A Boy and His Corpse

by Richard B. Knight

  Tom Mitchum shook his head. “The whole world is watching, sir.”

  “All eyes on me then, huh?” Rosewater said. “Just like in my old runway days.” A former model turned politician, Rosewater had been an unlikely albeit easy-to-vote-for candidate, especially among female voters.

  “Mr. President, I really don’t see how you can take this so lightly.”

  “I’m not taking it lightly, Tom,” the President said, stopping. “But I’m not going to make a statement that’s going to land us in World War III. They’re just going to have to work this out themselves.”

  Tom Mitchum raised his blond eyebrows. “We’re talking about Israel and Pakistan, right?”

  “Yes,” Rosewater said.

  “The Jews vs. the Muslims?”

  “Yes,” Rosewater said again, sighing heavily. “The Jews vs. the Muslims.”

  “You do know they’ve been going at it for centuries now, right, sir?”

  Rosewater crossed his arms and stared his advisor down. “Don’t patronize me, Tom.”

  “Sir, I’m just trying to say that this isn’t going to work itself out on its own. Not this time. You need to take action now.”

  “Not without proof, Tom, and not without the U.N.’s support.”

  They began walking again until Rosewater stopped at a picture of Theodore Roosevelt. Both Roosevelt and Rosewater wore the same round-shaped glasses, but Rosewater only wore them for aesthetic purposes. He had perfect 20/20 vision. Behind the spectacles, he had pale gray eyes. At the age of 52, he still had the sharp cheek bones, rigid jaw line, and stunning smile that made him such a successful model in his younger days. Even his hair, now a masculine salt and pepper shade, still looked fantastic. People Magazine even considered naming him Sexiest Man of the Year.

  What would you have done in a situation like this, Teddy? Rosewater wondered as he stared at the painting. His advisor cleared his throat. Rosewater looked at him.

  “Look, sir. I’m just looking at this one day at a time. Senator Daly doesn’t care if you start World War III or not. He just wants to make you look indecisive. And you will look indecisive if you don’t say something soon. Everybody’s walking on eggshells right now. The public needs some kind of indication that you’re ready to handle this.”

  The President shook his head again.

  “Not without the U.N. going in with us, Tom. I won’t put America in another war it can’t win.”

  Mitchum rubbed his eyes as they started walking again. “You’re putting me in a tight spot here, sir. What am I going to say when I go on Meet the Press this Sunday?”

  Rosewater didn’t have an answer for him.

  When they finally arrived at the Oval Office door, Rosewater looked Mitchum right in his green eyes and felt a dullness in his chest. He hated that he had to put him through all this, but he didn’t have any other choice. If he had the military shoot missiles at Pakistan and its surrounding countries, then it would start World War III, no question. That said, if the U.S. didn’t aid Israel, then they would potentially launch their own missiles at Pakistan, which would enrage the rest of the Middle East, and force them to counter-attack. This, too, would pull the U.S. into a confrontation they probably couldn’t win on their own. So it was either attack now or attack later. Those were his options. And it was all because some punk decided to blow himself up in Tel Aviv with a backpack bomb, killing over two hundred people during Yom Kippur. It didn’t help that Pakistani president, Armand Raad, didn’t show any remorse whatsoever about the incident. Instead, he smiled about it when questioned in an interview. “Worse things have happened,” he said amidst all of the flashing cameras and journalists asking him to explain himself. Honestly, Rosewater was surprised that Israeli President, Eli Lempel, hadn’t already ordered a retaliatory strike.

  Two days after the bombing Lampel called Rosewater directly. “Are you with us or against us?”

  “Please just give me some time. Let me engage the UN before I engage American troops.”

  “Time?!” Raad attacked us on our holiest day of the year.”

  “Do you have proof it was him?”

  “Of course it was him! Who else would have set this up? His men have been making threats for the past few months, and both your intelligence and mine shows that he’s currently running this new branch of Al-Queda. I swear, I’m going to burn down all of Pakistan until I get to him, with or without your support.”

  “Please, Eli, just think about this rationally.”

  “Over two hundred people, Rosewater. Raad killed over two hundred of my people and injured thousands of others! Lines have to be drawn in the sand and they have to be drawn now.”

  “I know you’re angry,” the President continued, “but let me just get support from the U.N. first before you do anything drastic. You don’t want to make this another October War, or another Gaza incident. The rest of the world is behind you this time, Eli, and we will help you. You have to trust me on this. As your ally, America stands behind you 100% and—”

  “You have three days to help us or we’re launching an attack ourselves.” Then the phone went dead.

  That was four days ago, and Israel still hadn’t made a move. But everybody and their mother knew they were just planning things out. After centuries of fighting, Israel didn’t just plan on bombing Pakistan. They planned on wiping them off the face of the Earth. All it would take was one nuclear missile to get things started. And the minute that missile launched, Raad would have exactly what he wanted. The rest of the Muslim populated Middle East would counter-attack until every last Israelite was annihilated. Being Israel’s ally, America would be forced to get involved. If not, the ramifications would spread beyond Israel, as no ally of the U.S. would trust them. Rosewater was stuck no matter what he did.

  The President put his hand on Tom’s shoulder.

  “Tell them that I’m working on it.”

  “But that’s not good enough, sir! I—”

  “Dammit, Tom, it’s the best I can do right now. We have to see how this plays out.”

  “And if it plays out with nukes?”

  “I have to believe that President Lampel won’t go to such drastic lengths.”

  Tom Mitchum sighed. “If only Armand Raad would burn up in a kitchen fire like Park Ji-Hoon, we wouldn’t even have these problems.”

  Rosewater bit his lip and didn’t look his advisor directly in the eyes. “Yes, well, we can’t always be so lucky. Now, please, leave me to my thoughts. Lord knows I have a lot of them.”

  His advisor nodded and then grumbled something before he left. President Rosewater stepped into the Oval Office. The bald eagle woven into the design on the carpet stared up at him from the floor. In the past it had always brought him a deep sense of pride. But today, he only felt another set of eyes looking to him to make a decision. He sat down at his desk and pulled out a phone from the top drawer. The sun beat down on Rosewater’s back from the giant window behind him. The call he made had only six digits, and it spelled out the word, “Undead.”

  The phone rang once.

  “Yes?” a sickly voice said at the other end.

  The President leaned into his desk and spoke as low as he could. “How much longer is this going to take?”

  “Things like this take time, Mr. President. It will get done. I promise you that.”

  “But when? Give me an estimate.”

  “Probably two more weeks, but that’s being generous.”

  “Dammit, Jim, we don’t have two more weeks. I thought you said everything was ready.”

  The man at the other end of the line was eerily quiet. So quiet, in fact, that Rosewater began to sweat.

  “Hello?” Rosewater said after a time. “Jim? Are you still there?”

  “First of all, sir, it’s not Jim. It’s Tim. Tim Rovas. Secondly, I already told that you it would get done, and it will. But again, things like this take time.”

  “But why is it taking so long? You said the chips were basical
ly done.”

  “The chips are done, but it’s more than just that.”

  “What do you mean?”

  There was silence again, and the President felt pressure behind his gray eyes.

  “Hello?! Mr. Rovas?”

  “Look, Mr. President,” Mr. Rovas said with a tired voice. “If I may be so blunt, you know absolutely nothing about what we’re doing down here and for good reason. If you wanted to come see what’s taking me so long, then by all means, come down to New Jersey and risk being caught by the media. You’ll be the first President in history to reveal that an organization exists that sends corpses out to kill its enemies. Is that what you want, sir?”

  The President didn’t say a word. Even though Mr. Rovas couldn’t see it, the President scowled intensely.

  “I didn’t think so. If you want to take a backseat and let us do all the driving like all the previous Presidents before you, then I advise that you just trust me and let us do our jobs. Does that sound good to you?”

  The President nodded, even though Mr. Rovas of course couldn’t see that, either.

  “I’ll take your silence as a yes. We’ll get these corpses up and moving as soon as we can, sir, but in the meantime, you’re going to have to be patient. I’m not sending out a defective product.”

  Rosewater pounded his desk in frustration. Mr. Rovas, the tech guy behind the Undead Militia since the very beginning, was running the show here.

  “But isn’t there something I can do to speed up the process?” Rosewater asked. “Do you need more funding? Is that it? Because if it is, I’ll find a way to shift more money your way. There has to be something else we can do here. I need Armand Raad dead now.”

  Mr. Rovas was quiet for a moment again. By the time he spoke, Rosewater was ready to snap the phone in half.

  “Well, there is something you can do to help us out in all this.”

  “Yes, anything. What do you need?”

  “You can talk to Herbert Chandler again personally like you did after our last mission. He will certainly prove to be…difficult…when we reveal to him what we’re planning to do with these microchips. If you can get him to go along with this, it would be a great help. Who knows? He might even work with us if he sees this project has your support.”

  Rosewater drummed his fingers on the desk. He didn’t know much about Herbert Chandler as he, like all the previous Presidents, chose to remain mostly in the dark about the Undead Militia. But he would be an idiot to not be afraid of Herbert after seeing something like dead bodies coming back to life, and the last thing he wanted to do was cross paths with him. But he really didn’t have much of a choice right now. It was either this or go to war.

  “And you’re sure there’s no other way around this?” Rosewater asked.

  “There is, Mr. President, but again, it will take time. Honestly, it would be better if we didn’t have to trick Herbert at all. Half of what we’re planning right now is to keep Herbert from killing us once he learns about our plans. He’s not going to like them.”

  “No,” Rosewater said. “He’s not.”

  “But if he learns that this was your idea…”

  “It’s not my idea,” Rosewater corrected him. “You came up with it.”

  “Yes, sir, but you backed it. And if Herbert knew that you supported the idea, then this could go a lot quicker. He’s very patriotic, after all, and he might listen to you. It’s your call.”

  Rosewater took off his glasses and tossed them onto the desk. He then rubbed the bridge of his nose. “And his son can’t do anything for us right now?”

  “Well, ideally, we wouldn’t have to even use the chips.”

  “But?” Rosewater asked.

  “But, the son still has a ways to go, and you’re crunched for time. So it’s either this, or you give us more time to plan everything out. Again, it’s your call.”

  Rosewater hit his forehead multiple times with his palm. He would never have chosen to run for President if he had known the job would require dealing with a sorcerer and the undead.

  “Fine,” President Rosewater said after some time. “The next time Herbert goes down to your facility, give me a call, and I’ll talk to him.”

  “Good. He should be here in about an hour.”

  The President sighed. “I’ll make myself available. Text me.”

  The President hung up and stared at his phone. He hoped desperately that he was making the right decision.

  Alan

  Alan nudged the volume up on his iPod. His head bobbed and he mouthed the lyrics as he listened to the fast, pounding beat of his favorite group on his walk to school.

  His morning walk was his thinking time. He shoved his ear buds in the minute he stepped out of the house and often moved on auto-pilot, ending up at the school without any clear recollection of how he got there.

  His thought was almost always the same. He imagined Mort walking out from the aprons at Madison Square Garden. Lining the stands were thousands upon thousands of rabid fans chanting his name.

  “Mort-i-mer! Mort-i-mer!”

  Alan envisioned himself controlling all the action backstage, almost like a puppeteer hanging over the display case. The only difference was that the strings in this case were invisible. Along the way to the squared circle, Alan would make Mort slap the hands of all the ravenous UWF fans. Some of them would be holding signs over their heads with the names of famous wrestling moves he had created, like the “Up jump the boogie,” which was a move where Mort would do a kick right to the chin of another corpse and decapitate them completely.

  Or the “Bury you with Satan”, which was actually the name of song by Alan’s favorite rapper, Necro. This move consisted of Mort going to the top rope with another corpse and pile driving him right on his head so that it exploded and the guts and maggots would fly out everywhere.

  Sure, it was super violent, but that’s what Alan imagined the people wanted. Wrestling had grown boring as of late. Ever since the ICW bought out Ring of Glory (RoG) to form the one and only wrestling league in the business, the storylines had gotten stale and predictable. That’s why the idea of using corpses was the key. Their bodies could easily be destroyed, so the wrestling could be “real”. No staged chair shots, no stomping the mat before punching to make it sound like the hits were authentic, and no more fake blood. Just raw, unadulterated “wrastlin’” for the hardcore fans like him and James.

  Alan switched songs as he started walking up the long climb that led to his high school. He preferred old school tunes rather than modern music with its sirens and bass drops.

  He tapped the screen and scrolled down to Slayer.

  He headbanged along to the thunderous rhythm of the drums.

  Alan was a strange bird and he knew it. As a black kid, he didn’t really associate with the other black kids in the school. For that matter, he didn’t really associate with anybody in the school, but that was to be understood, as he had spent almost the entirety of his life living underground with his parents.

  Those weren’t the best years.

  He shook his head to the heavy guitars and bit his lower lip. In the corner of his eye, he saw something strange, and took a quick look. Two girls were walking up the hill on the other side of the road. They pointed and laughed at him, mimicking the way he had shook his head. Alan sneered and lowered the hood over his face. He turned the music up and stared at his feet as he climbed. All thoughts of Mort wrestling faded away.

  Herbert

  Herbert walked down a secret corridor underneath Mandolin Arsenal. When he wasn’t on a mission overseas, he walked this hallway every Monday through Friday to report to work.

  At the end of the metal hallway was a door with a small screen beside it. Herbert placed his hand on the screen and a green light scanned it. Cool air flowed from his fingers to his palm, then back to his fingers again. The sensor flashed blue twice and the door slid open. Herbert always wondered where the idea for biometric verification came from first—
the U.S. military or the cinema.

  He stepped into a dark room and headed downstairs until he reached a basement floor that stretched on for over a mile. He used to live down here with his ex-wife and Alan. Sometimes, he even grew nostalgic. Even though he could manipulate magic in a lot of ways, he mainly only worked with corpses because it was all that was asked of him.

  The basement was home to rows upon rows of tables, each prepped and ready as the resting place of an undead Army. Years ago, there would have been a dead body on every table. Today, he counted seven. And it wasn’t lack of funds or demand that had left the room mostly empty but his own faltering inability to control his troops. Lifting even ten corpses at once without getting a debilitating migraine was almost impossible now.

  He moved closer to the section of occupied tables. Unlike normal corpses, these seven had their brains exposed. A lemony mist sprayed down on them to mask their stink and halt their decay. It was a special concoction created specifically for preserving corpses without freezing them. Mr. Rovas, the genius behind the preservation technology, leaned against a table near the feet of one of the corpses.

  “Mr. Rovas,” Herbert said with a curt nod.

  “Herbert,” Mr. Rovas said, looking up. He wore a long white doctor’s coat and thick glasses. He had strong, firm cheekbones, and silver hair that went down to his shoulders.

  “What are we doing today?” Herbert asked.

  “Just give me a second,” Mr. Rovas said, but a second turned into a full minute as he focused on his phone.

  Herbert’s hands burned green with magic. “What are we waiting for?” Herbert asked.

  “A call,” Mr. Rovas said. He peered up and then looked back down at his phone.

  A call from whom? Herbert wondered, his hands grew even hotter.

  “If we’re not going to do anything today, then I’m going back home,” Herbert finally said. “Call me when you actually want to get to work.”