The Grim Reaper Who Applied for Sick Leave

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Death had never taken a sick day. On October thirty-first, he sat in his gothic office beneath a mountain of unfinished departures, holding a mug labeled SOUL COFFEE and wondering whether it was possible to die of exhaustion when dying was technically his department. “You look dreadful,” said Percy, the office ghost, drifting in with another stack of forms. “Thank you,” Death replied. “I have worked hard at it.” Death pressed two skeletal fingers to his temples. “I need a holiday.” Percy dropped the papers. “You can't take a holiday. You're Death.” “Precisely. It's a terminal position.” Death opened the employee handbook, a document bound in suspiciously familiar leather. Under LEAVE ENTITLEMENT he found one sentence: ALL EMPLOYEES MAY REQUEST SICK LEAVE, SUBJECT TO MANAGEMENT APPROVAL. Below it, in smaller print: MANAGEMENT IS CURRENTLY UNAVAILABLE. Death filled out Form 666-B, ticking EXHAUSTION, CHRONIC DREAD and UNREASONABLE WORKLOAD. “You'll need a doctor's note,” Percy said. “I don't have a doctor.” “Then visit one.” Percy considered this. “Human Resources might accept a self-certification.” At that moment, Gerald, the office skeleton, entered carrying a suitcase, a tropical shirt and a rubber duck. “Good news! I've booked your recovery retreat.” Death stared. “You booked what?” “Three nights at the Sunshine Sands Wellness Resort. Ocean view. Complimentary breakfast. No screaming before ten.” Gerald tapped the wall calendar. “According to this, you've accumulated eight million unused vacation days.” “Who will handle my duties?” “Temporary staff,” said Gerald. “I've hired someone.” The office door opened, and a cheerful man in a bright orange vest stepped inside. His badge read DAVE — INTERIM MORTALITY COORDINATOR. “Have you ever escorted a soul?” “I used to supervise supermarket self-checkouts. Similar complaints, less haunting.” Dave picked up the scythe. “So this is the barcode scanner?” “Put that down!” Death thundered. The blade swept past a filing cabinet, and every document inside instantly became a death certificate. Dave blinked. Death handed him a thick instruction manual. “Check the ledger before every departure. Never bargain with a ghost. And never press the red button.” Dave pointed at a red button on the desk. “This one?” “Yes.” “What's it do?” “Nobody knows. That is why it is labeled DO NOT PRESS.” Dave nodded enthusiastically, which Death found less reassuring than he had hoped. At midnight, Death departed for the coast, leaving Percy to supervise and Gerald to update the calendar. Then Dave pressed the red button. The button made a pleasant ding. Across the world, every appointment with Death was postponed indefinitely. In a hospital, a ninety-nine-year-old man sat up, demanded a sandwich and challenged his cardiologist to arm wrestling. By morning, the newspapers proclaimed THE END OF DEATH. Dave watched the news with pride. “Productivity is up! Zero completed departures!” Percy stared at the dashboard. “That is not productivity. That is a catastrophe with excellent statistics.” Meanwhile, Death sat on a beach beneath a striped umbrella, wearing sunglasses over his glowing eyes. A waiter approached. “Something refreshing, sir?” “A cold lemonade. No souls.” The waiter hesitated. “We have a seasonal special called the Final Sunset.” “That sounds like work.” Unfortunately, children kept asking him to pose for Halloween photographs. One boy asked whether the scythe was real. “Only on weekdays,” Death said, and the boy ran off delighted. Death almost smiled. Then his phone rang. It was Percy. “There's been a slight complication.” “Define slight.” “Nobody can die.” Death sat upright. “Nobody?” “Not even the houseplants. Gerald's cactus has developed opinions.” “Did Dave press the button?” “He says it was a team-building exercise.” “Tell Dave to reverse it.” “He tried. The button now says THANK YOU FOR YOUR FEEDBACK.” Death returned in a storm of black smoke, still wearing his holiday sunglasses. Dave greeted him with a presentation titled DISRUPTING THE AFTERLIFE: A BOLD NEW PARADIGM. “We have achieved one hundred percent customer retention!” “You've trapped everyone in the waiting room of existence,” Death replied. Gerald appeared, looking worried. “The ledger is overflowing. Some people have reached their appointed hour three times. They're getting impatient.” Death approached the red button. Beneath it, previously invisible lettering had appeared: EMERGENCY PAUSE — ACTIVATED BY MANAGEMENT ONLY. “Management,” he whispered. “Of course.” A voice rose from the coffee mug. “Finally. Someone read the instructions.” The mug trembled, and a tiny figure climbed out, wearing a pinstripe suit and carrying a clipboard. It was a moth, no larger than a thumb, with spectacles and a face of profound disappointment. “I am the Undersecretary of Endings,” it announced. “Acting management since the beginning of time.”