by Lex Sinclair
Yet as he continued to stare down the sights’, Jonesy frowned with puzzlement. All three demons struggled. However, all three got to a vertical base. Yet far more peculiar than that feat was the fact that not a drop of blood had spilled form any of them.
Jonesy squeezed the trigger again… and gasped.
The demon he’d shot in the back and who turned in his direction, snapped his hand up and apparently caught the bullet splitting the air intent on bursting a hole in his chest.
An icy shiver caused an involuntary shudder. Jonesy clambered up and sprinted for the vicarage to reload and to get his head around the amazing reflexes of his enemies.
He got to the front doorstep, shouldered the door open and slammed it shut behind him. His chest rose and fell far too rapidly. All the years of heavy smoking and daily binge drinking, living off cooked frozen foods and not much variety hadn’t done his jackhammer heart any good. He suddenly realised how unprepared he was for this kind of physical stress.
You didn’t really think they’d let you live once they were through with you, did you? he asked himself
The answer was, of course, a resounding, No!
*
Jonesy sprinted around to the rear of the vicarage, through the kitchen and living room and into the master bedroom. It took two attempts to reload the rifle as his hands and the rest of him were assailed by the shakes. The bedroom window offered the front yard and a sidelong view of the cemetery. Jonesy thought that his friend must have been a little spooked by this view, especially on a winter evening.
He opened the window ajar, wide enough to accommodate the business end of the rifle. Then Jonesy did his utmost to placate himself in preparation. His face burned from an inferno within. It hadn’t merely been the fact that he’d been rushing about to and fro. There was more to it. Adrenaline coursed through him – a buzz of electricity. A trickle of cold sweat ran down his back. In the next moment all those physical affects fell into the background.
The three followers of this Reaper manifestation came into Jonesy’s line of sight. His whole body flexed taut. Eyes protruded. The gun shop proprietor’s index finger did a tap-dance on the trigger.
‘Steady,’ he whispered to himself. ‘Don’t rush this.’
Reiterating those words of solid advice in his mind, Jonesy stared down the sight and focused on the three figures approaching, scanning the front yard and the cemetery grounds.
The yew tree cast spindly shadows in the dusk. Jonesy had to squint to be able to tell the difference between shadow and figure. He opened his mouth to exhale. The breath was deafening in the silence.
Words were exchanged between the three, but Jonesy couldn’t make out anything. It might have helped; it might not. Instead he took this opportunity to take a closer look at what he was up against. He frowned. On appearance in the dim light, they were three adult men, no different from anyone else he’d seen in the old world.
As they neared the white picket fencing, Jonesy could see the bullet holes in their clothes, but no spillage.
Must be wearing protective clothing, he thought. Makes sense, much more than the alternative anyway.
Confident that this was the case, Jonesy took aim at the one nearest, steadied himself, and with studious care aimed and fired.
The still dusk air exploded with a thunderous crack of gunfire. The left side of the closest figure’s head burst, spraying bone and brain on the tall grass and path. The puppeteer that had been holding him upright must have been distracted as he’d dropped the figure in a heap. The other two exclaimed in shock and fear. This time the figure hit the deck as though its soul had already departed for good.
Jonesy punched the air and smiled. This time he knew he’d done some serious if not fatal damage. Under normal circumstances, the notion of shooting at someone never mind trying to kill them wouldn’t even cross his mind. That type of behaviour wasn’t in his nature or DNA. He loathed the drunks that staggered home in the early hours of the morning on the weekends, smashing wing-mirrors off the cars they passed and kicking bins over. Nevertheless, this wasn’t so much about the joy of killing another living creature, this was about survival. Which he found somewhat amusing, considering he never really cared about dying before in regards to himself. However, now he’d been left to protect his best friend’s cat and three lady friends, surviving meant more to him than anything else.
He took aim at the figure standing over the one he’d shot and his comrade who was kneeling down, checking for a pulse. Jonesy fired and the bullet punctured the figure in the throat, sending him reeling backwards into the foliage and stinging nettles behind him.
Apparently, the three followers of Death knew the destination, but what they hadn’t anticipated was Jonesy taking cover and firing at them when they least expected it.
The one kneeling darted into the foliage for cover. Jonesy fired into the direction he’d fled. If it didn’t maim or kill, with a bit of luck it would send him – or it – running away.
This is a perfect sentry position, he thought, grinning widely. The dimness of dusk kept him camouflaged and the opening the three figures had walked into, emerging from the yew tree and thick foliage and led them straight into his line of fire.
With diligent patience and endeavour, he’d ended the life of one figure, sent another clutching his fatal wound to a probable death, and had another one most likely on the run. Still he waited, on the off-chance that they somehow defied the physical laws and rose again. Although, Jonesy was quite certain that his assiduous attack had worked very well.
He took this time of inactivity to reload again and to make sure the shotgun and handguns were still on the bed well within reach in case he happened to need them.
One aspect of the whole situation did perturb him though, was how relatively easy it had been. When he’d listened intently to Jane’s harrowing vision he remembered his testicles shrivelling from an unnatural cold. They discussed the pending situation as though facing a second Armageddon. And yet now that it had happened, Jonesy couldn’t help but think that the task had been achieved sooner rather than later with no hassle.
Not really. You shit yourself when you saw them getting up the first time. You ran back here as if your balls were on fire. It was only easier than you thought ’cause your mind can come up with all kinda fucked up shit. But you prepared well and hid well, and they didn’t see it comin’, that’s all.
His conscience was right. It would have been easier had they stayed down the first time. The only reason he got them a second time was due to the fact he’d found another good hiding place facing the only part of the cemetery the three figures would emerge from. When he thought about it in those terms it all made perfect sense.
Suddenly a change in the ambience tickled the nape of his neck. Jonesy’s mouth dried up in an instant. He sensed a presence close by and looked over his shoulder. He recoiled in a second, crashing into the bedside cabinet and knocking the battery alarm clock and gooseneck lampshade. They thudded on the carpet. Jonesy dropped the rifle and blindly grabbed for the .38, but the figure that had disappeared out of his peripheral vision flew over the mattress and seized him by the throat.
Jonesy felt his feet come off the carpet and his back slamming against the wall above the headrest. He thrashed about maniacally, similar to how Sapphire had done. The figure before him glowered at him with blazing red eyes. The only physical aspect apart from having four limbs and the exact same posture as that of a man was his thick brown hair. Atop the metallic visage that rippled like a disturbed lake the mane of hair looked as though it could have been a wig.
The tidal wave of blood rushing and crashing in waves inside his pounding head threatened to burst geyser-like from Jonesy’s facial orifices. Enduring this and the needle-grip tightening around his neck, literally choking the life right out of him made stars dance in his retinas. Regardless of all this, Jonesy managed to lift the hand gripping the .38 and fired two rapid shots into the figure’s abdomen.
Whatever it was released his hold and clutched the entry wounds wearing a wide-eyed expression. Jonesy, gasping for breath, double-over, tried to fight the dizziness off so he could finish off this intruder once and for all. However, the figure slammed a left-handed haymaker crashing into his face. Jonesy hit the mattress and bounced. An explosion had detonated from the confines of his face. He clutched his broken nose and watched with blurry vision as blood poured onto the pillows.
He was seized again by his hooded sweater and watched the room summersault before his spine walloped the carpet flooring. It was only then, staring up at the ceiling, momentarily paralysed, that he realised the full ramifications of his actions. He’d been thrown like a rag doll arse over head to the other side of the room. Before he had even considered moving, he was seized by his hair and sent reeling backwards. The wall knocked him forwards again. The iron fist knocked him back.
This is what it must feel like to be a pinball, he thought.
The figure bared its shiny metal teeth that ran all the way to where its earlobes would have been. It drove a knee into Jonesy’s gut, doubling him over. Then it slammed the palm of its hand into Jonesy’s forehead knocking him back and upright again. It tore the .38 from his grasp, which amazingly still hung onto and fired a shot at his right kneecap.
Jonesy cried out and collapsed on his side awkwardly. His face contorted in impossible agony. Blood seeped through his fingers. Veins had surfaced and ran along the side of his head as though they were the trajectory lines of motorways and Dual-Carriageways on a road map.
‘Where are they?’ the figure hissed, spit flying from its maw.
Jonesy either didn’t hear him as he was still grimacing or ignored him.
‘Where are they!?’ the figure bellowed.
‘Who?’
‘Don’t play games with me.’
Jonesy shook his head. ‘I’m not.’
The question was asked for a third time.
Jonesy: ‘Who?’
The figure thought about inflicting more pain, although if it did it might render Jonesy unconscious. ‘You know who.’
‘If I did I wouldn’t be asking,’ Jonesy said through gritted teeth.
‘If you don’t stop wasting my time I’m going to blow your other kneecap off.’
Jonesy squeezed his eyes shut, inhaling and exhaling explosively. ‘Up to you.’
‘Your friends – where are they?’
Jonesy didn’t respond. He’d become still all of a sudden. The figure shook him. Jonesy groaned.
‘Where are your friends?’
‘Not here no more.’
‘Where are they?’
‘Gone.’
‘Where?’
‘Can’t remember; in too much pain.’
‘They hiding someplace?’
Jonesy cried out in pain again. ‘Dunno. Just gone from here.’
‘Why didn’t they take you?’
‘Didn’t want to leave.’
‘So they just left you?’
‘They begged, but I refused to go with them. If I’m gonna die, I wanna die here in my hometown.’
‘You must know where they’re going.’
Jonesy sighed and wiped more blood that had run over his lips out of his broken nose. ‘They weren’t sure where they were going. One of the reasons I thought it best to stay here.’
‘They must’ve had some idea,’ the figure said. ‘They wouldn’t up and leave without any sense of direction.’
‘I think…’ Jonesy paused. Then his head slumped to the side.
The figure waited. Then it realised that Jonesy had lost consciousness. ‘I’ll give you twenty minutes for me to go through this house and the church then I’ll come back and grant you your wish of dying here, in your hometown.’
Jonesy groaned.
‘Are you awake or not?’
‘Somewhere west,’ Jonesy whispered.
‘What?’
‘I think they said they were headed west. Maybe to the seaside; not sure.’
The figure watched as Jonesy became very still. Then it rose and stormed out of the bedroom.
*
The Grim Reaper had been watching the events that had played out at St John the Baptist Church cemetery. It had seen the brave and stubborn actions of the gun shop proprietor. What it had not foreseen however was Jonesy’s studiousness in getting the better of its followers.
Number 3 approached warily.
‘He’s inside!’ he snapped.
Death raised its head in the direction of the man previously known as Michael Scott Thompson.
Intuitively, Michael knew what Death wanted to find out.
‘He said it’s just him…’ He paused, catching his breath. ‘Reckons they headed west and he chose to stay here in his hometown. There’s no sign of anyone around nearby. The vicarage is empty, except for him.’
The Reaper raised its impossibly long arm and pointed with its emaciated finger in the direction of the church.
Michael – or Number 3 as he was now referred to – nodded. ‘I’ll go and check. Make sure he’s not bluffing. He’s inside,’ he said, nodding towards the vicarage.
The Reaper swatted the stinging nettles and other foliage out of its way and reached Number 1. The tall grass was drenched in crimson spillage. The wound that had erupted in Number 1’s oesophagus still leaked blood. The figure lay sprawled out, eyes bulging, lifeless. Number 1 stared unblinkingly at something far and beyond. The Reaper lowered its massive frame to one knee beside its fallen follower. Then, with assiduous care, cradled the head of the deceased and lowered its own head. Their faces almost touched as though they were about to kiss passionately. Instead a green mist escaped the Reaper’s gaping mouth and disappeared into Number 1’s open mouth.
The fatal wound in his throat began to repair itself within seconds. Then the eyes blinked and Number 1 coughed. He groaned from discomfort and a dull ache that resonated throughout his entire anatomy.
After a full minute, Number 1’s gaze met the Grim Reaper’s and panic and fright inflicted him. He covered his eyes with trembling hands from the hideous visage staring back at him that belonged to the one who had resurrected him.
Number 1’s mouth opened and closed without sound. The Reaper rose and emerged from the foliage and to the other fallen follower.
However, when the Reaper knelt down beside the fallen figure and turned the remnants of his skull, it realised that its supernatural powers were incapable of redoing the mess made. Bone and brain fragments were scattered everywhere amidst the bloody spray. Number 2’s damaged face was beyond reconstruction.
Even without the human soul the anatomy of the fallen required a functioning brain to perform deeds for the Reaper. Without the brain Number 2 was worthless. Old man Sacasa would have been more use to the Reaper at this stage.
Death rose from its kneeling posture and drifted towards the vicarage. The white timber-slatted gate clicked open and it continued its journey down the path. From there it stayed close to wall and made its way round back.
*
Jonesy had seen the Reaper materialise from the tall grass and stand before the figure who had nearly ended his life moments ago. He’d fought off the fatigue from being pummelled and beaten within an inch of his life and crawled to the bedroom window. He heard the man – or whatever the hell he was – speaking, but couldn’t make out what he was saying. Blood rushed in his ears.
Once fatigue and pain overrode his ebbing adrenaline rush, Jonesy felt numb all over. His hearing returned though and he squinted through the glass at the two figures.
The figure explained to the most ghastly thing he’d ever laid eyes upon what he’d told him. The hooded entity who stood on the path as tall as the first branches said not a word. It pointed towards the church edifice and the figure who wrestled him and could have killed him strode down the cemetery path.
A frozen vice clamped his thudding heart. Jonesy understood now the full ramifications of what
he’d done. No wonder Anthony had fled with Sapphire. Of course, he’d sensed his friend’s fear from his precise premonitions, along with Jane’s story. Yet hearing a harrowing tale and seeing it with his own naked eyes were entirely different ends of a spectrum.
What he saw next made his testicles wrinkle and shrink. His Adam’s apple went up and down Yo-Yo style. The fatal wound he’d induced repaired itself in less than half a minute, and as the hooded broad, towering figure moved away, Jonesy had to purposefully blink. For what he saw was unthinkable. The figure he’d certainly killed gingerly got to his feet and stared at the amount of blood from his own body that soaked the tall grass he’d been lying on.
‘Impossible…’
The feat achieved was impossible, but it was as tangible as every harsh breath he took.
When the hooded figure that had to be this Reaper dude turned and floated towards the house, Jonesy felt warm liquid pouring down his legs. He looked down and was ashamed to find he’d pissed himself. The unpleasant smell was worse. Yet by the time, Jonesy had used the mattress as leverage to haul himself to a vertical base the atmosphere distinctly changed.
He didn’t know how he knew this other than by sensing it.
Static crawled across his bloodied face and stirred the hairs on the nape of his neck.
Then the bedroom door creaked open…
Jonesy knew then that he was going to die. He feared not the end of his life. For years he wished he retired to bed and never woke again. His life had been nothing but a cruel, bitter disappointment. He was still plagued by the loss of his faithful pet in favour of his mother’s greed for money. Thereafter, nothing had seemed to go right; on the contrary, if anything. But now that Death finally arrived, he feared the Reaper that wielded the shiniest and sharpest scythe he’d ever seen.
Jonesy trembled from head-to-toe, in spite of telling himself to not show his emotions. He hated how he’d never find out if he’d done enough to save the three women and the adorable black cat that Sapphire doted upon. It was this reason, and this reason alone, why he bared his teeth and clenched his fists so taut that it hurt. He’d die content if he knew that his last deed on this earth had been accomplished. And after all the heartache he’d endured, Jonesy believed that was the least he deserved.
