Sudden Death Overtime
THE COURSE CURRICULUM hadn’t mentioned the weeklong break between semesters. While everyone else relaxed and caught up on errands, visits and sleep, I went crazy. I wouldn’t graduate until the week of my twenty-sixth birthday. That left me just a few days to obtain my scythe and go AWOL to the Coil. And that was
I waylaid Professor Schotz in the hall and begged him to cancel our hiatus.
He laughed, telling me I was the first student ever to do that. And sorry, no. The only thing Professor Schotz and Sergeant Schotz agreed on was fly-fishing so they’d be gone the entire week.
I remembered the things I’d seen swimming in the Styx on my first crossing and wished him luck. I hoped they had a catch-and-release law down here; eating too many fish Styx couldn’t be good for you.
I spent some time pacing and fretting. When that didn’t seem to accomplish much, I tried researching why you should never use someone else’s scythe. Picture me spending my free time in Hell’s reference library. No, seriously.
I did manage to root out a few oblique references in the university’s Reaper resource materials. As the professor had said, however, the supposed dire consequences remained shrouded in history and mystery. I’d grabbed Dante’s scythe the day he dragged me to Hell. Other than him freaking out, nothing had happened. I began to think it was an apocryphal tale based on rumors gone viral.
In the meantime, time grew wonkier and wonkier. The increasing lack of synchronization kept the Reaper Corps’ Soul Collection Department crazy-busy. Reaper Dispatch would send experienced Reapers out after souls and they would return empty-handed, reporting that they’d arrived days too late or days too early. The souls had either taken off deliberately or just gotten lost. Most souls found their own way, eventually, but it was traumatizing for them to wander around like, well, lost souls. The Satanic nurses set up a counseling station where they tried to cobble damaged souls back together but it didn’t always work. Something had to be done.
I considered this from the comfort of our rooftop apartment. I had a terrific view of the city—four stories up is a lot in a town comprised largely of one- and two-story buildings. Only the downtown area featured a few high- rise structures and I considered that to be part of the skyline’s charm, especially as time got more and more temperamental. Sometimes half the city would be shrouded in darkness while it was noon where I stood. The poor guy who drove the chariot of light across Hell’s roof was all over the place. Once I saw him nearly collide with himself on his way back from sunset. Charon complained he couldn’t choose between day and evening wear.
And exactly when had I begun thinking of Dante’s apartment as “our” apartment?
My week between semesters passed in a series of fits and starts. Mostly fits. It was nearly impossible to meet up with friends for a specific meal so we just started hanging out at Claire Voyant’s deli whenever. I might arrive to find Sybil having breakfast, Dante lunch and Lord Seiko dinner, when Khali and I had popped in for a late-night snack.
Monday morning arrived before I knew it—literally. And possibly before anyone else knew it, either.
Remembering that the second-semester class would be taught by the military-issue version of our instructor, I was all ready when Dante suggested we head to class two hours early. Actually, I’d been ready to go since my clock said 5:00 a.m. His watch said 7:30. Class started at 9:00. Somewhere in there, someone was right. Or maybe not. Dante handed me a steaming cup of his excellent coffee, which had cooled a bit in the time it took him to cross the room. According to his watch, ten minutes had passed between the kitchen and the living room, a journey of about ten paces. When we retraced his steps back into the kitchen to fill little Jenni’s food and water bowls, time ran backward. The coffeemaker pinged readiness of the cup I’d already downed. It swirled around in my stomach, ending up hiding behind a kidney like it didn’t know if it should be there or not.
We walked in companionable silence to the Reaper training facility, which was located off-campus.
Good thing we left early. It took us nearly an hour to walk to the edge of the city where the dark woods began, and then another forty minutes to reach the training grounds. Plus, we discovered we’d also lost an hour to DST—not daylight saving time but Damnable Screwy Time.
We arrived to find the training grounds were actually grounds—fieldwork in a field. Who knew? The second half of the course would be taught in a big white canvas tent. We ducked through the flaps and entered to find some of my classmates milling about. Dante headed to the front of the tent and stood at parade rest behind the instructor, who was, to my surprise, still kindly Professor Schotz. Where was the “what doesn’t kill ya (again) makes ya stronger” sergeant? Had Professor Schotz finally had enough of his alter ego and had him altered? Or maybe just shoved him into the Styx?
I grabbed a comfy-looking rock next to Kali and sat. Professor Schotz launched into a glowing rundown of Sergeant Schotz’s qualifications and experience and how lucky we were to have him as our instructor. He really seemed to admire the guy—no false modesty here.
A few more people straggled in after me and I expected them to get a grand chewing-out, but the professor just shrugged. How could you be on time when time itself was tardy? Finally the entire group assembled in the tent. It was time, and past time, to begin.
“And so, it gives me great pleasure to turn your Reaper education over to my bitter half, Sergeant Schotz.” The professor gestured toward himself and bowed his head. When he raised it, the thinning white ponytail had morphed into the crew cut and the kindly professorial features and manner had blitzed away. I think the sergeant was actually taller than the professor but wouldn’t dare ask. Or sneak up behind him with a measuring tape. Something about a measuring tape always makes men nervous.
“Thanks, Prof. You can go back to your nice, safe, hallowed halls now,” the sergeant all but sneered. It looked like the admiration wasn’t mutual—more of a love-hate kind of thing.
“All you greenhorns,” he snapped at us, “and any other color horns among you. You better listen up and listen good.”
We all sat up straighter.
Everything about the sergeant demanded attention.
“I’m in charge of making Reapers outta you idjits. And the key words here are,
He paced the front of the tent, one hand resting on his scythe while he gestured with the other.
I glanced over at Dante, who was standing at parade rest near the whiteboard. I thought he looked kind of naked without his trusty scythe. Which only got me thinking about Dante naked and then I missed the rest of the sergeant’s scary pep talk. I tuned back in just in time to hear, “Now, the first thing we’re gonna do is take a ten- mile hike. You think you outta-shape idjits can handle that?”
He spewed the last so hard he sent one of his teeth flying across the tent to land in the flattened grass at M’Kimbi’s feet.
“Get that!” the instructor ordered.
M’Kimbi tried to pick it up but it squirted from his fingers. This time it bounced and landed near Amber who made a grab for it but it sailed over toward Kali. She used all six hands but it still skittered away from her grasp. Grasps.
Finally, Sergeant Schotz bent down and picked it up, shoving it back into his jaw. He chewed air a few times to settle it back into place. Anger painted his scarred face as he surveyed us, his scathing single-eyed gaze jumping from one Reaper candidate to the next. “I see you are all total incompetents.” He raised his hand, pointing accusingly, face twisted and red. “You can’t even manage to pick up one teeny-tiny item. You can’t handle the tooth!”
Brute Camp
THE TEN-MILE TREK was unsurprising, some of us able to make it and some not. I was able to go the distance—barely.
The rest of the boot camp portion of our program proved equally predictable. Sergeant Schotz would insult
