A Boy and His Corpse

by Richard B. Knight

  When there was room to go, she sped up and went with the flow of traffic, cutting off a Mitsubishi and leaving her agents behind. They would catch up with her. They always did.

  Enya was becoming a nuisance so she turned off the radio completely.

  In a way, she felt like a bad mother for leaving Alan all alone with Herbert, but it was the only way. She checked the rearview mirror. The familiar black sedan had returned to its normal place just two cars back.

  If I didn’t leave him with Herbert, he would never let me hear the end of it.

  She sped up and avoided looking across the next intersection at Mandolin Arsenal. Below the sprawling army base were the tunnels and dark, damp rooms she had lived in for over a decade. The past was the past and she had no desire to relive those memories.

  Lorraine passed Costco and the mall, and caught the light at Blackwell Street, which was only a couple of blocks away from her ex-husband’s house. A few lights further, she was on his street. In the parking lot in front of the corner gas station were four or five black cars parked side by side.

  I wonder what that’s all about?

  Houses along the street were spaced evenly apart, each patch of lawn separated by a swath of concrete driveway. It was a lot more populated than her home up in Jefferson, but Dover was very…ethnic. And even though Lorraine was Columbian, she never truly identified with her Latino roots or other minorities, for that matter. It was a wonder she didn’t date or marry a white guy.

  As she drove up the road, she saw two dark men leaning against a giant SUV. Merengue music blared from the speakers. Lorraine wrinkled her nose. She could practically smell the rice and beans on their breath. At another house, she saw a family of eight laughing and sitting on their front deck. She shook her head.

  Too many people.

  She finally edged up to Herbert’s driveway, but as soon as she parked, something felt off.

  Lorraine unbuckled her seat belt and climbed out of the car. A wave of warm air surrounded her, chasing away the chilly January air. She stopped just short of the front walk. The front door was slightly ajar. She turned and scanned the street for her agents, but they were parked half a block down as to not appear suspicious. It was the one time she wished they were nearby, and they weren’t. Across the street was a Floral delivery truck. It must be Agents Covington and Heinzelman.

  They normally don’t park this close.

  Memories of corpses marching in synch flooded her brain. She moved to the door and pushed it open. She walked inside and—

  “Herbert, I—Oh, my God!” she said, covering her mouth.

  “Lorraine,” Herbert said, looking up at her.

  Herbert stood in the center of the room, dragging Agent Covington toward a tarp spread out on the floor. Beside him, the pudgy kid Alan hung out with had his beefy arms wrapped around the dead body of Agent Heinzelman. There was a hole the size of Alaska in the center of the dead man’s chest.

  But worst of all was that damned corpse, Mort, bloodied and slack-jawed, who stood staring at Alan’s unconscious body on the floor.

  Mort

  Mort stared down at Alan and saw into his dreams. When Alan dreamt, Mort remembered.

  ***

  Alan had second thoughts now that they were actually outside his house.

  “Soooo, are we going in or are we just gonna stand outside freezing our butts off?” James asked.

  “Yeah, yeah, sure,” Alan said, blocking the doorknob with his body. “The key’s just stuck. It does that sometimes.”

  But the truth was, it never did that. Alan was just stalling.

  Come on, man. Stop being such a puss. He thought. You need to tell somebody. And why not James? You can trust him.

  Are you sure about that? A second, even louder thought asked him.

  It didn’t matter if he could, because he unlocked the door anyway. It was now or never.

  “Come in,” Alan said. “Take off your shoes.”

  It had been a crazy past few weeks, and his first month at Dover High had been brutal. The boys made fun of his fatness, and the girls made fun of his ugliness, all within earshot. This ridicule from his peers was entirely new to him, as he hadn’t associated with teens his own age before, not on a daily basis anyway. After the first week, he wanted to move back underground.

  But that all changed when he met James Krompholz who stopped him in the hall when he saw they wore the same T-shirt.

  “No way!” James had said, pointing.

  “Yooo, Mephisto!” Alan said, pointing back.

  Mephisto was Alan’s favorite wrestler in the IWF. Growing up, he used to watch Mephisto, with his red and black mask, bare chest, and wirey muscles and wished he could be him. Mephisto had the kind of physique and charisma he always wanted. Plus, he was just plain badass. The fact that somebody else knew Mephisto impressed Alan, as he was kind of an old-school wrestler who wasn’t getting much screen-time these days.

  Wrestling was the spark that started their friendship, and video games, movies, and TV were the adhesive strips that made it stick.

  “Wow,” James said, referring to Alan’s living room when he stepped inside. “Nice digs.”

  He went over to the couch and sat down, spreading his arms across the back. “Now this is living.”

  “I don’t know about that,” Alan said, “but it’s definitely better than that lumpy ass thing you call a couch in your house.” In the back of his mind, a part of him worried about the agents down the street. Would they barge in at a moment’s notice to see what was going on? Alan cleared his throat.

  James looked up at Alan, “Yeah, whatever, dude. What did you want to show me?”

  The look in his eyes threw Alan off. He looked a bit too eager, too willing to see what this big secret was.

  “Did you want something to drink?” Alan asked.

  “Depends. Do you have Orangina?”

  “What the hell is that?” Alan asked.

  “Never mind. What about Dr. Pepper?”

  Alan cringed.

  “What?” James asked. “Why the face?”

  “You actually like that crap?”

  “Yeah. So what? Who are you to judge?”

  Alan imitated barfing by sticking a finger down his throat.

  “Yeah, whatever, dude,” James said. “Quit stalling. What did you want to show me?”

  Alan opened his mouth, and closed it again. He opened it again and closed it. James squinted.

  “You trying to catch flies or something?”

  Alan swallowed. Even though he thought about this moment countless times, the words just wouldn’t come out—I can move corpses with my mind. It sounded much better in his head.

  “Spit it out, man,” James said. “You’re starting to piss me off.”

  “Piss you off?” Alan asked, perplexed. “What am I doing that’s pissing you off?”

  “You’re keeping secrets from me,” James said. “That’s messed up. I showed you my dad’s gun.”

  Alan remembered seeing the Colt 45 in the brown pine box stored underneath James’ father’s bed. Even though Alan’s own father was in the military, he’d never seen him carry a gun Then again, he didn’t have to. Not when he could use a corpse to do his bidding.

  But this was different. A gun is a very real thing made out of steel. Moving a corpse with your mind was something else entirely. This was a bad idea. He mentally scrambled to find something in the house he could lie about, but in his cerebral quest, he accidently “turned on” Mort. This sometimes happened when he was really nervous. One moment, there was a spider in the bathroom, and the next, Mort was right outside the door, ready to crush it with his bare foot. Alan didn’t know why Mort moved better when he wasn’t thinking of moving him at all, but he just did, and the same thing happened now. There were footsteps coming up the basement stairs.

  James turned his head to the sound.

  “Is somebody else here?” James asked.

  Alan tried to stop Mort from
coming up, but the more he tried, the harder it was.

  The basement door opened, and out he came, tattered clothes and all.

  James hopped off the couch and backed into the wall. His already light skin went even lighter and he almost blended in with the wall.

  “Wha-what the hell is that?” He asked.

  But the more Alan tried to send him back down, the closer he got to James, until finally, he was right in his face. James looked up and down at the corpse. His hands shook and his teeth chattered.

  “I’m sorry you had to meet him like this, James, but this is Mort. My pet corpse,” Alan said.

  With one final tug to pull him away, Mort did the exact opposite and hugged James. James fainted in the corpses’ arms.

  ***

  Mort looked to James as he dragged the dead agent down the basement stairs. He was about to hug him after seeing Alan’s dream, but something held him back. James wasn’t the person he made himself out to be. He was a fraud, a charlatan. Mort continued to stare down at his master. Alan’s lips twitch in his sleep.

  Lucifer

  As Lucifer continued to stare at the rattling door to his throne room, another vision from Earth entered his mind. His hands steadied and his nerves calmed. He settled back in his throne and waited. A part of him even wanted to smile.

  With one final push, the door flew open. The momentum sent all the representatives of Hell falling one on top of the other. They squirmed and writhed, trying to push themselves up. The first one on his feet was Gaylord Heavensby. He represented the tenth circle of Hell, which was a level left out of Dante’s Divine Comedy. It was a luxury ring, designed and constructed 1000 years ago for the rich and famous. Even in death they preferred their privacy. .

  “Why didn’t you answer the bloody door when we knocked?” Gaylord asked. He wore a tweed sweater, tan pants and a pair of brown boat shoes with no socks. His mustache was a whisper of hair above his upper lip, and he was quite pale. “What are you going to do about this, Lucifer? Half the houses in my district are ruined! You promised there wouldn’t be any more massive earthquakes!”

  “Step aside, Gaylord,” said a blubbery, shirtless man wearing raggedy pants with the pockets hanging out. This could only be Robert Jacobson, the representative from the fourth circle. Unlike those in the tenth circle who spent their money wisely back on Earth, the denizens in the fourth circle once had money but blew it all on frivolous things. And though it went unsaid between the two groups, those in the fourth circle loathed those in the tenth and vice versa. “We ain’t got nothing left, Lucifer. How are you going to repay us?”

  But he, too, was pushed aside. A skinny, anemic man with hands that dangled from scraps at the end of his forearms now stood in his place. This was the representative from the center of the seventh circle, Bob Duncan, the suicide king.

  Before Bob could say a word, a large, barrel-chested man with flowing black hair and harsh eyes pushed him aside. This was Bron. He was also from the seventh circle of Hell, which was collectively known as the circle of violence.

  He walked past all of them and went right up to Lucifer.

  The devil, not wanting to appear weak in front of this giant, grew in size again so that his horns nearly scraped the ceiling. The throne grew as an extension of him.

  “What is it, Bron?” Lucifer asked in a booming voice.

  “Grow, stay at eye-level, it makes no difference to me,” he said. “If you don’t something about the overpopulation in Hell—”

  “Then what, Bron?” Lucifer’s voice thundered, making the other leaders of their respective rings step back; but not Bron. He kicked Lucifer so hard in the big toe that the devil shrunk back to human size. Bron wrapped his bicep around Lucifer’s neck and put him in a headlock.

  “Then I will kill you and take over Hell myself,” he said.

  Lucifer clawed at Bron’s beefy forearms, but to no avail.

  “The only reason I’m not taking over Hell now is because I detest responsibility. But I will do it for the people of the seventh circle if I have to.”

  “Can’t—” Lucifer spat, “Breathe.”

  Bron released Lucifer and pushed him to the ground.

  “I have a plan,” Lucifer said between coughs, starring back at the group of Hell representatives. “It will clear out Hell forever. I promise.”

  “What kind of plan?” Bron asked, crossing his arms.

  Lucifer stood and presented his plan. By the time he was done, Bron nodded, as did all the other representatives behind him.

  “When can you start?” Bron asked.

  “Within the hour,” Lucifer said.

  “Good,” Bron said. “I’ll wait.”

  Alan

  “I swear, if anything’s wrong with him, I’ll tell the whole world about your stupid Undead Militia,” Alan heard his mother say as he regained consciousness. His head was in a fog. The strong smell of the dusty basement pervaded his nostrils.

  “We’ll worry about that later, Lorraine,” Alan heard his father growl. He imagined his dad clenching his fists at his side.

  “This is all your fault, you know. None of this would have happened if you—”

  “Alright, shut it, Lorraine! There’s nothing I can do right now, okay? I’m worried, too.”

  “No, you’re not.”

  “What the hell are you talking about? Of course I’m worried!” Herbert shouted. “He’s my son, too, you know.”

  “You don’t care about anything but your stupid Militia. You’re so selfish, I can’t stand it.”

  “Are you serious right now? Are you really being serious?”

  “No, I’m joking, Herbert! You’re the freaking father of the year. If I had a sash that said those very same words, I’d tie it around your damn neck.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry that I’ve spent my life protecting this country, Lorraine. God, if anybody’s been selfish, it’s you.”

  “And what’s that supposed to mean?”

  Though it was relaxing lying on the cold, basement floor after being so hot just a few moments ago, Alan couldn’t take their shouting any longer.

  “Could the two of you shut up already?” Alan said. “Christ Almighty.”

  Alan opened his eyes and stared up at Mort who still stood staring down at him. He turned his head and focused on his mother. Her eyes sprang wide open and she lunged down and wrapped her arms around him.

  She showered his forehead with smooches. “Oh, Alan!” kiss kiss. “Thank God,” kiss, “You’re”, kiss, “Okay.” Kiss kiss.

  His father sank down beside him and hugged him next.

  For a moment, the three of them were a family again, but it didn’t last. When his mother realized Herbert was touching her she shifted her arms. His father grunted when he realized the very same fact. They quickly pulled apart.

  Behind him came the sound of a long, slow clap. Alan turned his head and a sharp pain pinched his neck. He saw James.

  “Touching,” James said, pushing himself off the staircase. “Really, truly touching. But, you know, maybe you guys want to actually get things moving now that we have the President on the run. There were about four or five secret service cars in the parking lot down the street. How long do you think it will take for them to pull up in your driveway?”

  “What?” Herbert asked, knitting his brow.

  “He’s not lying. I saw the cars, too. They were in the parking lot down the street,” Lorraine said. “They were secret servicemen?”

  “They definitely looked like it. But that’s the least of our problems right now,” James said.

  “How so?” Herbert asked.

  “Well, they would have kicked down the doors by now if they were going to come get us. So my guess is, the President is probably hightailing it back to Washington right now. But your agents,” James said, raising his head to Lorraine, “should be coming around here any moment now, I suspect.”

  Herbert jumped to his feet. “Why didn’t you say anything before?”

/>   I thought I’d let you two scream it out until Alan woke up, since we’re going to need him anyway.”

  “Need me for what?” Alan asked. “Who the hell are you anyway?”

  “Are you okay?” he asked, looking him directly in the eyes. “It’s me, James.”

  “Now that’s a lie if I ever heard one,” Herbert said, getting up. “Now that we’re done dragging those bodies down here, you want to tell us who you really are, James Krompholz, if that’s your real name?”

  “It is,” James said, “but you’re right. I’m not who you think I am. But that’s okay, as Alan isn’t who I thought he was, either. Not until he used Mort to punch a hole in Heinzelman’s chest and showed his true colors.” His stared directly at Alan.

  Alan sniffed the dusty air. Was that blood? He had no idea how he missed the smell before, but his nose directed him to where agents Heinzelman and Convington laid sprawled out on top of each other. Alan looked to Mort, and the memories flooded back to him like snapshots from a camera. He saw Mort’s hand going through Agent’s Heinzelman’s chest followed by the man screaming in agony. Alan nursed his temples. What the hell had he done?

  “How do you know about the other two agents?” Lorraine asked James.

  “I’ll tell you in due time, but right now, we have bigger fish to fry. Like your two agents in the corner. They’re going to start stinking pretty soon.”

  “Don’t change the subject,” Herbert said. “We’ll spray them soon enough.”

  “Oh, God,” Lorraine choked.

  “What’s the matter now?”

  “You’re not going to spray them with that lemony crap, are you?”

  “And if I am?” Herbert grumbled. “It gets rid of the stink.”

  “Yeah, only to replace it with another stink. I don’t want to be anywhere near that junk when you spray it.”

  “Then get the hell out of here then! Why are you even here anyway?”

  “Uh, duh, it’s Friday, you idiot. I pick Alan up on—”