• Prologue


    When the Titanic sank, it was a ******** for The Grims. We were caught completely off-guard by a ship that big, with so many people on it, just cracking in 2 and sinking into the freezing water. The Corporals started diverting Reapers from any section that could spare it. My area was pretty low key, no big cities, no high traffic areas, North Carolina in 1912 didn't have a huge population, so I was sent out to help clean up.

    Oh Joy.

    I suppose I should explain just what The Grims are. In our universe, contrary to popular belief, there is no heaven or hell, at least to the best of my knowledge. To put it simply, there's 2 dimensions, the one of the living, and one of the dead. The two worlds exist right on top of each other, yet absolutely separate. The only way to get from this world to the “Spirit world” is to die, and to move through the veil, the ethereal division between the 2 universes.

    When people die, their souls don't float up out of their bodies and head off to their afterlife of choice. In reality, their stuck. Trapped inside their dead body, forever stuck within a slowly decomposing capsule of bone and tissue. Not a very upbeat way to spend eternity, right? That's where The Grims come in. Our job is to find dead bodies, rip the souls from their earthly shells, tear a temporary hole in the veil, and send them through on to the Spirit World.

    Easier said than done. Granted the job probably wasn't too difficult back when populations were small, there were still deaths every day, but you didn't have the rat race of modern times. Back then a few dozen Reapers would have been enough, but these days it takes nearly 300,000 to keep up with deaths. Sure we can sense when somebody passes, and being ethereal allows us to astral project to where they are, the sheer number of deaths that occur, it's near constant work for every one of us.

    We, the Grim were once humans ourselves, but most Reapers, especially the Corporals, are so old that they don't even remember how they died. I'd bitten it about 60 years or so before the Titanic got ripped by ice and incompetence, so I was pretty fresh. The cries of those still alive were pretty bad, but after a good 6 decades of dealing with mostly dead bodies, the morbidity and aloofness to death had started to sink in. I guess it just comes with the territory.

    But I'm starting to ramble. (Blame the author, he's the one who wanted to get all the exposition out of the way quick.) Back to the enormous sinking ship, the hundreds of people dying, and the beginning of my ordeal. (Oh, that was foreshadowing wasn't it? Good job Author, why don't you hit the reader with a brick next paragraph?)
    The cold was the first thing that struck me as I projected onto the scene (Oh come on now, that's the best you could come up with? “Onto the scene?” My gods, it's as if my entire Narration has been taken over by a lazy teenager.)

    So let me tell you, even when you're nothing but spirit, it gets cold past genitalia shrinkage when your on the ocean, in the middle of the night, next to a dirty great iceberg. (Ooh! The Author's using British lingo now! Been reading “Harry Potter” lately, eh?)

    Alright, I'll the author continue, (Wouldn't want to hurt his delicate feelings.) and get on with the story. Excuse me for giving you a break from exposition for some good old fashioned commentary.

    So as I've established, it was cold. Like you, I don't like being cold, so it wasn't a very pleasant experience. I felt it better to get done with this ridiculous mission as soon as possible. I dived below the water, down towards the wreckage, as it was already sinking towards the ocean floor, and what I found wasn't that enjoyable. There were bodies everywhere, in the water, stuck inside the ship, some had even been chewed up by the fish and sharks around (bad luck for the Reapers who showed up later, they'd be left to find those bodies, and that would mean sniffing out the biggest piece of flesh left, to rip the soul out of. Thank whatever deity was looking out for me that night that I showed up early.).

    Not exactly the happiest of sights, right? It was made all the worse by the headache. We Reapers can sense when a person dies, as well as where they die, through a slight pinprick in mind (I know that's not the correct way to explain it, but the author's rushing, blame him.). The intensity of the sensation increases the closer we are to a trapped soul, as well as how many of them there are. (Think of it this way, if you were to get needle stuck it your side for a moment, it would hurt, but nothing terrible. 1500 needles on the other hand, and you'd know how I felt then.)

    I decided that the sooner I got to work, the sooner I would get rid of the headache. I started with the closest half of the ship, and headed through the main hall. It was a big ship, so even with the massive body count it was still a lot of walking. I found the first body in a single room, she'd been one of the lucky ones it seems (As lucky as you can get, considering she was dead and all.), asleep when the ship sank, went all peacefully in her sleep. At least the passing had been peaceful, but the woman's spirit was awake and kicking, I could hear her screaming (Okay, perhaps “hear” isn't the optimal word. It's reminiscent of a car with a loud bass blasting behind you, you might not hear the music, but you feel the vibrations. The louder the sound, the more your car shakes. It's basically the same thing here.) and she was certainly not enjoying being stuck in her dead shell of a body.

    I moved next to her body, and a knife materialized in my hand. It was a very intricate piece of craftsmanship, if I do say so myself, (Not that I technically “crafted” it. We make these things with our imaginations, to break spirits from their capsules.) with a smooth ebony handle, sharp silver blade, decorated dark green. The knife was the usual manifestation is used for my Scythe. It was far less alarming than a blood-drenched scythe that most Agents used, as well as being far less cliché.

    I brought the knife down, just above her body, and with surgical precision moved the blade down he silhouette, a glowing line of light following in it's wake (Well that line came out of nowhere. I think the Author got that from somewhere. Not implying he's a plagiarist, just that it seems out of place.).

    From the line, the light seeped into the underwater room, slinking out as like blood from a wound. Seconds later, the light, a dull yellow, coalesced into a ball, then began to take shape. Arms and legs became distinct; a head and shoulders formed; facial features gained definition, until eventually the mirror image of the dead woman stood beside me, her eyes full of fear.

    “Who are you?” She asked in a weak voice. (Oh come on now, really? She couldn't ask something more interesting? Please tell me Mr. Author, are all of my interactions with others going to be this uninspired? If so, I'll be giving my 2 weeks' notice.)

    “Death, mostly. But I moonlight as a carpenter,” Was my answer. Call it unpleasant if you wish, but if you work with death for your 6 decades, you'll want to put some humor into it too.

    “Oh...” Was all she said, a miserable expression taking over her face. (For the love of all things unholy and horrible. I think the author is just trying to make my life boring now. It's bad enough I'm in a universe where my job description can be summed up as “The constant, endless disposal of the dead,” can I at least have someone fun to talk with?)

    “Don't look so sad. Look on the bright side; You still have your health.”

    Not waiting for a response (Though I'm sure it would have been just as enthralling and articulate as before.) I lifted my knife and made a straight downward cut through the air in front of us, a line of darkness following in it's wake. The line then expanded, stretching and growing until it was a Hole in reality. (Wait. What? I'm the main character of this story, and that didn't even make sense to me.)

    Behind the Hole was, well, Nothingness. One of the rules of the veil is that you can walk through a hole in it, but you can never see passed it. (Is that supposed to be a way of saying you can never see death coming? I swear, this author is full or crap. Is it too late to get switched to Darren Shan's next series?)

    “What...what is that?” My Oh-so-talkative company asked.

    “It's the Rabbit Hole, Alice,” I told her, and placed my hand on her shoulder.

    “What does that-” was all she said before I through her taciturn self through the Hole. I wasn't in the mood to answer pointless questions.

    Her body soared through the Hole, her mouth opening to cry out. She slipped through, into the veil of darkness and off the mortal coil. (Her exit was actually very sudden. It's basically as if she slipped through a curtain.)

    After that it was basically a very boring job. The cold kept me from completely zoning out as I did my work. I worked quicker with the others than I did with the woman, cutting out the souls more quickly, pulling the more stubborn ones by force (They didn't enjoy that too much, though I guess I wouldn't enjoy somebody manhandling my soul either.) but the formula basically stayed the same. Hell, except for the setting and the gruelingly persistent headache, it was almost like my regular missions in the my region.

    That was, until I came upon him. (Ooh, more foreshadowing! Grace us with more of it, oh great mediocre one!)

    I suppose I shouldn't joke, this does turn out to be a pretty important later on. (So take notes quiz, there will be a quiz at the end of this novel.) You see, in my entire existence, (to say “life” would be a misnomer) there has only ever been one true disaster. I'm not talking about my death, or the hardships I faced during it, which I've sworn to never speak of. (Translation: The Author hasn't come up with my back story yet.) No, there's only been one occurrence in the entire of time line of my being, spanning from my conception to my end, that I have ever felt truly warranted being termed as an absolute calamity.

    That one happening stemmed directly from that night, on the sinking remains of the metal behemoth known as the Titanic, when I stumbled upon the unassuming body of Owen Allum.

    He was one of the last remaining bodies on the Half of the ship I had taken. A few other Agents had arrived and helping with clean up. The decrease in remaining spirits had lessened the headache considerably, so I was in a more agreeable mood than with the earlier charges.

    When I entered the hallway, I was surprised and at least somewhat disgusted to find his body crushed up against iron bars blocking access to the hallway. He must have been part of the 3rd class. From what I've garnered through my research, the crew of the ship had set up cage bars to keep the lower classes from being seen by the rich. He must have been trying to get out when the ship sank. Terrible way to go, really.

    “Well, sucks to be him,” summed up my thoughts on the subject.

    I headed forward, knife at the ready, anxious to be done with this mammoth irritation once and for all. From what I could tell he was the only body left, the other Agents had taken care of the rest, meaning that once he was past the veil, I could get back to my regular territory and take care of the gigantic pain in the derrière that was waiting for me. (All the backed up dead was going to be an unbelievable annoyance.)

    His body was up right, arms curled around the bars holding it up. I brought the knife up, stopping just behind his head, and cut down, leaving the line of light behind. His soul seeped out, took shape, and took form of a 15-year-old boy.

    It wasn't the age that threw me; There had been far younger on the boat, (Including a 1-year-old unable to walk through the Hole. He'd flown like a football, perfect spiral I might add.) and I myself had been only a couple years older when I bit the big one. (Okay, 1 year and 6 months, but I was very mature for my age!)

    The problem also wasn't the gaunt expression he wore on his face, a mask of despair and despondence. I'd been a Reaper for so long that depression was as normal as apathy to me. (Working with the dead for the greater part of a century will warp your perspective something awful.)

    What spun my head around in 6 different direction was the long blade protruding from his back, stuck fast like Arthur's sword in the stone. (Okay, now that was way out of left field. Does the author have schizophrenia of something?)

    s**t.

    “Who..who are you?” he asked, stammering in panic. (The dead are a repetitive bunch, now aren't they?)

    “That's sort of an odd question. If I were you I'd be wondering why there was a machete sticking out of my back,” I answered.

    “WHAT!” Turning his neck he caught a glimpse of the blade jutting out of his back side. His eyes went from sullen to shocked at break-neck speed. “Get it out!”

    “Hold still.”

    I grasped his shoulder to hold him still, grasped the machete's handle, and yanked it out. There was no blood, after all he was only spirit. But the lack of bodily fluids did nothing to improve my mood. He may not know what the blade meant, but I did. It meant I was going to have a very long ordeal ahead of me.

    The blade extricated, I turned him around and thrust it into his hands.

    “What's your name?” I asked him. He still seemed jarred by the fact that I had just ripped a sword out of his back, but in my state of mind and that moment I couldn't have cared less about how comfortable he was.

    “Owen...” He answered meekly.

    “Owen what?”

    “Allum.”

    “Well Owen Allum,” I said as a scroll materialized in my left hand. Handling my knife with care, I unfurled the parchment and began reading from it, anger lacing my words.

    “'You are hereby drafted, by the qualifications of your bladed soul, into the Spectral association known formally and informally as The Grims. You shall remain in the presence of your discovering Agent until the time comes when you are deemed capable of efficiently fulfilling your duties as a Reaper. Your enrollment in our organization for all of existence or until the universe collapses, said occurrence will void your obligation. As part of your membership, You are hereby barred from ever crossing the veil between the worlds. Welcome to the Grims. We hope you enjoy your service.”

    “What?

    “Let me explain it without the bureaucratic bull spit. You're dead. That sword you're holding means you're going to be the new Grim reaper. I'm going to train you until you're competent enough not to ******** up the balance of death. Welcome to Death, I hope you like it because you're stuck here for the rest of eternity.”

    “But...”

    “You also better can the timidity. I don't deal with weaklings.”

    “But I...” He stammered. (Come on, can't I at least get a sidekick who's a good conversationalist?)

    “But what?”

    “What about my family?”

    “They're dead, drowned of froze. You'll get over 'em soon enough. Now come on, I've got to get back to where I usually tread.”

    I grabbed his shoulder before he could talk again, and with a simple “hang on” I spirited us both away from the wreckage.

    Had I known what would come from that night, I would have ignored that blade in his back. I would have sent him through Hole and acted as if he were any other regular spirit. I would never have initiated him into The Grims, never have binded him to all the constrictions that came with it.

    But I didn't. I followed protocol, and inadvertently, unknowingly doomed the universe.

    In effect, I'd set myself, and all of our reality, on a direct path to chaos and destruction.

    (s**t. That doesn't sound good.)