Chapter Eight

My belt lay on the ground, way out of reach—its tools useless. “Bartholomew!” I shouted. “Stop! Let him go!”

“All in good time.” Bartholomew kept a finger on the pad, his expression flat.

The hum increased. Mex fell to his knees. His face paler than ever, he tipped to the side, but the taut suction tube kept him from falling. With his mouth hanging open, he dangled like a fish on a grappling hook.

“Mex!” Shanghai reached for him, but her fingers brushed air only inches away.

As Sing stood shakily on her pedestal, a tear coursed down her cheek, sparkling in the hologram’s radiance.

Finally, the hum ceased. Our connectors clicked. I jerked the suction tube away from my valve and cloak, leaped from the pedestal, and dashed toward Mex. When I arrived, Shanghai was already crouching next to him. While I supported his body, Shanghai detached his tube, and we lowered him to the ground in front of his pedestal. Sing joined us and knelt close to his head, holding her breath.

I pressed my ear against Mex’s chest. No heartbeat. I felt for a pulse at his throat. Again, nothing. I whispered, “He’s dead.”

“No!” Shanghai set her hands on Mex’s chest and pushed down again and again. “He’s been out only a few seconds. Maybe we can—”

“Don’t waste your time.” Bartholomew walked our way, his tablet’s screen facing us. “His soul has already migrated into the Gateway. You can see for yourself.”

On the tablet, three icons filled the screen from left to right—an image that looked like a Reaper standing on a pedestal, a second image resembling the Gateway, and a third mimicking sunlight penetrating a gap in the clouds. Several faces hovered over the clouds, including Molly’s and Mike’s, while just to the right of the Gateway, only one face appeared—Mex’s.

“Mexico City is just inside the Gateway waiting for me to send him to eternity with the others.” Bartholomew dropped the adapter tube on the ground. “He cannot be returned to his body without a replacement.”

I scowled at him. “A replacement?”

“Ah, yes. Reapers are ignorant of how our transport mechanism works.” Bartholomew pointed at the middle icon. “Your friend is on the eternity side of the Gateway, and it will not open for any disembodied soul on that side. Yet, while he is there, if it opens from our side by means of sending another soul through, he could come back, as long as his body is still intact enough to revive.”

“How long does his body have?” I asked.

“Under normal conditions, perhaps several minutes. I could, however, use our energy reserves to put him in a state that would minimize deterioration, though without a soul he would not revive. He would merely be preserved.”

I laid a hand on Mex’s cheek—already cold. As Thaddeus pushed buttons on the stand, our holograms faded. It seemed that death itself had draped the forest in a dark shadow. “So when the next soul goes through, the Gateway will open and allow Mex to come back.”

“Not just any next soul. Transferring requires Reaper training. If one of you chooses to die, I can send your soul to the Gateway. There you may attempt to transfer your friend back to this side. If you succeed, he can be restored to his body.”

“And what happens to that Reaper?”

“He or she will go on to eternity, unless, of course, another Reaper wishes to perform the same transfer, but such a cycle of redundancy would be absurd. Someone has to go on to eternal rest. The Gateway will not allow a void.”

I glanced at Shanghai and Sing. Tears streamed down their cheeks, their expressions torn.

Bartholomew laughed. “I have been calling Mexico City your friend, but it seems that I have overestimated your relationship with him. It appears that you three are not willing to lay down your lives for him.”

I averted my eyes. I couldn’t stand to look at his smug expression as he continued in a mocking cadence.

“And what a shame that you pride yourselves on taking souls to the delights of never-ending comfort while not believing in those comforts enough to risk going there yourselves. It should be a place you want to go.”

I boiled inside. As if Bartholomew would ever die for someone else. He was the one who sentenced Mex to death, and now he laughed at us for not wanting to suffer the same fate. This Gateway attendant was too callous for words, a glorified clerk who let his power turn him into a pompous, self-important prig.

“How about this?” I rose, stepped close to him, and fanned out my cloak. “Since you’re so sanctimonious about sacrificial acts, how about if Shanghai, Sing, and I arrange for you to visit the Gateway so you can enjoy the delights of never-ending comfort? Being the senior Gateway attendant, I’m sure you believe in those delights. You must be dying to experience them.”

Bartholomew backed away a step. “Young man, are you threatening me?”

I mimicked his earlier mocking tone. “Of course not. I am offering you transport to a place you surely want to go.”

Bartholomew gave me a hard stare. “Sarcasm doesn’t become you. If not for my friendship with your father, I would write up an order to demote you to roamer status. Don’t let anger be your downfall.” He tapped on his computer screen, his eyes darting. “Seeing that Mexico City has no Reaper friends in this world, I am sending him along now. I will call for someone to dispose of his body.”

The radiance in the Gateway flashed, then dimmed. “And don’t think I didn’t notice what you’re hiding, Phoenix. After today, I will grant you no further pardons. My friendship with your father will stretch only so far.” Bartholomew pivoted and marched toward the central pedestal with Thaddeus following.

I raised a hand and called out, “Wait!”

The two attendants turned. “What?” Bartholomew asked.

“Can I take Mex’s cloak?”

Bartholomew squinted. “Whatever for?”

“To send to his family in Abilene.”

He waved a hand. “Go ahead. Since no genetically compatible energy will be flowing through it, it will deteriorate in a few weeks. We have no use for it.” He turned again. After a few seconds, he and Thaddeus disappeared behind the Gateway.

I stooped with Shanghai and Sing and stared at Mex’s body. His cloak lay spread out underneath him. Blood oozed around the edges of his valve, evidence that he had pulled furiously to detach from the vacuum tube that sucked the very life from his body.

“Give me a hand.” I unfastened Mex’s clasp. With Sing and Shanghai helping, I rolled his body enough to slide the cloak away. When we pulled it free, I draped it over my shoulder, the triangular roamer’s patch hidden from view.

“Are you sure his family will want it?” Sing asked as we continued crouching at Mex’s side. “It might just remind them of the system that killed him.”

“It’s made from his hair, so I think they’ll want it. I’ll ask them before I send it.”

“What was that Bartholomew said about stretching a friendship with your father?”

“I violated protocol, and he noticed. I’ll tell you about it later.” I pulled the watch from my pocket and checked the time—eight forty. Sighing, I picked up Mex’s adapter tube and shoved it into my cloak pocket. “We’d better get back to the station. Twenty minutes till the train comes by.”

Shanghai retrieved her staff from where we left our weapons and returned to Mex’s body. Bending low, she set the staff in his hands and kissed his ashen cheek. “Safe travels, my friend.”

We shuffled slowly to our belts. While Shanghai and Sing refastened theirs, I picked up mine and Mex’s and put them both on, one above the other. I reached out to Sing and Shanghai. Their eyes teary, they linked hands with me, and we began the walk back to the station.

For the first few minutes, everyone stayed quiet. The light rain had stopped, though the boughs above still pelted us with drops now and then. I hoped my two fellow Reapers would forget about the protocol breach. Apparently Bartholomew noticed that I had kept Crandyke but didn’t want to do anything about it. His excuse seemed lame. As far as I knew, he and my father hadn’t seen each other since my final shaving ceremony more than three years ago. He probably didn’t want to bother with the reports he would have to fill out.

Finally, Sing spoke up. “Has something like this happened before… a Reaper getting killed at the Gateway?”

I shook my head. “Not during any of my transfers. Bringing smuggled medicine to the Gateway is absurdly risky, so I can’t imagine it’s happened before.”

“I’ve never heard of it,” Shanghai said, her voice low and somber. “But I keep hearing rumors of a crackdown, so maybe we’ll see more stuff like that.”

I rubbed a thumb along Shanghai’s hand. “You and I will be part of the crackdown. We’ll be reaping the souls of executed criminals.”

“Criminals,” Sing repeated with a huff. “It’s not a crime to try to save your daughter’s life.”

“Not that again.” Shanghai raised a hand. “Look, I’m not getting into politics, so leave me out of the discussion. I’m willing to try to help the Fitzpatricks escape, but that’s as far as I’ll go. The system is the system, and there’s nothing we can do about it.”

“That’s a cop-out,” Sing growled, “And you know it.”

“You’re right. I admit it. I’m copping out. But what’re you going to do? Overthrow the Gatekeeper? He’s been in control for two centuries. It’s not like you can topple a god from his throne.”

Sing gave Shanghai a hard stare. “He calls himself a god.”

Shanghai returned the stare. “Well, if he’s not a god, then what is he? No one can live—”

“Okay, okay!” I looked at them in turn. “Listen, we can’t do anything about the Gatekeeper. God or not, he is what he is. All we can do is work within the system to keep people from getting hurt. We’ll collect souls like always, but maybe when we get to the camp we can figure out how to do a little more.”

As we continued walking, Sing drew her hand back and plugged her cloak’s clasp into her valve. “I just wish we could somehow contact Mex.”

“Right. You want a Reaper to go there and come back to report.” I laughed under my breath. “We might as well wish for chocolate drops to fall from the sky instead of acid rain. It ain’t gonna happen.”

“Oh, let her dream.” Shanghai plugged her clasp in as well. “It won’t hurt anything. I daydream about stuff I can’t have all the time.”

All three of us quieted, leaving rustling leaves and our footfalls as the only sounds. After nearly a minute, Sing said, “Like what, Shanghai?”

“Well…” Shanghai spoke in a wistful tone. “Like being able to go home and see my parents, so they can have a daughter to fill the void my brother left behind when he killed himself.”

Her voice pitched higher. “Like quitting this whole Reaper thing so I don’t have to watch another pneumonia-stricken old man drown in his own fluids. Or try to be stoic while a little girl curls in her daddy’s lap, crying in horrific torture because no one has any drugs to keep her from feeling the cancer that’s eating her brain. Then she finally dies in a violent seizure while her daddy weeps… no, he wails in inconsolable torment, and I have to tell him that it’ll be all right, that she’ll go to a better place, even though I have no way to prove it.”

Another pause ensued, filled only with water dripping from leaves and more shuffling. Sing broke the hush. “If we could figure out a way to prove it, we’d all be better off—the Reapers and the grief-stricken.”

“Yeah, right.” Shanghai held out a hand. “Feel any chocolate falling?”

For the rest of the walk to the checkpoint, we stayed silent. Sing kept her head low, apparently in deep thought. It seemed that her idea to learn the secrets beyond the Gateway wouldn’t give her any peace. She was right that it would be great to know, but it was just an idea, a child’s hope for chocolate rain.

When we arrived at the checkpoint, Erin scanned our birthmarks to register that we had left the compound. We told her about Mex, but she said in her unflappable manner that she had already received word about his death and the need to remove his body. She took no notice of Mex’s cloak, still draped over my shoulder, or his belt around my waist.

She also returned Sing’s medallion. For some reason it no longer carried the luster it had before—probably just my imagination—or maybe its battery-powered inner light had faded. Everything seemed duller now—the sky, the trees, my mood.

As we drew near the station, the other Reapers were milling about on the platform, though no one seemed to be conversing. The screeching of wheels rose in the distance. We picked up our pace. It was arriving a little early, so we had to hustle. The engineer wouldn’t wait for stragglers.

We climbed the stairs to the platform. With the rain bringing cooler air, the Reapers kept their hoods up and cloaks close to their bodies. I scanned the group for the Reaper who had been watching us earlier, but with every face partially hidden, the effort was useless. Even if I found him, what could I do? I had no proof that he did anything wrong.

I touched my clasp, still loose from my valve. Now was not a good time to energize my cloak. Crandyke might get loud enough for others to hear, and his presence would raise a lot of questions I didn’t want to answer.

After the engine and lead cars blew by, whipping us with a cool blast, the last car slowed to a stop at the platform. We let the other Reapers file in first, then entered and slid into the same facing benches we had occupied before.

When the train began a squealing departure, Sing reached into her pocket and withdrew the pamphlet she had taken from Bill. As she slowly flipped through the pages, I scanned some of the text. The first part appeared to be an account of the history of the Gateway, including what I told Sing earlier about the location of the depots. It went on to explain how Reapers become soul carriers and that each Reaper chooses a name of one of the cities that collapsed and burned under the burden of “An oppressive regime,” a dictatorship that prefers to let people die than to allow freedom.

Of course there aren’t enough dead-city names to go around, so there are many Reapers named Detroit, Hanoi, and Shanghai, though only one of each is allowed in any given Jungle city, the Jungle designation assigned based on certain statistics—poverty level, crime rate, and death-to-birth ratio. Nearly all of the history appeared to be factual with only a few oblique barbs directed at the Council and other members of the ruling class.

From that point, the pamphlet diverged into the Gateway-denier theories, what “really” happens to souls that enter the Gateway—crazy stuff about becoming dinner for soul eaters who feed on life energy. Their only proof was pure conjecture—“How else do you explain a world leader who seems to live forever? Why else would he encourage procreation and not allow enough medicine to take care of growing families? And the reason younger people are more valuable to Reaper quotas? They have more life energy to consume.”

I shook my head. Utter nonsense. Although the pamphlet raised intriguing questions, its answers sounded like fairy tales. Soul eaters? Did the pamphlet offer any evidence of such a creature beyond the fact that the Gatekeeper lived a long time? No. Nothing.

And regarding our quotas, right or wrong, young souls were more valuable because their removal from the population meant a bigger relief on the government—no education needed; no medicine for the years they would live; and a lighter burden on the family, making the survivors more productive. And procreation was encouraged in order to increase the supply of workers. If the children were healthy, great. If they were sickly, it was better for them to die. The policy was callous and cold, but it reflected reality.

Sing closed the pamphlet and slid it into her pocket. “Anyone else hungry?”

“A little bit,” I said. “More sleepy than hungry. We can find something to eat at the station when we get back.”

Sing leaned her head against my shoulder. “Then let’s sleep.”

Shanghai ran a hand along the empty space next to her. “I can’t believe I called him a freak.”

“Don’t go there,” Sing said, straightening. “Save the beating up for the people who really deserve it. Those Gateway attendants are callous killers. At least Mex should have had a trial.”

Shanghai shook her head, lament in her tone. “I like your spunk, Sing, but if you keep talking like that, you’ll be next. You haven’t been around long enough to know how the system works. As long as protestors just carry signs and hand out pamphlets, the Council doesn’t worry about them, but let one of them take a step of real aggression, and it’s lights out.” She nodded toward me. “Ask Phoenix. He’ll tell you.”

Sing looked at me, waiting for my affirmation, but I didn’t really want to contribute. Although Shanghai was right, why should I try to bridle Sing’s anger at the system? It might be better to let her vent. Besides, Sing had already seen two other resistors executed. She knew what “lights out” meant. “Maybe we should all sleep for a while. We probably won’t have time when we get back.”

“You’re right.” Shanghai leaned against the window, blinking as she stared at the dreary sky. She seemed lonely, disconnected, worried. With several windows partially open in the fast-moving car, cool air circulated. Shanghai drew her hood up and shivered.

I took Mex’s cloak off my shoulder and slid toward the window, scooting Sing as I shifted. I patted the space on my other side. “There’s room for one more.”

Shanghai crossed to our bench and sat next to me. I spread the cloak over all three of us, and we huddled underneath. Shanghai looped her arm around mine and leaned her head on my shoulder, while Sing and I leaned our heads against each other’s and held hands.

Warmth radiated from body to body—the soothing warmth of friendship I hadn’t felt in three lonely years. Yet, why had Mex’s death incited this call to comfort? None of us knew him well. We didn’t treat him like a close friend before he died. Now it seemed that his sudden departure had torn our hearts open and exposed secret fears.

Maybe we were commiserating. Maybe we didn’t really believe in the joys of the afterlife, just as Bartholomew had chided. Maybe we didn’t really believe in the Gateway at all. Could our roles as Reapers be something less than the beneficial transport that dying citizens longed for? Were we providing false hope to the bereaved and instead taking their loved ones to a place of eternal horror? Maybe our lot in life had been a lie. To whom could we turn except to each other?

Now, in spite of the rules against friendships, we had become close allies. It felt good and right. So what if the other Reapers in the car could see us? They could report an infraction if they wanted to. And with Mex’s triangular patch now in plain view, they would figure out what happened and guess that we were sympathizers with a crooked roamer. But I didn’t care. The pleasure of sharing a consoling touch with these two girls was worth it. In a way, it felt like Mex was covering us. Now we were all roamers, and no one could stop us from grieving together over the death of a friend.

While I rested, an image came to mind—Misty huddling with me under a blanket while sitting on a two-person bench. Before my initiation as a Reaper, I had been given a week at home for Christmas. One evening I went for a walk, supposedly to “enjoy my freedom,” but instead I sneaked over to Misty’s foster home. As we watched the snow fall from her front porch, I felt the same comfort Sing and Shanghai now provided. Misty and I didn’t say a word. We just enjoyed each other’s warmth and companionship. Why ruin the moment with awkward conversation? Our friendship needed no words.