eXecutioner
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This story has been sitting around for way too long, so i thought i'd let you guys have a look. It may not be everyone's cup o' tea, and it's pretty long, but i figure it won't hurt.
Here it is... hope you enjoy it.
Three years ago, I met a creature of the night. I don’t know if he was a demon, an evil spirit, or something else entirely, but I know haven’t been quite the same since.
Three years ago, my father died of a massive heart attack. It was unexpected, to say the least, and it took him in his bed as I slept in the next room. When Death himself came for Dad, I was there. I was awake. I saw Death in my own living room that night, and the image has tortured me ever since. It tortures me now, coming back to haunt me in the form of yet another nightmare. I wake up gasping and sweaty, squinting from the bright sunlight streaming through my bedroom windows. I shake the last clinging bits of my nightmare from my head
“Come on, Adam,” I say to myself, “get outta bed.” More or less awake at this point, I sit up and peek through my blinds, and smile.
Spring has come to my little town, it seems, and although I am generally content to remain indoors, I know that today will be spent out of the house. I know it from the moment I peek out the window, in fact. It has been a long winter, and I have been cooped up in this little house for far too long.
I rush through my morning routine, enticed by the thought of spending a day in warm sunshine. I have seen enough snow in the past months to last me a lifetime, and although it’s been warming up outside for about a week, the sun hasn’t really been out. Today, it’s out to stay.
Showered and shaved, with my breakfast eaten and my teeth brushed, I head out onto my front porch and sit in my favorite wicker chair to enjoy a cigarette. I tried to quit smoking over the winter, mainly because it had gotten too cold to step out and light up. I began smoking inside, instead. I felt guilty at first, but it only takes a little while to adjust to smoggy air and furniture that smells like an ashtray. I never really wanted to quit, anyway.
From my favorite chair on my front porch, I sit and watch the world. What I can see of it, that is. Across the street, clad only in boxer shorts and a sweat-stained undershirt, Old Man Hocksow is beginning his summer garden, planting bulbs in the dirt alongside his sidewalk. I think to myself that it may be a little early in the year for gardening, but if it makes him happy, then what the hell?
Hocksow’s dog, Sadie, a tiny, yapping creature, is busy as well, digging up the bulbs that Hocksow has so carefully buried. The old fart either doesn’t notice or doesn’t care, but either way, it puts a grin on my face. A perfect couple, those two. They’ve been together for as long as I can remember.
Two houses down from Hocksow’s, I notice movement. I settle back in my chair, still smiling.
“Hey, Adam!” comes a shout from that direction. It’s the voice of my best friend, Piggy. He won his nickname many years ago, due to his weight and slightly upturned nose. At first, he’d hated it, but after awhile, he grew into it. Literally. Now, he is six-three and almost three hundred pounds, but to me, he’s just a larger version of the kid he’s always been.
He grins at me as he crosses the street towards my house, and I grin back. He is by far the most charismatic, fun-loving person I’ve ever known, and in the many years we’ve been friends, I have never tired of his company.
“Adam Ant!” he hollers as he steps onto my porch. It seems we all had animal nicknames at one time or another. Only Piggy uses mine, and not very often, at that. As for Piggy, everybody uses his. Most people don’t even know what his real name is. I even forget from time to time.
“Hey, Pig,” I say. “Whaddaya know?”
“I’m lovin’ this weather,” he informs me, eyeing the pack of camels resting at my feet. I offer him one, and he lights it up with a smile.
“Thanks, buddy,” he says. He puffs on it quietly for a moment. It seems he hasn’t had one in awhile. “What’s on the schedule for today?” he says finally. I shrug.
“You’re lookin’ at it,” I reply. “My plans are to enjoy the weather, and nothing else.” Piggy nods.
“Sounds good to me.”
I don’t work. I don’t have to. My house is paid for, and I’ve got my inheritance for all the other bills. When Dad died, he made it very clear in his will that I was to use that inheritance for just that. Of course, I feel guilty every time I write a check, but it’s really a lot like smoking inside- you adjust. Dad had had a lot more money hidden away than anyone had realized, too, so I am doing pretty well, even after three years. His death kept me on edge for quite awhile, though, but I think I’ve already touched on that subject.
Piggy and I sit in unusual silence for awhile, smoking camels, enjoying the weather, and watching the world. Across the street, Old Man Hocksow has finished gardening for the day and heads inside. Sadie, covered in mud, follows. The yard is a mess, scattered with the products of her excavations. The old fellow still doesn’t notice. Part of me says he’s just being patient, but he is old, and it just seems more likely that he doesn’t have a clue.
Down the street, Piggy’s mom comes out and gets into her car, presumably on her way to work. She waves at us, and we wave back. No shortage of excitement here on East Polk Street, let me tell you.
An hour passes, maybe more. Piggy and I do nothing, just like we planned. We sit and smoke and shoot the shit, because that’s what we like to do. We talk about everything and nothing all at once, and it’s good to have someone to chat with. It’s nice to know that there’s somebody who will hear you if you want to be heard, and if you feel like listening, it’s good to know that somebody has a story to tell. I suppose that’s why Piggy and I have been friends for so long. The conversation’s good, even when there’s nothing to talk about.
Of course, a topic of discussion always comes around, like it or not, and right then, it was on it’s way to our neighborhood.
“Hear that?” Piggy whispers. There’s a funny tone in his voice. It’s an excited tone, but there’s something else, too. By now, I can hear what he’s talking about, and I understand completely.
There’s fear in Piggy’s voice, and with good reason.
The sound we hear is a low, steady bass beat, the sound of a powerful car stereo. Maybe a block away, maybe a mile. It’s impossible to tell, but one thing’s for sure - it’s getting closer.
Piggy and I sit and listen. Waiting. After a moment, the beat is joined by another sound. Hard to make out, yes, but unmistakable all the same. It is the sound of an engine, a big one, and the low, throaty sound of glass-pack mufflers. Just by the sound I can tell the car isn’t moving very fast, but it could, by golly, if the driver felt so inclined.
“Jesus,” Piggy says quietly. “Is he coming here?” I don’t reply. I think I already know.
The stereo has gotten louder, closer. I’ve heard it before, and Piggy has, too. Everyone has, at one time or another. Sometimes I’ve even been able to determine the song being played, just from the beat. It’s always something different, sometimes so distant you can barely make it out, and sometimes so close it rattles your windows. Wakes you up, if it’s late.
It’s been three years since I’ve seen it up close, but I’ve heard it from a distance quite a lot since then, never really paying it any mind.
Boom, boom, ba-da boom, boom.
Now, on my own front porch in the brilliant spring sun, I begin to tremble. Death is coming to East Polk Street, back after a three year hiatus.
No sooner than I have finished this thought, the car rounds a corner about a block down and is headed our way. We sit and stare, in awe of its power. You can feel that power just by looking at it.
The bass is nearly deafening now - I can feel it almost as well as I can hear it. The underlying hum of the engine is slightly softer. He’s going ten, maybe fifteen miles an hour.
“Holy shit,” Piggy says. His eyes are wide, and I can tell he’s never seen it up close before.
Lucky guy.
The corvette rolls towards us, moving so slow that it’s almost painful to watch. It’s a sixty-eight, I think. I’m not very smart about cars, though, so I may be off by a little. Regardless, I do know what I see. Huge, bulging fenders hugging wheels that look almost cartoonishly large. Bright chrome rims so polished that it hurts my eyes just to look at them. The car has a sleek, ferocious look about it, like a shark on wheels. No, even more sleek than a shark. More like a barracuda on wheels.
The car rolls closer. It’s painted black, but no black I’ve ever seen on a car before. It’s like someone bottled total cave darkness and sprayed it all over the thing. It shines more than I’ve ever known a car to shine, and I swear I can see the whole world reflecting back from the side of it. And not just East Polk Street, not just my corner of the world, but all of it. Every detail, right there on the door of the nastiest street machine known to man.
The windows are darkened, of course, tinted so black that they almost match the paint. I wonder briefly how the driver can see where he’s going.
By now, all we can hear is the pounding bass line. It has an eerie, pulsing quality. The first thing that comes to mind is a heartbeat, but it’s a hell of a beat- I realize now that I can hear the windows on my house as they vibrate in time with the music.
Boom, boom, ba-da boom, boom.
All up and down East Polk Street, I see front doors being closed, curtains drawn, and blinds being dropped. The noise is enough, I guess, without actually having to see the thing. As for Piggy and me, we are frozen right where we are. I’d like to get up and go inside, bet your ass I would, but I can’t. It’s all too powerful. Too terrifying.
The ‘vette parks on the curb directly across from my little house, and suddenly, the noise is gone. Just like that, it is quiet again on East Polk Street. The door opens, and all at once I want to scream, cry, and hide myself under my favorite wicker chair.
I’m silent. I don’t move. I only sit and watch as the driver steps out of his car and takes a long look at Polk Street. He is accompanied by a cloud of bluish smoke that rolls out of the open door and drifts skyward. My mind tells me it came from hellfire and all that stuff, but I know it’s only cigarette smoke. I can smell it.
“Oh, God,” Piggy groans, but I barely hear him. The majority of my attention is focused on Death himself, who has just gotten out of the baddest car in town and is currently standing on my street.
He’s just like every picture you’ve ever seen, although in most pictures I’ve seen, he comes surrounded by darkness, evil spirits, thunderclouds, and that kind of stuff. But not today. Today, he stands on East Polk Street in the blazing light of a spring afternoon, every bit of seven feet tall, and he’s stretching. Swear on my life, he is. Death himself, with his arms thrown out wide and his face turned up towards the sky. Soaking in the beauty of this day. Maybe he’s been cramped in that little car for too long. He’s a big guy, after all.
He’s wearing the traditional gray cloak, of course. The bottom of the thing is torn to shreds, as if he’s been dragging it on the ground since the dawn of time, if not longer. The hood is huge, big enough to mask his face in shadow, but I can paint a pretty clear picture of it in my head. Yes, I can all but actually see the grinning, bleach-white skull that’s hidden in that darkness.
Despite all my fears, Death doesn’t so much as glance our way. He’s on business today, and it seems that his business is with Old Man Hocksow. He’s headed for the old man’s house right now, in fact. In one bony hand, he holds a little black box, no more than half the size of the average shoebox. He isn’t carrying the scythe that he is so often pictured with, either. Maybe that’s just a myth, too, like the darkness and thunderclouds.
He lets himself into the house and disappears inside. Piggy and I watch, unable to speak. What horrible fate has befallen my elderly neighbor? Is he being murdered while we sit and stare at his little blue house? Perhaps he is having a heart attack, induced by the mere sight of the creature that came calling in a black corvette.
Like my father.
Death is only in the house for a couple of minutes, and then he comes back out, shutting the door behind him. The little black box is still clutched tightly within the cage of his bony fingers.
Now, he does notice us, shooting us a sort of curious what’re you lookin’ at glance, but it only lasts a moment. He doesn’t speak to us or move our way. Just a quick look, and then he gets in his car, starts it up, and drives away.
Piggy lets out a long breath. I wonder how long he’s been holding it. As for me, I try to calm my body down and stop trembling.
“I’m gonna go home and take a nap,” my friend says. I nod, thinking that a nap doesn’t sound too bad.
But I need another cigarette, first.
*
Weeks pass, and from my front porch, Piggy and I watch spring turn to summer. We sit and talk, smoking camels and drinking an occasional beer. We talk about lots of things - the weather, music, girls, and sports, but not about Death. Never Death and his corvette. We’ve put that behind us.
The paper said that Old Man Hocksow had died peacefully, in his sleep. There had been no struggle, no sign of foul play. He was just old, and his time had come.
I wonder if that’s true, or if the real details were kept under wraps so as not to cause a scare. But like I said, it’s in the past. He’s gone now, and nothing can change that.
They found Sadie dead, too. The dog, remember? She was found next to the old man in bed. Together ‘til the very end, they were.
A couple weeks ago, I bought a car of my own. It’s not a corvette, but it is pretty fast. A real chick magnet, the dealer had said, but so far it hasn’t worked for me. I suppose that’s okay. It moves, and gets me where I need to go, and that’s enough. When we’re not on the porch, watching the world, we’re in the car. It’s been a good summer for Piggy and me.
Today, I am going grocery shopping. I ate the last Pop-Tart for breakfast, and I think that means it’s time for a re-supply. I call Piggy to see if he wants to come along.
“I’m still asleep,” he says. “Call when you get home.” So I leave without him, but it’s probably for the best. He generally talks me into buying a lot of shit I don’t need, anyway.
When I get back, I see him on his front porch, waiting for me. As I park on the curb in front of my house, he comes out to the car, waving. I stay in it, thinking he may want to go for a ride. Everything I bought at the store will keep awhile longer, anyway.
“I got us tickets to the concert tonight,” he says. “You gotta come.” He seems pretty excited, so I decide to oblige him. I’m not really the concert type, but I figure it won’t hurt to check it out, just the same.
“Sure,” I say. “Who’s playing?” He reels off a list of maybe eight or nine bands, most of whom I’ve never heard of. Heavy metal stuff, he informs me. Good stuff. It might just do me good to get knocked around in a mosh pit.
Piggy begins describing the bands in detail, and we become so absorbed in the conversation that neither of us notice the sound of heavy bass from somewhere down the street.
When the corvette turns onto East Polk, maybe a block away, Piggy stops talking, cut short in mid sentence. The bass is overwhelming now, and I wonder how we had missed it before. The corvette rolls towards us, ever so slowly.
“I gotta go,” Piggy says suddenly, and he starts backing away from the open window of my car.
“Wait a minute,” I say, risking a glance at the black car coming our way. A hundred feet back, at the most.
“I’ll be over at seven,” Piggy says, all the while backing up slowly. “Don’t forget.”
“Get back here!” I say. There’s an urgency in my voice now that I can’t remember ever hearing, and I realize that I’m sweating. Heavily.
Piggy turns around and heads for his house, casting occasional uneasy glances at the approaching car. Fifty feet and closing.
I open my mouth to holler at him and tell him to hurry the fuck up, but he starts jogging before I can speak. The ‘vette suddenly comes to life with a furious roar, causing me to jump and let out a girlish little squeak.
The corvette’s front wheels leave the ground, and I see the back tires crumple under the strain of tremendous amounts of torque. It covers that last fifty feet in a hurry, and as I sit in my car and watch, the car hits Piggy dead square in the thigh. He screams, half pain, half fear, as he is thrown into the air. I watch him fly over the car, his body twisting and turning like a crazed gymnast doing his final Olympic routine. Twenty feet away, he lands on his head in the street and crumples to the pavement in a lifeless heap. Beside me, the black corvette has come to a screaming halt, filling the air with thick, rubber-stinking smoke. I try to scream, but I can’t. I can only watch, horrified, as the driver steps out of his car and onto the street. He’s looking at me. I can’t see his face, but I know it just the same. I’m looking back. It seems I have no choice.
Death goes to Piggy, holding the little black box in one enormous hand. He works carefully, but quickly, laying Piggy’s body flat in the street. He rests the box on my friend’s chest and opens the lid. Now I realize how cold it has gotten outside. I can see my breath. Two minutes ago, it was nearly a hundred degrees out there, and now, as I sit in my car, I begin to shiver.
Death stretches his fingers across Piggy’s face, touching his temples with the thumb and forefinger of his right hand. His left hand he places atop Piggy’s battered head, and I think he is stroking my friend’s hair. Caressing him. He’s whispering, too, as he crouches over Piggy’s lifeless form. I can’t make out the words, but it gives me a chill, just the same. There’s a sudden sound, like wind through leaves, or a rushing stream from far away. It surrounds me, filling my ears. I cover them, to block it out, but it stays just as loud. Death shuts his box and takes it back to his car.
I’m crying now. Big tears roll down my cheeks, where they collect in the corners of my mouth. Piggy was my friend. My best friend. Maybe my only friend. And now he’s gone, on the whim of a monster in a black corvette.
I’m staring down the street at Piggy’s body, so deep in my thoughts that I have forgotten that I’m not alone out here. When I glance out the window, Death is there, looking in. It gives me such a shock that I scream. Four, maybe five feet away from my car he stands, hunched down so he can see inside. Not a casual glance this time, no sir, but a full-on stare. I want to look away, but I can’t. I’m riveted, you might say. It’s almost like when there’s a really good movie on TV, and you won’t get up and miss any of it, even if you’ve got to go to the bathroom. I realize now that I’ve already taken my bathroom break, though, right there in the driver’s seat of my new car. And still, Death watches me.
I try to tell him to go away, but all that I can manage is a terrified squeak. When I try to ask what he wants from me, nothing comes out at all. And then, he speaks to me. Not in physical words, exactly, but in a sort of creepy mental whisper that I hear inside my head.
I’m sorry, he says, so softly that I wonder if I’ve even heard it at all, and then he is in his car and gone. No stereo. I guess he doesn’t like it so much after murdering the innocent. I don’t suppose I would, either.
In the distance, I hear sirens. Someone else on East Polk Street has seen this disaster, but from inside, where it’s safe. Where Death can’t stare you down and whisper in your mind.
I stay in my car until the police take me inside. They don’t bother asking questions, simply suggesting that I get inside and get some rest. I tell them I will.
I don’t.
*
I see on the news that there was a twenty-car pile-up on the interstate. It happened about seven-thirty, when Piggy and I would have been on our way to the show. Would we have been in it? The time seems about right.
On TV, they say that nine people were killed in the accident. Death was almost certainly on hand, tending to his business.
I shut off the television and lay in my bed, smoking a cigarette and wondering if I’ll ever get to sleep. One nagging thought keeps popping into my mind, and as quickly as I can push it away, it’s back again. Even in my current state, exhausted and nearly crazy with grief, I can’t help but wonder.
Could it have been ten dead instead of just nine? What if Piggy and I had gone to the show? Would Piggy have died regardless?
I lay in the dark, crying, for an hour or so before I finally begin to drift away.
Ten instead of nine? I wonder in my head, and then I am asleep, preparing to face that familiar hooded demon in a whole new set of nightmares.
*
Piggy’s funeral is the saddest thing I’ve ever endured. Even more so than Dad’s, but only because I had been in shock through that one, and I honestly don’t remember much of what went on. The basics are always the same, though. Lots of crying, lots of hugging, and for good measure, a few barely whispered I’m sorries.
I’m sorry. He said this to me after he ran my best friend down. I’m sorry.
I just bet you are, I tell him in my nightmares. A real gracious fuck, that’s what you are. That’s what I say in my dreams, but what you say in your dreams only amounts to a puddle of piss in real life. I know that all too well, and I wish I didn’t.
I make it through the service okay. Piggy is counting on that from me.
Don’t make a scene, he says in my mind. Please don’t break down. If I can handle it, you can too.
I give a eulogy, and even though it hurts terribly, I make it all the way through before I start to cry.
Sorry, Pig, I think. I’ll try and just make little scenes, okay?
After the service, we all go and put him in the ground. Of all the things I’ve done in my life so far, this is by far the hardest. Even with Dad, it wasn’t so hard. Hell, I don’t even remember Dad being buried. It hurts me to realize it, but it’s the truth. At this moment, I would give just about anything to return to that hazy state of mind, but I can’t. I’m here, and this is real.
“It was a beautiful speech, Adam.” I hear this a thousand times and more, and I smile and say thank you, but I know it’s far from true. There’s no beauty in death. None at all.
I stay with Piggy for an hour or more after everyone else has gone. I want to talk with him, but I have nothing to say. I think he needs some peace right now, anyway. Besides, I think my presence here is enough. I stay with him until the sun begins to go away, and then I go, too.
There’s an awful lot of death in a place like this, and after dark, it seems a little more real. And a lot more frightening.
As I start my car and begin to drive away, I see a vague shadow, way back in the trees. Very tall. Very thin. An old friend of mine? Perhaps he’s come to see his victim off.
“Damn you,” I say, and I know he hears me. “Damn you straight to hell, where you belong.”
*
The rain starts about the time my car stops. For good, it seems.
“A real strong runner,” the dealer had said. “Just had ‘er tuned up.” I can’t help but laugh a little. Fifteen miles from town on a dark highway in a thunderstorm. Perfect. Why couldn’t Piggy have been buried a little closer to home?
But then again, why deny him the last decision he ever gets to make?
I turn on my hazard flashers, get out, and start walking. Maybe some compassionate soul will see me and pick me up, I think. A car breezes by me, not even tapping the brakes.
Maybe not.
I walk a couple of miles, soaked to the bone and surrounded on all sides by flashes of lightning. It fits my mood, I suppose, and I press on. What other choice do I have?
When I hear it at first, I mistake the bass beat for thunder, and I don’t ignore it so much as not notice. It doesn’t take long before I not only notice, but can no longer ignore.
He’s coming for me.
This time, I think I’ll have a little more to say.
When the corvette pulls up alongside me, I mean to keep walking. If he wants me, he’ll have to work for it.
But when he stops the car, I stop too. His window comes down a crack, and I smell cigarette smoke. I suddenly realize it’s been awhile since I’ve had one, and I think I should’ve shared one last camel with Piggy. It’s funny what goes through your head in a bad situation.
“You need a ride,” says a voice from inside the car. It’s a real voice this time, an actual, tangible thing, and not just a passing thought.
“No thanks,” I reply. There’s a calm in my voice that betrays my terror. “I’ll be just fine.”
“You need a ride,” the voice says again, and this time, I realize he’s not asking me. He’s telling me.
I hold my ground. “No thanks,” I say again. “I need the exercise, anyway.” I start walking again, and the corvette rolls beside me, staying right in stride.
“We’ve got business, Adam,” Death says from inside his car. “It can’t be avoided. You’ve got things to say to me, and I’ve got things to say to you. Let’s get it over with.”
I keep walking. “I’ve got no business with you,” I say to him. “Leave me alone.”
The corvette speeds up a little and swerves my way, cutting me off.
“Get in,” he says. He sounds pissed, so I finally give in. I couldn’t have avoided it much longer, anyway. I circle the car and open the passenger door, and then I’m in Death’s corvette, in a comfortable leather seat. He drives away.
There had been so much to say, but now that I’m here, I can manage only one question.
“Why?” I say, and for the first time, I look over and see the driver. His hood is down, and he’s just like I pictured him. The skull is indeed bleach-white, and it practically gleams in the dim green light of the instrument panel. He has no eyes, only dark hollow sockets, and all his teeth show, perfectly straight, in a hideous grin. It’s really all I can do to keep from screaming.
The corvette is actually very roomy inside, and Death isn’t cramped at all, even as big as he is. He seems a lot bigger up close, in fact. His hands, for instance, are easily twice as long as my own, all bone. Between two fingers, he holds a burning cigarette.
“Because I have no choice,” Death answers. His voice is low and surprisingly mellow, like the voice of an opera singer.
“What is that?” I say. “An excuse? Because if it is, it’s terrible.”
Death laughs, but it comes out sounding humorless and a little scary.
“It’s not an excuse,” he says matter-of-factly. “It’s the truth, nothing more.”
I’m slightly taken aback by his response, and I struggle with my next question for a moment before it finally comes out.
“Why Piggy? Why did you run him down?”
Death sighs. “You heard about the pile-up,” he says, and I start to ask him what he’s talking about. He stops me before I can so much as open my mouth.
“I know you heard, and I know that you know what I’m talking about, and I even know that you wondered about that very accident.”
My mind is reeling. Of course I had wondered.
Ten dead. Ten instead of nine. I had asked myself the question a million times that night.
“You would have been there, obviously,” Death says, “and you would have been involved.”
I am beginning to see what he’s getting at, and it almost makes sense.
“Piggy would have died,” I mutter. The realization hits me like a ton of bricks, even though I think I had known it all along.
“After a month or so, yes,” Death says. “He would have been in a coma, and in a great deal of pain.”
Now that I fully understand what I am being told, I begin to feel my fear slipping away, and I realize that Death’s business with me is a different kind of business.
“You spared him that,” I say. “Why?”
He chuckles. “Because I’m not evil,” he says. “I just have a job to do. It’s unpleasant and sometimes I hate it, but it’s my job, just the same.”
“Sometimes?” I ask. “How can you hate it only sometimes?”
“Piggy’s death was a terrible thing,” he says, “and I wish it hadn’t happened that way, and that’s the part I hate. But if someone has been suffering, and they’re ready to go...”
“It’s a relief,” I say.
“Something like that, yes.” Death is watching the road carefully as he drives, but he risks a glance at me. “I don’t choose who goes,” he says. “Do you understand that?”
I nod. “I think so,” I say. Death turns his attention back to the road.
“Good,” he says. “Most people think I am solely responsible for that, but I’m not. The matter of who dies, and how, and when, that is God’s business. He makes that decision, and I just carry it out for him.”
“But you are responsible for the actual death,” I say.
“Yes,” Death replies, “but I am rarely present for it. I make the death happen, but I can do it from a distance. Then I come to take the essence.”
“Essence?” I say. “What do you mean?”
“The very stuff that makes life possible,” Death replies, waving his hand in a dramatic gesture. “I put it in my box, and leave the rest for nature. I’m a collector, not a murderer.”
There is silence between us for a long time, and I think to myself how truly strange it all is. It feels right, somehow, and that is by far the strangest part. Maybe I can’t accept Dad’s death, or Piggy’s, but I can understand them. I want to understand them, in fact, and I have a few more questions to ask.
“Cigarette?” Death says. He reaches into his robe and brings out a pack. It is black with a bright red skull-and-crossbones on the front. He holds it out to me.
“No thanks,” I say. “I think I’ll stick to my Camels.”
He chuckles and lights one for himself. I watch, awestruck and a little horrified, as thick smoke rolls out of his eye sockets and from under his jaw.
“So what happens to the souls?” I ask. “After you take them away?” As he gives his answer, I light a camel for myself.
“I don’t take the souls,” he informs me. “I take the essence, remember? That stuff goes back to God to be reused, to make more life. The soul, that’s the part that either goes to heaven or hell. He shoots another glance my way, waiting for another question.
“So what is a soul?” I ask him.
“The conscious. The emotions. The stuff that makes humans human.” He pauses to take a drag from his cigarette. “The soul is trapped in the body until it decays and lets it out. From there, the soul has two choices. It can stick around, or it can go on to the final destination.”
“Heaven?” I ask.
“Or hell. That all depends on the judgment, which is also God’s business. Regardless, human souls have that one last decision, and once it’s made, they’re stuck with it.”
This is great stuff, I think. They don’t teach this kind of stuff in school, that’s for sure. I wonder if anyone knows about it, besides me.
“So a soul doesn’t have to go to heaven or hell if it doesn’t want to?” I say.
“Of course not,” Death replies. “But a soul is confined to the space of its body’s final resting-place, usually a cemetery plot. If that plot is only a ten foot square...”
“You wouldn’t want to stay there forever,” I say, finishing his sentence. He nods, and I find myself in awe of his power, the power to finish a life and yet have the compassion to explain it all to anyone who will listen. I have a feeling he doesn’t get many takers on that offer.
“You’d be surprised, I bet,” he says, and I am a little startled to realize that he’s read my thoughts. “To many of the dying, I act as a sort of counselor. With understanding comes acceptance, I suppose, and it’s much easier for everyone that way.”
“Yes,” I say. “Yes, I suppose it is.”
*
I make it home safe and sound, of course. I sleep peacefully, and there are no nightmares.
*
Many, many years have passed since I took a ride with Death on a rainy summer night. Sixty-four years, to be exact. I left East Polk Street shortly after that ride, and have not been back since.
But I did go back to visit Dad and Piggy. Once a year, at least.
In the years between then and now, I have done much, but not much of it was terribly exciting. I’ve had jobs, I was married twice, and I’ve taken a vacation here and there, but even in all that time, the ride I hitched with the Grim Reaper himself is still the most exciting thing I’ve ever done. The memory of that ride is still very vivid, actually, and it outlasted all the jobs, both wives, and it has seen me grow too old to do much traveling. Even now, as an eighty-six year old man, I remember that night as clearly as if it had just happened. It comes back quite frequently in my dreams, but they are pleasant dreams. I haven’t had many nightmares in the last sixty-four years.
I can’t say I miss them.
A couple weeks back, I bought myself a small house on as many acres as I could afford. There’s over a hundred, but I’m not sure of the exact number. It isn’t really important, anyway. I wander my land as often as I am able, learning it. Studying it. This is my new corner of the world, you see, and it’s a beautiful place. Bigger than I can use in this lifetime, in fact, but that has never been its true purpose.
I’ve been thinking a lot about that last decision, you see, and I’ve already made up my mind.
I’m staying down here, and this place is my burial plot. A burial plot that stretches for miles.
Don’t get me wrong, I dearly miss Dad, and Piggy, too, but the idea of heaven terrifies me. Hell is even worse, and since I don’t know for sure where I’ll end up, I’ve decided to stay in a place I know. A place that’s mine.
It’s lovely weather outside today. A spring day that reminds me very much of the day that Death came back to East Polk Street, when I was still very young, and my dearest friend was still among the living. I sit on my new front porch and reminisce on this day, smiling as the warm sun caresses my wrinkled face.
In the distance, I hear bass.
I have known my time was coming for months now. I never did have any luck in my quest to quit smoking, and the breaths I take have been coming with a little more difficulty these days. I suspect I may have emphysema, or something like it, but I don’t really mind. I’ve lived a long time, and I’m prepared to move on.
The bass has gotten louder now, and I can hear gravel crunching under tires. When the corvette enters my line of sight, I smile. It’s been a long time.
Death parks his car in front of my house and steps out. He hasn’t changed a bit, I see. I don’t imagine he ever will.
“Hello, Adam,” he says as he walks up to me. I struggle to get to my feet.
“Hello, Death,” I reply. “It’s been awhile.”
His hood is down, and if he had lips, I swear he’d be smiling. I am.
“If it’s not too much to ask,” I say, “take a walk with me. We’ll share a cigarette.” I’ve been wondering about those skull-and-crossbones smokes for quite some time, and I bet they taste fine.
He walks with me to the spot I’ve picked out, and we talk. We talk about everything and nothing all at once, and it’s good to have someone to chat with, even in my final hour. The walk is a long one, and it’s hard for an old man, but Death himself is there with a steady hand and a strong back to get me through the rough parts. He’s here to help, you see. To make sure my last journey is a comfortable one.
We come to the place I’ve picked. It really is a beautiful place, with a single tree atop a tall hill that overlooks all of my land. I sit at the base of the tree.
“It isn’t really your time yet, Adam,” Death says to me. He looks like a giant, standing above me. “You’ve got cancer, did you know that?”
I shake my head. “I didn’t,” I say.
“You’re supposed to have a few more days,” he says. “But you’ll be in pain.”
“Have pity on me, then,” I say. “End it now, if that’s your wish.”
Death kneels beside me.
“I wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t,” he says. “Are you ready?”
“Almost,” I say. I take a last living look around from my place on the hill. I have picked a good place, I think, and I am happy with it.
“It’s a good place to spend forever,” Death says. “You’ve made the right decision.”
“I think so, too,” I say. “I will wander here forever, and I will enjoy it.” I rest my back on the tree. “I’m ready,” I say. “Do your business.”
Death does. I see him clearly as I begin to fade, and he is the last thing I see as I slip into darkness. Before I die, I think to myself.
Goodbye, Piggy.
Goodbye, Dad. I miss you both very much.
Goodbye, Death. You’ve taught me so much.
Goodbye, life. Thank you for letting me exist.
Hello, eternity.
There it was. Just a note: the views expressed during the telling of this tale do not necessarily reflect the views of the author. 😀
Here it is... hope you enjoy it.
Three years ago, I met a creature of the night. I don’t know if he was a demon, an evil spirit, or something else entirely, but I know haven’t been quite the same since.
Three years ago, my father died of a massive heart attack. It was unexpected, to say the least, and it took him in his bed as I slept in the next room. When Death himself came for Dad, I was there. I was awake. I saw Death in my own living room that night, and the image has tortured me ever since. It tortures me now, coming back to haunt me in the form of yet another nightmare. I wake up gasping and sweaty, squinting from the bright sunlight streaming through my bedroom windows. I shake the last clinging bits of my nightmare from my head
“Come on, Adam,” I say to myself, “get outta bed.” More or less awake at this point, I sit up and peek through my blinds, and smile.
Spring has come to my little town, it seems, and although I am generally content to remain indoors, I know that today will be spent out of the house. I know it from the moment I peek out the window, in fact. It has been a long winter, and I have been cooped up in this little house for far too long.
I rush through my morning routine, enticed by the thought of spending a day in warm sunshine. I have seen enough snow in the past months to last me a lifetime, and although it’s been warming up outside for about a week, the sun hasn’t really been out. Today, it’s out to stay.
Showered and shaved, with my breakfast eaten and my teeth brushed, I head out onto my front porch and sit in my favorite wicker chair to enjoy a cigarette. I tried to quit smoking over the winter, mainly because it had gotten too cold to step out and light up. I began smoking inside, instead. I felt guilty at first, but it only takes a little while to adjust to smoggy air and furniture that smells like an ashtray. I never really wanted to quit, anyway.
From my favorite chair on my front porch, I sit and watch the world. What I can see of it, that is. Across the street, clad only in boxer shorts and a sweat-stained undershirt, Old Man Hocksow is beginning his summer garden, planting bulbs in the dirt alongside his sidewalk. I think to myself that it may be a little early in the year for gardening, but if it makes him happy, then what the hell?
Hocksow’s dog, Sadie, a tiny, yapping creature, is busy as well, digging up the bulbs that Hocksow has so carefully buried. The old fart either doesn’t notice or doesn’t care, but either way, it puts a grin on my face. A perfect couple, those two. They’ve been together for as long as I can remember.
Two houses down from Hocksow’s, I notice movement. I settle back in my chair, still smiling.
“Hey, Adam!” comes a shout from that direction. It’s the voice of my best friend, Piggy. He won his nickname many years ago, due to his weight and slightly upturned nose. At first, he’d hated it, but after awhile, he grew into it. Literally. Now, he is six-three and almost three hundred pounds, but to me, he’s just a larger version of the kid he’s always been.
He grins at me as he crosses the street towards my house, and I grin back. He is by far the most charismatic, fun-loving person I’ve ever known, and in the many years we’ve been friends, I have never tired of his company.
“Adam Ant!” he hollers as he steps onto my porch. It seems we all had animal nicknames at one time or another. Only Piggy uses mine, and not very often, at that. As for Piggy, everybody uses his. Most people don’t even know what his real name is. I even forget from time to time.
“Hey, Pig,” I say. “Whaddaya know?”
“I’m lovin’ this weather,” he informs me, eyeing the pack of camels resting at my feet. I offer him one, and he lights it up with a smile.
“Thanks, buddy,” he says. He puffs on it quietly for a moment. It seems he hasn’t had one in awhile. “What’s on the schedule for today?” he says finally. I shrug.
“You’re lookin’ at it,” I reply. “My plans are to enjoy the weather, and nothing else.” Piggy nods.
“Sounds good to me.”
I don’t work. I don’t have to. My house is paid for, and I’ve got my inheritance for all the other bills. When Dad died, he made it very clear in his will that I was to use that inheritance for just that. Of course, I feel guilty every time I write a check, but it’s really a lot like smoking inside- you adjust. Dad had had a lot more money hidden away than anyone had realized, too, so I am doing pretty well, even after three years. His death kept me on edge for quite awhile, though, but I think I’ve already touched on that subject.
Piggy and I sit in unusual silence for awhile, smoking camels, enjoying the weather, and watching the world. Across the street, Old Man Hocksow has finished gardening for the day and heads inside. Sadie, covered in mud, follows. The yard is a mess, scattered with the products of her excavations. The old fellow still doesn’t notice. Part of me says he’s just being patient, but he is old, and it just seems more likely that he doesn’t have a clue.
Down the street, Piggy’s mom comes out and gets into her car, presumably on her way to work. She waves at us, and we wave back. No shortage of excitement here on East Polk Street, let me tell you.
An hour passes, maybe more. Piggy and I do nothing, just like we planned. We sit and smoke and shoot the shit, because that’s what we like to do. We talk about everything and nothing all at once, and it’s good to have someone to chat with. It’s nice to know that there’s somebody who will hear you if you want to be heard, and if you feel like listening, it’s good to know that somebody has a story to tell. I suppose that’s why Piggy and I have been friends for so long. The conversation’s good, even when there’s nothing to talk about.
Of course, a topic of discussion always comes around, like it or not, and right then, it was on it’s way to our neighborhood.
“Hear that?” Piggy whispers. There’s a funny tone in his voice. It’s an excited tone, but there’s something else, too. By now, I can hear what he’s talking about, and I understand completely.
There’s fear in Piggy’s voice, and with good reason.
The sound we hear is a low, steady bass beat, the sound of a powerful car stereo. Maybe a block away, maybe a mile. It’s impossible to tell, but one thing’s for sure - it’s getting closer.
Piggy and I sit and listen. Waiting. After a moment, the beat is joined by another sound. Hard to make out, yes, but unmistakable all the same. It is the sound of an engine, a big one, and the low, throaty sound of glass-pack mufflers. Just by the sound I can tell the car isn’t moving very fast, but it could, by golly, if the driver felt so inclined.
“Jesus,” Piggy says quietly. “Is he coming here?” I don’t reply. I think I already know.
The stereo has gotten louder, closer. I’ve heard it before, and Piggy has, too. Everyone has, at one time or another. Sometimes I’ve even been able to determine the song being played, just from the beat. It’s always something different, sometimes so distant you can barely make it out, and sometimes so close it rattles your windows. Wakes you up, if it’s late.
It’s been three years since I’ve seen it up close, but I’ve heard it from a distance quite a lot since then, never really paying it any mind.
Boom, boom, ba-da boom, boom.
Now, on my own front porch in the brilliant spring sun, I begin to tremble. Death is coming to East Polk Street, back after a three year hiatus.
No sooner than I have finished this thought, the car rounds a corner about a block down and is headed our way. We sit and stare, in awe of its power. You can feel that power just by looking at it.
The bass is nearly deafening now - I can feel it almost as well as I can hear it. The underlying hum of the engine is slightly softer. He’s going ten, maybe fifteen miles an hour.
“Holy shit,” Piggy says. His eyes are wide, and I can tell he’s never seen it up close before.
Lucky guy.
The corvette rolls towards us, moving so slow that it’s almost painful to watch. It’s a sixty-eight, I think. I’m not very smart about cars, though, so I may be off by a little. Regardless, I do know what I see. Huge, bulging fenders hugging wheels that look almost cartoonishly large. Bright chrome rims so polished that it hurts my eyes just to look at them. The car has a sleek, ferocious look about it, like a shark on wheels. No, even more sleek than a shark. More like a barracuda on wheels.
The car rolls closer. It’s painted black, but no black I’ve ever seen on a car before. It’s like someone bottled total cave darkness and sprayed it all over the thing. It shines more than I’ve ever known a car to shine, and I swear I can see the whole world reflecting back from the side of it. And not just East Polk Street, not just my corner of the world, but all of it. Every detail, right there on the door of the nastiest street machine known to man.
The windows are darkened, of course, tinted so black that they almost match the paint. I wonder briefly how the driver can see where he’s going.
By now, all we can hear is the pounding bass line. It has an eerie, pulsing quality. The first thing that comes to mind is a heartbeat, but it’s a hell of a beat- I realize now that I can hear the windows on my house as they vibrate in time with the music.
Boom, boom, ba-da boom, boom.
All up and down East Polk Street, I see front doors being closed, curtains drawn, and blinds being dropped. The noise is enough, I guess, without actually having to see the thing. As for Piggy and me, we are frozen right where we are. I’d like to get up and go inside, bet your ass I would, but I can’t. It’s all too powerful. Too terrifying.
The ‘vette parks on the curb directly across from my little house, and suddenly, the noise is gone. Just like that, it is quiet again on East Polk Street. The door opens, and all at once I want to scream, cry, and hide myself under my favorite wicker chair.
I’m silent. I don’t move. I only sit and watch as the driver steps out of his car and takes a long look at Polk Street. He is accompanied by a cloud of bluish smoke that rolls out of the open door and drifts skyward. My mind tells me it came from hellfire and all that stuff, but I know it’s only cigarette smoke. I can smell it.
“Oh, God,” Piggy groans, but I barely hear him. The majority of my attention is focused on Death himself, who has just gotten out of the baddest car in town and is currently standing on my street.
He’s just like every picture you’ve ever seen, although in most pictures I’ve seen, he comes surrounded by darkness, evil spirits, thunderclouds, and that kind of stuff. But not today. Today, he stands on East Polk Street in the blazing light of a spring afternoon, every bit of seven feet tall, and he’s stretching. Swear on my life, he is. Death himself, with his arms thrown out wide and his face turned up towards the sky. Soaking in the beauty of this day. Maybe he’s been cramped in that little car for too long. He’s a big guy, after all.
He’s wearing the traditional gray cloak, of course. The bottom of the thing is torn to shreds, as if he’s been dragging it on the ground since the dawn of time, if not longer. The hood is huge, big enough to mask his face in shadow, but I can paint a pretty clear picture of it in my head. Yes, I can all but actually see the grinning, bleach-white skull that’s hidden in that darkness.
Despite all my fears, Death doesn’t so much as glance our way. He’s on business today, and it seems that his business is with Old Man Hocksow. He’s headed for the old man’s house right now, in fact. In one bony hand, he holds a little black box, no more than half the size of the average shoebox. He isn’t carrying the scythe that he is so often pictured with, either. Maybe that’s just a myth, too, like the darkness and thunderclouds.
He lets himself into the house and disappears inside. Piggy and I watch, unable to speak. What horrible fate has befallen my elderly neighbor? Is he being murdered while we sit and stare at his little blue house? Perhaps he is having a heart attack, induced by the mere sight of the creature that came calling in a black corvette.
Like my father.
Death is only in the house for a couple of minutes, and then he comes back out, shutting the door behind him. The little black box is still clutched tightly within the cage of his bony fingers.
Now, he does notice us, shooting us a sort of curious what’re you lookin’ at glance, but it only lasts a moment. He doesn’t speak to us or move our way. Just a quick look, and then he gets in his car, starts it up, and drives away.
Piggy lets out a long breath. I wonder how long he’s been holding it. As for me, I try to calm my body down and stop trembling.
“I’m gonna go home and take a nap,” my friend says. I nod, thinking that a nap doesn’t sound too bad.
But I need another cigarette, first.
*
Weeks pass, and from my front porch, Piggy and I watch spring turn to summer. We sit and talk, smoking camels and drinking an occasional beer. We talk about lots of things - the weather, music, girls, and sports, but not about Death. Never Death and his corvette. We’ve put that behind us.
The paper said that Old Man Hocksow had died peacefully, in his sleep. There had been no struggle, no sign of foul play. He was just old, and his time had come.
I wonder if that’s true, or if the real details were kept under wraps so as not to cause a scare. But like I said, it’s in the past. He’s gone now, and nothing can change that.
They found Sadie dead, too. The dog, remember? She was found next to the old man in bed. Together ‘til the very end, they were.
A couple weeks ago, I bought a car of my own. It’s not a corvette, but it is pretty fast. A real chick magnet, the dealer had said, but so far it hasn’t worked for me. I suppose that’s okay. It moves, and gets me where I need to go, and that’s enough. When we’re not on the porch, watching the world, we’re in the car. It’s been a good summer for Piggy and me.
Today, I am going grocery shopping. I ate the last Pop-Tart for breakfast, and I think that means it’s time for a re-supply. I call Piggy to see if he wants to come along.
“I’m still asleep,” he says. “Call when you get home.” So I leave without him, but it’s probably for the best. He generally talks me into buying a lot of shit I don’t need, anyway.
When I get back, I see him on his front porch, waiting for me. As I park on the curb in front of my house, he comes out to the car, waving. I stay in it, thinking he may want to go for a ride. Everything I bought at the store will keep awhile longer, anyway.
“I got us tickets to the concert tonight,” he says. “You gotta come.” He seems pretty excited, so I decide to oblige him. I’m not really the concert type, but I figure it won’t hurt to check it out, just the same.
“Sure,” I say. “Who’s playing?” He reels off a list of maybe eight or nine bands, most of whom I’ve never heard of. Heavy metal stuff, he informs me. Good stuff. It might just do me good to get knocked around in a mosh pit.
Piggy begins describing the bands in detail, and we become so absorbed in the conversation that neither of us notice the sound of heavy bass from somewhere down the street.
When the corvette turns onto East Polk, maybe a block away, Piggy stops talking, cut short in mid sentence. The bass is overwhelming now, and I wonder how we had missed it before. The corvette rolls towards us, ever so slowly.
“I gotta go,” Piggy says suddenly, and he starts backing away from the open window of my car.
“Wait a minute,” I say, risking a glance at the black car coming our way. A hundred feet back, at the most.
“I’ll be over at seven,” Piggy says, all the while backing up slowly. “Don’t forget.”
“Get back here!” I say. There’s an urgency in my voice now that I can’t remember ever hearing, and I realize that I’m sweating. Heavily.
Piggy turns around and heads for his house, casting occasional uneasy glances at the approaching car. Fifty feet and closing.
I open my mouth to holler at him and tell him to hurry the fuck up, but he starts jogging before I can speak. The ‘vette suddenly comes to life with a furious roar, causing me to jump and let out a girlish little squeak.
The corvette’s front wheels leave the ground, and I see the back tires crumple under the strain of tremendous amounts of torque. It covers that last fifty feet in a hurry, and as I sit in my car and watch, the car hits Piggy dead square in the thigh. He screams, half pain, half fear, as he is thrown into the air. I watch him fly over the car, his body twisting and turning like a crazed gymnast doing his final Olympic routine. Twenty feet away, he lands on his head in the street and crumples to the pavement in a lifeless heap. Beside me, the black corvette has come to a screaming halt, filling the air with thick, rubber-stinking smoke. I try to scream, but I can’t. I can only watch, horrified, as the driver steps out of his car and onto the street. He’s looking at me. I can’t see his face, but I know it just the same. I’m looking back. It seems I have no choice.
Death goes to Piggy, holding the little black box in one enormous hand. He works carefully, but quickly, laying Piggy’s body flat in the street. He rests the box on my friend’s chest and opens the lid. Now I realize how cold it has gotten outside. I can see my breath. Two minutes ago, it was nearly a hundred degrees out there, and now, as I sit in my car, I begin to shiver.
Death stretches his fingers across Piggy’s face, touching his temples with the thumb and forefinger of his right hand. His left hand he places atop Piggy’s battered head, and I think he is stroking my friend’s hair. Caressing him. He’s whispering, too, as he crouches over Piggy’s lifeless form. I can’t make out the words, but it gives me a chill, just the same. There’s a sudden sound, like wind through leaves, or a rushing stream from far away. It surrounds me, filling my ears. I cover them, to block it out, but it stays just as loud. Death shuts his box and takes it back to his car.
I’m crying now. Big tears roll down my cheeks, where they collect in the corners of my mouth. Piggy was my friend. My best friend. Maybe my only friend. And now he’s gone, on the whim of a monster in a black corvette.
I’m staring down the street at Piggy’s body, so deep in my thoughts that I have forgotten that I’m not alone out here. When I glance out the window, Death is there, looking in. It gives me such a shock that I scream. Four, maybe five feet away from my car he stands, hunched down so he can see inside. Not a casual glance this time, no sir, but a full-on stare. I want to look away, but I can’t. I’m riveted, you might say. It’s almost like when there’s a really good movie on TV, and you won’t get up and miss any of it, even if you’ve got to go to the bathroom. I realize now that I’ve already taken my bathroom break, though, right there in the driver’s seat of my new car. And still, Death watches me.
I try to tell him to go away, but all that I can manage is a terrified squeak. When I try to ask what he wants from me, nothing comes out at all. And then, he speaks to me. Not in physical words, exactly, but in a sort of creepy mental whisper that I hear inside my head.
I’m sorry, he says, so softly that I wonder if I’ve even heard it at all, and then he is in his car and gone. No stereo. I guess he doesn’t like it so much after murdering the innocent. I don’t suppose I would, either.
In the distance, I hear sirens. Someone else on East Polk Street has seen this disaster, but from inside, where it’s safe. Where Death can’t stare you down and whisper in your mind.
I stay in my car until the police take me inside. They don’t bother asking questions, simply suggesting that I get inside and get some rest. I tell them I will.
I don’t.
*
I see on the news that there was a twenty-car pile-up on the interstate. It happened about seven-thirty, when Piggy and I would have been on our way to the show. Would we have been in it? The time seems about right.
On TV, they say that nine people were killed in the accident. Death was almost certainly on hand, tending to his business.
I shut off the television and lay in my bed, smoking a cigarette and wondering if I’ll ever get to sleep. One nagging thought keeps popping into my mind, and as quickly as I can push it away, it’s back again. Even in my current state, exhausted and nearly crazy with grief, I can’t help but wonder.
Could it have been ten dead instead of just nine? What if Piggy and I had gone to the show? Would Piggy have died regardless?
I lay in the dark, crying, for an hour or so before I finally begin to drift away.
Ten instead of nine? I wonder in my head, and then I am asleep, preparing to face that familiar hooded demon in a whole new set of nightmares.
*
Piggy’s funeral is the saddest thing I’ve ever endured. Even more so than Dad’s, but only because I had been in shock through that one, and I honestly don’t remember much of what went on. The basics are always the same, though. Lots of crying, lots of hugging, and for good measure, a few barely whispered I’m sorries.
I’m sorry. He said this to me after he ran my best friend down. I’m sorry.
I just bet you are, I tell him in my nightmares. A real gracious fuck, that’s what you are. That’s what I say in my dreams, but what you say in your dreams only amounts to a puddle of piss in real life. I know that all too well, and I wish I didn’t.
I make it through the service okay. Piggy is counting on that from me.
Don’t make a scene, he says in my mind. Please don’t break down. If I can handle it, you can too.
I give a eulogy, and even though it hurts terribly, I make it all the way through before I start to cry.
Sorry, Pig, I think. I’ll try and just make little scenes, okay?
After the service, we all go and put him in the ground. Of all the things I’ve done in my life so far, this is by far the hardest. Even with Dad, it wasn’t so hard. Hell, I don’t even remember Dad being buried. It hurts me to realize it, but it’s the truth. At this moment, I would give just about anything to return to that hazy state of mind, but I can’t. I’m here, and this is real.
“It was a beautiful speech, Adam.” I hear this a thousand times and more, and I smile and say thank you, but I know it’s far from true. There’s no beauty in death. None at all.
I stay with Piggy for an hour or more after everyone else has gone. I want to talk with him, but I have nothing to say. I think he needs some peace right now, anyway. Besides, I think my presence here is enough. I stay with him until the sun begins to go away, and then I go, too.
There’s an awful lot of death in a place like this, and after dark, it seems a little more real. And a lot more frightening.
As I start my car and begin to drive away, I see a vague shadow, way back in the trees. Very tall. Very thin. An old friend of mine? Perhaps he’s come to see his victim off.
“Damn you,” I say, and I know he hears me. “Damn you straight to hell, where you belong.”
*
The rain starts about the time my car stops. For good, it seems.
“A real strong runner,” the dealer had said. “Just had ‘er tuned up.” I can’t help but laugh a little. Fifteen miles from town on a dark highway in a thunderstorm. Perfect. Why couldn’t Piggy have been buried a little closer to home?
But then again, why deny him the last decision he ever gets to make?
I turn on my hazard flashers, get out, and start walking. Maybe some compassionate soul will see me and pick me up, I think. A car breezes by me, not even tapping the brakes.
Maybe not.
I walk a couple of miles, soaked to the bone and surrounded on all sides by flashes of lightning. It fits my mood, I suppose, and I press on. What other choice do I have?
When I hear it at first, I mistake the bass beat for thunder, and I don’t ignore it so much as not notice. It doesn’t take long before I not only notice, but can no longer ignore.
He’s coming for me.
This time, I think I’ll have a little more to say.
When the corvette pulls up alongside me, I mean to keep walking. If he wants me, he’ll have to work for it.
But when he stops the car, I stop too. His window comes down a crack, and I smell cigarette smoke. I suddenly realize it’s been awhile since I’ve had one, and I think I should’ve shared one last camel with Piggy. It’s funny what goes through your head in a bad situation.
“You need a ride,” says a voice from inside the car. It’s a real voice this time, an actual, tangible thing, and not just a passing thought.
“No thanks,” I reply. There’s a calm in my voice that betrays my terror. “I’ll be just fine.”
“You need a ride,” the voice says again, and this time, I realize he’s not asking me. He’s telling me.
I hold my ground. “No thanks,” I say again. “I need the exercise, anyway.” I start walking again, and the corvette rolls beside me, staying right in stride.
“We’ve got business, Adam,” Death says from inside his car. “It can’t be avoided. You’ve got things to say to me, and I’ve got things to say to you. Let’s get it over with.”
I keep walking. “I’ve got no business with you,” I say to him. “Leave me alone.”
The corvette speeds up a little and swerves my way, cutting me off.
“Get in,” he says. He sounds pissed, so I finally give in. I couldn’t have avoided it much longer, anyway. I circle the car and open the passenger door, and then I’m in Death’s corvette, in a comfortable leather seat. He drives away.
There had been so much to say, but now that I’m here, I can manage only one question.
“Why?” I say, and for the first time, I look over and see the driver. His hood is down, and he’s just like I pictured him. The skull is indeed bleach-white, and it practically gleams in the dim green light of the instrument panel. He has no eyes, only dark hollow sockets, and all his teeth show, perfectly straight, in a hideous grin. It’s really all I can do to keep from screaming.
The corvette is actually very roomy inside, and Death isn’t cramped at all, even as big as he is. He seems a lot bigger up close, in fact. His hands, for instance, are easily twice as long as my own, all bone. Between two fingers, he holds a burning cigarette.
“Because I have no choice,” Death answers. His voice is low and surprisingly mellow, like the voice of an opera singer.
“What is that?” I say. “An excuse? Because if it is, it’s terrible.”
Death laughs, but it comes out sounding humorless and a little scary.
“It’s not an excuse,” he says matter-of-factly. “It’s the truth, nothing more.”
I’m slightly taken aback by his response, and I struggle with my next question for a moment before it finally comes out.
“Why Piggy? Why did you run him down?”
Death sighs. “You heard about the pile-up,” he says, and I start to ask him what he’s talking about. He stops me before I can so much as open my mouth.
“I know you heard, and I know that you know what I’m talking about, and I even know that you wondered about that very accident.”
My mind is reeling. Of course I had wondered.
Ten dead. Ten instead of nine. I had asked myself the question a million times that night.
“You would have been there, obviously,” Death says, “and you would have been involved.”
I am beginning to see what he’s getting at, and it almost makes sense.
“Piggy would have died,” I mutter. The realization hits me like a ton of bricks, even though I think I had known it all along.
“After a month or so, yes,” Death says. “He would have been in a coma, and in a great deal of pain.”
Now that I fully understand what I am being told, I begin to feel my fear slipping away, and I realize that Death’s business with me is a different kind of business.
“You spared him that,” I say. “Why?”
He chuckles. “Because I’m not evil,” he says. “I just have a job to do. It’s unpleasant and sometimes I hate it, but it’s my job, just the same.”
“Sometimes?” I ask. “How can you hate it only sometimes?”
“Piggy’s death was a terrible thing,” he says, “and I wish it hadn’t happened that way, and that’s the part I hate. But if someone has been suffering, and they’re ready to go...”
“It’s a relief,” I say.
“Something like that, yes.” Death is watching the road carefully as he drives, but he risks a glance at me. “I don’t choose who goes,” he says. “Do you understand that?”
I nod. “I think so,” I say. Death turns his attention back to the road.
“Good,” he says. “Most people think I am solely responsible for that, but I’m not. The matter of who dies, and how, and when, that is God’s business. He makes that decision, and I just carry it out for him.”
“But you are responsible for the actual death,” I say.
“Yes,” Death replies, “but I am rarely present for it. I make the death happen, but I can do it from a distance. Then I come to take the essence.”
“Essence?” I say. “What do you mean?”
“The very stuff that makes life possible,” Death replies, waving his hand in a dramatic gesture. “I put it in my box, and leave the rest for nature. I’m a collector, not a murderer.”
There is silence between us for a long time, and I think to myself how truly strange it all is. It feels right, somehow, and that is by far the strangest part. Maybe I can’t accept Dad’s death, or Piggy’s, but I can understand them. I want to understand them, in fact, and I have a few more questions to ask.
“Cigarette?” Death says. He reaches into his robe and brings out a pack. It is black with a bright red skull-and-crossbones on the front. He holds it out to me.
“No thanks,” I say. “I think I’ll stick to my Camels.”
He chuckles and lights one for himself. I watch, awestruck and a little horrified, as thick smoke rolls out of his eye sockets and from under his jaw.
“So what happens to the souls?” I ask. “After you take them away?” As he gives his answer, I light a camel for myself.
“I don’t take the souls,” he informs me. “I take the essence, remember? That stuff goes back to God to be reused, to make more life. The soul, that’s the part that either goes to heaven or hell. He shoots another glance my way, waiting for another question.
“So what is a soul?” I ask him.
“The conscious. The emotions. The stuff that makes humans human.” He pauses to take a drag from his cigarette. “The soul is trapped in the body until it decays and lets it out. From there, the soul has two choices. It can stick around, or it can go on to the final destination.”
“Heaven?” I ask.
“Or hell. That all depends on the judgment, which is also God’s business. Regardless, human souls have that one last decision, and once it’s made, they’re stuck with it.”
This is great stuff, I think. They don’t teach this kind of stuff in school, that’s for sure. I wonder if anyone knows about it, besides me.
“So a soul doesn’t have to go to heaven or hell if it doesn’t want to?” I say.
“Of course not,” Death replies. “But a soul is confined to the space of its body’s final resting-place, usually a cemetery plot. If that plot is only a ten foot square...”
“You wouldn’t want to stay there forever,” I say, finishing his sentence. He nods, and I find myself in awe of his power, the power to finish a life and yet have the compassion to explain it all to anyone who will listen. I have a feeling he doesn’t get many takers on that offer.
“You’d be surprised, I bet,” he says, and I am a little startled to realize that he’s read my thoughts. “To many of the dying, I act as a sort of counselor. With understanding comes acceptance, I suppose, and it’s much easier for everyone that way.”
“Yes,” I say. “Yes, I suppose it is.”
*
I make it home safe and sound, of course. I sleep peacefully, and there are no nightmares.
*
Many, many years have passed since I took a ride with Death on a rainy summer night. Sixty-four years, to be exact. I left East Polk Street shortly after that ride, and have not been back since.
But I did go back to visit Dad and Piggy. Once a year, at least.
In the years between then and now, I have done much, but not much of it was terribly exciting. I’ve had jobs, I was married twice, and I’ve taken a vacation here and there, but even in all that time, the ride I hitched with the Grim Reaper himself is still the most exciting thing I’ve ever done. The memory of that ride is still very vivid, actually, and it outlasted all the jobs, both wives, and it has seen me grow too old to do much traveling. Even now, as an eighty-six year old man, I remember that night as clearly as if it had just happened. It comes back quite frequently in my dreams, but they are pleasant dreams. I haven’t had many nightmares in the last sixty-four years.
I can’t say I miss them.
A couple weeks back, I bought myself a small house on as many acres as I could afford. There’s over a hundred, but I’m not sure of the exact number. It isn’t really important, anyway. I wander my land as often as I am able, learning it. Studying it. This is my new corner of the world, you see, and it’s a beautiful place. Bigger than I can use in this lifetime, in fact, but that has never been its true purpose.
I’ve been thinking a lot about that last decision, you see, and I’ve already made up my mind.
I’m staying down here, and this place is my burial plot. A burial plot that stretches for miles.
Don’t get me wrong, I dearly miss Dad, and Piggy, too, but the idea of heaven terrifies me. Hell is even worse, and since I don’t know for sure where I’ll end up, I’ve decided to stay in a place I know. A place that’s mine.
It’s lovely weather outside today. A spring day that reminds me very much of the day that Death came back to East Polk Street, when I was still very young, and my dearest friend was still among the living. I sit on my new front porch and reminisce on this day, smiling as the warm sun caresses my wrinkled face.
In the distance, I hear bass.
I have known my time was coming for months now. I never did have any luck in my quest to quit smoking, and the breaths I take have been coming with a little more difficulty these days. I suspect I may have emphysema, or something like it, but I don’t really mind. I’ve lived a long time, and I’m prepared to move on.
The bass has gotten louder now, and I can hear gravel crunching under tires. When the corvette enters my line of sight, I smile. It’s been a long time.
Death parks his car in front of my house and steps out. He hasn’t changed a bit, I see. I don’t imagine he ever will.
“Hello, Adam,” he says as he walks up to me. I struggle to get to my feet.
“Hello, Death,” I reply. “It’s been awhile.”
His hood is down, and if he had lips, I swear he’d be smiling. I am.
“If it’s not too much to ask,” I say, “take a walk with me. We’ll share a cigarette.” I’ve been wondering about those skull-and-crossbones smokes for quite some time, and I bet they taste fine.
He walks with me to the spot I’ve picked out, and we talk. We talk about everything and nothing all at once, and it’s good to have someone to chat with, even in my final hour. The walk is a long one, and it’s hard for an old man, but Death himself is there with a steady hand and a strong back to get me through the rough parts. He’s here to help, you see. To make sure my last journey is a comfortable one.
We come to the place I’ve picked. It really is a beautiful place, with a single tree atop a tall hill that overlooks all of my land. I sit at the base of the tree.
“It isn’t really your time yet, Adam,” Death says to me. He looks like a giant, standing above me. “You’ve got cancer, did you know that?”
I shake my head. “I didn’t,” I say.
“You’re supposed to have a few more days,” he says. “But you’ll be in pain.”
“Have pity on me, then,” I say. “End it now, if that’s your wish.”
Death kneels beside me.
“I wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t,” he says. “Are you ready?”
“Almost,” I say. I take a last living look around from my place on the hill. I have picked a good place, I think, and I am happy with it.
“It’s a good place to spend forever,” Death says. “You’ve made the right decision.”
“I think so, too,” I say. “I will wander here forever, and I will enjoy it.” I rest my back on the tree. “I’m ready,” I say. “Do your business.”
Death does. I see him clearly as I begin to fade, and he is the last thing I see as I slip into darkness. Before I die, I think to myself.
Goodbye, Piggy.
Goodbye, Dad. I miss you both very much.
Goodbye, Death. You’ve taught me so much.
Goodbye, life. Thank you for letting me exist.
Hello, eternity.
There it was. Just a note: the views expressed during the telling of this tale do not necessarily reflect the views of the author. 😀
