Croak

  “E-mail.”

  He gave her a sideways glance. “Who are you e-mailing?”

  “My sister. Any more questions, Dad?”

  “Knock it off,” Uncle Mort told her as they climbed the Bank stairs. “And pay attention. You’re starting a typical Junior workday. Five hours in the morning, hour break for lunch, then five more in the afternoon.”

  “Good Lord.”

  “Enjoy it while you can—Seniors get fourteen-hour shifts. But it’s not that bad,” he said upon seeing her dumbfounded face. “Time gets lost in the ether, remember? Five hours only feels like two.” He stopped on the porch to take a swig of lemonade. “So here’s the drill. Every morning you’ll come here to the Bank to check in with the Etceteras.”

  “Wait, what?”

  “Etceteras. ETC stands for Ether Traffic Controllers, and the nickname just evolved from there.”

  “What does that make us, then?”

  “Well, technically,” said Uncle Mort, “we’re called Gamma Removal and Immigration Managers—”

  “But are more commonly known as Grims,” Driggs said.

  “Can’t say I approve of the term.” Uncle Mort flourished his razor-sharp scythe and smiled. “We’re not that grim, are we?”

  Lex snickered.

  Uncle Mort finished his lemonade and opened the door to the Bank. “Hi, Kilda,” he said hastily as they walked through the foyer.

  Kilda beamed. “Good morning! Wonderful to see you!”

  “Sorry, terrible hurry.”

  “Have a resplendent day!”

  Once they got to the hallway, Uncle Mort opened a door on the right to reveal a large, sleek office, its atmosphere wildly out of place compared with the rest of the folksy Bank. Buzzing and whirling in a form of controlled chaos, it reminded Lex of an ultramodern secret government facility—or at least the ones on television. A man in a suit was barking orders, and a handful of other people sat at machines that looked sort of like computers, but not quite. A large aquarium spanned the far wall, the jellyfish within glowing a bright blue, as if fiercely trying to do their part to contribute to the futuristic feel of the place.

  “This,” Uncle Mort said, gesturing to the room, “is the hub, where all of our scything is controlled and monitored. The people who work here are very good at what they do, so do not—I repeat, do not—get on their bad side.”

  “Who, me?” Lex said in an innocent voice.

  “Don’t start, Lex. Norwood!” He walked over to the yelling man in the suit. “Lex, this is Norwood, director of Ether Traffic Control. Norwood, this is my niece, our newest Killer.”

  The man assessed her with a cold glower, the same look he had given her the day before in the hallway. “Scythe,” he said gruffly, holding out his hand. Lex looked at Driggs, who handed his over. She reluctantly did the same, then watched as Norwood plugged them both into the side of his computer.

  “And here’s his lovely wife and codirector, Heloise,” said Uncle Mort. “Morning, Hel.” An equally loathsome woman approached, slender and severe, wearing an expensive suit and a fierce scowl.

  She nodded. “Mort.” Her auburn hair, pulled into a tight bun, didn’t move an inch. Disarmed, Lex backed up against the desk, knocking a stapler to the floor.

  Norwood grunted. “They get more incompetent every year, don’t they, Mort?” He ran a hand through his dry, gray-streaked brown hair. Lex half expected a puff of ash to dust up out of it. “Sooner or later, one of ’em’s bound to burn down the town as soon as they set foot in it.”

  “Oh, I don’t know,” Uncle Mort said distractedly, thumbing through a stack of papers. “I don’t think Dead End is very flammable.”

  Norwood leaned in to Lex, close enough to audibly sniff at her. “What’d you do to your eye? Get too close to a mirror?”

  Lex narrowed her eyes at him. “Well, aren’t you a bucket of sunshine.”

  Heloise walked to her husband’s side, her sharp heels rapping ominously across the floor. “Destructive and sarcastic,” she said, clicking her tongue and flashing Lex a hollow smile. “Lucky us.”

  Uncle Mort jumped in before things got any hairier. “Orientation, Norwood. Go.”

  Norwood took a deep breath, then flew through his prepared speech in a disinterested monotone. “For your first week, you must check in for all shifts with either myself or Heloise. No complaints, no whining, no special requests. After checking in, head directly out to the Field for your first shift. No detours, no chitchat, no coffee breaks.”

  He sat down at his desk and began to peck at the strange keyboard, which contained a jumbled series of symbols rather than letters and numbers, as well as several oddly shaped buttons. Lex followed the machine’s cables down to the floor, where they merged with others and wound their way through the various workstations, finally connecting to the bottom of the large jellyfish aquarium on the far wall of the office.

  “What’s with all the—”

  “Jellyfish detect death,” he continued, anticipating her question. “All incoming Gamma signals arrive through them and only them. They work in a gigantic global network, each one able to communicate with any other on the planet, no matter the species. We use this system for two reasons: jellyfish exist in every ocean, and their range is infinite. A single jellyfish off the coast of South Africa can pick up a death as far away as Alaska. The energy they exude is so pervasive that it even extends into the ether, thereby powering our ability to scythe to the designated targets. As for the jellyfish tank, no tapping, no thumping, no disturbing.”

  Lex was once again finding it unbearably difficult to believe a word she was hearing. “And what does this do?” she asked, reaching out to the strange machine. “Does it get Internet?”

  “This is a Smack,” Norwood said, slapping her hand away. “If I ever catch you touching one, you lose a finger.”

  Heloise gave Lex a harsh look. “Smacks track and code all incoming Gamma alerts so that we can reroute them to you out in the Field. Without them—and us—you’d be nothing more than a couple of knife-wielding brats playing make-believe.”

  “And thus concludes Etcetera orientation,” Uncle Mort added before any more insults could be hurled.

  Norwood glared at him, tapped at a few more keys, and yanked the scythes out of the Smack. “All set,” he said, handing them back.

  “Thanks. Come on, kids.” Uncle Mort gestured at them to follow as he walked out of the room.

  Lex started for the door, but once Uncle Mort was out of view, Norwood seized her arm and pointed a finger into her face. “Let’s get one thing straight, princess,” he growled. “If you ever give us anything less than absolutely stellar work, I’ll make you sorry Uncle Nepotism ever smuggled you in here. Got that?”

  Heloise leaned in to whisper in her ear. Lex could feel her hot breath on her cheek, as well as Norwood’s icy gaze.

  “We are watching you.”

  “Come on, Lex!” Uncle Mort yelled from the hall.

  She broke away from his grip and joined Driggs out in the hall. “What crawled up their butts and died?” she asked him.

  “Who knows?” he said as they followed Uncle Mort outside. “But they’re like that all the time, so try to space out your contempt. It’s healthier that way.”

  Lex had never been skilled at doing anything with her contempt but causing bodily harm. But strangely enough, Norwood’s threat hadn’t prompted a single desire to bloody his nose, scratch his eyes out, or follow through on any of her usual violent impulses. In fact, she could even feel the anger dissipating before it could surface, seeping away from her body in calm, measured waves. She contemplated this newfound serenity with a distinct wariness. Driggs had said her ferocity would fade, but overnight?

  She thought back to the anger she had felt at the gunshot scene yesterday. Maybe her rage was just becoming more focused on those who deserved it.

  But she could sort through all that later. “Is all of that crap he just said about jellyfish really tr
ue?” she asked as they made their way to the Field.

  Uncle Mort nodded. “You bet.”

  “And you’re the only ones who have discovered this? The scientific world is still in the dark about the mystical powers of death-knelling invertebrates?”

  “Biologists don’t have access to the same knowledge that we do,” said Uncle Mort, “and therefore don’t have the technology to fully realize the abilities of our dear gelatinous friends.”

  Lex opened her mouth, then closed it. What was the point?

  “That’s why the machines are called Smacks,” Driggs said, “because ‘smack’ is the technical term—”

  “For a group of jellyfish,” Lex finished.

  He looked at her in disbelief. Or admiration. It was hard to tell. “How did you know that?”

  “It’s not very nice of you to just assume I’m a raging idiot such as yourself.”

  “Oh, I would never assume what I already know to be true.”

  “Don’t think I won’t blacken that other eye.”

  “Don’t think I won’t laugh heartily at your futile attempt.”

  “Kids,” said Uncle Mort. “Coexist, please.”

  Lex scratched her head. “So really, how has this place been kept secret for so long? Are you guys not allowed to leave?”

  “Well, Croak isn’t a prison,” Uncle Mort said. “Grims are free to quit the profession whenever they want. Only one catch: they won’t remember a thing about it. And, of course, they can never return.”

  “That’s two catches.”

  “Hey, the kid can add,” said Driggs.

  “What happened to your old partner?” Lex asked him. “Suicide, I take it?”

  He frowned. “Worse—business school. Can you believe it? Two years of Croak, then one day the kid decided he wants to be the next Donald Trump. So we threw him in a car, dropped him off near Woodstock, and now he thinks he spent the past two years in a drug-addled haze at some hippie commune.”

  “Nice severance package.”

  “It’s for our own protection,” Uncle Mort said. “Same fate awaits any Grims who refuse to Kill or Cull their targets, or who breathe a word of any of this to the outside world.”

  Lex bristled. Total confidentiality? What was she supposed to tell her sister, that she’d been shearing sheep this whole time? Cordy would never buy it.

  “Yeah, zero tolerance policy,” Driggs said. “One wrong move and you’re gone. And not just banned from Croak—from the entire Grimsphere, too. Memory wiped clean, and it’s back to your miserable old existence. But that’s really rare. A lot of people are in this for life. It’s a pretty sweet gig.”

  “Oh, definitely,” Lex said with a bitter edge, thinking back to the uneasiness she had felt while Killing, the faces of yesterday’s targets. “Ending people’s lives is such a hoot.”

  Uncle Mort stopped walking and grabbed Lex’s elbow. She looked up at him, startled, as he spoke. “Veterinarians don’t delight in putting sick animals to sleep, but that’s part of the job, isn’t it? The alternative would be inhumane.” His face was inches from hers, his eyes fiery. “Lex, if you’re not just being a smart-ass, if you really do have a problem with all this, now’s the time to say so. If you’re hesitant, you’re a liability, and if you’re a liability, you sure as hell are never going to be a Grim.”

  Lex instantly felt very small. No matter how morally ambivalent she was feeling, one thing was for sure: she didn’t want to leave. “No, I—the smart-ass thing. I’m fine. I’m okay with it.”

  “Good.” Uncle Mort let go of her arm and started walking again.

  Lex, cowed, followed him. “Except I’m really not okay with that shock that comes with Killing people.”

  “Oh, the little pinch?” Uncle Mort said, seemingly in better spirits. Lex couldn’t keep up with these mood swings of his. “That’s nothing. You’ll get used to it. I barely even feel it anymore.”

  “No, I mean the massive shock that feels like I’m jabbing my finger into a power line.”

  “Really?” Uncle Mort shot her a curious look. “Interesting.”

  “Actually, no. Painful. Why is it happening? And why only to me?”

  He furrowed his brow, lost in thought for a few moments. “I don’t know.” He shrugged. “Though I’ll bet it has something to do with those natural abilities of yours. I’ve never seen anyone Kill so fast, especially on the first try.”

  “Huh?”

  “Most Killers have to hold their fingers to the target for a second or two, but you Killed instantly. And I can’t even count the number of times I’ve had to jump in to finish the job of a rookie because they couldn’t release the Gamma completely. But you did, every time.” He glanced at her. “Best rookie Kills I’ve seen in . . . well, ever.”

  She swallowed. “What do you think that means?”

  “No idea. At the very least, I’d say that it hints at a slew of further potential. Who knows where you could go from here?” He patted her on the back. “I had a feeling you’d be gifted.”

  Lex crinkled her face. He was making her sound like a nerd.

  “Anyway, with talent like yours—Croak isn’t the only game in town, you know,” Uncle Mort went on, his eyes glinting as they arrived at the Ghost Gum. “There are other cities, other positions. Ladders to be climbed, places you can really go, if you so possessed the ambition.”

  “Maybe I do.”

  He looked at her. “Well, that’s all a long way off,” he said, waving his hand to dismiss the thought. “First you must establish a firm understanding of the fundamentals. It takes a lot of hard work to ascend to a position like mine.”

  “Why, what are you?”

  Driggs let out a snicker as he donned a Cuff. “He’s the mayor, Lex.”

  “What? You never told me that!”

  “Details, details,” Uncle Mort said. “I’m only in charge of the town and all of the Grims’ operations within.”

  “Oh. Only that.”

  He gave a modest shrug. “It’s not as glamorous as it seems. I miss working out in the Field,” he said, touching the Ghost Gum. “So have some fun out there for me. If you run into any problems, I’ll be at the library. And remember, you’re partners now, so try not to give each other concussions, okay?”

  Agreeing to no such thing, Driggs and Lex dug into their pockets and took out their scythes. And since Croak was no different from any other culture—and therefore contained its own equivalent of a pissing contest—the two partners immediately sized up each other’s scythes as they tore them through the air.

  “Sapphire,” Driggs said, waving a gleaming blue weapon.

  “Obsidian.”

  Uncle Mort smirked. “Adorable.”

  The two rolled their eyes in unison, then disappeared into the ether.

  ***

  “For future reference,” said Driggs as he Culled the soul of a man trapped under a tractor, “I wouldn’t go around telling people about these shocks of yours.”

  “Why not?” Lex asked.

  “It’s like announcing to the world that you have crabs. It’s embarrassing, and no one’ll ever shake your hand again.”

  “But these feelings are not ones of crotchal itching,” she said as they scythed to the bottom of a gorge. She tapped their target, a fallen hiker impaled on a jagged rock, and flinched as the charge coursed through her body. Driggs watched, unnerved. “Why should they be embarrassing? Uncle Mort just said they’re from an overdose of talent or whatever.”

  “They’re different. People don’t like different. And if Zara found out—trust me, she’d make your life a living hell.”

  “I think it’s too late for that,” she murmured, remembering the look Zara had given her.

  Lex tried to suppress the shocks for rest of the morning (which, as Uncle Mort had promised, flew by faster than she could have imagined), but nothing worked. Over the next five hours of Killing, she saw enough death to last for a lifetime of nightmares—car wrecks, geezers, heart
attacks, diseases, drugs, suicides, a hodgepodge of other fatalities—and the currents that shot across her nerves seemed to intensify with every target she touched.

  And Driggs’s reactions certainly weren’t helping. By the end of their shift, the looks of bewilderment flashing across his face whenever she Killed were making her want to gouge his eyes out with a melon baller.

  “I’m trying, okay?” she finally snapped as they scythed onto the deck of a cruise ship. “But I can’t help it! It’s rooted in my nervous system or something, it feels like fireworks exploding through my body—” She jabbed the target, jerked back, sucked on her inflamed finger, and looked at Driggs’s aghast face. “See? You’re staring at me like I’m drowning sackfuls of kittens.”

  “I’m not—I mean, partly, but it’s mostly because you’re—” He scratched his ear and seemed almost shy. “You’re really fast.”

  “Oh. Um, thanks,” she muttered, suddenly very aware of the last time she’d been complimented by a boy (never) and the current condition of her hair (pure chaos). She smoothed it out and tried to change the subject while Driggs Culled the target, a woman nearly burned to cinders in the hot midday sun. “Death by tanning?”

  “Nah. Her drink was spiked.”

  Lex looked at the empty margarita glass sitting next to the lounge chair. “How could you possibly know that?”

  “GHB. Date rape drug. Salty taste, almost impossible to detect in a salt-rimmed margarita glass.”

  “How did you—”

  “Experience. Once you’ve got enough of it, determining cause of death becomes second nature.”

  The urge to search the ship for the guilty party quickly arose, but Lex remembered what Zara had told her the day before, and she reluctantly held it in check. “Oh, really?” she said nonchalantly as they scythed into the stands of a jam-packed baseball stadium. “Then how did this guy die?”

  She pointed at the target, a man bent over his souvenir program. Lex looked around, dazed. There was just something eerie about the silent scene of thirty-eight thousand screaming fans fixed in mid-cheer, players hovering in petrified dives toward the bases, and stationary beer splashing its thick globules across the stands.