Reaped Out. Act 2: Sickle Sad World
Chapter 1
I don't like it when I say people should die and then they do. I don't want that kind of responsibility.
What if want had nothing to do with it and the responsibility was thrust upon you? What if you were given an exact time, date and location of when and where someone was going to die and it was your duty to collect their soul. What then?
I'd never given much thought to what happened when you died. Scientifically, I got it. The heart stopped beating, the brain stopped firing synapses; the body shut down and began to rot. Spiritually? I can't say I'd ever given it much thought. Saint Peter at the pearly gates, ready to equip me with a halo and a harp? A blinding white light? Orchestral symphonies? I didn't know what to expect, but never, in my wildest dreams, had I imagined this...
My name was Daria Morgendorffer. I was an eighteen year old high school student from Lawndale. Living it up in middle class suburbia. Honestly? It sucked. I wanted out. Out of the small town and its moronic masses, out of the mundanity that was my life. Lucky me, my wish was granted. Note the tense; it's not a mistake that was me, now? Now, I'm something else.
***
Daria stared at the Post-It in her left hand, her right traced the outline of the details written in bold black script.
S. Stack
Lawndale Indoor Sport and Recreation Center
10:36 a.m.
The name wasn't familiar and Daria debated if this was a good or a bad thing. The pro, she wasn't taking the soul of someone she knew. The con? She had no idea who this person was and she had little more than fifteen minutes to find them. She entered the sporting center and was immediately engulfed in a gut twisting, foul stench; an incorporation of sweat, leather and something gamey she couldn't quite put her finger on.
She grimaced slightly and pressed on further into the androgenic environment. She passed the dozens of training nets and courts, until she reached the equipment desk in the center of the expansive room.
Daria studied the counter, her eyes rested on a sign out sheet connected to a clipboard and praised her fortunes. The third name on the sheet 'Sam Stack- Squash Court, one hundred tennis balls, one tennis ball machine.'
As Daria studied the sheet a tall, broad shouldered male, whom Daria would have guessed to be about her age, sidled over.
"Hey babe." he crooned as he leant on the counter and ran his free hand through his thick brown hair.
Daria pursed her lips tightly and smiled. "Hi." she said tersely.
"What can I do for you?" he flashed a smile and showcased his dazzling pearly whites; a smile that Daria assumed made all the girls melt.
Daria groaned inwardly and repressed the urge to fire off a strain of sarcastic remarks. "I...ah...I was wondering if I could book some tennis lessons with Sam, Sam Stack?"
"Sure thing, I've got a lesson in five minutes, but I can get your details now." He bent down behind the counter and retrieved a small black book. "What's your name, gorgeous?"
Daria exhaled heavily. "D... Wait, you're Sam?" Daria asked cautiously.
"Yep." He stood straight, stretched out the breast of his shirt and flashed the embroidered monogram.
Daria glanced at her watch, there were eight minutes left. She looked up at Sam and gave a small smile. "I might just watch your next lesson to see if your teaching methods are for me." Daria held out her hand. "I'm Morgan."
Sam took Daria's hand and smiled. "Sam." He replied coolly, unaware Daria had taken his soul.
Daria nodded and walked to the bench seat and waited for the festivities to begin.
***
Artie Glick was running late. His mother had had enough and she had given him an ultimatum. Participate in an activity outside of the house that was unrelated to science fiction or aliens, or she would disconnect the cable, his high speed internet and cancel his subscription to UFO Weekly. He had begrudgingly gave in and chosen tennis lessons. The drawback was being taught by the asshole quarterback jock from Oakwood.
Artie callously pulled his rusty old, lime green Datsun 120 Y coupe into a park and cut the engine. He grabbed his bag and ran into the Sports Center.
Daria watched as Sam busied himself while he waited for his ten-thirty appointment by relocating boxes from one side of the bench to the other. Her mind started to wander as she imagined how Mister Sam Stack was going to die. It alarmed her that she was actually taking pleasure in imagining him being crushed under a weight of a falling basketball hoop, or caught and strangled in a badminton net, hell, even the idea of him choking on a pen lid gave her a morbid thrill.
Daria was pulled out of her reverie as the large front doors swung open and a gangly red head entered. She vaguely recognized him from the pizza place.
Artie approached the equipment desk. "Sorry I'm late." he mumbled, as he passed Sam and skulked to the locker room.
Daria watched as Sam shook his head and placed a box labeled 'Tennis' next to an identical box marked 'Baseball' and followed Artie to the locker room; presumably to tear him a new one for being late.
Daria saw the flash of pale purple as the Graveling bounded across the room. She watched as it pounced upon the boxes on the desk and switched them. It gave an uproarious laugh and disappeared as Sam and Artie returned.
Her curiosity piqued, Daria watched as Sam picked up the box labeled 'Baseball' and led the way to the Plexiglas-cased practice court.
Sam gave the box to Artie. "Put them in the tennis ball machine, then sit outside so you can see me do it properly." he ordered and turned; he had Daria's attention, but not for the reason he expected.
Daria watched curiously as Artie followed the directions and emptied the balls into the machine and turned it on. Her brow furrowed as Artie opened the door to the court and flinched as he saw a blur of lurid purple sweep past him. "Ahhh! Their back." he screamed as he fled the center.
"What?" Daria uttered slowly in disbelief. 'It's not possible...Is it?'
Daria's thoughts were interrupted as a grinding mechanical whirl filled the air, she watched as the Graveling kicked the ball machine into top speed and it started to fire the white baseballs at Sam.
It only took two.
The first ball hit him square in the chest and sent him to his knees, the second left a large crater in the right side of his head; the other ninety eight just added insult to injury. A crowd had gathered and watched helplessly as Sam's bludgeoned body was tenderized, by round after round of hard white balls. No one dared enter for fear of having their own body end up in a bloodied heap on the floor.
"Am I... Is that me?"
Daria turned toward the frightened voice, a sympathetic smile pulled at the corner of her mouth. She nodded and began to walk toward the exit and motioned for Sam to follow.
She was beginning to see why the other Reapers reveled in bloody deaths; they were kind of fun, gruesome sure, definitely memorable. There was no way Sam could have an open coffin at his funeral.
"Shit, Tom's funeral."
Daria glanced at her watch; she would make it, just.