Don't Fear The Reaper (10 page)

Perkins recalled lying on the road, looking up at the clear night sky
wondering how many beautiful stars winked at him. He felt no pain even when drivers
and onlookers arrived at the crash site and gawked. They remarked at the
bruising and swelling around his face and the two broken legs. Then he saw the
youngster whose head was bleeding and scratched around the temple. The boy
gently pushed past the phalanx of nosey-parkers and knelt down and took his
numb hand and brought it to his cheek damp from the tears he’d shed and
whispered a heartfelt “thank you”.

Perkins had been carted into an ambulance and rushed off to Morriston
Hospital shortly after. He never saw the boy whose life he saved. That was
something he desired because it wasn’t just the boy’s life he saved that day
but his own.

‘I’ll do my best,’ he choked.

John Hayes sat in silence. He dreaded the visionary dream he’d had,
knowing it was something more. A premonition, perhaps? And hoped it wasn’t an
accurate account of events to befall his friend and colleague. If it was he
didn’t know if Rev Perkins would find any courage left to survive. Most of all,
John Hayes was afraid Anthony Perkins wouldn’t want to.

NUMBER 2 AND
NUMBER 3
kept in touch with Number 1 via brief phone calls. Number 1 was
currently renting a single-bed room in a hotel not far from Nadine Moretz.

In Central London as was the case in every city around the U.K. names of
residents who were deemed in the higher classes, royalty or imperative for
services required during the aftermath were being selected by the government.

Number 3 sat in a light-blue KA across the street from the Benullo home
and observed a black unmarked sedan roll to a halt alongside the kerb outside
the house and a man dressed in a black suit slot two letters through the box.

The night before last – 20 December 2006 – the men known as The Three had
the same dream.

In the dream the Grim Reaper floated down the glossy, linoleum corridors,
invisible to everyone it passed. Doctors, nurses, family members waiting
anxiously for news of their loved ones. The corridors were long and identical.
Had it not been a dream and the three actually pacing the channels of the
hospital they would have got lost and not possessed the flair to move as
gracefully as Death.

At the time neither of the three was aware – not even subconsciously –
that this was a visionary dream. As Number 3 sat in the stationary KA eating a
cone of chips and sausage, blending into his surroundings to the best of his
abilities, he could still smell the disinfectant and hear the lamentations of a
woman giving birth.

A twin set of doors floated past his vision and another set until he
found himself in a brightly-lit theatre. The woman had long dark brown hair,
matted and tousled with perspiration. The Grim Reaper floated without sound
around the team of surgeons and nurses, donning bloodied gowns and surgical
masks. The heart rate monitor zoomed into direct sight and then started beeping
erratically, as though someone had hit the FAST-FORWARD button. The number to
gauge the heart shot from 77 to 123-134.

The scream of the young, attractive woman in labour died in her throat.
Crimson liquid poured out of her gaping mouth and down her hospital gown,
altering the colour drastically.

Then she flatlined…

In a controlled panic the surgeon and nurses acted as quickly and as
professionally as they possibly could. To resuscitate the young woman and get
her heart beating again the surgeon used defibrillators. The woman’s lifeless
body bucked, curving her spine and would have flown through the air if it
hadn’t been for the nurses pinning her down by her limbs. The procedure was
performed five times until it became evident that the woman had gone.

He’d woken sweating profusely, out of breath. It took a few minutes for
his own heart to settle into its regular rhythm. Later that day Number 3
returned to the dilapidated building concealed in the forsaken alley. Old man
Sacasa permitted him entry and returned to his room, leaving Number 2 and
Number 3 in the dim makeshift office.

‘You had the vision of the birth?’ Number 2 asked without preamble.

Number 3 took a seat and regarded his fellow sect member. ‘I was under the
impression that it was a miscarriage.’

‘In the next couple of days we’ll know for certain. But the infant I
believe survives and his mother does not. She is to be spared the End of Days;
not that she or her late husband would’ve survived. The aftermath will not be
for those of weak hearts and minds. The aftermath will be for those to rise
from ashes and reign supreme.’

A myriad of notions weighed down on Number 3, troubling him immensely.
‘If their saviour does survive the birth how will it endure the apocalypse and
the aftermath thereafter? Surely, it’ll be doomed the moment it breathes his
first breath and his first cries will echo throughout his entire existence.’

Number 2 lit a cigarette from a Marlboro packet and offered one to Number
3. Number 3 declined the offer. After Number 2 took his first drag and exhaled
a blue coiling vapour that dissipated, he said, ‘The Reaper shall provide
knowledge when it’s required, not before or in case of. Whoever decides to
protect the infant, should he survive, shall put themselves in indefinite
peril.’

‘How will
we
survive the apocalypse?’

Number 2 was sucking the nicotine into his lungs when Number 3 spoke.
‘The Reaper has chosen us as we are willing servants to its wishes. I very much
doubt if that were the case the Reaper would allow us to succumb to the fate of
so many others.’

And although Number 2 sounded confident the blood-red eyes deliberately
avoided meeting Number 3’s gaze. Number 3 knew that somewhere in the depths of
the inhuman eyes there was a trace of the soul that had once occupied the body
of the man leaning back in his leather upholstery chair, exuding an emotion
that only those of purity could ever exude – fear.

*

Frank
Benullo heard the sound of two letters slapping the tiled flooring in the foyer
and got out of his armchair to see why the postman still found it necessary to
do his job when there wouldn’t be anyone alive to pay him his weekly wage.
After all, no one else deemed it necessary to go to work and carry on as though
the end of the world was unrelated to them.

At first sight the names of himself and his wife were printed on the
white unmarked envelope. No postage mark to identify where it had been posted
from. Curious, Frank opened the envelope with his name on and pulled out the
sheet of paper. It was from the Houses of Parliament and signed at the bottom
by the Prime Minister himself. The letter was no doubt typed by his secretary
or someone on the payroll and informed him that his services would be required
during the “aftermath”. This was both a privilege and an enormous duty upon his
shoulders. In the days shortly after Christmas when the asteroids were set to
break through into Earth’s atmosphere he’d be taken to an unknown “safe haven”.

On legs as stable as sticks, Frank returned to the living room where his
wife and Elias were watching the TV.

‘You’d better read this,’ he said, handing her the other letter with her
name on it.

‘What is it?’ she asked, alarmed.

Frank turned away from the TV screen showing a satellite shot of the asteroids
drifting ever closer to the vast green and blue globe that was their home on
the verge of being wiped out. ‘The light at the end of a long, dark tunnel,’ he
said in a faraway voice.

*

On
TVs across the U.K. and all around the world the president of the United States
could be seen seated behind the famous refined desk of his office in the White
House. He faced the camera with solemn eyes, throat working convulsively,
clearly finding it nigh on impossible to face the crew and other members of the
office out of shot. He sighed and gazed beyond the camera as though in deep
thought. Then with as much courage as he could muster he steadied himself,
clasped his hands together – mostly to keep his trembling concealed – and
looked right into the lens of the rolling camera.

‘
My fellow Americans and citizens the world over
,’ he began in a
hoarse voice. There was no second take this time however. The hoarseness was
understandable. The crew were no longer concerned about perfection. Also, the
emotion the president exuded mirrored every other living creature across the
world. In some respects his unsteady voice and fidgeting and melancholic stare
brought everyone to a halt, no matter where they were or what they were doing.

‘
My fellow humans, in just a couple of days’ time we shall face our
greatest test known to man. All our differences will be forgotten, I hope. Our
enemies will become companions as we face the same terrible fate that we
ourselves face, for we are all as one and one for all. United we stand, divided
we fall
.

‘
I won’t lie to you. A lot of you people who are listening and
watching me speak right now will no longer grace our planet – our home – with
your kindness and generosity. For those of you who survive the world as we know
it will be a memory of what a lot of us took for granted, and what a lot of us
cherished. But no matter what happens I believe that we will rise and make a
stand against the hard times that we’ll all face and endure and conquer.

‘Oceans will rise, cities will fall but our spirit will prevail. I
could sit here and tell you all the information and facts I’ve been given about
the asteroids and the largest one Freeman/Horner headed directly for Earth’s
atmosphere, but nothing will prepare us for the deep impact it will have. The
effects will be shocking, devastating. But I refuse to be beaten down into
submission. I refuse! I used to think that people – good, honest people –
deserved the truth. But the truth is this – sometimes the truth is not enough.
Sometimes people – good, honest people – who have suffered so much hardship
through no fault of their own, deserve more than the truth. Sometimes those
people deserve to have their prayers answered! Sometimes those people deserve
to have their faith rewarded!’
The president calmed himself again. Then
spoke assuredly
. ‘I can’t help those that need helping. I can’t save those
who deserve saving. But I will help those I can. I will save those who survive
and need saving. I can’t help my body from succumbing to the effects of this
devastation. But I can help myself by not letting the spirit inside me succumb
to defeat!

‘My breaking heart goes out to you all as a nation, as a continent and
as a planet, and most of all to each and every one of you individually. God
bless you and save us in our time of need. God bless America! God bless you
all!’

The millions of millions who watched the speech on TV worldwide gave a
silent “thank you” for the kind, honest words of a man who continued to stare
into the lens of the camera. A single tear coursed down his quivering cheek,
and the world saw the president – the most powerful man in the world – was the
same as anyone and everyone else, a man.

The leaders of every nation across the world also made similar heartfelt
speeches but none had the profoundness of the American president’s.

Number 3 got out of his Ford KA and watched the speech while he purchased
a beef roll from the convenience store. He smiled inwardly, wary that he showed
none of his emotions bursting to erupt into raucous laughter. Instead he stood
motionless with four other customers and the Pakistani proprietor chewing his
food with gusto.  

The others were captivated by the American president, hanging on his
every word, believing that they could endure the eruption that was about to be
inflicted upon them. Number 3 did well not to shake his head. The tidal waves
alone would cause mass destruction, not to mention the impact the asteroids,
which although were disintegrating into smaller sizes, would have when they
struck the land. And even if by some miracle a good majority did somehow
survive the aftermath, they wouldn’t offer any hope to go on – or
endure
as that seemed to be a popular word of the president’s.

In the next day or soon the comets would rip through the outer layer of
the Earth and tear through the skies, peeling it back like dead skin and
torching both sea and land in its wake, faster than a rocket. By the time
anyone “made their stand” as the president liked to put it, there would be
nothing left, save smouldering wreckage that went on forever, eradicating any
landmarks to identify as their home.       

The date of the famous doomsday speech was 24 December 2006.

*

Number 3
returned to his flat that belonged to the man formally known to the world as
Michael Scott Thompson and made himself a microwave chicken dinner; he put his
feet up on the pouf and watched TV shows showing what will happen to the Earth
when the asteroids strike.

Braying laughter at the sights absorbed by his crimson eyes, Number 3
fell into a deep slumber and found himself in the litter strewn alley. The
towering robed figure carrying the scythe raised its right arm and pointed with
an impossibly elongated skeletal finger in the direction he ought to go.

Dutifully, Number 3 followed orders as a diligent soldier would to a
commanding officer. The Grim Reaper had floated alongside him and turned to
look at him but Number 3 hastily averted his gaze and bent his knees, keeping
his back straight and pushing the refuse container on wheels farther down the
damp brick wall. As the container eventually rolled forward, the ground beneath
revealed a sewer manhole cover.

His sides expanded and sucked in again with each breath. Nevertheless, a
broad smile crept across Number 3’s face as comprehension flicked on in his
mind like a brand new light bulb.

While the world drowned and burned simultaneously, The Three and old man
Sacasa would be hidden and safe.

When he looked up from the storm drain the Reaper had vanished as hastily
as he’d materialised…