Immortal Remains: A Tim Reaper Novel

by Sean Cummings

  In seconds, I was adrift, an intangible collection of spiritual energy that gathered above the roof of her Crown Victoria. She was free of me now, and I lingered in the darkness to keep an eye on her in case my exit from her body presented any complications. She came to within a few minutes, again grinding her fingers into her temples. She gave her head a small shake, and then pulled out the envelope of cash as she hopped out of her car. She headed over to the boiler room door. She stuffed a small wad of bills inside, went back inside her car, and slapped it in gear.

  Carol Sparks was a class act. Did I mention that already?

  ***

  I had a name for hospitals: death central. Named so, because, yeah, people died there. Now, I knew that pretty much everyone entered this world in the same physical building where most people die, but it didn’t take away from the stench of death that permeated the place amid the hustle and bustle of medical staff. Hospital rooms on certain floors were dying rooms and nothing more. A daily ritual of crash carts, potent pharmaceuticals and mechanical-sounding breathing machines created the illusion of sustaining life, sometimes at a horrendous cost. Just ask anyone hooked up to a ventilator and lingered on in a persistent vegetative state for decades. You know, assuming you could get through to them. That ain’t living. That’s the human version of purgatory. It existed because of shit-piles of legal and ethical issues that would liquefy your brain if you pondered them too long.

  Hospitals are the gatekeepers to the end of life, and if you were attuned enough to the spiritual world, you could find dozens of reapers drifting through the halls of your local hospital, patiently waiting to claim the souls of everyone from accident victims to terminal cancer patients. The busiest place in any hospital is the emergency ward, where doctors and nurses try to perform minor miracles to give someone that blessed second chance people always talked about. One of the best places for a guy like me to find a new host. That’s precisely what I did, my vaporous essence drifting across a loading bay and into the hospital itself. I sensed the presence of my kind – actually, scratch that. They sensed me. A flurry of supernatural force swirled around me. I didn’t have to say anything: they knew who I was and they weren’t happy about my being there. Countless death spirits, each bursting with ancient power, cried out their collective rage that I’d dared show myself among them.

  Their hatred was electric. It arced through the air in a storm of loathing and disgust. Their accusing voices screamed at me, blamed me, despised me, but I paid no attention to them. I kept my senses focused on the ambulance bay doors because my best shot at getting out of the hospital wearing something other than a linen gown was to claim a body that died inside the back of ambulance on route to the hospital.

  And so I waited for hours. (Not that reapers worried about time. I just knew it was hours because of the clock.) Three times an ambulance arrived, and three times I struck out. Two emergency patients were wheeled in: one, a man who looked around ninety. He was probably going to kick the bucket, but his body was too brittle and frail for me to use. Another was an obese woman who’d choked on a lobster roll at McEwen’s Seafood Bar. The third one, dead on arrival, but it was a car accident victim and his body came in a mass of blood, broken bones and gore.

  This gave me time to think about my next move, though. Once I found a suitable host, I’d have to reconnect with Sparks and begin the process of finding Amy. I was pretty sure she was possessed by some psychotic demon from the pits of you-know-where. It tugged at me as to why a demon would be killing its own kind. Angels made sense. Cripes, any demon would have his hands full trying to take down an angel, so there was the issue of what he could be using that gave him an edge.

  Maybe he had a falling out with one of his netherworld capos since the residents of hell had a strict hierarchy when it came to eternal damnation. You couldn’t burn forever without knowing who was in charge of what. I thought, foolishly and for less than ten seconds, Amy might be possessed by the dark lord himself, tired of lingering on in that lake of fire, and hungry for a night out on the town. Of course, if that were to happen, every angel in the heavenly cosmos would descend on the world of humans to smite his sorry ass, and the last time I looked, the apocalypse hadn’t yet happened.

  In the past few days, I’d encountered both Jael and Ezekiel. I’d confronted a demon assassin named Abraxas who’d been dispatched to find the killer. Jael had told me an entire host of angels were searching for the killer and I just happened to receive a Holy sword as a gift for kicking Ezekiel to the curb.

  So, yeah. My nightmare glimpse into a hell on earth in an apocalyptic dreamscape was really starting to look like a good possibility if I didn’t find Amy. Angels and demons scouring the earth in search of a serial killer from the pits of hell – naturally, when you have that many forces of good and evil occupying the same plane of existence, it would lead to a confrontation.

  I knew the end-game of all this: get everyone from heaven and hell stirred up enough to force a war that would forever destroy the world of humans, and bring about a new divine order where both the Fallen and Angels of God would reunite. But in order to do that, you’d have to declare war on Him and the last time that happened, He didn’t take it too kindly.

  When I mingled my essence with Amy’s blood, I learned that eight of the original ten had been destroyed: only one remained and he’d come around to do what the other nine couldn’t.

  The original ten? What the hell was that all about?

  The wail of an ambulance siren shook me out of my daydream. A pair of nurses said that a thirty-five year old male experiencing cardiac arrest was less than a minute away. This had to be my next host; it was the right gender and the right age-frame for me to slip in comfortably. All he had to do was die.

  And that’s what was about to happen, because I spotted one of the dozen or so reapers emerge outside the ambulance bay doors. This guy was going to be done like dinner, so I drifted outside and waited for the ambulance to arrive.

  Its tires squealed to a halt and the back doors flew open. I gazed at the reaper as it drifted into the back of the van only to reappear seconds later with an incorporeal visage of the man who’d just died. This was my opportunity, so I disappeared into the side of the ambulance and threw my entire essence into the man who was now in full defibrillation. The paramedic shocked his heart and I felt a surge of power grip my chest like a pneumatic vice. Another shock and a wave of electricity radiated across my new host’s shoulders and into my jaw. I could hear the sound of a long beep from the heart monitor, so I decided to make my presence known: I emitted a tiny jolt of my essence and the machine beeped once. I sent another small jolt and within seconds, my host’s heart had a rhythm.

  I gasped for air. Shook my head. My new body went rigid for a moment. Then relaxed as the host’s nervous system connected with my consciousness. I coughed hard as a torrent of bile rose up from my stomach. My mouth tasted like I’d just consumed a case of over-proof rum. I turned my head and vomited on the floor. The lone paramedic jumped backward a good foot to avoid being splashed. I coughed another few times and then gazed up at her.

  “Hiya, Toots,” I said, my voice still weak from having died. “I think I’m gonna make it.”

  22

  They wheeled me into an examination room and I caught a glimpse of my new reflection in a large mirror that was attached to the back of a flat grey metal door. My new host was dressed in what I could have sworn was a tailor-made business suit. My hair was yellow blonde, like spun gold and I had a narrow, almost regal looking nose fixed between a pair of brown eyes that were hidden behind expensive looking frameless glasses. I had high cheekbones and a strong square jaw that made me immediately think I resembled Marlon Brando in The Young Lions.

  “Could be worse,” I said as I brought both hands to my face and ran my fingertips along my skin.

  “You were dead,” a pudgy looking doctor said as he put an ice-cold stethoscope against my chest. “You should be dead – count your
blessings Mr. Richter.”

  “What happened?” I asked, making a mental note to remember my late host’s surname.

  “You were binge drinking by all accounts. The cocaine we found in your pocket probably didn’t help, either. It was likely laced with something that caused you to experience a cardiac arrest. You’re very lucky – most people don’t survive. We have no record of any next of kin. Is there anyone we can call?”

  I raised myself up on my elbows. “Cardiac arrest, huh? That’ll do it every time,” I said. “As for next of kin, let’s just say I’m an only child and my parents are long dead.”

  He folded his arms across his chest and his eyes narrowed. “I’ve been a practicing physician for more than thirty years and I’ve not seen anyone who experienced a cardiac arrest recover consciousness so quickly, let alone adopt such a flippant attitude toward a near-death experience. And you’re not out of the woods yet, Mr. Richter. You’re being admitted because there’s a real risk that you might arrest again.”

  I chewed my lip for a moment. I couldn’t just get up and walk out of the hospital like nothing had happened. Meeting up with Sparks was going to take no shortage of stealth on my part because if the medical staff had their way, I’d be poked and prodded until they could be absolutely certain the former Mr. Richter was going to live. If I was going to get out of the hospital quickly, I’d have to resort to fiddling with the good doctor’s mind.

  “Alright, Doc,” I said feigning weakness in my voice. “Is dizziness a part of this because the room’s spinning a bit.”

  He shuffled over and stuck his stethoscope back on my chest. It was at this point that I decided to make my move. I quickly grabbed him by the wrist and pulled him down until he was at eye level with me. The doctor struggled at first but his jaw dropped when he got a good look into my eyes.

  “Relax, Doc,” I said soothingly as I pushed his defenses aside like they were a house of cards. I swept aside vignettes of intense emotion and fragments of memory showing me a young, less pudgy doctor in medical school. He’d somehow managed to acquire the answers to a critical examination that he needed to get through his third year and he was desperate to pass.

  And desperate people do desperate things.

  “You cheated,” I whispered in his ear. “And now you’re going to get me a wheel chair and wheel me the hell outta here.”

  I felt his pulse racing like a funny car at the drag strip and then whispered in a terrified, barely audible voice, “H-how? W-What are you?”

  “A busy guy with places to be,” I replied. “When we’re done, you’re not going to remember any of this and by the way, your little secret is safe with me. Get me into the parking garage pronto, Doc, or I’ll wipe your memories cleaner than a pedophile trying wipe his hard drive. That’ll mean medical school all over again, and geez, who wants that?”

  He made a dry choking sound and then nodded quickly. “How could you know about … about that?”

  “Let’s just say that I can read minds and we’ll leave it there,” I said, tearing off the electronic sensors that were attached to my chest with one hand and releasing my grip on the doctor’s wrist with my other.

  The pudgy little doctor stumbled backward for a moment. His face had turned a really nasty shade of grey and he was sweating like a pig, but he did as he was instructed. He left the examination room and returned about two minutes later with a wheel chair and in seconds I’d slipped off the gurney and taken a seat.

  He pushed me through a pair of stainless steel metal doors and I was surprised at how easily I was making a getaway. Not a single nurse or fellow doctor stopped him, probably because the emergency ward had been full up to capacity before I jumped into Richter’s body. There were other people to treat and miracles to perform – it made sense that hardly anyone noticed the cardiac patient who’d died in the back of an ambulance being wheeled to a staff elevator. I took the time to button up what appeared to be a silk business shirt and to straighten my tie. As we wheeled out of the elevator and into an underground tunnel complete with powder pink walls and steam pipes running along both sides, I rifled through the contents of Richter’s wallet.

  He’d been an American alright. His name had been Scott Richter, and there was a Visa Black card – that told me that Richter had to have been involved in sales of some kind. This was confirmed when I saw he’d worked for a multi-national banking firm in New York that actually survived the global financial meltdown in 2008. There were pictures of three women, all recent, all drop dead gorgeous and all three were of the pay-as-you go variety because the back of each photo was embossed with the words “Heavenly Nights – discreet service and quality entertainment”. Finally, a man after my own heart.

  I slipped the photos back into the wallet and then pulled out a rewards card from a Lexus dealership. Clearly, Richter had some money squirreled away somewhere. I decided to clean out his accounts once all this was over because I was going to need a possible new base of operations. You know, assuming I actually managed to survive whatever apocalyptic nightmare was descending onto Halifax.

  Yeah, I know it isn’t ethical to steal a dead man’s body and then rip into his assets, but where he was heading he’d be in no need of them.

  We emerged from the tunnel and the doctor maneuvered the chair through a pair of doors leading to the parking garage. I hopped out of the chair and spun around to face the doctor. “This looks like my stop,” I said, as I pushed his shoulders firmly against the wall. His knees nearly gave in and I had to hold him up to keep him steady.

  “Y-You’re supposed to be dead,” he whispered, his voice was dry and hoarse.

  I placed my hands on his cheeks and stared straight into his eyes. “Yeah, well death is overrated, trust me on this,” I said, sending the tiniest fragment of my essence into his mind “You’re going to have a big blank spot in your memories, doc. But first, you’re going to think that Scott Richter died and was delivered to the morgue. You’ll fill out the death certificate stating the cause of death as cardiac arrest. You got that?”

  A tiny slither of drool rolled down from the corner of his mouth and onto his chin. He nodded slowly to show that he understood. He slumped to the floor as I pushed through another set of doors and headed down a flight of stairs to the main parking garage entrance. I decided against retrieving the money that Sparks had left for me. There was a stack of bills in Richter’s wallet, more than enough to cab it back to my flat.

  I trotted over to a line of taxis that were waiting outside the hospital main entrance. I raised my hand and a lime green cab with a dashboard covered with clutter pulled out to meet me. I hopped in and ordered the driver to head up to Uniacke Square. Sparks would hopefully be waiting for me and then I could get back into my flat, shower, change and bomb up with supplies and then get back to the business of finding Amy.

  What I didn’t expect was another close encounter of the biblical kind.

  “You’ve changed your appearance, death-dealer,” said the driver. “You’ve made quite a name for yourself over the last twenty-four hours.”

  I craned my neck around the head rest so that I could see the driver’s face. He was unshaven with about three days’ worth of growth of beard, and his salt and pepper hair was pulled back into a tight ponytail. “Shit … another one. Are you from up there or down below?” I asked.

  He threw me a calm smile as he turned onto Quinpool Road. “I am one of His,” he said, flashing me a glance through the rear-view mirror. “You, on the other hand, work for anyone who pays well enough.”

  “A guy’s gotta make a living, brother,” I said easily, as I fished through my jacket for a cigarette. Naturally, Scott Richter while being a druggie and a piss tank boozer didn’t smoke. There simply is no justice. “You know, you’re the third angel in the past four days that I’ve run into. How’s Jael doing?”

  “Keeping busy, just like you and me,” he said.

  “Which explains why you’re driving a cab and not, you know, usi
ng super bible holy radar or something to find whoever is killing you morons,” I said with not a small amount of sarcasm in my voice. “You can relax whoever you are – I know who the killer is.”

  He pulled in front of a convenience store and slipped the cab into park. “My name is Sariel, and why don’t you enlighten me as to your theory.”

  I snorted. “You know, you guys are supposed to be near-omnipotent and you haven’t even figured out that your killer is a demon. I don’t know what kind of demon it is that has the power to slay an angel, but it has taken someone near and dear to me and that through her, it intends to kill one final time. The prick has possessed people in Mexico City, New Orleans, New York and Boston to carry out the killings. The perfect serial killer, that one. A freaking chameleon.”

  Sariel turned to face me. “Mere possession of a human soul by a lowly minion from hell would not garner enough power to slay that which is holy, death-dealer. Surely you know this.”

  I grunted. “Right now, all that I know is that God’s tenth general is next on the hit list, whoever the hell that is.”

  He gave me a surprised look. “A general you say? That’s very troubling.”

  “Has anyone ever told you that angels all talk like they’re frigging social workers? You guys are supposed to be holy flipping warriors with the ability to kick evil ass all over the place for shit sake! Listen … who the hell are these generals anyway and why does the Supreme Being need generals in the first place? He’s God or Jehovah or Yahweh or whatever he freaking well wants to be. He’s the baddest bad-ass of them all … I just don’t get it.”

  “They’re the first of His servants,” he replied, ignoring my little outburst. “Three of them are fallen angels and the fallen have their own King. You might have heard of him; his name is Lucifer.”