Delivery for the Damned: Death (Sneak Peek)

“Ah, shit. I hate when kids go like this.” Despite being heavy with regret, the woman’s voice is the most beautiful that you’ve ever heard.

She must be an angel come to take you away. You open your eyes, but everything is a red-fogged haze. You attempt to wipe away the blood and sweat, but your hands no longer obey your commands. You’ve been in this alleyway for too long, slowly but surely bleeding out ever since Robin twisted his knife deep within your gut.

You shouldn’t have stolen his donut.

A boot nudges your side. “Hey, kid.”

You’re not surprised that you’re going to die after being stabbed, nor are you particularly frightened. The nuns always said that someone would murder you someday. It’s fine. No one knows what comes after death, but it can’t be worse than life at the orphanage.

 “Kid.”

It’s not a bad thing to die at age eight (or nine—the nuns weren’t sure when you were born). If you die now, and heaven exists, then you’re definitely getting a free pass there because there’s no way that God would kick a kid out of heaven.

 “Kid!”

Not that you know much about God, other than a few broken crucifixes and burnt bible pages that you’d dug up in the church catacombs. The nuns had renounced their religion decades ago, when the apocalypse kicked off.

“It’s not smart to ignore me, kid.”

Choices:

1)      “Do you mind?” I snap. “Kinda busy trying to die here.”

2)      “Are there donuts in heaven, angel?” I ask dreamily.  “As many as I can eat?”

3)      “Did Robin take his knife out of my stomach?” I wonder aloud. “He’ll need it for Thursday.”

4)      I hold my breath in order to speed things along.

“Shouldn’t you be begging for me to save you instead of dreaming about donuts?” the angel asks, somehow comprehending the wet choking noises that emerged from your mouth. “Seriously, kid, what is wrong with you?”

“Adults don’t save kids,” you state matter-of-factly, although your words come out as a gasping rattle.

Ice-cold, fleshless fingers brush across your eyes.  The red haze clears, and you gaze into the dark hollows of empty eye sockets. The skeleton before you, dressed in a fashionable leather jacket and blue jeans, cocks her skull quizzically to the side. You instantly know—deep within some primordial core—that she’s Death.

“Gonna scream now?” Death asks.

You shake your head only for it to lethargically thunk against the dumpster as it rolls to the side.

“Huh,” Death mutters to herself. “That’s new. I didn’t think new existed anymore.”

Her bones clink like windchimes as she squats down, bracing herself against the dumpster with one arm so that she looms over you.

“Alright, kid,” she says. “Make me an offer.” She holds up a single skeletal finger before you can speak. “Make it a good one. You only get one chance at this, and I’m not easily impressed.”

“An offer?” you gurgle out with what should’ve been your very last breath.

“Give me something,” she elaborates. “Something that’s precious to you.”

You ponder the options. As an orphan, there aren’t many things that you can call your own.

“I’ll give you . . .”

Choices:

1)      “My soul.”

2)      “My favorite book.”

3)      “My donut.”

4)      “Robin’s soul.”

“Really, kid?” Death groans. “Do you know how many of those I already have?”

You cough out a clot of blood, and she heaves an exasperated sigh.

“Fine, I’ll pretend that the scrawny soul of a nine-year-old isn’t worthless,” she grumbles. “And, yes, that’s how old you are as of yesterday, by the way. Happy belated birthday.”