His Name Was Death (Dead Man's Tale Book 1)

by J. Eric Hance

  Much.

  It seemed to take an eternity, but my skull eventually crested the side of the building, revealing the scene beyond.

  My opponent crouched on the opposite side of the roof, just a few feet from the stairwell’s door. He used one of the roof’s massive air conditioning units for cover. His gun was held steadily, aimed about chest height toward the door.

  Rushing the roof would have been my very last mistake.

  Moving as quietly as possible, I slipped over the roof’s edge. I don’t exactly move with stealth and grace, but the storm howled and raged against the buildings; it effectively covered my approach.

  Until someone turned off the shower.

  The rain relented all at once. My steps went from ninja silence to the loud, wet slaps of a big skeleton in motorcycle boots striding across wet pavement.

  It’s a distinctive sound.

  The assassin spun and fired.

  I dove quickly for cover behind another air conditioning unit, but not before my left shoulder erupted in searing pain.

  “So,” the assassin taunted, “you can be hurt.”

  I smiled through clenched teeth. “`Tis but a scratch.”

  The voice scoffed. “That’s hurting like a son of a bitch right about now, and the arm is pretty much useless.”

  I tried moving my left arm to prove him wrong.

  I failed.

  It took everything I had to keep from screaming.

  “Just a flesh wound,” I retorted.

  His only answer was silence.

  No love for the Black Knight.

  The heathen.

  “So,” I asked after a pause, “why did you kill all those people?”

  The silence stretched on so long, it seemed he wouldn’t respond. When I’d nearly given up, his answer finally came. “It pays the bills.”

  The voice had moved closer. I slowly adjusted, trying to keep the large machinery between us.

  “You’re just a professional, then? A hired gun?”

  “Yes,” he responded, after much less time. The acoustics of the rooftop were tricky, but I thought he was behind me.

  My ankle gave out as I sprinted for the next air conditioner, causing me to stumble and roll. I scrambled quickly for shelter, breathing heavily.

  “Who hired you?” I managed through clenched teeth.

  The voice sounded confused, but it didn’t seem to be following me yet. “What do you care?”

  “Some of those victims were my friends.”

  His response came in an instant, laced with hints of genuine surprise. “Death has friends?”

  Of course, he’d only seen me tonight as the Reaper. There was no reason for him to suspect anything more, nothing to connect me with the Michael Reaper who had so ineffectively chased him through Seattle Center, and whom he’d managed to foil in his pathetic tracking attempts.

  “I give you the name,” he asked calmly, “and we’re square? We go our separate ways?”

  It was tempting. He was just a hired gun, after all.

  Images flashed through my mind: Karen, a nameless young boy, and a hundred people I’d never known. I saw myself sprawled, dying, on a bedroom floor.

  And, of course, there was Michelle.

  Anger burned through my chest.

  “No,” I answered coldly.

  I heard a scraping shoe directly around the corner to my right, and ducked left accordingly. The roof’s edge was now directly ahead.

  My ankle could barely support me, and there was nowhere left to run. I knelt down, preparing my last stand.

  “Zeus,” said the voice unexpectedly.

  “Excuse me?”

  “The guy who hired me.”

  “Zeus? As in Greek god of thunder Zeus?”

  The voice chuckled. “Pseudonyms are common in my business.”

  It was my turn for surprise. “Why give me the name at all?”

  The assassin’s tone suggested a shrug. “One of us will die tonight; me, unless I manage to kill Death himself. I win, the name does you no good; you win, the name does me no harm.”

  A gun flashed around the corner and I sprang into action. My swirling scythe knocked the gun across the rooftop.

  Unfortunately, my left arm was pretty much useless, and the scythe was too much to control one-handed. The assassin stepped forward inside my swing and knocked the weapon away.

  It vanished as it left my hand.

  I threw a punch at the attacker’s midsection, which he easily sidestepped. He ducked a second swing aimed at his chin.

  It became quickly apparent I was outmatched—unsteady on my legs, with only one good arm. Even at my best, he was undoubtedly better—they probably teach things like hand to hand combat at the Evil Bastard Training Academy.

  I swung uselessly until I grew winded. The assassin then landed a single blow on my injured shoulder, staggering me. This he followed quickly with a strike to my right side.

  Directly into the void left by my missing rib.

  I’m not sure how he discovered that weak spot. Perhaps it was obvious to someone with the proper training. Maybe I was just monumentally unlucky.

  It didn’t really matter.

  All the air rushed from my lungs and they refused to draw another breath. The sound of futile gasping filled my ears.

  A sadistic, satisfied grin dominated my narrowing vision.

  “Guess the name does you no good.”

  His shoe struck hard in the middle of my chest, throwing me into a backward stumble.

  And off the side of the roof.

  XXXVIII

  A Sinking Ship

  My arms flailed frantically until both hands latched onto the roof’s edge. My left shoulder screamed in anguish, but my right side screamed even louder. Either was likely to give out at any moment, and the other would fail to support me alone.

  At which point, I’d fall four stories to my death.

  I glanced down involuntarily. Atty, directly below, stood beside the patch of asphalt she’d declared as someone’s final resting place only minutes ago.

  And here I’d thought it was just a metaphor.

  I shivered.

  The assassin walked casually to the roof’s edge, looking down at me, apparently unable to see the embodiment of fate directly below us. His face split in one of those cool, heartthrob smiles you typically only see in the movies; it felt pretty damn sinister now.

  He knew, as well as I, the inevitable outcome.

  Though I knew one thing he didn’t.

  A bright, thin yellow line hugged the contours of his body. The odds were slim, but there existed some possible set of events that would end in his imminent death.

  “Normally at this point,” he said, “I’d end things quickly.”

  Improbable possibilities started to flash through my mind, scenarios where I’d collect his soul before I died myself.

  I couldn’t imagine a single scenario in which I managed to survive.

  The assassin shrugged. “Unfortunately, I seem to have misplaced my gun.”

  My feet found a small ledge in the brick façade. It wasn’t enough to save me, but it at least bought me some time.

  And then my ankle screamed in protest, and my foot slipped from the ledge.

  Of course, I still couldn’t catch a breath, so it wouldn’t matter in the long run.

  Dark spots began to dance in my vision.

  My adversary knelt down at the roof’s edge above me. “Don’t worry; I doubt you’ll hold on long.”

  What I needed, desperately, was a distraction. Given just a few seconds, I could possibly take this bastard down.

  Unfortunately, it’s not like distractions fall from the sky.

  Mine leaped over my shoulder.

  A thirty-pound mass of sodden, bedraggled black fur launched with a yowl from a fourth-story window ledge, directly into the assassin’s face. It was a leap of over fifteen feet, but it was executed with grace and precision.

  And it bought
me a few seconds.

  To this day, I can clearly remember Coach Patterson screaming at me when I failed to do a single pull-up in high school gym. He’d ask, at the top of his voice, in front of the whole class, what I expected to do when one day I found myself dangling off the side of a building.

  As if dangling off the side of a building was a regular occurrence in every young man’s life.

  I’d take a minute to reexamine my life choices before I fell to my death, I replied.

  Sometimes I hate irony.

  I once again found the tenuous ledge with my good foot, crouched down, gathered what little remained of my strength, and leaped skyward.

  Well, okay, skyward is a gross exaggeration. My attempt gave me, perhaps, a foot. But it was enough to get my elbows over the edge of the wall.

  On the other side of the roof, the assassin struggled mightily with an Elliott-shaped ski mask. Big as he was, though, I knew the cat couldn’t win that fight…not in the long run.

  I pulled with all my strength, shoulder screaming, lungs burning, and ankle useless. Somehow, I managed to scramble myself back up onto the roof, where I lay panting on my back.

  Coach Patterson be damned.

  The battle had moved out of sight, but the sounds of the scuffle echoed plainly across the rooftop. Suddenly, Elliott yowled, followed quickly by a single gunshot, and then silence.

  The assassin stepped back into view, gun in his hand.

  “Jesus, are you still alive?”

  I smiled malevolently.

  With that last gunshot, I’d gone completely numb. No pain bothered me, no concern, and no fear.

  When you truly and honestly commit your dying breath to a cause, give yourself completely over to it, all other factors become just so much noise.

  My target, the focus of my righteous rage, raised his gun, aiming for my chest.

  “Goodbye, Reaper.”

  I advanced as he pulled the trigger. The duster hardened at my request, and the bullet bounced harmlessly into the night. An angry buzzing filled my mind, but I didn’t care if the cloak abandoned me, just so long as I got my one final chance.

  He quickly pulled the trigger again. Buzzing grew into an angry scream.

  The third time he pulled the trigger, it clicked futilely.

  “Damn it,” the assassin yelled, tossing the gun away. He rushed me, throwing a punch.

  I stepped back, toward the ledge, out of reach.

  He lunged again, and again. Each time I stepped back, just out of reach, drawing him with me.

  Until there was nowhere left to retreat.

  I advanced one step, swinging my arms together in a downward arch toward my enemy.

  He turned into my attack with a sneer.

  That sneer vanished as my swing landed with an audible thunk. His aura faded quickly to black just as his forward progress pushed me over the edge of the building.

  He stared down at the highly polished, black oak handle sprouting from his chest. The blade itself was completely buried.

  I grasped the handle for dear life, tugging at the son of a bitch’s soul. Struggle as I might, it wouldn’t tear free.

  And then I felt it: a pull along the length of the handle, a pressure on my very essence, a need to let go, to travel, to be free.

  “The first time is always the hardest,” Joshua had said that night in the morgue. “It’ll get easier.” And then later at the hospital, “Two new faces in the ranks…just you, and an old Reaper with a new body.” It made no sense at the time.

  But now I understood—really understood—what it meant to be a Reaper and give up your immortal soul.

  For a chance at immortality.

  The power to abandon one sinking ship, simply to steal another. Not any ship, mind you, not my pick of the best.

  Only those that were sinking as well.

  Only those with an aura.

  Even a thin, bright yellow one.

  I surrendered to the pressure and let go…not with my hands, but with my mind, and the world fell out from beneath me.

  XXXIX

  Keeping Promises

  For a time, there was only the black void, and me tumbling through it. Harsh dawn split the darkness with light a hundred times more intense than the sun. After light came sound—a jumbled cacophony of pain and terror. Next came heat: an uncomfortable warmth that built quickly into a suffocating inferno.

  All of that was driven from my mind by the pain—a sudden, sharp and unrelenting agony. It screamed louder than any voice, “go back…you do not belong.”

  But I knew better.

  I’d been here before.

  And, if I survived long enough, I’d probably be here again.

  I wasn’t alone this time, though. As I fell, I could hear the screams of another presence, a man I had dragged along with me.

  Wrapped in anguish as I was, that still managed to make me smile.

  The sensations eventually relented as I slammed into a new body. I stood on a rooftop, staring down at the highly polished, black oak handle lodged in my chest. A skeleton dangled at the far end, dressed all in black: button down shirt, jeans, and a heavy leather duster. The skull held an expression of shock…and fear.

  The air around the skeleton shimmered, like the mirage over concrete on a hot day. It was gone nearly before it started, vanishing to reveal a man who hung, naked and vulnerable, at the handle’s end.

  For a week, that face had stared back at me from the mirror as my own.

  I watched with a renewed sense of fascination as my newly stolen flesh shriveled and fell away.

  The world shimmered around me. In an instant, I was clothed in button-down shirt, jeans, motorcycle boots and a heavy leather duster, all in deepest black.

  “What the hell? No!” the man screamed, trying frantically to pull himself along the length of polished oak. “NO!”

  “Guess that name does you no harm. I’ll give Zeus your regards.”

  The handle vanished, leaving him to claw at empty air.

  I watched dispassionately as he tumbled four stories to the asphalt below. He landed with a heavy wet crunch that left no doubts.

  The scythe materialized in my right hand.

  Atty, in her simple white dress, approached the ruined body. She stepped daintily around the gore and seeping fluids. My Sight revealed the tremendous pair of glowing shears she carried. Across their blades lay a single glittering thread.

  The shears closed with a snap.

  Two more women joined her, also in white: a middle-aged mother and her teenage daughter. All three glanced up in unison, with identical grins and nods.

  Only Chloe added a wink.

  I nodded in return.

  “Michael?”

  The women simply vanished, without warning or fanfare.

  “Uh…Michael?”

  I turned to find Elliott, soaked fur plastered tightly to his skin, but no blood or obvious injuries.

  I breathed a deep sigh of relief. “Yeah, fur ball?”

  He briefly rubbed against my leg, purring. “Who were those women?”

  “They’re friends.” The answer came from behind me before I had a chance to speak, the voice deep and rich.

  Elliott gasped, his eyes growing wide. He quickly bent down in a low bow over his front paws.

  “Are they, Chris?” I turned to face the man. His halo glowed a bright gold. He had changed t-shirts again; this one was blue, with a white Star of David and white lettering. It read, “Don’t blame me, I’m Jewish.”

  Chris smiled, shrugging. “Close enough.”

  “So, what now?” I asked. “Is the world safe yet?”

  He shook his head. “I’m afraid this was just one minor skirmish in a much larger war.”

  “And that’s all you’re going to tell me.”

  Chris nodded, clapping me on the shoulder. “Don’t worry, Henry. The battle rages on tomorrow, but tonight, rest safe and well—I will watch over you. You’ve done well, and I am proud.”
>
  I sighed. I hadn’t really thought it would be that easy, but a guy can hope. “Can I ask a favor, Chris?”

  Cocking an eyebrow, Chris smiled. “I can’t perform any miracles for you.”

  I nodded. “It’s not exactly a miracle…and it’s not for me.”

  He nodded back. “I suppose you have earned it.” I suspected he already knew what I was going to ask.

  Probably even before I did.

  Elliott whimpered at my side, eyes darting between Chris and myself. “Michael?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Would you mind telling me what is going on?”

  I laughed heartily, and for the first time in days nothing hurt. My ribs were no longer broken, my ankle was fine, my shoulder undamaged. In true Reaper fashion, I’d hit the reset button and had a chance to start again.

  Looking over the edge at my fallen enemy, the man who now wore my face, I smirked. He’d worked so hard at framing me for everything; it was only fair he’d now posthumously reap the rewards.

  Sometimes I love irony.

  No sound came from the apartment, but 2E below had been dark and quiet. If she wasn’t here, I had no idea where else to find her.

  I knocked at the door and waited.

  First order of business would be convincing her it was me. I had a different face now. She didn’t know me well, so the Possession Effect probably wouldn’t come into play. I’d just have to wing it.

  Emma opened the door. Today she wore blue jeans and a white blouse. She was barefoot, and her hair was once again pulled back into a pony tail.

  I took a deep breath, trying to decide where to start.

  “Hello, Michael.”

  “What…how…?”

  She smirked at my confusion. “I have my ways.” She winked, laughing. “What can I do for you?”

  I handed Emma a slip of paper.

  The one I’d gotten from Chris.

  She read the Ohio address and phone number, then shrugged, trying to hand it back. “What’s this?”

  “It’s Sydney, Emma.”

  Emma’s face drained of color and her eyes went wide in shock as she read the slip again. “Sydney? But how?”

  It was my turn to smile. “I called in a favor.”

  She read the paper again, her eyes glistening. “Is she okay?”