Ripe for Reaping
Too Many Souls
Sometimes Grell found William's coldness powerfully attractive, but there was a difference between coldness and cruelty. Lately William had been giving him too many assignments of the kind he hated most and the most colourful of all the reapers was beginning to feel faded. Looking at tonight's death list Grell's heart sank into his polished high-heeled ankle boots. This was going too far. Enough that he was working the graveyard shift – again – doubtless by way of a reprimand for arguing against the necessity of reaping no fewer than four names on last week's list – but there was no need for Will to make tonight's final name this one. No – let someone else do that job.
Grell turned on his elegantly pointed heel and marched purposefully in the direction of William's office. For once there was nothing but anger in his mind and several junior reapers scuttled out of his path, their eyes wide with fear. Grell stripped of his habitual flamboyant flirtatiousness was an alarming sight.
However, as Grell swept through the corridors he became aware of a strange atmosphere that had somehow pervaded the whole building. Everyone seemed subdued, from the more senior Reapers to the most humble filing clerks. By the water cooler people were talking softly, eyes downcast. As the sense of misery seeped into his soul Grell walked more slowly, wondering. Outside William's office a young Reaper – only recently qualified judging from the small, standard-issue scythe that dangled limply from his fingers – was slumped in a chair, head bowed.
"What on Earth's the matter?" Grell demanded, his voice too loud in the unusually silent corridor. "Did someone die?"
It was supposed to be a joke, but like everything else lately, it fell flat. The young Reaper looked up at him, his face heavy with fatigue. "Too many souls," he said. "This influenza – they're calling it the Russian Flu. So many young ones…"
"Oh," said Grell, softly. "I see…" He hadn't realised. There had been a lot of children recently – more than usual – dying of fevers and the flu. But there had been other, ordinary deaths too, and he'd failed to make the connection. So William hadn't been cruel…
"How many?" he asked. "How many have you reaped?"
The young shinigami shrugged. "I've lost count. Four this afternoon – the oldest ten. Three from the same family."
"Oh." For once, Grell was speechless. Scanning his list – the one that had so angered him – he read: Martha Williams, 81, heart failure, 1.15 a.m. – Clara Symonds, 18, tuberculosis, 2.02 a.m. - Wilberforce Payne, 42, falling from ladder, 2.56 a.m. – Madeline Fairchild, 5, influenza, 4.28 a.m.
William emerged from his office, and, for the first time, Grell realised that the normally unflappable manager was also looking very weary. "Grell," he said, strain audible in his voice, "I thought that sounded like you. Do you need something?"
"Ah – no. No. I – it's nothing. I – should get going."
"Yes," William replied. "It's a busy time."
Grell retraced his steps, lost in surprised thoughts. William had devised these rosters, as always. Surely it was merely a coincidence that he had given Grell so few children that he hadn't even noticed that they were in the middle of an epidemic? If not – then William was showing preferential treatment – even being – kind. Was that possible? Or was it simply that he doubted Grell's ability to cope with the work? That was more likely. Yes, that would be the reason. William T. high-and-mighty Spears had obviously decided that Grell wouldn't be up to the job – probably thought he'd freak and cause unwanted drama –
Which – you were about to do, Grell admitted to himself. Well, I'll show him. He doesn't need to treat me like some over-sensitive trainee! Time to go. I'll just check out my scythe…
But when the clerk in the Death Scythe Allocation Department handed over Grell's beautiful, personally customized chainsaw, the Reaper hesitated. "This won't do," he told the clerk. "Not tonight. I need something smaller. Give me the scissors, too."
"I - I'm sorry, uh, Sir - you can't take out two different scythes – not without authorization," the clerk replied nervously.
"What? Don't be ridiculous! I'm a professional Reaper – I need the appropriate tools for the job. Hurry up – I'm on a tight schedule tonight." Grell allowed his impatience to show, but concealed his irritation at being referred to as 'sir'. Why could no one get it right? Only the Undertaker ever bothered... But that wasn't important at this moment. Getting hold of a suitable scythe was.
"I'm very sorry. You'd have to get authorization from a manager. I could phone Mr. Spears –"
"No! No – don't do that. He's busy. Just give me the scissors."
"Then return the - the – whatever that is."
"I need both."
"I'm afraid you can't have both."
Grell shoved the chainsaw back over the counter with such force that the clerk scooted backwards on his office chair with an audible shriek.
"Fine!" Grell growled. "Just give me the damn scissors."
The clerk hurried to obey.