Demon Reaper

By Adele T Cawley

What if the end of the world was only the beginning?

In the year 2047, after decades of political and social unrest and another American civil war known globally as the American Apocalypse, the United States has ripped itself apart.

Skylar Grant is a lonely seventeen-year-old girl struggling to survive in the aftermath of the war. He

• Language: English
• Publisher: Author Academy Elite
• Release date: May 21, 2019
• ISBN: 9781640856288

Book preview

Prologue

July 3, 1863

Battle at Gettysburg, Pickett’s Charge

Steady yourselves! Damon Alexander shouted to his comrades. He wiped his brow with the sleeve of his dirty grey uniform. The blast of heavy artillery guns had rattled his brain for some time, and enemy cannon fire had subsided a while ago. Surely they had exhausted the Union troops and their supplies by now.

Get up, men! a commanding officer shouted as he rode behind the Confederate soldiers. We’re advancing on Cemetery Hill. Alexander, get these men on their feet!

Yes, Capitan! Damon saluted. Come along troops.

Although he was young, he had achieved the rank of First Lieutenant in Archer’s Brigade because of his leadership abilities. It hadn’t been a week since his twentieth birthday, but men twice his age often looked to him for advice and support.

Rally your spirits, men. There has been a turn in the tide of battle, and we are near the end.

He watched the soldiers check their gear, advising some to make sure they had sufficient powder cartridges, Minié balls, and percussion caps. Then he gave instructions for them to secure the bayonets firmly to their muskets before they slung the long rifles over their shoulders. He knew they were tired and thirsty, and smoke obscured their view of enemy lines. If they could crest the ridge and cross the open fields, they would overthrow the center of the Union forces and enjoy a great victory here.

Come on, Will, Damon said, extending his hand to a young man seated in front of him. Muster your strength.

Will took Damon’s outstretched hand and grinned, innocent eyes shining with excitement. We’re pushing the Yankees all the way back to Washington! he exclaimed.

Right you are, Damon said. He wiped the sweat dripping from his brow again.

You know, Damon, Will said cocking his head slightly to the side, if I were as good looking a fellow as you, I’m sure I’d have my pick of the girls back home.

Damon smiled easily at the youth’s comment. Don’t you ever stop thinking about girls? he said. The deafening burst from a nearby cannon wiped the smile from his face. Let’s win the war first, and then we can dream about the ladies. Besides, I don’t think any young woman would find me a welcome sight right now.

Damon removed the kepi from his head and ran a hand through his sweat-drenched hair. Then he absent-mindedly rubbed the locket beneath his shirt, allowing himself a brief thought about home. Maryann had given him the necklace the day before he joined the war. He was a long way from home now, and Tennessee might as well be on the other side of the world. For the hundredth time he regretted his foolishness in joining the war. But he was here now, and there was nothing he could do about it. He had too much honor and self-respect to desert.

Thinking of your girl again? Will asked, peering up. He gave Damon a toothy smile.

Damon playfully punched Will’s shoulder. Come along, he said. Form ranks!

Before long, thousands of grey-clad Confederate infantrymen stepped from Seminary Ridge and began their advance on Cemetery Hill. The nine brigades of men stretched for over a mile, and Damon’s regiment was near the center under the command of Colonel Birkett Fry. Their objective was to focus attention on the Army of the Potomac’s II Corps straight ahead, and Damon kept his eyes on their target.

Within minutes the sounds of battle crashed around them. Heavy guns roared, followed by the staccato popping of hundreds of muskets being discharged. Men filled gaps in the line where their brothers in arms had fallen as they marched forward. They were enveloped in heavy smoke and clogging dust. As Damon crossed the sturdy fence at Emmitsburg Road, his regiment came under heavy artillery fire. The earth exploded around him. Acrid sulfur smoke stung his nose, and the screams of injured men echoed in his ears.

Damon grabbed Will’s arm. Hold the line!

The ground directly beneath their feet shattered. Damon was launched away from Will, and searing pain sliced through his left leg. He landed hard forcing the air from his lungs. Struggling to gasp for breath, he tried to regain his bearings. Damon drew his focus to what was going on around him as debris rained down from the sky. The sounds of battle were gone replaced by a terrible ringing in his ears.

He tried to sit up but pain shot through him again, and he collapsed, gritting his teeth. He groaned and took a shallow breath. Then another. The foul air tasted sour in his mouth as his thoughts finally came together. Will had been next to him, advancing on the Union army. Where was Will?

Damon rolled slowly and propped himself up on an elbow. His lungs still refused to fully draw breath. He thought he might have broken a few ribs. Looking down, he saw a piece of shrapnel protruding from his left thigh. When he touched it, electric shocks of pain flashed down his leg.

Damon gritted his teeth and pulled. The shrapnel didn’t budge, and he saw stars at the edge of his vision. Stinging sweat ran into his eyes. The piece of metal must have been embedded in the bone. Gathering his wits, he pulled at it again. It still didn’t budge, and he cried out in agony. He rolled on the ground gnashing his teeth trying not to whimper like a child.

He lay still, exhausted, and listened to the clamor. Soldiers shouted, cannons roared, and muskets fired. The screams of the injured and dying sang harmony to the chaos, a collective moan that could be distinctly heard above the storm of battle.

Damon? Damon? It was Will. Damon could barely hear him, but he knew the boy was close by.

Here! Damon tried to call back. The word got stuck in his throat, and he coughed violently. Blood and spittle trickled down his chin. His chest ached. Why was it so hard to breathe?

Damon? Will’s voice sounded small and scared.

Damon forced himself up onto his side again. Pain engulfed every part of his body, but he made himself crawl toward the sound of Will’s voice. His left leg was useless. Every time he moved it, he got dizzy in the head. He dragged himself about twenty feet before he saw Will several paces off. The boy lay on his back with both legs at odd angles from each other. His eyes were wild as they frantically looked around. Blood ran from a large gash on his forehead down the side of his face. But that wasn’t what made Damon’s insides clench. He gaped in horror at the entrails spilling from Will’s midsection.

Damon! Will gasped. Relief filled his eyes as he spotted his friend. Damon, I can’t move, he said. I—I think my legs are broken.

Damon dragged himself over to the boy and forced his face to remain calm as the vulgar stench of blood and fecal matter penetrated his nostrils from Will’s gut wound. Damon swallowed the bitter bile rising in the back of his throat, and cradled the younger boy’s head in his arm hoping to distract himself from the smell and his own body’s need to retch.

Easy now, Damon said. We’ll get you some help. Get you out of here. He coughed again, and more blood dripped from his mouth.

You got hit too? Will asked.

Broke a couple ribs. Maybe punctured a lung. It’s the shrapnel in my leg that’s giving me fits though. I can’t pull it out.

Damon? Will said quietly. Tears leaked from his eyes as he gazed skyward. I’m scared. Real scared. I don’t think I’m gonna make it home to Ma. What’ll she do without me?

Rest easy, Damon said. We’ll get you out of here. You just hang on, okay?

Will closed his eyes. I’m cold, Damon. You feel it? A storm’s-a comin’.

Quiet now. It won’t be much longer.

Will opened his eyes. They were clear and translucent as the grey sky of an early spring morning. You hear that, Damon? he asked. You hear that music? It’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever heard. Will exhaled, pupils dilating wide.

Damon released the boy’s head and closed his eyes before turning away and collapsing onto his back. He ached with weariness. He was tired of this damned war. He was tired of days spent marching or fighting. He was tired of scrounging for food because of the ravaged land. He was tired of digging latrine trenches on hot, muggy days among biting summer flies. He was tired of lonely winter nights spent on the cold, hard ground. He was tired of watching boys die for other men’s causes.

And mostly, he was tired of being away from home.

He thought about Maryann again as the din of battle reached a fevered pitch. He pulled the locket from beneath his shirt and gently pried it open. The small bluebell Maryann had placed inside to remind him of their pending wedding day had withered over time, but he didn’t mind.

The familiar ache of regret throbbed in his gut again. He should have listened to her beg him not to go. His heart had been so full of bloodlust he wouldn’t listen to reason. Somehow he had to survive this war and return to her. He would rebuild his father’s horse breeding ranch and teach his own sons the art of horsemanship.

Nearby shouting pulled him from the reverie of his thoughts. Union soldiers came into view from the smoke and haze, and before he could react, one of them rammed a bayonet into his chest and rushed on. Damon looked down as a large pool of blood oozed through his shirt.

At first, he was so stunned he didn’t notice any pain, but then it bloomed inside like a raging fire and engulfed him so completely he lay gasping. He clutched the locket in his hand, and looking up, saw a patch of blue sky as the smoke cleared. The roar of cannons and gunfire beat a steady rhythm around him, and the ground beneath trembled as if in mourning. Will was right. It was getting cold, and Damon felt a storm coming. He closed his eyes. The clamor of battle grew faint and finally faded completely.

When he opened his eyes again, light shone all around. It seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere. He was alone, lying on a grassy hill. It looked strangely familiar, but he was sure he had never been here before. He looked down at his uniform. It was clean—as pristine as the first day he had worn it. The shrapnel was gone from his leg, and he wasn’t bleeding from his chest anymore. The screams and sorrow of dying and injured soldiers were gone. The weight in his lungs was gone, and he could fully draw breath. He stood up and let the light penetrate him. He felt content and happy.

He felt free.

Brother! someone behind him exclaimed.

He turned and saw his older brother, Henry. This was impossible. Henry had died from a fever two years before the war, and Damon gazed at him in wonder.

Brother, Henry said again smiling. Come with me. Paradise awaits. He extended his hand.

Damon reached to take it, but a sliver of doubt shadowed his mind. He thought about his mother. She wouldn’t be able to work the farm on her own. His father had been murdered a year earlier, and Damon was all she had left.

He thought about her rising early to stoke the breakfast fire and waking to the smell of her coffee and freshly baked bread. He smiled at the memory of the way she would cuss at the old nag when plowing the field just like his father had, or the way she would delicately wipe the sweat off her brow with the corner of her apron when she worked in the garden.

Do not be afraid, brother, Henry said. He smiled, and the light around him grew brighter.

Peace settled on Damon, and he smiled back. He reached up to take Henry’s hand, but again a glimpse of fear and doubt crept into his mind. His thoughts went to Maryann. He remembered her soft, brown eyes and the way the sun set fire to her hair at the end of a summer day. His thoughts lingered on the delicate pout of her mouth, her teasing smile, and easy laugh.

There is another way, a voice drawled.

Damon turned. Another man stood near him. He was shrouded in darkness and obscurity, and just when Damon thought he got a good glimpse of the man’s face, it became indistinct. He could discern sharp features from the corner of his eye, but when he looked straight on, they would blur away.

No! Henry warned. Do not listen to this weaver of deceit. Be gone bokor, agent of evil. Come with me, brother. Our time here has been too long. The brilliant light around Henry began to fade.

I can restore you to life. The shadowy figure said. His Louisiana accent seemed familiar, but Damon couldn’t place him. You can see your mother again.

No! Henry insisted. Brother, you will be forsaken!

Maryann, the bokor said. He shrugged one shoulder, uncaring, as though he had more important things to do.

Maryann? Damon said. It was the first time he had spoken in this place, and his voice sounded strange in his ears.

Will you let her suffer the heartache of your death when all you need to do is take my hand and step back through the veil? The bokor seemed to smile.

Brother, Henry called. He was farther away, but Damon hadn’t seen him move, and the ambient light had taken on a somber feel. Take my hand to Paradise. Do not give yourself over to this voodoo sorcery.

Even now, the bokor interjected, she sits at home in fear that you will never return to her. Take my hand, and let me reunite you.

Damon remembered Maryann’s brave tears when she had said goodbye to him. He remembered the smell of her clean hair as he’d placed a kiss on her forehead and the way she had clutched his mother when he mounted his horse and rode away. He did not turn to look back and had always regretted not having done so before she was lost to his sight.

And that’s it? Damon asked. I take your hand, and I return to life?

The bokor scraped at something on his fingernail. Then, he looked up with such intensity Damon took a step back. I may call upon you from time to time. I restore you to life, and you perform a small task for me when I have need of you.

Damon hesitated and looked toward Henry. His brother was even farther out of reach and seemed to wither in darkness. He shook his head. Brother, you will be damned. His voice was far away.

Damon hesitated. He loved Henry and wanted to go with him. Damon had missed him fiercely, but thoughts of Maryann’s tears overshadowed everything else. He took a deep breath and grasped the bokor’s hand. Agreed.

Done!

Damon suddenly found himself on the battlefield again. He stood next to Will’s lifeless body. The sudden onslaught of battle overwhelmed his senses. The foulness of death and decay permeated the air. It made his skin crawl.

He looked down at himself. He was whole as though he had never been injured. His uniform was clean and radiant. Men screamed and shouted and died around him. Soldiers from both sides rushed past. No one noticed him.

Damon felt a heaviness settle on his heart and a hardness cloud his mind. He knew immediately that he’d made a grave mistake, and he couldn’t shake the feeling he’d been tricked. He sensed an invisible tether between himself and the bokor, connected to something around his throat. Reaching up, his fingers traced the smooth edge of a collar. It felt like leather, but he could not find a buckle or clasp. It was one continuous piece. He pulled frantically trying to remove it, but it would not budge.

You belong to me now. The shadow of the bokor stepped up beside him.

Damon turned to vent his rage and demand to be set free, but the bokor held up his hand, and Damon’s throat began to close as the shadow-man clenched his fingers in midair. Damon clawed at the collar trying to gasp for air.

Do not forget your place, the bokor hissed. Now, for your first task, I want the soul of Maryann Parker.

No! Damon tried to shout.

The bokor released him, and Damon sagged to his knees wailing. But even as the sobs escaped his lips, he felt himself being drawn to her as though she pulled at him from a great distance. He knew he would be able to walk in a straight line to her, and the urge to kill her was so strong he knew he would stop at nothing until she was dead.

Damon collapsed to the ground in anguish. The bokor was gone. Little by little he felt his humanity drain away. On the horizon, dark clouds gathered. The proverbial storm had come.

Chapter One

October 31, 2047

Cottonwood Point Wilderness,

Arizona Strip

Skylar Grant jerked awake. She knew she’d been dreaming, but it was gone in the blink of an eye and replaced with gut-wrenching fear. Something had woken her. A noise? She steadied her breath and strained to hear past the sound of her racing heart. No, not a noise. The night was quiet and calm. A feeling had woken her—a bad feeling—the feeling she was not alone. She cracked one eye open and ventured a brief look around the room. At first, she didn’t see anything unusual.

Then she caught a glimpse of something out of the corner of her eye by the window. Peering cautiously through half-open lids, she saw him. He huddled naked in the corner, hands covering his face, whether in pain or sorrow, she did not know. A shaft of light from the full moon streamed through the window making him appear pale and ethereal. And vulnerable, Skye thought.

He looked young, maybe only a couple of years older than her, but there was also an old feeling about him too. Her heart thundered in her chest, and she wondered briefly how he had gotten here, but the thought disappeared as quickly. She felt inexplicably drawn to him and didn’t realize she had actually moved until her outstretched hand touched the rippling muscles of his arm. Alarmed, she pulled back. His skin was soft and smooth as satin. It was neither warm nor cool, and her heart pounded so violently it felt like it would beat its way out of her chest.

He did not flinch when she had touched him, but he seemed surprised, and Skye tried to swallow the choking fear rising in her throat. Removing his hands from his face, he looked up at her. He was astonishingly handsome with lean, chiseled features and dark, rumpled hair that curled around his ears. His striking azure blue eyes were set in a face she could now see had been bronzed golden by the summer sun. His jawline was strong and came together in a deep cleft in his chin.

Blood rushed to her cheeks as she realized she stood over a naked man crouched in front of her whose gaze devoured and made her feel self-conscious. Her heart thundered even more fiercely at the intensity in his eyes, and gooseflesh crept up her arms. She shivered.

Who are you? The question came out bolder than intended. The logical part of her brain screamed at her to run as far and fast as she could, but then soothing calm washed over her like warm water, and the fear faded from her mind. She felt strangely attracted to the man, and if he told her to spin in circles, she would.

So, you see me, he said. It was not a question.

Yes, she whispered.

The stranger stood up. He practically towered over her, and she forced her eyes to remain on his face. She swallowed—and blushed again—at the urge to look down. It was then she noticed a smooth black collar around his long neck. It looked like leather, and she was unaware of reaching for it until he slapped her hand away. She folded her arms across her chest in embarrassment and stumbled back against the window. It was open, but she couldn’t remember opening it. The man stepped closer, and she backed up until she half leaned out of it.

A cold, autumn breeze caressed her skin, and she shivered again. She didn’t know if it was the cold or the physical act of shivering, but the trance-like haze lifted from her mind like a curtain being pulled back from blocking the sun. Fear rushed in to take its place, and the tales she’d heard of monstrous reapers who fed the souls of children to the devil flashed through her mind.

"Daemon ripere," she whispered.

What did you say? he asked, eyes burning with blue fire.

Skye cringed. It was only a scary story to frighten the children in the village, right? But the open window was behind her, and he—it loomed in front of her. She shivered again, this time uncontrollably. Her teeth chattered noisily together, the sound merging with the racing of her heart. If he pushed her, a fall from this second story window meant instant death. Tears trickled from the corners of her eyes as she squeezed them tightly shut and sucked in a deep breath, holding it. It would be her last.

A few moments passed. Is this what death was like? Nothingness? Where was the rough shove out the window? Where was the dizzying fall to the ground below? Where was the crunch of bones and split second of agonizing pain before dying?

She opened her eyes and looked around the room through a blur of tears. The man—or daemon ripere—or whatever he was, was gone. Feeling faint and sick, she exhaled and gulped in fresh air. She staggered toward the bare mattress on the floor where she had been sleeping and crumpled in a heap on the rough blanket. She hugged it to her face for fear if she let go she would be cast back toward the window. Tears streamed down her cheeks and across her nose. She wanted to cry out but dared not make a sound. It was hours before sleep overwhelmed her, and nightmares about falling filled her mind.

Git up! a young, nasally male voice whined. Skye groaned as something hard made contact with her hip. I said git up!

She peered up through the slit of one eye. Fifteen-year-old Barnabas Johnson stood over her, thumbs hooked in the belt loops of his pants, scowling down.

Git up, you filthy Outsider, he said lifting his right foot to kick her again. This time she anticipated the move, and as his foot swung forward, she grabbed his heel and pushed it up. Barnabas yelped as his center of gravity shifted, and he fell on his back.

I’m tellin’ Father! He whined.

She leapt up and planted her knees directly on his chest, pinning him to the floor. If you ever kick me again, she said poking a finger in his face, I’ll break your leg.

I’m tellin’ Father! he said again, this time with less conviction. His murky brown eyes were wide, and a thin trail of slimy boogers oozed from the side of one nostril. His breath was fouler than the cesspool which was a few miles outside the village, and Skye quickly released him. She moved away but kept a stern frown on her face.

Barnabas slowly got up from the dusty floor. He noisily wiped his nose with the sleeve of his shirt and patted down greasy, short-cropped, orange hair. His face, forehead, and neck were covered with acne in all the places his freckles didn’t show, and she wondered if he had ever bathed in his entire life.

He was two years younger than her, and he already tried to exert authority over anyone he could, walking in the footsteps of his older brother, Ezekiel, and his father, Malachi, who was the leader of the village. Skye glared at Barnabas, and he eyed her warily.

I’m tellin’ Father you’re wearin’ boy’s britches again. He’ll have you thrown out of the village this time fer sure. He hitched up his pants.

I’m terrified, she said nonchalantly.

You should be! He shouted, but the timbre of his voice changed pitch at the end, and he squealed like a pig. Skye smirked.

I’m-a get Zeke to smack you good. He stomped angrily away.

Zeke the Freak, Skye muttered, but she didn’t linger. She didn’t want to be around if Barnabas came back with Zeke. The older brother wouldn’t be intimidated by her, and she didn’t want to face his explosive anger either. She’d slept through the waking bell and should have been at the cannery doing chores hours ago.

Skye looked at the window. It was closed, and the hair on the back of her neck stood up. She knew it had been open when that—whatever it was—had been here last night. She shook her head to clear the cobwebs. Had she dreamed about it? She often had life-like nightmares, and lately, it seemed like she had them every night. Could the encounter have been one of those?

Perturbed, she grabbed her boots and shoved her feet into them. The soles were worn nearly through, but at least they fit. Other kids in the village weren’t as lucky and clomped around in oversized shoes or stepped gingerly in shoes that were too small. And those were the kids who got shoes at all.

Skye walked into the adjoining bathroom. The abandoned warehouse she slept in didn’t have working plumbing so she couldn’t use the facilities, but she had stashed a few personal items in the cabinet hanging on the wall behind a cracked mirror. She retrieved the hairbrush