Death Gets an Upgrade by Gina X. Grant

"What are your pronouns?"

In books, they always describe death as having a “sickly sweet odour.” But to my mind—or more accurately, to my nose—there was nothing sweet about it. Not that I come across much death in my IT job—the occasional fried circuit, maybe. But everyone encounters a random dead mouse or a bit of wayward chicken skin that slipped behind the garbage bin.

To my mind—or nose—the smell of death was always of rotting garbage.

So imagine my surprise when I opened my eyes to find the dark-robed figure of Death standing over me, not smelling anything like rotting garbage. Or sickly sweetness. In fact, Death didn’t smell like anything at all.

The only thing I could smell was the eucalyptus odour of the Vicks I’d rubbed on my aching back last night. Nothing like spending all day in a hospital guest chair to aggravate my arthritis. Especially after a week fixing servers.

So while I couldn’t smell anything deathlike, I could certainly see Death. And Death appeared to be looking back at me. Red lights, like glowing coals, hovered where eyes would be, staring from beneath the pointy black cowl.

“Uh, hello,” I said, blinking myself awake. “Are you looking for me?”

Before Death could answer, I threw back the covers and climbed out of bed, wincing as my lower back twinged. “Sorry. Stupid question. Of course, you are. Just let me pick out an outfit. I’m not going through eternity in this ratty old nightgown.”    

On my way to the closet, I brushed against the billowing black robe. A chill ran through me, the hair on my arms standing to attention. I wondered what I’d died of. I’d just passed my fiftieth birthday, so probably a heart attack. I patted my chest affectionately. My poor old heart had served me well all these decades—through sickness and health—and even the heartache I’d experienced over the last few months.

After rummaging around in my closet, I said, “This will work,” presenting a pair of stretchy jeans, a crisp white T-shirt I’d ironed only yesterday, and my favourite black jacket—the one with the velvet collar. “I’d like to be comfortable for all eternity,” I said. “I hope no one expects me to dress up. In fact, I’m not even going to wear a bra.”

Death looked confused, if two red lights hovering within a dark cowl could be called confused.

“Turn around,” I ordered, and Death complied, pivoting around a wicked-looking scythe.

I dressed quickly. Then, after adding my favourite earrings and sliding on my scratched old wedding band, I stood, hands on hips. “Okay. I’m ready.” I glanced back at the bed, expecting to see my body growing cold in the sheets, but the bed was clearly empty.

Turning to face me, Death raised the scythe, intoning in a surprising contralto, “Tiffany Wilder, I am here to reap your soul.”

“Wait, what?” I cried, holding up my hands in a warding-off gesture. “There’s been a mistake!”

The red dots rolled in their sockets.

“Right. You probably get that all the time. But I’m not Tiffany. I’m her mother. Tiffany moved into her own place several years back.” I didn’t add that lately, Tiffany spent more time in hospital than in her junior one-bedroom.

Death slowly lowered the scythe.

I held out my hand. “I’m Gloria Wilder. My pronouns are she/her. Very pleased to meet you.”

The red lights blinked on and off. “You’re… You’re pleased to meet me?” 

“Why, yes. And I feel you’ve been very patient with me, letting me change into my preferred outfit. I’ll bet you’ve got hundreds of other people to attend to. So thank you.”

“You’re thanking me?” Death rumbled. “No one has ever thanked me before.”

“Oh, that can’t be right. People who are eager to get to whatever afterlife they believe in. They must be grateful, right?”

Death sighed. “No, actually. Most religious people secretly feel they belong in… a bad place. So they’re not glad to be going.”

“What about those in pain? They must welcome your arrival.” I bit my lip, thinking of my daughter lying in the hospital, awaiting a miracle.

“No,” Death intoned. “They’re usually outraged at whatever happened to them. They resent that someone they feel is undeserving got a long, healthy life while theirs came to an unpleasant end. And sometimes, the deathee is angry I didn’t come sooner.”

“Oh, that’s awful. I’m so sorry you’re going through that. It must be very stressful.”

Death’s red dots seemed to dim, almost as if filled with tears.

I considered laying a comforting hand on Death’s robed shoulder, but wasn’t sure if it would pass right through, either because Death was noncorporeal… Or because I was. Instead, I asked, “What should I call you?”

“I’ve been called many things: End-bringer, Reaper, Soul Taker… But I don’t really have a name.”

“Well, is there one you’d like? Do you have preferred pronouns?”

Death rubbed one skeletal finger over where a chin would be. Or possibly a lower mandible. “I hope this doesn’t sound silly, but I’d kind of like to be called Shadow.” Now two pink spots appeared beneath the glowing red eyes. “And I guess my pronouns are they/them. Nobody’s ever asked before.”

“Well, Shadow. It’s very nice to meet you. Would you like a drink or a sandwich before we go? I have some cold roast beef in the fridge.”

“I don’t eat, but thank you. And, while it has been extremely nice to meet you, too, Gloria Wilder, I’m afraid we’re not leaving together. At least not yet.” Death reached inside their robe. I craned my neck to see, but inside the robe was just more robe.

“I’m supposed to be here for Tiffany Wilder. Where did you say she is?” Extracting a small device, Death used one bony finger to press keys.

“A Palm Pilot?” I laughed. “The 90s called—they want their technology back. No wonder you’ve showed up at the wrong place. Don’t you have a tablet? A smart phone? A laptop?”

Death smacked the device. “This is the third time I’ve nearly collected the wrong soul. I guess I need an update. My assistant left this mortal coil in 1983, so he’s a bit behind in technology.”

“Listen,” I commanded. “I’m a systems analyst. And I can tell you, you need a proper database and a smart phone, at the very least.” I paused, seeing skepticism in the red eyes. “I’m between contracts at the moment. Why don’t we pop over to your offices and I’ll set you up with a better system? Efficiency saves time, money, and, in your case, souls.”

“You cannot enter my domain unless you are dead. And…” Death clicked a few keys. “Assuming this is accurate, you have…” They held the screen close to their cowl. “…another 45 years to live.”

“I do?” Doing a quick calculation in my head, I asked, “I’m going to live to 95?” My shoulders slumped, and I rubbed a hand over my face. “Great,” I muttered.

“You don’t sound pleased.” Death said. “I thought people wanted a long life.”

Plopping down on the unmade bed, I said, “I don’t really have anything to live for. My husband passed last year. And my daughter—well, you know…” I sighed. “I love my work, but as a consultant, I move from company to company, so I haven’t made any friends.”

Death nodded, no doubt familiar with a friendless existence.

“I thought, when I saw you, that I could accompany my daughter into the afterlife. That’s why I was glad to see you. I’m sorry. It was ultimately selfish.”

Death patted my shoulder, just as I’d thought I might pat theirs. Their hand felt insubstantial, but even through my T-shirt and jacket, I felt the burning cold.

“It does not sound selfish to me. In fact, it sounds very selfless. I have enjoyed meeting you. I really do need a technology upgrade.” Death began to fade. “See you in 45 years.”

I nodded, sniffing back tears. Forty-five years felt like a life sentence—literally.

“Wait!” I shouted. Until now, Death had looked solid, but now I could see my dresser through the billowing black robe. “Isn’t there something you can do?” I begged. “I’d gladly die for my daughter. Can I trade my remaining years so she can live them instead? I can set you up with the best, most productive systems you’ve ever had. Please?” My teeth dug into my lower lip as I waited for Death’s answer. How long would I have to wait for a being to whom time had no meaning?

Instead of words, Death raised their scythe. It clanked against the ceiling before swooping down and passing through me. I felt nothing. Literally nothing. My back no longer ached, my eyes no longer burned with tears, and the lump in my throat had disappeared. It hit me; he’d taken my soul. I stood, shedding my earthly body like a discarded sweater.

I smiled at Death, holding out my hand. It took Death a moment to realize we were going into the next world holding hands.

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Across town, Tiffany Wilder woke up and stretched. A nurse came in, checked some readings, looked puzzled, and left. An hour later, Tiffany’s oncologist declared the results of the new drug were nothing short of a miracle.

That night, the old woman in the next bed passed quietly in her sleep, Death showing up at exactly the right place at exactly the right time.

Death's brand new smart phone pinged. It was Gloria, texting Death to say they had thirty seconds to the next reap. Death would have sighed if they went in for that sort of thing. They'd never been more efficient.

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