Authors: Kealan Patrick Burke
Joe blanched.
"Don't let her get you."
"
I won't. You got my back?"
"
Sure."
Chuck winked, straightened and stomped purposefully off toward the gap in the hedge a few feet away from his brother. He heard Joe muttering a silent prayer at his back and suppressed a grin. At the gap he paused and looked back. He could see Joe
's eyes peeking over the hedge, one eyebrow raised as if asking if he had changed his mind. Chuck sucked air through his nose and stuck out his chest in a dramatic gesture for Joe's benefit.
Chuck looked across the road.
The old lady in the faded floral dress rocked slowly to and fro. The faint sound of clicking reached his ears,
He began to walk.
He knew he should be looking up and down the road to be sure there were no cars coming like they'd been taught but his eyes were fixed on the lady and the crumbling house.
The porch looked as if it could collapse at any given moment, finally succumbing to the voracious appetite of the weeds and switch-grass that grabbed at its latticed framework.
Next to the rocking chair an empty yellow egg carton flapped mutely in the breeze and Chuck guessed some kids had probably dumped it there after bombarding the house with its contents. The brownish scabs he saw on the mildewed siding confirmed his theory.
Rusted paint tins clustered in the corner of the porch and the steps leading up to where the old lady sat gently rocking were splintered and broken.
Not a ghost but not much of a housekeeper either
.
Chuck had reached the center of the road and suddenly the old lady stopped and looked up at him.
And he knew he had made a mistake.
Joe was right
. He was a silly kid with a head full of silly notions but for once he was
right
. He knew it in that moment without a shadow of a doubt.
It was as if he was standing before the open door of a freezer, his body wracked with a sudden inexplicable trembling.
Oh no
.
There was a sound like long nails dragging down a chalkboard and the world dimmed as if an enormous shadow had swept across the sky above his head.
He tried to move. Couldn't. And
she
was staring at him.
He was vaguely aware of the old lady getting to her feet. She made a curiously human gesture of gently laying her knitting down on the seat behind her. But she was far from human.
Joe's voice:
Don't let her get you
.
Chuck tried desperately to close his eyes before terror blurred his vision.
He felt an odd tingling sensation as thin white rivers of electricity arced from his fingertips and vanished into the ground at his feet. Tingling, no pain. Joe was yelling but from oh so far away now.
The old woman stared at him with a parody of sadness drawn on her wizened face.
I'm frozen in the middle of the road. I'm frozen because she put a spell on me and a car'll come along and kill me and--
The paralysis broke, sound rushing back into his ears, lancing his brain and he cried out, fell to his knees on the white line in the center of the road.
The line began to glow.
And still the old lady did not move.
"Chuck!" Joe screeched in a voice choked with panic and Chuck turned to look at his brother. Joe was miles away; nothing more than a speck seen through a revolving tunnel of thorns but one thing was clear as day. The witch was making him glow too. He appeared almost angelic, glowing from within like so many of those images he'd seen in the Good Book.
White sparks flickered around Joe
's head like lightning bugs.
Chuck looked back at the old lady. Her eyes were a milky white and he was struck by what he read in them. Unbearable agony.
Her voice came to him like the dry rustle of dead leaves. "Chuck, come home."
He could sense the urgency in her, ethereal hands attempting to lock their fingers around his own. She wanted him.
Company for the dead
.
"
Nnnooo," he grunted through teeth that refused to open.
She wanted a boy, a soul, anyone.
Someone to carve the pumpkins
.
He screamed and spun, the white line flashing, blinding, searing as Chuck and his soul ran toward the gap in the fence, to Joe who was screaming, screaming, eyes wide as his brother dove through the fence.
The gap swallowed them.
* * *
I have no memory of what it felt like to live by time. To have my days and nights governed by something beyond my control.
I stand on this old porch and watch, listening to the dying screams of terror the breeze will soon carry away. And I wait.
They will come again, I know. They always come back, just never all the way.
I hate that I am a stranger to them. It shreds my heart that death has erased the familiarity from their fragile little minds. Now, they fear me. What kind of a symbol have I become to them? I
'm sure I'm better not knowing.
I sit back in my rocking chair, my toes holding me still as the breeze runs its fingers through my hair but no amount of sympathy can make it better. The breeze can only assist in drying my tears.
I go back to knitting and whisper a silent prayer to whoever listens that Chuck will be brave again someday and find the courage to reach the steps. Close enough to see the love in my eyes.
The love I have kept for Chuck and Joe.
My darling children. Taken from me by a stranger and buried out there in some unknown place beneath the October sky.
Come home…
Come home to mother.
THE MAN WHO BREAKS THE BAD NEWS
This tale came about after I got to wondering what zombies would be like if they turned out to be a lot more than George A. Romero's vision of mindless savages, and were instead, intelligent and dismally aware of their own decay. Or better still, what if they were oblivious to the fact that they had died at all?
"Samuel! Answer the door!" Linda shrieks and Sam levers himself out of the easy chair with a moan. The simplest of movements are beginning to feel too much like hard work these days and he longs for some peace, or at least a place where he can get some.
He opens the door and gives the well-dressed stranger a suspicious glance. In this neighborhood and with Sam
's increasing financial concerns, a man in a suit can only be the bearer of bad tidings.
"
What is it?" he asks the stranger, his suspicion exacerbated by the omnipresent toothy smile on the man's long ashen face.
"
Good morning, Mr. Bradley. My name is Thomas Wilder. I wondered if I might have a word?"
Sam
's knuckles whiten on the door. "What about?"
"
About last Friday."
Sam raises an eyebrow and flips through a mental index. Friday? What happened three days ago to warrant the interest of this dapper visitor? Nothing, he decides, unless it was some meager traffic violation--perhaps changing lanes where he shouldn
't or clipping a curb. But wouldn't that have summoned the police?
The man on the porch doesn
't look much like a cop. In fact, if anything he looks more like a mortician, dressed in a black three-piece suit and blue silk tie. His silver hair is pasted down on both sides of his skull, adding to the skeletal image. Coral blue eyes glimmer with intelligence.
Definitely not a cop
.
"
I don't know what you're talking about, Thomas," Sam says indignantly, hoping that his use of the man's first name will be enough to offend him.
Surprisingly, Wilder
's smile broadens. "I understand completely. Perhaps if I could come in we could discuss this further."
"
I don't think that's such a great idea. My wife is in there."
Wilder raises an eyebrow.
"She's not feeling well," Sam splutters. "Besides, who are you anyway?"
Wilder fishes a black leather wallet from his inside pocket and Sam has the terrible feeling he
's dealing with someone far more important than a cop.
F.B.I? C.I.A?
I.R.S? Uh-oh.
Wilder flips open the wallet, exposing his identification. Sam
's squints at the miniature rendition of the man's face, a grim smile beneath a stern black acronym. "U.S.S.R.D? What the hell is
that
? You Russian?"
The other man gives a patient sigh.
"Mr. Bradley, let me put your mind at ease. I'm not here to arrest you or to issue any papers. You're not in trouble, but it is important that we speak immediately and iron out a few...um…details."
"
What kind of details?"
Wilder
's eyes narrow as if he has to summon great concentration to deliver his words. "About your death, sir."
"
My death? What, like life insurance? If that's what you're here for…"
"
No," Wilder interrupts. "About your death last Friday on Route 32."
Sam slams the door.
* *
*
Sam opens the door. He isn't surprised to see Wilder still standing there, patience painted across his narrow features.
"
What does U.S.S.R.D stand for? And before you get cocky, I'm only asking so I know what to tell the cops when they ask for specifics."
"
United States Special Retrieval Division. And calling the police wouldn't do you any good. They are well aware of our operation and support it one hundred per cent."
Sam sneers.
"I'm sure, well if it's all the same I think I'll try them anyway."
Wilder doesn
't respond. Once again, Sam shuts him outside and hurries to the phone.
"
Samuel? Who's at the door?" Linda roars from the kitchen, startling him.
"
Some nut," he calls back and picks up the phone. He dials and waits patiently to be put through to the Harperville Police. Eventually a bored voice answers: "Sergeant Stapler speaking. How can I help you?"
"
Sergeant Stapler. Hi, this is Sam Bradley on Oak Street."
"
Uh-huh."
"
Our kids go to the same school?"
"
Right," Stapler says, sounding as if he has no idea who Sam is and doesn't much care. "How can I help you, Sam?"
"
Well, there's a guy at my door harassing me. He's an old guy, dressed in black. Says he's from something called the United States Recuperation Department or something."
"
Yes?"
Sam frowns.
"He says I'm dead!"
There is a long pause, sufficient time to bring beads of perspiration to Sam
's brow and then Stapler replies: "
Are
you dead?"
"
Well, I…
what
?"
Stapler clears his throat.
"If someone from the U.S.S.R.D is at your door then I suspect you might have expired, Sam. Sorry."
Sam feels his brain itch.
"Has the whole bloody world gone nuts?"
"
My advice is to cooperate fully with them. There'll be less hassle that way."
"
But I…"
"
Be sure to give my condolences to your wife."
"
What?"
"
You have a wife, right?"
"
I…yes! But you don't understand! I…"
"
Tough break, buddy."
"
Hey, wait!" Sam says but finds himself pleading with a dead line.
* * *
"Is there somewhere we can go to talk?"
Sam stares at Wilder, envious of his unfettered patience.
"What kind of scam is this?"
Wilder sighs.
"Please, just come with me for a chat and I'll explain everything. It shouldn't take too long."
Sam steps outside, closes the door behind him.
"It better not. My wife is making steaks."
Wilder nods and turns away, Sam plodding unsteadily along behind him.
* *
*
Greta's Diner was a hot spot for local teens to hang out in back in the seventies. The passing of time and modern technology however have stolen the appeal of the place and now it caters only to those who don't care about its crumbling façade, peeling paint or ever-present smell of old shoes.