Reaper by Katrina Monroe Page B

watching the sky through the
ceiling-high window. Several of them turned to face Oz and Bard as
they approached. Cora was one of them.
    Holy shit .
    Reapers—at least a hundred of them. Multiple
reapers could only mean one thing—more death than he and Bard could
handle on their own. Oz’s stomach turned.
    “You’re late,” one of them said. She was tall
and thin, almost skeletal. Beautiful in a way that a lynx is
beautiful... until it decides to gnaw on your intestines.
    Bard made a show of looking behind him.
    “Looks to me like you’re all standing around
with nothing to do. So, no, Victoria. I am not late. But thanks for
your concern.”
    She rolled her eyes and turned to continue
her conversation with another reaper.
    “Fuckin’ cunt,” Bard muttered.
    “What's his problem with her?” Oz asked.
    Cora shrugged but another reaper behind them
chimed in.
    “They had a thing a while back,” he said,
throwing his girlish blonde hair into a ponytail. “Back when he was
a pansy.”
    Cora snorted. “Look who's talking.”
    “Bard was a... pansy?” Oz said,
dumbfounded.
    “Yeah,” the blonde reaper said. “Writers, you
know? He came at her with this poem he said he wrote. How did it
go?”
    Cora groaned.
    Blonde Reaper chuckled. “Oh yeah. ‘How do I
compare thee to a Summers' day? Thou art... delicious and shit.’ I
don't know. It was corny as fuck.”
    “Shakespeare wrote that,” Oz said. “Not
Bard.”
    Blonde Reaper laughed again. Cora's gaze
narrowed.
    “No...” Oz shook his head. “No way.”
    “It'd be in your best interest to step away
from that realization before it blows up in your face,” Cora
said.
    Bard approached. “Before what blows up?”
    Oz jumped.
    Cora nodded at the window. “The plane.”
    Bard squinted into the cloudy sky. “I figure
we got maybe five minutes.” He turned to Oz. “Think you can handle
yourself without fucking up?”
    Oz nodded, but only as a reflex. In the
distance, crossing the sun like a wounded bird, Oz made out the
shape of a plane, losing altitude quickly. Smoke billowed from the
left engine. It headed right for them.
    “Everyone to the tarmac!” Bard called.
    Cora led the group to the jet-way door where
they dropped, one by one, onto the asphalt.
    Oz was last to the end of the jet-way. He
imagined he heard the screams of those on board, the distress calls
from the captain, the whoops of the impact alert. He hit the ground
as the nose of the plane caved against the tarmac with what felt
like enough force to shake the entire planet. The plane slid the
length of the landing strip, losing huge chunks of metal as it
skidded. Sparks flew. Flames erupted. Bodies littered the grass
along the strip. The reapers went to work.
    They moved quickly—some tending to those
thrown from the plane, some venturing into the burning
wreckage—without speaking to each other. The screams had stopped,
leaving behind a heavy silence.
    Oz found himself cemented into place. He
could only watch the nightmare. Smoke billowed from the engines and
the front of what was left of the cabin, carrying with it the
stench of burning flesh. It was unreal. The reapers moved from body
to body, Ba to Ba, delivering payment for the boat man. Oz’s head
spun and it was all he could do to keep from vomiting. He swallowed
hard and willed his legs to move. Begged them. He took a small
step, then another, toward the Ba of an old, bent man. The old man
scratched his head as Oz approached.
    He nodded when Oz took his hands. Oz shook
violently as he blew the needed coin into the man’s palm.
    “Oz!”
    The scream came from his left. Cora’s face
drained. She pointed at something behind him.
    A shadow snaked across the tarmac toward the
faint Ba of a young woman, standing over her body, crying. The
shadow enveloped her and the woman’s eyes widened. Her mouth
dropped in a silent scream.
    Oz ran. He had no idea what he’d do when he
reached her, but he knew he had to get there, fast.
    This