Chariot of the Dead
They call it the Chariot. And if you’re wondering, it didn’t always look this––patinaed. Back in the day, I kept it spit-polished to a heavenly shine. The sleek body was black as a bottomless hole. And the chrome, it shone with the brilliance of a dying star. It’s worth saying I used to be as polished as the Chariot, but the years wore both of us down with endless deliveries of souls to the Otherworld. The wars were the worst of times. The dead piled up, lined up and laid down waiting for the Chariot to take them to the other side. A day felt like a year.
But today, there is no waiting, no lineup. Just me in my threadbare black suit and the Chariot with its tread-bare tires. I pat the hood of my rusty companion, the brown flakes staining my hand brown. And while both of us take in the sunset, the colors flashing and fading over the graveyard, there is a rustling behind us. The dead. Two souls with tickets in hand. I place my once black hat smartly on my head and greet our guests. We had our moment of rest, the Chariot and I. And Death, well he has a schedule to keep, just as we do.
So if you should make your way to this place while we are gone, wait for us. Enjoy the sunset and the pine scented breeze. We’ll be back shortly. Your Chariot will await.