The Reaper Trials

By R.T. Donlon

Vy Black has been cursed from the beginning. Even from the time of his birth, his hometown has originated a deadly plague that kills entire populations, destroying the place and the people he has come to love. Now, in order to save the world, he must enter the Reaper Trials to convince the Dark One why humanity should be saved from extinction.

The Reaper Trials is R.T. Donlon's sophomore novel--a look into the heart of humanity's deepest fears, a hero willing to risk his life for the sake of the world, and the ability to overcome even the worst obstacles, even when survival is not an option. The Reaper Trials is assuredly a gritty story with even grittier results. Some content in this novel may not be suitable for children under 13 years of age.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Apr 24, 2015
• ISBN: 9781329089808

Book preview

Regime

To Dean—who instills dedication and ethic into everything she does.

The best grandmother a little boy, adult man, author, and grandson could have.

For you I am grateful.

PART ONE

The Gathering

Prologue

"Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil, for you are with me," said the priest in his loud, robust preacher voice. His eyes widened as his mouth shaped the words fear and evil. I wonder, he continued. "How many of us truly understand evil? How many of us are able to sacrifice life to overcome it?"

The words flowed from his cracked and dried lips in haunting waves of sound. The tiny beads he called eyes reflected the darkened foray of pews in front of the lectern. He was fighting back something terrifying, something magnanimous behind the bland sermon he spoke, yet emotion washed over him in paramount intensity. The congregation perked, allowing his words to bust into their ears like a Viking battering ram. He adjusted his collar, which seemed to be pinching the loosened skin at his neck, and continued. This time, he lifted his hands from the lectern in a maddening sway of fists.

"This valley the Good Word speaks of…the valley covered—no…immersed—in the shadow of death, is alive and well. It breeds death. Brothers and sisters! We live in this valley. We walk through it every day. Yet we are called to fear no evil. How many of us can say we fear no evil, even if it means through penalty of death?"

Hallelujah! someone screeched from the back corner of the room.

Restless arms and shoulders squirmed through the rows of pews like lethargic, oversized night crawlers. The heat of the Alabama summer began rotting in the perspiration of the churchgoers long before now and as the faded stained glass windows stymied the morning’s rays of sun, they forced their way into the church and riddled the room with a sort of light-dark mirroring effect—an illusion essentially ignored by all. Somewhere in the Alabaman distance, an echoing thunderclap rolled loud enough to be recognized, yet soft enough to forget.

"Brothers and sisters, we are all sinners, stained by the wrongs and misdirection of our decisions. Satan works in contemptuous ways and, if we are not keen to his sly doings, we may miss our chance for redemption altogether. We must not let this happen!"

The congregation rose to their feet in a mark of undeniable excitement, so full of passion that even the priest stepped back in astonishment. He motioned his arms, quieting them, as if patting the air. The congregation quickly sat and calmed into a dull frequency of hushed murmurs and held-back growls, commencing the squirming arms and legs once again through the tributaries of pews.

I had a dream last night, he began, lowering his eyes to his hands.

His voice changed from a remarkable confidence to the subtlest of shakes. A dream that eventually woke me from a terrible, fever-ridden sleep. He clutched the lectern in front of him with sweaty palms, then dove further into his story. I was disoriented, stunned. I had no idea where I was. Then I saw them. Hundreds of men, women, and children stood before me with pale, ghastly skin and hollowed eyes. I tried to run—escape their piercing glares—but could not find it within myself to move my legs. So I stood in front of them, shaking, praying to the Good Lord that he would save me from that terrible place. They told me they sent for me. They forced me to promise I would never speak of what they were about to tell me.

The collective eyes of the congregation widened into a torrid look of approaching fear.

"I told them I would keep their secret, keep it hidden for as long as I lived. Yet something inside of me told me I couldn’t do that. I would have to tell or it would be my end, like it would eat me alive if I didn’t. So here I am—brothers and sisters—here to share the words that pure evil has told me."

Held breath crowded the room in silence.

"The men and women parted and, as I stood before them watching the crowd move, a child stepped forward from the rest. His hair was matted to his forehead, smeared almost; his eyes glowed with a dull fire from his empty sockets. He looked through me…to my soul. I fell to my knees. He opened his mouth without breathing, forming his lips to speak. No sound broke the plane between us, yet I could still hear his voice in my head. Now that you have promised your secrecy, I shall give you what you are looking for. One among you will be the next Reaper, the next Traveler, the next Searcher of the Everlasting Soul. This comes with much tribulation, however, and will not be taken in vain. To undertake such a task, a willing participant must be chosen—one who is able to sacrifice everything for the Gift of Light. Beware, Preacher, if this chosen Reaper fails, there will be much sorrow among this land, sorrow that can never be overcome.

"But child, I asked, how will I know this Reaper is ready? I asked this question as if he would tell me the answer without question, without malice.

"Do not be hasty, Preacher, for you are one of the few who know such secrets. To even possess this knowledge is generous. The Dark One insisted this meeting occur. We have come to the end of a Legacy of Reapers. One thousand have tried the Black Gate and all have failed. If this last Reaper follows in the footsteps of the many, the Earth will perish under your feet and all of humanity along with it. For this is only fair in the eyes of the Dark One.

"I continued to stare. The roar of the flame in the boy’s eyes forced a paralyzing ache in my sockets, telling me the boy had spoken everything I was meant to know. I somehow pulled my gaze away, allowing the boy to drift back into the crowd of eyeless bodies. That, my brothers and sisters, is when I woke and knew I must tell you all this troubling news, despite the warnings against it. This is real. We are all in mortal danger."

Blackened clouds were clustering at the horizon. Another bout of thunder rippled the morning air in the far distance. An elderly couple in the front row turned as if to expect the Angel of Death walking through the front doors. The congregation fell silent, terrified of the priest’s story.

But do not fear, the priest said. If we are called to resist the temptations of evil, our resistance starts now. If this Reaper should exist in our lifetime, we will guide him, so that the shadow of death may never blacken our hearts! Remember my words, brothers and sisters.

A softened amen rustled the pews. The nightcrawler limbs loosened.

In the back of the chambers, a timid girl had entered the church—silently—halfway through the priest’s story. She had moved to Sitchewa Falls a mere week before and spent the morning finding church services in the community newspaper. Andrea Black placed her palm on her rounded, pregnant belly and felt her baby boy kick. A strange place to feel his first movement, she thought.

The next Reaper was about to arrive.

Portal

I

Vy stared into the distance, out into the swelling hills of the Alabama skyline. The evening daylight quickly shifted into yellow, then a rotten orange, and finally a bloody red. It was a time for holding on and letting go. He found, in these strange, unimpeded moments, that a strong, pulling sensation tugged at him somewhere from deep inside, urging him towards the road and away from Sitchewa Falls forever. Yet Vy fought them always. He had considered acting on these urges only once or twice—he even had the money to do so—but he could never leave his mother, especially under the terrible circumstances of her illness. She would certainly die without his help.

And that would be on him.

Even the air now rose in nothing but a stale, rotten breeze. Most of the town had already passed on, killed by the Curse (as Father Harkins appropriately named it). They buried the infected bodies in the cemetery near the watermill on the north side of town. Vy and his mother had somehow been a few of the lucky ones, spared by some freak chance of the gods perhaps, but, like good Christians, they forced themselves to attend every wake and every service as—one-by-one—all of the people they had come to love perished before their eyes. The grievers thinned as the number of dead grew until only a few families were left. And now, after weeks of keeping clean, his mother contracted the virus. She would not be taken if Vy had anything to say about it.

The sky was closing into twilight and Vy decided that he had had enough of this quiet for one day, propelling himself down from the steep overpass of Route 44. The townsfolk used to complain endlessly about how this particular road had drawn unwelcome guests into their Podunk town, except for Mr. and Mrs. McBride, of course, who never complained about their motel business. That was, until Interstate 70 had been built downriver in West County and all of the unwanted (but wanted, said the McBrides) traffic was detoured away from Sitchewa Falls and back into the urban cataclysm of Birmingham and other goliath cities that surrounded it. Sitchewa Falls never grew into a full-fledged American town and, as far as the townsfolk were concerned, that was fine by them. Instead, the Curse ran free through Sitchewa Falls, isolated from the rest of the world, and refused to let go until every living soul perished, left to rot under crucifixes in the Southern, summer-gilded fields.

Vy hit a soft spot in the ground as he trekked the small hill to Central Street and nearly fell to the underpass below, catching himself before he lost complete control of his balance. The faux-fall left him upright, but splattered the seat of his jeans with mud up to his waist. He could already feel a chafing irritation building in his groin from the awkward dampness, circumventing the pockets in a direct line with his privates. Still, he left the swollen hills of Route 44 with only one thing on his mind—save his mother from falling victim to the Curse at all costs.

Pray, Father Harkins spoke through melancholy drones. Just pray.

Vy lifted his stare and looked into his dying mother’s eyes. She had devolved into a frail connection of skin and bones in a mere matter of hours. The Curse—whatever it was—had started within her and had now begun moving its way out. Chasms of wrinkled lines formed like valleys at her temples and cheeks. Her teeth had yellowed and displaced themselves against her swollen gums. Her hair fell out in clumps like bushels of wiry straw. The middle-aged woman that had been his mother had suddenly been replaced with an elderly woman he no longer recognized.

Vy, she whispered through a bout of coughs. You need to know.

"Andrea, stop," said Father Harkins in a stern, erratic tone.

"He needs to know the truth."

Vy tilted his head slightly, almost unnoticeably, in mild awe. His mother, as long as he had known her, never spoke with such commanding force. She had always been a bit too passive, borderline tepid at that. But now—even amidst her crippling limbs—her voice rang clear. She pried a degenerated hand from the mattress and raised it out toward her son, her fingers cracking as they moved.

As soon as I tell you this, you must run as fast as you can away from here.

Father Harkins coughed softly from the opposite side of the bed, then broke into dramatic heaving, hunching over into a flexible knees-to-chin position and keeping himself there momentarily before looking up.

But where’ll I go? Vy asked, interrupting the loud slew of heaves.

"It doesn’t matter. They will find you."

Father Harkins coughed a splattering of blood into his palm and widened his eyes in fear.

"Oh, God! I’m next. All these people. It’s all my fault."

Father, said Andrea. What’s done is done.

Vy, surprisingly, felt no fear in this moment, unlike the others in the room, who had both been such courageous pinnacles of guidance in his life up until now. The priest bursted into tears that seemed to the boy to be beyond fanatical—more insane than anything—and yet, the heavy breathing of ill adults was only something of a nuisance to the boy, especially in such a claustrophobic room. As most things, he could deal with it. Instead, his mind wandered confusedly around the particulars of his mother’s words—they will find you. He raised an eyebrow as each syllable ran across the borders of his brain. And as if that was not enough, the same pulling ache of escape had begun creeping into his chest and forcing a hesitancy from his eyes, which he despised.

Promise me, Vy, his mother continued. Promise me you’ll leave as soon as you hear what I have to say.

Father Harkins shook violently in the chair next to Andrea’s small twin bed, muttering it’s all my fault under his breath. Pity, Vy thought. If only I could save them, save them all. His mother’s fingers cracked and weakened even under his gentle touch.

I promise.

A faint smile and a familiar blush rushed to her lips.

My boy, she whispered. You’ll do great.

Tell him, Harkins growled. Let him end this madness. He’s our last chance. Everyone knows it. Nothing else matters now. Not Sitchewa. Not the world. By the time he takes the Trials, this town will be nothing but ashes.

"What are you talking about? Vy said impatiently. Tell me."

His eyes ripped with a fiery intrigue.

Andrea attempted to wet her lips, but her tongue lacked the necessary moisture to do so. Nevertheless, she spoke those necessary words in crackled tones.

"Before you were born, when I first moved here, Father Harkins had a vision—one that he shared with the congregation in one of his Sunday sermons. I was seven months pregnant with you then and, when you heard the word Reaper, you were nearly born then and there. At first I thought it was only an odd coincidence, but as Father Harkins described the vision more and more, I began to see what he saw. In my head, Vy. It played like a movie in front of my eyes. I saw thousands of empty eye sockets. I saw the thousands of people behind them. I saw the little boy that talked with Father. I saw everything. And I knew, with all my existence, this was the farthest thing from a dream. What we were dealing with was evil in its purest form."

She reached her head back as if opening her throat for air, but the motion only allowed her body to collapse under its own weight.

Rest, Andrea, Father Harkins said. I’ll take over. Just rest.

So he continued: "There was a boy in my dream not much older than you. He told me that someone from Sitchewa would be the next Reaper, the next Traveler, the next Searcher of the Everlasting Soul. Vy’s eyes were suddenly meteors swimming through an empty sky. He would not tell me a name, but I knew it was you, Vy. As soon as I met you, I knew. It had to be you. It had always been you. When I met your mother, it was the first thing that came to my mind."

What else did the boy say? Vy asked.

You have to be willing to sacrifice everything, even the things you thought you would never have to.

…like my mother.

A stubborn silence blanketed the room as the bitter taste of tension thickened the air around him. Vy could feel it resting on his lips and tongue like halitosis, climbing the walls like vines and filling the chambers with the dank smell of acrid skin. For several moments, the three of them sat with their eyes averted. No one spoke. No one moved. Only the constant ticking of the wall clock’s second hand snapped heavily to break the edginess of those waning moments.

There’s more, Harkins continued. "The boy told me that if you fail, something horrible is going to happen. Everyone will suffer. You’re at the end of a long list, Vy. Someone or something called the Dark One says this punishment is only fair."

His mother drew in a shallow breath, choked back a flurry of hot tears, and opened her mouth. I love you, Vy. Now leave here and never return. There’s work to be done.

And before he could reply to his mother’s words of intimacy, she surrendered the little remaining life bundled in her chest, and died with her feeble hand clasped in his. For the first time, Vy felt the stinging rush of tears fill the corners of his eyes and roll down the already harshened cliffs of his cheekbones. To see his mother gone—far away from this world now—pierced his chest with guilt-ridden daggers screaming You could have done more! and Now leave like you’ve always wanted to! Yet somewhere inside of him, Vy understood the situation very well. The ever-elusive current of fate had played its cards. His mother had to die. This moment, as tragic and unbearable as it seemed, was the beginning of his true existence—a redemption of the most etherial kind, a cleansing like none before, and a renewal of a promise left untouched for the first ten years of his life.

Go! Father Harkins screamed behind a mouthful of blood. His body had already begun to thin with each crumpling cough. The thickening of each word made Vy cringe in pitiful disgust. "Go!"

Vy stood despairingly over his deceased mother, his eyes shadowed in a mixture of sadness and anger, his hands clenched so tightly that his fingernails made small purple indents in the soft skin of his palms. Father Harkins screamed through his bloody mouth, but Vy could no longer hear him. Already the stinging wounds were ripping him open, seeping loneliness like a strong painkiller through his veins. The room wobbled, then straightened again.

Go! Harkins continued. "You have nothing left here. Go!"

On instinct alone, Vy ran. His legs propelled him down the patio steps of his wooden home, through the untamed gardens of the Commons, and north down Route 44. You would think a running, blood-and-tear-stained ten year old boy would catch someone’s attention, but Vy ran for miles and miles in isolation until he woke up with his face resting crudely in a puddle of dirty, frothy water somewhere in the depths of the Hard South.

II

Are you lost? a female voice spoke confidently from above him. He lifted his face out of the stagnant water with his eyes still closed. He could feel her standing over him. Her shadow did the talking.

Where…am I? Vy asked. He realized how scraggly his voice sounded and deferred to picking himself up from the mud. The taste in his mouth resembled fermenting apples—sweet and bitter. If the sensuality in the girl’s voice equaled anything in her appearance, she would be quite the attractive girl. He pried himself from his chest and up onto his feet, reacting to the boyhood testosterone suddenly flooding his veins. As wobbly and unsure as his knees seemed to be, they held him there with relative ease.

Canyon Ridge, she spoke. The outer ridge of the Hard South.

He opened one eye to the burn of the sun. Her silhouette careened against the light and forced his eyes into a painful constriction. He raised a hand to shade his vision, but the girl’s face was still cloaked in midmorning shadows. If this was real—and, still, he wasn’t exactly sure—something was dead wrong about meeting a pretty girl on the outer ridge of the Hard South. Pretty girls are from the city. Not here.

Found you a few hours ago, she continued. You were out for a long time.

"The town…my town…They’re all dying."

No, she said. They’re already dead.

This caught Vy’s attention and held it like a detonated grenade.

What did you say?

Now he could see the shape of her eyes, clear and scintillatingly pure. Her jaw ridged against the light in front of the bundle of hair swinging behind it. There was no malice behind her words, only genuine intent. You’re not the first to be branded, you know, she continued, breaking eye contact to glance at his wrist. "You’re the next Searcher of the Everlasting Soul."

Vy envisioned Father Harkins speaking these same words last night. Only then, they hadn’t felt so (what’s the word he was looking for…) undetermined. This meeting, however abrupt it had come, was no coincidence. This girl, whoever she was, had not stumbled upon him during a casual walk through the Hard South. This entire meeting was a setup.

I know what you’re thinking, she spoke, holding out her hands. Vy stumbled backward, creating distance between himself and her. I had nothing to do with your mother or anyone else in Sitchewa.

"Then why are you here? he asked. His voice quavered. There was silence as she dropped her head. Answer me!"

She raised her eyes solemnly. They had somehow become blissfully aware of the situation. I’m here to help you. You’re going to need me during these next few years.

Without warning, Vy nervously lurched forward and threw up. There wasn’t much to heave, but naturally, he barked up what little he could. She walked towards him, letting her shoulders drop gently in an empathetic gesture. Vy, however, continued his awkward backpedaling retreat. I don’t need your help! he screamed. Go!

She stopped, leveled her hands to her hips, and tilted her head slightly to the left. Look at your wrists, she explained. It’s too late to turn back now.

He could feel the marks before he saw them, which was an awful sensation to begin with, but as his tired eyes set sight on them, his heart raced and his breathing shallowed. In what seemed like a single instant, Vy saw a multitude of things—a dead and gnarled tree, a cave spilled with black pulsing vines, a gray sea of swamps, and—larger, more vivid than all the others—the Black Gate, with the mark at its center, outlined by blood red lightning bolts snapping in its backdrop.

His wrists were burning, but there seemed to be nothing to do but let the pain run its course.

What is it? Vy asked. What is this?

The girl pushed her sweater up her forearms, revealing the same marks engraved in the porcelain skin of her arms. It’s the brand of the Dark One. All Reapers are branded when they’re first initiated.

Vy looked up into her eyes from his knees. The pain of the visions had brought him to the ground and now, he felt as though he should stay there.

"You’re shitting me, right? she asked. You have been told about the Trials?"

Vy dropped his head in exhaustion.

Jesus help me, she murmured. Get up. We have a lot to talk about.

The dirt road stretched in front of them for miles until it seemed to collide with the western horizon. On either side, abandoned trailers, houses, and cars littered the road. It was a scene, Vy thought, straight out of an apocalyptic film. Potholes riddled the packed dirt of the street and, every so often, Vy and the girl meandered around a giant bucket-deep collapse in the landscape the size of a football field. Falling into one might mean breaking a leg or worse, yet all the while, the pair managed to keep their eyes fixed ahead to something more unknown.

Ever been to the Hard South? the girl asked. Her hair blew away from her in the increasing wind. She was beautiful, Vy thought, even with the tattered jeans and crinkled sweater she wore. Seeing how young you are, I doubt it.

Vy only shook his head quietly.

"It’s the only place on Earth that even remotely resembles the Trials. That’s why we’re here."

Somewhere in the distance—far off into the dustbowl landscape—an animal cackled. The noise echoed viciously through the arid air. Vy only widened his eyes and opened his ears in caution.

Like I said, the mark on your wrist is a symbol of the Trials, the girl explained. See the top? How it crosses like a teepee? That’s the Deadwood Tree. The middle of the triangle represents the cave. And, finally, the bottom—the double baselines—are the Hollow Swamps. When you put it all together, you get the Black Gate.

Vy saw it all. The visions in his head synchronized perfectly with his new tattoos. But how, he wondered, had it gotten on his wrists?

Every ten years, a new Reaper is chosen to test the Trials once again. For ten thousand years this has happened, yet no Reaper has ever passed through the Black Gate.

Who chooses the next Reaper? Vy asked through his thirsty voice. The dry air did nothing but crack his spittle-less throat. I didn’t sign up for this.

The girl giggled under her breath, trying to hide it more than let it show, but the smirk across her lips gave the secret away. I’m sorry, she said, half-lying. "But you accepted this when you