Alden Bell - The Reapers Are the Angels: A Novel

THE REAPERS ARE THE ANGELS

a novel

ALDEN BELL

A Holt Paperback
Henry Holt and Company
New York

Holt Paperbacks

Henry Holt and Company, LLC

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A Henry Holt Paperbackandare registered trademarks of Henry Holt and Company, LLC.

Copyright 2010 by Alden Bell

All rights reserved.

Distributed in Canada by H. B. Fenn and Company Ltd.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Bell, Alden.

The reapers are the angels: a novel / Alden Bell. 1st ed.

p. cm.

ISBN-13: 978-0-8050-9243-1

ISBN-10: 0-8050-9243-9

1. Young womenFiction. 2. Survival skillsFiction. 3. LifeFiction. 4. Human beingsPhilosophyFiction. 5. ZombiesFiction. I. Title.

PS3607.A9859R43 2010

813.6dc22

2009048158

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First Edition 2010

Designed by Meryl Sussman Levavi

Printed in the United States of America

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

For Megan

Every marriage tends to consist of
an aristocrat and a peasant.
JOHN UPDIKE, Couples

I pity the man who can travel from Dan to Beersheba, and cry, Tis all barrenand so it is; and so is all the world to him who will not cultivate the fruits it offers.

L AURENCE S TERNE ,
A Sentimental Journey

Sometimes dead is better.

Pet Sematary

God is a slick god. Temple knows. She knows because of all the crackerjack miracles still to be seen on this ruined globe.

Like those fish all disco-lit in the shallows. That was something, a marvel with no compare that shes been witness to. It was deep night when she saw it, but the moon was so bright it cast hard shadows everywhere on the island. So bright it was almost brighter than daytime because she could see things clearer, as if the sun were criminal to the truth, as if her eyes were eyes of night. She left the lighthouse and went down to the beach to look at the moon pure and straight, and she stood in the shallows and let her feet sink into the sand as the patter-waves tickled her ankles. And thats when she saw it, a school of tiny fish, all darting around like marbles in a chalk circle, and they were lit up electric, mostly silver but some gold and pink too. They came and danced around her ankles, and she could feel their little electric fish bodies, and it was like she was standing under the moon and in the moon at the same time. And that was something she hadnt seen before. A decade and a half, thereabouts, roaming the planet earth, and shes never seen that before.

And you could say the world has gone to black damnation, and you could say the children of Cain are holding sway over the good and the righteousbut heres what Temple knows: She knows that whatever hell the world went to, and whatever evil shes perpetrated her own self, and whatever series of cursed misfortunes brought her down here to this island to be harbored away from the order of mankind, well, all those things are what put her there that night to stand amid the Daylight Moon and the Miracle of the Fishwhich she wouldnt of got to see otherwise.

See, God is a slick god. He makes it so you dont miss out on nothing youre supposed to witness firsthand.

S HE SLEEPS in an abandoned lighthouse at the top of a bluff. At the base theres a circular room with a fireplace where she cooks fish in a blackened iron pot. The first night she discovered the hatch in the floor that opened into a dank storage room. There she found candles, fishhooks, a first aid kit, a flare gun with a box of oxidized rounds. She tried one, but it was dead.

In the mornings she digs for pignuts in the underbrush and checks her nets for fish. She leaves her sneakers in the lighthouse, she likes the feel of the hot sand on the soles of her feet. The Florida beachgrass between her toes. The palm trees are like bushes in the air, their brittle dead fronds like a skirt of bones around the tall trunks, rattling in the breeze.

At noon every day, she climbs the spiral stairs to the top of the signal tower, pausing at the middle landing to catch her breath and feel the sun on her face from the grimy window. At the top, she walks the catwalk once aroundgazing out over the illimitable sea, and then, toward the mainland coast, the rocky cusp of the blight continent. Sometimes she stops to look at the inverted hemisphere of the light itself, that blind glass optic, like a cauldron turned on its side and covered with a thousand square mirrors.

She can see her reflection there, clear and multifarious. An army of her.

Afternoons, she looks through the unrotted magazines shed found lining some boxes of kerosene. The words mean nothing to her, but the pictures she likes. They evoke places she has never beencrowds of the sharply dressed hailing the arrival of someone in a long black car, people in white suits reclining on couches in homes where theres no blood crusted on the walls, women in undergarments on backdrops of seamless white. Abstract heaven, that whitewhere could such a white exist? If she had all the white paint left in the world, what would go untouched by her brush? She closes her eyes and thinks about it.

It can be cold at night. She keeps the fire going and pulls her army jacket tighter around her torso and listens to the ocean wind whistling loud through the hollow flute of her tall home.

M IRACLE, OR augury maybebecause the morning after the glowing fish, she finds the body on the beach. She sees it during her morning walk around the island to check the nets, she finds it on the north point of the teardrop landmass, near the shoal.

At first it is a black shape against the white sand, and she studies it from a distance, measures it with her fingers up to her eye.

Too small to be a person, unless its folded double or half buried. Which it could be.

She looks around. The wind blowing through the grass above the shore makes a peaceful sound.

She sits and studies the thing and waits for movement.

The shoal is bigger today. It keeps getting bigger. When she first came, the island seemed like a long way off from the mainland. She swam to it, using an empty red and white cooler to help keep her afloat in the currents. That was months ago. Since then the island has gotten bigger, the season pulling the water out farther and farther every night, drawing the island closer to the mainland. There is a spit of reefy rock extending out from the shore of the mainland and pointing toward the island, and there are large fragments of jutting coral reaching in the other direction from the island. Like the fingers of God and Adam, and each day they come closer to touching as the water retreats and gets shallower along the shoal.

But it still seems safe. The breakers on the reef are violent and thunderous. You wouldnt be able to get across the shoal without busting yourself to pieces on the rock. Not yet at least.

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