A Dead-End Job
Justin Alcala
Copyright © 2021 by Justin Alcala
All rights reserved.
9781953539922
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Edited by Mary Westveer, Wyn Davis, and Alyssa Barber
The Parliament House
www.parliamenthousepress.com
Cover Design by Shayne Leighton
To my wife Mallory, who doesn’t think I’m funny but supports the fact that I think I’m hilarious. The fake encouragement is noted.
* * *
To my children, Lily and Ronan, who promote me from “Creepy Writer-Man-Child” to “Creepy Writer-Daddy-Man-Child.” Also, no, I do not condone PROFESSIONAL CONTRACT KILLER as your college major.
* * *
To Sara Schuh Jodon of Add an Eye Editing Services. Did you know you’re really smart?
* * *
For Fred and Mary Schuh. Could there be cooler in-laws?
* * *
To all that we’ve lost during this pandemic, especially Carlos Sanchez, Nick Sebek and Colin Mayo. If you’ve had someone torn from your life, I’m truly sorry. This is for them as well.
Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Epilogue
Buck Still Needs You
Acknowledgments
About the Author
The Parliament House
Prologue
CHICAGO’S CHIEF PUBLIC HEALTH INSPECTOR FOUND DEAD IN HOME
* * *
“Damn it,” Death spat, scratching another name onto his legal pad. The list was growing longer. Death picked up his steaming mug that read “I drink coffee for your safety” and sipped it before clicking the “next story” tab. He’d only been in his apartment’s kitchen turned home office for ten minutes and already he was at wits’ end, the top of his stylus pen half-chewed. Death, The Grim Reaper, Charon, whatever you wanted to call him, the title demanded respect. Afterall, he had held his position before men wore pants. Yet never in his career had someone been so tenacious as to start killing mortals before their expiration date. Death didn’t even know how it could happen. He picked up his smart phone, using his stylus to dial the numbers on the touch interface.
“Yeah, Jumbo, it’s Death. How long until you get into the office?” Death leaned back in his chair and took another sip from his cup. “Well, I can assure you that you’ll get here safely.” Death sighed. “I’m sorry. It’s just been a tough morning already. Whoever this person is, they’re still getting past our system. None of these names from last night were in the program.” Death slung his boney feet on an empty duct taped kitchen chair. “Alright,” he groaned into the receiver. “I’ll reboot while I wait. See you soon.”
Death pocketed his phone. He pressed up from his seat, knees popping, and shuffled to the server room. The room doubled as the gallery for his collectible action figures. He removed a thick brass key, the bow at the end shaped like a waving Hello Kitty, from his sleeve and pushed it into the lock. After several spins, the mechanism clicked open, and Death pushed inside. Death gave a thumbs up to his prized 1982 Masters of the Universe Skeletor toy, which was still in its original package, before heading to the server’s reset button and pressing it. The hum of electric computer fans quieted before starting up again. Death watched the monitor’s reload bar fill up. Once completed another screen arose. The title read, Deaths for Today. Death compared the names and times before checking the total number.
Good morning.
151,613 deaths programmed for today.
It’s currently seventy-eight degrees with a high of eighty-two.
Everything looked exactly as it did last night.
Death shook his head. “How the hell did that Chief Health Inspector die without being loaded into the program?” he asked aloud. Death clicked the refresh button several times, but the number didn’t change. “Jesus,” he mumbled. He shook his hooded head. “Nah, he’s too busy right now.” Death went through the protocol that Jumbo had taught him. He checked the wires for loose connections, examined the server’s blinking blue lights, and ran the virus program. It was all exhausting. Finally, out of desperation, he used a can of aerosol to blow the dust out of the keyboard.
Ding. The bell from Death’s apartment door rang.
Death picked up the hem of his drab cloak and hurried out of the room. He closed the door and locked it behind him before hurrying to the apartment’s entrance. He looked through the peek hole but could only see the peeling yellow walls and ugly brown carpet from the hallway.
“Friend or foe?” he called out.
“Neither,” said a nasally voice. “It’s your I.T. guy.”
“Jumbo,” Death said in relief. He unlatched the lock on the front door and opened it. Sitting in an electronic wheelchair was a small man with dark skin, black framed glasses, and long bleached hair drawn up in beads. His thin arms perched on his chair’s rests, and his crooked legs relaxed on the feet holders.
“You look different,” Death greeted. “Did you do something with your hair?”
“I grew,” Jumbo said drily as he pushed the controls of the chair and drove inside. Death closed the front door and then followed. On the back of Jumbo’s wheelchair was a sticker that read “Stop checking out my wheelchair-butt.”
“Let me guess,” Jumbo said as he cruised through the hallway, “you even tried dusting out the keyboard again?”
“I’m telling you, it’s worked before.”
“Sure,” said Jumbo as he drove to the server room door and tested the handle. “Man, you’re still locking this thing?”
“Do you know how many action figures are in there?” Death asked as he removed his Hello Kitty key and unlocked the server room door. “Well, I do. It’s nearly five-thousand dollars worth.” Death put the key back in his sleeve before pushing open the door. Jumbo pursed his lips as he drove inside, rolling to the main server. He reached out for the mouse, and after several clicks, opened up a black screen with white letters. Death watched as Jumbo did his work. “Besides,” Death continued as Jumbo read lines of code, “All of this is a little too suspicious. I can’t help but feel as if someone is pulling the wool over my eyes.”
“You don’t have eyes, dude.” Jumbo winced at a flashing system menu.
“It’s a metaphor.”
“Well,” Jumbo said and shrugged, “you’re right. There’s nothing wrong with this program.”
“Jumbo, you’re killing me. Aren’t you supposed to know what’s going on?”
“Dude, I don’t know what you want me to tell you? I checked the code. Everything looks legit.”
“When you wrote up this program, you said that it was flawless.”
“It is flawless, man.”
“Why is it that people that I haven’t loaded die? There was that factory landlord, the Health Inspector.”
�
��What’s one or two people?”
“It’s over a dozen now.”
“The point is, think about where you were ten years ago? Do you remember?”
“Well, yeah.” Death started rubbing the back of his neck. “But—”
“But nothing, man. Ten years ago, you were peeled to your phone from dawn to dusk making death-calls. You’d go moonlighting to put an end to those that cheated you. You know, the Unmentionables.”
“They’re called that so we don’t bring them up.”
Jumbo shook his head. “Now look at you. All you have to do is load up the names and the program takes care of the rest. That leaves you nearly the rest of your day to clean up the noncompliant undead, and then focus on your toy collection.”
“You always ridicule the collection.” Death pushed down on his temples and massaged them. “I don’t know; I just can’t relax when someone is killing on my behalf. I look like I don’t have any control of my domain.”
“Death, you’re stressed. I mean face it, you’re a workaholic.”
“No, I’m not.”
“You totally are. Even now, with hundreds of thousands of deaths, you’re having an anxiety attack over a tiny anomaly. We deal in millions of deaths a year. Hiccups are going to happen every once in a while.”
“Maybe you’re right.”
“Of course, I’m right.” Jumbo drove his wheelchair closer to Death, reaching to pat the angel on the shoulder. Midway through his ride, Jumbo’s wheel jammed between the toy shelf and swivel chair. Jumbo struggled to free himself, fighting with his chair’s joystick. “You know what you need, man?” he asked through gritted teeth, his eyes focusing on his tire jam.
Death hung his head low. “What?”
“A vacation.”
“Ha.”
“No seriously.” Jumbo freed himself. “You’ve been talking about it for months.”
“Yeah, but I was joking.”
“What’s to stop you?”
“Seriously, Jumbo?” Death trudged out of the server room. He stopped at the threshold and waited for Jumbo to follow. Jumbo pushed his controller and wheeled out of the server room and into the kitchen. Death closed the door and locked it up again. “Who’s going to kill one- hundred-and-sixty thousand people a day?”
“Death, we just covered this. That program runs itself. Every morning it loads names based off of region, age, hazards, and one-hundred-and-seventy-two other base factors. Once it does, you just need to click the get started button.”
“Yeah, and who is going to do that?”
“Let me do it. I’m fighting with my roommate anyway. I might need a break.”
“You mean your mom?”
“She’s still my roommate. Anyhow, I could use a week away. I’ll crash here while you’re in Bermuda, Spain, or wherever.”
“What about the Unmentionables?”
“The people that cheated death?”
Death looked around his apartment as if someone might be listening. “Well,” he whispered, “yeah.”
“Haven’t you been looking to take on an intern for a while?”
“It never works out. I’ve tried several over the centuries. They always end up being lunatics.”
“That’s because you’re too picky.”
“No, I’m not.”
“Look at you,” Jumbo wheeled around Death’s kitchen and living room. “You’ve fired every assistant you’ve ever had besides me, and let me tell you, it’s been no picnic. You don’t date because you say the girls don’t get you, and you have no friends.”
“Ouch, that’s harsh.”
“Sorry man, but some tough love might help for once. Death, you prefer the company of action figures over people who can walk and talk. Think about it, boss man, you’re the epitome of an introverted, self-righteous, workaholic.”
Death stood still for a moment. He looked around at the pictures hanging on his walls. They were filled with smiley interracial friends and happy couples he’d never met. All of them came with the frame. Death needed to be honest with himself. He’d been so engrossed in work for the last two millennium that he hadn’t taken any time off for himself.
“Okay, but I’ll need to personally train the intern before I go.” Jumbo gave a slow clap. “Finally.”
“I’ll need your help finding the best candidates.”
“Well, I can’t exactly go on LinkedIn.”
“Are you going to help me or not?”
“Take it easy.” Jumbo held up his hands. “I have an idea.”
“And what’s that?”
“It’s just a matter of research.” Jumbo looked at Death’s laptop on the kitchen table. He drove his wheelchair in front of it and minimized the current window.
“Jumbo,” Death moaned as he followed, “what are you doing?”
“I’m accessing the shared drive.” Jumbo clicked into several folders until a gridded list opened. He clicked a bar on the menu labeled sort by fate. Several hundred names in red letters came up, along with a description of their age, profession, and forecasted death. “Voila,” Jumbo said as he highlighted the names with his cursor.
“What am I looking at?”
“This is a list of several thousand people who will die today and go straight to Hell.” Jumbo clicked the magnify button to zoom in on the screen. “They will not pass go. They will not collect two-hundred dollars.”
“And?”
“And I’m sure that each and every one of them would gladly choose to serve as your intern instead of suffer in the fiery pits.”
“Why would I want one of these jerks as my intern?”
Jumbo slapped his forehead. “Man, use your head. The program does all of the mundane killing. The one-hundred-and-sixty thousand plus deaths are taken care of. All you really need is someone who’s going to put an end to all the undead, practitioners of illegal magic and other freak shows. You don’t need a good guy. You need a bad guy.”
Death tapped his bony foot on the linoleum floor. “How is a thief or politician going to help me stop the Unmentionables? Also, they’ll need to get my dry cleaning.”
“Come on, man.” Jumbo sorted through the names. “Use your imagination. I’m not talking about the petty thieves. I’m talking about real villains. You know, the Big Bad Wolf.”
Death looked over Jumbo’s shoulder. He nearly put his clammy hand on Jumbo’s arm but paused just before it landed. “Alright, I’m picking up what you’re putting down. Good job.”
“Thank you.”
“What are you thinking?” asked Death as he picked up his mug and sipped out of it. Some Jack the Ripper serial killer or more of a Thulsa Doom cult-leader guy?”
Jumbo swiped at his computer screen a few times before stopping halfway down the list. He narrowed his eyes at a specific name, pointing on the screen toward a person’s description.
“I had something different in mind.” Jumbo smiled. “What would you say to a guy who grew up in Chicago?”
Death hummed.
Jumbo continued to read. “According to this, he was good in school, which is important, but had a tough upbringing that forced him into a life of violence. He’s proficient in several fighting styles, has knowledge of both street and military tactics, and loves table-top roleplaying games?”
Death scratched at the top of his hood. “Jeez, what’s this guy’s profession? Commando?”
Jumbo squinted his eyes as he moved to the next column. “Actually,” he laughed, “hitman.”
1
Today was going to be busy. I didn’t know how I’d fit a murder into my schedule.
For starters, I was out of coffee. I don’t think anyone can really start the day unless they have a cup of joe. Not me at least. Since I live in a more affordable part of Chicago, there were no corner coffee shops charging mortgages for a fix within walking distance. Which means I had to drive deeper into the city to feed the shaky caffeine monkey beating on my back. I joined a local horde of zombies in a hipster n
eighborhood called Bucktown as they waited in a Disneyland-worthy line for a chance to be a real boy or girl again. This gave me time to think about my to-do list.
I needed to return my library books. I was finally catching up on my Bukowski novels after years of recommendations from friends. Why is good advice so hard to swallow? Since I paid for everything in singles and change, I couldn’t just buy a book online. I had to check them out whenever a reading itch needed a scratch. Afterwards, I’d need to replace the squeaky brakes on the van, shower, and then pick up a new hammer strut pin from Denny’s Pawn Shop. Denny and I had built a relationship based on trading illegal firearm parts, which was great for a guy that doesn’t like proof of sale when it came to his career tools. Finally, my role-playing group had a six o’clock table reserved for our D&D campaign at the neighborhood gaming store. We were nearing level ten, and as the party’s wizard, they’d need me to survive our latest adventure. Hmm, when could I possibly squeeze in work?
“That’ll be twelve-fifty,” declared the barista with black framed glasses.
“For a cup of plain coffee?” I stared at the register’s cost display. “I mean, seriously?”
The acne covered art history major working the register didn’t flinch. He must have been seasoned.
“Do I get a veteran discount?”
He shook his head. I used my sparse wallet insulation to pay for the mud, but only after my debit card declined. Now I was really running late.
A Dead-End Job Page 1
