Death Game           

“Well, that really was unfortunate.”

“Excuse me?”

“Oh. Right. After doing this for an eternity, I sometimes forget the formalities.” The voice speaks casually, as though it could be remarking about the weather.

But this predicament didn’t fit the voice’s tone. I don’t remember sitting down at a chess board. And if I did, I would have picked a way more cushioned chair, and not this granite, literal pain in the ass.

“Are we at the DMV or something?” I ask, smacking my lips at how dry my mouth feels. Everything around me is bathed in dull, fluorescent lighting. The kind of lighting which seemingly sucks the color and life out of everything. But there’s something off about the place – even the DMV shouldn’t give off such creepy vibes.

“I do suppose I could have been more creative,” the voice, now distinctly a woman’s speaks into the uncanny silene. It has a grating quality about it – the kind that makes you want to plug your ears, or find a quick exit out of the conversation.

I finally home in on the person sitting across from me. The woman has a face that makes me wonder if she has ever smiled a day in her life. If she had, its clear her face muscles have long forgotten how to do so, with how pronounced her natural frown is. Two onyx studs shine glumly in her earlobes, and her gold rimmed glasses frame two, slightly overlarge eyes. Eyes that seem not of this world. Two gold pupils stare down at the chessboard, which I had all but forgotten. It seems like an age old fire gleams from behind them, ready to devour anything.

It's an effort to turn my attention away from them and back to our empty surroundings – the vacant chairs, the unmanned desks, even the windows, which all have their shades.

“Something’s…not right,” I say out loud, not sure if the woman can answer the veiled question.

The woman nods and pushes one of her white pawns forward. “True. I meet people where they are. It’s made for some uncomfortable situations, but you humans do say that ‘Variety is the spice of life.’ Well. In my case, I guess I should fit in the word ‘Death,’” she finishes, chuckling darkly.

“You’re being awfully cavalier about this,” I say, ignoring my own chess pieces. “So what’s going on? Why are we at a DMV? Why is it empty? And why the hell is there a chess board here?”

The woman finally lifts her gaze from the board, meeting her eyes with my own. There is something unnatural about those eyes. “Haunted” wouldn’t even begin to describe them. I have the feeling she’s seeing something within me. Something deeper. And is, for the time being, withholding judgment.

I blink and break the eye contact, shaking off the involuntary shiver crackling through me.  

“You’ve died, Mr. Whitlock.” The woman lets the words settle. And settle they do, like a sudden chill sinking into the room. Through my skin and into my bones.

I slump back in my chair. I have no reason to doubt the old woman, who’s resumed her survey of the chessboard. It explains everything. Including this uncanny, otherworldly feeling. The feeling that I’m dreaming, and yet lucid.

“You’re not dreaming,” the grey haired woman says without looking up at me. “Whatever question you’re primed to ask, trust me, I’ve heard it millions of times. I’ve found in my line of work, speaking with the dead is surprisingly predictable. But I’ve found a way to spice it up over the millennia. You humans are so pitifully dumb, it almost hurts to watch. But every now and then, you’ll go and actually create something worthwhile.”

I swallow thickly, part of me barely registering the words thrown my direction, the other part a nest of buzzing thoughts.

“Just two things,” I manage after a protracted silence.

“Hm?” she muses, a bite of impatience in her tone.

“Yeah. First, if you’re allowed to tell me, I guess. How did I die?” In spite of myself, I ball my fists in my lap. Perhaps it was a heroic death? A courageous act to save others? Or perhaps I’d lived a long life, and my body had simply given out on me. I wish I knew. Parts of it are foggy – flashes of the past, like a movie on fast forward. But the end…I think the movie reel cut off at that part.

The woman sighs and looks up at me, those eyes somehow less intense than before. “You sure you want to know?”

I nod, swallowing thickly.

“As I said, I meet you where you are. You were indeed at a DMV. Moderately well off. Job decent enough to pay bills and live comfortably. An ex-wife. Divorced, after life decided to do…well, life things. One child though, who you loved very much. But you lived on ‘cruise control’ after the separation. You were merely surviving, without really living. In my opinion, you died long before you met your fate here.”

As she spoke, the flashing, blurred images in my mind become sharper. A woman with a kind face. Young, with honey-brown eyes, and a smile which takes my breath away. A daughter, who looks so much like her mother. We even had a dog. But then there was a sudden…solitude. The pale glow of a TV and my own kicked up feet. Day old pizza in my lap, and a dog across from me, curled in the shadow of a table.

“I see…” I choke out, eyes fixed on the moved pawn.

The woman continues, the roughness of her voice somehow not as irritating as before. “You filled out the required paperwork at the DMV. When your name was called, you stood, unaware of the toddler underneath your chair. Children – bless their souls – are mischievous things. This particular boy, under the not-so-watchful eye of his mother, tied your shoelaces together. And so, when you stepped forward, you fell. With your paperwork and briefcase in one hand, and the other in your pocket, you had nothing to brace your fall. And so, you hit your head just right – or should I say just wrong – and that was it.”

I blink and shake my head. “You’ve got to be kidding.”

“Many things I am, Mr. Whitlock, but a liar I am not.” The woman’s lips pull in half-hearted smile.

I sigh heavily, feeling both underwhelmed and disappointed. But there is one more thing I’d like to know.

“The chessboard?” I gesture halfheartedly at the thing.

“Yes,” the woman says, folding her hands underneath her chin. “I was hoping we’d get on to that point. As I said before, you humans create worthwhile things every now and then. And some of your deaths really are totally needless. So…here is your second chance. Win, and your life need not end the way it did. Lose, and well, entities beyond my station will take it from it there.”

I tilt my head at the proposition. “Why me, if my life was so…mediocre?”

“Because it doesn’t have to be.” A real smile. And the hauntingly gold light in the woman’s eyes turn warm. Soothing, almost.

But suddenly, I have a new question. “Wait. Who are you?”

“I am Death.”

Because of course she is.

“Where’s the scythe? The black robe and hood?” I ask.

“So melodramatic,” Death says irritably, waving a hand. “I only save that look for people who should fear death.”

I huff a laugh. “Glad that’s not me. Right then. So, you’ve been playing chess for…a long, long time, huh?” I look down at the board. At the white pawn moved forward.

“Indeed. I don’t consider myself proud, but I do consider myself great shakes at this game. I don’t lose very often.” Her eyes gleam, causing a shiver to run through me.

“But you said we’ve created other things worthwhile though. So…what if we evened it up a bit?” Beneath the table, I wring my hands.

“Oh?” Death leans forward slightly. “I’m listening.”

“A different game. One requiring strategy. Thinking ahead. Played with just your wrist and fingers. And fast reflexes can help, too.” It’s all I can do not to smile. To not even dare Death herself (or himself?) would accept my offer.

“What is this game?”

I blink, and suddenly the DMV is gone, as is its silence. My ears are assaulted with electronic pinging and whines, the ricochet of pinballs hitting bumpers, of skeeballs hitting the runway and launching into impossible to hit holes. All around us, a cascade of colors paints the walls from floodlights, and adults and children alike meander around us, absorbed in the machinations of my favorite place growing up.

The arcade.

I turn to Death, and nearly cry in shock. They’re no longer an old woman with a grating voice, but a boy with dark hair and baggy clothing. His hands are in his pockets, a bemused, yet appreciative look on his face.

“I’ve seen these places, but never thought much of them,” they say aloud to no one in particular. “Please, Mr. Whitlock, take us to the game you mentioned.”

“Can…” I begin to ask, still feeling the shock from our abrupt change in surroundings. “Can people see us?”

“Indeed. But to them, we’ll look like nothing more than father and son.” The boy grins up at me, that same mischievous smile on his face.

“Ugh, that’s so twisted. How can Death himself be my son?”

“A sense of dark humor does my spirit well,” he laughs, brushing his overlong hair out of his eyes.

“Whatever.”

I usher us through the maze of machines and people, Death’s footsteps just behind me. I don’t quite understand how his power works. How I can be dead, yet still among the people of the living? But, I suppose after life, all the traditional rules are off. Especially when it comes to dealing with deity who chooses to take the form of a child as a joke.

“Here we are,” I indicate with a wide gesture. “The game of my childhood. My dad played it, and I got good just playing and watching him do it.”

“Ms. Pac-Man,” Death reads aloud, the lights from the game reflected in his still golden pupils. He leans forward and watches the game’s demo for a moment, his eyes following the track of Ms. Pac-Man’s avatar. “Very interesting. So upon eating the power pellets, the predator becomes prey.” A wicked grin spreads on his face. “Yes, I think I’ll enjoy this very much.”

He withdraws his hands from his pockets. In each are a quarter. Enough for one game each.

Death looks at the two machines, then at me. The seriousness in his gaze makes me sweat. “The rules are as such. The winner is decided by whoever is first to reach the high score.”

I glance at the screen. Two hundred thousand points. I gulp. No easy feat.

“Or,” he continues. “The loser is the first to lose their lives. I believe these conditions are fair. Are we agreed?”

I hold my hand out. “Agreed.”

We shake on it.

I’m on the point of inserting my quarter when Death stops me with a hand on my arm.

“Regardless of the outcome Mr. Whitlock, I am glad of our meeting. I wish you well.” He nods kindly and gives a small smile.

“Back at ya.”

We insert our quarters, and begin.

The first two boards are muscle memory. The ghosts are slow, and as long as I keep an eye “Blinky” (the red one) and “Pinky” (the pink one, obviously) it’s simple to rack up all the points, fruit, and ghosts every time I get a power pellet.

But the thing is, Death is literally playing beside me. In the occasional seconds I have to spare, I flick my eyes over to his screen and…he’s learning quickly. After the first board, his point total isn’t as high as mine, and he’s lost a life. But then I hear the familiar “Do-Do-Doop!” of ghosts being eaten, four consecutive times. A “Perfect Chain,” I like to call it after eating a power pellet and turning the ghosts blue. I hear it happen once. Twice. Three, then four times on the second board.

As the animation plays for us both, Death finally breaks eye contact with the game and looks at me. “This is actually quite…enjoyable! How are you fairing, Mr. Whitlock?”

“Fine,” I say, trying my best to not sound annoyed. I suppose being a supernatural being must have its benefits when it comes to learning new skills. “So uh, it gets harder from here. Different boards and all. The ghosts get faster, too.”

“I see! I appreciate the advisory. Best of luck to you.”

I swear as the next game starts. Why in the hell did I help him?

Gritting my teeth, palm getting sweatier on the joystick, I push Ms. Pac Man through the blue maze. I can’t help but flick my eyes up at the top score occasionally, and then my own.

30,000…

40,000…

I jerk the joystick hard to the left, driving Ms. Pac-Man around a corner to snatch an apple up just in time.

“Buzz off!” I bark, placing a spare hand on the console. I don’t have time to look at Death’s progress. The corridors here are long, and its easy to get trapped. But I still have all my lives, and polishing off this board is as simple as…

“DAMMIT!”

A sort of numb shock runs through me as I watch Ms. Pac Man’s yellow disk wilt into nothing. Part of me isn’t surprised at the hiccup - it’s always the last board before the junior board that gets me. The long corridors where I don’t exercise enough caution and get trapped between “Inky” (the lime green, sneaky bastard) and Blinky.

I make kids and parents around me flinch and gasp, but I don’t care. They’re not the ones literally playing for their lives. In the seconds between the game resetting, and my first life wilting away, I take a look at Death’s progress.

He’s learning fast. Too fast. His score has nearly matched mine (no surprise, as I’ve been playing cautious), and our life count is the same.

I take a deep breath, and finish off the board.

“You’re right, Mr. Whitlock, that was a ramp up in difficulty,” Death says, taking a step away from the machine as the second animation plays. “This game isn’t unlike chess. Thinking ahead. Plotting your moves. Then attacking. That’s my favorite part.”

I want to be angry. To tell him to shut up and just play. But I have to admit his choice of “wardrobe” makes it difficult – I can’t in good conscience bark at a kid who could pass as my son. I often wondered what it would have been like to have a son. To take him to the arcade and teach him how to play Ms. Pac-Man, just like my dad taught me.

But…why didn’t I take my daughter? Was I so blind as a father to not deem her worthy enough to play the games I played?

It’s those thoughts I take with me into the next board. It’s those thoughts which cause me to lose another life, and then another, as I have no choice but to listen as Death cruises along, vanquishing ghosts and gobbling up fruit after fruit.

Is this how it ends? A slow death in life, and also in this limbo?

Another animation plays before the difficulty really ramps up. Death says nothing during the animation, however. He just stares at the screen, watching as a stork drops off a new baby pac-man.

I remember holding my newborn daughter. Her small, yet shining face gleaming up at me. And I’m potentially mere minutes away from never seeing her face again.

“What would you do differently, Mr. Whitlock?” Death says to me as the animation ends. “What moment would you treasure most?”

“I…”

“Don’t tell me. I’m not the one who needs to know. As your opponent, I am obliged to do my best until victory is secured. But our match is not over. And, supernatural being though I may be, I’m not perfect. I still, from time to time, lose at chess. So, do your best. I look forward to our battle’s conclusion.”

What would I treasure?

The game’s chime sounds, yanking my attention back to it. “READY!” flashes on the center of the screen.

My daughter. My family. Regardless of how this last life goes…this one, I play it for them.

The rapid “ping” of eaten dots rips through the air as Ms. Pac Man surges forward. My mind is quiet, every faculty focused on playing my absolute best. I allow only one image to float through my mind. My family. How I want to have them here with me. How I’d laugh and cheer my daughter on as my wife and I watch her play my favorite game.

I barely flinch as I mow down each ghost in succession, ignoring the sweat on my brow. Dimly, I’m aware of the crowd surrounding me and Death. How little they actually know, and what’s at stake. There’s cheering as sounds burst from both of our machines, my hand working so fast on the joystick I’m worried I’ll lose grip. A game ends, and someone hands me a towel to wipe my hands between.

“They’re close to the high score!” someone screams.

“But this guys on his last life!” another shouts in response.

I’d always dreamed of having a crowd like this watch me. Little did I know when that day finally came, it would be against a literal god.

“Don’t give up mister! You can beat him!”

A child pats my arm in the small break between a game. I turn for the briefest of moments and smile at him. And in this moment, I realize, I don’t care much if I win. In his face, I see the excitement I once had. When I used to watch my dad play.

Smiling, tension almost magically removed from my body, I push on to the next board. My hand and wrist curl around the red joystick, and suddenly, watching the little yellow disc fly across the screen is as fun as the very first time I played. How much fun would it be to watch my daughter also experience that joy?

Death suddenly stops as an uproar bursts from behind us.  Reflexively, I stop too. It’s then that I notice my screen. The score at the top. The new high score.

205,000

I look at Death’s board.

197,000

He turns to me, face alight. “Well done, Mr. Whitlock.”

I barely register the claps on my shoulder, the congratulations being thrown my way. They’re background noise – no more than blustery wind on a fall day. There’s a foreign wetness tracing my cheeks, which I hurriedly wipe away. What must the people surrounding us be thinking, seeing an old man crying over an arcade game?

“So…now what happens?” I ask.

Death gestures to the front doors of the arcade. They’re wide open, and curiously, I can’t see beyond them. It’s as though a thick, white fog awaits just beyond.

I scratch my head, feeling oddly at a loss for words. But after a few moments, in which our audience disperses, I manage, “I’m not sure if I should thank you or…?”

Death just shakes his head and holds out his hand. “Do better this time. Promise?”

I clasp his hand. “I will.”

Sparing one last look at Death, I step through the doors, the fog surrounding me like a warm summer breeze.