Of Ants and Avalanches

by Melanie Wang

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Death walks. Workplace procrastinators stare out their office windows, watch his fedora make its way against the human current, against the cold. His knee-length grey trench coat gives the impression of height, but his torso is hunched, his chin dug into his chest. His frame moves slowly, gristle and beast. Couples break to let him pass.

First were the broken sunsets. They reached the horizon, rose-pink and glowing, only to shatter like punched glass, like promises not kept. Millions of splinters, of color and light, plummeted to unveil a wall of night. Now, socialites cluster on city rooftops, with martinis and hors d’oeuvres. Herds of scientists roll in by hybrid rental car, laden with clipboards. They have set up their nomads’ camp in the corner of the public green, in the heart of the city, where ordinary citizens often pass by, confused. The scientists fiddle with their lab coats and whirring machines, whisper to colleagues, “Curious, curious.”

Death makes his way through the tangled streets. His left hand grips an ebony cane with unnatural fervor; veins are visible, taut and angry, bloodless, tubing against skin. It’s rush hour, rushing-people hour, all rushing through the city to their quiet, happy homes. His steps play a syncopated rhythm. Pavement grinds against his cane.

The fedora is a curiosity, picked up in a rundown, what-a-bargain department store purely for disguise. Looking in the mirror, he had been pleased by the way his curls of hair licked the grey brim, flickering flames. He hoped the Fate Parliament would have trouble finding him. He pictured Agents scouring his usual haunts, every dripping, mossy cave or broiling storm cloud. A million suited Parliament men in their corner offices. Balding heads slamming on desks and neckties wrung with abandon.

Death was, after all, a sadist.

~

Death stops when a Death strikes. The world can’t function without one. The sick lie on hospital beds for months; the fatally injured are tethered to IVs. Roots pulled from the earth resolutely grasp for water, and hitmen can’t get the job done. The seven-year-old terror next door floods anthills with a garden hose, but no ants drown. Suddenly, there is no momentum. The avalanche has frozen midway down the mountain. Energy wells up, reality goes awry. Ends become beginnings, and the circle of life stretches and shifts and breaks. Thus, shattered sunsets. Darker nights, brighter stars, thicker jungles, perfect flowers, longer lives, and no funerals. No opportunities to wear black.

First were the broken sunsets. They reached the horizon, rose- pink and glowing, only to shatter like punched glass.

Wrapped in grey, Death blends in with the city streets. He lingers underneath flickering fluorescent store signs, avoiding the crowd. Dirt, oil, and autumn foliage fallen from grace mingle in puddles. Smells waft out the backdoors of restaurants, pollute alleyways. At the corner of Herald and Main, he passes a flower shop crowned by a drooping overhang. White letters proclaim ANNIE’S FLORAL FANCIES against the faded royal blue.  He stares at the roses in the window display, the carnations undying. An overworked florist is sweeping erratically in the corner, pushing her glasses back up her nose every few strokes.  Shadows are long against brick buildings and night skulks in, thick with car horns and clatter.

Further up the street, a bus stops. The folding door swings open; a woman steps out and spots Death. He’s still underneath the overhang. She smiles. The sky above is inky and spinning; the sun is sinking into the horizon. The scientists are calculating, the socialites too. Death turns and sees the lady standing and staring. He sticks out his chin a bit, purses his lips. The door of the bus slams shut, and the machine gags, heaves itself back into the traffic stream.

Here’s the irony: they want a younger Death. They need someone willing or clueless enough to be to be their puppet, but this Death is no Pinocchio. He is too stubborn, too smart, too set in his ways. So he hides, but signs of him are everywhere. A film strip of sunsets runs through his mind in a permanent loop. While the game of politics is played, he savors a private victory.

The posters on the bus shelter peel like shedding skin, layered, interrupting one another. Messages are half-screamed, half-finished, but decipherable. OPENING NEXT WEDNESD-SALE AT CASUAL COR-ARE YOU FEELI-BUY NOW! Death approaches cautiously, his hunched figure comic next to the giantess that is Deliverance.

“Already?”

“You look morose,” Deliverance tells him. Somehow, most seem to forget the effects of his occupation. It’s as if they expect mimes to be talkative, politicians honest.

“Why not be?”

“Hey, hey. This was your own choice.” Her words come slowly. “Besides, you gave us hell looking for you.”

Death, the moving metaphor, ignores her, traces slow circles with his cane.

“I’m Death, I’m the end, I’m it. If you would rather kill me, I’m not afraid of dying.”

“You gave me hell searching for me.”

“Touché.” Deliverance bites her lower lip. “And the resignation? They’re expecting one.”

He exhales slowly, eyes refusing to meet hers. Fragments of sunset dust the horizon behind them.

“Please. We won’t use force unless we have to. Cooperate—”

“Why would I? What’s the benefit? I’m Death, I’m the end, I’m it. If you would rather kill me, I’m not afraid of dying.”

The circling has halted. Deliverance pulls at the pale white buttons of her blouse, slumps against a poster. Even now, Death finds a perverse pleasure in seeing her mental gears turn, trying to grasp enough words for a lucid argument. Silence swallows the space between them as he waits. Deliverance can’t get to him, can’t penetrate the layers.

“Well,” she says, “then there’s always option two.”

Figures in long coats walk by. Unlit alleyways tempt explorers. Night hangs around like an extra waiting for the next scene change, like a bored best man. Death traces the thin cracks in the pavement with his cane—left, right, left, right. Deliverance takes his hand.

~

There’s a Motel 6 at the edge of the city, where the EL train roars past at random intervals. The lamps on nightstands quiver. The rooms are all alike, painted noncommittal beige and decorated with tableaus of boats or deer. The cane is abandoned in the hallway, outside a room that smells of past inhabitants, of cigarettes, of old shampoo and one-night stands. Deliverance takes him there, sits him down. Death doesn’t resist.

She shuts off the lights. She seals the entrance with a graceful turn of the hand. Then, she is gone, and he is gone too. Fate, the machine, wins as always. Death’s story is no David and Goliath; there isn’t any hope of a victory. There is only one variable that he can choose, the how of his defeat.

Outside, ants drown, and the avalanche roars down the mountain.