by Rae Renzi
She looked at her fingernails and said, “I don’t think you want me to bother them. They’re busy, like I said.”
“Nonsense. I’ve about had it with their games, and I want out. Besides, it’s too warm in here, and I don’t want to be stuck in a coffin with this… person for another minute.”
“Doesn’t seem like such a hardship to me. Besides, you have other things to worry about.”
“Other things like what?” Belatedly, the rest of my senses kicked in. I sniffed the air. It had a distinctive smell. Burned.
“Shit!” I pounded on the sides of the coffin and tried to shove open the top. Even fueled by panic, my efforts had no effect.
Sam moaned again and attempted to sit up. He banged his head on the coffin lid. “Ow. What the hell… ?”
Suddenly the casket jerked with a stuttering motion. “What was that?” I shrilled.
Christie shrugged. “The front-loader, the conveyor-belt thingy. Looks like they didn’t get the timer shut off.”
“Timer? What timer?”
Something clanged, like a big, heavy metal door.
“For the furnace. Don’t worry. It’ll be over fast once the timer goes off in, oh…” She pulled her head out of the coffin for a second, then popped it back in. “… eleven minutes, give or take a few seconds.”
“The furnace?” Not in my wildest imaging could I come up with a reason for the Departed or Marybob to incinerate me with Sam. “Who… ? Mr. Botts… ?”
“Nah. The other guy—the mortician with the starched underwear.”
Starched underwear? “Do you mean Marshall? Marshall did this?”
She ignored me and turned her attention to Sam, who was making semi-coherent noises. “He’s pretty cute. You could spend your last moments in a lot worse company.”
“Joy?” Sam’s hand patted my face. “Wha’ happened?” He sounded groggy but at least somewhat lucid. He slumped to the right, giving me a little more space. “Where are we?”
“I think we’re in the crematorium, but I’m sure we’ll be fine.” I tried to sound calm. I’m not sure I succeeded.
I couldn’t see Sam, but I felt him snap to attention. He moved his hands around him, touching the top, bottom, and sides of the coffin.
“In a box?”
“Yes. Actually, a coffin of sorts.” In truth, the “coffin” was actually a relatively thin-walled (and cheap) container, made to resemble a coffin, and designed to burn quickly and efficiently. How we ended up in here, courtesy of Marshall apparently, was a question I would save for later. At the moment, I had other priorities.
“Are you telling me we’re about to be torched?” His voice hit a higher register. “Why? How? Who—”
“Does it matter at this point? And, at 1800 degrees, I think ‘vaporized’ is the accurate term.”
He went silent. I felt him shift. “This will be a little uncomfortable—”
“Uncomfortable? It will be—”
“—but, if you can straddle me, I think I can get some leverage with my legs. I’ll try to kick the end out.”
I didn’t argue—his plan had a better chance of success than my feeble efforts. I squirmed around and put my knees on either side of Sam’s hips while flattening my upper body against his. As he wriggled toward the foot of the coffin, his face ended up in my chest. It was awkward, to say the least, and wasn’t helped by Christie’s occasional not-very-funny comments.
Sam bunched his legs up and gave a mighty kick. My head banged the top of the coffin. “Ouch! But don’t stop.” I locked my arms around his head.
He burrowed his face in my breasts. “Oh, I won’t.”
“Sam.”
“Sorry. Distracted.”
“Kick!”
He did.
The flimsy boards of the cremation coffin split with a loud crack. On the next kick, a hole was punched through the end. Hot air rolled in.
“Okay, Joy, go.”
I wriggled out of the opening as quickly as I could. Sam followed, somewhat forcefully, flinging fragments of the coffin in every direction.
My relief was short-lived. We were in the belly of the furnace, a bricked-in space roughly twice as big as the box Sam had just reduced to splinters. I threw myself at the door, but it was locked, of course. I peered out of the viewing window.
On the side of the room, Craig stood over the control console of the furnace, his face thoughtful. The illuminated digits of the timer controlling the ignition of the furnace glowed red through him.
… 9:48…
I pounded on the window. Craig looked up.
Sam glanced at me, then out the window. Of course, to him the room was empty, but the timer, in minutes and seconds, was perfectly clear. He gently moved me aside, lowered his shoulder, and rammed it into the window. He bounced back, just as I had done. The window might appear vulnerable, but it was made to withstand vaporizing heat. One measly human shoulder, no matter how impressive, was no match for it.
I frantically beckoned Craig, who de-materialized and re-materialized in front of me.
“Craig, can you help us? We’re about to be incinerated. Can you turn off the furnace?”
“I thought Craig was dead,” Sam said.
“He is.”
“Oh.” Sam searched my face and uttered in a pensive voice. “I see. And he’s here…”
I would have loved to ask what he saw in my face, but there was no time.
“Yes.” To Craig I said, “Can you turn the switch?”
“I can’t, no. You know that.”
“Then Luke. Can he turn it off?” I tried to keep my voice calm, but I could feel my control unraveling.
“He tried. Doesn’t have the mass. It’s like trying to push the lever with a feather. But take a moment to consider, Joy.”
“Consider? Consider what?”
Craig had a peculiar expression on his face. “Consider whether you want the furnace stopped. It’ll probably only hurt for a second, and then you’ll be… like me. With me.”
Sam shot worried glances in my direction as I conversed (from his viewpoint) with empty space. He ran a hand through his hair. It sprigged in every direction. “Okay, okay,” he muttered to himself. He crawled around me and started digging at the bricks lining the furnace, muttering, “If I can get to the ignition and break it…”
“Then you’ll succeed in preventing our vaporization. Instead, we’ll be gassed.” My response was a little tense.
Sam groaned.
Craig waited.
I darted a look at the timer.
… 8:15…
“Look, Craig, Sam… shouldn’t die. I don’t want him to die.”
“Why? You know it’s better in the Hereafter.”
Sam looked at me strangely. “That’s what you don’t want. What is it that you do want?”
Craig spared him a glance and turned his sweet smile on me. “That’s the real question, isn’t it, Joy? Living isn’t avoiding the things you don’t want. It’s seeking the things you do want. So what do you want?”
It was the same question Sam had asked when we met. The one I had pushed away since he asked it. For longer, in fact. For two years, I’d avoided seeking life and fallen into trying to avoid what I didn’t want—losing Craig. Losing anyone.
I opened my mouth and closed it.
“If we do nothing, you can be with me—” Craig glanced at the timer.
… 7:46…
“—in just a few minutes. It doesn’t even have to hurt. Think about it, Joy.”
I did. But he had already shown me what I needed to know: there was no point in trying to hold on to the past. Life didn’t end with death, but it changed. Even without death, it changed. Everything would change, no matter what I decided. So, “What do I want?”
Sam took my hand in his and stroked it. “You don’t have to answer now.” He lifted my hand to his lips and kissed my palm. “But just so you know, I want you. I always have. You ground me. You keep me on the side of the an
gels. I want you, Joy. And if we live through this, I’ll show you just how much.”
My heart lodged in my throat. I looked at Craig, who waited patiently as he had always done, a loving smile on his face. “It’s your choice, my love. Make it well.”
I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. “I want to live. I want to… live. With living people. I want to see what happens next. With you, Sam. That’s what I want.”
“Are you sure?” Craig and Sam asked, their blended voices the keynote to my heart.
I looked at Craig, pure love shining from his eyes. I looked at Sam, still gazing at me, his gray-blue eyes ablaze with curiosity and something more, something like a promise.
“I’m sure.”
Craig’s smile deepened. “That’s my girl.”
“So could you please do something? Find Marybob? Or… ?”
“Uh… find Marybob? I…” Sam sounded confused. Undoubtedly a novel feeling for him.
“Not you, Sam. I’m talking to Craig.” For the last time? The sudden thought scared me.
Sam nodded slowly. “Okay.”
“I don’t know if I’m ready for this,” I said. A world without Craig didn’t seem possible to me, no matter who else was there.
“You will be when it’s time,” Craig said. “But first—” And he popped away.
“To die? Neither am I,” Sam said. “But, I have to say, it’s not looking so good. Unless…”
I sank down and leaned against the door. Despair hadn’t ever been my weaknesses, but at that moment, I understood how strong the desire to live could be, and how hard it was to let go. Tears stung my eyes and spilled over. Whether they were driven from the idea of losing Craig or from the threat of losing Sam didn’t matter. I hurt from the inside out.
Sam slid over to sit beside me and put his arm around my shoulders. He brushed the tears from my face.
“This isn’t exactly how I’d hoped to end up,” I said.
He glanced at me curiously. “What did you hope for? I mean, supposedly the afterlife is better than this world—and at the moment, I have to agree with that—so what more would you hope for?”
A good question. People say one’s life flashes before one’s eyes at the moment of death, although Craig had never endorsed this myth. What passed before my mind’s eye was the possibility of a life.
I reached for Sam’s hand. “Sam… I know I’ve been… um… a little difficult, but I wish—”
“I think wishes at this point are a waste of time.” He traced his finger along my jaw and slid his hand into my hair. I closed my eyes, savoring the delicious and wholly mortal sensation, wondering why I had resisted this for so long. He turned my head toward his and ran his thumb over my lips. “Anyway, it’s not over yet,” he said. “Luke, or Craig, or whoever, will get Marybob. We’ll be fine.”
I looked at him in surprise. “So you believe… ?”
“Well, you’re either completely off your rocker or you really can communicate with the dead. It’s pretty much in my best interests to go with the latter.” He smiled and bent his face toward mine.
All at once I wanted nothing more in my last few minutes on earth than to be closer to Sam. I lifted my face to his and parted my lips. He delicately stroked the side of my face with his fingertips and brushed his mouth over my face, dotting it with soft, tender kisses.
I wanted more. I pulled his head closer and pressed his lips to mine. Tasting, feeling, trying to get the whole Sam experience in a few seconds. He groaned and pulled me tighter, deepening our already-simmering kiss. It was heaven…
“What the hell is going on?” Marybob’s bellow pierced my rapture. “Luke? What are you doing? I’ve got a client out… oh, shit!”
I slid up to see Marybob staring in the window, a look of horror on her face. It wasn’t Luke who stood next to her, but Craig—gingerly holding a ten-dollar bill in front of her face. That was odd. I’d never seen him move a material object before…
Luke materialized next to him, his eyes on the bill. “Oh, man, that’s not good,” he said, lifting his eyes to Craig’s face.
I couldn’t agree more. This was definitely not good. I was melting like butter.
Craig said, “It’ll be okay.” He seemed to be talking to Luke, though, not me.
I weakly slapped my hand on the window, to refocus their attention appropriately. Marybob, however, needed no help.
“Oh my God! Joy! Oh, shit! Oh, shit!”
They were my sentiments exactly, but that wasn’t going to save us—we needed some action. “The timer, Marybob.” I jabbed a finger in the direction of the display.
… 04:17…
Marybob whirled on her high-heeled shoes and clattered across the floor. She jabbed at the buttons. Nothing happened. With a stricken look on her face, she darted a glance in the direction of the furnace and dashed out the door.
“Where the hell’s she going?” Sam pounded a fist against the window.
She’d been gone exactly 1 minute and 36 seconds (… 02:51… ) when the door to the room banged open. Marybob ran in with Clydes clumping after her and Ruby floating in their wake. Marybob gesticulated toward the timer, and, more frantically, the furnace.
Clydes looked up and, seeing us, raised a hand in greeting.
… 01:49…
“Hurry! Hurry!” I screamed.
Sam was silent, his fists against the window, his knuckles white.
Clydes lumbered up to the furnace and glanced around the side of it. He looked at the ceiling and walked over to the back wall, disappearing from my view.
… 00:56…
A loud thump came from behind the furnace… then the sound of heavy boots running. A whoosh! sounded below my feet.
“It’s too late.” I barely whispered the horrid words.
Sam pulled me close, wrapped his large body around mine, and tucked my face into his neck. “Close your eyes,” he whispered. “It’ll be over in a second.”
A brilliant flash scorched my face, and a wave of heat slammed the breath out of me.
Chapter 43
My sweat ran like a river and mingled with Sam’s as we clung to one another, eyes closed, cheeks pressed together, leaning weakly against the door to the chamber. My breath came in short pants. The air was blisteringly hot.
But not, I suddenly realized, 1800 degrees.
I opened my eyes. Sam, too, had noticed we had not been reduced to ash and vapor. His eyes swept over me like I was a drink of cool water. His face was bright red, and rivulets of sweat ran down it. His hair, for once, was plastered to his skull. He was beautiful beyond words.
“Please don’t tell me this is a slow roaster,” he gasped as he slid to the ground. His shirt and pants were singed, and his exposed skin red. “No, I guess we’ll run out of air first.”
“Something… happened… to… the… furnace,” I wheezed out. I rolled my face toward the window, too weak to stay upright on my own. The glass was slimy with our hand and face prints, and I could barely see out. Across the room, I made out Clydes on his knees, leaning heavily on a valve sticking out of the baseboard, his long braid hanging over his shoulder. He grinned and, glancing in our direction, held up a finger, as if telling us to wait.
I clutched my throat and stuck out my tongue, hoping to convey the idea that we were running out of air. Clydes nodded.
The last thing I saw before sagging to the floor was Marybob shimmying into view, dragging a sledgehammer.
A thud sounded beside me. Sam had toppled over and hit the floor, unconscious.
“Sam?” I watched him like a hawk for any sign his body and soul were becoming disengaged. Was he getting fuzzy at the edges, starting to leave his body, or was my vision deteriorating?
Not taking any chances, I grabbed his shirt and yanked on him. “No, Sam, you are not leaving. You will not do this. I absolutely forbid it. You will not leave me here alone!” I shook him with everything I had, which, admittedly, wasn’t much. His eyes flew opened briefly, but rol
led back immediately. I slumped down on top of him with a whimper.
He smelled of scorched cotton and sweat. I wriggled my face into his neck as a mighty clanging crash shook the chamber door. I was barely conscious, too weak to even startle. A moment later the door swung open, and I tumbled out into cool, oxygen-laden air and Clydes’s waiting arms. He eased me to the ground and turned to the more effortful task of dragging Sam’s large and frighteningly inert form out of the furnace. He laid him on the floor too far away from me.
Reeling dizzily, I struggled to my knees and crawled over to him. “Sam, don’t do this. I refuse to let you leave me.” A sob escaped me as I knelt over his body. “I can’t do this again. I can’t. You aren’t dying. You just…” Suddenly I remembered my training. Making a hammer of my interlocked fists, I reared back and slammed them into his chest.
His eyes popped open and a huge breath whooshed out of him. “Ughhh!”
Marybob grabbed me. “Joy! What the hell are you doing? You’re gonna kill the man.”
“CPR…”
“He doesn’t need CPR, dummy! He needs to breathe, which he was doing just fine before you hammered him. Just give him a sec.”
Hope surged through me, and hope demanded action. I slapped him on the cheek.
“Christ… stop it!” Sam muttered. His eyes fluttered open and rolled around for a moment before they steadied up and settled—not on my face, but Marybob’s. “Contract stands,” he croaked, then passed out.
Chapter 44
When the ambulance arrived, Sam and I were zoomed off to the hospital. Me, to stay overnight for observation; Sam, to be treated for second-degree burns and, it turned out, a concussion, courtesy of Marshall. I protested loudly—I obviously didn’t need to be hospitalized—but was essentially manhandled into the ambulance. Sam, too faint to move, didn’t even protest.
“I’ve got Alice,” Marybob assured me, “and the dating service. Don’t you worry about a thing.”
For some reason, that didn’t reassure me. I worried. Or I would have if given half a chance. The doctor had ordered an IV sedative for me—I couldn’t think why, as I was perfectly rational.
