Don't Fear The Reaper (29 page)

‘Sapphire said, “Fuckin’ shit, love.” Same as Jonesy says when he is
asked the same question.’

The reverend laughed aloud. He shook his head and waited out the
shuddering of his shoulders. ‘I’ll have a word,’ he said. ‘That has to stop for
the little fella’s sake.’

‘It’s not funny!’

‘No, I know. Fair point.’ Perkins raised his hand, acknowledging his bad
for laughing at something that was serious. Then he fell strangely silent
again. ‘Did Jonesy say where Jane was headed?’

Natalie shook her head. ‘Nah, all he said was when he asked if she was
all right, ’cause she looked as white as a sheet, she said, “I had a bad
dream,” then walked out the house.’

Eyes falling to stare impassively at the Formica kitchenette table, Perkins
whispered to himself, ‘A bad dream.’ Then he got up. ‘Where’s Jonesy now?’

‘In the bunker fiddling with all those guns. Why, what’s the matter?’

Natalie got no response. She pivoted to get Perkins’ undivided attention.

She was alone…

*

The
keen still air jabbed Perkins’ cheeks with invisible ice-needles. He gritted
his teeth at the sudden and unexpected frost. He thought about heading back to
the cottage to get a woolly hat and a pair of gloves, but chose not to waste
valuable time.

He ran down the gravel path and hurdled over the white picket fence. His
feet skated from underneath him on the frosted grass. Yet amazingly he managed
to keep upright using his arms to correct his balance. Then without marvelling
at his litheness, Perkins sprinted down the path.

The headstones were crooked, pallid sentries that had once been grey
stone or marble. Now they looked like teeth of a T-Rex jutting out of the
earth. The velocity of his speed caused a draught to blow on his face, so much
so he had to blink away the tears.

When he reached the church Perkins’ air smoked out of him. He needed to
take caution ascending the slight gradient in case of black ice. And as
treacherous as this weather was it was a sign that the atmosphere was slowly
clearing. Soon the world and the last of its survivors would be bestowed the
gift of the heavens once more.

He hastily made his way to the rear of the church towards the stone steps
leading to the bunker. As expected he found the door unlocked and slightly
ajar. Already his hands were numb. Perkins had to forcefully shake them to feel
his fingers move. He had no torch or candle flame in his possession, although
he knew the way now to the main room at the centre. It took less than five
minutes to reach the door that offered the main room. Perkins knocked and
opened the door.

Jonesy whirled around, eyes bulging in Stygian interior, lit only by the
light of his torch. ‘Who goes there?’ he barked, pointing the barrel of a
double-barrel shotgun at the door.

‘It’s me,’ Perkins said. ‘Put the gun down before you hurt someone with
it.’

‘Shit. Sorry, buddy.’ Jonesy slapped his furrowed brow. ‘Eyesight’s
fucked. Couldn’t see shit. No excuse though for pointing the gun at you though.’

Entering the makeshift living quarters he’d believed would have been his
burial tomb, Perkins waved his hands dismissively at Jonesy. ‘No need to
apologise,’ he said, crossing the bunker. ‘Shoulda called out before entering.’
He stood over Jonesy who had laid out guns and ammunition.

‘Thought you were still catching your beauty sleep,’ Jonesy said. ‘What
happened? Shit the bed?’

Perkins shook his head. ‘No, nothing like that. Listen, I just spoke with
Natalie…’

‘Nice lady,’ Jonesy interrupted. ‘Sorry. Go on, my man.’

‘…and she said you talked to Jane this morning. You said she left. Is
that right?’

‘Yeah. Somethin’ fucked up or not?’

Rolling his eyes at Jonesy’s choice of words, Perkins said, ‘Did she say
where she was headed? Natalie said that Jane told you she’d had a “bad dream”.
Is that right?’

‘Oh, fuck aye. Poor mare looked as though she’d shit herself or seen some
fucked up shit. She answered me n’ all, but she was off with the angels. Y’know
what I mean?’

‘Maybe,’ Perkins said averting his gaze to the far wall. ‘Oh, and another
thing. You gotta stop swearing. Sapphire has started copying you. He’s at an
impressionable age right now. Everything he sees and hears is gonna rub off on
him. If he is our only hope of salvation then people will have to listen to
him. They won’t if he’s using foul language in every sentence though.’

Jonesy nodded approvingly. ‘Scouts honour,’ he said, making a half-arsed
salute. ‘That boy sure has himself a potty mouth though. Am I right?’

Perkins firmly reminded Jonesy again. Then he asked, ‘Did you at least
see what direction Jane was headed in? This sounds urgent.’

After scratching his arse Jonesy blurted, ‘I saw her round here for some time.
I think she was gonna follow me in here. But if I remember correctly, she followed
the trail that leads through the alder and birches. You know where we parked
that day you got me and her.’

The young reverend thanked Jonesy then departed in haste.

He jogged around the rear of the church, only then noticing the stone
edifice covered in dust and ash. The exterior had crumbled and cracked right
the way through and appeared not only dilapidated but hazardous too.

Without any hesitation Perkins ascended the slippery path. He stepped
over the overgrown brambles that clawed at the cuffs of his jeans. Only
recently had he ventured outside. For a couple of years he’d stayed immobile,
walking only to and fro from the vicarage to the bunker. All of a sudden the lack
of exercise had caught up with him. His slender shape felt every exhalation. However,
in less than five minutes he’d reached the top of the path and slowed to a halt
when he saw Jane. She was sitting on the top step, bent over, hugging her knees
close to her chest, shivering.

‘Jane!’

Jane looked up and snivelled and wiped her eyes. Tears had frozen on her
scarlet cheeks. It gave the appearance that icicles had melted from her almond
eyes.

‘What’re you doing up here? You’ll catch your death out here.’ He edged
closer at a leisurely pace so as not to alarm her.

‘The air’s fresh.’

Perkins nodded. ‘It is. It’s also very cold.’

By now he’d reached her and towered over her huddled form.

‘I’ll be down soon,’ she said, resisting the urge to sob.

‘Is there room for one more on that step?’

Jane scooted over and patted the smooth stone.

Perkins lowered himself next to her and saw the crispy leaves crumbling
to nothing beneath the branches. ‘What’s wrong, Jane? Jonesy said you had a bad
dream. Wanna talk about it?’

Jane snivelled again. ‘Remember we talked a little about the premonitions
you had and your sister that came true?’

‘I remember everything. At least, everything of great importance.’

‘Last night I had one of those vivid dreams, as you called them. They are
dreams, ’cause I was fast asleep. But it was also something else. Something too
vivid to be fantasy.’

‘Tell me about your dream or vision, Jane,’ Perkins said. Then he added:
‘We’re all in this together. The only way we’re all gonna survive is by being
open and honest and working as a team. There’s no need to live in fear.’

At that last comment Jane’s eyes bulged. Two glass orbs challenging his
last comment. ‘Oh there is,’ she said. ‘There’s lots and lots to fear… and I do
fear what’s coming.’

Taken aback by her answer Perkins took a few seconds to regain his placid
composure. ‘What’s coming, Jane? Tell me!’

‘The Grim Reaper and its gang of disciples.’

The icy cold stinging his cheeks to the point of numbness all faded into
the background. A much frostier cold shot through Perkins’ system. Goose
pimples arose on his flesh beneath his layers. The warmth of exercise in his
muscles ebbed away. Now all that remained was Jane’s harrowing premonition.

‘The actual Grim Reaper?’

Jane nodded solemnly.

‘And its disciples?’

Another nod of confirmation.

‘Tell me what you saw in your dream or whatever the hell you wanna call
it.’

Jane regarded him with sad, fearful eyes that were a mere reflection of
what festered away in her soul. ‘I dreamt I was flying…,’ she began.

The young reverend who no longer believed in God listened to Jane’s
recitation of her pertinent vision. His face never altered expression, not
once, but inwardly he felt as though he were being electrocuted over and over
and over again.

He had no idea what to make of the images of the Grim Reaper using its
inhuman powers to clear the motorway of burned out vehicles and corpses in
order to permit its disciples to ride through. The days of far-fetched were
long gone. What he used to read and considered fantasy were now reality. As far
as being incredulous went, this wasn’t something to be scoffed at. The Grim
Reaper was as real as Jane, himself and all the members of their close group.
What made the tiny hairs on the nape of his neck bristle was hearing how these
disciples were no longer human. They’d been transformed into demons with
extraordinary powers that threatened their mortality if they crossed paths.

What made his soul shriek inside him however was when Jane told him about
flying over the land to the outskirts of their small town. From there she’d
floated down the chimney chute out of the hearth and hovered over her own body.

What made the whole yarn even more tangible was when Jane mentioned that
she’d opened her eyes and clearly depicted the exact same image of the Reaper
he’d envisioned as he listened.

After much quiet and deliberation, Perkins spoke. ‘This cannot be
ignored. We must act now or die grovelling at their feet.’

NUMBER 3
could
scarcely believe how well he manoeuvred his Yamaha motorbike. The air he cut
through at tremendous speed buffeted him. Yet still with his brown mane of hair
blowing back off his metallic brow he experienced no fear for his mortality.
The roads were blanketed in white dust. The sky overhead was hazy, as though
the sunrise still hadn’t managed to lift heavy fog. However, it was much better
than the thick, black billowing smoke and debris that induced wheezing and
clogged his lungs.

As he looked down past the handlebars at the road it seemed like the
journey was eternal. Of course that wasn’t the case. In fact the three of them
had made good ground. They’d slowed to take in the fallen dilapidated vehicles
and their owners filling the ditches and pastures. But that soon became
background props.

What perplexed Number 3 was how he’d not felt even slightly ravenous.
Nevertheless, he and his compatriots had stopped to fuel the bikes (using
petrol cans from filling stations) and ate out of some unspoken obligation.

The refrigerated food had long gone past its sell-by-date. Yet Number 3
found it odd that his stomach hadn’t once grumbled out of protest for not being
fed or being fed mouldy food.

Number 3 knew he’d eaten and drank in the hidden chamber in the sewers
during the aftermath. What he couldn’t recall was anything prior to that. All
he knew was his life as a human had been one of misery and sadness. He couldn’t
recall his life or family or friends or pets. He wasn’t sure why this was the
case. If he’d forced himself to make an assumption, he’d have said it had
something to do with the transformation the three discussed back in London outside the ruination of the famous Buckingham Palace. Perhaps the Grim Reaper had
erased the bad, painful memories and wiped the slate clean. Or in this case,
his memory clean.

These facts should have induced distress and melancholy. Instead he felt
relaxed and at ease, determined more than humanly possible to reach the sacred
church and wreak havoc on their unsuspecting victims.

Bearing down on his handlebars, Number 3 squeezed the throttle. The
engine growled and the bike leapt forward. In his wing mirrors the road behind
was clouded with the dust trail choking the air in his wake. The greater the
velocity, the greater the thrill.  Number 3 had the need for speed. And its
ever accumulating thrill was driven by the need to kill. Inside the confines of
his skull there came a burning sensation. His heart mimicked the humming of the
engine. The torque of the wheels made the buzzing of a hundred content bees.

The air wasn’t fresh but it was clearing and when it did a far darker sky
awaited the world’s remaining inhabitants. Number 3 grinned at that notion. He didn’t
know how he knew, but he did. It was as sure as a young, fit and healthy person
retiring to bed and setting the alarm clock knowing they’d rise the following
morning to face a new dawn.

A new dawn.

He liked that. It sounded good and… what was the word…
appropriate.
 
 

A new dawn meant new, fresh beginnings.

A fresh beginning for him and his compatriots and the end for the group
of survivors.

When they arrived at their destination it would be the beginning of the
killing.

Number 3, who had been born as a son of God, as Michael Scott Thompson,
was long gone. What remained was the cadaver he’d worn as a living human. Now
the form belonging to something not of this world. Not of God’s creation, but
by Death. And Death never bred life, only death.

The three zoomed over the River Severn Bridge into Wales.

When the vehicles that had been left parked diagonally across the
highways the three used their supernatural powers to defy gravity and lift
themselves and their motorbikes into the air before landing again when the road
was clear. Had they all had access to their human memories no doubt one of them
would have remarked how uncannily alike it was to a pivotal scene in the 1982
blockbuster movie
E.T. Extraterrestrial
.

 Another peculiar thought crossed Number 3’s mind. He’d never been to
this part of the world before (at least not what he could remember). Yet a
pulsing sensation that was a part of the aura he now emanated knew the way.

The Reaper’s followers rode abreast, like Hell’s Angels. The road was theirs,
as was the environing land as were the acres and acres of farmland and miles
and miles of cracked motorways and highways. No people or livestock. Or at
least if there were they were scattered about in small groups sporadically.

They had no need to fear for the Grim Reaper was near…

*

Frank
Benullo devoured the green apple and guzzled the fresh milk the farmer had
brought the remaining survivors in the cavern. He sat with Sammy and Elias. It
was rare they often got to spend time with one another, but they appreciated
every minute even more.

A few elderly members of parliament had died: one of infection, the other
had run out of medication for his diabetes and asthma. There were considerably
less people living in the cavern now than there were when they first took
shelter there nearly six years ago.

A phalanx of military rode out one evening about two months ago and got
in touch with a farmer someplace north of London. He survived. Some of his
crops had turned to cinders. However, his farmhouse had been equipped with a
greenhouse and a spacious basement. In the stables he kept cows, chickens and
pigs. He began growing food and watering his two-acre land with bottled water
long before he ran out of microwave and canned food.

The vast majority of his land was beyond fertilisation. However, he
persisted with raking the ashes and debris out of the earth and digging for
fresh soil. Soon, as the years passed and the effects of the aftermath subsided,
his persistence and perseverance started to gain advantage.

Some of the young soldiers returned on days when their trucks were still
operating and wept in the darkest niches. Frank and everyone else prudently
chose not to question and probe the reasons behind the tears. Evidently, they’d
had to shoot and kill people gone mad to the point of no return. According to
an ex-military officer the worst aspect apart from losing lives was the loss of
innocence during conflict. Madness was contagious. You needed it to find the
courage to run across a battlefield where machine-guns fired innumerable
bullets that would tear you limb from limb. You needed madness to be able to
raise an assault rifle at a complete stranger and shoot to kill because men in
power argued instead of negotiating over money.

This was different. One young man that could have been no older than
twenty-five cried into the wee hours of the morning because a madman had darted
at them, swinging a garden fork. His mind had snapped. His eyes were feral, not
human. His plaid long-sleeve shirt was covered in blood belonging to his
family.

The young soldier had told this account to his father who held him close.

Apparently, the man and his family were hurrying to the basement in their
countryside domain when the asteroids had started falling. A stone wall running
alongside a stream was uprooted and a stone had struck his wife with a fatal
blow to the head. She’d collapsed instantly. His daughter had pirouetted and
tried to run back to his wife who lay face down in the dirt only to be blown
back against the rear of the house. The unyielding wall delivered a
breathtaking smack. The young girl slid down the exterior wall into a drunken
sitting posture.

Another blast shook the foundations hurling the man down the basement
steps and slamming the storm doors shut, as though God himself had saved him.

When he came to and fought off the dizziness the madman hurried up the
steps, charged the storm doors open and fell outside.

Amidst all wreckage was the body of his daughter in a kneeling posture.
For a minute the madman thought she was sending a prayer of thanks for being
spared. However, when he tiptoed over the overturned earth and fragmented
fencing it became apparent that his first conception was incorrect. The only
cause for his daughter to remain in her motionless crouched-over posture was
the fact that a gardening fork had embedded itself right through her back. The
prongs protruded her chest and were coated in thick, wet blood. He floated
forward and dropped to his knees. Then he stared aghast at the lifeless eyes of
his offspring.

These facts the soldier learned form a madman screaming his macabre yarn
from the top of his lungs at them. They did their utmost to placate him for his
own good. They pleaded with him to drop the bloodstained garden fork and to
relax. Then they’d take him to their safe haven. Clearly this man who lost
everything that gave him reason to live didn’t want their help. Eventually they
acknowledged this and reluctantly concurred that it was in everyone’s best
interest that they leave. Nevertheless, the madman kept swinging and frothing
cuss words at them. His verbal abuse they ignored. Yet when one of the sharp
prongs shredded the jacket of one of the soldiers another comrade put a bullet
in the man’s forehead. Quick and easy.

The only noble deed they did that day was carrying the madman’s body to the
other two unmarked graves where they buried him with his family.

No one sobbed, but there was no concealing the pooling tears. The
hardest, most experienced officers did well not to let their inner emotions get
the better of them.

Once they recited the Lord’s Prayer the soldiers crossed themselves. Then
they returned in a sombre mood.

Frank lay wide awake that night (he wasn’t the only one) listening to the
young soldier crying. ‘Sorry, Dad,’ he whimpered over and over.

‘It’s not your fault, son,’ the father replied every time. ‘It’s not your
fault…’

That night Frank felt like screaming…

*

Belinda
Watts sat on the deckchair in the shade of the canopy. The last time Tom had
gone to the food store she’d asked him to get her as many books as he could
from the shelves. Provisions and water weren’t going to kill her in the short
term. They’d survived remarkably well, she supposed, than the rest of the
population located in towns, villages and cities. What gnawed away at her hour
by hour, day to day, was boredom.

She wasn’t keen on fishing during tranquil times. The first time she’d
gone to the nearby lake with her husband and son she’d been mortified. All the
fish floated on the surface… dead. It shouldn’t have really bothered her, as
the fish would be killed in order for them to cook and then eat. Yet the mere
sight of thousands of fish floating lifelessly grew in her mind like a
contagious fungus.

She folded a hardcover book on her lap. The book had been rushed into
publication and made it to the bestsellers’ list (not that any of that mattered
now). It was a non-fiction book on the topic of comets and asteroids. The front
cover image was that of one or the other that looked more like a rocket
scraping across the solar system and plummeting towards Earth.

The last passage had forced Belinda to stop reading and to take in her
peaceful surroundings. Then she read it again, wishing she hadn’t started to
read it in the first place.

Comets, not asteroids. The former is much more difficult to predict in
order for scientists to divert pending impact. Usually, we can predict
asteroids entering the Earth’s atmosphere months or years in advance. Comets
therefore have the potential to be far more perilous and less likely to
mitigate.

Paradoxically, it is comets and asteroids that are the reason the
Earth exists today. And thus, just as comets and asteroids brought life to
Earth they too can end it
.   

If she’d read this book under normal circumstances in her living room at
home, Belinda would have been fascinated, not unnerved. Yet reading this either
before or now, during the aftermath, was somewhat irrelevant. The passage she
reread by the author implied that the asteroids and comets actually had the
right to destroy civilisation.

Tossing the book as though it were some rodent that had sat on her lap,
Belinda shot up and consulted her watch. 4:01.

It suddenly dawned on her that Tom and Tobe had been gone for five hours.
She cornered the caravan and faced the mountain they’d ascended.

No sign of them anywhere.

Tom had said they wouldn’t be long. And although the mountain appeared
not so big from her vantage point and it would seem much larger the closer you
got, that still didn’t explain their delay. After all, they were only going to
the summit to use the binoculars and try and see if there was any sign of life
elsewhere in the vicinity. Then they’d return with news or no news.

Had Belinda been able to see them, and vice versa, it might have calmed
her. Instead there was no way to communicate and there wasn’t even a trace of
them.

A myriad of scenarios played across her psyche. None of them promising.

 Perhaps Tom had given into exhaustion and decided to sit down for a while.
Belinda had watched them closely earlier and nearly halfway up she’d seen Tom
struggling. The thought was a plausible one, if nothing else. Also, they might
have stopped for a long break before heading back down again, hence the delay.
That too sounded logical.

Nodding to herself, Belinda returned to the deckchair having decided to
wait another hour. But what if they hadn’t returned then? What would she do? Was
she going to get all suited up and go climbing the mountain to find them? That
notion made her swallow with difficulty. Belinda hated to admit it but she was
never a girl who took an interest in sports or any type of fitness programme.
Apart from a nonchalant stroll through the copse of trees her body remained
fairly motionless.