said.

  “Well, you’re doing a good job. Because I have to pee real bad and you’re making that too realistic.”

  Ricky looked around. This was his home, every detail exactly as he remembered it. Every book, chair, and picture in its proper place.

  His mother’s scream from behind him as she dropped her coffee cup to the floor confirmed it. She always overreacted to everything.

  Yes, somehow, he was back home.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Sort of Wiggly and Almost See-Through

  The next time the four friends were together, it was in a kind of detention. The police had called the families to come back in so that the teens could be questioned again. It took longer than expected to get to the police station. A set of serious collisions on the highway had slowed forward progress. One involved sixteen cars and two trucks. Another on one of the side roads to the highway involved three vehicles. Nine dead altogether. A remarkable number for a single day’s worth of accidents.

  When the four families finally arrived, the sky had opened up, and rain pelted the ground. The adults were ushered into a meeting room down the hall. Surprisingly, the four weren’t separated this time. For the time being, they sat together in a small room that had row seating along two walls, almost like picnic table seats. Almira and Flower sat along one wall, the boys along the opposite wall.

  After a long moment of silence, Conner said, “So, here we are.”

  “Yeah,” the girls responded, looking down.

  “They still think we killed all these people?” Almira asked. “That’s so ridiculous.”

  “Yeah. But we can’t tell them what we were really doing there,” Flower said.

  They sat awkwardly silent until Conner turned to Ricky and said, “How the hell did you get back?”

  “Yeah, I’ve been meaning to call you guys,” Ricky said. “But my parents have basically had me in solitary confinement since this all happened.”

  “So, well——good to see you.”

  “Yeah.”

  “We thought, I don’t know, that you were dead.”

  “I thought I was, too. I don’t blame you for leaving me.”

  “We didn’t mean to. We thought you were right behind us,” Conner said. “Then things just went to hell.”

  “Yeah. For me, too.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well. Here’s all I remember.” Ricky Martin scratched at the little patch of Hobbit-beard he was growing under his entire chin. It was like a secret beard, hidden in the shadow of his chin. “I remember thinking I was a dead man, you know? I remember being out of options, panicking and all like that. I was, well—defeated I guess you’d say.” Ricky took a deep breath, his large stomach expanding and contracting noticeably.

  “Take it slow,” said Conner, patting Ricky’s shoulder.

  “Yeah, Ricky,” Almira said kindly. “Go easy.”

  At that moment, a uniformed cop walked by the large window at the front of the room. The four sat in silence, expecting the officer to come in, but he did not. So, Ricky continued.

  “Okay, so all was lost basically, right? The, uh——portal? Is that what we should call it? Flower? Almira?”

  “We don’t really know. It was just like a curtain parting,” Flower said. “A portal’s good, though. Sure.” The two girls exchanged a nervous glance, feeling the responsibility acutely of being the ones who started it all.

  “Okay, so after walking and running around for hours, well, I got to the portal thing somehow. But before I could exit, it closed up. Just fuckin’ disappeared.”

  “Jeezus!”

  “Oh, I forgot to mention. One of the things, what do you call them—Reapers?”

  “Sure, the shadows. ’Reaper’ makes sense. So what happened?” Almira said.

  “It attacked me.”

  “Yeah, we saw that,” said Conner.

  “No, a different one. Angrier.”

  “That one we saw you with was pretty angry,” Almira said. “Vicious. Scared the crap out of me.”

  “Yeah. I know. But, this one was worse,” Ricky said. “I could feel it; it wanted me dead. Like it was personal. That first one was almost like, I don’t know, a guard dog or something. You know? Like it was just attackin
g out of instinct or territorial protection and stuff. This second one, though, it was like a killer. A murderer. It wanted to destroy me.”

  Conner’s throat closed up. “What happened?”

  “It made this horrible noise. And then it attacked . . . ”

  There were yet more rips in the surface between Earth’s light world and Death’s shadowy realm than the one discovered by the four friends. More of them, and bigger. Because of this, the Shadows began to leak out, to crawl out, to burst out.

  Deaths across the world multiplied. At first, the phenomenon of increased “natural” and accidental deaths went unnoticed. But enough time enough passed by that the increase was no longer possible to ignore or to explain away.

  While detectives worked to pin local deaths on four innocent students, Death was certainly not on a holiday. The bodies were piling up and no one had an answer. No one could pinpoint any sort of problem except the general situation of a lot of people dying.

  The reason a central basis could not be identified was because the deaths were from a million different causes: disease, accident, murder, suicide, natural causes like heart attack and stroke, old age, war and other hostilities, drive-bys, falling in the shower, tripping, falling out of trains, being hit by a helicopter, attacked by wolves, bitten by deadly jellyfish, ripped apart by sharks or crocs.

  A long list of the “usual suspects.” But no one thing to blame. Just in every category of mortality, all the numbers stacked too high. Much, much too high.

  “It attacked me,” Ricky Martin continued. He slumped back in the bench seat and exhaled loudly. “But it couldn’t do anything to me. I don’t know why. It kept going in and out and in and out of me like a ghost through a door.” Ricky shuddered.

  Flower got up from her side of the room and moved over to Ricky’s bench. Sitting down, she put her arm around him. “You’re okay now. You’re safe.”

  Ricky lip trembled and sniffed loudly. Then after a long sigh, he continued. “Well, the thing gave up eventually,” Ricky said. “That was before I found the portal. I don’t know what that thing did to me, but you know how they seem to come and go, disappear at will? I think it gave me that ability, somehow. Almost like a virus. Like it changed my DNA.”