Don't Fear The Reaper

by Lex Sinclair

  Number 1, who was starting to feel the effects of the drive and the long waiting outside the hospital earlier, switched on again. Alerted and wide awake, he flicked his turn signal and took his foot off the accelerator and followed the Jag up the off-ramp into the sleepy village.

  A corrugated aluminium garage advertised MOT service and a small lot of second-hand cars and a 4x4 for sale. Number 1 slowed down to fall back out of the Jag’s rear view mirror. A Texaco garage shone in red neon. The fuel station was illuminated and the store’s lights were on but there was no cashier or employee in sight.

  The Jaguar got swallowed into the darkness, dimly lit by the sporadic streetlights. Further down a UPS depot gave way to a kitchen showroom and caravan and camper showroom and lot.

  Then the darkness became heavy. The streetlights lining the main street into and out of the village were out. The only lights now were that of a convenience store rolling by, traffic lights and the beams of both moving cars.

  The road took a drastic dip down a steep hill. Number 1 proceeded pursuing slowly and with caution. He spotted an elderly retirement home and a school playground.

  The Jaguar’s turn signal blinked repeatedly again. The reverend and the baby took the next left through the open entrance gates and up the steep macadam path.

  Keeping back, Number 1 saw the silhouette of a church and an early twentieth-century two-storey vicarage. The headstones erected and tilted at different angles stood like drunken sentries.

  Number 1 smiled broadly. His hands tightened around the steering wheel as the sedan sped past the church grounds.

  ‘Found your hideaway, Mr Perkins,’ he said to himself. ‘Very nice. Very nice, indeed.’

  Number 1’s smile couldn’t disguise the malevolence in his glassy eyes. Crammed with satisfaction and content, Number 1 could return to his own safe haven with Number 2 and Number 3 and old man Sacasa with good news.

  Above all else, the Reaper would be pleased with his job well done.

  *

  Reverend Perkins’ eyes filled with tears of overwhelming relief and joy at the sight of the white transit van. He rolled the Jaguar over the macadam and came to a gentle halt. Then he covered his face with both hands. To say he was emotional was an understatement. The whole episode of being with his sister for the three days, and being out shopping when she’d been rushed into hospital, was only now sinking in.

  Nadine was gone from this world that would soon become an inferno fireball. The letter she’d written was folded in his trouser pocket. And his nephew was curled up in a foetal ball inside the cot fast asleep. Perkins envied Sapphire’s ability to sleep peacefully. A million miles away from this forlorn night. This night that the world over ought to be celebrating, not hiding and cowering, waiting to be eradicated once and for all.

  The fact that Armageddon was fast approaching on the Lord’s birthday itself came over as evil mockery.

  *

  The hard sudden rapping on the driver’s window made him leap back and cry out in fright. After much cussing and holding his chest, Perkins turned the key in the ignition and hit the button to roll the window down.

  ‘Scared the life outta me!’

  ‘Sorry,’ Natalie Hayes said. ‘Are you all right?’

  Perkins’ breathing settled to its normal rhythm before nodding. The weariness that had settled into his overactive brain had lulled him into a daze. Now that Natalie had inadvertently taken a couple of months of his life he was wide awake. He followed Natalie’s teary gaze to the cot and the baby lying in it on the passenger seat.

  ‘I’m so sorry about Nadine,’ Natalie said, resting her delicate hand on his shoulder. ‘Is that her baby?’

  Perkins said that it was. Then he asked, ‘Where’s John? I need to speak to him. It’s pretty urgent.’

  At that moment Perkins turned his head and saw the source of the footfalls approaching and was a tad disappointed it was a woman he recognised but couldn’t quite place.

  Natalie lowered her head as though she’d suddenly taken fascination in her feet. ‘I don’t know how to tell you this on top of everything you’ve already been through…,’ she said, trailing off.

  ‘Then don’t,’ said the other woman, approximately in the same age group as Natalie. ‘Let me. You go and get the baby before he freezes to death.’

  To Perkins’ surprise Natalie became the obedient student and did exactly as the other woman advised. Then he got a closer look at the woman as she bent over and faced him through the open window.

  ‘What’s happened?’ Perkins demanded to know.

  The woman waited until Natalie had unfastened the cot and carried the baby, shielding him from the cold snap. ‘Fancy taking a stroll? There may not be many occasions we’ll be able to enjoy that luxury.’

  Perkins needed to stretch his legs. Also, the fresh, crisp air would do him good. The confines of the Jaguar had become much smaller since he first got in and left the hospital. He followed the woman down the path into the dark. The foliage was a phalanx of unsettled snakes. The oaks and larches branches looked like the skeletal arms of a monster the size of a dinosaur.

  ‘Name’s Sue Dyer,’ she said, without proffering her hand or even glancing at him. ‘I thought you might’ve recognised me what with me being a member of the parish. Guess I didn’t leave a lasting impression after all, huh?’

  ‘I did recognise you,’ Perkins said, his tone unintentionally defensive. ‘Just not who you were, that’s all.’

  Sue waved a dismissive hand at him. ‘It’s not important, reverend. I wouldn’t remember me either.’ She led the way across the path between the numerous headstones and graves. ‘It must’ve taken an awful lotta courage to do what you’ve just done. You should know that, if nothing else.’

  Perkins shook his head, agitated. ‘Yeah, I don’t care about compliments. Where’s John? What’s happened?’

  ‘Your friend – my friend – John, is dead.’

  Because she said it matter-of-factly and with as little emotion as possible, Perkins half-thought he might have misheard. ‘I…’

  Sue nodded. ‘It doesn’t make sense, right? I still don’t believe it myself, but Natalie was there when John died.’

  Perkins stopped in his tracks and buried his head in his hands. ‘No, no, no! This can’t be happening! This whole idea to survive here was John’s idea in the first place. What d’you mean he’s dead?’

  Sue carefully recited the tale Natalie had told her. Then she fell silent, wishing she had something positive to add or to end on.

  ‘Why would anyone shoot him in the first place?’ Perkins said, eyes bouncing around in their sockets, unable to focus. ‘John would’ve helped him. He wouldn’t harm a fly. Why is all this crazy shit happening?’

  Sue could see that Perkins was on the verge of exploding.

  ‘It’s just us now, I’m afraid,’ she said, choking. ‘We’re all that’s left.’

  Perkins lowered himself to a marble plinth and punched the unyielding headstone, roaring. The pain in his hand caused immediate swelling due to the velocity with which he’d struck the headstone. But none of that even entered his thoughts then. The pain would come later, and even then it would be a very minor concern.

  ‘We got lots of food, drink and other supplies into the bunker, though,’ Sue said, opening her hands up.

  Perkins heard what she said, but couldn’t care less at that moment. All he cared about was how John’s dream of him standing in a hospital holding a baby with a doctor and a nurse looking on was as accurate as a movie buff recalling a favourite scene. He’d needed to tell John that, and how he thought he might have been followed back to the church. But how he’d been too scared to stop and left the car behind pass.

  Bishop John Hayes was dead.

  The only thing closest to a father or an older brother that I read about and saw on TV and in real life is gone.

  That harrowing thought was the ice-pick continuously stabbing through his throbbing brain. The fact t
hat John Hayes had discovered this underground bunker in the first place was a miracle. He’d given Perkins a glimmer of hope during the darkest hours. The only thing keeping him from slashing his wrists with the nearest surgical knife, apart from his nephew, was seeing John again and having him there when he needed him more than ever.

  ‘I want to be on my own for a while,’ he said. ‘Please leave.’

  Sue didn’t speak or move for a short while. ‘I know this is going to sound selfish, and I apologise for that and the inconvenience, but Nadine and I were hoping we could use your kettle and warm some milk for the baby and make ourselves some tea. But perhaps now isn’t the best time.’

  Perkins dug into his jeans pocket and tossed the keys to the church and to his home at her. Sue caught them after a quick fumble. ‘Thank you.’

  Perkins said nothing. He sat stoic. The breeze lifted his fringe off his brow, not that he paid it any heed.

  Sue pivoted and went to get Natalie and the baby. Then she halted. ‘Do you want anything? I bet you could use a cuppa.’

  Perkins shook his head once and stared impassively into the night.

  ‘Oh, by the way,’ Sue said. ‘What’s the little one’s name?’

  ‘Sapphire.’

  Forcing a smile, Sue said, almost to herself, ‘Yes, that’s an appropriate name. The child is very precious.’

  Perkins watched Sue walk back down the gravel path up to the church where Natalie and Sapphire were. When he saw her disappear behind the church to the underground lair, he reached behind his neck and fidgeted with something between his fingers. Then he brought his hands back around and held the necklace where a silver crucifix twinkled in the moonlight. He stared at the cross for several seconds, seriously deliberating the tiny figurine of Jesus dying. A scalding tear brimmed in his right eye before escaping down his cheek.

  When he stood up again, Perkins ambled down the path to the timber fence of his back yard. He flicked the porch light on. The women would be able to see their destination the moment they emerged from the bunker and follow the path.

  The silver crucifix he’d worn ever since Bishop John Hayes gave it to him lay abandoned on the gravel path. Hidden in the layers of darkness the crucifix twinkled nevermore.

  *

  The time was 1:03am when Number 1 pulled into a rest stop alongside the M4. He’d been awake since seven that morning and had been watching the hospital edifice vigilantly. He hadn’t taken the risk of putting the radio on, stopping somewhere to eat and drink. Ever since leaving London and driven to Bristol, Number 1 had filled the Sedan’s tank to the top and followed the reverend.

  His euphoria and satisfaction of accomplishing his task had ebbed as the endless night road coaxed his consciousness into a deep slumber. Realising what was happening, Number 1 prudently came to a halt at the rest stop.

  The rest stop had a Texaco filling station, a KFC and a McDonald’s. After filling the tank up again, Number 1 rolled the car through the Drive-Thru of McDonald’s and ordered himself a strawberry milkshake, large fries and a Quarter Pounder cheese burger.

  Once he’d finished his midnight snack, Number 1 killed the engine and rolled the seat back so he could stretch his legs. He closed his eyes and embraced the slumber that had coaxed him on his journey home.

  Number 1 dreamt of mayhem and death and… a screaming baby.

  17.

  ON 26 DECEMBER 2006 Number 1 arrived back in East London and returned to the dilapidated red-brick building where he and the others met to discuss their plans.

  No homeless people were to be found sprawled out between trash cans or Dumpsters. No drunken lovers who had stumbled out of nightclubs and pubs in the area were heard or seen fornicating in the niches. Silence. The day, although bitterly cold, was without wind. The night before a flurry of snowflakes descended the clear night sky. Underfoot was slippery with ice. Number 1 was still weary. His anatomy still hadn’t recovered from the long drive. Groggy, Number 1 took his time ambling down the deserted pavement to the abandoned alley. His slumber in the Sedan had been uncomfortable. Four hours undisturbed rest was better than he’d anticipated but not enough. However, returning A.S.A.P. to the capital was imperative. Otherwise the others would assume he wasn’t going to make it back.

  He was relieved to see the gaunt figure of old man Sacasa. His remaining, stray strands of long black hair were tied back in a loose ponytail. The old man was balding, and yet it suited him more than if he’d had a full set of hair. Sacasa was no taller than five feet five, aided by the walking stick that was the only thing keeping him at a vertical base.

  Presumably hearing his footfalls or merely sensing his presence, Sacasa pivoted and stared at Number 1 with his one functioning eye. Number 1 would never grow accustomed to the scarred face and ruined scalp of the old man. He appeared to suffer with the worst case of psoriasis Number 1 had ever seen. The scaly parts of the disease circled what could only be described as bubbles filled with blood and pus. Long, scraggly hair hung beneath his liver-spotted chin. His unseeing eye joggled in its socket like an overzealous pinball.

  Number 1 was overly glad that since making his acquaintance Sacasa had never produced his hand to shake. Sacasa hadn’t washed, bathed or shaved in years. Even his greying eyebrows had a fringe.

  Sacasa nodded a greeting which Number 1 reciprocated.

  ‘The others haven’t arrived yet?’

  Sacasa snorted, clearing his sinuses and then spat out a big wad of gelatinous phlegm. ‘Aye,’ he grunted. ‘Won’t be long. How’d it go?’

  ‘Good,’ Number 1 said turning to face the street. ‘I found their hideout.’

  Sacasa bared his russet-yellow crooked teeth.

  Number 1 fought back the urge to gag.

  Soon thereafter Number 2 and Number 3 arrived on foot together and headed down the alley where Number 1 and Sacasa awaited their arrival. They exchanged obligatory hellos. Then Number 2 repeated the question Sacasa asked. Number 1 repeated the answer.

  All four men moved to the refuse container, and noticed something amiss.

  ‘Where are the wheels?’ Number 3 asked, remembering his vivid dream.

  ‘The wheels snapped off so you’ll all have to push it,’ Sacasa said, deliberately not including himself.

  ‘How long will we have to stay under?’ Number 2 said, looking at the other three, not knowing who could provide an answer.

  ‘Little while,’ Sacasa said, as though he were an expert on this kind of catastrophe. ‘The blasts could be so severe that it’ll suck all the oxygen out of the air. Moisture, dust and other debris will also play a factor,’ he added. ‘The sun will be blocked, plant life will die either immediately or thereafter. If you came up straight away there’s no knowing what you’ll expose your lungs to.’

  Number 3 realised what the old man said was in fact prudent and fact. However, there was one main problem they faced. ‘If what you’re saying is so – and I’m not disputing it isn’t – how will we survive with no supplies to replenish us?’

  Sacasa scratched a wart on the side of his nose until it oozed dark, mucus liquid. ‘That’s all been taken care of,’ he said, matter-of-factly. ‘’Course there’ll be no electrical appliances. But plenty of food and drink has been supplied that’ll fulfil your needs.’ He grinned again. ‘You’re not the only one who’s been busy.’

  Number 1 ignored the facetious remark. Old man Sacasa was as deranged as he was infected. The most important aspect of surviving underground for the time being had been taken care of. Although, his stomach churned at the thought of being in the company of Sacasa in such a confined space, it would be considerably better than staying where he was for the global barbecue.

  Number 3 stepped forward. ‘Well, unless there’s anything else, I think we should get on with shoving this Dumpster out of the only access to our temporary home.’

  Number 2 bent his knees and got his entire bodyweight behind his arms. Number 1 joined the other two men and on the count of three pushed. The
Dumpster creaked in protest. Then, shortly after, began scraping forward across the concrete. Sacasa watched as the three men built momentum and the Dumpster inched forward.

  After two intervals and much pushing and wheezing, the lid of the drain-hole came into view. Seeing this encouraged the three men who pushed with renewed vigour until the Dumpster passed the drain, allowing them access.

  Number 3 dropped to his knees, face beetroot. Number 2 doubled-over at the waist and gasped for breath. Number 1 leaned against the Dumpster and gave Sacasa a baleful stare, disapproving of his reluctance to not even offer assistance.

  As though reading his indignation Sacasa said, ‘Had I joined you I would’ve been no use and probably hurt my fragile frame.’

  Number 1 shook his head in disdain before turning away.

  ‘You need me,’ Sacasa said. ‘It is I alone who knows the passages like the back of my hand. It is I who can lead you to sanctuary. It is I who am the gatekeeper to the Reaper.’

  With his special powers of second sight, Number 1 was aware that old man Sacasa was far more dangerous than he appeared. Sacasa came from a loving home. He was the eldest boy and second eldest child out of four. He had two younger brothers and an older sister – all of whom he hadn’t kept in contact with for the best part of his life.

  When he was but a boy, Sacasa’s parents noticed the palpable difference in him. Their other three children often played together, being there was only six years between Gemma and Paul (the youngest boy). Sacasa, however, preferred to go fishing down by the canal on his lonesome. He’d take a magazine to read and an apple and a Coke. He’d leave the family home shortly after breakfast and not return again until after sunset. This introverted habit became worse the older he got. The older he became the more freedom he was entitled to. But like most young boys Sacasa’s curiosities with the world also grew.

  Macabre curiosities.

  At thirteen Sacasa had savoured the smell of blood and spilled innards of fish and other neighbours’ pets. Soon thereafter he took an avid and unhealthy interest in murder stories and serial killers. His parents didn’t think much of this peculiarity at first. After all, Gemma enjoyed reading Sherlock Holmes mysteries and Edgar Allan Poe tales. But when his brother Paul followed him out of the house one day in the summer of ’57 he was not to know of the sights that would scar him indefinitely.