Death Warmed Over
Death was hot.If he had sweat glands, he would have been dripping. Even Hell wasn’t this hot. At least the brimstone pits were temperature managed, with a mild draft from the abyss. You could say he was doubly hot: boiling on the outside, and simmering with rage on the inside.
He blamed the robes. Heavy, coarse wool layered over suffocating velvet, dyed a shade of obsidian that absorbed every single ray of the merciless afternoon sun. They hadn’t been washed since the 14th century, and they smelled like it, a pungent blend of fear, mud, medieval damp, and ancient mothballs. Every time he took a step, the ragged hem caught on something: a stray root, an office chair wheel, or his own feet.
And then, of course, there was the scythe.
It was six feet of forged iron attached to a polished ashwood pole, and it was a complete and utter logistical nightmare. It was supposed to symbolize the harvesting of souls, but to him, it was just a ridiculous, six pound prop. He tried to get rid of it just about every week. Last week, he finally submitted a formal requisition form to HR asking for a modern upgrade. Perhaps something sleek like a pocket knife or a smart app.
“Denied,” HR had rubber stamped back. “The scythe is an essential component of the Executive Reaper brand identity. It communicates authority. Low-level contractors may utilize mobile devices for local collections; Level 4 Agents must adhere to classical dress codes and traditional tools.”
So the junior Reapers got to walk around in linen shirts, sipping iced lattes and collecting souls with a quick tap on a cell phone screen, while he was stuck navigating the 21st century dressed like a walking carpet.
He muttered a curse under his breath and tried to board the uptown subway line.
Clang.
The tip of the scythe caught the metal frame of the turnstile. He winced, backing up two steps while a line of commuters grumbled behind him, completely oblivious to the fact that Death himself was holding up the line. He maneuvered the blade sideways, ducking his hooded head as he squeezed through.
Inside the station, the air was 98 degrees with a hundred percent humidity.
He maneuvered onto the crowded platform, holding the giant blade straight up like a lightning rod to avoid decapitating a guy reading a tablet. He had already met his quota of accidental collections. He did not want to have to fill out more paperwork. When the train finally screeched to a halt, he shuffled into the packed car, wedging his weapon against the ceiling panel.
Thump.
The blade punctured a fluorescent light cover. Plastic dust rained down onto his hood.
“Sorry,” he muttered automatically, though no one could hear him unless it was their time.
He leaned against the handrail, feeling the oppressive heat radiating off thirty sweaty commuters packed tightly around him. His robes trapped the heat like a greenhouse. His target was a 92 year old retired florist sitting three stops ahead, having a conversation with his long dead wife. It should have been a 5 minute job. Instead, it was an endurance test.
Death closed his eyes under the deep shadow of his hood, daydreaming about the junior Reapers in their air conditioning breakrooms, tapping ‘Confirm Harvest’ on their touchscreens.
Next quarter, he swore to himself, he was taking a demotion.
