Croak by Gina Damico

face, her vision bursting into stars.
    “You hit back?!” she shouted.
    Driggs was gaping in disbelief at his own hand. Slowly, he recovered and looked into her good eye. “I had a feeling you’d be more insulted if I didn’t.”
    Lex stared back. He couldn’t have been more right.
    “You can’t hit a girl,” she said, rubbing her face.
    “You hit me first.”
    “So?”
    “So I was defending myself.”
    Lex huffed. This was going terribly. “You can’t do that!”
    “It seems I just did,” he replied with a stilted laugh.
    She scowled. “You are
not
normal.”
    “Neither are you,” he said with a wry smirk. “And don’t worry, Lex—now that you’re one of us, no one’ll make the mistake of thinking so ever again.”

8
     
    The next morning, while Lex snuggled comfortably in bed, a crash of cymbals exploded in her ear. She opened her eyes to behold Driggs clanging them vigorously, a mischievous grin on his face and a large bruise surrounding his eye.
    “I hope, for the sake of your fertility, you’re wearing a cup,” she warned through clenched teeth.
    “Come on,” he said, jumping onto the mattress. “It’s time for work.”
    Lex moaned. “How are you so awake already?”
    “If you recall, I eat a lot of chocolate.”
    Ten minutes and two fights over the bathroom later, they slid into their seats at the kitchen table. Uncle Mort took one look at their matching black eyes and nodded.
    “Yep,” he said to himself, drifting back to his newspaper. “That’s about what I expected.”
    ***
    After breakfast, the trio headed out into the fiery morning sun and made their way into town.
    Lex yawned. In addition to the pain in her swollen eye, the faces of those she had Killed kept her up half the night. Haunting images—the exposed heart, the yellowed-newspaper skin of the old woman, the gunshot in the man’s chest—churned through her head like a nightmarish whirlpool. Plus, she still couldn’t get used to sleeping in a room all by herself. She thought about Cordy, who was undoubtedly ready to throttle her by now. Lex hadn’t called, she hadn’t written, she couldn’t even email. Unless . . .
    “Do you have Internet here?” she asked as they neared the Bank.
    “For what?” Driggs asked.
    “E-mail.”
    He gave her a sideways glance. “Who are you e-mailing?”
    “My sister. Any more questions, Dad?”
    “Knock it off,” Uncle Mort told her as they climbed the Bank stairs. “And pay attention. You’re starting a typical Junior workday. Five hours in the morning, hour break for lunch, then five more in the afternoon.”
    “Good Lord.”
    “Enjoy it while you can—Seniors get fourteen-hour shifts. But it’s not that bad,” he said upon seeing her dumbfounded face. “Time gets lost in the ether, remember? Five hours only feels like two.” He stopped on the porch to take a swig of lemonade. “So here’s the drill. Every morning you’ll come here to the Bank to check in with the Etceteras.”
    “Wait, what?”
    “Etceteras. ETC stands for Ether Traffic Controllers, and the nickname just evolved from there.”
    “What does that make us, then?”
    “Well, technically,” said Uncle Mort, “we’re called Gamma Removal and Immigration Managers—”
    “But are more commonly known as Grims,” Driggs said.
    “Can’t say I approve of the term.” Uncle Mort flourished his razor-sharp scythe and smiled. “We’re not that grim, are we?”
    Lex snickered.
    Uncle Mort finished his lemonade and opened the door to the Bank. “Hi, Kilda,” he said hastily as they walked through the foyer.
    Kilda beamed. “Good morning! Wonderful to see you!”
    “Sorry, terrible hurry.”
    “Have a resplendent day!”
    Once they got to the hallway, Uncle Mort opened a door on the right to reveal a large, sleek office, its atmosphere wildly out of place compared with the rest of the folksy Bank. Buzzing and whirling in a form of controlled chaos, it reminded Lex of an ultramodern secret