I rolled to a stop and looked around. “Where are you?”
Right next to you. Though I’m kind of twisted around and hanging over the seat, right now.
“I don’t see you.”
I’m invisible.
“Yeah, right.”
The suitcase behind us relatched itself with a double snap and her voice turned petulant. Don’t start with that “I’m not real,” stuff again. The dark glass of the passenger window slid down. What are we doing here? Oh. I see. You came to say good-bye, didn’t you?
I nodded, in spite of the fact it was a conversation I was having with myself.
That’s so sweet! But it’s also rather silly, darling. After all, Kirsten and I are buried under what’s left of the old Mount Horeb Hospital building. There’s nothing here but two headstones marking two empty graves.
I bowed my head against the steering wheel.
And one helluva big dog!
It took a moment to register. The “dog” was in motion as my head came up, running straight for the car.
Now why, Jenny was saying, would a dog chase a car that wasn’t even moving?
“It’s not a dog,” I said, groping for the button that locked all the doors. There was no such thing in a 1950 Mercury coupe, even one that had been customized in the nineties.
With the window down it was a useless gesture anyway: the wolf leapt, scrambling over the door panel, landing on the passenger seat with its front paws in my lap.
Oof, said my wife’s ghost. I’d better get in the backseat. Nice doggy.
A moment later the “nice doggy” was gone and Lupé Garou was sitting beside me with one hand grasping my arm and the other gripping my leg.
“Don’t you ever, ever do that again!” she hissed through clenched teeth.
My goodness, Chris: she’s naked!
“Uh,” I said, “do what? Shoot you with a tranquilizer gun?”
But very pretty. In an understated sort of way.
“Shoot me with a tranquilizer gun! Not trust me with the truth! Make me think you were dead!” Her eyes were wet and furious. “All of it!”
I take it that the two of you are involved—to some degree?
“I’m sorry,” I said. I seemed to be apologizing a lot for a guy who was supposed to be dead.
Not that I mind, you understand. You really do need someone to look after you.
“Well,” she sniffed, rolling up the window on her side, “don’t ever do any of those things again. Now, let’s get going.”
I don’t mind sharing you now. Death is really very liberating—emotionally, that is.
“Going?”
You learn to let go of so many things—
“The sun is going to be coming up in a few hours. You’ll need a place to sleep.”
What about her?
“Um,” I said. “What about you?”
“I’ll need a place to sleep, too,” Lupé said. “I haven’t had a moment’s rest since the old hospital blew up. Let’s go.”
She seems very practical. I like that. You need a practical woman. I was always very practical—
“No, you weren’t,” I murmured.
“Excuse me?”
“Nothing. Never mind.”
I put the car back in gear and drove the circular road back out and onto the highway. “Would you turn the heater on?” Lupé asked as I swung right and onto the bypass that arced around Pittsburg to the west. “It’s a little cool.”
Of course she was: she wasn’t wearing any clothes.
As I reached for the heater knob, my wife’s voice piped up from the backseat: Honey, aren’t you going to introduce us?
I gripped the steering wheel a little tighter and cleared my throat. “So,” I asked, “how did you know that I wasn’t really dead?”
“Ah,” Lupé answered, doing a fair imitation of Bassarab’s accent, “the blood-bond! It called to me!”
I had to laugh. “Really.”
“You’re a survivor, Chris. You don’t give up easily. And . . . I didn’t want to believe that you were really gone.”
This is really rude, Christopher; conversing as if I weren’t here with the two of you.
“So, now what?” I asked. “Do we drive back to Seattle? Or do you need to call the Doman to arrange for a pickup?”
“Neither. I quit. Told Taj to hand in my resignation for me.”
“Will they consider you ‘rogue’?”
“Probably.”
“So, they’ll be looking for you. May even suspect that I might still be alive, as well.”
She shrugged shapely shoulders. “Relationships always complicate things. You gotta expect a certain number of problems.”
Chris—
“Hush!” I snapped.
“What?”
“Not you.”
“I don’t understand.”
I sighed. “My wife’s ghost is in the backseat.”
Lupé turned around to look.
Pleased to meet you, Jenny said.
“Not really,” I explained. “I’m just imagining that I hear her voice. Talking to me. The dementia phase of the virus seems to be advancing.”
“So,” Lupé considered, “she’s not really back there.”
I am, too!
“Of course not,” I said. “You don’t hear her voice, do you?”
Lupé shook her head. “But you do?”
“Just call me Cosmo Topper.”
If I’m not real, then how can I do this? The glove compartment opened by itself and a large manilla envelope floated into view.
“If she’s not really in the car with us,” Lupé asked, wide-eyed, “then how do you explain the floating envelope?”
Precisely, Jenny said primly. A piece of paper emerged from the envelope and unfolded in midair.
“One of the by-products of my altered brain chemistry is certain telekinetic abilities,” I answered, trying to keep my eyes on the road and steer. “If I can transport my body along the dreampaths, I can certainly float some pieces of paper without tweaking any conscious brain cells.”
“So you’re saying your dementia is not only providing auditory hallucinations,” Lupé said, “but causing your subconscious to manifest certain psychic episodes, as well.”
I nodded, only half-listening to her words. “What are you doing?” I demanded.
Checking on your new identity. The end opened and a piece of paper floated out. Oh my. She started to laugh.
“What’s so funny?”
“May I see?” Lupé asked.
Your new identity. Jenny turned the paper so Lupé could see, too.
“What?”
As of now your last name is “Haim,” Jenny announced.
“Haim,” Lupé murmured. “What an odd name. Wonder what nationality that might be.”
Celtic, Jenny replied with a giggle.
“Celtic?” I asked. “What makes you think it would be Celtic?”
Lupé began to giggle as well. “Because your first name is now Samuel.” On the last word both of their giggles bubbled over.
“What’s so funny about Samuel?” It took me a moment: “Samuel Haim—Sam Haim?” I wasn’t laughing.
Oh, darling; it could be worse. They could have made your new name Hal O. Ween.
“I’m still not laughing.” I pulled up to the four-way stop where 160 split off to the west and 57/171 angled off to the east and then a long curve around to the south.
Lupé kept twisting around to look behind her. “You know, you’ve got me half-convinced that your wife’s ghost is here with us, after all.”
Admit it, babe. You’re not fully convinced that I’m nothing more than a subconscious manifestation of your deteriorating psyche.
“You’re not real,” I insisted as my foot danced from brake to clutch and I torqued the steering wheel.
“Are you really so sure about that?” Lupé asked with a smile. “After all, it wasn’t that long ago that you didn’t think vampires or were
wolves—”
“You’re not real, either,” I announced as the envelope floated back into the glove compartment and closed with a snap. To close off any further conversation, I reached over and switched on the radio.
An oldies station was playing the last few bars of “Earth Angel.” There was a disembodied chuckle behind me and Lupé was grinning wolfishly.
“I don’t find any of this particularly funny.”
Hey, Jenny’s voice murmured in my ear, didn’t anybody ever tell you: dying is easy; comedy is hard.
I stomped on the accelerator as the radio segued into a new selection.
It was “The Monster Mash.”
THE END
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About the Author:
Wm. Mark Simmons is the author of five novels. His first, In The Net of Dreams, was a finalist for the Compton Crook Award and made the Locus "Best" list in 1991. That novel, with its two sequels, When Dreams Collide and the new novel The Woman of His Dreams, have recently been published in one hardcover volume by Meisha Merlin Publishing. For Baen he wrote the popular and critically praised One Foot in the Grave, to which Dead on My Feet is a sequel. Simmons has worked as a teacher, actor, director, musician, and entertainer, hosting his own shows on both television and radio while winning awards as a journalist and copywriter. He currently manages a public radio station in Louisiana, and hosts a classical music program.
One Foot in the Grave - The Halflife Trilogy Book I Page 36