The Faithful Dead

“Pickleball… I can’t believe we’re going to start a war over a game of pickleball,” Prime Minister Grat Dane says.

“The Duke of Lorraine embarrassed his majesty,” Corvus, Alsace’s court magician replies. “You know how he gets when he feels someone’s made him look like a fool.”

“He’s spoiled, just like his father. Gaylord has been in power for three years, and I never thought I’d say this, but I miss King Tarkanian. He may have liked racing turtles, had a collection of umbrellas, and wore women’s clothes, but at least he took his Adderall.”

The two men snap to attention as King Gaylord enters the throne room. The nineteen-year-old, slightly built monarch grits his teeth in anger.

The heavy-set Prime Minister rolls his eyes. “He’s wearing his military uniform.”

Sighing heavily, Corvus whispers, “Then war it is.”

“Close the borders, immediately!” King Gaylord rants. “Anyone still doing business with a Lorraine dog after five p.m. tomorrow will be imprisoned!”

His thick lips barely moving underneath his bountiful grey mustache, Prime Minister Dane mutters, “You tell him, Corvus. You’re immortal.”

“Many of our citizens are in partnerships with Lorrainians,” Corvus says to the King. “All of the court’s wine comes from Lorraine.”

King Gaylord’s sharp features pinch together as if he’s sucking on something foul. “Then our wine brokers have until tomorrow to undo their traitorous relationships, or I will pour every one of their bottles into the sewer.”

“…No more wine?” Dane laments.

“Afraid not,” Corvus replies.

“I beg you to reconsider your stance, Your Majesty,” Dane says. “Through mutual agreement, with Lorraine, we’ve kept our army small, and dismantled most of our artillery.”

“Fighting a back-and-forth war will kill a lot of the very people you’ll be trying to protect,” Corvus adds.

King Gaylord moves toward Corvus, his bristling stare cutting through the magician.

“We’re not going to win this war with artillery or tanks. You’re going to conjure up an army of the undead, and General Clayton will lead them. You’ll also resurrect Deacon Jim Miller. He will assassinate the Duke of Lorraine.”

Chanel, Corvus’ animated apprentice, watches the magician fitfully grind down several pungent herbs, mixing them together.

Chanel attempts to get a smile out of Corvus by winking at him with her cobalt-blue eyes.

“That stuff reeks. You should use the generic brands.”

The thirty-year-old, handsome magician tells himself now is not the time to lose himself in Chanel’s intoxicating beauty. He’s worked with his twenty-four-year-old apprentice for less than a year and has to keep reminding himself there’s a law against magicians becoming intimate. Yet there’s no denying the two of them are attracted to one another.

“More nightshade… I need more nightshade!” Corvus says, snapping out of his daydream.

Handing Corvus several dark, leafy plants, Chanel asks, “So who are these celebrity bad boys we’re supposed to resurrect?”

“General Beauregard Clayton is considered one of the bravest men in military history. He first fought in the American Civil War. When he died in 1885 and Alsace was about to fight our first war against Lorraine, the King had my great-great grandfather conjure General Clayton up to lead our army. Lorraine surrendered in three days. In the First World War when the German and French were fighting over a united Alsace–Lorraine, the General was conjured up once again to secure our independence. My father brought him back to life when the communists threatened to invade us in the 1980s.”

“He must be getting tired of being resurrected to save a country he wasn’t even born in. Isn’t there somebody from Alsace who could lead the army?” Chanel asks.

“Maybe. But when the boy King says jump…”

“And who’s Deacon Jim Miller?”

“Another American. He was a hired killer in the old west,” Corvus says. “He was called Deacon because he didn’t smoke or drink and regularly attended church.”

“Imagine being the priest hearing his confession.”

“He was a calculated sociopath who killed at least a dozen men,” Corvus adds. “Shot them from long range, mostly in the back. He also poisoned his victims or knifed them. Miller managed to stay free by bribing juries and killing witnesses until he didn’t. It looked like he was going to go free again for killing a rancher in 1909, but a group of townspeople took matters into their own hands and lynched him. Miller’s last act of defiance was to kick away the box he was standing on and yell, ‘Let ‘er rip!’ I read he enjoyed his work. Any man who murdered his own grandparents is cold enough to kill a stranger.”

Corvus spreads the leaves out across the table, dousing them with powder.

“Have you ever done this before?” Chanel asks.

“I brought back Ranger.”

“The King’s German Shepard? That’s a far cry from bringing back a hero and a hired killer.”

“We’ll start with Miller. Stand back,” Corvus cautions. Lighting a match, he throws it on the table.

A blinding flash makes the pair shield their eyes as smoke envelopes the table.

Corvus brushes away the fumes.

An empty bottle sits on the table.

“I don’t get it,” Corvus says, picking it up.

“Read the label.”

“Miller Light Beer,” Corvus chuckles.

“Looks like we’ve got a lot of work to do, boss.”

Chanel sprinkles the elixir of life over the colorful concoction piled on the table.

Corvus pulls out a match.

“Let me do it. Maybe it needs a feminine touch,” Chanel says, giving him a fetching wink.

Taking the match from Corvus, she strikes it, tossing it on the pile of herbs and powder.

The flash and ensuing waves of smoke leave the pair gagging for air.

When the smoke clears, a man in a crème-colored suit wearing oval glasses and a befuddled look stands before them holding a trombone.

“This isn’t the Meadowbrook Ballroom, is it?”

“Afraid not, sir,” Corvus replies.

“So where am I?”

“Strasbourg. The Capitol of Alsace.”

The man shakes his head, laughing to himself. “Like near France? Jeepers. I told the driver to take a left at Albuquerque. It takes days to get from New Jersey to France. The last thing I remember was getting out of the cab and heading indoors to play a concert. What’s the hub-bub-bub?”

“I’m sorry?”

“Why am I here? Are you Nazi spies? Freedom fighters?”

Chanel plants her hands on her hips. “Nope. Just a couple of sorcerers looking for Jim Miller.”

“Jim Miller? I’m Glenn Miller. You know, the guy who recorded ‘Chattanooga Choo-Choo,’ ‘In the Mood,’ and ‘Moonlight Serenade’? Didn’t the trombone give it away? Say, if you’re looking for a different Miller, I don’t suppose you could arrange to get me back to New Jersey lickity split?”

“My apologies. Mr. Miller. Please, close your eyes,” Corvus says. “You won’t remember being here. But I will warn you to avoid air travel on December 15, 1944.”

Glenn Miller raises his trombone, blowing out "Pennsylvania Six-Five Thousand" as his body disappears.

“Ready?” Corvus asks.

Chanel lowers her goggles. “Let ‘er rip!”

Corvus sets the powder aflame.

A man with dark, shoulder-length hair and a thick mustache wearing a denim jacket appears. He smiles confidently at them from behind his sunglasses.

“Are you Jimmy Miller?” Corvus asks.

“Well, I ain’t Ann Miller, that’s for sure.”

“Wonderful! We need you to lead an army of the faithful dead,” Corvus says.

Miller winks at the sunny-haired blonde. Chanel melts, flashing a bright smile.

“Did you say the faithful dead? That’s a scream. Wait until I tell Jerry Garcia what you called his band. I’ve always wanted to produce the Grateful Dead. Maybe I can inject some soul into those dinky country songs they do.”

Corvus stares blankly at Miller.

“So, you’re not a gun for hire?”

“Sure, so to speak, slick.”

“Where’s your weapon?”

Miller puts his finger to his lips.

“Sssh. It’s supposed to be hush-hush that I shot up the studio while the Stones were recording ‘You Can’t Always Get What You Want.’”

Chanel rolls her eyes.

“You yutz. You conjured up another guy in the music business. Well, at least you got the name right this time.”

“Say, this isn’t a studio, is it, slick?” Miller observes. “It looks more like a mad scientist’s lab. So, where am I, and what do you want with me?”

“We’re actually looking for a different Jimmy Miller,” Corvus replies.

“Okay. So, get me a limo, some bourbon, and I’ll be on my way.”

“Sorry to say you’re headed back to that great jam session in the sky,” Chanel says.

Miller shrugs his shoulders. “Cool. So long as there’s music.”

The producer flashes the pair the peace sign, disappearing.

“Third time’s a charm,” Corvus says to Chanel as he looks over the tall, well-dressed gunslinger standing in front of them.

“Howdy, daffodil,” Jim Miller says, directing his roguish grin at Chanel.

“You’re supposed to be as pious as a Deacon. Act like one,” she returns.

Corvus clears his throat. “So, you understand why we summoned you here?”

“Sure, pard. You want me to eliminate some fancy pants nobleman.”

“He’s not just some fashion plate. He runs our enemy’s government. Kill him and their war effort grinds to a halt.”

“Piece of cake,” Miller says. “But given the rise in inflation over the last two hundred years, I want half a million and the girl.”

Corvus blocks Chanel from going after Miller. “No sale. Since the war between the states is ancient history to us but is still a fresh memory for you, you seem to have forgotten that selling another human being is illegal.”

Miller tugs at his tight collar, frowning. “Fine. I want the money upfront.”

“That’s not how we do business in Alsace, Mister Miller.”

Miller’s predatory eyes bulge. “Why you cheese-chomping chiselers! That’s a requirement! I always get paid first! Do you know who I am? I’m the Beelzebub of the prairie! I should drill you just for sassing me!”

“Kill me and Chanel will send you back to hell where you came from. You can either burn for eternity or live another twenty years guaranteed with half a million to start a new life or a string of new killings.”

“Show me a picture of the Duke.”

“Is that all of it?” Corvus asks.

“The Prime Minister himself checked,” Chanel replies. “He said everything that General Clayton amassed while he was in Alsace was locked away in a box inside a safe.”

Corvus weeds through the collection of medals and ribbons.

“I can understand why he left these behind. They were given to him by a country he was forced to serve.”

“Not to mention that he was supposed to be dead at the time.”

Corvus picks up a small, faded photograph.

“Must be the General with his wife and two girls.”

Chanel’s eyes brighten. “They’re adorable, Can you imagine being aware that you haven’t seen your family in two hundred years?”

“Are you growing a conscience, Chanel? It’s a deterrent to being a good magician.”

“Then color me deterred. I’m sure sitting in limbo isn’t the same as waiting for a train. Promise me that if I die you won’t do this to me.”

“I don’t make promises anymore. Stand back…”

Corvus pours his concoction of ash, bones, and blood on the table, lighting it. The wood begins to sizzle, then crack as it burns.

A swirling blue vortex takes shape. Corvus reaches into it, pulling out the torso of General Beauregard Clayton.

The skin on the General’s face is stretched and reddened like that of a burn victim, a stark contrast to his contented appearance in the photograph.

“NO! NOT AGAIN!” General Clayton shouts, his voice a sandy, belligerent growl.

“Chanel, help me bring him into this world!”

Reaching into the vortex, Chanel latches onto one of General Clayton’s arms as Corvus pulls at the other.

The General shoots forward, landing face-first in the burnt-out ash that helped summon him.

The vortex swirls inward on itself, dissolving.

General Clayton stands, his tired stare evaporating when he thinks he recognizes the magician who summoned him.

“Nexus?”

“That was my father. I’m Corvus.”

“What is it with you magicians? Why can’t you let me just die and stay dead? Is there some sick rule that I have to serve every magician in this irrelevant dung heap?”

“…I think he’s upset…,” Chanel whispers.

“We have a crisis…” Corvus begins.

“Let me guess, another war with your puny neighbors, the Lorrainians. What is it this time? Cattle? Wine? Cheese?”

“All of those things, I suppose. King Gaylord wants to wipe them out.”

General Clayton sniggers. “King Gaylord, ha. If he’s anything like his ancestors, he’s probably mad because he lost at a game of checkers, or somebody beat him to the hand of the prettiest girl at the ball.”

Corvus and Chanel look down at the floor.

“I’m not wrong, am I? Why me? Why not Phil Sheridan or Ulysses Grant? If you want someone who can wipe out your enemy without shedding a tear, why not William Quantrill? Now there’s a born killer who can get the job done.”

“You never lost a battle,” Corvus offers.

“I only fought in one! I was shot up so badly that I spent the rest of the war behind a desk in Washington!”

“You have to help us.”

“Or what? You’ll kill me?”

“I can make it so you never sleep. Never rest.”

Chanel gives Corvus a dissatisfied look.

“That’s a horrible way to treat a hero who’s already a slave. Can’t we treat him with respect, find another way?”

Tears well up in General Clayton’s glassy eyes as he points a withered finger at Corvus.

“How do you sleep at night, sorcerer? My guess is well. I don’t. I never get to see my family or my friends. All I do is wait in limbo until one of you summons me!”

Corvus’ voice is laced with guilt. “…I’m just following orders General…”

“How many other misguided cowards have said that?”

General Clayton stands alone on the castle’s balcony, looking down at dozens of dead soldiers Corvus has resurrected for duty. The dead soldiers stand motionless as if waiting to be activated. Corvus’ magic has resurrected their bodies, but he couldn’t fix their appearance. Many have fleshless skulls, or skin that’s torn, ruddy, or scarred.

Jim Miller moves alongside General Clayton.

“We need to talk, General.”

“Are you the man they resurrected to kill the Duke?”

“Yes, although they haven’t paid me yet. That’s an insult, and I don’t take to bein’ brushed aside like some sodbuster. I always get paid before a job.”

“Do you enjoy your work?” General Clayton asks.

“I like seein’ a bullet hit home. I like seein’ the look of surprise on my target’s face, how their heads split open. Most of all, I like seein’ the light fade from their eyes.”

“So, for you, killing someone is like playing God.”

“I’m not playin’ at it. I am God,” Miller replies, pleased his answer plants a look of shock in General Clayton’s dead eyes.

“I heard you were the bravest man on either side to wear a uniform in the war between the states.” Miller continues.

“History has been kind. The afterlife has not. My reputation is based on a fluke. Most of my men ran off in the wrong direction when we charged Turkey Hill. Me and a few other men captured it by sneaking up behind the Rebels, not charging at them as the newspapers reported. Only me and two other men survived our wounds, and I swore them to secrecy.”

“And now you have another war to fight.”

“I’ve been fighting over and over for hundreds of years, watching bodies being piled on top of each other like split logs. I want to be free, to be able to sleep for eternity.”

“And I like this setup,” Miller replies. “Maybe we can scratch each other’s itch.”

Standing on the castle balcony, King Gaylord reviews his troops.

“Impressive. Not one of them has moved for the past ten minutes,” he says.

“…Should we remind Einstein that they’re dead?” Chanel whispers to Corvus.

A loud click resounds through the courtyard. Corvus recognizes it as the sound of a shotgun being loaded for action and pushes Chanel to the floor.

General Clayton turns to Miller.

“LET ‘ER RIP!”

Corvus looks up in time to see King Gaylord’s head explode. Prime Minister Dane slides to the floor beside the King, half his face blown away.

“Yep. There’s nothin’ like bein’ God,” Miller says, reloading his shotgun.

Clinging to each other for protection, Corvus and Chanel crawl through the gore on the balcony, then flee down the stairs toward the motorpool.

“Where to?” Corvus asks as they jump into an SUV.

“America sounds nice,” Chanel replies, winking at him.

General Clayton surveys his troops.

“You are more to me than the faithful dead… You represent the dedication and loyalty of true soldiers. Thank you for your past and future service…”

The skeletal, rotted soldiers salute him.

Miller gives General Clayton a shrewd grin.

“Enjoy your eternal rest, General.”

Miller blasts General Clayton with both barrels of his shotgun, blowing his head off.

Miller laughs aloud. “They should have paid me first…”  

Turning to his troops, Miller says, “In the name of the faithful dead, I, King James Miller the First, claim the throne of Alsace.”