"Benj After-Death" - A Short Story

The bombs cascaded from the sky in a brilliant, terrible orange, streaking their colors through the stark night above. The earth beneath would rumble with their impact. A sound much like a gunshot but deeper. A sound that rattled Brevin’s bones as he ran through streets filled with panic and hurry and violence. Screams and rage mingled with explosions. People shoved one another, trampled over helpless bodies. The bombs kept coming and the chaos continued to grow.

“Brev, this way! Hurry!”

Brevin’s heart pounded against his chest like a heavy hammer. He ran toward the voice, the world in front of him cast in a blur. His lungs heaved as his father grabbed him, taking shelter in a building, or what was left of it. Others were refugees from the mayhem as well, all huddled together as relatives though many were strangers, seeking solace in numbers in the hopes to survive the doom that had so inexplicably fell upon them. Fear made itself known in their shrieks and cries, wishing desperately that it would all simply stop.

But Brevin’s father held strong, held his son tight. Told him that everything would be alright and to not despair, for a good will shall find a way.

Hours passed. The world was tinted a light blue, yet the strength of the morning was still weak as even Brevin’s youthful sight was blind to movement. The bombs stopped. All seemed calm and collected as if the city took a deep breath. Silence and stillness a welcome harmony.

“Father, is it safe?” asked Brevin, looking up at him. Dantheon locked eyes with his only child. He shook his head “no” in response. Dust swirls began to build and exhale, further impeding any visibility. Only shapes would resonate now. The figure of a man on a horse appeared as a faint outline in the distance. Brevin squinted his eyes in an attempt to make sense of what he was seeing. The man and the horse came closer. And closer.

The whipping sands slowly died and returned to the ground as they approached. Brevin felt his father tense, the muscles in his arms going rigid. Dantheon’s breath was shallow, fear gripping him like a vice.

“Death comes and appeals to thee,” whispered Dantheon.

The man on the horse was not a man but a skeleton. The bones were a gleaming but clean white; a dazzling contrast to the darkened dawning. He wore a tattered, moth-eaten top hat atop his pearly skull. The eye sockets seemed to move as he spoke, and, while he had no tongue, enunciated his words with an acute perfection.

“Do any of you know who I am?”

He pat his horse and climbed down. He walked toward them with the nonchalance of a close family friend.

“Some of you call me “Death”. And, I mean, don’t get me wrong, it’s actually kind of nice to be mistaken for someone so...prestigious. But I’m not so macabre. I deal in training souls to fight in a particular arena. It’s more lucrative than Death’s work, and, to be honest, less of a mess.”

Dantheon spoke.

”You’re not here to kill us?”

“I can see why you’d think so, but no. You may call me Benj.” Benj placed a hand to where his heart should have been and bowed low. “I’m also not really into coercion. You may come with me of your own free will.”

He paused as he popped tall. He turned to fetch his horse and then looked back briefly to add, “But if you don’t, you will more than likely die of excessive radiation exposure. Or bandits. Or starvation. Dehydration. You get the idea.”

Benj sat atop his horse, waiting for any answers to his offer.

“Dantheon, is it?” he asked, eye sockets locked on to Brevin’s father. “Wanna join my merry band of paid fighters?”

“I’ll go,” said one, a tall man with a scraggly beard stepping forward.

“Good,” said Benj. “Anyone else?”

“Brevin will go,” said Dantheon. He knelt down before Brevin, holding out the necklace that was dangling against his chest.

“Your mother gave this to me before she died. She told me to give it to you when the time came.”

The necklace itself was a sapphire stone infused with a ruby pebble in the center. They both glowed as if some fire were set inside of them. Dantheon draped it over Brevin and hugged him quickly, then squeezed his hands on his son’s shoulders.

“You have a chance to live, Brevin.”

”What about you?” asked Brevin, tears welling up in his eyes.

“I wouldn’t be strong enough to survive. Either way, I’m dead. But you, Brevin. You must live. Find your mother.”

Dantheon gently pushed Brevin in Benj’s direction.

“What do you mean, Father?” asked Brevin. “What do you mean?” Louder: “What do you mean!?”

“Sorry, kid.” Benj was suddenly in front of him, tapping his shoulder with a thin bone that supposedly was a finger. “You’re already annoying me.”

Brevin saw everything around him shrink then disappear. Vanished as if it all never existed. He landed lightly on a cobblestone floor. Immediately he felt an odd cold wash over him, but he also felt a warm twinge emanating from the necklace Dantheon gave to him. He looked around and saw the ceiling, like the floor, was cracked and leaking dirty water. It dripped and dripped and as it hit the surface, it echoed in the deepening quiet.

It wasn’t exactly dark. There were torches lit in every which way, crackling with a burning flame. Everyone was indeed gone. No one else was here, save for himself. So far as he could tell. He was in what appeared to be a jail cell yet the steel door was slid wide open. To his right was a rather clean-looking white mattress and pillow. Behind him was a steel-built sink and above that, a mirror staring back his reflection; a gaunt boy with sunken cheeks and pallor skin that brought out the emerald-green in his eyes.

He didn’t feel fear. In fact, he didn’t feel much of anything. With a certain perspective, it was actually quite freeing for Brevin. Fear and doubt were drowned out by a sense of peacefulness, capturing that ever-elusive purpose: find Mother. That’s what Dantheon said, though, now that Brevin pondered on it, he could hardly recall who Dantheon even was yet somehow, could trust that his word was to be followed.

Memories started to slip into the void, slowly but surely.

Find Mother.

Brevin stepped out of his confinement and into the hall. All the cells were opened. All were empty.

He cupped both hands to his mouth and shouted, “Hello!? Anyone there?”

“Hello, Brevin,” said a voice behind him. He turned around and saw Benj leaning against one of the cages. The dark pits that were his eyes swirled with some secret fire, a tinge of orange-yellow that appeared only at a certain angle.

“Welcome to your new home. Not exactly festive or glamorous, but I’d like to think your amenities are quite generous.”

“Is it just me?” asked Brevin, trying to feel taller than he was.

“Goodness, no. I have over a thousand fighters at my disposal. They’re in the mess hall stuffing their faces with dinner. You should join them.”

Benj walked ahead of Brevin, beckoning him to come along.

“But aren’t we dead? Why would we need to eat?”

"Souls still require sustenance, my dear boy. Just a...different kind of sustenance.”

They happened upon two rusted metal doors that slid in opposite directions, the adjacent hallway flickering from light to shadow. The doors opened with a good measure of ease. Down the corridor on the right were two sliding doors as well, a bit of a ruckus emanating from within.

“Enjoy your dinner. Lights out in two hours. You have a big debut tomorrow, Brevin Son of Dantheon. Hopefully you bear the same reputation as the man that spawned you.”

Brevin entered what would be most similarly described as a cafeteria, with long tables made of steel. Boys and men of all ages, of various size, were seated at these tables, eating what looked to Brevin as energy balls. Blue spheres glowing brightly, retaining that glow even as they entered the mouth and were swallowed.

None of them so much as peeked in his general direction. Their focus stayed with the energy balls. Brevin was about to step in further when someone said: “Want a Drop, kid?”

An older, gruff-looking man came up to Brevin from his right, reaching with an outstretched hand. Brevin, somewhat hesitant, shook it out of courtesy.

“Sorry, I should introduce myself. The name’s Grayson.”

“Brevin. What’s a Drop?”

“Those colorful balls you see those fellas munching on.” He pointed to a group of them, hunkered down and absorbing any Drops they could steal away. “Quite an addictive substance but necessary for our livin’ on.”

“Necessary?”

“Sit down, kid. I’mma tell you a few things you ought to know.”

They sat down at a deserted table, heads angled toward one another. Grayson was bearded and graying, the brown color in his eyes becoming faded. His skin was tan but wrinkled. Yet despite his obvious age, he had a strength to him: his arms were bulked and his shoulders were burly. He wore a leather jacket over a plain white shirt. His jeans and boots, for whatever reason, were caked with mud. He faced Brevin eye-to-eye, keeping his voice low as he spoke.

“This here is After-Death. A place where souls wander to exist for all eternity, so long as they take the Drop.” He paused to pull out a cigarette and lit it against his lips with a match. He took a long drag before he blew out smoke. Brevin didn’t feel the sting of the smoke against his eyes, or smell the scent of tobacco filling the air. They were just there, like props in a play.

“The Drop is like food for a hungry person. Gives us life, gives us power. But the more we take it, the more we get addicted to it. It starts changin’ how the mind thinks.”

“What do you mean?”

“You lose all sense of logic till eventually you figure you’ll do anything to get just a taste of a Drop. Makes ya violent.”

“Then why are you so...normal?”

“Moderation, kid. Just learned to tug on the reins is all. If Benj brought you here, he wants you to have some. Here’s a half to get ya started. It’ll make ya feel like you’re floatin’ but after ya come down you’ll feel bright-eyed and bushy-tailed.”

Brevin, reluctance gripping him, clutched the Drop in his hand.

“Take it, kid. If ya think he ain’t watchin’, he is.”

Quickly, Brevin jammed it into his mouth. At first, he felt nothing. Then in a matter of minutes, his eyes rolled in the back of his head and he fell face forward on the table without a single thought.

“Don’t worry, kid. I got your back. Just hang in there.”

Brevin found himself in an armory the following day. Grayson was at his side, strapping his armor on and searching for a sizable helmet.

“Hey kid, you okay?”

Brevin wasn’t nervous. He was just having trouble finding his own armor. He ignored Grayson’s question and placed his own: “Why do we need this if we’re already spirits?”

“Souls can die out much like a battery when it loses energy,” said Grayson. He chose a smallish chest plate and handed it off to Brevin. “Weapons here sap your spirit. They drain your life force.”

Brevin remained stoic as Grayson helped him. The others were gathering themselves as well. Some elected for maces or clubs, some for small knives. Each had their preferences. Each hellbent to survive even in death. The armory was stacked with various armaments, shining silvery in the torchlight. The room was connected to an elevator shaft that raised up unto the battlefield. An alarm sounded, blaring, deafening, urging them to rush toward the shaft to face their newest challenge.

A large audience roared from above their approval of the spectacle they were about to witness. Their cheers resonated with Brevin in an unusual manner, causing him to tighten his grip on his sword and shield. The shaft halted with a shriek and Brevin almost shrunk back from the sudden and oppressive glow of a burning sun. The skies were well and blue. All around their group was a coliseum full of awaiting spectators.

The field was mud and dirt, and across from them stood one young woman, somewhere in her teens, brandishing two knives. Her face was concealed by a shadowy hood. One of her hands raised, and, with the knife, gestured for them to come after her.

So they did. Every last one save for Brevin, who kept like a statue. Grayson looked back and tried to motion for the young boy to move, but he stayed as he was.

He watched the woman slice through them like an axe to wood. They disappeared in puffs of black smoke, wafting from their ashes like a living fire brewed. Through the blackening fog, Brevin could see nothing. Then the glimmer of a blade shined through and he blocked it with his shield, careful to keep his eyes forward and alert. He heard footsteps behind him, then just the crowd noise. Dirt moved from his left and his eyes glanced that way. As they did, the woman emerged from her hiding, ramming a fist into his ribs. The impact was like actual pain, causing him to gasp and stumble backward. She added a subsequent roundhouse kick to the face. He felt his nose break. Somehow he was still on his feet. She went for a killing blow with her knife, aiming for the jugular, but Brevin knocked it out of her hand with the hilt of his sword. Then he kneed her in the stomach and placed the edge of his weapon to her throat.

Everything stopped at once. The shouts in the stadium died to a low murmur. They hadn’t expected this outcome.

“Do it, boy,” said the woman, hood now down. Her hair was a dark purple, complimented by pale skin and glowing green eyes. Her gaze was fierce. “Do it.”

Brevin breathed hard, this choice more difficult on him than the exertion in the fight. He’d never killed before. He grazed against her neck, watched the blood flow down.

“Stop toying with me and do it already.”

With a harsh cry, he kicked her hard in the gut and rapped her on the head with the flat end of his sword. She was knocked out cold. Brevin jammed the sword in the ground and collapsed to one knee.

“Perhaps you are your father’s son, young Brevin,” said Benj, there in a blink. A cigarette burned against his teeth. “Generally I’d be displeased with this result but they adore Mirya. And you turned out to be more impressive than expected. I’d call this a win though I’d lost a bit of profit. I’m sure you and her as a team could make up for the gap.”

“Mirya...” muttered Brevin, staring down at her. A sense of something...foreign...rushed through him like a raging river. Something that was forgotten.

“I need a Drop,” he said, very close to a demand rather than a request.

Benj flicked away his cigarette, then took off his hat, placed it on his chest cavity and replied: “As you wish, Dantheon.”