A Boy and His Corpse

by Richard B. Knight

  “But I can barely even control you.”

  “What you take for weakness is your greatest strength, Alan. Just look at how shocked your father is.”

  And his father’s face was indeed shocked. It was almost comical how scared he looked.

  Alan brightened up, but then soured again. “But what good does that do for me here?”

  “More good than you could imagine. Instead of extinguishing the souls of corpses, you give them life, and that’s what has Lucifer so spooked. That’s why he sent you down here. But you can still stop him.”

  “How?”

  “Through me!”

  Alan blinked rapidly. “I still don’t get it. How is that possible?”

  “It’s possible if you believe. You’re in control, Alan. You always have been in control. The question is, do you have the willpower and determination to do it? You can get out of here, but you’ll have to struggle, because life is struggle. The only question is, are you willing to make the climb?”

  Alan was taken aback. “Well, if I do, will you go with me?”

  “Of course,” he said. “I’ve never left your side and I don’t plan on doing it anytime soon.”

  Alan nodded. “When do we start?”

  “Now,” Mort said.

  “How do we get out of here?”

  Mort pointed up again. “Use your imagination to find a way to get back out.”

  Alan willed an elevator in front of him, but Mort wiped his hand in the darkness and the elevator disappeared.

  “What are you doing?” Alan asked.

  “It has to be more metaphorical struggle than that. An elevator is too easy, so it’s stairs for you.”

  “Oh, come on,” Alan whined and Mort slapped him in the back of the head again.

  “’Oh, come on’ nothing. If you want to save your father, and ultimately, the world, then you’re going to climb. You’re lucky I don’t turn this into a mountain, but the symbolism is clear enough with stairs. Climb them and claim your destiny, Alan. It will be tiring, sure, and there will be a points where you want to give up, but you can’t give up, and, more importantly, you won’t give up. Because you can do anything you set your mind to, Alan. You just have to want it badly enough. So are you ready?”

  Alan was about to complain again, but he knew Mort was right. It was just like his dad always said, “Life is struggle, life is pain.” Alan put his hand out and walls appeared on both sides of the stairs. There was a pinprick of light at the top.

  As Alan took his first step up, he looked back and Mort nodded to him.

  Alan and Mort took their first step together.

  President Rosewater

  At 2 AM on a Sunday morning the Oval Office was packed with people. Every cabinet member and their various aides and advisors were crammed in the small room, even though they all didn’t have to be. Why Secretary of Agriculture, Scott LeFevre, was here, Rosewater couldn’t figure out for the life of him. Vice President, Dan Tulino, sat front and center with his legs crossed drinking coffee. His green eyes peered at the President over his cup every time he took a sip. He didn’t have the fine chiseled jaw line or Roman nose that President possessed, but he certainly had the sharp, tough features that women swooned over. It didn’t hurt that he was also a Rhodes Scholar and a former Wyoming Senator who had championed female rights all the way back in his district attorney days.

  An hour before he had burst through the doors of the Oval Office.

  “Do you want to tell me what the hell is going on?” he asked. When Rosewater struggled with an answer, VP Tulino gave him one: “Meeting here at 2 AM.” He turned to one of his advisors and told him, “Let everybody know. Everybody.”

  In less than an hour, all of the cabinet members shuffled into the room. They murmured for the better part of ten minutes, but stopped when the Vice-President cleared his throat. The President stood up and turned his back to them.

  If you can’t trust them, who can you trust? He asked himself as he peered out the window and saw the low glow from the yellow bulbs that lined the outside lawn. He turned back to them and forced a smile.

  “Thank you all for coming at such late notice,” He paused and exhaled. “Right after I told America about the Undead Militia, I was about to tell them—” It’s the only way. “Well, I was about to tell them about Jesus Christ and how I had already met him. There was more murmuring, and Rosewater let them talk amongst themselves. The vice-president’s eyes bore a hole in him from across the table. He didn’t like that look.

  “Why didn’t you tell me about this?” Secretary of Defense, Brian Salge, asked. With his droopy eyes and slumped shoulders, he looked more hurt than angry.

  “Jesus told me not to tell anybody.” Oh, brother. “You most of all. He thought you might try to intervene.”

  Salge’s sullen expression looked toward the floor. “I understand,” he said.

  “What about your talk of the Undead Militia?” Vice-President Tulino asked before taking another sip of coffee.

  “The Undead what?” the secretary of Commerce, Janet Wellen, asked.

  “Yes, don’t you remember?” the Vice-President asked the crowd before turning his attention back to the President. “You mentioned magic and talked about something called the ‘Undead Militia’ in your speech before we got that new footage. I watched the press conference multiple times on the plane ride back from Africa. What was that all about?”

  Every eye in the room looked at the President. Rosewater tried hard to hide his nervousness.

  “Yes, well,” the President said. “Jesus told me to say that. It was all part of the plan.”

  The crowd leered at him in suspicion, but upon seeing his serious, unwavering face, they nodded to one another as if to say, “Yes, that makes sense.” Vice President Tulino flared his nostrils.

  “What if I don’t believe you?” he asked, and everybody’s assent halted completely.

  Damn you. The President thought. Damn you to Hell. “It is not my word you are doubting,” Rosewater said, “It is the Lord’s.”

  The crowd nodded and agreed to those words, too, while the Vice-President continued to stare him down. Rosewater returned his glare.

  Just try to take this office away from me, punk, his eyes told him. Just try me.

  Oh, I will, the vice-president’s eyes replied as he took another sip of coffee. I will.

  Herbert

  Herbert awoke when the water splashed his face.

  “Wakey, wakey,” The Devil sang.

  Herbert flailed about on the cold floor as if he were drowning and choked to get the water out his lungs. When he finally wiped the water from his eyes, he found the Devil looking at him.

  “Yeesh. I thought you were in a coma or something.”

  “Where am I?”

  “Home,” The Devil said simply. “Welcome back.”

  When Herbert sat up, he saw the legions of tables. The lemony scent wafted officiously in the air.

  “Where’s James?” Herbert asked.

  “In your old room with that pet corpse of yours. Believe it or not, he actually tried to come to your aid back in Pakistan.”

  “Who, Mort?”

  “No, you dolt. James! What can Mort do?”

  Herbert brought his knees into his chest. “What do you want?”

  “Your continued cooperation.”

  “Go to Hell,” Herbert spat.

  “Gladly. But I need your help before I can go back there.”

  “I’m done helping you.”

  The Devil pursed his lips. “Oh, I’m sorry. I thought you wanted your son back.”

  Herbert squinted. “What do you mean?”

  The Devil gave the same smarmy, smile he’d given ever since they landed in Afghanistan. “You see, Herbert, Hell has become rather overcrowded as of late, and I need to clean it out.”

  Herbert crossed his arms. “And what does this have to do with Alan?”

  “You were my prototype, Herbert, my first model. I
had no idea that giving you the ability to extract souls from Hell would work, but I had to try it. Hell was becoming unbearable.”

  “Get to the point.”

  The Devil’s eyes sank low and he had a snarl on his face like a dog. “Do not be feisty with me, Herbert.”

  “Fine, whatever,” Herbert said. “Please get to the point.”

  The Devil’s grimace stayed for a few seconds, but then evaporated like fog in the sun.

  “My point is, I don’t need to inhabit your son’s body forever. In fact, once I pull up enough souls, I’ll be able to return to Hell just like before.”

  Herbert sneered. Liar. “How many souls are we talking about?”

  “Give or take, a little over 9000.”

  “I’m sorry, did you just say over 9000?!”

  “Look, it won’t be as taxing on Alan’s body as it is on yours. I’ll actually be doing most of the heavy lifting. But if you can help me with this by bringing up like, ten here, or twenty there, it will go a lot faster. And as soon as I get the chance, I’m going to talk to the President to arrange a live show for us.”

  “Wait, a what?”

  “The public thinks I’m Jesus Christ now, Herbert, and they’re going to want a show.”

  “This is ridiculous! You’re an attention whore, you know that?”

  The Devil smiled again. “Be that as it may, they wouldn’t accept just two unknowns raising the dead. The public needs somebody familiar, somebody they’ve been praying to all their lives.”

  “And don’t you think the real Jesus Christ is going to be upset that you’re pretending to be him?” Herbert asked.

  The Devil shrugged Alan’s shoulders. “I’ll deal with that later. Right now, I have a home to clean out.” He leaned back against one of the tables and sighed. “It’s just one big mess, but it’s one I have to deal with. You can help speed up the process, though, so it’s really all up to you.”

  “Why should I trust you?” Herbert asked after a time.

  “As always, you’re just going to have to. Shake on it?”

  Herbert stared at the hand, but he refused to shake it. “I’ll help you, but I won’t shake your hand. Not this time.”

  The Devil sneered, but then smiled.

  “I guess you’re not as dumb as you look. I’ll get everything set up. Be prepared.”

  Alan

  Sweat stung Alan’s eyes as he staggered up the impossibly steep stairs. His feet scuffed against the rough steps, and his knees ached. This was Hell.

  “I can’t do it anymore,” Alan huffed. “I need to sit down.”

  “No!” Mort said, putting both hands to his back. “If you sit down now, you’ll never get back up. Look up ahead. You’re close.”

  But Alan didn’t feel close. When he looked up with his stiff neck and pained limbs, the pinprick of light still looked like a distant star.

  “You’re closer than you think,” Mort told him. “The struggle is all in your mind.”

  “But why is it so hard?”

  Alan took another step and then collapsed. His chin hit the stair and angry tears fell down. He bit his tongue.

  “I can’t, I can’t, I can’t,” Alan cried with blood in his teeth. “Why didn’t you listen to—?

  “Wait, shhhh,” Mort said. “Do you hear that?”

  “Hear what?” he was about to ask, but he didn’t have to because he heard it, too, or rather, he felt it. It surged beneath him like a tidal wave.

  “What is that?” Mort asked.

  “Shhh,” Alan said as he put his wet ear on the stair.

  There was a roar from…What was that? A crowd? Not only that, but he felt something else. It was a tugging of some sort, and he felt it in his heart.

  “Look!” Mort said, and as Alan lifted his face, the pinprick expanded to the shape of a doorway. It shone bright white.

  Outside of the doorway, he heard his father’s voice calling for him, crying for him.

  Alan pushed desperately to get to his feet, but he fell back down.

  “Help me, Mort!” Alan said, and Mort tried, but Alan was too heavy.

  “I can’t, buddy. You have to make this climb yourself.”

  Alan counted the stairs he had left to scale. There were about forty. All the while, his father’s voice and call grew louder and closer. The doorway pulsated.

  I can do it. I have to! Dad needs me. Alan threw one hand forward, and pulled, then the other, and pulled. His armpits ached and his fingers throbbed, but he refused to give up. A sharp gust of wind whipped his face, but he continued.

  Thirty-nine steps, thirty-eight steps, thirty-seven…thirty six…

  Lucifer

  Lucifer saw and heard the immense crowd of people. Cameras scanned the masses, and face after face, enraptured by their faith appeared on the Jumbotrons. People packed the sprawling lawns of Calvert National Cemetery, the world’s second largest resting place for the dead.

  “It has been an honor and a privilege to be of service to our Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ, and I speak for all of us when I say how happy we are to not only have him come back down to Earth, but more importantly, come down to America,” the President’s voice reverberated over the loudspeakers. He stood at a podium in the middle of the stage. His red scarf lapped in the afternoon air.

  “The pleasure is all mine,” Lucifer said. His voice magnified to the people all the way in the nosebleeds without the assistance of a microphone. “Thank you, everyone, for your praise and prayers. I have enjoyed them for over 2000 years.”

  The crowd gave a collective cheer. The camera scanned the crowd and landed on an old woman, her head bowed and her hands pressed together in prayer. When the young person next to her nudged her and showed her she was on TV, she screamed and started waving. Lucifer waved back. His smile stretched even farther than the gravestones that spread out before him.

  Lucifer turned his head, and looked directly at Herbert, but Herbert refused to return the gesture.

  “And now, without further ado,” Rosewater said, “the power of Jesus!” He walked away with an outstretched arm. The crowd stomped the bleachers.

  Lucifer raised his eyes on the first row of graves, each with a corpse he would raise from the dead for all the world to see, but just then, something took a hold of him. His limbs began to shake and his eyes bulged. Something was trying to get out.

  “What’s going on?” Herbert asked.

  Lucifer struggled to speak.

  Something was very wrong. Alan’s body was starting to feel…alien. What was going on?

  The crowd’s cheering died down until a worried silence fell in its place.

  The President rushed back onto the stage.

  “What’s going on?” Rosewater asked with frantic eyes as he put his hand over the microphone. “I thought we had a deal here.”

  Lucifer felt something tickling his throat. He rubbed the roof of his mouth with his tongue. Was that a finger he felt? It probed the inside of his mouth and poked. But how?

  Lucifer had to put an end to this, but fast, and he had the perfect way right beside him. He lit his hand in flames and stuck it out to Herbert. The crowd cheered again.

  “Hey, what’s going on?” Herbert mouthed. He looked from Lucifer to the gravestones and then back to Lucifer.

  “What are you doing?” Rosewater asked.

  “Yeah, what’s going on?” James asked.

  “Plans have changed,” Lucifer said, walking toward Herbert.

  Is this what you want, Alan? Lucifer asked the boy in his mouth. Do you want me to kill your father on live TV? Because I’ll do it if you don’t go back down there immediately.

  “Stop!” a female’s voice screamed from the crowd. It came from a microphone. The cameras panned to the woman running across the cemetery. Her face was plastered on both screens of the Jumbotron.

  “What’s she doing here?” Lucifer asked through gritted teeth.

  On both massive screens was Lorraine Chandler. She rushed to the
stage and took a position behind the podium.

  “People of America. This young man you see before you isn’t Jesus Christ. It’s the Devil who has possessed my son’s body! The Devil!”

  Agog, he lost focus and stumbled backward a few steps. Mort grabbed him from behind.

  How is this possible, I am in control here! Right?

  Herbert

  That brief second was all Herbert needed. How his son had reached out and grabbed Mort’s mind, he had no idea, but he didn’t need to know. He commandeered Mort’s mind from his son and made the corpse hold Lucifer’s arms from behind.

  “Come on, son! Push!” he screamed. “Purge yourself!”

  In the distance, the sound of awe and fear swelled up from the audience. Lucifer screamed in both shock and agony, as Herbert shot a beam at his son’s chest. And in that instant, their synergy met. It was like clasping hands with a man dangling from a cliff ledge, hanging on for dear life. The shock Lucifer received from being grabbed by Mort threw him off-guard, and that opportunity was all they needed.

  “No!” Lucifer screamed, but the tug between father and son was too great. Just like a gooey booger, the green energy of Lucifer’s soul writhed out of Alan’s body and began to materialize on the stage. President Rosewater rushed toward Herbert, but James reacted with a karate chop to the back of the man’s neck, knocking him out. Out the corner of his eye, Herbert saw the secret servicemen spring up on the stage.

  “James, take care of—”, but James was already on the offensive, as Herbert heard grunts and snapping bones behind him.

  The tug of war continued. The tension was similar to reeling in a great fish in an aggressive sea, but in this regard, Herbert was a skilled fisherman and Alan was a gracious tide.

  “Keep pushing, boy!” Herbert screamed. His heart felt ready to burst.

  The strained look on Alan’s face was evidence that he was struggling, too.

  The clouds darkened and a vortex of light shot down upon the stage. A flash lit the sky and the wind howled. The people in the crowd scrambled away in fear.