Love and Other Horrors

by Boye, Kody

A low groan rose from the corpse’s chest, tracing Delilah’s forehead and puncturing the top of her skull. It slid into her brain and took control of her body, causing the hairs on the back of her neck to rise and her arms to shake. She stilled them by crossing them over her chest, but it did little to help. The dead had spoken. They wanted answers.

  I’m sorry, she mouthed, a tear sliding down her face.

  “Is something wrong?”

  “I need to go,” she said, walking to the door.

  “You can’t!” Jason said. “You need to put her down.”

  “Do it yourself. You have a drill.”

  She slammed the door without saying another word.

  Until that moment, she hadn’t known that the dead really did have souls.

  Back home—in a small, rounded building constructed from the remnants of metal buildings and topped with a flat, wooden roof—she sat on her bed and rocked herself to the sound of her thoughts, trying as hard as she could to forget the sound of Claridia’s gargled moan and the sight of her fat, bloated tongue. The woman—as dead as she may have been—had experienced human emotion, regardless of the fact that her brain had died and disappeared with the rest of her bodily functions.

  I’m so sorry, Aunt Claridia.

  While she hadn’t known the woman past the casual meet-and-greet at one of their village’s social gatherings, reviving someone she’d once known pained her to no end. At times, she’d remain on her bed for days, unable to sleep as the ghosts of the dead wiggled their tongues or blinked their glossy eyes at her. The only cure for these fits of insomnia were the sedatives Anderson kept in his medical office, and even then, those rarely helped.

  You can’t help what he makes you do, she thought, curling into a ball. You can’t control or give him the things he wants.

  No.

  Had she been able to control anything at all, she would’ve turned that fateful night and stopped the event that would ultimately change her life.

  The war, the bombs, the brief flash of light that covered the entire sky—then the flames came and wiped away all the good in the world. People ran the streets, flaming cherries atop a Burning Alaska. The ground had turned white then, as a superheated firestorm waged over the earth’s surface and destroyed almost everything that existed. Those few that had managed to escape to the underground catacombs emerged to an almost-barren earth, wiped clean of humanity’s former existence.

  All that had remained was an obelisk that had once marked the location of Washington D.C.

  Just like the day she went underground—a parentless girl of only seven, clinging to the arm of a tall man in a big, black suit—the day she emerged from the darkness below remained clear in her mind.

  Almost three years later, when the few scientists that had survived deemed the world fit for human habitation, the group of about fifty men, women and children took their first step on the cold, barren land.

  Like mud cracked from the immense heat of a summer-long drought, the ground below crumbled under their feet, virgin soil tested by human weight for the first time in years. Those few trees that managed to survive had been stripped of all life, crystallized under ash like Pompeii from its volcano. They’d looked like mannequins then, faceless because of a creationist’s inability to give them a true identity. And that image alone stuck fear into the hearts of those who survived the most brutal event in human history. Many broke down crying, elated from survival, but terrified of the future. Even the men—who, until that point, had remained the stoic, almost-godlike figures of the group—broke down, shedding tears for all the things they’d lost.

  Loved ones died during that time, burned by the pressure or the apprehension of three cold, dark years; but despite everything lost, those few survivors vowed it wouldn’t be in vain.

  Not long after they began their trek across the barren wasteland to start their new life, the first case of magic turned their world upside down.

  With morning came both dawn and the realization that she would once again be returning to the doctor’s office. So, as always, Delilah rose, walked into the bathroom, and ran a shower, grimacing—but not shrieking—as the cold water hit her body. She showered for about five minutes, then climbed out, pulled herself into a T-shirt and jeans, and made her way out into the streets.

  This early in the morning, people had only begun to rise—hanging laundry or pulling it back in. A few women waved at her as she passed, but she paid them little attention. Their waves meant nothing more than a sign of recognition for a witch in their midst. Many of them probably cursed her in their minds, or prayed that she wouldn’t come anywhere near them.

  Don’t worry, she thought, running a hand through her hair, because I’m not coming anywhere near you.

  At the end of the long, dirt road that trisected itself into a Y-shape, she turned west and headed toward the doctor’s office. In her mind, she chastised herself for ever getting into this situation, but it couldn’t be helped. Until she turned eighteen, she had to do whatever was asked of her, regardless of whether she liked it or not.

  With as much dignity as she could manage, she pushed open one of the double doors and made her way inside.

  “Veronica,” she began, “can I...”

  The woman pointed before Delilah could finish.

  “Thank you,” she murmured, stepping through the threshold.

  As she made her way through the halls, Delilah thought of Claridia and how she’d beaten her personal record. Three-minutes and something, she remembered, closing her eyes. That had been all it had taken to bring a dead woman back to life.

  I need to tell him straight-out that I can’t do this anymore. It’s getting to be too much.

  Delilah opened her eyes just as Jason opened the door.

  “Delilah?” he asked, running a hand through his disheveled hair. “What’re you doing here so early?”

  Her eyes wandered over his face, fresh with beard stubble, and to the buttons on his shirt, which seemed to have come undone of their own free will. He had to have spent the night in his office, because Doctor Jason Anderson would never have been caught looking the way he did.

  “I came to see you,” she said, sliding her hands into her pockets. Then, in a lighter voice, added, “Weren’t we supposed to do something about Claridia?”

  “Oh. Yes. I forgot.” The man paused, frowned, and scratched his chin. Beard stubble always seemed to make his face look red and raw. “Come in. Just give me a moment to get ready.”

  “All right.”

  Stepping into the room, she made her way around the desk and to the window, where several plants grew under plastic wrap on in glass vials. A single flower sat in the very center, growing from a mixture of charcoal and potting soil.

  “It’s pretty,” she whispered.

  “It’s the only rose I’ve been able to grow,” Jason said, setting a hand on her shoulder. “And look at the color. Can you believe that?”

  No. She couldn’t—and didn’t want to—believe it. Just the sight of a green rose with a beautiful black-and-red interior threatened to overwhelm her with the reality of what had happened after the great dying.

  “Have you told anyone about this?” she asked, grimacing as the older man pressed his chest against her back. “Jason, don’t, please.”

  “You’re a very pretty girl, Delilah,” he said, brushing his lips against her neck. “A very special pretty girl.”

  “This isn’t right.”

  “I’m not that much older than you.”

  True. At twenty, the three years that separated them meant nothing, and compared to a few of the other girl’s Delilah’s age, the slight difference made them one of the most likely—and appealing—couples in the whole town. But despite the man’s attraction, his intelligence, and his smooth, easy smile, the darkness that corroded his heart made her that less willing to ever be in a relationship with him. Who would want to sleep with a man who wanted to bring something dead back to life?

  I sure don
’t.

  “I’m sorry,” she sighed, reaching up to push his hand away. “Are we going to work on Claridia, or not?”

  “Yeah,” Jason breathed, “we are.”

  Even though a tinge of malice lingered on the tip of his tongue, Delilah felt better knowing that they would finally be getting to work.

  “She’s aware,” Jason said. “Very, very aware.”

  “More than the others have been,” Delilah agreed.

  Like a glass puppet with strings attached to its back, Claridia followed Delilah’s finger with the utmost abandon, not caring—or believing—in anything else but the single digit that lingered no more than a foot away from her face. When Delilah moved her finger up, Claridia’s head rose with it, and when she moved it down, the woman’s head followed, a plane nose-diving toward the great, misty beyond. But when Delilah put all of her fingers up, Claridia’s eyes widened, the dead, hazy pupils widening in confusion or fear.

  “Why does she look so surprised when I put more fingers up?” she frowned, sliding her hands into her pockets to avoid Claridia’s startled expression.

  “It could be that she thinks she’s supposed to follow them all,” Jason grunted, expelling a deep breath. “I don’t know what else to tell you.”

  “It’s all right. What do you want me to try next?”

  “Anything you think might work.”

  What I think will work. She nodded. Great. Leave it up to me, the girl who knows nothing about anything.

  Sighing, she raised the hand Claridia had been watching. This time, she chose to spread her fingers apart, then flick them forward, as if stretching the muscles. As she did this, Claridia’s head bobbed up and down, watching each and every digit.

  “Aunt Claridia,” she said, stilling her hand. “Do you know which finger I was moving?”

  The corpse stopped moving. Even her eyes, usually animated inside their hollow pits, ceased to move the slightest bit. The harsh, rising sunlight that penetrated through the windows didn’t even seem to bother her at all, even though it glared right into her dull eyes.

  Then, out of nowhere, her right eye moved.

  She reached out and touched the tip of Delilah’s index finger with the tip of her own.

  “Did you see that, Jason?” she whispered, turning her head up at the doctor.

  “Uh huh,” he breathed, mouth slightly agape. “Yeah. I did.”

  “What… what does it mean?” she asked.

  “It means that it might be working,” Jason said, stepping up beside Delilah. “It means that we might be onto something, Delilah.”

  When she left Jason’s office nearly five hours later, the bleak sun had risen high in the sky, brightening the dead land like it had before the great dying and as it always would. She thought of the green rose with the speckled, black-and-red interior and what it might mean to the existence of everyone within the wall.

  Does it mean that Jason’s smarter than he thinks he is? Does it mean that we might be able to bring the dead fully back to life?

  What would happen if Jason were truly able to accomplish that? Would he be hailed a hero, like those scientists and doctors had in the past? Or would he be scorned, belittled and hated for his treacherous work? Human nature existed in a way that allowed a man or woman to be afraid of death, but did it really, truly exist to defeat it?

  No, it doesn’t. And it shouldn’t.

  But, as far as she was concerned, Jason could do whatever he wanted, just as long as he left her alone.

  You know he won’t.

  Why her, of all people? She didn’t have big boobs, a nice, shapely figure, or the face of an actress long since dead. Jason had called her pretty—special, too—but that meant nothing, coming from him. He’d go from one girl to the other, obsessing over the first, then flocking to the second as though he’d been forever lost from his troop. Part of her liked Jason and the way he seemed to admire her, but the other, darker and stronger half hated him for what he did.

  You can’t hate him.

  “Oh, no,” she whispered. “Don’t worry—I can.”

  “What’re you goin’ on about, girl?”

  She jumped, and then spun around to find Johnson, the village farmer, grinning like an idiot.

  “Nothing,” she smiled, reaching back to rub her neck. “Just talking to myself.”

  “You crazy witches and your talkin’ to yourselves,” the man grinned, leaning against his shovel. “So, what were you and Jason cookin’ up there in his old lab?”

  “I shouldn’t say,” she sighed.

  “Come on. You know I won’t say anything.”

  “I know, sir. I… I just don’t want to break Jason’s trust.”

  “So that’s what you were mumblin’ about,” he chuckled. “Someone’s smitten for the smitter.”

  “That’s not even a word.”

  “It is with Jason Anderson, dear girl.”

  “Anyway,” she smiled, setting her hand at her side, “did you need something, or can I go?”

  “I just wanted to wish you well,” he said. “And tell you to watch yourself.”

  “Watch myself?”

  “Uh huh,” he nodded. “Because as far as I’m concerned, when you’re playin’ with the dead, you’re on a whole other playin’ field.”

  Jason held the terrarium-grown rose in two hands, admiring its delicate, exotic surface with careful, calculating eyes. Delilah stood off to the side, eyeing both him and Claridia, who sat in the examination chair waiting to see what would happen.

  “I’ve been running tests on this,” he said, watching Delilah through the glass terrarium, “and Claridia’s flesh.”

  “Her flesh?” Delilah asked.

  “Her flesh,” the doctor confirmed.

  “But what does the rose have anything to do with… with Claridia?”

  “At first, nothing. But, upon further examination, I’ve found that the rose seems to have chemical properties, which was expected, because the seeds were exposed to radiation in the doomsday’s vault, but I never expected something like this.”

  “What did you find?”

  “The tests show increased cellular activity when a broken-down petal is exposed to the dead flesh. Now I’m not saying this means anything, because dozens of tests would be needed to see if my theory is correct, but…”

  “Tell me what the flower does, Jason.”

  “It brings the cells back to life.”

  Delilah swallowed a lump in her throat.

  “To life?” she managed.

  “To life.” He set the terrarium on the counter, a smile perking the corners of his lips. “You know what this means, Delilah? This means that we could finally, after all these years, we could bring the dead back to life!”

  “But we don’t know if it’s true,” she sighed. “Jason, we don’t know if we can bring the dead back in order to keep humanity going. We don’t know anything past a few ideas and speculation, because nothing’s been proven, and the few tests you’ve done have shown little to no results. We don’t know anything about the people we’ve been bring back to life. Jason, we…”

  “That doesn’t matter, Delilah! We’ve got the resources, and we have the test subjects. All we’d need now is…”

  “No.”

  One word—one single, deadly word—was all it took to silence one of the most powerful men in the entire village.

  “What?” he laughed, turning his eyes on her. “I’m sorry, but did you just tell me no?”

  “You can’t do this to them!” she cried. “You can’t do this to her! She’s a person, for God’s sake!”

  “Was a person, Delilah.” Jason shook his head. Again, the smile returned, but this time with a sense of narcissism that could only come from a power-hungry man like Jason. “I’m sorry to say, but you’re in no position to tell me what I can or can’t do.”

  “I’ll stop working,” she warned. “You can’t make me.”

  “Oh? And just what, exactly, will you tell the ma
yor, when I report you for insubordination?”

  “I’ll tell him what you’re doing.”

  “I’ve been authorized to perform life-altering experiments on the bodies that the witches are able to revive. Just because one pathetic, little girl says that she doesn’t want to help me doesn’t mean I can’t get others.”

  “I’m the best.”

  “So be it. There are others.”

  “Jason,” she whimpered. “You can’t…”

  “Get out, Delilah.”

  “But you…”

  “I said get out.”

  “You shouldn’t…”

  “GET OUT!” he roared, throwing his hands in the air. “Get out before I have someone remove you!”

  “Fine,” she whispered. “But don’t think you’ll get away with this, Jason.”

  “Oh, don’t worry,” he smiled, licking his lower lip. “I’ll get away with whatever the hell I want.”

  Tears coursed down her face as she ran from the neurology office. Having barely been able to contain them in the front lobby, they came out in a blistering torrent of heat, burning her eyes and forcing them shut. She ran through the streets without a care, not bothering to look to see where she was going or the people who looked on with concern. It didn’t matter, not anymore—Jason had had his way, and he would do whatever he wanted with Claridia.

  Claridia, she sobbed. I’m so sorry.

  Inside her home, she threw herself on the bed, buried her face in her pillow, and screamed as loudly as she could. At times, she thought she would drown, weighted down by an insufferable emotion called guilt, while at other times she thought someone would come knocking down her door, demanding her screams to stop or her pleas to be silenced. But throughout all of this, she thought of the one woman she’d brought back to life, the one woman that seemed to have part of her soul still inside her.

  You touched my finger, she thought, drawing breath into her lungs. And I touched yours.

  It was at that moment she knew what she had to do.

  Memory.

  Simple, cosmetic, something everyone and every single thing on the planet experienced. Even the planet, thought to be only a rock floating in a vast, never-ending universe, remembered the things she once experienced, for her surface bore the scars of years past. Craters where giant rocks from heaven blanketed the deserts, twisted caverns rose and fell from where the tides once swept back and forth, and even marks of the greats—the Egyptians, the Mayans, the Aztecs and the Chinese—still stood, monuments to the cultures that once thrived upon Mother Earth’s surface. And like Mother Earth, Delilah remembered how both her and the life of thousands of others had been turned upside down on one loud, fateful day, when a man in a big, white house stood up and said they were going to war.