Devil's Deal Delayed

There’s something reassuring about finding a body in a dark alley in the dead of night. Much the same way as one does not expect lightning to strike in the same place twice, the odds of being murdered in such close proximity to another recent murder were astronomically small. It helps that the space was familiar ground to me, having taken that particular shortcut home dozens of times since moving to New York. What I had found was that these isolated paths tucked between buildings were among the best in the world for both wheeling and dealing. The bright lights of the city streets made the darkness even more oppressive and the constant honking of irate taxi drivers all but guaranteed a safe space for crime, regardless of a target’s propensity for hysteria. While my sojourns through the area were never to hurt anyone - my crimes are purely of the white-collar variety these days - I can respect another professional’s ability to set the right stage for their art.

Calling the scene before me on that night “art” would be generous, though. The man lying bloodied and bruised before me was probably in his mid-40s, his gut proudly extending towards the heavens, threatening to burst through the buttons of his shirt even now. His suit jacket was splayed open, a second skin that had been peeled back to reveal the layer underneath. The lining looked to be a fine silk, so whoever this man was, he knew how to spend money. After a brief glance around to make sure there were no prying eyes or ears, I turned on my phone’s flashlight to get a better look at him.

He looked rough. Not just because he had clearly been waiting too long to make an appointment with a dermatologist but because of the death grip that had purpled his left hand. It clutched a simple, white briefcase, somehow unstained from the violence of the night and the accumulated filth of the previous several thousand nights. I’m not ashamed to admit I was more interested in the case than the life that had been taken. The man before me just looked like another lawyer or politician with an inflated ego to match their inflated bank account. But a white briefcase? That was a bold fashion choice on its own and only made more interesting by the fact that whoever committed this crime opted not to take their swag bag home.

My parents raised me to never waste any food and to always answer when opportunity knocks so I thought it best to grab the case and make my exit. I bent over to uncurl his fingers which even now possessed an almost supernaturally tight grip. I heard each knuckle crack back into place as I unwrapped his hand and by the time I was done, I could feel a bead of sweat forming on my head from the strain. Pressing as my curiosity was now that I knew the heft of the thing, I decided this was no place to start guessing at the combination of the lock. Without so much as a quick prayer for the fallen, I strolled past, whistling my way to the nearest subway stop.

It was just late enough for rush hour to have passed, though that still meant there was only a single empty seat I could cram myself into when my train arrived. I’ve always enjoyed the sounds of the Metropolitan Transit Authority, all of the creaking and screeching permeating the claustrophobic tunnels. As surrounded as I am down there by the cacophony of life, I feel alone, which is all I wanted on a night like that. Nobody there knew who I was and nobody cared. With only a touch of hesitation, I began to fiddle around with the lock on the case. It was as standard as they came - three digits, 1,000 possibilities. I sat it up in my lap and began flipping through numbers, knowing I had at least thirty minutes until I came to my stop. As I pressed my hand against the white leather backing of the thing to keep it steady, I could feel every bump along the line. I focused intently on the numbers, my gaze unwavering as I waited for the telltale click of success.

It took me too long to notice the quiet. Not just quiet, either - a pounding, resounding silence that penetrated deep into my skull, making each passing thought a peal of thunder in my brain. After waiting a respectable amount of time in hopes of it passing, I glanced up at my surroundings. The late-night commuters that had surrounded me moments ago were no longer there, replaced instead by an equally diverse selection of corpses in various states of decay. While that would have been an unsettling enough sight on its own, I was made all the more nervous by the fact that they all sat with perfect posture, each decomposing head turned to look directly at me, violating the unwritten rules of the MTA.

Only the one next to me spoke, though. The one from the alley. He almost looked normal, if purpler than most of us who are alive. His eyes were different, though, with deep red veins criss crossing each of them creating a spider’s web of blood. I tried not to allow my overwhelming fear to show and considering the circumstances, I still think I did a decent job of it.

“Look around you,” said the man. I had not expected him to speak and only barely managed to keep my butt planted in my seat when he did. “All of these people from across the centuries, failures. Weak. Useless. Inside the case you hold is a gift, one seeking a will strong enough to use it. Does that interest you?”

I knew I had to choose my next words carefully. I had never spoken to a dead person before, or an entity inhabiting a dead person’s body, or an illusion, or whatever else this thing might be. The point is that I have been around the block a few times but this was an entirely new situation for me.

“Could you provide me with a few more details than that before I agree to anything?” I managed to sputter out after what was either 10 seconds of 10 minutes of thinking.

“No.” I hoped for at least a little more follow up than that but it did not take long to realize that I would be getting no additional information. I am not ashamed to admit that my curiosity was already getting the better of me and that I was inclined to say yes right out of the gate. My decision making process was also sped along by the fact that saying “no” risked as many consequences as saying “yes.”

“Well then,” I said, adopting my most professional voice, “I suppose I accept.”

“Very good,” said the man. His eyes flicked down to the case in my lap and the three dials on the lock began to spin for a moment before landing on the combination - 666.

A little on the nose, if you ask me.

I looked down as the lid flipped open to reveal a small, black notebook sitting on top of a mess of money. The bills looked old though, much older than any currency I had ever seen in person. They were all twenty dollar notes and bore the words “Act of March 3rd, 1863” across the top, equalling $20,000 in all. I glanced back at the body next to me which continued to stare through me with unerring intensity.

I went to pick up the notebook and as my fingers touched its soft leather surface, my mind was flooded with hundreds, if not thousands of scenes of rage and violence. I could feel the pain overwhelming me, the weight of who knows how many deaths across time threatening to crush me. I felt my body pushed to the brink and ready to burst but just before I lost myself in the pain in fighting it, I allowed it to engulf me.

I screamed in the middle of the 8:22 C train for what felt like an eternity. When I came to again, the bloated man was still next to me but now smiling.

“Finally, after all these years, we have found someone with the strength to fulfill the unholy alliance sworn,” he said with a disconcerting glee. “That notebook carries with it two things - power untold and a list of names. Use this new power to strike down the enemies that your predecessors could not and take this financial reward as compensation for services rendered.”

My body now coursing with...something, I began to flip through the notebook. The names were all written in beautiful, curving script that looked nearly as old as the cash did. At the very top in the largest letters were two names - Jefferson Davis and Alexander Stephens. I am no history expert but I did recognize those names as the President and Vice President of the Confederacy. I pulled out my phone and began to search the other names, all of whom were influential members of the Confederacy during the Civil War from the government, military, of business.

“Go forth now,” the man said, “and use our power to seize victory in accordance with the pact.”

“All of these people are already dead,” I said. The man blinked at me for the first time since we met. He looked confused as did his surrounding compatriots.

“That is impossible,” he said. “Surely our search has not taken that long.”

“Well…” said a woman opposite us, her voice cracked and trembling. Her neck looked like it had been impaled by a spike and her clothes looked like they belonged in the 1950s. “We never did get good at tracking time up here. And you know how hard it is to reach our superiors to see who is entering and exiting…”

“Quiet, Poludnitsa,” he said. “Not in front of the guest.”

“Sorry,” she said. The man looked back at me, offering a toothy, oddly apologetic smile.

“Well, it seems this was all for naught,” he said. “A lot of souls have been condemned to torment to bring us to this point. The work is done, though.” I could feel my body coursing with energy as he spoke, energy which I realized in that moment that I wanted to keep.

“So...what happens now?” I asked as nonchalantly as possible.

“We’ll be going home now, no need to prolong this further.” He sized me up and down, breathing in whatever gift I had been given. “I should take this all back, but… I smell an inclination to keep it on you. Perhaps there is something yet to be done with it.”

“Tell you what,” I said, “why don’t I just hold onto this and you can see if there’s any work to be done. I imagine you’ll know where to find me.”

“That we will,” he said. “Even now, your burning glow is visible to us across all spectrums. It would be a waste of a host to drain your body to a husk now after taking so long to find a suitable candidate.”

“Great,” I said, exhaling louder than I intended. “Just let me know what you need. I’ll be around.”

“So will we,” he said as the lights in the train all flashed off for a moment before coming back on, revealing a mass of tired New Yorkers eager to be home. I held the briefcase in my lap, humming along to a song from a beatbox at the opposite end of the train. We are now fast approaching the dark at the end of the tunnel.

I can’t wait to see what is inside it.