21st Century Dead

by Christopher Golden

  Mitchell lay upon the ground, struggling with Murphy’s corpse. The living-dead dog was trying to bite him, mouth snapping furiously as the boy fought to hold it back.

  The pup struck Murphy’s corpse as if fired from a cannon, knocking the dead dog from atop the boy’s body.

  “And here I was thinking that you and I would be friends,” the spirit’s voice said, dripping with malice.

  Murphy urged the pup to get up, but the little dog lay upon his side, his breathing coming in short, strained gasps as he sucked in air through his flat face. The puppy was exhausted now, unable to catch his breath.

  “Get up,” Murphy warned, watching as his own corpse climbed stiffly to its feet and advanced upon the exhausted pup. “Get up! Get up! Get up!”

  The pup leaped to his feet with a grunt and a growl, staring into the dead eyes of the corpse dog.

  “When you are dead, I shall enjoy making your pathetic, runt-of-the-litter body dance,” the evil proclaimed as the animated corpse of the dog tensed its rotting legs to spring.

  But the attack did not come, as another voice filled the night.

  “No more,” Mitchell commanded with authority.

  The boy had risen to his feet, the dead animals of the forest still advancing toward him, clouds of the beasts that were no more than dust swarming around his head like smoke.

  But Mitchell didn’t seem to notice, his eyes directed at a particular section of mist that swirled and seemed temporarily to solidify to reveal something hidden within.

  “We’re done here,” the boy said.

  “Foolish boy, you haven’t the strength,” the spirit proclaimed. “I am free and—”

  “I said we’re done!” Mitchell’s voice boomed, and the churning atmosphere of evil seemed to recoil from his powerful words.

  “You’re making a terrible mistake,” the thing in the mist warned.

  “No,” the boy said, looking around at the reanimated monstrosities that continued to make their way toward him. “I already made a mistake … and now I’m taking it back.”

  With those words the dead stopped in their tracks, dropping to the ground, ashen remains carried upon the night wind.

  The dead, dead again.

  The pup yelped, jumping back as Murphy’s corpse pitched forward to the ground.

  “We could have done amazing things together,” the voice in the mist rasped.

  Murphy could see that the boy was ready, his fists clenched in preparation for what was to follow.

  “I think we’ve already done enough,” Mitchell said, eyes darting around in an attempt to locate the remaining threat.

  “This isn’t over, boy,” the spirit warned

  But even in his ghostly form, Murphy could feel a change in the atmosphere, a lightness in the ether, signaling that the spirit had fled.

  But to where?

  That was a question for another time, the ghost dog knew, but for now …

  The pup sniffed at the dog’s corpse as Murphy’s ghostly form approached.

  “Are you all right, pup?” the ghost dog asked.

  “Yeah, I’m fine,” the puppy answered. “Is this … was this you?” he asked.

  “Yes.”

  The pup and ghost were silent for a moment.

  “You must’ve been a fine-looking dog,” the pup said.

  “Thanks,” Murphy answered.

  They both turned to see Mitchell coming over to them. The boy stood there, a grim look upon his face as he stared down at Murphy’s body, once again devoid of life.

  “He was my best friend,” Mitchell said as he dropped down to his knees beside the body.

  The pup and Murphy’s ghost listened.

  “You wouldn’t believe how much it hurt when he wasn’t with me anymore,” the boy said sadly, laying a hand upon the dead dog’s side.

  “He isn’t really gone,” the pup tried to tell the boy, but he couldn’t understand.

  Mitchell looked at the pup, and Murphy saw something promising in the youth’s eyes.

  “Thanks for trying to save me,” he said to the little dog. “You’re pretty brave. That’s something Murphy would’ve done.”

  He took the hand that he’d fondly laid upon his best friend’s corpse and lovingly scratched behind one of the pup’s pronounced ears.

  “Brave and cute, that’s a good combination.”

  “I think you’re starting to grow on him,” Murphy said into the pup’s other ear. The little dog responded by licking the boy’s hand.

  “You don’t even have a name yet,” the boy told the young dog, still continuing to scratch.

  “You could call me Jack,” the pup told him.

  “How about Jack?” Mitchell asked him. “Would you like that name?”

  The pup licked the boy’s hand again, coming closer to him and attempting to crawl up into his lap.

  “Nobody will ever replace Murphy,” Mitchell said, taking the puppy into his arms and holding him tightly.

  “I wouldn’t even try,” the pup said, snuggling into the boy’s warmth, as Murphy looked on, content with the permanent place he’d always hold in the boy’s heart.

  * * *

  After

  The pull of the afterlife was getting stronger.

  Days had passed since the forest spirit’s attempt, and things had returned pretty much to normal.

  Murphy stood on his back legs in Mitchell’s bedroom, gazing out the window at the yard beyond. He could see his grave, where his body had been reburied, and the two rabbits that now perched upon it.

  “You can leave now,” Murphy heard one of the rabbits say.

  “Time to chase us all you want,” said the other.

  It was a pleasant thought, but the ghost dog turned his head from the window to gaze at his boy, sleeping in the bed, the little dog, now named Jack, snuggled up close beneath the covers beside him.

  Mitchell and the pup had become fast friends over the days that followed the spirit incident, and it seemed as though the pup was going to work out just fine as the boy’s new guardian.

  If the spirit should attack again, the pair would be ready and waiting.

  Yes, everything seemed to be as it should, the worries that he’d had since becoming a ghost dog finally put to rest.

  Mitchell moaned softly in his sleep, rolling over onto his side, his arm draping across Jack’s sleeping body, pulling the puppy closer.

  The ghost dog turned his gaze to the window once more, to the rabbits that were still waiting there for him. The old man and the large black dog were out there now as well, waving him on, telling him that it was time to go.

  Murphy dropped down from the windowsill and went to the rug on the floor beside the boy’s bed.

  “Not tonight,” the ghost dog said aloud, not knowing if the rabbits and the old, black dog could even hear him. “I think I’ll stay just a little bit longer.”

  Circling once, and then twice, the ghost dog lay down upon the rug with a contented sigh.

  To watch over his pups while they slept.

  TIC BOOM: A SLICE OF LOVE

  Kurt Sutter

  WE PEER THROUGH a dirty windshield. In the dying sunlight we can see a small city. Something caught in the middle of urban and quaint. Between the potholes and the lack of suspension, the ride on the old school bus is violent.

  A thick red curtain separates the driver’s seat from the rest of the massive vehicle. The driver, HORATIO BOOM, tall, lean, nods knowingly as if listening to someone. His scarred, ill-shaven face looks almost angelic in dusk’s half-light. His years of life, 35. His years of experience, 335. He’s seen some shit.

  On the floor next to him, propped up on the step of the swinging door, is a MAN. He’s dead. Evident by the fact that he has no head. Boom engages his topless friend—

  Yeah, I know. This isn’t what I wanted out of life either. Or death, in your case. None of us saw this coming. How could we?

  Boom cocks his head in recognition, as if he hears the respon
se—

  That’s real true. Man only knows as—

  Suddenly Boom’s face contorts and twitches, and in a strained, caustic voice, he blurts out—

  MOTHERFUCK TIT CUNT ME!

  Then as quickly as it erupted, the spasm fades and Boom continues his sentence with his previous level of control—

  Only knows as much as he can see.

  Boom turns, making a point to see his passenger as he listens—

  Oh, yeah. I’m sorry. Get so caught up in the big-picture stuff, forget my manners. It’s good to meet you, Ed. My name’s Horatio Boom.

  Boom smiles at the man’s reply that clearly only he can hear—

  Yeah, Boom. An unfortunate exchange at Ellis Island turned Philippe Garabune into Phil Gary Boom. My grandfather didn’t like conflict. My friends call me Tic … for obvious reasons.

  Boom pauses as he takes in his passenger’s inquiry.

  Oh … it’s not all that interesting. I really want to talk about you.

  Boom shrugs at the imaginary insistence—

  Yeah, all right. I was born at 11:08 P.M., on Monday, December 8, 1980. Exactly two minutes after Chapman shot John Lennon four times in the back. My mother said my affliction was clearly a result of God’s retribution, punishing the world for the devastation brought to one of his angels. Mom was a big Beatles fan. She was also certifiably insane.

  Boom takes in the imaginary feedback, nods appreciatively—

  She did the best she could. Not much was known about Tourette’s Syndrome in the early eighties. Even after the doctors diagnosed me, my mother insisted my ailment was a divine correction. She refused to seek treatment, kept me sheltered. Caged like a spastic bird.

  Boom gives his passenger an ironic glance—

  Mom shunned science and embraced the absurdity of the religious arcane. Little did we know, she’d be right.

  Boom can’t help but offer a sad laugh. Then his friend asks a potent question that gets a pensive reply—

  I remember all of it. Like it happened this morning.

  As the bad memories flood his mind, his tone shifts. The weight of his recall lowers Boom’s timber—

  When the Devastation began, I watched the intelligentsia try to shed some light—a plague, a mutant gene, some kind of supervirus? They identified it as a Neurodegenerative Deficiency, but we all knew that meant nothing. All it did was give them a nickname, the NODS, but other than that, the science was all smoke. They had no idea what it was, what caused it, or how to stop it. Nothing made sense—

  Again his face contorts, he blurts—

  SUCK MY SHIT ASS!

  Boom composes, offers a contrite nod, then returns to his conversation—

  Politicians, police, the armies—they vowed to protect us, find a solution. Like most of their words, it was a promise they couldn’t keep. It’s not their fault. How do you stop it? How do you even go about explaining it? Suddenly, the dead just lingered, not alive, but animated. In death they were reborn into a world that shouldn’t exist. Brains void of memory or logic, driven by primal fear. Trust me, I know what that feels like. Fear quickly becomes rage. Instincts control your actions. Soon you hunt and feed like any other animal. Survival.

  Boom looks at the headless man. Sincerely—

  I saved you from that. You know that, right?

  Boom gets the response he wanted. Thanks the man with a glance. Listens. After a long, lost moment he continues—

  As I watched the populous fall to the NODS, creating more dead … the Devastation exploded exponentially. It was like watching a bad horror movie in slow motion. Cities, states, countries … they fell in less than a year. By the time we all realized it was the Apocalypse, it was too late. We laughed at the religious freaks who claimed it was the End of Days. We knew man would live forever. We knew nothing. Our lust, greed, and condemnation of all things holy reached a breaking point. Evil outweighed good and God gave up on us. The punishment was in play.

  Boom slows the bus to a stop, turns to the quiet torso, and with the conviction of a holy man he shares his truth—

  And that’s really why I need to talk to you. It’s why I brought you here. You see, God spoke to me through a man who couldn’t speak. I was lost, running in a blind panic like everyone else. Yet, somehow I stayed alive while those around me fell to their hunger. And then on a cold November morning, I found a man sitting outside my bus. Like you, his head was nowhere to be found. And yet, like you, he spoke to me in a clear, sweet voice. He told me I was God’s shepherd. Me, a man of no faith, little ambition. A messy amalgamation of genetic and familial flaws. How could I—

  Boom tics—

  CUNT, CUNT! FUCK BLOOD ME!

  He regains composure and continues, his passion rising—

  How could I save souls? Then he explained it to me. The reason the scourge hadn’t afflicted me was because of my disorder. This brutal syndrome that reduces me to vulgar rants somehow protected me from the dead. God gave me the repellent. So you see, my mother was right, my affliction was divine. But it wasn’t retribution, it was a gift. I am the salvation of man. Me. Tic Boom. But now I need to know more. I need to know how I’m doing. So I ask you, are you another prophet? Can you tell me, am I making a difference?

  Boom waits, then gets his response. His body relaxes, calmed by the weight of disappointment.

  Okay. Okay, I understand. I’m sorry.… Thanks for listening. I appreciate it.

  Boom smiles—

  Yeah, me too. I’ll see you at dinner.

  Then Boom looks out the windshield, surveys the quiet hood, checks his watch. He stands, grabs a large leather satchel, slings it over his shoulder, and calls to the back—

  I love you, sweetheart. Boys, keep an eye on your mom. Make sure you stay in the bus.

  He leans into the curtain and hears a woman’s voice—

  We miss you already. Be safe.

  The boys chime in—

  See you later. Love you, Dad.

  Boom smiles. He hops over the corpse, swings open the door, and exits the vehicle.

  As he locks the bus door with a padlock, we see the side of the vehicle is covered in CROSSES and hastily painted sayings: GOD LOVES YOU. I AM THY SHEPHERD. THE LOST SHALL BE FOUND. Hitched to the back of the bus is a small trailer, on it, a road-worn 1968 Harley Shovelhead.

  Boom rolls the bike off the trailer, kick-starts it, and roars into town.

  Night arrives as Boom rides. The city is deserted. No lights, no people. It’s as if someone scooped away the sweetness of humanity and left the empty cone as a reminder of how bland everything is without the flavor of man.

  Boom stops in front of an alley, hops off his bike, and disappears into the shadows between the buildings. Moments later, he emerges with the end of a thick rope, which he tightly ties to an eye-hitch welded on the back of the Shovelhead. The rope is moving on its own. Something on the unseen end is pulling, twisting it like a thick hemp fish line. Boom hops on his bike. Bows his head—

  Dear God. Give me the strength to follow your calling. To save the souls I can today. Knowing that one day when the saved outnumber the lost, the Devastation will end. And these poor creatures will have peace. Then mankind, like Adam and Eve, will be pure and free and live in blessed gratitude for this bountiful world you have provided. Amen.

  Boom ends his prayer with a quick sign of the cross, then starts the bike and accelerates. As he does, the rope pulls out of the alley, revealing the source of its action—CATS. The rope is wired with thick hooks, fifteen feline victims are snagged at the head and mouth. Some hooks are free of catch, with the fish bait still attached. The cats SCREAM and YOWL as they are dragged through the street. Boom rides slowly down the main boulevard. The pavement ripping through mange leaving a trail of blood and fur.

  Within moments, the NODS appear. Seemingly from thin air. Hiding in the shadows like frightened children, they stumble awkwardly into the moonlight. Their senses on fire with the smell of blood, they begin to follow the c
at trail. They move slowly at first, but then as dozens amass, they take on a mob mentality. The lumbering picks up pace and turns to frenetic running. Boom throttles the old Harley, keeping the kitty bait just out of reach, but moving slowly enough to engage their anxious pursuit.

  Soon Boom sees his destination ahead. A Chevron station. He speeds up, pulls away from the dead pack. Then quickly turns into the dark gas station, hops off his bike, and runs inside the gas mart. Inside, he throws a pump switch, grabs a few bags of Skittles, and exits.

  The NODS approach quickly. Boom reaches inside his leather satchel and pulls out a well-honed garden machete. He cuts the rope from the back of the Shovelhead and pulls the gas nozzle from the pump. He hits Premium and jams the end of the thick rope into the nozzle trigger to engage the fuel. Gas begins to flow. Then Boom hops on the Harley and speeds away as the petrol pools around the raw cats.

  The dead are on their prey. Twenty, maybe thirty of them begin to rip and claw at the feline feast. Some on their knees, some spinning in euphoric madness. It’s an awful thing to witness.

  But Boom does. He eats Skittles as he watches from across the street. The NODS congregate like crazed roaches in his self-serve trap. After he finishes his snack, Boom pulls a flare gun from his bag. He takes a deep breath, then fires at the Chevron. The obvious result. The fuel catches fire and explodes in a blinding whoosh. Then as the flames get drafted down into the underground tanks, they explode. Violently, one after the other, four tanks blow the station and its corner acreage apart. The dead are ripped to pieces. Some try to escape, but succumb to the flames, melting into the crumbling pavement. Boom is pleased—

  There’s another thirty-two for you, God.

  The big bang and light show reveal other NODS. Most cower in their now-unshadowed crevices, staring at the flames. Mesmerized. Several of the dead spot Boom. Their senses alert with living flesh. They begin to move toward our hero. Boom, unfazed by their approach, hops off the Harley and walks fearlessly toward the oncoming pack. The sight of them triggers his malady, he contorts and blurts—

  BITCH SUCK MY FUCK HARD!

  The NODS stop in their tracks. Another fit—

  CLIT MAKER DOUCHE PUSSY!

  Now the dead begin to retreat, panicked by Boom. He chases them, quickly overtaking their broken coordination. With swift, calm waves of the machete, he lops off the heads of the devastated. It’s over as quickly as it began.