Half-Resurrection Blues

by Daniel José Older

  The old Yemeni guy behind the counter grins as he sells me another pack of cigars. “A beautiful night, yes?”

  I’m forming a plan. I’ll get this hidden follower somewhere where it thinks it can attack in safety, away from Sasha, and flush it out. “Yes, beautiful night.” And then I’ll find out what the hell’s going on.

  Clarity. My heart comes to life with the sudden awareness that I just decided what to do. All it took was a threat and a plan to make everything make sense. Maybe it doesn’t totally make sense, but that’s not even my concern right now. I’m sliding along the momentum of the night. I’m willing to take some hits if it means getting my swagger back. I will lead this unknown threat away, and then I’ll take it out. Yes.

  “Good night,” the old guy says.

  I nod at him, smiling for the first time in days, and then walk out the door. Then something huge gets up in front of me, eclipsing the streetlights, the passing cars, the whole world. Giant hands shove me backward into the bodega, and I hear the door slam and then lock.

  It takes a half second before I recognize the face glowering down at me, now gray and lifeless. “Moishe?”

  CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

  His head and beard are shaved, his face is twisted with maddened intent, and he’s not wearing his Hasidic blacks, only a tattered T-shirt and gray pants. But it’s Moishe, without a doubt. And yet, at the same time, it’s definitely not. Something’s off. There’s a nasty scar reaching across his forehead where Sarco shanked him. A million thoughts burn through me now, but I can’t deal with them, because the dead giant is advancing with his long arms outstretched.

  I scatter out of the way, upsetting a pyramid of canned soup, and dash to the back of the store.

  “Stop this!” the old Yemeni yells. “Get out of here!”

  The giant silences him with a well-flung can of soup. It ricochets across the counter, sends up an explosion of penny candies and chewing gum, and whizzes past the old man’s head, thudding against the bulletproof glass behind him. The man shuts up and slides down behind the counter. I duck around to another aisle just as the giant turns back to me.

  In three long strides he’s crossed the store and is rounding the corner when I catch him across the face with a broom handle. The giant stumbles back a step and I follow up with some gut shots. He doubles over but manages to charge, pinning me against a wall of kitty litter and dog food.

  “Moishe!” I yell. “Come out of it!” I should just save my breath. Whatever spell he’s under or thing he’s become, it’s not letting up anytime soon. Anyway, he’s got those huge hands around my neck now, and my windpipe is giving way beneath his grip. I summon all my strength and shove us both forward, delivering a few swats with my cane as he struggles to keep balance. He growls at me, lunges, and I realize I’m fighting for my life. I turn and run, upsetting everything off the shelves as I go. It slows him a little, but those damn legs are so long it’s not much good.

  Moishe died. I saw it happen. Sarco put my blade through his head. But here he is. And he’s not a ghost. He’s definitely come back, something like me, but those eyes, those eyes are empty. He’s emoting. Rage courses through him as he charges toward me, but there’s no life to him. He’s an empty puppet.

  The giant’s full weight thunders against me, and we crash to the floor. I thrash my arms and legs, making myself as difficult as possible to keep ahold of. He’s flustered, reaching out stupidly to keep me still but missing. I manage to turn over onto my back and immediately take a solid fist across the mouth. Feels like a cinder block just found me from a few stories up, and for a second I think I might pass out. I hold on, though, if nothing else because my life depends on it, and thrust my hips up, knocking him just off balance enough for me to squirm away.

  Hello, my son. Sarco’s hideous whisper echoes back to me. He’s a resurrectionist. He did it to Moishe. He did it to me. He did it to Sasha. I know it’s true as soon as it occurs to me. Sarco murdered me and brought me back. Partially. No wonder he has stored-up memories of me before I died. He was there. He was there when I died.

  I make a dash for the door, but I know it’s pointless. It’s locked, and there’s no way I’ll be able to get it open before he gets to me. Endgame has come much faster than I expected. I’m reaching for my blade when the shot rings out. It’s ear-shattering, and the sheer shock of it throws me to the ground. I hear a monstrous clattering from behind me, whirl myself around, blade out, and see Moishe crash backward against the salsa and applesauce shelf, shattering half the bottles as he slides down to the ground. A continent of blood opens across his shirt.

  The old Yemeni’s face is tight and furious. He lowers the gun, one of those no-fucking-joke Dirty Harry hand cannons, looks me dead in the eye, and says: “Get out of my store. Now.”

  I start to say something, but what’s the point? The police will be here any second, asking all kinds of unseemly questions. I’m halfway down the block, my brand-new cuts and bruises burning in the fresh night air, when a huge figure bursts out of the store amid shattering glass. I flatten myself against a wall. Another gunshot shatters the night. Moishe stumbles into the street, dodges a passing car, and then lurches toward the sidewalk. I can’t tell what those wide, darting eyes take in, but I’m guessing he’s spotted me. I throw myself into a crowd of folks moving quickly along the avenue.

  Everything hurts. The night closes in on me. Too many people around. Witnesses, gossipers, hungry ghosts. I need to get somewhere safe, assess my damage, and start over. There’s a new element in the equation.

  I make it to a wide swarming intersection at a southern corner of Prospect Park. Tons of people fill the street; their laughter dances into the sky amid the thrum of bass-boosted speakers blasting a relentless Caribbean beat. Did Sasha set me up? Is the whole thing a trap? I glance back and see the tattered dead giant standing in the middle of Ocean Avenue; cars peel to either side of him, honking and cursing. And then I notice all the cars have flags hanging off them.

  J’ouvert. Carnival. That’s what all these folks are doing out here. The West Indian Day Parade is about to erupt in a three-day festival through Crown Heights. That’s what the city’s been bracing itself for. He will try again, Mama Esther said. He’ll wait till the city thrashes amid the collective energy of a hundred revelers, and then he’ll unleash his vapid designs again, Carlos. You’ll see. The Council wasn’t kidding when they said an attack was imminent. The corpse that once was Moishe hasn’t moved. Maybe I wore him out. More likely, he has some other business to attend to. Either way, I have to regroup. I turn and break out toward the parkway, ignoring the burning of the giant’s eyes against my back.

  CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

  You sure?” Riley says. We’re on a rooftop watching Eastern Parkway fill with revelers.

  “I am. It makes perfect sense: two million people flooding the streets of Brooklyn in full regalia, raging street parties all through the night and straight on past dawn. I don’t think any supernatural mischief maker could resist such a distraction. Plus, it has the added benefit of culminating mere blocks from Mama Esther’s and in the whole area surrounding Prospect Park’s eastern edge.”

  “This is all true.”

  “Plus-plus: there’ll be a hundred thousand spirits in the air, taking part in the festivities. And the people will be in masks and feathers. Even folks with the Vision will be confused between the living and the dead.”

  “Indeed. Of course, there’ll also be a bajillion soulcatchers swarming through the crowd, sacking folks up and lugging ’em back downstairs.”

  “Bah.” I wave the very idea away. “Sarco’s not scared of soulcatchers. Doesn’t mean a thing.”

  “And now the real estate Hasid is in play.”

  “That ain’t him, man. Whatever it was Sarco did to bring me and Sasha back, it’s not what he did to Moishe. He’s just a shell, Riley.”

  “He a corpuscule.”

  “A whobascule?”

  “A corpuscule’
s like an empty body with an angry-ass spirit shoved in it. Rude as fuck thing to do to someone if you ask me.”

  “Sounds about right. Whatever it is, it . . .”

  Riley’s doing something to his face. “I’m listening,” he says, but he’s busy squinting and probing his fingers along his left eye.

  “No, you’re not. What’d you lose a contact or something?”

  “Dammit, Carlos, the dead don’t wear contacts!”

  “Well?”

  “Hang . . . the fuck . . . on.” Suddenly, his fingers slide all the way into his socket and he makes a little guh! noise, something between a gasp and a grunt.

  “Riley!”

  “I’m okay. I’m okay.” But his other eye tears up, and he’s still squinting and writhing. Then, with a nasty popping sound, he pulls out his fingers. And, I realize, his eye.

  “Gah!”

  “Here.” He hands me the eye.

  “No! The fuck I’m supposed to do with this?”

  “C’mon, man, don’t be such a little girl. You put it in.”

  “Put it in?”

  “In your eye, Carlos. I wanna try something.” He waves the glowing sphere at me. “Take it.”

  He’s not gonna give up. Plus, I’m almost as curious as I am horrified. I take the eye. It’s nebular like him, just a gentle tickle against my fingertips and a little mushy. “Put it in?”

  “Your eye.”

  “Ugh, Riley!”

  “Look, we do it all the time ghost to ghost when one goes into the Underworld and the other’s up top. If it works right, you should be able to see what I see once I go downstairs.”

  I look at the shimmering ghost eye. “Shouldn’t I give you my eye if . . . ?”

  “Carlos.” Riley gives me a Riley look. “Don’t act new. You should know better than to come at me with some anatomy and physiology bullshit. Save it for your living friends, okay? The dead don’t fuck with those rules. We much more holistic than that. If I see some shit with one eye, the other eye gonna see it, even if it’s in you. Intent takes you a long way in the Underworld. Anyway, I said I wanted to try it. I don’t know if it’ll work at all with your damn flesh-and-blood ass, but since we’re splitting up and what I see will matter somewhat to your situation, I figure it’s worth a shot.”

  I think I hurt his feelings. I brace myself and then turn the eyeball to face out and place it up against my own. There’s a little resistance at first. I’m sure my body is screaming What the everlasting fuck, but eventually Riley’s eye slides into place and all I feel is a slight pressure.

  “There. Not so bad, right?”

  “And it should work when you get downstairs?”

  “Should.”

  “But I’ll still be able to see up here with my right eye, right?”

  “Unless you poke it the fuck out, yeah. You’ll get the hang of it. You can kind of toggle back and forth by squinting once it starts working. You’ll see.”

  “Great.”

  We watch the burgeoning mass of partiers gather beneath us.

  “Okay,” Riley says. “How you wanna play it?”

  * * *

  It’s actually the day before the parade, but the celebrations begin tonight. The NYPD has lined up barricades all along Eastern Parkway and cops in riot gear stand around, shifting their collective weight from one foot to the other and waiting for some shit to go down. Their red and blue lights pulsate across the block. Vendors are setting up food stands, guys have tables draped with flags from every imaginable Caribbean island and a few they mighta made up. Young people wander in laughing droves up and down the blocked-off street, carrying on, getting lifted by the excitement in the air. You can taste all that collective energy pointing toward a wild and terrific night.

  And then, of course, there’s the spirits: they’re everywhere. Ghosts whip through the air in fancy, colorful pirouettes, shimmy up and down the street, cavort and converse above the heads of the living revelers. They’re tiny, flickering specks of light and they’re gigantic, blimplike, floating fatuously across the night. They’re swarming packs of dwarfish chattermouths, and they’re long-legged, tall-walking long faces, all serious in the face of coming celebration. It’s a joyous sight, so many spirits wandering free, and I wonder briefly if Sarco isn’t onto something marvelous . . . If it weren’t being masterminded by a sociopathic dickhead who probably killed me and the woman I love, I might very well be all aboard for figuring out a way to close the gap between the living and the dead.

  I head to a food stand, dodging a guy painted all blue who teeters drunkenly across the parkway on ten-foot-tall stilts. Home-cooked rice and peas, spicy jerk chicken, and steamed cabbage—a beautiful thing. Fills me up just right, and when I’m done I toss the Styrofoam container and head west toward the park. The streets are already getting crowded. I see a few soulcatchers slip silently between passing bodies, watch them circle and then disappear like sharks, hunting down some petty offender, no doubt. I roll my eyes. Tonight is not the time to be chasing our tails. At least backup will be readily available if things get hairy. In theory, anyway.

  Somewhere among this teeming, feathered mass of life, Sarco lurks. Moishe’s tattered shell is out there too, I’m sure. And so is Sasha. I’ll be so happy when I can think her name without shuddering deep inside.

  * * *

  Something horrible happened. People are running, crying. Cops have their visors down and their faces clenched; hands linger near service revolvers and wrap tightly around billy clubs. I swig from my flask and slide between the rushing crowd, flowing gracefully against the current. This might be something in my department, or it might just be some same-old street-festival bullshit. There’s a kid in his twenties sitting on the ground, cursing. He’s not wearing a shirt and a few superficial gashes crisscross his chest and shoulders. He stands up, wobbles, curses some more, and sits back down. PD is barging around nonsensically, trying to create their own brutal order out of the chaos. Some EMS guys work their way through the crowd, but neither one is Victor. The uniforms close in around the slashed-up guy, blocking him from view till all that’s left of him are shouted curses and the bloodstain on the sidewalk.

  * * *

  At the southeastern corner of the park, a group of teenagers twists and grinds to some pounding soca music. The rhythm gets into you, beats against your bones, and finds you vibrating whether you want to or not. They’re all wrapped around one another, pulsing in time. A light rain has started, barely more than a mist, and no one seems to care. They’re all sweat-soaked anyway.

  Past the writhing teenagers, I glimpse a tall shadow lurking in the parking lot of a twenty-four-hour pharmacy. Moishe’s haunted shell. I make a point of not breaking into a run. Instead I vanish backward into the crowd, work my way down a side street, and reappear around a different corner, coming toward the empty lot from the side.

  He’s gone. He’s gone, and now I wonder if he was even there at all or just another of my paranoid imaginings. I glance back and forth, but the crowd is tremendous, a vast, pulsating mass of revelers, and even a gigantic mostly dead white guy could disappear into it as long as he ducks down a little. I catch a flash of movement from the side street I just came down and swing my head around. Nothing.

  I wait.

  Someone staggers out into the lamplight, someone tall. I launch forward, not bothering to conceal myself anymore. He’s a block and a half away and seems to fade back into the velvety shadows as I approach.

  A few rats scurry around. Trash is strewn everywhere. The thumping soca rumbles along. He must be so close, watching.

  “Carlos.” Riley’s voice in my head startles the shit out of me, and I almost drop my cane. “You there?”

  Not like I can respond. I make sure to keep my concentration fixed on whatever imminent attack awaits and halfway listen to Riley. “You were right. Sasha was at her place, and now your girl’s on the move.” My girl. That jackass. He wouldn’t say that if we were in the same room. Okay, he pro
bably would. “She just left her building and is going north on Ocean. I’m keeping a distance cuz I assume she can spot ghostly motherfuckers like myself.”

  My eyes scan overflowing trash barrels, a rusty old Dumpster with two smashed televisions sitting in front of it like attentive manservants, a darkened streetlamp, a flicker of movement that turns out to be more rats, a whole repeating collage of colorful posters for upcoming dance parties, a dimly lit billboard.

  “Something else . . .”

  A little farther down the block, a piece of metal clatters wildly against the pavement and splashes into a puddle. As I whirl around toward it, I catch movement in the corner of my eye. It’s very close to me—something stirring in the shadows. I’m unsheathing my blade as the giant rumbles out of the darkness, knocking me onto my ass.

  “I don’t really know how to tell you this, Carlos.”

  I have no idea what Riley’s ambling on about, but I have more important things to deal with right now. I swift kick Moishe in the gut as he closes on me, but it does little to hold him back. He growls and drops forward onto his knees, his hands stretching toward my neck. I roll out the way just in time not to get strangled, but he catches my ankle.

  “It’s Sasha . . .”

  I fwap my cane across his face and batter it against his arms. He holds tight. Fine. I unsheathe and chop off his hand. Moishe roars, a guttural, inhuman noise that chills my bones. I stumble to my feet and turn around. The giant’s already up. Blood trickles languidly from his stump of a wrist. He looks at me and howls with rage.

  “She’s pregnant.”