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"Who the hell are you?" asks Cliff Burton.
A dark figure stands before him, no emotions upon its face. Holding up a sickle, it asks in a dark voice, "Is this not enough of a hint?"
Unimpresed by the sarcasm, Cliff shrugs. "The glorious Angel Of Death, I presume?"
"I am he. You can call me Death, for short."
Goddam, it's cold, the bassist thinks. But was he a bassist anymore? He sees himself as the ambulance crew places a sheet over his body. His bandmates look onto the whole event as the tour manager tries consoling them. James cries openly. Kirk is weeping softly, leaning against a terror-stricken Lars. They seem frozen in a terrible moment of time that refuses to pass.
And then it hit him - Cliff Burton, bassist of Metallica, was undoubtedly dead. To hell with that, he thinks.
"That's bull, man. No way." He shakes his head, runing his fingers through his auburn mane.
"The end comes to all, Cliff. It is not an ignoble thing."
But Cliff can't - won't - hear him. "I ain't dying, man. No goddamn way. I can't die. There's too much at stake, here."
Death rolls his eyes. "I've heard that story before, Cliff. Honestly, why should you not die? What makes you more important than, say, some child with lukemia? Do you think he wants to go when the time comes?"
"That's a cheap shot, man." You s.o.b, thinks Cliff. Scowling, he shoves a finger in Death's face. "But . . . I'll tell you about lukemia - Music is infected with it. It's smeared with dishonesty, choked off by boundaries, and rotted with greed. My band, Metallica, we're the cure for that, you could say. And JUST when we're about ready to scratch the surface . . . along comes Mister Death and pulls the carpet out from under us. What, do you get your jollies cutting people off just as they hit the prime of thier life? Morbid jerkoff."
"Nice speech," Death says, "but it delays the inevitable. We must be going."
Cliff is beside himself - almost literally. Exasperated, he asks, "You don't get it, do you? This isn't about me - I'm not being selfish here. I devoted my life to music, and now music's ill. It looks just as desolate as this!" He points to the frozen tundra around the highway. "It'll die off if we don't do something about it. Or is that what you want, too?"
"Music," mutters Death. "Assuredly, it is sick. I mean, aren't we all nauseous at the sight of Motley Crue?"
"Exactly," said Cliff. "I -"
Death waves him off. "I'm not done yet. About death - it's not final, Cliff. You can go to a world far more magnificent than you can imagine. All of your wildest dreams can be at your fingertips - a mere wish away."
"Sounds terrific. But I like to fight for what I want - and I'll fight to the death to re-establish integrity into the soul of music. Listen, pal - there's a time to reap, and there's a time to sow. The time to reap is not now. Sow me back together and let me return. Reap me another day."
"Have you no faith that your bandmembers could continue the fight without you? Don't you have faith that they would win in the end?"
Cliff looks around. His bandmates are slowly shuffling away, mired in sorrow. "It's doubtful. It's so doubtful it hurts." He turns again to face Death, staring intently at him.
"Hurt? Hmph . . . you don't know the meaning of hurt. No, I don't think you do. I mean, sure, I can turn the clock back, bring you back to life. But if I do - you're not going to just jump back on stage tomorrow night, get my meaning? If I arrive on the scene, it's not because I want to play checkers. Somethings going down, kapeesh? That bus is going to flip one way or the other."
"So let it be done," Cliff quotes.
Death turns somber. "I am creeping death, assuredly. Most people never get a second chance, Cliff. Understand this - you will not recieve a third chance. I will come for you someday. Agreed?"
Solemnly, Cliff nods in agreement.
"By the way, have you ever had three tons of machinery pin you to the ground before?" Death asks.
"Uh, gee, no. That ain't my style."
"Sorry to hear that."
The bus driver never sees the ice patch, but he knows when he's come upon it. Three tons of bus begin spinning out of control on a patch of ice no more than a quarter inch thick - just enough to be deadly. He tries to regain some semblance of control. He thinks he almost has it - but then suddenly the bus is no longer on ice, but skidding on tar. The tar grips the tires. All would be well, save for one small fact - the bus is sideways. It lurches violently.
James had had a hard time falling asleep, his sleep plauged with an odd nightmare about being strapped down to an emergency table. He wakes, staring at the ceiling. No, wait a minute here. What is the rug doing on the frigging ceiling? What the hell is going on here?
No sooner does he realize that he's staring at the floor than he hears a hoarse voice pleading for help. There's also one hell of a cold draft in the room, suddenly. He looks at where the window is - but not only had the floor and ceiling changed places, so had everything else. And . . . something about the window isn't right. It's bad, he feels.
The only view the window offers is the blacktop of a highway - and someone's leg. "Help me . . . James . . . Kirk . . . "says the voice.
James feels terror welling up in the pit of his stomach. "What?" he asks.
After a pause, the voice comes again. "I'm under the goddamn bus, man."
*****-----*****
Continued