Chapter 73 - Shootout
Morrigan scanned the blotchy black lettering as she sat on the bus.
John McCarthy, age 32, 2475 Airport Road, bullet wound, 10:35am.
Russel De’Grasse, age 24, 2360 Airport Road, bullet wound, 10:39am.
It seemed only one of her two clients from the impending shootout would be going to hell, but it still unnerved her. She rolled the list back up and checked her phone, verifying the neighborhood and the other reason for her unease. It was on the north side of town, heading toward Portland, notorious as one of the most dangerous areas around.
“The crime rates here are abnormally high,” Noir remarked, drawing her attention. “For that reason, and given the causes of death, I would urge caution when approaching these clients.”
Morrigan exhaled. “Shouldn’t a more experienced reaper handle this? I mean, this is also a little outside my typical reaping range. Next town over, in fact.”
“The fates have deemed you suitable for this job.”
“But I’ve only been doing this for three months, and there was probably about a month of downtime in the middle of it!”
“You are sufficiently experienced, Morrigan. You’ve faced demons and navigated many challenges already. And really, sending a soul to hell is not so different from sending one to heaven. The only difference is you need not worry about calming the spirit’s fears and regrets.”
Morrigan reread the names, her voice tinged with nervousness. “So they both die from bullet wounds… that means they probably shot each other, right?”
“That could be the case, though it doesn’t really matter.”
“Well, let’s say it’s like… a gang war or a drug deal gone bad or something. That would mean it could be more than just two people shooting guns, right? Just because only two people died, it doesn’t mean others weren’t involved who were only injured. I wouldn’t know from looking at my list… right?”
“Perhaps. But I fail to see why it would matter.”
“Well, I’m saying it could be a dangerous situation I’m going into here. Granted, I can’t die, but I still don’t want to get shot!”
“Hmmm… I suppose that is a wise assessment. I would say be sure not to get too close until a few minutes after the first death. That should make the situation a little safer for you.”
Morrigan nodded, absorbing his advice. The concept of reaping a soul destined for hell weighed heavily on her. Normally, she found some comfort in knowing she was sending souls to a better place. That would not be the case this time. She remembered the diary and what Alice had written; she actually enjoyed sending people to hell. Apparently, being an executioner instead of a guide made Death's last apprentice feel like she was bringing justice to the world.
Morrigan wasn’t sure she felt the same way. She could understand to an extent. She felt compelled to help people in need or hold those responsible for their crimes accountable, like when she chased that tombstone-toothed demon. But that was more of a preventative measure to ensure the crimes were not repeated. She doubted she’d find any joy in condemning someone, no matter how much they deserved it.
“Also,” Noir added, shifting slightly as the bus trundled along, “there’s another aspect you should be aware of. A soul marked for hell tends to be aware of its own misdeeds in life and, in a sense, is aware of the judgment that may await it. This can make them more volatile or desperate.”
Morrigan’s brow furrowed. “So, what am I supposed to do if he does start freaking out?”
“Stay composed and assertive. Your role is not to judge or condemn, merely to guide them to their destined path. Remember, the black ink on your list isn’t a sentence you’ve imposed; it’s the result of their own actions and choices.”
As the bus neared the neighborhood, Morrigan could feel the tension mounting. She glanced out the window, noting the graffiti-tagged buildings and the rundown storefronts that dotted the landscape of this troubled area. It was a stark contrast to the suburban neighborhoods she was accustomed to.
The bus pulled to a stop, and Morrigan gathered herself, her list tucked securely under her arm. As she began to step off, the bus driver said, “Hey, hey, you sure this is your stop?”
“Um, yeah,” Morrigan smiled, figuring her glamour was still presenting her as a young student, rather innocent-looking and perhaps out of place in such a gritty neighborhood. “Thanks for your concern, though.”
The bus driver nodded, still looking slightly worried as he watched her descend the steps onto the sidewalk. Once she hit the pavement, Morrigan straightened her back, her demeanor changing as she prepared for what was ahead.
Walking along the cracked pavement, Morrigan scanned the area, taking in every detail. The buildings were mostly older, some abandoned, others barely hanging on with occupants that looked as weary as the structures themselves. Despite the bright morning sun, the area seemed perpetually shadowed.
She approached the first address on her list, 2475 Airport Road, where John McCarthy was to meet his fate. Her heart pounded, and she took a moment to gather herself. As she neared the building, the sound of an argument erupted from inside, the voices angry and desperate. Morrigan paused, listening. She could hear an argument. Taking a deep breath, she prepared herself, ready to face whatever those shouting voices would escalate to.
Just then, shots rang out, shattering the fragile quiet of the morning. Morrigan flinched instinctively, placing herself behind a telephone pole as she watched the front of the house. Shots continued to ring out, the dark windows flashing with each bang until one of them suddenly shattered. Then, as quickly as the chaos erupted, all fell silent.
“Morrigan, now would be a good time to use your perception blocking as Death taught you.”
“Y-yeah, that’s right…” Morrigan said, her eyes darting around to understand the scene and how she might fit into it. Glamour was more about changing her appearance; perception blocking was more of a see-me-not trick where she would blend in without anyone acknowledging her. She then noticed an old Halloween decoration, a skeleton, on the neighboring house’s door. It was the kind of thing you wouldn’t really notice if you were driving by but would stand out without being out of place if you were to focus your attention on it. Ironically, something like that might just be perfect for her perception blocking.
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Morrigan looked up and down the street once more.
Okay, think like a skeleton, Morrigan thought, as she crouch-walked up the front steps and onto the porch and then put her back against the wall right next to the door. Think like a skeleton.
She froze as she heard a woman scream, followed by the rapid pounding of footsteps toward the door. Morrigan held her breath, pressing herself flat against the wall, her heart racing as she invoked the perception-blocking technique. She envisioned herself blending in, becoming as inconspicuous as the Halloween skeleton next door, hoping her presence would be just as easily overlooked by the panicked individuals inside or any onlookers who may look to see what all the commotion was.
Then, the door burst open, and a man with blonde dreadlocks and wearing a sleeveless plaid shirt came out. He was bulky with a skull tattoo on his bicep, and he clutched his side where blood was quickly spreading through his shirt and dripping past his fingers. He was followed by a pregnant woman, screaming in desperation for someone to call the police.
“SOMEONE STOP THIS MAN! PLEASE!” she pleaded as he stumbled down the steps. Any onlookers suddenly retreated as the man turned, brandishing his gun in the woman’s direction.
“Shut your mouth, you bitch!” he screamed, firing shots in her direction. The woman screamed and ducked inside as Morrigan tensed, closing her eyes tightly, realizing this was a bad spot to observe from after all.
Luckily, none of the shots hit her, and as she cautiously winked an eye open, she saw the man stumbling down the street.
He just shot at a pregnant woman! No wonder this guy’s going to hell! There is no scenario that could possibly excuse doing that!
Morrigan’s hands were shaking. She realized the worst of it had to be over now. Considering that man’s injuries and the extra information from her list, she knew that had to be Russel De’Grasse, and he would be bleeding out from his wound just a little further down the street. He was next on her list, but first, she had to take care of John.
She cautiously poked her head through the still open door to see a room that was completely wrecked with furniture overturned, shattered glass, and other clear signs of a struggle. There was the scent of gunpowder, and the woman from a moment ago was crying in the corner. Morrigan’s view was cut off by the flipped couch, but she did spot one booted foot splayed across the floor. She took a deep breath and kept close to the wall as she slowly walked further into the room, slowly revealing the recently slain man.
There was a gun near his body, multiple blotches of red across his shirt as it seemed he’d been hit multiple times, and blood spread in a circle on the floor around him. The woman bawled her eyes out as she held his head.
“Make this quick, Morrigan,” Noir said. “Your next client will be falling dead just down the street in a matter of minutes.”
Morrigan nodded, then approached quietly to where the woman cradled the deceased man. She sobbed wildly but seemed oblivious to Morrigan’s presence. Morrigan summoned her scythe, raising it just as John’s translucent figure began to emerge from his physical body. He looked around, panic on his face, then met Morrigan’s eyes.
“That… that son of a bitch! He—wait... who are you? Are you here to...”
Morrigan frowned. “Don’t worry. I don’t know your story or what happened here, but you have been judged and your path to heaven is open. I’ll be sending you there momentarily.”
He held up a hand, pleading, “Wait! Wait a moment, I—”
“I’m sorry, John, but now is not a good time. There’s someone else I must move on to now.” Morrigan’s voice was firm yet empathetic. She knew well the weight of a soul’s final moments and the urgent pleas they often made, but in this case, she didn’t have much time before her next reaping so she couldn’t afford him too many courtesies.
John’s expression became panicked. “Can you just… just... tell her I’m sorry? Will you? Tell Marie I didn’t mean for any of this!”
Morrigan looked at the sobbing woman, Marie, supposedly. It would be so easy to just lie to him and say yes, but she didn’t want to lie to him. “I’m sorry, but it is best I don’t interfere. It will do more harm than good if I reveal myself to her. Believe me.”
“But… everything I did was for her and the baby. This whole thing just got so messed up… I just needed some quick cash, but now…” He clutched his hands over his face. “Please… let me speak to her.”
“Morrigan, reap him,” Noir said. “You’re out of time.”
Morrigan exhaled. She thought of Michael Roy and how bad things had gotten because she delayed. “I’m sorry, John, but you’re going to a better place.”
As her scythe descended, a motion she performed as calmly and non-threatening as possible, John looked up and shielded himself. “No! Plea—”
His words were cut off as his spiritual form began to dissolve until turning to a wisp that rose to the ceiling and disappeared. Morrigan quickly turned around and looked out the window, seeing a crowd of onlookers gathering. She turned back into the house, opting to exit through the backdoor. Once outside, she quickly jumped a fence and walked through a small alley until coming back onto the street. She could hear police sirens in the distance as she searched for her next client.
Further down the street, she saw a group of kids on bikes keeping a cautious distance from Russel’s body, but he was already lying face down on the asphalt. She realized reaping him would be difficult with so many eyes on him but with nobody actually approaching. Perhaps she would have to wait for the police or paramedics to arrive, and then she could blend in with them. Meanwhile, more pedestrians came to gawk from a distance.
“Get away from that man!” a woman shouted at the kids. “He’s got a gun!”
One of the boys shrugged and pointed toward him. “He’s dead.”
Morrigan leaned against a light pole, just watching for now, blending in with the many other onlookers.
As she quietly observed the scene, waiting for her opportunity, more and more people came out of their houses, perhaps feeling safer with more time put between them and the gunshots that rang out a short time ago. Then, Morrigan’s sweeping gaze stopped on someone.
There was a person standing away from everyone else, dressed in all black—a robe, with a hood covering their face. Morrigan squinted, trying to get a better look, but it was hard to make out anything discernible between the distance and the wind softly blowing the hood. Morrigan might not have thought anything of it, but this person wasn’t focused on the body as everyone else was. With all the onlookers simultaneously staring in the same direction, it was obvious that one was not—this mysterious person was staring across the street, directly at Morrigan herself!
Then, a particularly strong gust of wind blew this other person’s cloak. Again, too far and too brief a glimpse to make out any details, but Morrigan thought for sure she had seen a single red eye peering out from under that hood.
Morrigan took a step forward. “Hey… Noir?” She glanced to her side just long enough to confirm the cat was there, but when she looked back, the black-robed figure was gone. Morrigan scanned the area, finding no trace of them.
“What is it, Morrigan?”
“Did you… see that person?” Morrigan asked, pointing.
“Morrigan, stay focused!” Noir snapped. “Keep your eye on your client.”
Morrigan frowned. She really did hate Noir sometimes. She might have quipped back at him, but the lingering unease left her short of words.
“Um… is it possible another reaper came by?” Morrigan asked.
“Why? Do you think you saw one?”
“Yeah, hard to say for sure, though.”
“It is not impossible, but with the exception of a major disaster with many deaths, it is rare for two to cross paths while on duty.”
“Oh… I see...”
Noir’s tail flicked. “Either way, it is of no concern. Look there, your client is emerging from his body.”
Morrigan looked and sure enough, Russel’s spirit was pushing himself to his feet, looking around confused for a moment until locking eyes with Morrigan as if knowing what she was.
Morrigan stepped forward, and without any delay, Russel turned and started to run.
“Oh no, you don’t,” Morrigan muttered under her breath. She ran along the sidewalk and summoned her scythe, focusing on the idea of someone running to look for a phone to effect her perception blocking, then began chasing Russel down the street.
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