Death Co Re-Write (2)

Alright, day two of NanoWriMo. I won't lie, this chapter is rougher than the last one,but I'm getting back into my groove of writing this quickly :/. Thanks for any feedback in advance. 

2. The First Day

     “Simmons, Jon, Ulrich, Steiner, we’ve got a car accident, need you all on scene immediately,” said a loud voice that threatened to shatter my cubicle walls. Even in death it seemed that I was doomed to a soporific caricature of the nineties American workplace. The man yelling was aptly named Barker. This wasn’t a nickname people had given him around the office, but was actually the result of two Midwestern parents who had wanted a dog rather than a child. In any case, the name was as good a fit as any for Barker’s demeanor.

     I was half asleep at my cubicle, still coming to terms with the fact that three days earlier I had died from blood loss in a bathroom. It was all a little much to comprehend, and mixed with the fact that there was a behind-the-scenes corporation running the concept of death, was all a bit too much to handle. “Jon, you suffering from rigor mortis again? Do you need to have another trip to the infirmary?” This last part was less of a question and more of a jibe. I had seen the infirmary only in passing, but quickly realized that it was the last place one wanted to go.

     “No sir, I’m fine,” I said, standing up and dusting off crusted blood from the edges of what had once been an expensive suit. Peering over the cubicle wall was Barker, eyes full of anger, and leaking an orange pus that would have been fatal, had the gunshot wound to the back of his head not been.

     “Oh good to hear it. Get your ass in the chute,” Barker yelled, pointing down the long, grey corridor that housed the bulk of Death Co.’s requisition agents. The chute that Barker was referring to, was listed on the four-hundreth page of the manual I had been given to read. Unfortunately, I had been unable to read past the initial bold print of “So you’re dead, now what?” Something about the stench of an office building filled with the long-deceased was distracting, and coupled with the dull ache in my limbs, I couldn’t focus on anything.

     I ran out into the hallway and stopped as a massive hand grabbed my shoulder. Without turning around I knew that it belonged to Barker. “Forgetting something?” he asked, not trying at all to stifle the grin spread wide across his face.

     I looked back at my desk to see that my gun and card-key were still sitting on it. “Right, sorry,”

     “Don’t apologize,” he shouted. “Grab your gear and get the hell out of here. We’re wasting time,” Barker spit a black gob onto the floor and joined a stream of agents walking down the hallway. The fact of the matter was that we weren’t really wasting time, as the concept of time had no meaning in the afterlife, but the dead still hold on to mannerisms, no matter how nonsensical they might be.

 I grabbed my gun, and was shocked once again by its weight. They were standard issue Desert Eagles. Nothing special about them other than their size, and ability to blow two-foot holes in anything they were pointed at. Heaven as it turns out, was not too keen on manufacturing arms for a lowly division composed of workers with questionable morality, so we mostly got supplied by the wake of destruction left by third-world warlords. At least in the end they were helping someone.

     As I caught up to Barker, I noticed that on the sides of the hallway were brightly lit alcoves. The other agents who had been called were jockeying for position amongst these alcoves and I followed suit. By the time I had caught up to them, they had all picked a space, and the only alcove left was lit by a flickering bulb that inspired little confidence. “Good luck rookie. Remember to take deep breaths,” said a man who had a large tear down the middle of his forehead where an angry lumberjack had made his mark. Apparently he had been the prosecuting attorney on the wrong end of a trial that destroyed the workman’s comp union for woodsmen.

     “Thanks,” I said, not realizing that what he had said was meant as a joke. Breathing, as it turns out, is a vestigial function that the dead hold on to. There is no need for us to do it, but it does help maintain a sense of normalcy in what is otherwise chaos. I stepped into the dimly lit chute and grabbed hold of the handles on either side. From a loudspeaker above came a garbled countdown. “5, 4, 3,” the floor dropped out from under me, and even the vestigial breathing was no longer an option.

     As I fell, I thought of the manual sitting on my desk, which I had neglected to read. I wondered if there had been anything contained in its pages to prepare me for the situation that I had found myself in. All of these deep introspections on the meaning of instruction manuals were abruptly halted by the bowel loosening realization that the ground was rushing up to meet me. The other agents were nowhere to be found, and I felt a terrified yelp escape my body in an octave that I was not previously sure I was capable of producing.

     Concrete rushed up at me, and all I felt was bone-crushing impact. For the longest time I did not want to open my eyes. There was no pain, but the jarring impact had let me with a fear that my insides had liquefied and sprayed out all around me. It wouldn’t have killed me (again, double death is avoidable in most cases), but it would have been a hell of a mess to clean up.

     Loud thumps boomed from the ground to my right and left as the other requisition agents landed beside me. They were laughing and joking about the ride down when they saw me, presumably spread-eagled in my own shit. I opened my eyes, blearily and found that I was face down on highway pavement. “Laying down on the job already? It’s just the first day,” said Barker, grabbing the back of my suit coat and yanking me to my feet. The other agents were laughing, but as the blurriness faded from my eyes, the scene before me was utter chaos.

     I was standing in the middle of a crowded highway, only all of the cars had stopped mid motion. One man held his fist to the steering wheel, blaring the horn madly, and shooting an angry glance at the driver ahead of him. It was disconcerting, but all in all not a situation I would suspect to require the agents of death. That was until I saw all of the other agents staring directly behind me.

     As I turned, I became acutely aware of the smell of fresh gasoline, as if a pump had been left on. This mixed with the smell of burning rubber, leaving the air acrid and thick. A bus hung midair, flames spewing from the top of it. Pasted across the side of it was a banner that had since been ripped up reading: “South Lake Parochial School Mission.” This might have startled me, had it not been for the half-flaming priest that had seemingly catapulted from the bus and stopped mid flight. His face was a mix of anguish and terror, floating motionless like everything else.

     “Heads up,” said Barker, ducking briefly as time returned to motion for an instant. The priest flew right by my head, and collided in a spectacular spray of gore, with the aggravated driver behind me. Luckily, the driver got out with a few bruises and psychological damage. The priest, was not so lucky, and when time stopped again, he stood up, inadvertently leaving his body. The look of terror was replaced by confusion, but not fear.

     “Oh thank Christ, I made it,” he said, gripping what was left of a rosary bead hanging from his neck. His robes were tattered and black, seared clean off by the fire now spreading to the bus. An agent named Michael stepped forward from the group and patted me on the back.

     “Watch and learn,” he said with the closest thing I had felt to reassurance since my own death. Unfortunately, lawyers are not great at comradery, but they are effective.

     “You’re here to help. Praise the lord in all his glory. There has been an accident,” The priest’s lower lip began to quiver. In some primal part of his brain, the truth of the situation had begun to dawn on him, but he was not at a point to come to terms with it. Those psychologists weren’t kidding when they talked about death and bargaining.

     “Yes, I see that, but I’m afraid your previous assumption was incorrect,” said Michael calmly, flicking off the safety on the gun at his waste. It wasn’t out of the holster yet, but the priest was meant to know that it could be at any second. Even after death, it seems that intimidation tactics are one of the few ways to gain one’s attention and momentary respect.

     “Incorrect? How do you mean?”

     “Well, to put it bluntly: You didn’t survive the crash.” There was no tact in what Michael was saying, just no nonsense facts. I think that he knew what would come next, and didn’t want to waste time with the pleasantries. An infinite time to live, but still a very finite amount of patience.

     “That’s impossible.” The priest looked down his robes and gagged in revulsion as he saw that most of his flesh had been burned off, and what was left had been sliced in large red ribbons by the windshield of the schoolbus. I’ve never understood why they don’t put seat belts on those things. They put them on the buses that convicts ride, but not those meant for children. Another oversight I suppose.

     “No it’s quite possible,” Michael said, once again, failing to show any emotions that might have helped the situation along.

     “But, I’ve not yet finished my work. The children need me. He must know that the children need me.” The priest had begun to shout, flailing his arms wildly like a man who was still on fire. However, his assumptions were once again incorrect. The royal “He” was busy at that precise moment, worsening the drought in California to spite Mel Gibson’s Passion of the Christ, a movie which he believed had over-glorified a “Sandle Wearing Hippie, with little more than a passing resemblance to God”.

     “I’m afraid you’re out of options. We’re here to requisition you and take you in for judgement.”

     “Surely there must be some mistake. I’ve been a pious servant to Him,” The priest was searching frantically for a way out.

     “Well I’m sure all of your time spent on your knees in the house of God pay off then father.” This sent the priest into a frenzy. He fell to his knees and began to weep uncontrollably. Michael turned and shrugged. “Was it something I said?”

     “How could you know of this? Those men were foul temptations sent by the devil himself to lead me astray. I have repented for my sins and deserve a place at his holy table,” he said, red gobs of spittle flying from his mouth. When someone is about to die, they start shedding secrets like water. They’ll do anything for a chance at staying among the living for just a moment or two longer.

     The priest had been so distracting that I almost forgot about the reason we had been sent down. I turned for a brief moment and saw that the bus full of missionaries was now fully aflame and headed straight for what appeared to be a fuel truck. Suddenly the priest’s arguments seemed so trivial. Time restarted once again, seemingly on its own whim, and the bus collided with the fuel tanker, spewing gasoline and fire every which way.

     As the bus turned to tinder, I could not help but feel horrified. With that many souls in one place, it was going to mean a hellish level of paperwork. This thought was cut short as Barker began to shout again. The priest had moved into the bargaining stage, but when Barker spoke, everyone else fell silent. “Shit. Divine intervention everyone. Angels on their way down, form up!”