The Four Wotsits of the Doodad

Lemmings

Death's stride was getting shorter. His grimace was too. He was calming down, each step leaving a little of his mood behind like a footprint in the snow. He still had no idea of what he could do, but at least he wasn't as worked up about it all. Even in good spirits, Death had a grumble rumbling in the depths of his belly, ready to erupt at the slightest provocation. A mix of indecision and fresh air, however, was soothing his furrowed brow with a tender caress.

Sometimes, when you're not thinking about something, your mind can take you by the hand and lead you, without you yourself knowing, right where you want to be. Often, of course, it can drag you kicking and screaming off a cliff. But not always. Sometimes, your mind can take pity on your situation and gently pull you - so much so that you wouldn't even know you were being guided - to a destination you weren't aware you had.

You could find yourself spread-eagled on the rocks at the bottom of the cliff-face, but if you're not...

Death looked up. His breath caught in his throat, just as it was about to leapt out into the abyss and whither a few plants. The plants, a rosebush and some non-descript green bushy thing, were thankful for their unexpectedly extended life and puffed out their chests to bloom a little brighter - or a deeper green in the case of the green bushy thing.

A hospital. Of course! Where better for Death to make some changes than in the place where death walks the corridors, poking his head into odd rooms and wards to lure the terminally ill over to the Other Side?

Well, neither death nor Death walked these corridors normally. Grim had an office down by the mortuary that no-one knew about - just left of the incinerator, and he had his big scrolly list laid out on his desk so he could tick the names off one at a time. And he didn't walk. He used to, once upon a time, but it became boring after a while. And Grim wasn't getting any younger.

He used a scooter now.

Still. Grim might not take too kindly to Death upsetting the order of things and reclaiming a few souls that were queuing up to step through the door to the Afterlife.

Oh well. Grim might be The Reaper, but Death was, (but don't tell anyone - especially Famine) the 'Big D'. If Grim didn't like it, Death would lump him.

Anyway, what was a few souls between friends, hmmm? It wasn't like they hadn't messed about with the numbers before. Obviously not since that time with the Sambuca drinking game... They both still hung their heads in shame after that particular incident. Some serious adjustments of lists and cover stories were needed then!

Death thought about popping down to see Grim, but decided against it. Grim was all about efficiency and would insist on fine tuning the tiniest details of a plan that Death didn't really have. Better to go ahead and change the world, one terminally ill patient at a time, than spend hours getting bogged down in the wheres and whyfors of times, dates and methods of deceastion.

Deceastion. Grim was proud of that - he'd come up with the word. Death thought it sounded like a dictionary had got lost along a dark alley and had been set upon by a gang of hooded verbs, being left for... well... left for dead... But he didn't say anything. He simply held back a grimace whenever he heard Grim utter it.

And a couple of pigeons, or sparrows, or the odd cat snuffling around in the bins at the back of the hospital kitchen would keel over and stop breathing.

Death walked through the doors of the hospital, big glass affairs that swooshed apart in deference. OK, so they were automatic doors and would have swooshed for anyone who walked near them - even the odd six year old who insisted on running up to them to open them then running away so they'd close, then running back up to them, then... Well. And so it goes. They hated that. Just when they were having a snooze, someone would want them to open. People could be so rude.

He paused, briefly, on the inside of the not-particularly-happy-but-forced-to-do-their-job doors and took a deep breath. He could smell - could taste, even - the overwhelming stench of antiseptic, a smell that was only used in such copious quantities to hide odours that no-one wanted to smell. This particular odour wasn't so much something that would gnaw at your nostrils, it was more something you could feel. A smell that washed you in its ultra-clean waters as easily as if you'd gone for a paddle in an oil slick.

Death licked his lips.

Then he remembered why he was there in the first place. To help. To change the world, even in some small way. Grand designs often jumped in front of life's little pleasures didn't they? Like lemmings off a cliff, destined to spoil the life of the one that came after until none remained.

His brow furrowed, but only for a second - not long enough to snatch the last breath from any nearby small animals. He was here to do some good, so he'd best be good at it!