And then, unthinking, driven by impulse or instinct, Georgina crushed the flower against her mouth and it turned to dust upon her lips.
“I hate you,” she whispered. “You’ve changed the world.”
“They’ll build new palaces, Georgina.”
“I don’t mean the palaces.”
She kissed him, yellow-orange dust still clinging to her mouth. She felt a tear streak her cheek as the heart beat inside her chest once more.
The shadows shifted, turning golden and then swirling black. He rested his forehead against hers, quiet, eyes closed.
“I’m going to Chihuahua. I’m meeting with Villa after this,” he said. “It’ll be long. It’ll be seven years.”
“You’ll need me.”
He opened his eyes and these were golden, like the dawn.
“I do.”
He motioned to her horse, which came to them quietly. He offered her a hand and she climbed in front of him, both now clad in the ink of night.
Such is the way of death.
Such is the way of love.
* * *
Mexican by birth, Canadian by inclination. Silvia Moreno-Garcia’s debut novel Signal to Noise, about magic, music and Mexico City, is out now. Some of her stories appear in the collection Love & Other Poisons, and in a bunch of anthologies.
The Deaths of Jeremiah Colverson
by George Wilhite
~ I ~
Joshua rose from the quagmire, blood and innards still seeping from his fresh wounds. In the next few moments, the last of his life, his recently defiled body fell away like a heavy uniform. Much lighter on his feet, he stepped away from the carnage in the jungle.
He looked down upon his corpse.
I am no longer that husk of flesh and bone. So this is what it feels like to become a ghost?
I feel no pain.
The jungle still surrounded him, but a thick mist shrouded the scene, much denser than he remembered existing in the shit. Grunts from his own unit, and others he didn’t recognize, walked in step with him. Joshua sensed their forward motion was not of their own volition. Some force is compelling us in this direction, he thought.
Clenching his eyes, trying to piece together the moments before death, Joshua noticed he continued walking forward. He thought: close your eyes — think about what happened — stop walking, but his body rejected that final command, reinforcing his notion that some force coerced them forward.
He remembered…
Charlie was everywhere. The cacophony of rapid fire from both sides and the random screaming of orders brought the jungle to violent life. Tracers and sprays of blood in the mist the only reminder this was reality, since these sporadic firefights were surreal nightmares fought against an enemy often only seen when dead. Ice Cube and Trickster trapped in that hole. Yes, that’s how I earned this immortality. Saved their asses and then stepped on a land mine.
Out of the mist, a skeleton appeared. Walking toward the soldier ghosts in a kind of comic dance, it looked like a prop from a cheap horror flick. Joshua could not hold back a caustic smile. Is this a joke? Is that thing made out of plastic or papier-mâché? As this figure of mystery drew nearer, Joshua realized it was real after all. Its bones yellowed with age, creaking as it walked, jaw upturned in a precocious grin. The creature maintained a slow speed, like it had all the time in the world.
Perhaps its most ridiculous aspect was the Halloween costume it wore. Joshua thought of the outfit as a costume because it didn’t seem logical Death would don the accoutrements of a soldier. Hanging on Death like a suit two sizes too large was the same uniform the grunts wore.
Why am I suddenly naming this bag of bones Death? Yet somehow, he just knew. And what’s up with that get-up? Death reached the front of the procession, stretched out his hands, and guided the soldiers forward. Though all the others obeyed, Joshua wasn’t of their accord. While he admired their stoic complacency, with each passing moment he pulled back toward the rear of the company, resisting this macabre leader.
As the soldiers followed Death, their random shuffle became a synchronized march in perfect formation. Soon, this communal exercise turned whimsical. A dance. Yes, the fools are dancing to the afterlife. I can understand acceptance, Joshua thought. But really? Dancing with Death? He smirked at the absurdity of those three words.
“Come on!” he yelled as they disappeared into the horizon of the dreamlike landscape. “You crazy jarheads. Fight back. Show some balls. Skank! Weasel!” He hoped their nicknames would get their attention. “Don’t go so easy.” But the more he screamed, the further the chasm grew between him and these submissive subjects drifting into the world of shadow.
His own defiance left Joshua behind. But I’m not back in the shit either, he thought. A feeling of limbo hung in the air, a region between reality and the unknown finale of Death’s march.
They’re headed to a river. On its shore a ferry waits. They pay the ferryman and cross that river to the Underworld.
Where did those words come from? The others were so far away he could not see such details. Déjà vu. That’s what’s happening.
“Ah, the memory crashes back, hmm?” Death stood before Joshua, devoid of the uniform now that his performance was over.
“What?” Joshua’s tone did not hide his irritation.
“Of the other times. You are a stubborn boy. Now Joshua Campbell is no more. Just another statistic. This is your fourth time around. Three innocents lost to quell your desires. And still you refuse the Danse Macabre, hmm?” As Death carried on, Joshua marveled that his bones were as animated as any living being. “Yes, you feel it coming back. Stop talking and just let it happen. Again. Sit down. Close your eyes.”
Joshua obeyed.
Death whispered in his ear. “It all began the first time you died. During your country’s civil war…” The timbre of Death’s voice produced a trance. Joshua felt bony hands on his shoulders as he drifted off.
Joshua listened, to the narrative without comment…
“Your birth name, all those years ago, was Jeremiah Colverson. You see? Always the same initials. Clever, hmm? My idea. Sorry, I digress. Nice to have your undivided attention. No, don’t worry, you don’t have to listen to me prattle on, telling you all this. Why tell what can be shown, I always say. I’m basically wasting time while I get this all going … ah yes, here we are … now it will play out like a dream for you, or one of those picture shows you people love so much. Just watch and remember. Your name is Jeremiah Colverson.”
The battlefield of the Civil War South. Chaos. Blood, sweat, humidity, filth. There was Jeremiah — eighteen and eager to show those Yankees a thing or two — leading the charge, emptying his rifle, then drawing a pistol, and finally engaging in hand to hand combat. This is the day of his first death. Death arrives in much the same way as this afternoon. Jeremiah’s spirit stands above his body, shocked, angry. The argument ensues. Joshua does not hear any words exchanged but intuition tells him the conversation mirrors the one he just had with Death.
“Yes and no,” Death’s voice returns, like a voiceover in a movie. “It was originally about heroism, being a good soldier. Your forefathers had always been soldiers— in England, The Revolution, and King Philip’s War. You felt like a failure. You begged me for more time. Jeremiah’s time is up, I told you. But I’ll see what I can do.”
Death arranges a new identity for Jeremiah. A soldier in World War I on the German front lines, John Carter, is taken to the Underworld prematurely, his soul replaced by Jeremiah’s. This process is repeated two more times— Jack Corelli, World War II, and Joshua Campbell, Vietnam. Each time, the soldier’s argument is the same. It is too soon. I want to be a good soldier. A hero. Please send me back. Each time, he indeed performs an act of heroism leading to his death, but continues bargaining with Death, who grows spiteful now of this pretentious
young man who refuses to learn the dance and follow him to the River Styx.
~ II ~
Joshua/Jeremiah awoke, leapt to his feet. Shaking his head, he looked toward Death and started to speak.
Death held up a hand to silence him. “So you see, J. C.,” Death added snide emphasis to those initials. “You’ve been a thorn in my side for a long time. Now you fall back once more and refuse to join me? This senseless chaos in the jungle was still not enough for you?”
“I … well … I dunno,” he stammered. “Why do you make me forget every time?”
“The last thing I need is some maniac spouting off about how I gave him more time. I get enough of your types as it is without encouraging it.”
“I did save two buddies, but my death still seems pretty pointless.”
“Joshua — no, Jeremiah for the remainder of this conversation — how long will you sing this song, so discordant with the Danse Macabre? I am running out of patience.”
“But you continue honoring my request. Why?”
Death exhaled a weary sigh. “My word is my bond.”
“Well, hell, that explains it! You’re going to confuse a dumb grunt with riddles now. That it?”
“It is no trick. It is as simple as what I said. My word is my bond. The first time, and every time, I have ended our encounters with the same words. By now, you should recall those words?”
Joshua suddenly remembered. “A poem.”
“Ah, you do remember. A type of poem, I suppose, though I don’t fancy myself any sort of poet. More importantly, it is a pact:
I shall grant your request
Until you lay down your arms
We will join hands by your behest
When your last battle is done
But— Memento Mori.”
“I still don’t get it. Why can’t you just tell me to stick it? You’re toast. Follow my ass to Hell?”
“First of all, and I have explained this before: I do not take anyone to Hell. Our dance ends at the shores of the River Styx. Charon, The Ferryman, boats you across to the shores of the Underworld. The outskirts as you would call it. I know nothing of what happens beyond the ferry dock.
“Secondly, there is a line in the bond that states we will join hands by your behest. I cannot force your decision.”
This gave Jeremiah an idea. “I do want another chance to serve my country. Hopefully in a more honorable conflict. But this time I want to remember everything that has happened so far.”
Death appeared to think long and hard, possibly about the potential dangers of this proposition. Maybe he didn’t want to get labeled a softy if the beans were spilled. “Alright. Next time around, you will remember all. But, you must agree that telling anyone about our … arrangement … will nullify this agreement. You will die on the spot.”
It was done…
~ III ~
God, this heat is oppressive! ‘Nam sucked. Tropical shit to deal with— mosquitoes, freaking wild pigs, didn’t think a war zone could be more heinous. This is equally fucked, just different. Instead of eighty degrees and near a hundred percent humidity, it’s just flat out breath-sucking hot. Yesterday it finally reached one hundred twenty degrees. Didn’t know it was possible for humans to live at one hundred twenty fucking Fahrenheit.
Jeremiah, now Jude Colchord, laid beneath a Jeep some raghead decided to wire with enough C4 to fuck this neighborhood up good. Whoever the culprit was, he must really be strung out on hate.
Every time I am under one of these car bombs I have two possible ends — hero or hamburger — savior of the hour or brains and guts decorating another shitty burnt out hull of what was once a neighborhood.
Red wire. Green. Orange. White. Too many choices. The knowledge of his bargains, that he was cheating Death, and the memories of the other wars, all clouded his thoughts, making concentration on deactivating the bomb or bombs nearly impossible.
Wire cutters in hand, he honestly had no clue which one to cut.
Apparently, this Jude Colchord was some kind of stone cold stud. “Never met a bomb that could fuck with his head,” he heard one of the jarheads say. Jude disarmed seventy four bombs before some towelhead sniper hiding on a roof emptied an assault rifle into his chest. Even though he was wearing a vest, a couple of the bullets penetrated the material, one pierced his heart.
Jude’s spirit caught a break, was allowed to leave this world of grief, and Jeremiah’s entered his body. His unit gasped when he rose from the earth; they had been certain he was dead.
When Jeremiah made his last bargain, Death had warned him. If you really want me to change the rules, leave your memories intact, there will be complications. You have continued to be a good soldier, and fit in each time we have done this, because I have always erased your previous lives. You knew the rules of engagement and the battlefields because your primary conscience, at least while awake, was that of the dead solider whose body you took over.
Jeremiah had cut him off. “Stop talking and do it already.”
Death had obliged.
Now, he was here, mind on overdrive, just as Death prophesied, Jude’s expertise failing in the detritus of Jeremiah’s worried thoughts.
Jeremiah/Jude cut the green wire. The payload of the detonation was beyond comprehension. How could that destructive force be packed into a rusty old Jeep? There would not be a body to bury. His organic material was spread over the two blocks. The six soldiers who escorted him here died instantly.
It happened again, just like in the jungle…
The devastation still spread before them, fire and smoke rising, chaos in full bloom as survivors raced about. But the seven dead soldiers stood in the street, surrounded by dozens of civilian casualties, all their bodies intact. Some moments passed before most of the others in this confused assembly realized they were ghosts.
Jeremiah knew immediately. He took several steps backward. Death was coming to perform his hideous dance. No fucking way. This is entirely my fault. I don’t deserve to dance to the Styx.
Death found him hours later, hiding in a burnt out office building.
“What are you doing?” The bone man wore a Kevlar helmet and vest. On his left breast a button read: Born to Kill. “You thought you could hide from me? I am like that shepherd Jesus mentions in your Bible. Ninety nine sheep don’t cut it. I must account for all.”
“Not ready to dance, old friend. This is bullshit. I just got here.”
“You are the one who wanted to change the conditions. I told you—”
“Yeah, yeah. You’re so fucking smart.”
Death shrugged.
“First car I get under fucking blows. This was not a legit shot. Tell you what. One more go, and I promise it’ll be the last.”
“The next war might really break you, young soldier. It won’t be pretty.”
“War never is. But at least give me one more shot at valor.”
Death threw up his hands. “I suppose you’ll have to find out for yourself. There is no valor in the next war.”
“Just do it. One last time.”
And one last time, it was done…
~ IV ~
He was transported to a battleground of eerie familiarity. Its terrain was much like South Carolina during the Civil War that set this whole crazy return-from-the-dead thing into motion. Impossible. Wars are not fought on our own soil anymore. It must just look like America.
“Get yer ass over here, boy!” A disembodied voice called out from the confusion.
Jeremiah obeyed, running in the direction of the order.
He reached a trench and leapt inside. The same voice that drew him in scoffed: “‘fuck you doing? Get your virgin ass down here.”
The trench held about a dozen men of various ages and ethnicities. Of all the militaries Jeremiah had served in, this most resembled the
first. Again, an eerie feeling of the Civil War days, even though he could see that the technology was modern.
“Answer me or I’ll throw you to the Separatist dogs, you prick. I oughta rape and roll ya myself for runnin’ off like that. What’dya think this is? Fucking VR video game? This is where we fight for our nation. Do NOT run off like that again or I’ll do ya myself.”
“Yes, sir.”
The man guffawed. His breath reeked. He looked like he hadn’t bathed or shaved in a month. This guy’s in charge?
“Sir? Listen to the fuckin’ new dick. What’rya callin’ me sir, for, kid? Shit. Ain’t nobody actually in charge here. You know that. Just tryin’ to keep these Sodomites off our land’s all.” He laughed again, showing a mouth of rotten teeth.
Jeremiah peered at the men in the trench. No standard uniforms for this lot. They wore civvies— the only common elements in their wardrobe were navy blue caps and black T-shirts bearing an emblem he did not recognize.
Jeremiah didn’t say anything, trying to take this all in. Death appeared, hunkering next to him. This was a first. Death never showed up while he was still alive. The skeleton wore one of the black shirts. Grinning, he pointed to the patch. It read: The Southern Civilian Commonwealth.
Fuck! The truth struck him the moment he read the moniker. Things have come full circle, then? Death nodded, having heard his thoughts. “Son of a bitch, a civil war?” he said the words aloud without thinking.
The rotten man laughed again. “Who you talkin’ to now, tender dick? Hey, guys. We got ourselves some kind of psycho fuck here.” Laughter all around him. “‘course, it’s a civil war! Nothin’ but the third one in the last three years. Where you from? Fucking Mars? Maybe you oughta get some sleep, boy.”
No valor. Jeremiah had to admit. Death had warned him. There won’t be any hero’s death for me here. I should have stopped long ago. All the sacrifices we soldiers made over the decades for this? To be back where we started?
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