The Death of Billy-Jean

         “You’re dead, girl.” No tact, not even an effort to be sympathetic. “You’re dead, honey, so welcome to the team.”

         “Team?”

         “You’re going to be a reaper, same as us. Life’s finished, you’ll be starting over: new name, new friends, new home.”

         “I’m not dead! I’m talkin’ to you now, ain’t I? You’re crazy, that’s what.”

         “No, not crazy.”

         This boy—called himself Caliber—was a persistent one. He didn’t seem to listen too well, either.

         “Well, call yourself sane, jest more proof that you’re crazier’n a March hare,” Billy-Jean stated in a tone she felt brooked no argument. “I’m goin’ home. You best git yourself to a shelter somewheres.”

         “There’s no going back, Callet.”

         “I told you, ya danged fool, my name’s Billy-Jean!”

         Caliber shook his head. “Callet, just listen to me. You are dead; I can’t say it any simpler. That fella Razz knocked you upside the head with a steel bat; don’t you remember?”

         “Nuh uh. No way, no how! Ol’ Daddy Razz’s job is to protect me. Don’t you remember that’s what pimps is for?”

         “Oh Callet, you could’ve been something. What got you into that life, anyhow?”

         Billy-Jean sniffed, angry and insulted that this crazy little boy would have the nerve to criticize her career choice. “If you must know, ‘Caliber’, I do it for the money. There’s a whole lotta sick men out there that’d pay a bundle for this.” She pointed at herself to designate “this”.

         Caliber sighed and hung his head. “It’s always the money,” he whispered, mostly to himself. He raised his head and looked into her eyes again. “You don’t have to worry about money anymore, girl. I hate doing it this way, but you just won’t listen to me…” He trailed off, reaching around to take a section of the newspaper off the table behind him, unfolding it carefully and holding it in front of her face. “Read, Callet.”

Billy-Jean Carmichael 40, Indianapolis, died November 30, 1999, at Methodist Hospital of severe brain trauma. Billy-Jean was born June 12, 1969, to Frank and Angela Carmichael. She is survived by her mother, Angela; paternal grandfather, Frank Carmichael, Sr.; and brother, Robert Carmichael. Memorial services will be held December 5, 1999, in Flanner & Buchanan Washington Park East Funeral Center. Burial in Washington Park East Cemetery.

         Billy-Jean clenched her hands into fists to keep them from shaking. “So… So you ain’t lyin’, and you ain’t crazy?”

         “I’m sorry, Callet. This here is your past, and you’re going to have to leave it.”

         “What now?”

         “Now? Now you join the rest of us who died before our time. There’re about twenty people here, all dead of extremely unnatural causes. We have extra time on earth now; the cosmos’ sense of justice, I assume. It’s our job to round up the souls of the deceased. Each of us serves a century before we’re finally allowed to… move on.”

         “How long have you got left?”

         Caliber was silent for a moment, quickly calculating in his head. “Fifty-seven years,” he replied at length. “I died in 1956.”

         “And once you’re gone?”

         “Then someone else on the team takes over. Simple.”

         Billy-Jean took a shaky breath. “Right,” she said faintly, “I think I understand.”

         “You will, in time. You’ll come to understand and accept this, or else you wouldn’t have been sent here. Your name is Callet now, and you’re a reaper.”

         Billy-Jean, now Callet, left the small, dark room through a hallway behind a curtain, where Caliber had said there were rooms. Before she’d gone far, she heard Caliber’s voice:

         “Seven years, Amaranth, and we’ll have our new Scavengers. Hard to believe it’s been so long already.”

         A soft, derisive laugh followed, and another man whom Callet hadn’t seen said, “Good. The old Central State Hospital is already getting out of hand.”