Page 21 of How to Survive Your Own Death

As she rang Geri up, Bazel lurked over her shoulder and said, “It is time.”

Geri shook her head.

“You cannot refuse.”

Geri folded her arms over her chest and shook her head again. He might be real and he might be death, but he was not the boss of her.

Bazel pointed a skeletal hand at her. “Geraldine Melnyk, I drained myself of my vitality to give you life. You are a revenant. Do your duty and release that soul.”

Geri recalled the vivid picture he painted about a soul trying to reseat itself inside its body, making the person little more than a walking corpse. An abomination.

“It can’t be that bad,” she said.

“The leak?” the barista asked, cutting off a piece of the poundcake. “It was just a drip last week but the manager keeps dragging his feet and won’t call a plumber.”

“Cheap bastard,” the guy with the mop added.

As the barista spun on her heel, she slipped on the wet floor. Time slowed. The café fell silent, every person abandoning conversation as they turned to watch. The cake went into the air as her arms cartwheeled. For a moment she hung in the air, trying to find her footing, before finally crashing into the counter.

Geri’s heart pounded in her chest, helpless to stop the wet and hollow thud as the barista landed with the unmistakable crunch of bone.

The guy leaned on his mop. “Stop being dramatic. It’s not that bad. Carrie? Carrie!”

The golden aura flickered and faded as blood trickled out from the back of Carrie’s head. That wasn’t good.

“I think someone should call an ambulance,” Geri said, stunned.

People now crowded up to the counter, asking questions.

“Is she?”

“What happened?”

“You must release the soul before it is too late,” Bazel said.

“I think,” Geri started to say.

Carrie’s eyes flew open. She sat up and threw her head back. A scream pierced through the noise and confusion. It was unnerving. Otherworldly. A soul torn asunder and wailing.

It was that bad.

A sharp, piercing pain hit Geri behind her eyes. Something inside of her, the power that kept her heart beating, made her draw breath, demanded that she end it.

She closed her eyes. She wouldn’t. No amount of screaming would make her.

Except the barista—Carrie—sounded like she was in pain and confused. Geri’s heart hurt. She had never said more than a few friendly words with the barista and never knew her name until today. Carrie deserved better than that. She deserved to not suffer.

“It is too late. You must release the soul,” Bazel said.

The pain was worse than the post-concussion headaches. The light was too bright. The air too heavy. The world too loud.

“Fine! Fine.” She pushed herself way around the counter, staggering from the pain in her head.

The barista was on her feet, lurching down the narrow galley. She slammed into the back counter, her arm knocking over a stack of cups. A coffee pot crashed to the floor, along with bottles of flavored syrup.

“You—” Carrie said, except it was more of a gurgle. Blood streamed down her face and neck, soaking onto her shirt.

The barista reached out, hands like claws. Geri knocked one hand away but missed the second. It clamped onto her, impossible to shake.