The Death of All Things

  “Right, I know. Because he didn’t die, mate. The guy gets run over three times and lives! Been absolutely mauled. Nothing but blood and bone and pavement. Disturbing, even by my standards. Literally exhausting work. Could barely get back to the office on my own power.”

  “Geez. I’m sorry. That is a rough day.”

  “You better believe it. Soothed myself with a fifth of whiskey last night and Drunk ended up coming over to keep me company.”

  “Did it help?”

  “You bet your britches it did,” Pain patted him on the shoulder, then let his grip linger there, “You’ve been letting me go on and on, but you are clearly here for a reason. What’s up?”

  “I do need a favor. Mum called and there’s this silly family thing happening and I need the night off. I’m looking for someone to cover my shift.”

  “Oh man,” Pain slumped back down in his chair, “I can’t. I’m so sorry.”

  “It seems everyone I ask is suddenly otherwise occupied. Tell me, is my job really that terrible? Particularly in relation to what everyone else in this building does.”

  “No, no. It’s not that. I mean…” he paused for dramatic emphasis. “I’m Pain. And although I fully understand that I just finished complaining about a particularly difficult workday, in the end, Pain is kind of my thing. I inflict it, rather well I might add, and there is only one type of person I cannot affect. Do you know who that person might be?”

  “A dead one?”

  “That is correct. A dead one! You are brighter than you look, Death.” As the edges of Pain’s lips began to curl upward, he appeared increasingly distraught. “Is there something wrong with my face? Look at my face. Is it a stroke? I’m having a stroke, aren’t I?”

  “Pain, calm down. It’s a smile, alright. You told a little joke and then had a smile about it.”

  “Oh, brilliant! That is a relief.” Pain’s face settled into its usual grimace. “Just because I was smiling, that doesn’t mean I’m not sorry about your shift.”

  “I know and I don’t want to push you out of your … comfort zone, if that’s what we can call it. I really do understand. But can you think of anyone who might cover me tonight? Mum’s all excited and I don’t want to let her down.”

  “Have you tried Apathy?”

  “Pain, you’re a bloody genius.”

  “I know!” Pain picked up the telephone and rang Apathy’s line. The friends looked at each other expectantly while they waited for her to answer. “Damn, went to voicemail. She doesn’t even care enough to pick up. Her level of commitment is right impressive.”

  Death rushed back toward the lift. “I’m off to ask in person. Wish me luck!”

  “Luck called in sick today. I’ll wish you Success instead.”

  * * *

  Death found Apathy in the Parking Garage. There she perched on a stool in the scratched plexiglass toll booth, resplendent in her ill-fitting uniform. Her nose was buried in a worn paperback adorned by a windswept couple embracing on a plain, or perhaps it was a farm. Hard to tell through the glass. He knocked gently to get her attention.

  “Apathy, my dear. So good to see you.”

  She barely turned to acknowledge Death’s greeting before shoving the metal drawer out for payment.

  “I’m not here to pay for parking. I’m not even in a car. See, it’s just me. Death. On foot. I’ve come to have a chat with you.”

  “What is it then?” Apathy set the book down on her lap.

  Death absentmindedly brought a finger to the plexiglass window and began making fidgety figure eights. He fixed his gaze on Apathy’s nametag as he carefully chose his words. “Would you…care…if I…gave you…my shift tonight?”

  “Why would I care?”

  “Yes!” Death’s took an excited step back and threw both hands in the air. “Why, indeed? So, it’s a deal, then?”

  Apathy placed a yellow slip of paper in the metal drawer and pushed it back out to Death. “I guess so. Just get that signed first.”

  Death took the form and considered it. In bold letters at the top, it read “Shift Transfer Request.” Not one to take time off, Death wasn’t sure what to make of it.

  “I’ve actually never filled one of these out before.”

  “I have. Loads of times. It’s why I keep them in the booth. You Upper Floor gits love to have me cover shifts for some reason.”

  Death arched an apologetic eyebrow. “Ah yes, well, on behalf of all us gits, we are grateful. Who signs off on it?”

  “The Guardian.”

  “You can’t be serious!”

  “Very serious. Take a look at the fine print.” Apathy grabbed her own copy and read aloud to Death: “No shift transfer shall be effective without the signed consent of The Guardian. Unapproved transfers will result in pervasive and ceaseless Punishment.”

  He was in too deep to quit now. Death gave Apathy a forced smile and placed the transfer request in his pocket.

  “Thank you, Apathy. I will get this signed and see you in my cubicle at 6:00pm sharp.”

  * * *

  Death had only been to the Executive Penthouse once before, shortly after he was promoted from Coma. The Guardian invited him upstairs for a congratulatory drink. It had been an intimidating encounter. Death was ill-equipped to handle The Guardian’s barrage of questions, so he took a long slow sip of brandy to calm his nerves. Forgetting to swallow, Death attempted to say, “Yes sir, I do prefer blueberries,” but instead poured forth the contents of his mouth. The resulting cascade of liquor pooled into a sort of murky crotch pond atop his khakis. The two men stared at each other for a longer period of time than seemed appropriate before The Guardian finally stood up and thanked him for coming.

  Death hoped The Guardian’s assistant would take the high road and not bring it up.

  “Well, as I live and breathe, look who it is. Death in the flesh. What brings you here today? Thirsty Trousers? Parched Pants? Dehydrated Dungarees?”

  “That last one was a stretch, even for you, Sarcasm.”

  “I’m sorry. I couldn’t help myself. I live for these moments.” Sarcasm adjusted her cat-eye glasses and began flipping through a large, leather-bound volume atop her desk. “I don’t see you on the calendar, Death. Is The Guardian expecting you?”

  “No and I’m not really sure I need to see him,” Death pulled the transfer request out of his pocket and unfolded it, placing it on the desk in front of her. “Maybe you can just take care of this for me.”

  “A Shift Transfer Request? Certainly not. Well above my pay grade. Wait here while I ring him. I’m sure he’ll want to see you.”

  Death took a seat and pretended to sort through some magazines while she rang The Guardian on the intercom.

  “Mr. Guardian, I have Death in the lobby. He needs a Shift Transfer Request reviewed.”

  “Who?”

  “Death, sir.”

  “Death…It’s not ringing any bells. Which Department?”

  “He’s sort of a Department unto himself.”

  The other end of the intercom was silent. Sarcasm lowered her voice.

  “You remember Death. The Brandy Fountain. Loose Liquor Lips. Death.”

  “Oh, of course! Death! Send him right in.”

  Death shot Sarcasm a look. “That’s how he remembers me?”

  “Honey, that’s how we all remember you.” She pressed a button and the double doors to The Guardian’s office swung open.

  * * *

  The office was larger than Death remembered, the walls covered in a jumble of oil paintings, oversized books, and gold filigree. The Guardian motioned for him to have a seat in front of the marbled desk.

  “Death, I must say you are looking well, taking into consideration the nature of your daily duties, that is. Looking well, as graded on a curve you might say, but looking well nonetheless.” The Guardian’s smile seemed exceptionally bright against his artificial tan. “I understand you’ve come here with a Shift Transfer Request.”

>   “Yes, sir. I have it right here.” With trembling hands Death placed the form on the marble’s edge.

  “It’s just for one night, sir. Tonight, actually. I’ve got this family thing and Apathy said she’d cover. I’ve never asked anyone to cover for me before, so I didn’t realize the approval level was this high. I hate to bother you, but if you’ll review my file, you’ll see I have perfect attendance. It’s just tonight. So, if you wouldn’t mind signing it, I’ll be on my way. Back in the morning. Working hard. As usual. Back to it in the morning.”

  The Guardian placed an outward palm across the desk to stop Death’s inane chatter. Leaning back in his throne, he considered the request.

  “Absolutely not.”

  “Did I hear you right? Did you say, ‘Absolutely?’”

  “You heard me. Absolutely not. Death does not take a holiday. It’s a dangerous thing you’re proposing.”

  “Well, I wouldn’t exactly call it a holiday. It’s just a few hours. And I’ve got coverage lined up.”

  “Who? Apathy? That young woman excels in her line of work which makes her entirely unqualified to do yours. Can someone with so little resolve commit to the kind of work you do? I think not. You received the promotion because you’ve got what it takes to rip a soul right out of its flesh and that is a rare quality indeed. I won’t hear any more of it. Now chin up. Get back out there and do some slaying.”

  “With all due respect, Mr. Guardian, I’m not sure you understand my job description. I’m not a slayer. I am the transporter of the slain. All Apathy needs to do tonight is shuttle the souls from Point A to Point B. For a short time, I think she’s capable.”

  “You don’t slay?”

  “No, sir. You have an entire Department dedicated to that. War, Hunger, Accident, Murder, Suicide, Disease, just to name a few, and they are all lovely at what they do. Such finesse.”

  “Enlighten me. What do you do again?”

  “I’m Death, sir. I take the freshly disembodied souls and bring them to the other side.”

  “Like a trolley?”

  “Well, that’s a bit simplistic, but yes, I suppose like a trolley.”

  “How far do you take them?”

  “It depends really. Generally, not far.”

  “Couldn’t we just put up signs then?”

  “Signs? What kind of signs?”

  “Simple signs. If all you do is escort souls ‘generally not far’ to their next destination, we don’t even need signs with words. Well-placed arrows should do the trick.”

  “What are you getting at?”

  “If I’m being honest, I’m not sure your services are relevant anymore.”

  “Of course they are! If you get rid of me, who’s going to take all the souls to the other side?”

  “I may just have the slayers do it themselves. It couldn’t take that much more time out of their workday. We’ll cross-train them.”

  “Terrible idea. The souls won’t follow their slayers into the beyond. They need a neutral party.”

  “You mean like a well-constructed sign with arrows?”

  “No, not like a bloody sign. More like a caring transportation professional who can tailor the experience to their individual needs.”

  “Give me examples. How do you appear to the souls?”

  “Well, sometimes it’s complex, like getting all dressed up and navigating the River Styx to the Underworld while other times I simply beckon lovingly from a tunnel of light.

  “Who still goes across the River Styx?”

  “It was very popular with the Mesopotamians for a while.”

  “As in ancient Mesopotamia? So not at all anymore. Forget about that.” The Guardian leaned over the desk towards Death. “How about the tunnel of light thing? What does that entail?”

  “There’s a trick to it. See, I represent a loved one who has already passed, so I must remain far enough away from the newly deceased that my features aren’t visible. I appear as a dark, but familiar figure against the light, motioning for them to come through.”

  “Motioning how?”

  “You know, like…” Death rose awkwardly from the overstuffed chair and began to make long sweeping gestures with his arms.

  “We could use an inflatable for that. The kind you see outside car dealerships. We’ll hook a generator to it.”

  “You’d use an inflatable to summon souls to the afterlife?”

  “If it got the job done, why not?”

  Death had run out of arguments.

  * * *

  “You’re late.” Apathy was sitting in Death’s task chair spinning around in circles.

  “I know, sorry. This transfer request turned into a whole thing, but it’s done now.” Death had The Guardian’s reluctant signature on the yellow slip, buying him time until he could pull together a formal slide-show presentation on the Importance of Death as a Viable Mode of Transportation complete with spreadsheets, statistics, and the results of customer satisfaction surveys.

  “Apathy, I can’t thank you enough for this. I’ve got detailed instructions in the binder on the top shelf and the phone is automatically routed to voicemail, so you won’t have to answer any of the special-order calls, like reincarnation or intergalactic travel. They’re generally very patient, anyway, happy to wait. All you need to worry about is what comes across this fax machine. You’ll pick the faxes up off the machine like so, look up the Transportation code in the binder and just follow the directions next to that number. Got it?”

  “Sure, I guess. Seems pretty easy.”

  “Yes. Wait. No! It can be incredibly complex. If you happen to get any faxes referencing the River Styx, just put them in a pile in the corner and I’ll get to it in the morning.”

  “You still get requests for the River Styx?”

  “Well, not lately. But a resurgence could happen at any time. You know, everything old is new again and all that. It’s a very retro point of view. I think I heard Style mentioning it was poised to make a comeback.”

  “Did Style really say that?”

  “Yes, of course he did. Pass the word.”

  “I probably won’t.”

  “I know.” Death threw his scarf around his neck and headed out to his Mum’s.

  * * *

  There were cars lined all along the block leading up to the house. Certainly more cars than he had family. It began to look to Death that he nearly got fired for trying to attend his own surprise birthday party. Walking up the path, he could see the buffet table through the Dining Room window. Gluttony had taken up residence on the far end, repeatedly filling his plate while Beauty was picking through the appetizers, presumably bemoaning the multitude of carbs present.

  Shortly after Mum yelled an unnecessary “SURPRISE!” she excused herself to check on Greed. So far that evening, she’d caught him twice in the cupboards and once in her jewelry box. As she hurried off, Pain gave Death a warm hug and handed him his birthday gift.

  “You bastards.” Death was not immune to the irony of the evening. “I practically killed myself to cover my shift just so you assholes could come and have a party at my expense.”

  “Correction: a party in your honor.” Pain laughed. “Besides, I’m the one who hooked you up with Apathy. Before that, you were just spinning your wheels. Never would have made it here on your own. Face it, you need me.”

  While Pain was talking, Death ripped the soiled wrapping paper off his gift: a flask of whiskey.

  “I’m telling you, after a tough day, this will take care of all that ails you, my friend. Speaking of, I think I saw Drunk around here somewhere. I’m going to go have a look for him.” Pain disappeared into the recesses of the house.

  Enjoying his new flask, Death wandered the crowded rooms greeting family and co-workers alike. Even Style had come. Granted, he was curled up on the corner of the couch, rolling his eyes and hating everything, but he was there and that counted for something.

  As Death wandered up to the makeshift bar, he caught
a familiar sight. Perched precariously close to the counter’s edge was a paperback novel, splayed nearly in half, presumably marking the reader’s place. He cautiously lifted the book with two fingers to inspect it. Taunting him from the cover were two impossibly good looking individuals which he could now see, up close and personal, were indeed on a farm.

  “Oh, no.” Panicked, Death spun around searching the room. “No-no-no-no-no-no-no…”

  “Hey. You found my book.”

  In the moment it took to turn towards Apathy’s voice, Death still hoped beyond reason that it wasn’t actually her speaking. But there she hunched, right before his eyes.

  “Tell me you have a twin. And that you are she.”

  “Can I have my book back?” Apathy reached for her novel.

  Death quickly shoved it behind his back. “No! Not until you tell me why you left the office.”

  “Your job is so boring! Even for me. Some folks were getting on the lift and I heard them talking about this bash that everyone was going to. Just thought I’d have a look see. Fair to say I didn’t expect to see you here.”

  “It’s my birthday, Apathy!”

  “I did not know that. Well, then—Happy Birthday, Death.”

  Death pondered his fate. No one was covering his shift, the transport would be behind schedule and increasingly backlogged with each passing minute. The Guardian would no doubt unleash Punishment upon both of them, if he even got to keep his position. The last thing Death could stomach was the thought of going back to Coma.

  “Apathy, I need your help to make this right.” Death feared he sounded as desperate as he felt, “Can you do that for me?”

  Within five minutes, they had rounded up enough volunteers to expedite the work. Nurture drove the carpool back to the office and passed out little baggies of snacks.

  Once inside, they all dutifully took to their assigned tasks. Death had done a fair job of impressing upon Greed that a safety deposit box combination or two might be revealed in one’s last moments, and Beauty was flattered when told her presence would make the transition more appealing. Pain was placed in charge of rounding up the stray souls leaning toward haunting, while Apathy stayed her course of pointing the affable cases in the right direction, much like a well-constructed sign. Not one to be left behind in the excitement, Mum came along too, and was promptly put in charge of the River Styx.