Reaper

Granules of heat supported my prone form. With a sigh, I used my palms to push myself up from the burning desert, taking a cursory sweep of my surroundings. Already the tang of metallic degeneration had made itself apparent. Damn, this was going to be a long one. Especially since my back was already aching from the rough landing. Our transport expert had a sick sense of humor.

“George, just so you know, you’re dead…” I muttered into the radio positioned at my neck. Mocking laughter was the only response. Right, because risking your life wasn’t enough to get some respect anymore. Geez, a few months back I would have been a frickin’ hero for going on this mission. Then again… I’m not sure I could handle the stress of taking this seriously. Not every day.

Mood effectively dampened, I switched the still-chuckling radio off. Silence. You can say what you like about the burning heat, the danger and the monotony, but no-one who had lived at the Salvaje Inicio could deny the sweet, sweet symphony of silence that only the desert brought. Everything washed away in the silence.

In a daze, I went through the now familiar motions: check the transport. A need was tugging at my mind. Set the timer. Insistent, pulling at my eyelids like tiny pincers. Lay the warning cloth. One moment, that’s all I needed! Just resting my eyes. A moment of submitting to the luscious heat swathing my aching muscles…

“No…” The moan erupted from me, a desperate sound. How I longed to close my eyes, to fall into the rhythmic, pounding waves of heat. So tired, so weak. That was when true fear began to lay its seeds. Whatever was out here, it was close.

As long as I stayed awake, I was okay. We’d never lost one who’d stayed awake.

Weary muscles fought me as I lifted an arm to my shoulder, pressing the radio back on.

“Got over your little sulk, James? Ready to talk with the big boys?”

“George… I’m feeling kind of sleepy…” I could barely recognize my own voice, so laden was it with exhaustion.

“Jesus! Get back in the pod, James. Get back in the pod now!”

Sleep.




The room meandered into focus, like pixels sharpening. It was huge – at least 200 meters squared. Hexagonal in shape, with a steep dome ceiling that started about 10m up and continued until its definition was lost in white light. And practically empty. Only three objects invaded the plain beige walls, carpet and ceiling: a plasma television, turned off, taking up one wall. A huge 3D game board - almost like a rollercoaster with a menagerie of chips and silver game pieces floating on it at random - taking up another… and a row of mahogany bookcases, orderly stacked with identical black leather-covered books; no titles.

I attempted to stand, but stopped short when I looked down. My whole body was rubbed raw. Everything was red! It should have been bleeding, but it just looked… dead. No pain, no resistance in the muscles. Am I dead?

“I’ve been waiting for you to think that. Lets me make a dramatic entrance, you know?”

I jerked, whirling round to face the owner of that high-pitched, sarcastic drawl. He was a twelve-year old boy, with two deep open gashes along his chest. The skin was rotten around the gashes, stained a sick yellow that matched his eyes. Everything about him looked gaunt and wrong, even his red-brown hair thinning around the temples. A short scythe hung in his hand – I might have mistaken it for a toy, were it not for the assurance and respect with which he handled it. All he wore were a pair of ripped red sports shorts.

“The answer is yes. Yes, you are – dum dum de dum! – dead.” He grinned, slinging himself on the floor beside me. His legs crossed like a schoolboy wanting points for good behavior, hands draped casually upon them. He was leaning forward and his eyes held a predatory glisten of anticipation.

“So, James. Do you like games?”

My mouth was dry and I found I was having trouble answering. The boy rolled his eyes, leaning back on his hands.

“You know, I have the mind-reading thing for a reason. Some of the people I meet have their throats ripped out, or are in little bitty pieces; hence, not so good for talking. But you don’t have an excuse.”

“What are you?” No matter how I tried, I couldn’t help the hitch in my voice. The boy raised an eyebrow that clearly said ‘like you don’t know’. But he answered me.

“Reaper. And you’re James Green, radiation specialist, survivor of the 2068 nuclear bombing and currently a pain-in-my-ass.”

Forcing myself to be strong and take all this in stride was harder than I liked to admit. Only a burning curiosity kept me from curling up fetal-style on the floor and mourning my loss of life.

“S-sure. Sure, Reaper, I like games. Why? What happens now?” I found myself leaning forward, mirroring his earlier position. The irony of it struck me.

“Now… I really want to say ‘now we play’. That would be so awesomely epic. But, in reality, now we go through all these rules that I’ve been over sooo many times before, then you get a chance to practice for as long as you want, then we play. You know that being a Reaper sucks sometimes? All the red tape is torture.”

Was he whining? His lower lip was curved out in a pout. For a moment, he looked so like my son Ben that I couldn’t help the harsh bark of laughter that escaped me. It was quickly lost as I thought of Ben without me. His mother, my wife Mary, had died in the bombing. I was all he’d had… and now I was dead. Tears prickled at my eyes. Guilt overtook me. I shouldn’t have gone out in the field; I should have stayed at home with Ben…

“Aww, man! Please don’t do the whole self guilt-trip thing. It really bugs the hell outta me. I gotta listen to those thoughts, you know? And you were thinking I was whiny. Bloody newly-deads, you’re all such hypocrites.”

In a moment of clarity, I remembered what all the lore said about ‘the game’ with death. I didn’t have to be dead. If I won, I could be back, back for Ben! My hand struck forward, attempting to grasp that thin white arm –

“No touching!” It was so loud. My hands rose to cover my ears, moaning as the echoes of that yell rebounded in my skull. By the time I pried my fingers from my ears and looked up, the Reaper boy was back in position, grinning and idly running his nails through the carpet.

“So? Shall we get started?”




“I can’t save myself. I’m dead forever.”

“Have you ever seen anyone come back from the dead? Yeah, you’re lost. But you can save someone else - anyone else, as a point of fact. Just choose the stakes and the next time they would have died - well, I'll shift a circumstance here or there and on they'll go. That is... if you win.”

I won’t let anyone else die. I’ll save them.




“And if I lose?”

“You're trying to save someone from death. So - big surprise - if you lose, they die. Maybe not straight away, but the next time it could go either way... pop. Here they'll come. Everyone has those points and usually it’s up to chance. This is what tips the balance. Oh, and if you lose you’re mine – stuck here - until someone wins.”

He seemed to add it as an afterthought – but the glint in his eyes betrayed him. I noticed how sharp his teeth were when he grinned.




“How long? How long until it’s time for the game?”

“That row of bookcases contains books detailing every game ever played. Study, practice, for as long as you want.”

He reached behind him and somehow produced one more book. This one was different: bright red, with gold lettering on the cover in a language I couldn’t read. He placed it before me.

“This is the book of rules. Once again, it is for your use. When you are ready, you need simply read the last page of this book and the game will begin.”

His spindly finger pointed to the plasma TV, which turned on. It showed the desert; my eyes dropped at the sight. It used to be such a majestic place. All that was left now was metal settling into useless lumps on the sand. Looking like monsters rising from a burnt orange lagoon. At the edge of the screen was Salvaje Inicio. The spires of it were crumbled, the force field dull and listless. We were a broken people. No – they were a broken people. I am no longer one of them, I reminded myself, eyes fixed on the screen.

“This will allow you to keep up with what is happening in your community. Press on any part of the screen and it will zoom in to show you what is happening there. Remember: if one of them dies, they can no longer be saved. You must choose to save them and beat me in a game before they succumb to such.”

The Reaper boy rose, brushing dust from his chest and legs. I winced as a finger dipped into his wound on the way past. It looked painful, but I knew he didn’t feel it. Just as I did not feel pain – not physical pain, anyway. He gave me a terse wave, winked and disappeared.

With a sigh, I settled down and got to work.




Three days had passed – the only way I could count them was the darkening of the sky on the screen. I’d tried to read through the rule book, even practiced a few of the things in it – hovering the silver duck piece with my mind for instance. Yeah, it wasn’t Connect Four. But god, it was seriously boring. It made me realize how much of my life was spent on simple things like eating, showering, walking, talking… there wasn’t any of that here. No variety. Just the screen and the books; a truly two-dimensional life.

Groaning, I stood up and strode over to the screen, watching the room I’d set it to monitor last. Ben’s room. He wasn’t there now, but I could still see the wet tissues scrunched in the bin. I’d watched him grieve me.

“I love you, Ben.”

I gathered a tear on my finger and pressed it to the screen, right where a photo of him lay. The program zoomed in on it so I could see his face; laughing, smiling, happy. Naïve.

Three deep breaths later, I convinced myself to change the focus. I couldn’t concentrate with that room staring down at me. It felt like it was judging me. I knew I was unworthy.

With a couple finger swishes I expanded it out, strolling the view across the desert.

Someone was there, at the transport pod where I’d died.

Zoom, scroll, view.

George.

George was out there.

And he was looking awfully tired.

Adrenalin surged through me. I sprinted to the rule book and ripped it open, flinging past unread pages to the end. There, on the last page, was printed a single line of cursive:


You will be mine.


Thunder rallied inside the room, cracks forming in the dome roof. A chunk of plaster fell close to me. I squeezed my eyes shut, but kept my ground. The rules had mentioned something like this. Just ride it out, James. You can’t die again. Just ride it out. A screeching filled my ears, causing me to fall to the ground and grip them tight. I peeked out between my lids. The game board was inching closer into the center of the room, grinding against a floor that had somehow turned stone. Startled, I scanned the rest of the room. It was a prison cell. A windowless stone room, small and tight, barely enough room for the board. With one door.

Creak. The Reaper boy was back.

“Now it starts.” His words were elated, a sense of glee attached to them.

I watched as he approached the board, seeming filled with nervous energy. He toyed with the edges of his wounds, picking repeatedly at the flesh there. The sight made me feel sick.

“Whose life are you playing for?” His voice mixed with the thunder, low and wild.

“George Smith.”

In a second, all was silent. We stared at each other across the board and I saw a depth in those eyes that belied his age. Eyes never leaving mine, he tapped the board with his scythe. A golden owl formed in the centre, frozen in mid-flight.

“Your turn.”

I nodded and turned to the board. My heart beat fast as I tried to recall all that I had read. I hadn’t finished the rules, let alone started on the game accounts… but all games had an element of luck. I could wing it. I would not let George die.

Filled with determination, I clicked the fingers of my right hand seven times. The board spun, an out-hanging piece clipping me in the head. Air condensed at the centre and a small gold fly formed, suspended there beside his owl. Dammit! That was not the avatar I had been going for. But it would have to do.

The Reaper boy was frowning. It gave me hope – maybe I wasn’t doing as bad as it seemed I was. He muttered something under his breath and the owl attacked my fly. With one slash, my golden fly evaporated. The board followed it. Confused, I glanced up at the Reaper boy. He wore a sober frown, even more pronounced now.

“What happened? I didn’t read this in the book…”

The Reaper boy turned from me, striding to the door. He didn’t stop until he was close enough to lean his forehead against the metal there. My heart still beat in my ears.

“You just lost.”

No!

“What? There’s got to be some mistake, what do you mean I lost? We barely even started!”

No response.

“Look at me, god dammit! Answer me!”

He turned, scythe slamming against the ground. Fear washed through me at his look. His eyes had turned red and his hair stuck up as if electrically charged. The anger in his eyes astounded me. Scared me.

“I said. You. Lost.”

Each word was enunciated, filled with an energy that had me scooting into the corner.

“But… no! What happens to George?”

I watched as the Reaper boy centered himself, breathing hard. The anger and power faded as his breaths leveled off, leaving again a twelve-year-old boy who was just a little wrong. He grinned.

“He dies. Pretty much now, in fact.”

He raised an eyebrow at me, pointing the scythe in playful reprimand.

“You’ll stay here now. You’re mine.”

His voice was light, patronizing. It felt surreal; a minute ago he had been fury incarnate. I pushed those thoughts from my head. Only one thing mattered. Save George. My mind raced trying to find something to keep him here, to stall. His hand twisted the doorknob.

“Wait! I just have one more question.”

“I’ll humor you. Shoot.”

“If you’re a Reaper, you just take the dead… so what put me to sleep in the desert? What killed me?”

The Reaper boy smirked, tilting his head to the side. It made him look crazy.

“Who says I didn’t put you to sleep? Sure, Reapers aren’t meant to kill, they aren’t meant to ‘interfere in mortal affairs’. I got the crash course. But guess what? No-one cares if we do. No-one cares about you lot. You’re a whiny, stupid bunch that can’t even take care of their own planet.”

“You? You killed me?” My vision was flashing in and out, anger riding me.

“I watched you. Arrogant little army man, stuck out in the desert. Thinking you ‘deserved more respect’ for ‘risking your life’. All I did was make it true. Same with your pals before you.”

My blood still boiled in my veins. Those were my friends he’d killed. My son he’d left without a father.

“Damn you! And what are you, then, that you’re so much better? You weren’t ever human?”

“Oh, I was. But I wasn’t like you. I beat the game. I practiced, for years, even as those I loved died. That’s undervalued these days, hard work. Good old practice. I beat the old Reaper, released all his prisoners and took his place. That’s how it works, that’s my reward. So, yeah – I think I’m entitled to a little fun.”

His left-hand knuckles were white on the door; scythe gripped firmly in his other hand.

“And all I do is wait and wait for someone to do the same as I did, to beat me. Release me. And you know what? They never do. Three hundred years, and they never have. It’s all screw the consequences - kill the planet, play the game! No impulse control, no hard work. Now, now, now! Well, I hope it was worth it, James. Because let me tell you, you have a long wait ahead of you.”

The door crashed closed.

Silence.




Prompt: "Practice is nothing to be sneezed at."