The Elsewhere Dead, by Sage Knight

I

My wife dies at 3:45pm. Natural causes; we’ve been at that age for a while, so it isn’t surprising. I call the Undertakers at 9:53pm. They arrive five minutes later with their white gloves and black veils over their heads. Always in threes, they come: one to Mourn, one to Comfort, one to Watch, then all to carry away. Death is sacred in Vigil. 

           The next morning they send Roger, my son, to fill in the paperwork. 

           “I thought they weren’t supposed to send relations,” I say, staring at my fingernails. I’ve let them grow out, get yellow. It’s hard to care when every nighttime trip to the toilet becomes a marathon of endurance.

           “They aren’t.” Roger’s staring at me like he’s trying to read me. “They thought this needed a personal touch.”

           I raise my eyebrows because a shrug is too much effort.

           “Why’d you wait, mum?” he says. “They know she’d been dead for hours, and you never leave the flat anymore.”

           “I wanted to sit with her.”

           “You know that’s not procedure.”

           “‘Procedure’?” I say. “She’s your mother.”

           “Respect, then, like you always told me. ‘The dead are dead, let them pass pass. Take them elsewhere, peace in grass.’” 

           “I wanted to sit with her,” I repeat. It’s pathetic, I know, after being so insistent about drilling that poem into him all his life, like every parent and teacher has always done, including mine. But I don’t know what else to say.

           He makes to retort, probably along these lines, but pulls back, sighs. He’s wagging his fountain pen like an anxious dog. He looks so big in his suit and tie. I never took him as one for a government position as he was growing up, least of all in the business of Death. He’d always wanted to become a VR streamer. Easy, to ache for an escape from the drab greyness of Vigil. Its hulking walls are perpetually in sight from every angle, a constant reminder that you’re closed in. 

Then, at 18, he was impounded for escaping the walls, for wanting adventure in real life. He was the only one of his friends to make it back. Something clicked for him then. He has never been the same Roger Hope.

           “So what about when you die?” he says at last, exasperation taking over. “You want your neighbours to take as long as you did? You want to feel that unease after you pass?”

           “Her body twitched,” I say.

           He perks up. His voice takes on a different tone. “What?”

           “Just a little, in the fingers, shortly before the Undertakers arrived.” I stare at the rug at our feet. The brown patches that litter it are coffee stains but they look like pools of blood. “I knew bodies were supposed to stink, to fart and belch. I knew they weren’t supposed to be elegant - elegance is life’s burden - but I wasn’t expecting her to twitch.”

           “Let’s just hope it’s not too late,” he says. 

           “For what?”

           “For her to be peaceful.”

           ‘Peaceful’. I rot while she gets to find peace.

           “Now.” He holds his fountain pen over the paperwork. “What was her date of birth?”

           “Ever the caring son.”

           “It’s formality for you to answer,” he says. “Please; you’ve made this difficult enough for us already.”

II

My father kept rifles in a hidden compartment in his cupboard. Shortly before he passed, he insisted I have them. My wife was against it; since 2098, to be caught with firearms means a life sentence, not worth the risk for an old man’s memory of a volatile hobby. She never knew I moved them to under our bedroom floorboards. One of many lies - little ones, that oftentimes I almost forgot to keep to myself. In the quiet emptiness of the flat now, it seems silly I held on to so many.

           Hadn’t I known life was too short for that? 

           I’m not sure why I’m staring at the bootleg armoury now. I know they’re functional, as beat-up as they look; father showed me how to look after his mechanical girls, and I was religious about their continued maintenance after he was gone. Grief is strange like that.

           I remember how my son said he’d managed to cross the wall. The main avenues of transport were too tightly guarded, but there were fault lines on the west side - regular tremors in the earth cause instability, and some cracks are wide enough to squeeze through. I doubted this at the time, but I can understand now. The government likes to dress itself up in authority and knowledge, but it never has enough resources. That is the price of a city isolated. 

           Why am I even recalling that? What do I want? To sit by her body again, crying all the salt from my system, clawing into the ground beside where she should be breathing, giggling, snoring? I look to the bed. She was lying there just yesterday. The bedsheets are ripped and thrown about where my nails got a hold. Better than scratching away my own skin - or hers. 

           I’m realising, now, that I’ve already made the decision. I’m going to see her again. I need to see this ‘peace’ Vigil is so insistent on preserving in the dead. 

The path to the west wall is a slum. 

           Buildings are blocks of hollowed-out concrete, edges jagged and crude. There is no glass to spare for windows. Beggars come up to me. They smell of piss and mouldy clothes. They kneel at my feet, pull at my jeans, pupils dilated too wide to signify sobriety - the city pumps opiates into these areas because it’s cheaper than food. I feel a bit secure, knowing that in my backpack I have the necessary firepower to drive them away, but guns are loud and there are cops around, even if they’re hidden. Besides, I don’t want to do that to these people. They’ve been systematically reduced to shells of humans because shells don’t have as many needs.

           The poverty in this area is probably why the wall isn’t as well maintained. Nobody cares if a druggy escapes and doesn’t make it back.

           It isn’t difficult to reach the wall, but making it through gives me some trouble. The first gap that looks large enough to fit me instead makes my ribs and chest hurt. I’m old and fat. I yank myself out and continue along the drab concrete, until, at last, I push through a crack.

           The immediate surroundings are difficult to make out. There’s a dust storm, which if I’d been more patient would’ve prevented me from choosing today to leave, but I am the woman I am. I hope the cloth on my face is enough to stop the sand from drowning my lungs. I walk along the wall. The dead are taken north, I know that. How far north, I’m less sure. 

           If I die out here chasing a phantasm of a woman who made moves on me in the workplace, I can’t say I’ll mind too much.

           I’ve been walking a few hours now. My back gave out in the first thirty minutes. I’m using the wall for support. I’m used to the pain, though; I’ve learned not to trust an old bitch’s bones. In some ways, it’s comforting. It distracts from the surrealness of what I’m doing. All I keep thinking is, I’m outside the city. I’m vulnerable. I wish I could see anything to give shape to the great unknown, but all that’s visible through the dust clouds is the impression of the wall, its dark shape towering above.

           At some point I find a motorcycle. It’s an old model, the handles way above head height. I start it up. I’m surprised when it rears to life. We are twin souls, abandoned by people who aren’t here anymore, expected to lie down and break. Now, we are journeying together. I grin. I feel like a cavalier hero in a movie, my hair whipping about, ammunition rattling around in my backpack. Wait for me, my sweet, I’ll save you.

           I’m not sure when the wall disappeared. It doesn’t matter; there are faint white lines in front me. I’m on some kind of road, and roads have to lead somewhere. 

           The dust clouds clear, and I hardly know what to make of what is revealed. Everywhere are crumbling skyscrapers at odd angles, and rusted iron sticks up from the ground like the tentacles of something trying to claw out of burial.

           I struggle to stay my panic; I need to be prepared for anything.

III

I stop by a food shop in the road. The motorcycle doesn’t have its leg anymore, so I ease it onto the curb. There, it can sleep a while.

           I’m in the ghost of an ancient city, I’ve realised. And if there are any inhabitants, they’re likely to be where they can find something to eat. 

           It’s a slog to force open the rusted door. A bell tries to ring but rattles and screeches instead. It’s cooler inside. Shelves are full with cans of beans and tinned fruits, coated in dust. They haven’t been opened. What is stopping people from walking in and taking them? And what’s this cloying stench of rotten meat? I can’t see any expired fresh produce from here.

           An unseen voice rasps, “Hungry—”

           “Hello?” I yell. “Are you all right?”

           “Smell… so…” the person behind the shelves says. I can see their shadow.

           “You need some food? I can pop one of these open for you.” I approach them.

           The figure lunges for me.

           I topple back. It scratches and claws, drawing blood from my forearm. Half its head is gone, eyeball swollen with fluid and lolling back and forth. It’s hissing at me. I don’t have any guns out. I kick the thing away. It’s surprisingly light. Bones crack, and it flies across the room. Cans topple and clatter. I open my backpack, yank out the first thing my grip falls on. A shotgun.

           It recovers, shaking tinned tomatoes off its shoulders. It scrambles towards me, grabs my ankle.

           I aim, fire. The first shot only splits the cans behind it open, leaking beans. One more chance before I need to reload. Focus. I aim again, compress the trigger. This time all but two pellets dig into what’s left of its head. It tumbles back, limp. 

           I stare, panting. It’s a corpse, clothes tattered, flesh eroded so that its lungs, limp and slimy, become visible. I shakily reload my shotgun. How many others are out there? Or in here?

           I struggle to a stand, using a shelf for support, and stumble around the shop. There’s no sign of life, or any other scrambling corpses. I return to the one that attacked me by the entrance. Its finger twitches.

           I watch.

           Its finger twitches again. The flesh around the bullet holes is sealing up, spitting out the shrapnel.

           I grab my backpack, shove open the door, and sprint to the motorcycle.

           The thing is groaning. The bell on the door screeches. The pounding of its feet is faster than mine. 

           I reach the motorcycle, grab it by the handles, and attempt to heave it up. Instead, agony arcs through my lower my back like a flash of lightning, and I topple onto it. 

           The corpse rushes me, and tackles me off the vehicle. The shotgun is knocked from my grip, and skids away. My backpack is by my side, though. I reach in, this time extracting a pistol. It doesn’t have a spread, meaning I need to be more careful about aiming adequately. There’s one way to guarantee my shot lands. 

           I stick the gun in its mouth. Its jaw opens and closes, battering the shaft. I fire.

           Blood splatters out the other end, spraying down like polluted rain. Once more, it falls limp. I’m not waiting to see what happens this time. I drive its slack body off of me, force myself to a stand in spite of my spine screeching in protest, and approach the motorbike. I crouch and lift it with more leverage from my legs. Though I’m tempted to take a breath, I push my leg up and over the seat. 

           I get the engine going as the corpse rises behind me, and I rocket away. It gives chase. There’s a moment where I think it might be as fast as I am, but it’s clumsy, and falls face to floor. I’m safe.

           It’s not long, however, before I find more.

IV

I left one of my shotguns with the zombie. I’m down to the pistol and one more shotgun. I have plenty of ammo for each, but the pistol houses six bullets, currently five, and the shotgun two at any one time. 

I was careful about their maintenance. I wasn’t careful about my own training. Realistically, I have one shot that lands in each before I need to reload.

           There’s a crowd of the rotting creatures in a six-way roundabout. Shattered ribs and moulding brains drag themselves from one side to the other with no apparent purpose, between the carcasses of cars and over the rubble of what might once have been a resplendent water fountain.

           I scan what’s left of their faces. I’m beginning to peace it all together. The conclusions I’m drawn to don’t bear thinking about. There’s only one way to confirm it. 

           I drive towards them. I need to know.

           I’m going at full throttle. They turn to me. There’s a moment where they simply watch, some of them without eyes. Then they converge. 

           I mow a few of them down on the bike, feeling them crunch underneath, but I don’t fire the pistol. Any that die would simply rise again, and there are too many of them for the bought time to matter. I wind between their desperate, hungry faces. I can’t find her. I’m almost at the other end of the square. There’s so many of them and there must be so many more and I don’t know how to find her. 

           One of them scratches at my wheels. I haven’t thought them capable of rational thought and yet this seems calculated. Its nails don’t break through, but another creature does the same. The tire pops. There’s a hiss of pressurised air. Then the motorbike skids and I have to jump off.

           I’m on foot. The crowd is ravenous.

           I run but I don’t make it far. The foremost two zombies lunge and collide into each other, splattering flimsy shoulders into a bloody mess on the floor. A third grabs my thigh, and I collapse.

           I pump my shotgun into the approaching mass, but the bullets don’t land anywhere vital, and none of them are slowed.

           Someone else pummels into them, knocking a dozen or so over like dominos. Then they look at me. It’s a young boy. I recognise him, vaguely.

           He scoops me off the ground, and sprints. I only manage to keep a hold of my pistol. I don’t know where he’s taking me, but I’m just glad it’s away from them. 

V

We are upstairs in an abandoned office block. It’s hard to differentiate between spilled coffee and what might be blood, but it’s a nice change for the dominant smell to be old carpet instead of constant rot.

           He eases me onto a chair. I lay the pistol on the nearest desk.

           He shakes his head, scratching at what’s left of his hair as though to rip his own skull out. “I’m… hungry. Keep it.”

           I watch him a while, then take it back, trying to exude confidence as I aim. “Explain how you’re here.”

           “I’ve been hungry for so long.”

           “You’re Jerry, right? Roger’s classmate, partner in crime when he breached the wall. You didn’t make it back.” He’s been rotting but not as badly as the others. Beneath the decay, he hasn’t aged at all.

           “You’re looking… for your wife,” he wheezes.

           I perk up; I can’t help it. “Where is she?”

           “She passed… through here. She still seems. Not. Yet. Fully—” He makes a noise like a cuckoo, then slaps himself. He never looks at me, probably to stave off his appetite. 

           “Help me find her,” I say. I hope a firm tone keeps him grounded. I don’t want to shoot him. Even if he’ll get back up again, he doesn’t deserve the pain. 

           He shakes his head as though trying to scare off a swarm of bees. “I take you back. I know the way. You have life. Be where you’re safe.” 

           “I can’t do that.” 

           “It’s hell out here.” 

           “But I end up in hell anyway, right?” 

           His shoulders slump.

           I nod. When did I start crying? It’s a snotty sort of weeping that makes my whole body hurt. “This is where we all end up, why Vigil’s so concerned with getting us out after we pass?”

           He falls still for the first time. Defeated by the weight of it.

           “I need to find her.”

           “I can’t help you,” he says. “Hungry.”

           “It’s okay. I was stupid. I’m not in as much shock know. I can be smarter about this.”

           “You sure can be.” He makes a sound that might be a chuckle. He’s poking fun. He’s right to, given the situation he found in.

           “I’d best make a move to get temptation out of the way,” I say, feeling absurdly like a guest excusing themselves from a party. “Thank you, Jerry.”

           “I’d forgotten my… name,” he says. “R- Roger’s name, too. You sure you’ll be okay?”

I put my hand on the door. I’m trembling all over. I take a moment to breathe, to consider what he’s asked. Then I open it without answering, and descend the stairs. 

Okay, not okay… All I can do is see this through to the end.