Audited

The withered old man with the perpetually attached oxygen tank sat on the bench, fidgeting with his glasses and looking grimly from Jim to the form he held in his hand with a mix of disbelief, hatred and resignation. He licked his dry, cracked lips and took a deep breath to speak.

"And you're sure I'm late?"

Jim nodded.

"According to our records, you are almost two years in arrears. I'm not certain why we didn't catch it earlier."

The old man looked at him in desperation. Another agonizing breath in.

"You know I'm dying, right? It's a matter of days! Can't you just leave it alone? Let it slide?"

Jim looked at the man softly, wishing he could do what the man asked, but he had a job. He finally shook his head.

"I'm sorry. If you were dead, we wouldn't have to do this, but you aren't—"

He sighed heavily.

"—and we do."

The old man made a last-ditch effort. Pulling himself up, he looked at Jim over his glasses. He pushed the nozzles for his oxygen into his nose. Another long breath in. Jim wanted to answer his questions in advance to save him the herculean effort.

"How do I know this is real? There are a lot of scammers out there taking advantage of folks like me. You got ID?"

Prepared for this, Jim flipped open the brand new ID wallet he had been holding in his hand and proffered it to the old man, who took it with a frail, trembling hand and held it close to his face to read.

Jim D. · Department: CI · Collections / Enforcement · Badge #: SP108252

Defeated, he handed the ID back and slumped onto the park bench. He looked dully at Jim, all fight gone.

"Fine. I guess I'll have to pay. Take it."

Jim stood, donning his black bowler and trench coat, smoothed the cuffs, and extended a hand. Reluctantly, the old man reached out and shook it. Jim looked at him for a moment, feeling terrible that his job made so many miserable, and turned to leave.

The old man seemed surprised.

"That's it?"

Jim paused, turning back for a moment.

"I have all I need for the moment. You'll be hearing from us."

Confused, the man floundered.

"But, I thought..."

Jim interrupted him.

"No. Not yet. Your account has to be updated and the forms processed. It's a very exact procedure. I would suggest going about whatever you were doing before we spoke. It could be some time."

Irritated again, the old man lashed out.

"Then why the hell did you even bother me with it?"

Jim remained calm. He had role-played this a hundred times during training.

"Like I said. There is a very exact procedure."

Giving no time for further retort, Jim turned smartly on his heel and left. He wasn't willing to admit he didn't feel well. His gut twisted with internal conflict — the job made him feel slimy. He certainly had to admit that the eight weeks of training had not prepared him for reality. The people whose lives he was interrupting were all too real, all too devastated by his heavy-handed intervention.

The problem for Jim, however, was that he needed the job badly, and there were standards to be met. The Agency updated and published them quarterly. He had to process a certain number of accounts a day, or he would be subject to disciplinary action. Exactly what "disciplinary action" meant was pretty vague, but he still had 89 days of probation and had yet to finish processing his first real account, so things were not looking positive.

Peering at his watch, Jim noticed that he only had two hours left before he was supposed to time out, and he hadn't even made it to the office yet. Determined to accomplish something in his first day as a live agent, he slid into the driver's seat of his compact, black Prius and thumbed the ignition button. The job may suck the life out of you, he noted, but it came with a few perks. The car wasn't amazing, but it was a car, and he didn't pay for gas. He started the drive to the office, lost in thought.

The job didn't seem to be sitting well with his self-image, although the email he had received from the Agency assured him that his background was most excellently suited for this type of work. He had to wonder what military and police experience had to do with the meeting he had just had.

Almost exactly halfway to his destination, he jammed on the brake, causing the crossover behind him to swerve and earning him a horn honk and a well-deserved middle finger. Grumbling, Jim waited for a clear spot in the traffic and made a careful U-turn, crabbing under his breath about the NK1024 (Next of Kin) form he had not filed on the account. Halfway through the turn he remembered that he could complete the NK1024 from information on the GI102, cursed himself again, and circled back the way he had been going.

He was still irritated half an hour later as he parked next to an intimidating Mercedes, the only other vehicle in the dimly lit and monstrous parking garage. He had expected something... more. As it was, his footsteps echoed back at him from the cement walls, the only perceptible sound, and he sighed with relief when he stepped into the smaller, carpeted space of the elevator and pressed the button for his department. He had never been anywhere but the training rooms on the first floor, and had no idea what to expect from "the floor."

Whatever he thought might be the case appeared to be sadly mistaken as the elevator chimed for the sixth floor and the doors opened to silent darkness. He stepped timidly out, and nearly jumped back in as the stark fluorescent light above him flickered on, followed by four more that lit the way to a set of utility-grey double doors.

Chiding himself for his unwarranted fear, Jim strode boldly to the doors, swiped his badge, and stepped through into a dark corridor lined on both sides with an expanse of cubicles. His desk, according to the assignment chart from training, was at the far end. As he walked — somewhat deflated that he was still alone despite the number of people that clearly worked here — the creepy step-echo returned, and the lights ahead of him turned on while the ones behind flickered off, keeping pace with his stride.

He found his desk in short order and turned on the lamp to examine his small slice of the Agency. The chair, judging by its levers and the magazine-thick instruction manual that came with it, was very ergonomic and a bit intimidating. Beside a computer like the ones from training sat a strangely antique-looking phone with a single red light. Opting to leave everything else as he found it, Jim settled into the chair, turned on the computer, and reviewed his training notes while the system logged him on. When it finally beeped, he wasted no time jumping in with both feet.

One hour, fifteen minutes and 45 forms later, Jim rubbed his bleary eyes as he verified the information on the last form (a CP8291, if you're interested) before pressing "submit" and sending the account down the pipeline. Finally, his first account was—

Was that the phone ringing?

The flashing red light on the handset verified that indeed, the phone was ringing. Jim checked his watch, and seeing that it wasn't quite time to clock out, decided to answer.

"This is Jim."

The voice on the other end was high-pitched and nasal, but all business.

"Jim? Jan. I'm calling about the account you just submitted. We're still missing forms SI201, IT206 and the main GD1066 form to back up the deductions. The account can't be processed without those forms. I'm kicking it back to you to fix. Go ahead and submit it again when you're finished with those."

The line went dead. Jim mumbled in reply as he hung up.

"I'll get right on that. Thanks..."

His watch said he had 20 minutes left before his shift was over, and as he had made a promise to himself, he dug in with resolve. Eighteen and a half minutes later, he was carefully going over each line item and verifying amounts and math. It was not coming back again. He would be done with this one soon.

Proud that he finished on time, but not quite sure he had actually dotted every I and crossed every T, Jim submitted the account and gathered his coat and hat quickly. He was striding down the hall as the computer finished processing and beeped to alert its status.

He was still listening for the muted ring of the phone when the elevator appeared and the doors opened. Feeling like he was actually free for the moment, Jim rushed in and hit the button for the parking garage. His hurry to leave carried him out the doors on a collision trajectory.

Attempting to avoid the man standing and waiting for the elevator, Jim sidestepped and dropped his hat. Bending over to pick it up, he stepped on the hem of his coat, which brought him the rest of the way to the ground.

Embarrassed, he looked up at the silver-haired man that stood over him, casually smoking a cigar. A large and imposing figure that appeared to have an excruciatingly bright halo, probably from the garage entry light that framed him perfectly.

"Um. Sorry about that."

The man waved it off.

"No matter. I'm still standing. I'm Gabriel."

He offered a large and firm hand, which Jim took gratefully. He gathered himself and his things before turning back to the gentleman.

"Thanks again. I'm a little discombobulated today."

With a raise of an eyebrow, the other man pinned him down.

"First day?"

Jim nodded, still trying to put his thoughts together.

"It's just... not like I thought it would be at all."

The man laughed, a hearty sound — he genuinely found it funny.

"All you new guys are the same. What, did you think you were going to ride around on a pale horse with a scythe and huge cloak, harvesting souls like Santa Claus delivers presents?"

As if on cue, a figure appeared in the distance of the garage, in a huge black cloak, carrying a scythe... riding what could only be described as a "pale" horse.

Open-mouthed, Jim pointed. Gabriel laughed again, a musical sound.

"That's Bob. Bob is legit old-school. Besides, we've tried to fire him six times, but the union says his tenure means he's pretty much untouchable. He's a perm and grandfathered. You, on the other hand, are a new guy. When you have been here as long as Bob, you can wear whatever you want."

He dropped his voice to a whisper.

"And don't tell Bob, but I think it's a little outdated. He needs to get with the times."

He put a friendly arm around Jim's shoulder.

"Listen, Jim. The Agency serves a very important purpose. We are the intermediary between human existence and the beyond. Without our work, it would be very easy for accounts to be routed to the wrong places, or backed up until there is a real mess here on earth. You help make sure that things move smoothly, and people get where they need to go. You have to remember, Death is a department, not a single position."

Feeling a little better, Jim decided to put his real concerns on the table.

"I just never thought it would be so difficult to send someone to heaven or hell."

Gabriel chuckled again, contemplating the coal on the end of his cigar. After a moment of silence, he dropped the cigar and crushed it under his heel as he turned to leave. The four words that echoed to Jim from the walls of the garage left him with little hope that the stupidity of humanity was behind him.

"Bureaucracy's a bitch, Jim."