by Greg Krojac
Is that me? Or the guy on top of me?
The gurgling happened again. He tried to look confused but his expression stayed just as it had for the last three weeks or so.
I think it’s me.
It was indeed him. His body was digesting itself and had been doing so since shortly after the life support machine had been turned off.
He decided to approach his new circumstances logically. His body was no longer functioning properly but there seemed to be nothing wrong with his brain. Inexplicably, he still had all his mental faculties.
Hang on. What happened to my rigor mortis? I should have gone all stiff – if I was dead.
He replayed recent events through his mind again.
In the morgue? No rigor mortis. In the van? No rigor mortis. Filming the adult movie? No rigor mortis.
He wanted to grin.
Not even when Chantelle touched my bits.
Was he still flexible? He revisited the recent events again.
In the morgue, I was lying on the mortician’s slab. That’s no help – I could have been flexible then and not known it.
His mind fast-forwarded to the journey in the van.
I think I bent a little when I was being thrown around in the back of the van.
But he wasn’t sure.
How about at the film studio?
Again, I couldn’t move. But –
Suddenly Arnold felt encouraged.
I distinctly remember seeing a clock on the wall of the film set. What was the time? The doctor pronounced me dead at zero seven fifty-seven – though I’m clearly not. That’s three minutes to eight, in the morning. I must have spent at least three hours in the mortuary. Of course, I can’t be certain, but it certainly felt that long. That takes us to about eleven a.m. When we arrived at the warehouse the clock on the wall read midday. That’s a total of around four hours.
Arnold liked how his reminiscing was playing out. Rigor mortis typically sets in after two to six hours. He’d already counted up to four hours. That left two to go.
Now, the director filmed some other scenes with Chantelle’s stand-in, so what time was on the clock when Pete and Barry took me back to the van?
He dug into the recesses of his memory.
It was dark. What time was it?
If he could have, he’d have shouted out eureka! The clock had said six-thirty in the evening. They’d left for the woods at six-thirty.
Arnold could now account for the last ten and a half hours. Add to that, the journey to the woods which must have taken at least ninety minutes and the total came to twelve hours. Plenty of time for rigor mortis to have set in. And he remembered being slung over Pete’s shoulder on the way to the burial site. That couldn’t have happened if his body wasn’t malleable. And if he was still bendable, then rigor hadn’t happened.
Arnold concluded that he’d been correct all along. He was still alive.
6
Arnold was bored. The sun had risen and set three times since he’d been unceremoniously dumped in the grave, and he had nothing to occupy his mind.
His body, however, wasn’t faring too well; it had become a maelstrom of physical activity that he was oblivious to. His body was being assaulted by insects, small mammals, micro-organisms, and chemical reactions and there was nothing he could do about it. Flesh was gradually being stripped from his bones, and organs were beginning to liquefy – Mother Nature was torturing him with a vengeance.
Three days was long enough to stay calm. So he finally panicked.
He tensed up his muscles. Or, at least, he thought he did.
He arched his back. Or, at least, he thought he did.
His arms flailed from side to side. Or, at least, he thought they did.
He cried out. Or, at least, he thought he did.
But the tensing, arching, flailing, and crying out didn’t happen.
He clenched his right hand into a fist.
He opened his hand.
He clenched his hand into a fist again and opened his hand once more.
Was he imagining it?
He concentrated really hard.
He opened his hand.
He clenched his hand.
He opened his hand.
He clenched his hand.
No. He wasn’t imagining it. His hand was moving. It was a little stiff, but it hadn’t moved for over three weeks, so that was only to be expected.
I wonder if my other hand can do this?
He concentrated really hard.
He clenched his left hand into a fist.
He opened his left hand.
He clenched his left hand.
He opened his left hand.
He clenched his left hand.
Two working hands.
He’d been trying to convince himself that he was still alive although, deep down, he was becoming resigned to the fact that he had passed on. Perhaps he’d been too hasty to accept what seemed to be the inevitable truth.
Maybe I wasn’t kidding myself? Maybe I am alive after all!
He arched his back.
A few grains of earth trickled down from above him.
I can move! I can move! I’m alive!
He told his body to writhe around (or at least as much as it could in such a confined space). His body duly did as it was told.
He knew what he had to do now.
I’ve got to get out of here!
The first problem Arnold faced was how to get out of his grave. Not only was he pinned down by soil and dirt, but he was also trapped by the corpse of one of his body-snatchers. He had no idea of how long he’d been buried, but one thought overrode all others.
He was still alive.
That could only mean one thing – there must be a pocket of air that he’d been unwittingly drawing on, allowing him to survive. If there was a space that wasn’t completely packed with soil, then maybe he could dig his way out. It would be like one of those slider puzzles where there are more spaces than squares. You simply slide a square into a space to release a different space and continue in this way until the puzzle was solved. The goal for Arnold would be to continually move earth from one place to another, creating a path for him to reach the surface. It might take some time, but time was something he appeared to have plenty of. He flexed his fingers and clawed at the soil near his hands, taking a small amount of dirt into each hand.
So far, so good. What now?
He pulled back his arms as far as they could go – which wasn’t very far – and released the earth from his fists. He was surprised that he had been able to move any earth at all. Perhaps the soil was in clumps, making the chance of air pockets more possible. But he had moved some soil, so he’d continue with his plan – he certainly didn’t fancy spending the rest of his life underground. The chance to see daylight and return to his family was something he wasn’t going to give up on.
7
Almost three weeks later, a hand thrust its way through the final layer of topsoil. Arnold had been digging his way out, centimetre by centimetre, minute by minute, twenty-four hours a day. He was surprised that he never once felt tired, never once needed to stop for a breather. Forcing his way out of the grave, he stood up and shook himself back to life. That’s what it felt like, anyway. But he wasn’t dead, so really he was just loosening up his joints and muscles,
He looked down at himself. Everything seemed to be in working order, as far as he could tell. Freed from his underground prison, he blinked his eyelids at the sudden clarity of the sunlight that now bathed him. Blinking – that was something that he hadn’t done for a long time. There was something a little off with his vision but he shouldn’t be surprised – he hadn’t seen daylight for at least three weeks. Oh, it felt good to be back to normal. He looked down at his body, grateful that the staff of the porn movie set had had the decency to put some clothes on him before he was disposed of. He didn’t think he looked too bad, taking into consideration that he’d been underground for so long. A bit emaciated, he had to admit
, but that was only to be expected considering that he hadn’t eaten for ages. His hands were looking a little worse for wear – the skin had a kind of green tinge about it, and was beginning to peel off in a few places – but that was probably due to the digging. He looked closely at his left hand.
Is that bone I can see? That can’t be good.
He made a mental note to visit the doctor as soon as he was reunited with his wife and daughter.
Who should I see? An orthopaedic surgeon or a dermatologist? Maybe both. My skin definitely needs some heavy-duty cream or something to get it back to its normal colour.
He wasn’t thrilled with his attire – he was now dressed in a red and white horizontally striped shirt, blue jeans, brown boots, and red and white striped socks – but beggars can’t be choosers. At least he had some clothes.
He wasn’t exactly sure where he was, but his instincts told him to head due south. Fortunately, the roads were almost deserted and the few cars that did pass him showed little interest in the pinched figure ambling along the road, except one guy who shouted Wally at him through his car window.
He began to recognise landmarks. The spire he could see in the distance belonged to St. Agnes Church. He’d visited a couple of times but, as an atheist, he’d only gone to Church as a show of support for his wife when she was giving a bible reading to the congregation. Gillian was the religious one. They had a kind of understanding; she wouldn’t try to convert him to Christianity and, in turn, Arnold wouldn’t try to talk her out of her religion. Gillian really appreciated Arnold’s support on the few occasions when he did set foot inside a church but she knew that there were conditions attached to his attendance. He would stand up and sit down at the right times but he wouldn’t sing or pray. That would have been hypocritical of him and Gillian wouldn’t have felt comfortable putting her husband in that situation, no matter how much she’d have loved it if he had found God.
Thinking about Gillian and how pleased she would be to see him, Arnold didn’t notice how the miles were being eaten up. Before he knew it he was approaching Jefferson’s the Newsagents. There was a rack outside the shop with the morning papers – not the weekday papers but the rather more voluminous (and more expensive) Sunday ones. He’d have liked to have bought one, just to see what had happened in the world whilst he’d been away, but he had no money on him and old Mister Jefferson never gave credit to anyone – no matter how upstanding a member of the village they were.
Sunday. That explains why the roads are so quiet. People are either sleeping in or at church. I can’t wait to see Gillian’s face when she gets home from church.
Now he was in more familiar surroundings, he could relax a little more. Anyone he saw would be a neighbour or at least someone that Arnold used to nod at in the street. A dog, spying Arnold’s approach, bounced towards him as if to welcome him back but changed its mind at the last minute and bared its teeth, snarling viciously. Arnold held his hand out to the animal.
Come on Tigger. You know me. We’ve played fetch loads of times in the park.
Tigger wasn’t having any of it. It was true that he did half recognise the figure offering him its hand, but all his senses told him that this was not Arnold Leadbetter. The dog turned and rushed back home to Number Twenty-Three, The Green. Arnold decided not to try to force the reunion with the spaniel but continued towards Number Eleven.
He knocked on the door, just in case he was wrong about his family being at church, but Gillian and Keira weren’t at home. Walking round to the side of the smart little cottage, he lifted up a flowerpot containing a re-potted geranium and helped himself to the spare key that lay underneath.
Turning the key in the lock of his front door, he was relieved when the door clicked open. He wasn’t really expecting it not to, but he hadn’t been inside his home for over six weeks. The door swung open and he entered the cottage, allowing the door to shut quietly behind him.
Ah…It’s good to be home at last.
Nothing much had changed since he’d been gone. The TV remote was there on the coffee table in the front room, just as it always had been. The golden cushions were fluffed up and arranged symmetrically on the black velour sofa. And his daughter Keira’s mobile phone was there on the mantelpiece. She was never allowed to take the phone with her to church – not since the strains of ‘Dance Monkey’ by Tones and I had suddenly and without warning destroyed the calm tranquillity of meditative prayer. Arnold looked at the clock on the mantelpiece.
Nearly midday – they’ll be back in about five minutes. They’ll be so pleased to see him back home.
Arnold picked up that day’s Sunday newspaper and tipped it on its side, to let the magazine fall out. He liked to read the Sunday papers but knew that there wasn’t time to get engrossed in any of the stories before his wife and daughter got home, so he just flicked through the glossy magazine.
He was looking through the photos of a society wedding when he heard a key turn in the lock. He was bursting with excitement.
We’re going to be a family again.
Keira skipped into the hallway, her mother not far behind her.
“I’m just gonna get my phone from the front room, mum. I’ll meet you in the kitchen.”
Gillian had just put the kettle on for a refreshing cup of tea when the ear-splitting scream almost burst her eardrums. She dropped the carton of milk that she’d just taken out of the refrigerator, not caring that its contents were now spread over the kitchen floor. Her daughter had screamed and the only response required was for Gillian to rush to her aid.
Keira was rooted to the spot, pointing at the abhorrence before her.
“Mum! It’s a zombie! There’s a zombie in our house.”
Arnold was mortified.
Keira, honey. I’m not a zombie. It’s me. It’s your dad.
Keira hadn’t heard a word, for each one was trapped inside Arnold’s mind, unable to get out.
Gillian appeared at the doorway brandishing a kitchen knife and, in one swift movement, positioned herself between Arnold and her daughter.
“Get out of my house whoever you are.”
Gillian. Don’t you recognise me? It’s Arnold. Your husband.
Gillian waved the knife about, trying to give the intruder the impression that she knew how to use it. She was deft at carving a Sunday roast but had never yet had cause to use the kitchen utensil as a weapon before.
“I’m warning you. There’s nothing for you to steal. My husband will be back home in a minute. He’ll sort you out.”
But it’s me, Gill. I am your husband. Can’t you see that?
Keira couldn’t believe that her mum was trying to reason with the monster.
“It’s a zombie, mum.”
“No, it’s not. There’s no such thing as zombies. It’s just a man dressed up in a silly Halloween costume.”
“Halloween is months away.”
Gillian was in no mood to argue with her daughter about the existence or nonexistence of zombies, or the date of Halloween.
“Keira. I want you to back out of this room and then run to Mrs Brewster’s house as if your life depended upon it.”
Like any twelve-year-old, Keira didn’t want to miss out on any part of this adventure. It would give her loads of Brownie points in her circle of friends.
“But, mum…”
Gillian scowled at her daughter.
“Why are you still here? I said ‘go’. NOW!”
Arnold was confused. He thought that Gillian and Keira would have been pleased to see him. And now his wife was threatening him with a knife and his daughter had called him a zombie. That hurt. He knew he had a skin condition, but a trip to the doctors would sort that out. Calling him a zombie was a bit extreme.
Gillian. Put the knife down. Please. I need a hug.
Arnold moved forward towards his wife, with his arms outstretched, but she had no intention of returning his affectionate gesture. She threw the knife at him, missing him entirely, not waiting for
it to fall to the floor before herself making a run for Mrs Brewster’s house.
Arnold had never felt so low and despondent in his life. He wanted to cry, but there was no liquid in his tear ducts. He looked around the room remembering the Christmas mornings, the birthdays, the laughs, the joy that the three of them had shared together. Tragic sadness engulfed him as he walked towards the front door and left his home for probably the last time.
Much calmer now, Gillian and Keira were drinking two cups of over-sugared tea. Mrs Brewster had insisted on going overboard with the sugar, saying that extra sweet tea would help them deal with the shock of what they had just experienced.
Constable Brian Pargeter, the local community police officer, was glad that he’d been able to dissuade Mrs Brewster from putting any more than his regular two spoonfuls of sugar in his tea. He needed to lose weight.
“Can you give me a description of the intruder, Mrs Leadbetter? Anything you remember will help. Was he black? White? Maybe of Asian appearance?”
“White, I think.”
Keira interrupted.
“He wasn’t white, mum. He was kind of greenish. And he smelt gross.”
Gillian shook her head at her daughter.
“People aren’t green.”
She smiled at the police officer.
“Forgive my daughter. She has a vivid imagination.”
Keira took exception to this slur on her memory.
“He wasn’t people. He was a zombie. He was green.”
Officer Pargeter wrote in his notebook that the intruder may have been green.
“Do either of you remember what he was wearing?”
Gillian shook her head.
“Not really. It all happened so fast.”
Keira knew she’d have to come to the rescue again.
“He had a red and white striped shirt – wide stripes, horizontal stripes. Blue Jeans. Brown boots. And a red and white striped bobble hat. Like his shirt.”
Officer Pargeter thanked Gillian and Keira for their help and assured them that he and his colleagues would do everything in their power to apprehend the intruder.