Young Writers Society

This is a story I submitted to a contest...it's semi-fantasy comedy.

Let me know what you think, eh?

Terminal KTB

John Frost whistled cheerfully as he walked down the street, his arms swinging carelessly at his sides. The day was good—no, not just good; it was fantastic. The sun was shining warmly, the sky was a clear blue, and his neighbor’s annoying dog had been run over by a delivery truck sometime during the night. In short, it was one of the best days of his life.

That is, it was one of the best days of his life, until he got to the corner of 4th Avenue and Kestrel Lane.

The corner of 4th and Kestrel was just as pleasant as everything else Frost had seen that day. It connected two modestly busy streets, and, at the moment, separated Frost from his goal: a little café on the opposite corner called Grounds for Enjoyment. It was a bizarre name, and its staff rather irritating, but the coffee was damn good, and that’s what Frost wanted.

He reached the corner, grinning a little as an errant breeze tousled his short brown hair and his windbreaker. The streetlight to his right was green, so the pedestrian sign on the corner opposite him was advising him DON’T WALK repeatedly. He saw a sign on the pole next to him that said PUSH BUTTON FOR SIGNAL. There was a button under it, so he pushed it, which of course did absolutely nothing.

The sign continued to flash DON’T WALK. His grin faded a little; he feared that if he remained here much longer, his good mood might be dampened. After another few seconds, he decided to Hell with it, bounded forward, put his foot into a pot hole, fell, and got hit by a bus.

There was a terrifying squeal as the bus braked, the acrid smell of burning rubber filling his nostrils. The last thing he saw was a headlight reflecting the sun, the glare horribly bright. He heard a brutal thud—

And, quite suddenly, a woman’s voice.

“—lcome to KTB Interethereal Airport. Please obey all airport safety regulations. For our new arrivals, welcome. In order to make your time with us more enjoyable, management asks that you please do not wander the terminal looking for the baggage claim. There isn’t one. Thank you.”

Part One: Terminal KTB

Frost blinked. He was standing in a very busy airport. He blinked again, fully expecting it to vanish. The airport remained, rather rudely. He looked behind him. There was a gate there, one of those long, accordion-style corridors that connect airports to planes. A sign above it said Arrival Gate 123,392 and, almost as an afterthought, B.

Something crackled above him; looking up, he saw a speaker set into the ceiling.

“Welcome,” the woman’s voice said. “Please stay calm, and remain next to your arrival gate. Death will be with you shortly.”

“What will what?” Frost said.

“John Frost?” said a voice behind him. “John Cecil Frost?”

He turned and jumped backwards. It was Him: the Grim Reaper, the Angel of Death, Master of…of…well, Master of Things No Longer Kicking. Death’s face was a white skull, his eyes empty sockets, his frame covered in a black robe, his head covered by a black hood.

Frost’s jaw dropped.

“You’re—you are—I mean…”

“Come on,” said Death. “Everyone goes through this. The sooner you spit it out, the easier it is.”

“You’re Death!” Frost screeched, his arm pointing wildly.

“There you go.”

Instead of a scythe, Death was holding a pencil and a clipboard. He made a mark on said clipboard with said pencil, picked up a card from said clipboard, and cleared his nonexistent throat.

“Hello,” he said, clearly reading whatever was printed on the card, “and welcome to the afterlife. I’m Death, your chaperone to the airport of spiritual transcendence. If you care to follow the signs throughout the terminal, and to check the departures board, you can find a flight to your final desti—”

He stopped. A thin, balding man was tugging at Frost’s sleeve. “Hello,” the man said in a small voice. “I’m with the Jehovah’s Witnesses. Are you seeking—”

“Hey, buddy,” Death said irritably. “Don’t you think it’s a little late for that?”

The man looked affronted and hurried away, but not before he’d shoved some pamphlets into Frost’s hand. Frost looked around in vain for a wastebasket.

“Can I ask you something?” He asked Death, his expression puzzled. “It’s just that this system doesn’t make sense to me.”

Death’s hand drifted up from the clipboard and used the pencil to pick absentmindedly at his eye socket.

“The system? What about it?”

“It’s just…” Frost waved his hand vaguely to encompass the endless gates, uncounted fast-foot restaurants, and infinite gift shops. “From what I’ve heard, you’re supposed to guide us all individually to our afterlives, not this airport stuff.”

Death waggled a bleached finger threateningly at Frost.

“Now don’t even start. You think you’ve got problems? Think about all the literary geniuses here whose flights are delayed for eternity, and the bookstores only sell Crichton and King novels.” He shuddered. “I mean, they’re good, but, you know. Jeez.”

“You didn’t answer my question,” Frost pointed out.

“Hey!” Death raised one fleshless hand to his ear. “Did you hear that?”

“What?”

“That was the sound of about twenty people dying in the last few minutes.”

“I didn’t hear anything.”

“Yes,” Death said crisply. “Because I wasn’t there to greet them.” He turned and walked away.

“Hey!” Frost shouted, chasing after him. He fought against the flood of people, trying to keep Death within sight. “Wait!”

For a sickening moment the tide of people rose and blocked his view, but he springboarded off of a stack of newspapers titled Underworld News and escaped the bulk of the crowd.

“What the—” Death looked around. “Oh. It’s you. Don’t you give up? You’re dead. Deal with it.”

“But—”

“Somewhere else,” Death added. He waved his clipboard irritatingly in a shooing-away gesture.

“I don’t even know where I’m supposed to go,” Frost said helplessly.

“Who gives a crap? Go on vacation! Go nuts! Try Valhalla,” Death said, suddenly sounding sincere. “It’s very nice this time of year, if you don’t mind getting drunk and fighting a lot.”

He turned to leave again. Frost tried desperately to think of something to say, an excuse to keep Death talking, something that would give him a leg up on getting out of this place—and not in the direction of Valhalla.

“Are you happy?” He blurted out suddenly.

“Happy?” Death said, turning back to him.

“Yes. Happy. With this.” Frost gestured at the airport.

It is astonishingly difficult for a skull to display surprise, or to appear nonplussed. Mostly they grin at people in less-than-pleasant way. By an unconscious effort of will, surprise and nonplussery were exactly the emotions that Death’s skull displayed at this moment.

“Well—ye—I mean…” Death stammered. “It has very nice…um…the people here are just…and the food…ah…It’s very shiny,” he finished lamely.

“Yes,” Frost said sarcastically. “I suppose that makes it all worthwhile.”

“Look,” Death said. “If you really want an honest answer, no. I really don’t like this airport crap. I preferred the good old days, where I reaped my own souls, did my own work, all that jazz. I miss the fun, the excitement, my scythe—”

His voice broke a little. Frost placed a sympathetic hand on his shoulder, but it went completely numb from a blast of Death’s chill aura and fell to his side, so the tender effect was lost.

“Why did the system change?” Frost asked. He massaged his arm, which had started imitating a block of wood, and thus remained immobile.

Death snorted. “Bureaucracy,” he said. “The Great Beyond says that stopping time every few seconds is ‘counterproductive’ and ‘too expensive’. So they go and build this infinitely large airport terminal, like that’s not expensive?”

“So why don’t you complain?”

“I can’t,” said Death. “I could lose my job. Then you’d have zombies clogging the motorways, and stuff like that. Can’t let it happen.”

“Well. You have a good point.” Frost’s face brightened. “What about me? I could always complain.”

“Yeah…” Death said. “About that…”

“What?”

“The complaints department…it’s in a weird place…”

“Where is it?”

“Everywhere else.”

“What?”

“The complaints department,” Death said, very patiently, “is everywhere you want to be.”

“Like a Visa?”

Death stared at him; or rather, he looked at Frost more pointedly with his empty eye sockets. “No.”

Frost continued massaging his arm, which had decided that it wasn’t a block of wood after all, but rather a piece of road kill. “I’m lost.”

“The complaints department,” Death said, once again using his most patient voice, “is situated anywhere in the airport—except within reach of the person who actually wants to go there.”

“That’s pretty incredible,” said Frost.

“Oh, yes.” said Death, nodding.

“Rather ingenious,” Frost continued.

“Indeed.”

“Bastards,” Frost added thoughtfully.

“Quite.”

“So how am I supposed to complain, if I can’t get to the complaints department?”

“Well, I think the location of the department makes it pretty clear that you’re not supposed to complain at all,” Death pointed out. “But I think I can do you a favor. I can get you there.”

“Really?”

“But,” Death added warningly, “You’re definitely not going to enjoy it.”

Part Two: The Complaints Department of the Great Beyond

It felt as if his eyes had gotten bored with looking out all the time, flipped inside out, found something worth going after, and dived headlong into his brain. His brain, meanwhile, felt as if it were vigorously attempting to eat itself. This was almost preferable to the feeling in his stomach, which was similar to a herd of drunken elephants trying to play tennis.

Suffice to say, it was quite an experience.

Frost and Death appeared suddenly at their destination. It was the one unreachable place in the entire airport, suddenly reached; the unobtainable goal, suddenly obtained. The effect was rather lost on Frost, who was lying spread-eagle on the floor, trying to convince his eyeballs to come back from their sabbatical.

“How are we feeling?” said Death.

“Mmmmmyyyuuuuuuuu.” explained Frost.

“It happens to everyone,” said Death. “Don’t worry. Teleportation isn’t much fun. Just take a minute to remember where everything’s attached...I know! Try putting your hand to your nose, or something.”

Frost placed his hand on the appropriate organ.

“That,” said Death, suppressing a chuckle, “is not your nose.”

Frost looked down, and realized that the appropriate organ he was pointing at was, in fact, an inappropriate one. He tried again.

“That’s your eye,” said Death. “But we’re getting better.”

After a few minutes of this, Frost finally got to his ears—er, feet. He sniffed—nodded—at Death. “Let’s try not to do that again.”

“We will,” said Death, “when we leave.”

Frost groaned unhappily. He distracted himself with the importance task of finding out where in the word—or Underworld—he was.

The powers of the Great Beyond had near-infinite power, near-infinite knowledge, near-infinite resources, and no creativity. The Complaints Department of the Great Beyond was merely the extreme of every boring waiting room in existence. The wallpaper was ugly, but in an infinitely extreme way: blue puppies cavorting in olive-green bonnets. The chairs were uncomfortable-looking, but also in an infinitely extreme way: they combined ugly anti-padding with splintery wood. Even the magazines were outdated in the same infinite motif; the most recent boasted a cover story titled ‘Big Bang or Big Bang-up: Was the Universe a Result of Shoddy Workmanship?’ It had been published some forty billion years previously. Older issues had stories that were all strikingly similar, such as ‘Even More Things To Do in the Nether Void of Non-Existence’.

Frost merely shrugged and said that he’d seen a lot worse. He had; he’d lived in Los Angeles for over a year. He turned his attention to the little window set into the far wall, which looked into a little secretarial office. The secretary herself was taking a quick nap, which, judging by the amount of dust gathered on her, had started sometime around the storming of the Bastille. Frost saw a little bell labeled Ring for Service, and did.

The secretary jerked awake, shouting something about ‘those damn Dutch fur traders’, saw Frost and Death standing there, and jumped. An incredible cloud of dust dislodged itself from her frame, but even this miniature sandstorm was not enough to reveal the color of her clothes, skin, hair, or eyes.

“Yes?” she said, spewing dust fumes like smoke from a very angry dragon. “Welcome to the Complaints Department of the Great Beyond, what do you want?” She blinked blearily at them.

“Um, yes,” said Frost. “I’d like to register a complaint.” He resisted the urge to add a duh to the end of this sentence only by sheer effort of will.

“If you would like to fill out a complaint sheet,” she said, pointing to a tear-off pad of forms on the wall next to the window, “it saves time.”

“Thanks.” Frost took one of the forms, and a pencil stub. He scrawled a few sentences and handed the paper to Death for approval.

“’I liked the old system of Death a lot more,’” Death read. “’I would like to return to the old system.’ Wow. You put a lot of thought into that one, Champ.”

“Sometimes simplicity is best,” Frost said defensively. He took the paper back and turned to the dust-gray secretary. “What do I do with this?”

“Put it in one of the bins,” she said.

For a moment this offended Frost, until he realized that she was indicating two containers, which were also next to the window. They were rectangular, and clearly shaped for paper to be dropped in. One was labeled URGENT, the other, WHO CARES.

“Which one do I put it in?” asked Frost.

“If you put it in that one,” she said, indicating the bin labeled WHO CARES, “they look at it when they have the time. If you put it in the other one, they look at it straight away.”

“So,” Frost said, “I want to put it in the one labeled URGENT, yeah?”

“People really aren’t supposed to…” she said.

“Oh, come on now,” Frost said soothingly. “It’s not like they have any other complaints to look at? I bet that the one not labeled URGENT takes a long time, right?”

“Not always,” she said. “There was one man, he didn’t want to be dead, so he complained. He was out of here in three days. But,” she added in a conspiratorial whisper, “I think his Dad was someone important.”

“Well my Dad’s been entertaining earthworms for a few years now,” said Frost, “So that doesn’t do me much good, does it?”

“I suppose not…” she bit her lip. “I think…if you did it quickly enough…I wouldn’t be able to stop you, would I?” She winked at him, another miniature dust storm stirring up from her eyelashes.

He winked back and smiled at her. “Thank you,” he said, and dropped the paper into the bin marked URGENT.

“Well,” Death said. “I suppose all we do now is w—ggggkkkk.”

This last bit was not by choice. Instead, it was caused by a piece of paper that had rocketed up from the bin labeled URGENT and lodged itself in his lower jaw. He picked it out and smoothed it, read what was written on it, and whooped loudly.

“What is it?” Frost snatched the paper from him. It was a plain white piece of paper, with one word written on it: Fine.

“You’re kidding,” he said. “It’s that easy?”

“Oh, no,” Death said. “Time works differently for them. They’ve probably been debating it for weeks.” He suddenly whooped again. “Back to the old system! Back to the good old days! Back to the scy—” he stopped. He leapt into the air and whooped again. “Back to my scythe!” He grabbed Frost’s arm, which went numb again.

“Hey!” Frost said. “I just got that thing working again!”

“Never mind that!” said Death. “Let’s go!”

“No, wait!” Frost screeched, but it was too late. His eyes took another vacation, his brain returned to cannibalism, and the elephants returned to their sport with a vengeance.

Part Three: Round Trip Ticket

When Frost had managed to reassemble his motor functions a second time, he found himself in Death’s private office. He might have considered it fairly spacious, but only if hr had ever spent time in solitary confinement in the kind of place place where you wore a number and weren’t used to seeing daylight. Frost had never been within ten miles of a place like this, and so he thought it was rather cramped.

Death was rummaging through a closet in the back of the room, muttering to himself. He explained to Frost that the closet was a doorway into the emptiness of the Nether Void, which was incredibly useful for keeping things in, so long as you didn’t mind pulling out the occasional lost soul or ectoplasmic chicken.

“Not that I mind the occasional chicken dinner, but you know what I mean,” Death said. Frost didn’t, but decided that it was a good idea not to press the conversation further.

“Aha!” Death said, and suddenly pulled a scythe out of the closet, swinging it into the little office, nearly decapitating Frost in the process. “Whoa! Sorry about that.”

“No problem,” Frost said, gingerly rubbing the spot where some of his hair used to be. “That’s impressive,” he said, indicating the scythe.

Death ran a skeletal hand lovingly along the scythe’s handle. “I’ve missed this thing a lot, you know.” He flicked the curved blade with a bony finger, causing the metal to emit a deep, chilling ring.

“I owe you one,” Death said suddenly, his tone businesslike. “Seriously, I do.”

Frost perked up. “Really?” he said. “I can think of something you can do for me…”

Death shook his head. “Not that.”

“Not what?”

“Bringing you back to life.”

Frost’s heart sank.

“But,” Death continued, “I can let you play for it.”

Frost blinked. “What do you mean, play for it?”

“You pick a game, any game. If you win, you get to live again.”

“You mean ‘poof, I’m alive’?”

“Goodness, no,” said Death. “There’s always some explanation, some plausible excuse. Like someone invents a Defribrillation-O-Matic just in time to save you.”

“What’s a Defribrillation-O-Matic?”

“Exactly.”

Frost paused to consider this, then realized that there really wasn’t anything to consider.

“All right,” he said decisively. “Let’s do it.”

“Choose your game.”

“Rock-Paper-Scissors.”

“What?”

“Rock-Paper-Scissors.”

“You want to play…I…Are you on drugs?”

“What? No! What’s wrong with Rock-Paper-Scissors?”

“It’s just so…unoriginal!” I’ve been challenged to shootouts, chess matches—Hell, Alex Trebek challenged me to a Jeopardy! round, for heaven’s sake!”

“But did any of them actually win?”

Death looked thoughtful. “Hmm. Bob Barker sure did. I couldn’t guess the price of a trip to Maui. Trebek did, too; he just got off with a heart attack. Wow, those game show hosts know what they’re doing, don’t they?”

“Anyway,” Frost said. “I’m choosing this game. Rock-Paper-Scissors. Two out of three.”

“Very well.”

Dark energy gathered around Death’s frame. The shadows of his hood deepened, though his eyes began to glow like embers. Very slowly, he presented Frost with a fist, its white bone glowing in stark contrast to the darkness around him.

Frost thrust his own fist out. Slowly at first, but soon picking up speed, their fists went down, up, down, up, and down again, slamming into their open palms.

“Scissors!” Frost cried.

“Does not beat Rock,” Death said. He reached forward with his closed fist and nudged Frost’s hand.

Frost reeled backwards like a man getting mugged. He recovered himself and dove back into the fray, his fist pumping up and down like a gavel with something to prove. Once again, his hand slammed into his open palm.

“Scissors!” he cried again.

Death gaped. He hadn’t quite expected this ploy from Frost, and had thrown out Paper. Frost reached out with his Scissor-fingers to snip at Death’s Paper-hand.

They looked up at each other. This was it. It was one and one—the next hand of Rock-Paper-Scissors was literally a matter of life or death. Frost had locked his gaze with Death’s own, and they froze momentarily, staring at one another, daring the other to move first.

Frost finally broke the spell, thrusting his fist into the air and bringing it down. Death’s hand moved to match his, the energy around it so thick in the air as to leave a trail of darkness behind it. Frost slammed his hand into his palm, which was beginning to hurt rather badly from all this abuse, a second time. Death followed suit, and for a moment they paused again for just a split second before bringing their fists up and down again in that final, dreadful blow.

“Scissors!” Death bellowed in the kind of terrible voice that could make puppies’ brains hemorrhage violently.

“Rock!” Frost screeched, in a voice that would make puppies rather confused but leave them otherwise unharmed.

“Hah!” Death roared, and then “Oh, wait.”

“Hah!” Frost said, and didn’t have to say anything more.

Death looked up at him and grinned widely, or at least gave the feeling that his grin was intended, rather than a permanent fixture of his skull.

“Congratulations,” he said, and handed something to Frost.

Frost looked at it. It was a little airplane ticket. It had his name on it, with the destination marked Terminal KTB. As he looked, a message appeared across it in large, red letters:

Round Trip Ticket.

Part Four

Frost stood at the entrance to one of those long, accordion-like tunnels that connect planes to airports, Death at his side. He had no bags, or money, or a passport. He wouldn’t need them, and there wasn’t even a baggage claim anyway.

“Thanks,” he said to Death. Death looked at him and nodded.

“No need to thank me,” he said. “You did me one big favor.”

Frost looked behind him to the airport, which was as full and as busy as ever.

“What will happen?” he said.

“You’re the last flight out.” Death’s skull seemed almost to wince. “All of these people need to be taken to their final destination. I’ve got a lot of work ahead of me.” His expression turned to one of thoughtfulness. “I wonder if I’ll get overtime pay?”

“Not if you’re freezing time to take them there,” Frost pointed out.

“Mmm. True.” Death punched Frost playfully on the shoulder. To Frost’s surprise and delight, it did not prompt his arm to start acting like a block of wood again.

“Go on,” Death said. “This once, the plane can’t leave without you.”

Frost turned to leave. He was halfway down the tunnel when he suddenly thought of something. He turned back to the airport.

“Hey!” he shouted. “What does KTB stand for?”

“Kicked The Bucket,” Death said, grinning. He turned away, the scythe glinting in the fluorescent lights of the airport, and disappeared into the crowd. He was a very, very busy man.

Frost smiled. He turned back to the accordion-tunnel ahead of him. He had a plane to catch.