The Grim Reaper's Dance by Judy Clemens

life—well, human life—and seeing there weren’t any, she put on her now-dry jeans and sweatshirt. Back inside, she rolled up the bag in a burlap sack to use as a pillow, and lay down on her makeshift mattress.
    It didn’t take more than a few minutes for her body to give up the fight to stay awake.

Chapter Six
     
    She woke with a start. It was dark. So dark she couldn’t see the other end of the shed. Noises came from outside—the sound of tires on gravel. Not heavy tires, like a tractor, but something lighter. The sounds stopped briefly, then resumed, accompanied by footsteps.
    “Here they come!” Death’s breath hissed in her ear.
    Casey eased silently to her feet, her brain instantly clear of fuzziness. “Here comes who?” Her muscles tingled and her breath deepened, her senses on hyper alert. Her eyes adjusted quickly to the darkness, and she watched the outline of two bicycles and their riders enter the shed. The people kicked the stands to prop up the bikes, not speaking, or even whispering. Casey waited, hands loose at her sides, balanced on the balls of her feet.
    Death watched, quiet now, but so close Casey could feel the chill.
    The taller of the two shadows turned toward Casey and jumped back, grabbing toward the other.
    “Who are you?” The taller one’s voice—a man’s, Casey thought—was husky, and quiet.
    “Nobody,” Casey said.
    Death chuckled.
    “What do you want?” The second figure. Female, this time.
    “I was just sleeping. I didn’t take anything.”
    The taller one hesitated, but the female stepped forward, her eyes narrowed in the darkness. “There’s nothing here to take.”
    More sounds came from the outside, and three additional people came in the door, halting when they saw the postures of the first two.
    “What’s wrong?” Another female voice.
    The tall one gestured toward Casey. “We have a guest.”
    All three new people turned to Casey, one of them flicking on a flashlight and shining it in her face. “What do you want?”
    They were very concerned with that.
    Casey held up a hand to shield her eyes. “A place to sleep. That’s all.”
    The one with the flashlight ran the light up and down Casey’s body, taking in the burlap bed at her feet. Death struck a pose as the flashlight came near, but the light went straight through, illuminating only the wall of the shed.
    “What’s your name?” The first female again—a teenager, if Casey was seeing correctly.
    “Casey.”
    “Casey what?”
    Casey hesitated. “Jones.” With a pang she thought of Eric, from back in Clymer, Ohio. She’d told him Smith, and he’d immediately equated it with Jones, yet another anonymous name. She should probably just go ahead and use Doe.
    This girl seemed to believe Jones as much as Eric had believed Smith. “Terry, close the door.”
    One of the last three—a guy this time—pulled the sliding door, and with a grunt shut off the only exit to the outside.
    Casey remembered the broom with the cracked handle, as well as the iron implements hanging behind her. Plenty of weapons, but one against five? Only if she took them by surprise. And she didn’t exactly like the idea of beating up teenagers.
    “Sheryl, can you light us up, please?” the first girl said.
    The second girl handed her flashlight to another person and lit a match, holding it up to the oil lamp Casey had seen earlier. It cast a glow over the center of the shed, leaving the corners shadowed.
    The teenagers looked like any group of kids. The girls were both slim, within an inch or two of Casey’s height. The second one, who had lit the lamp, was fair, freckled, and pretty; the other, who seemed to be the leader of the group, had dark hair, her skin pale in the light. While she wasn’t a traditional beauty, she was striking, and Casey could feel her charisma and focus. Casey wondered if the girl’s hair was naturally dark, or if it had had help from a bottle. Her fingernails, painted black, had Casey