The End Of The Road

I felt like protesting too, and was still trying to work out why I was considered a good candidate for a Scrapers job, when we stopped, and picked up another commuter. He was wearing a business suit and appeared shell shocked. He didn't look at me, or the other travellers. He was accompanied by another walking corpse who waved to us and sat down beside the new passenger. The other corpse was also wearing red satin slippers.

I asked my rank companion, "What about that guy in the suit? He looks rich."

"He jumped out a high rise window. We get a lot of guys who surf the stock market. It’s a hell of a ride up, and a long way down. Nothing but concrete at the end."

"How come he was brought on board by a corpse?"

My corpse grinned. He was becoming quite friendly, but I still didn’t want to get too close. There was always the hygiene issue, not that it mattered. We were both in the same boat. "He didn’t want to come," he said. "I think he had unfinished business with his insurance broker. Sometimes we have to collect them, sometimes they come willingly, like you. The willing ones have the choice of becoming Scrapers."

"Oh, good." I knew then that my path had been chosen. I was there for the long haul. I can’t say that I was surprised. The writing had been on the wall all night, I just hadn’t read it. "What will happen to you?" I asked. "You lost a hand, and an arm. Your feet are a mess. How will you get around?"

"I’m naturally maladjusted, but I can still walk. Soon I’ll get wings and move on up."

I looked down at my feet, and found I was wearing red satin slippers too. How had they got there? Things just seemed to appear. And the way these guys could read minds was downright scary. They knew I was going to take the Scraper job before I did.

The slippers were a bit tight, but so familiar, I felt obscurely comforted. Perhaps one day, if I was lucky, I would add a pair of wings. I could hardly wait to fly though the night, scraping, collecting, and who knows, one day I might collect my dad. He’d go in the pot for sure. No way would he come on the bus willingly. He always had to argue the point. And my neighbours would be great candidates too. I’d tasted some of their delights before. I’d make sure to fly over their house when they were at home.

The corpse read my mind. "No," he said, "You can’t go into their houses. Unless they’re dead. Then it’s open slather."

"What if they come out?"

"That’s another story. Let me know how you get on." He grinned.

This was an even better deal than I had expected. Who was it who said, ‘there’s no such thing as a free lunch’?

The end.