Danse Macabre: Close Encounters with the Reaper

by Nancy Kilpatrick

  The cab pulled off the road near his house, and Brandon flipped his wallet over the charge-pad. It blipped denial at him.

  Death put a gentle plastic hand on his, pushing it back. “The department pays for your transport in this trying time, Brandon. It’s the least we can do.”

  Brandon stepped out of the car, his box of possessions under his arm. “You’re not coming in with me, that’s for sure.”

  Death was already outside, on the cold permacrete.

  “I need to make sure you don’t do anything drastic, Brandon.”

  “Right…” Brandon looked out over the road. Cabs flitted over the sidewalk, mostly singles but with the occasional double cab shooting past. Was there a lottery winner with a personal Death in one of those twin cabbers, too?

  “Well you can stay in the laundry room while I sleep.”

  He collapsed onto his bed five minutes later then spent another hour staring at the ceiling, trying to hear the sounds of life from his neighbors’ apartments and failing. From his kitchen he heard the occasional tap of metal or plastic on wood as Death positioned itself amidst the laundry soaps and fabric softeners.

  Eventually the silence around him faded away and he slept.

  “Good morning, Brandon.”

  “I told you to stay in the laundry!” he said crankily. This was the last full day of his life.

  “We have to spend the morning finishing your list, Brandon. There are only a few more letters to write, and I think you did a marvelous job already.”

  “And then?”

  “Then you need to think about what you want to do with all … this.” Death looked around the bedroom, waving blunt articulated fingers at the handful of movie posters, his clumsy bookshelf, not quite top-of-the-line chip equipment.

  Brandon’s stomach flipped for the briefest moment, but then he managed to latch back onto his suspicion that this was all a part of the department’s efforts to improve his attitude and ship him down-state. The world refocused enough to let him climb out of bed and stumble into the shower.

  “Go wait in the kitchen!” he shouted through steam. The hot spray clarified the world. Brandon pressed barely trembling hands flat against the tiled wall and scalded himself awake.

  Death was waiting calmly beside the breakfast table when he walked out, refreshed and calm. It had laid out the fountain pen and several sheets of paper beside a bowl of breakfast flakes soaking in milk. Brandon was too polite to explain he didn’t take his cereal with milk, and prodded the limp flakes half-heartedly while he looked over his list of grievances.

  “Michele from payroll? Because I muted her PeoplePage account?” He’d never spoken to anyone at the office directly. The local department offices were mostly empty during the day and inter-office comms came through email.

  “It’s an unfortunate case. She heard about your efforts on the Sandra Cunningham Death lottery case and began to idolize you. When you stopped following her status updates she became depressed and tried to embezzle money from the department. Eventually she needed to be medicated.”

  “I knew you’d bring Sandra back into this.”

  “Sandra never knew you. There was no reason to try to fake her death.”

  “I saw it on the news. She was gorgeous, and she had a little daughter. If we can’t make exceptions, what’s the point of working in population control?” It didn’t matter, because Sandra was dead anyway, and his current between-jobs-predicament might very well be related to his attempts to game the system on her behalf.

  The Death paused for a few seconds, some sort of pre-programmed social affectation. “It’s important that we keep human intervention out of the death lottery, Brandon. That’s why robots manage lottery entries and why robots carry out the draw and robots help lottery winners like you. Robots like me, Brandon. We’re the friendliest sort. I like what you did with your hair, by the way.”

  “You… What?”

  “Please write that letter to Michele; she’ll appreciate it.”

  At noon, Death folded the last of his letters and slipped them into their named envelopes. Brandon cracked a beer can from his fridge in lieu of lunch and stared at his hands for a while.

  Were they really monitoring world citizens in case a few of them died and needed a list of aggrieved people to apologize to? Really? Monitoring the whole world like that?

  “No need to dwell, Brandon,” Death said. “You did a great job. Now we should go through your possessions. The department doesn’t have a Will on record but you have some savings, as well as accrued departmental benefits. I happen to have a list of recorded assets here. It won’t take long, and afterwards we can have the rest of the day off together.”

  “Sure. I have a pretty tight schedule. Let’s see… Last day today… Tomorrow is Friday. We’re going to the hospital where I die but instead you’re going to tell me the truth about what’s happening?”

  “That sounds perfect, Brandon.”

  Just hearing that from Death made him feel a little more in control.

  “Hey, actually I do have something to say.”

  “I’m here to help. If there’s anything you need to talk about, I’m here for you.”

  “I’m … I’m sorry I took you out before. You know … back in the office yesterday. I knew it wouldn’t matter but I guess it was just my nature, fighting back.”

  “That’s understandable, Brandon. These days when people die, they know they’re doing so for the greater good, but even knowing this isn’t always enough to overcome base human instincts of survival. For what it’s worth, I forgive you.”

  “Uhm, sure. So…”

  Death slid his list of assets across the table.

  “You’re a child of the new world, Brandon. The resource crunch is a thing of the past and you have no grandiose wasteful assets, and most of your wealth is in your bank account.”

  “I guess—” He ran his finger down the itemized list. “—these books can just go to charity. My clothes … well, sure, the same. Make things better for the rest of us, right?”

  Death did not respond.

  “And then I suppose the furniture can go to… Screw it! It can all go to charity. My mother doesn’t need any of it.”

  “Personal items?”

  Brandon looked at the list. A few drawings he’d done in early college art classes. Lots of digital music and films that anyone with a half-decent job could afford to buy for themselves. He was about to shrug it all into the recycle bin when he saw, ‘Personal note — Mother’ and stopped. What was that? He remembered that. It was a letter ma had sent him in high school, so where would it be?

  Somewhere in the shoebox, of course.

  “Are you alright, Brandon?” Death had noticed him jolt.

  “Oh yes, of course. Just remembering.” That feeling curled back in his guts again. He hadn’t thought of his mother’s letter for years. Sixteen-year-old lonely Brandon had really appreciated it, the old world charm of handwriting a letter when email would’ve reached him quicker…

  He stood up suddenly and rushed to his desk, where his box of personal items from work sat forgotten. The spiral of his stone Ammonite felt like a glaring, accusing eye. In a desk drawer, underneath old magazines and bills, he found his shoebox, flipped it open, dug through some old digital camera chips from his youth. He stopped at an actual print photo someone had created of little Brandon and ma at a kids’ birthday party in the city park. When had he last gone to a park?

  He found his mother’s letter at the bottom, flattened and smudged a little, still in the original torn marbled gray envelope. Death rolled closer behind him, where he crouched over the little treasure.

  “Did you find what you were looking for?” Death said.

  “It’s … yeah, I just remembered it. I was having a tough time, you know h
ow it goes for … actually, I guess you don’t. Ma really helped, I don’t even think she knew what was going on with me. Just apologizing for stuff, little things I barely remembered but, yeah, I guess they just sat inside me for…”

  He paused as he folded open the letter, skimming the neat cursive writing. “You know, if it wasn’t for this letter I would have killed myself. It arrived at just the right time and… Wait, a second!” He bit his lip, looked up at the robot. “This is the same kind of paper I’ve been writing on. And … and the envelopes…? This is a five year old letter! Is ma dead?”

  Death said nothing. “You’re very attached to your mother, Brandon. I wouldn’t try to over think these things. Remember you spoke to your mother last week?”

  “But that was via email. I … I’m not sure the last time I actually spoke to her. We keep missing each other, leaving voice messages…” His voice cracked. “What kind of sick game is this?”

  Brandon stood up and placed the letter onto his desk. “I need a moment.”

  He walked back to his living area, found where he’d left his wallet and access card, and took a step towards the kitchen just as Death rolled into sight, then sprinted towards the front door.

  “Brandon? Where—?”

  He swiped the door open and threw himself through the gap and didn’t pause as his eyes adjusted to the gloom of the stairwell and—

  Ten small white cleaner bots crowded at his feet, all leaning backwards in surprise as he ploughed into them, felt his foot hook on a smooth plastic scrubbing brush and lost his balance. His wallet and keys went flying, and Brandon crashed headfirst down the stairs, spinning in a cloud of plastic shrapnel and tiny wheels, the plaintive cry of Death following behind and up and around and—

  Permacrete punched him into the black.

  The blackness split into bright sunlight and Brandon blinked his eyes, gathering his wits. Something tight wrapped around his head and he tentatively explored bandages with his fingers. He was lying in a hospital bed.

  Death stood beside him, plastic face at eye-height.

  “What … what happened?”

  “You tried to fly down the stairwell, Brandon. You hit your head. I was worried it might be a skull fracture.”

  “I… Hey, is that…? It’s bright outside. Is it Friday?”

  “Yes, unfortunately. I brought you to the hospital just in case. It seemed efficient.”

  “Uhm, thanks, I guess.”

  “That’s what I do.”

  Brandon said nothing for a little while, blinking at the white wall.

  “I was trying to escape.”

  Death waited patiently.

  “But … I think it was all part of this whole test, right? It was that letter from ma, reminding me how those few words just at the right time convinced me to hang on to life. I was really depressed.”

  “I know, Brandon, I saw it in your file. All the signs were there in your correspondence to your peers.”

  “I didn’t kill myself back then. Life had promises still and ma showed me that, and then last night … I thought if I keep following you around, isn’t that just like killing myself? So I decided I wouldn’t go quietly. I … I was running away.” He looked around, shrugged. “So… Yeah… That didn’t work out so well.”

  Death remained politely still.

  “Why were all those cleaner bots outside my apartment?”

  “They don’t see lottery winners often, Brandon. I wouldn’t worry about those things. It won’t matter soon.”

  “What did the doctor say?”

  “The autodoctor says you are concussed, but you’ve been provided with anti-emetics and there should be no further problems.”

  “Except I’m supposed to be dying today.”

  “That’s a separate issue. I’m very sorry about that.”

  Brandon paused again then grinned.

  “Okay, okay. So are we done now? This was all just to mess with me, wasn’t it?”

  “Oh.” That artificial pause again. “Oh! Oh yes, of course.”

  “Ha, I knew it!” A brief flicker of doubt, then, “Are you sure?”

  “Yes, I am sure, Brandon. You were right all along, it was all a clever plan to motivate you, so that you would become a better person.”

  Brandon lay back in his bed, sighing. “That’s such a relief, Death. I’m only twenty-four. I’m too young to die.”

  “I know.”

  “When will I see my mother?”

  “Your mother is outside, in the waiting room. There are just some formalities to complete.” Death rolled a little closer, placing a smooth hand on his shoulder.

  “You’ve had a long day, Brandon. You should rest.”

  “When do I see my mother?”

  “Soon. After you’ve settled in a little. Here, drink this to calm your nerves.” Death handed him a cool glass of water.

  Tired, Brandon pulled himself up a little and sipped at it.

  “Thanks. I’m so relieved. I really thought it was the end.”

  “It’ll be fine, Brandon. Everything is fine now. Finish your drink. Just close your eyes and rest.”

  “All that talk about lottery numbers, that was just to keep me guessing, right? Ha ha!”

  “Just a part of the … exercise, Brandon. You were very clever to work it all out. I’m very proud of you.”

  “Right … well… We’ll talk about that later, okay? When I look into that new job. But first I’ll rest, and … then I’ll see some visitors?”

  “Yes. Trust me. And we’ll talk about it all later. I promise. But first… Just … close … your … eyes…”

  And Brandon did.

  * * * * *

  Tom Dullemond is an Australian-based writer of speculative fiction and the occasional prize-winning literary piece. He works primarily as a software developer and juggles a day job, home projects, writing and family — not necessarily in that order. Tom has previously published work in anthologies such as AustrAlien Absurdities, as well as co-editing The Complete Guide to Writing Fantasy and writing regular flash fiction for the national Australian high-school science magazine, Helix. “Population Management” was originally inspired by trying to imagine what a bureaucratized death process might look like, but developed in a slightly different direction from there.

  Addendum

  Danse Macabre reflects a religious tradition which postulates that the soul or spirit departs the body at the last moment of life. Consequently, the classical artwork appeared in religious settings. Here are a few examples of the types of places the art can be found, including some specific works from the less than 50 Danse Macabre tableaux still extant:

  — church, monastery and nunnery exteriors — Chiesa di St-Vigile, Pinzolo, Italy (1539);

  — chapel and ossuary interiors — the ceiling of the Friedhof Chapel, Wondrub, Germany (1670);

  — cemeteries — the grotto in Petersfriedhof, Salzbourg, Austria (1770);

  — building carvings — the vault ribs in Rosslyn Chapel, Rosslyn, Scotland (1459);

  — stained glass — the only surviving panel in the UK in the window of St. Andrew’s Church, Norwich,

  England (1510);

  — museums — panels rescued from the St. Ann’s chapel and housed in the Museum der Stadt, Füssen,

  Germany (1620);

  — other structures — painted ceiling of the covered bridge (Spreuerbrucke) - Luzern, Switzerland (1408).

  * * * * *

  As well, many Danse Macabre images can be found on coffins and tombs throughout Europe, and occasionally in North America.

  The following Internet links include the artwork listed above as well as links for sites devoted to the subject of Danse Macabre art:

  — Patrick Pollefeys’ Dance o
f Death (listed by country):

  http://www.lamortdanslart.com/danse/dance.htm

  — Hans Holbein the Younger’s Danse Macabre woodcuts:

  http://www.godecookery.com/macabre/holdod/holdod.htm

  — Dance of Death images and poetry:

  http://www.danse-macabre.net/

  — A scholarly perspective, Dr. Sophie Oosterwijk:

  http://www-ah.st-andrews.ac.uk/staff/sophie.html

  http://www.ice.cam.ac.uk/components/tutors/?view=tutor&id=344&cid=377

  — Danse Macabre images from Italy:

  http://www3.sympatico.ca/tapholov/

  — On Facebook, the Danse Macabre wall:

  https://www.facebook.com/groups/19471035904/

  — Danse Macabre composed by Camille Saint-Saëns in 1874

  http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YyknBTm_YyM

  Details

  Danse Macabre: Close Encounters with the Reaper

  Copyright © 2012

  All individual contributions copyright by their respective authors.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Published by

  Edge Science Fiction

  and Fantasy Publishing

  An Imprint of

  HADES PUBLICATIONS, INC.

  P.O. Box 1714,

  Calgary, Alberta, T2P 2L7,

  Canada

  Edited by Nancy Kilpatrick

  Cover Illustration by John Kaiine

  Interior Art by Christopher Foster

  e Book ISBN: 978-1-894063-97-5

  * * * * *

  All rights reserved. Under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.