Don't Fear The Reaper

by Lex Sinclair

  Instead of going to the canal to do some fishing Sacasa left his rod and knapsack behind the foliage on the other side of the footbridge. From there he ambled down the footpath alongside the canal to a meadow. The high grass was almost the same height as Paul. Nevertheless, intrigued at what his older brother was up to, he followed.

  Erected five hundred yards or so farther was an underpass. The Dual-Carriageway stretched left to right beyond Paul’s peripheral vision. When he looked up Sacasa had come to a halt and was gingerly descending the worn path in the steep bank down to the dimness of the underpass.

  The river ran through here and although it would have been an ideal and secluded location to do some fishing, Sacasa had purposefully left his rod and knapsack at the footbridge.

  Paul arrived at the underpass and shrank back at how steep the muddy path had been worn by constant treading, and didn’t risk falling to the bottom and hurting himself. The river was shallow. Rocks jutted from the scintillating surface from the resplendent sunshine overhead. He retraced his steps until he could see through the tall grass the shaded underpass.

  A grubby, dishevelled man sat against the wall, legs sprawled out on the layering of stones and pebbles. The neck of a brown bottle protruded from a brown paper sack. His beard was dense and caked in mud. He stirred awake at the sound of movement. Then he raised his haggard face to the lean figure that was Sacasa. Paul watched his brother hop across the stones to the other side of the trickling river. Now he stood directly over the homeless man. Paul couldn’t hear a single word that was exchanged between them. Perhaps Sacasa had befriended the homeless fellow out of pity.

  However, the incipient alteration from the older, distant brother Paul he had known to this new person transpired as fast as it took for Sacasa to remove the long, serrated bread knife from his jeans. Paul hadn’t noticed the knife as Sacasa’s shirttail had concealed it.

  Now the homeless, drunken dude snapped fully awake and tried to get up. Yet as he’d been stationary for so long and was without proper rest and nutrition this mundane task was arduous. He used his arms as levers to push himself out of a crawl posture. The wall also aided him to keep upright on his trembling legs.

  In all the time it took to achieve this vertical position Sacasa never moved. Yet as soon as the homeless man shifted around to face him, Sacasa drove the blade into the man’s midsection and then retracted the blade in a fluid and rapid motion.

  Paul gasped!

  Sacasa watched with morbid fascination as the wounded man clutched his abdomen and staggered as blood gushed out of the fresh wound through his fingertips. The homeless man raised his head and gave Sacasa a pleading look. Instead of succumbing to the begging, Sacasa unremorsefully swiped the jagged blade across the man’s face.

  Paul spun away, feeling his gorge rise. When he looked again what he saw had more of a lasting effect on him than it did the victim. Sacasa was repeatedly stabbing at the gut and throat of the man, who slithered down the wall, leaving a crimson streak.

  Paul’s mind was being mortally stabbed simultaneously with every physical wound his older brother was inflicting – his equanimity breaking, shattering into a million irrevocable pieces.

  Then the worst, most ghastly sight his naked eyes would ever absorb but would replay over in his mind thereafter destroyed him completely. And it was this, his psychologist stated, that had been the catalyst to his declining mental health and lifelong insomnia. Sacasa gripped the homeless man’s head with his left hand and tilted it back. Then with the same precision and concentration as a surgeon, Sacasa assiduously began to gouge out each eye.

  Paul had screamed at the top of his lungs then.

  His heart froze when Sacasa whipped his head into his direction and their eyes met.

  Then Paul’s adrenaline kicked in and he sprinted.

  On that particular day in the summer of ’57 the temperature was 36 degrees Celsius. Paul was the fastest of all his brothers and sister. He ran the mile or so to his house and collapsed in his father’s arms.

  When Paul came to he was lying on the sofa in the living room.

  His mother and father, Gemma, Johnny and Sacasa sat around him all wearing masks of deep concern.

  Paul had screamed again and recoiled until he shielded himself from Sacasa with the cushions. But what frightened him most was how Sacasa had met his terrified eyes and stared not at him, but into his very soul, and shook his head once. Paul may have been young and might not have been able to articulate his emotions then, but he knew what that single shake of the head meant.

  Only after Sacasa had left home and not kept in contact with his estranged family, who moved back to Switzerland ten years later, did Paul tell his family of this incident.

  All of this information Number 1 knew just by staring and focusing into the crimson eyes of the old man who had killed God knew how many other innocent people and animals in his life. He may have been old and physically inept, but he still possessed that primal, untainted evil within.

  Number 1 was fully aware that Sacasa knew he was seeing imperative information, and didn’t care. This was not the time or the place to use their special gifts bestowed upon them.

  One by one they descended. Sacasa went first. He flicked the torch on and shone the yellow beam into the opaque darkness. The other three men gathered around in a huddle and listened to the drip… drip… drip echo below.

  Number 3 spoke what he was pondering aloud. ‘Are you sure about this?’ he asked the old man.

  Sacasa grunted what quite possibly could have been a ‘Yes’ in response.

  The three exchanged anxious expressions. Then they watched the old man pivoting, pointing the beam, finding his bearings. At least they all hoped that was what he was doing.

  Finally Sacasa grunted something unintelligible and followed the cone of light down the passageway. The others followed, somewhat tentatively. The passageway was roughly 10ft wide and 8ft high. Apart from the endless stream running down the passageway the water was sparse.

  Up ahead an arrow had been painted in fresh white. Sacasa followed it and turned left down another passageway. This continued for some time, and had any of the other men been asked to retrace their steps they would’ve found it nigh on impossible to do so. The labyrinth ended in front of a rusty metal door. Flaky bits had crumbled here and there leaving forlorn patches. Sacasa dug into his trouser pocket and brought out a set of keys. He selected one and inserted it in the lock. Even after doing this the door needed to be forced to yield. It scraped across the flat concrete floor.

  Sacasa whipped his infected face back at them in a glower. ‘Don’t bother helping. You lot just stand there and let me do all the work.’

  ‘Like you did when we had to move the Dumpster you mean,’ Number 1 said.

  The old man bared his rotten, brown-yellow teeth.

  Number 2 and Number 3 aided Sacasa in edging the big, rusty door all the way open. They weren’t siding with the old man. However, they did want to see what lay beyond the darkness.

  The absolute blackness devoured Sacasa.

  Silence.

  Then footfalls scraped across the concrete.

  The men who had surrendered their names for numbers daren’t go any closer. They waited.

  Abruptly light from inside the chamber blinded them momentarily. They winced and shielded the radiance, squinting until their eyes adjusted. Sacasa stood in the doorway like the proverbial gatekeeper. He appeared to take pleasure in the men’s reactions, especially Number 1.

  ‘Enter.’

  At last the three men entered the chamber and marvelled at the bricked walls. In the farthest niches were loaves of bread, butter, cereal boxes, fruit, all kinds of ready-to-eat meat kept in packages. Bottles of fizzy drinks and five cartons of milk had been arranged neatly. Bags of biscuits, crisps, Pringles and chocolate were stacked on top of each other helter-skelter. In the opposite corner were gas masks and inflatable camping beds with quilts rolled up.

  Raisin
g an eyebrow, Number 1 asked Sacasa, ‘Did you do this?’

  Sacasa smiled broadly.

  Number 1 knew full well that although Sacasa had done good coming down here and supplying them with essentials, he was under strict instruction from the Reaper. Had he not performed this task, not only his infected body but his soul would face extinction. Also, after Number 1 had glimpsed the depravity of the old man’s past he was wary around him.

  18.

  ANTHONY PERKINS let the women perform their surrogate, motherly duties. He was glad they were here. Sapphire needed them. There were certain tasks he was unable to perform. He supposed he could change a nappy and dress the baby, but as for having the knowledge of taking care of a baby, he wouldn’t have a clue where to begin.

  The women were in the kitchen. Anthony had surrendered to the comfy chair in the living room and welcomed the dark. He hoped to sleep tonight. Nevertheless, the likelihood of that was very slim. All four of them had something to eat from the freezer. Sapphire was on the baby milk. Sue, Nadine and Anthony had each cooked themselves a microwave meal. They were all beef dinners with Yorkshire puddings and a side dressing of peas and carrots. Now in the comfort of his own home, savouring the quiet and solitude, Anthony nursed his can of Carling beer.

  Sue had packed a bag of clothes from his wardrobe. The cold would creep into the bunker. Of course, Anthony knew how to make a fire so they could eat tinned food. Sue had brought all his scarves and kerchiefs downstairs. This she said wasn’t merely for the winter weather, but for the time when, if they survived, they needed to emerge. Anthony didn’t protest. Sue’s behaviour to some might have been considered melodramatic under any other circumstances. But these circumstances were unprecedented. No one quite knew the extent of the destruction soon to befall them. Perhaps Sue Dyer’s attempts of doing her utmost to prepare for this catastrophe were not only futile but also sinisterly amusing. Perkins never judged one’s reactions. He admired the two women’s courage and steadfast approach. If nothing else, John would be proud of them for not giving up the good fight.

  Perkins may have decided to part ways with his religious beliefs and faith, but he wasn’t so bitter or recalcitrant that he’d drag others down with his melancholy.

  He rose with a disgruntled groan. Once he’d drained the last of his beer and crushed the can for no particular reason, he stepped outside.

  What he saw was the most peaceful, star-studded night he could ever recall. Nature, not God, had unveiled its most priceless and stunning jewellery set. Amidst it were the comets that looked like burning boulders ripping across the heavens.

  Tears brimmed in his eyes. Perkins did his utmost to suppress them and succeeded. He shook his head. ‘Damn you,’ he hissed beneath his breath. The breath those words were spoken on coiled into a ball and ascended.

  As he was about to step back inside, a crying, not human but of an animal, pierced the night. Perkins senses snapped to alert. Eyes and ears tracked the source of the sound. Yet he saw nothing, save the erect and leaning headstones of the grateful dead.

  Some time passed, probably no more than five minutes, before he heard a distant miaow. Perkins had seen cats across his back yard ambling through the graveyard prior to these events. He neither loved nor hated cats. They loved to roam around in the graveyard as it was quite large, quiet with lots of grass and trees and shrubbery to explore. If he was out the back when he saw one he’d even give the cat some scraps of meat. But this was different. This cat wasn’t doing some night exploring, he or she was crying.

  Perkins went back inside and told the women he was going to the graveyard, but he didn’t mention why. Then he ventured through the gate and across the path, turning his head left to right, scanning his surroundings.

  To attract the feline’s attention Perkins made psst, psst noises. He also called out in a high-pitched voice, ‘Here, puss, puss,’ over and over again.

  Another miaow reached his ears, closer this time.

  Perkins would hastily admit he was no expert on cats, but the cry sounded to him as though the feline was upset and lost. He came to a halt on the path and called out again in a softer tone. A rustle in a bush covered with stingy nettles alerted him.

  ‘It’s okay. I’m not gonna hurt you,’ Perkins said, feeling a bit foolish.

  Then, as he was chastising himself for not bringing a tin of tuna to coax the little one out of hiding, he heard another rustle. He whipped his head around and was both excited and alarmed that the cat was a black kitten, struggling to escape the tendrils of brambles. Their sharp talons scraped hair and skin. Perkins wasted no time getting off his haunches and placing a gentle hand on the kitten’s stomach. The kitten looked up at him, emerald eyes sparkling in the night. Perkins fell in love with him instantly. It didn’t have anything to do with the fact that the kitten was cute and adorable in appearance. No. The kitten, as young and as frightened as he was, purred amidst its pain at the reassuring warm hand. It took a minute to disentangle him, but when he did, Perkins took him in both hands and raised him to his chest. The purring was constant and loud now, like an engine.

  ‘There, there. What are you doing out here on your own, huh?’ Perkins stroked the kitten’s head with his index finger. ‘You shouldn’t be out here on your own. You should be at home with your family. It’s cold, if nothing else.’

  The black kitten had no collar or nametag. However, that didn’t mean he wasn’t someone’s pride and joy. A member of someone’s family. Still it was too late and too perilous to go out and start searching for where this kitten’s home was. It couldn’t be far. The fact that he was out late at night at his age and under the circumstances didn’t bode well though. If Perkins put him down and walked away, the kitten would certainly die the next day when the comets penetrated the earth’s atmosphere. Even if the blast didn’t directly hit them the oxygen would be sucked out of the atmosphere with the world’s most powerful vacuum cleaner. The absence of sun for however many days would make a huge contribution to bringing extinction even closer. The way Perkins assessed this situation was the kitten was one of God’s creatures. Born of a natural birth and thus rewarded the gift of life. It was no different from Perkins himself. The kitten deserved a chance to live.

  ‘Would you like to stay with me? Probably as doomed up here as will be with me, but at least you won’t be on your own. Whad’ya say?’

  In response the kitten nuzzled his chin and purred. He stood there motionless on the path, never breaking his gaze from the kitten. And when Perkins blinked slowly and purposefully the kitten reciprocated the motion.

  ‘Guess that’s a yes then, huh?’

  Glad for the company of the innocent little creature comforted by his presence and warmth, Perkins and the kitten returned to the vicarage.

  *

  Perkins, Sue, Natalie, Sapphire and the kitten ambled through the graveyard in the early hours of 27 December 2006. They’d gathered packets of meat that Perkins used to put in his sandwiches for his lunch. The kitten had eaten a whole tin of tuna and had some fresh cold water. It also finished off the bag of treats Perkins kept in his cupboard for the stray cats.

  He thought it bizarre that he should grow up in an orphanage and then a foster home with no pets, have no desire to have a pet of his own and yet feed stray cats when others would shoo them away. Without contemplating it excessively it did somehow seem fate had brought them this four-legged bundle of joy and he happened to keep bags of treats.

  Yesterday, Perkins had ventured outside in the morning and caught up with a man no older than forty and inquired as to when the comets would make their impact. Apparently, the man who was in a rush to return home told him that the end of the world was forecasted for some time today.

  And as he tilted his head back the comets were closer. They left a burning trail in their wake across the Milky Way.

  The sight was both spectacular and terrifying.

  They got to the bunker and reached the underground lair just as the deafening, o
minous rumbling erupted. Perkins wanted to pretend it was thunder and nothing more. But this was the loudest thunder he’d ever heard. This thunder threatened to split the globe like a beach ball in one massive, almighty bang.

  And it was only the start of bad times ahead.

  Not knowing why he did this, Perkins retrieved the silver crucifix and chain from where he’d discarded it. If nothing else, it would be ungrateful to his deceased friend, John Hayes, to leave it there.

  The weight and feel of it didn’t reassure him in the slightest. What it did do was remind him of all the good times he shared with John; the times that seemed a lifetime ago compared to these harsh times ahead…

  19.

  THE AFTERMATH

  Greater love hath no man than this:

  That he lay down his life for his friends.

  – The Gospel According to Saint John

  REVEREND ANTHONY PERKINS had taken a keen habit of writing in his diary everyday ever since taking refuge in the bunker. Whether or not this was cathartic he couldn’t say. What it was good for was purging. Also, he found it interesting to go back after several days, weeks and months to read his thoughts and feelings. He wouldn’t go out on a limb and say it gave him wisdom. Neither would he say it made him educated or thoughtful. He merely used the diary as a way of expressing himself without losing control and saying something that might offend Sue or Natalie.

  He read the list he’d jotted down prior to hiding out in the bunker.