The Adventures of Death and Plague (chapter two)

*warning: this is a big segment to read in one sitting*

Death stared at the girl, wide eyed with shock. Astonishment dripped down his spine like ice. “Well who the hell are you?”

“I’m nobody, who are you? Why are you in a tree? What are you doing?” She spat back with fiery tongue, reminding him of something painful in a memory he couldn’t quite grasp. She had put him in his place and she knew it. She was that type of girl, the type that Death found intolerable and aggravating. He blinked a couple times stupidly, his entire customary regally calm demeanour out the window.

“I am in a tree because I can be in a tree. And I’m nobody too.”

She was taken aback, looking at him with dark eyes like a raven’s. Her face was framed by pumpkin red hair, striking images and memories of Halloween into Death’s mind. “We can’t both be nobody now can we?”

This connection, this violent and unwanted shove into the eyes of civilization, stirred in his stomach. Discomfort wasn’t an accustom emotion for Death; boredom, mischievousness, the urge to prank passersby, slight depression, spite. But when it came to discomfort, embarrassment, flattery, these were what he was unaccustomed to. He looked on at the young woman with slight annoyance, snatching his cane from her.

“Don’t touch this.”

“Oh, my apologies, I didn’t know you were King of the Cane.” She said snidely, adjusting her glasses with her middle and index fingers. Her cherry lips were pursed and smelled of faint medicated lip balm.

A laugh threatened to escape his lips. “You can call me Mr. Cane actually.” Death said with an amused tone. The moment she raised her eyebrows sceptically with that odd, distorted look on her face, he smiled a wry, amused smile.

“Well than Mr. Cane, my name is Datty.” She smiled slightly and stuck up her hand into the boughs of the tree for him to shake. His stomach churned, wondering how he could object to a handshake when she already seemed immune to his effects. Tentatively he reached out his naked hand and shook it. “You’ve got a weak handshake there Mr. Cane.” She smiled.

He tightened his handshake and pondered what to say next. “Mr. Cane isn’t really my real name.”

“No way,” She said with voice thick with sarcasm, her mouth a perfectly shaped O. “Well when the time comes maybe you’ll tell me.” Her eyes looked him up and down from within the tree.

The air was bone chilling and Death actually felt the nipping of the spearmint wind. The gray behind her was stark against the colors she wore, the green long sleeved shirt, the dark jeans, the off-red hair and green glasses. She wasn’t letting the drab weather get her down and was instead thriving in it.

He grabbed his cane and swung out of the tree, hearing Datty mutter something like ‘holy spider monkey’ as he righted himself. “So what were you doing in the neighbourhood?”

She shrugged and waved her hand vaguely behind her, “Oh I was heading to the bar downtown, the Surly Crow, to err- do some business.” She cleared her throat and shoved her hands into her deep coat pockets, looking anywhere but him.

He straightened his posture, seeing he was taller than her by at least four inches. He wasn’t taller than most people. “The Surly Crow... I like the name. So you’re a gambler.” It wasn’t a question, just a statement. Death could read that much into her and in the way she kept darting glances over his shoulders.

“Did Viktor send you?” She scowled at him, hair falling over her glasses in jagged unwashed tendrils.

“Viktor?” Death said with a raised eyebrow. He heard her heartbeat triple as her breathing get uneven. “I know lots of Viktors.” He cocked his head to the side as he said, “Most of them are dead.”

She narrowed her eyes and hissed out, “Sure. Well it’d be nice to have company that can...” She looked him up and down, looking at the trenchcoat and the cane and the dark eyes that Death had, “Company that can look intimidating, if you know what I’m saying. That is, only if you don’t mind, I totally get it if you don’t want to.”

“You have no idea.” Death replied under his breath with a chuckle, flipping up his collar. “I’ll go.” He shrugged and felt a renewed excitement fill him up from his core, radiating in his legs and arms with stinging precision.

“Cool,” Datty said as she turned down the street, “The Crow’s this way.” She said as she started off down the street and watched an ambulance pass them, into the school. He averted his eyes and heard the sirens pull into the school parking lot. His companion apparently noticed and she shrugged her shoulders. “I’m sure whoever it may be is fine,” said Datty dismissively.

Before Death could respond, she opened her mouth again as she slowed slightly. Did this woman ever stop talking?

“Thanks a million Mr. Cane.” Datty forced a smile and swerved to the right, under the carved wooden sign with sun dried and chipped paint, the sign declared in swirly handwriting ‘Surly Crow’ with a crow standing and pointing a wing inside.

Datty entered the bar boldly and Death hesitated before following suit.

Immediately his sensitive senses were bombarded, having to fight from covering his ears at the sounds of lottery machines, alcohol sloshing from clinked mugs, burly men shouting. The smells weren’t as bad, but they sure weren’t a walk in the park; the bitter, sour smell of stale bear, urine, vomit, and the worst case of bad breath known to man- and Death had smelled his fair share of bad breaths. Death wrinkled his nose and held the door for Datty as he entered.

Datty didn’t seem to be affected by the sounds and smells. She hesitated once within the confines of the doorway, searching for someone.

“Aha Datz, glad yous made it.” A voice said from across the bar with a heavy Russian accent.

He heard Datty level her voice and steady her breathing. “You just want your money Viktor. I’ve got it so quit the touchy-feely crap. Just take your damn money.” She shoved her hands back into her deep pockets and clenched her fists. Death furrowed his brow, unable to tell what was in Datty’s pocket, a knife? Or the money?

“An’ who might dis be? Your brudder?” Viktor laughed and pointed at Death, his index finger lifting from his glass of dark amber colored liquid. Death’s eyes narrowed, he could sense Viktor’s unease at his presence, the slight intoxication in his blood, the hunger he had for what Datty had in his pockets.

“I’m nobody.” He replied smoothly, hardly loud enough for Viktor to hear over the din of the bar. Datty shot him a glance, confused.

“Never mind who he is. Look, just take the money.” Datty said as she moved across the bar and handed him a wad of bills. She gulped almost unnoticeably and popped her knuckles nervously; Death could almost taste the stress in the air.

Viktor’s blue eyes scanned the money and bore back up at her. “Dis is not all of the money I loaned you. Where is my money?”

“Well uh,” Datty began. “Here’s the thing Viktor, I lost more than I thought I would...” Datty began.

Death noticed that the people in the bar reached to their sides and pulled out guns, placing them on the tables they were sitting at. He noticed the bartender do nothing. Scoffing, Death knew that the Russian loan shark must’ve had the whole staff (of a whopping two people) were in his pocket.

“I do not give two shakes of a Scottish rat’s ass what you thought you would or would not win. I care that my money iz not paid in full.” He got up, leaving his drink and walking up to Datty. She tensed as he approached, even more so when he raised his hand. Death expected Viktor to hit her and was surprised by the protective urge he felt. Instead, Viktor trailed a finger across her cheek. She pinched her lips and squeezed her eyes shut, heart pounding, the blood in her veins. Death bristled at the sound. “What will you give me in return?”

Death stepped forward, grabbing Viktor and shoving him against the wall while tugging his glove off with his teeth. He raised his hand and held it poised in front of Viktor’s face. He knew that the man instantly recognized what could easily become his end. A thrill burst through his veins- it’d been so long since Death had gotten into a good brawl.

Death started to speak quietly in Russian to the shark. “You know what this is?” He said, slowly turning his hand, inspecting it while he had the Russian pinned to the wall. His eyes flicked back to Viktor, whose own eyes were locked on the naked hand, face paralyzed with fear.

“Da.” He stuttered, shakily nodding his head.

Death smiled, “So you know why this young girl’s debt is repaid, yes?”

“Da.” Viktor repeated, nodding his head again, his face a mask of fear.

Death smiled and clapped the un-gloved hand on Viktor’s shoulder, causing the mortal to flinch harshly. “You’re a good man, Viktor Alexandrov.” Death said, releasing the loan shark. Viktor shied away from Death as soon as he was free. When he turned back to Datty, he saw the men in the bar stood to their leader’s defence but held themselves at bay.

Death looked over his shoulder, an eyebrow cocked. Viktor had regained his balance and looked on at Death maliciously. “Once last chance, who are you?” He asked, attempting to regain his equanimity.

“I’m a nobody.” Death growled.

“Leave Viktor alone, he can do so much. Don’t try him,” Datty zealously warned. She had her arms at length, holding them apart. Her eyes were trained on Death, his narrowed dark eyes and silently enraged face, when he saw Viktor jump up and wrench on Datty’s arm, splaying her on the floor.

Livid, Death dropped and pulled Viktor off of her, grasping him by the cuff of his very expensive and Italian shirt and standing up. Gruffly he tensed and flung Viktor aside with his rare inhuman strength, watching him crash land on a wobbly bar table. Tiredly he said, “Viktor Viktor Viktor...”

Viktor regained his malevolent grin and uttered a single Russian word, “Strelyat.”

The whole of the bar erupted into deafening shots of gunfire, everyone shooting at the figure that’d disgraced their leader who stood in the middle of the establishment. Death stood, taking all the lead bullets that were fired at him. Once the mobsters’ clips were empty and everyone stood slack jawed at him he felt a glowering thrill rise up in his throat, “Now it’s my turn.” Without another word Death turned and lunged at the Russian, slapping him across the face with the back of his bare hand. Immediately Viktor reeled back, eyes rolling to the back of his head, convulsing spastically on the cold hard floor of the bar. Death was already moving onto the other men, punching and kicking them, using his un-gloved hand as a weapon.

“What the fu-” Death cut them off by pivoting and side kicking the closest paid muscle, dropping the man. He shed his trenchcoat and snapped a man’s hand, sending the gun flying out of his grip. The man went into a seizure on the floor, veins darkening and eyes rolling back in his head. The blood cooled in the corpse and Death went into his red-mist vision. He continued through the men, killing them in so many ways he lost track. Bullets absorbed into his chest and torso, affecting him not.

Datty got up, and instead of fleeing like Death had expected, began in on the fight. Her eyes were stern and fierce as she sprung into the brawl. Datty wasn’t skilled like she’d had training from any formal fighting, but like an alley cat pinned in a corner. She took one smaller framed man by the hair and smashed his face on her tatter-jeaned knee, letting him go slack in her grasp. She continued with the young man who attacked her, kicking him once he was on the ground. Which left her open to other assailants.

Death laid his hands on every man who came toward her, feeling their souls leave their body and the life on the souls’ coattails. The thrill was exhilarating and intoxicating, better than any drug- and he’d tried all of them.

He dropped to the ground, breathing hard and lightly panting from the adrenaline and beaming like a kid on Christmas morning. It was greater than any battle he’d been in since the Dark Ages or Crusades. “Datty?”

Datty spun toward him, a broken off bottle in her hand. “Alright you filthy sons of bitches-” She stopped as her mouth fell open and she dropped to the floor. She was on her knees, gazing at a man she’d crushed with her knee. “How did I do this?” She said softly, asking more herself than he. She’d obviously been unaware of her surroundings as she beat the living shit out of the one poor recruit.

“It’s just a bad case of Tunnel Vision.” Death said with a chuckle. But once he thought over her last statement he inquired further. “You’ve not fought before?” Death questioned, not believing her.

“Once or twice in high school, but nothing to this magnitude.” She panted, pulling her sweaty hair over her shoulders and into an ill-formed ponytail.

“Yeah well people like you clutter up my schedule,” Death said sourly, which earned him another odd look from Datty.

“And weren’t you supposed to be dead by now? You were shot a bunch...” Her voice trailed off as she eyed his chest and the utter lack of blood or bulletproof vest.

“I’m... special.” Death forced, hearing more sirens in the distance. He got her up off the floor and sat her at the bar booth, eyes glassy. Death could swear that he saw the scenes play out in her pupils. He turned at the sound of the door creaking open. Death turned; ready to finish them off, when he saw the faces of the police. The faces were perfectly sculpted and symmetrical; the faces that people would paint onto depictions of gods or warrior angels. They were the Immortal Police and they knew Death very well. He’d crossed the line of human and superhuman boundaries, and they were coming to arrest him.

“Good Lord what did you do now, Death? Things haven’t gotten this out of hand since the Holocaust. Look, put your hands where we can see them. And bring that... thing, she’s seen too much.” The man in front announced, a tall husky man with a jaw line Death would kill for. “You killed them all, yet didn’t kill her? Have you gone soft?”

Death chuckled at the policeman. “I didn’t kill you when I killed everybody else, Sergeant.” He said in a velvet voice as he offered his hands to the two men that stepped forward to cuff him, fearless of his naked hands.

The Sergeant’s face was grim, “Still, you’ve crossed the lines and taken many a life. You’re under arrest by the Immortal Police.”