Danse Macabre: Close Encounters with the Reaper

by Nancy Kilpatrick

  “Ah!” said the old man with the tingling, sentient seeming blade, also to no one in particular. And lifting the blade from the leather saddle on his shoulder, he reached into the doorway and touched the derelict’s dirty neck. With his eyes closed and flesh numb, the bum saw and felt nothing at all … but then he wouldn’t have anyway. And:

  “Next winter,” said the old man, as he strode on along the street. “We’ll see you again next winter.”

  Disease, drugs, drink, and occasionally accidents. And the absolute harvest of war, naturally. And always the old man with his shining blade: always Death, of course. He moved on.

  The city was beginning to come awake now, daylight brightening. The old man wasn’t especially fond of daylight: he suffered it but it didn’t really fit the image of one who preferred to have things happen in the dark of night. However — and once again — it wasn’t in his power to discriminate…

  There was a fancy wine bar with an ornate varnished mahogany façade, opaque, small paned bull’s-eye windows, and a hanging sign above the recessed, arched-over double doors that read simply: “B.J.’s.” As the old man with the blade drew level with the doors they opened; a girl, beautiful, darkly gypsyish, with eyes that shone in the shaded doorway, ushered a young man into the daylight. She leaned forward to kiss him, a temporary farewell, left him on the street and closed the doors on him.

  There was something about the young man. He blinked in the morning sunlight and lifted a hand to shade his pale face, his eyes that seemed a little distant, dazed and disoriented. The old man thought it possible that he knew that look: he believed he’d seen its like before: often, on the faces of men who were lost or bent on suicide!

  And yet … there was something else about this particular young man, so the old man with the scythe leaned closer, sniffing out the other’s origins, essence, nature, destiny. But then a singular thing: just for a moment he thought he saw the young man’s faraway eyes focus and look back at him! And more, it was as if the young man knew him, as if they were old friends!

  Indeed they were old friends!

  The scythe no longer tingled but shivered, and its master, the oldest man of all, shivered with it and jerked away, quickening his silent steps along the still mainly empty street. Ah, he knew this one now, remembered him for all the work he’d done for him; knew also that he would never be required to accommodate him. Oh, his time would come eventually — well, possibly — but not now and not in this world. That was not this one’s destiny. But there were other old men with blades, a great many of them, in all the many worlds where life had taken root.

  One of them would accommodate this one — this Necroscope *, this Harry Keogh — well, eventually. Or possibly? Death stroked his living scythe to calm it, then paused to cast a glance back along the almost empty street. And then he nodded to himself.

  For apart from a small dust devil where it collapsed close to the wine bar’s entrance, and the dirty naked foot protruding from a shop doorway, the street was empty, yes.

  And the old, old man moved on…

  Tele- (Gk. tele: ‘far’.) Telescope: An optical instrument enlarging distant objects.

  Micro- (Gk. mikros: ‘small’) Microscope: An optical instrument making small objects visible to the human eye.

  Necro- (Gk. nekros: ‘a corpse’) Necroscope: a human instrument which permits access to the minds of the dead.

  The first two perform physical, one-way functions. They are incapable of changing anything.

  Harry Keogh is a Necroscope. He knows the thoughts of interred corpses. His talent works both ways. The dead know he knows their thoughts — and they won’t lie still for it!

  * * * * *

  Brian Lumley is the author of the bestselling Necroscope series of vampire novels. An acknowledged master of Lovecraft-style horror, Lumley has won the British Fantasy Award and been named a Grand Master of Horror. His works have been published in more than a dozen countries and have inspired comic books, role-playing games, and sculpture, and been adapted for television. When not writing, Lumley can often be found spear-fishing in the Greek islands, gambling in Las Vegas, or attending a convention somewhere in the US. Lumley and his wife live in England. First published in Necroscope: Harry and the Pirates, TOR Books, 2009, “Old Man with a Blade” features the protagonist of his Necroscope world, Harry Keogh, maybe the only character that can unnerve Death!

  Population Management

  By Tom Dullemond

  Formless formless formless!

  Brandon scrabbled at his desk, knocking over his foot-wide fossil Ammonite paperweight as he pulled drawers open and dug through their contents — blank sheets, sticky notes, stationery.

  Not the right forms. He needed the right form!

  His Death stood motionlessly beside him, oval head at waist-height, humanoid plastiform face serene.

  Half a minute or so passed over that stoic translucent face while Brandon continued to sift through his desk.

  “My condolences,” Death repeated, assuming Brandon hadn’t heard it the first time. “On your death.”

  “Listen, I … uhm … I need to requisition the Intent to Confirm Death Notice form.”

  “That is form D-12, and any ‘intent to confirm’ form requires four working days to process. I am afraid you are dying this Friday morning, so there is not enough time to acquire the form.”

  “I need to post the Expedited Request at the same time, that will give me a—”

  “Congratulations!” Brandon’s Death stood a little straighter, and its eye LEDs glowed greener. “I have expedited your request for the Expedited Request and the requirement has been waived!” Before Brandon’s expression had time to shift from panic to relief it added, “Your Intent to Confirm has been expedited and your Death has been confirmed. My condolences on your death!”

  Something in its simplistic logic circuits tripped on that non sequitur and its green eyes faded apologetically back to sorrowful orange.

  Brandon wasn’t consoled. “I’m twenty four! And I process death forms, I’m supposed to—” But it didn’t matter. The confirmation had come through so there wasn’t much point in filing a counter notice of intent to reconfirm the confirmation of the Intent to Confirm Death Notice.

  He sank back into his thousand dollar ergonomic chair and closed his eyes, struggling for some of the inner peace he achieved each morning on the commute in his little one-person cablet.

  “My condolences on your death, but I’m pleased to tell you that the department is actively recruiting a replacement bureaucrat as of this morning. I’m told they’re having some trouble finding a person with your experience and dedication. You’re quite a unique individua—” it hiccupped briefly “—Brandon Somerset.”

  Brandon held up a hand, stared off past the Death’s rounded plastic shoulder and beyond his small cubicle across the otherwise empty office.

  “Is this because I wouldn’t take the job down-state?”

  “Oh, I’m not privy to HR decisions, Brandon.”

  “I emailed them this morning that I wouldn’t take the job, and now I’m being served with a Death. This is bullshit.”

  “I’m sorry you feel that way Brandon, but the lottery doesn’t discriminate or favor. I’m simply here to help you through this difficult time. I have a list of affairs the department thinks you need to tidy up. They’ve taken the liberty of updating your public PeoplePage status to ‘Dying’. You should probably prepare some replies. Your mother is very worried about you.”

  “Gah!” Brandon spun in his chair to face the terminal and flicked virtual windows aside until he saw his profile page. Condolence notices clogged his inbox. He pulled a few apart then realized most of them were just templates.

  Sorry to hear about your loss. That was from an ex.

  Damn, sucks to be you right now. Fou
r of those from various acquaintances and from friends he’d lost real-life track of over the years.

  His mother seemed the most upset, but even her handful of grieving paragraphs held an overtone of restrained effort, like she wasn’t sure how much grief was appropriate.

  He dashed off an I’ll sort this out blanket response, but the reality was there wasn’t much to sort out. His Death would help him wrap up his earthly affairs, accompany him to the government hospital on Friday morning, and pat him on the head while they gave him his lethal injection or whatever. Maybe they’d drop a piano on his head on the way, to give the newsies some filler.

  “Is this some kind of trick?” he asked the robot. “Are they teaching me a lesson?”

  “I wouldn’t know about such things, Brandon. I’m your personal Death, ready to help you finalize your affairs. You should take a break and let yourself get used to the idea.”

  Brandon didn’t need to get used to the idea. He’d seen this plenty of times. Most of his work involved allocating appropriate resources to the dying. He just figured that that gave him some kind of special immunity, so he’d grow old like in the movies, live his life out on a grassy hill somewhere. Not that he’d ever seen a genuine grassy hill with his own eyes.

  Dammit! He was twenty-four! He only had twenty-four tickets in the lottery.

  “What do I die of?” he ventured.

  “Heart failure, in your sleep,” the Death said. “It won’t be any trouble. Thousands of people die of this every day.”

  “And you’re sure this isn’t some kind of elaborate prank? I have two notices on my file about being obstructive.”

  Notice one was the old lady who’d died of a heart attack when Brandon had messaged her that her husband had died of a heart attack. That little fiasco ended up costing the department a kidney transplant, after they had to account for the unexpected death and tweak the statistics back. He still got an email from that kid every year, on the anniversary of his free life-saving operation. Very messy business. Lots of accusations.

  Notice two was from trying to tweak a Death for personal reasons. That hadn’t worked out so well. But Brandon thought the department would have moved past that now, since the lady in question was dead despite his best efforts.

  He made a sudden decision and grabbed his phone, stabbing a finger at his mother’s number.

  She picked up and … it was the answering bot. Somehow it was always the answering bot.

  “Hey … hi. I was just wondering… Can you guys make it to the hospital on Friday morning? I’d really appreciate it. No … no, I just need to talk to ma. No, I’m not ready to talk to her shrink about it. I’m fine … yes … yes. No. No I don’t have time right now. I’m dying. Bye.” He slammed down the phone. Roboassists were getting far too personal.

  “I’d be happy to listen to anything you might want to talk about, Brandon,” the Death said.

  “Well I really think we ought to—”

  “But first, I have a suggested list of people with whom you need to make amends, drawn up by the department to maximize your well-being.”

  “Uh … o … kay, then. Sure, what’s on the list?”

  “The lottery distributes death fairly, but it is always a shock for the winners. As part of your winding down, the department ensures that you attempt to make amends with those you have upset in your life. For you, Brandon, the list is longer than average.”

  “Yeah, well I grew up around a lot of jerks.”

  The Death paused and blinked its tiny LED eyes.

  “It’s why you aren’t dying until the day after tomorrow, Brandon. You have a lot of relationships to mend.”

  “Well, first maybe you should mend this,” said Brandon, and he put the spiral Ammonite paperweight through Death’s faceplate.

  He was still sitting in his chair, staring, when the new Death rolled in. The lift dinged and when he looked up, there it was, pretty much identical to the first, which still lay in pieces at his feet. It had been about five minutes. Not bad.

  Brandon sighed.

  “Alright, let’s get started, Death.” He began packing up his belongings. The Ammonite was barely scratched by the broken Death’s head. He placed it flat on top and paused with the cool stone under his fingers.

  “The very first person on your list is Bettina Grayling, a young girl who—”

  “Seriously? I didn’t ask her out after Junior High. That’s it.”

  “She was very upset and remained single for three whole years. She bears you a grudge, and we’d like to cheer up her life.”

  “Oh, man, this is ridiculous. That’s her issue. It was a kid’s promise.”

  “Since it’s my job to ensure each lottery death is a net gain for societal happiness, I would like you to contact Bettina and apologize for disappointing her.”

  “You’re joking, right? Is my piano teacher Mrs. Andrews next? I remember I skipped out on a few classes my mom paid for.” He laughed.

  “Mrs. Andrews is third on the list. You also need to apologize to your brother for taking credit for his creative writing assignment in the eighth grade.”

  Brandon blinked at the Death, speechless.

  “And it would be a nice personal touch if you handwrote each letter.” Death handed him a gold-filigreed fountain pen.

  By the time his Death explained that they had completed enough apologies for the first day, Brandon was emotionally exhausted and his concerns about how petty and ridiculous each offence was had been drowned out by the cramping pain in his hand. Who still wrote things by hand? In the end he had nine painfully handwritten apologies, black ink on marbled grey paper. The Death provided matching gray envelopes, addressed in machine-perfect cursive.

  “That’s lovely work, Brandon. Shall we go home?”

  “Uhm, well…”

  “I’ve requisitioned a two-person cab, so you’ll have some company for a change.”

  “Suuure… Thanks, but—”

  “Let me accompany you.”

  “Yeah, I was going to go to a bar instead. Just on a whim. Just the kind of day it’s been, you know?” He lifted the box of work possessions and headed for the door.

  The Death didn’t notice his sarcasm. “I will accompany you, Brandon.”

  Brandon stared at his whiskey. He’d not been in this particular bar before but this was as good a time as any to establish new habits. The other booths were empty. Quiet Muzak trickled through concealed speakers.

  The autobar next to their table waited politely for him to hold out his drink. Two perfect, chilled ice cubes landed in the glass and the autobar rolled silently out of sight.

  Brandon turned to his Death. “So … so I can’t have my job back?”

  “That’s right!” Death said. “I’m glad to report HR found someone with the right skills to replace you. It was close, you certainly are a unique individual.”

  “But I’m not dying today.”

  “It would be cruel to expect you to complete your apology letters as well as turn up to work in the last days of your life.”

  “This is all a big joke, isn’t it? You’re making me a better person, and if I pass the test I get to take that job down-state.” He paused. “Does this count as bullying? Is this some kind of departmental bullying?”

  “Not that I’ve seen,” said Death.

  That didn’t make much sense but Brandon let it slide and sipped at his scotch. He could afford to try the more expensive single malts. Maybe he’d down a whole bottle.

  He thought of the cramping in his writing hand and how utterly unpleasant that would be with a hangover. Or maybe I’ll just stay drunk until Friday morning.

  The twincab ride back home was deadly silent. The Death said nothing, staring into space. Brandon looked out his window at the other opaque bubbles m
oving alongside through dark sleet and had the oddest sensation that he was the only person left alive. When was the last time he’d spoken to someone in person?

  He thought about it for a moment, realized he’d had an almost-real-time conversation over email with his supervisor, and felt a little better. Maybe next week he might—

  Brandon stopped. That’s right, there was nothing to look forward to. He’d always defined his life by having things to look forward to: finishing his studies so he could leave the damn boarding school and get a job, the holiday he was going to have when he finished accruing leave at work, the next episode of Darius Grey: Resource Pirate. And how was he going to watch all those classic episodes of Arcblazer he’d bought last week? Was even a single episode worth watching, given how little time he had left?

  “The odds of me winning the lottery were pretty small,” he said into the silent cab.

  “It’s unfortunate, but that’s the reality of a lottery, Brandon.”

  “But how many tickets could there be, realistically? What’s the average human age these days?”

  “In the low 50s. The lottery program has helped ease the mid-century population pressures significantly, but with birth rates under control we expect the global average age to trend higher for another decade or so.”

  “Sure, uh… Okay.” He’d never really understood statistics. “But basically that means most people have at least twice as many tickets as I do.”

  Death didn’t reply.

  “So there must be a billion tickets in there just in this sector, maybe even two.” That was forty million people in the entire country, though, which seemed high. He thought maybe the Indian sub-continent and New China were allowed that many. Maybe.

  “The lottery ticket count is obviously confidential, but there are thousands of draws a day. It’s just bad luck, Brandon. If it makes you feel better, I’m personally very sorry. You are a good person. We’re just making sure you leave behind the legacy you deserve.”