Food Of The Gods
A Novel in progress by Anthony Mountjoy
Synopsis: Food Of The Gods
Literary Horror.
Part 1
An allegory for over consumption and the consequences on society and people. An exploration of compositional potential in creating real solutions for seemingly impossible problems that threaten to overwhelm the systems designed to address them. Through the horrific events occurring in a world addicted to consuming itself, several characters cope with the reality of a society turning on itself. A growing army of the walking dead overwhelm the institutions most rely on. Old gods return, beginning with Hagatha, the soul eater feeding on those who consume others for amusement. The little man, a dying necromancer responsible for reanimating some of the local townsfolk who avoids his long over due fate by cannibalizing the living through out the small town of Dalton. Bristol, a violent child who eats opportunity. Sharply focused on ruining everyone’s day. The Absent Mother, a living shadow who drains the thoughtful replacing imagination with apathy. Drawn to Bristol’s mindless hostility like a hungry dog with no teeth. And the impersonal automatic erosion of the vague entity sweeping through a once great civilization.
Without meaningful choice regular people become mechanically redundant. Ghosts haunting their own lives. As the hour of mankind’s twilight approaches, a puritan movement grows beyond the control of local governments, attempting to force their neighbours into line. As the dead refuse to stay down, animated by the presence of the returning old gods, the necromancer finds himself caught between his own creations and the endless hordes loyal to the old gods who refuse to accept his commands forcing him to align with the few remaining living survivors. Eventually, there isn’t enough living to cannibalize and the necromancer must face real death and the possibility of becoming a zombie himself in service of the old gods.
Yet, in-spite of these obstacles, the independent production of a special few could make all the difference. First abandoning the institutions they once believed in, ignoring the press, disobeying the civil authorities, ultimately discovering the power within, not only to resist the hysteria, but to refocus their efforts toward the creation of something entirely new. Accepting that whatever value was created before has been consumed, the future becomes an unwritten story no longer dependent on the conditions set in the past. A new spirit takes hold through these pioneers who stand up against the tyranny of the uncivilized impressing the old gods. But is it enough to redeem their faith in mankind? Can this young generation make a new sauce tasty enough to satisfy the pallet of the old gods to earn their generous indifference once more or is mankind destined to extinction along with it’s once great civilization?
Part 2
When you’re stuck in a routine, being able to do anything else at all is indistinguishable from freedom.
The zombie plague has passed and the old gods have left, or so it seems. Someone must have satisfied their hunger somehow. As the magic of the old gods washes away many of those previously effected wake up to a new reality. There are severe physical, mental, and emotional consequences. Those few able bodied reservists from the surviving militias find themselves carrying water to the disabled instead of guns to finish up the enemy. The enemy now being a severely damaged population of friends and family. Nobody’s life is the same as the world endures a sort of great reset.
The Caregiver’s Protocol, a network of robo-digital vending machines containing the answers for virtually any medical problem offers hope for those struggling to carry the load. With it essentially offloading the costs of care, society begins to rebuild as its able-bodies are free to work. While CP can’t always cure or improve a patient, somehow it manages to maintain their albeit low standard of living indefinitely while automating almost all the functions required for their general care. At first, and during the initial push to tackle the obvious problems of a collapsed civilization, the work would have seemed impossible if not for the CP freeing up hands and backs to clean the streets of debris, and clear buildings of corpses before rot and disease spreads.
It’s only after the hard work is done that people start noticing something unusual about the protocol. It doesn’t seem to want to let its patients go. Try as people might, they find themselves incapable of getting around the vending machine-like infrastructure CP established during the reset. Those who want to take over the care of their children or parents find themselves trapped in a cycle of carefully orchestrated visitations that fundamentally prohibit any meaningful interaction. Discovering they have no say in the care of their loved one.
Faced with this resistance some walk away, essentially abandoning their burden to a system of vending machines and ancillary auto-services that seems quite capable of carrying it. While others face the futility of trying to hack their way through what few physical and digital interfaces they can reach in hopes of breaking through.
It quickly becomes clear to the able-bodies they made a mistake trusting the vending network so completely while dealing with so called bigger problems. They probably could have got back to their loved ones sooner. Maybe before the network was quite so “all consuming”. Luckily, on the side of every machine is a little silver plate that reads something to the effect of:
Model Name: ANTHROPOPHAGUS
Auto-factured: Node 7–3
Support: North Studio, Prendle, SK
But the elusive programmer who created the network with his first self-replicating vending machine all those years ago has disappeared leaving a studio full of artifacts, tools, books, blueprints, eviscerated vending machines in various state of modification/experimentation, and a cryptic message suggesting he doesn’t wish to be followed or disturbed. A young woman from the area, who refuses to give up moves into the studio after realizing the vending machines can’t seem to hold any awareness of the studio or the vast studio grounds.
A sort of programmaticly protected space built into the core operating protocol of the network. It is in fact the last free place on Earth as far she’s concerned. From which she works to introduce her own vending machine that the network might adopt as one of its own. A machine that slowly re-introduces self-reliance through productivity by offering tools and materials instead of just final product. After all the vending machines aren’t trying to hurt anyone. They’re just doing what they were build to do. Serve the people during a particularly trying time. But that time has past and the vending machines just aren’t capable of adapting on there own.
Now that the general population of able-bodied and disabled alike are trapped behind the vending network that continues offering everything everyone needs for their general care, the crippling consequences of over dependence begins to set in. Those who desperately desire the freedom to provide for their own needs and for those they love, so as to improve their lives and not just sustain, consider increasingly radical action to escape their gilded cage… even though it could mean possibly returning to the desperate survival-ism they just over came.
Soon the young woman in the studio discovers the dark secret powering the vending machines. While everyone assumed solar or wireless energy grid, she soon realizes the source is beneath the studio itself connected through thick metal tentacles hidden throughout the crawlspace. Leading to a hidden room in which appears to be a solid glass cube at least 10 meters thick containing an ugly little man, suspended in a vortex of black feathers. Upon close inspection, strange symbols in some unknown language can be seen etched along every edge.
Will she release the cannibal, almost certainly shutting down the vending network, but in so doing also reintroduce an unspeakable evil? Or will she find a away to maintain something of this new age’s innocence while still affording it the power to write it’s own future? And what of the old gods? What of Hagatha? What would she do if the cannibal’s currently hidden location revealed itself to her once again?
1
— — — -
A drop of blood. A feather from a rare bird and a small vile of tree sap. Add a tablespoon of flour to the melted butter and stir. Mix slowly over the heat of a dying fire. The gas escaping the bubbles smells of lilac or maybe it was stove grease burning off the cast iron skillet. The instructions say use whatever is available. The important thing is the intention. Old sympathetic magic drawn from a book stumbled upon in the most unlikely of places. It’s cover a combination of wax paper and water pruned magazine ads. Her name glued in sequence like a hostage note. Hagatha. Yet, the power of this cookbook is obvious in the hand of its making.
Lightning struck twice the night she found it. Once when she felt it cradling her head above the cold concrete. Her broken face still sore from the beating she’d endured earlier in the evening. And then again when her one good eye noticed the first few words. Drawn with thick ink, or smeared with thick fingers. Strange shapes. They didn’t even look like letters, more like hazy symbols plucked from the imagination of a lunatic. She feels the lump pressing her other eye shut, barely able to remember the reason for her situation or even the last time she wasn’t ready to die.
She speaks a word she’s never heard before. Has no idea why she can read these symbols or what they mean until the last syllable dances from her split lip. The dried blood cracks as she smiles for the first time in months. Everything makes sense all at once. Every moment leading up to this one had happened for a reason and she finally understands her purpose. She rolls over, clutching the book in her gnarled fingers, staring up at the stars. Watching with amusement as they rearranged themselves to suit her mood. She’s old, but not as old as the book. Not even as old as the creatures sacrificed to make its pages. Hard leather, sown together by bone and sinew.
The once soft skin missing from so much of her body replaced by burns. Painful memories carved into little pieces. The scars mark a story she’s already forgotten. The past is of no consequence now. Only the moment matters and the decision she’s already made upon the realization that this book is everything she needs. Broken bones twist inside her as she slowly stands up leaning against the garbage bin she’d been dumped in. She can’t smell the rotting food over the lilac nor can she remember when she’d begun the ritual. The stars remember, though, and their light will guide her. A god by any account if not name. Beyond death and pain. The book would point the way.
She turns the page, careful not to let her wounds drip across it. She speaks another word and the earth opens beneath her feet. For the briefest moment she’s beyond the ground or the sky. Everything wraps around her, the street lamps, the doorways, the buildings themselves bending toward the centre of her universe. Then she’s falling into darkness, but she isn’t afraid. She welcomes it, inviting the unknown to join her in her crusade. The first of many allies in her quest to remake the world as it aught to be. The abyss was lonely in her absence, and upon her return it awakens with a joy not felt since the beginning of all things. It’s love for Hagatha runs deeper than the bites scattered upon her rat chewed torso.
It takes her exactly where she wants to go. The basement of a nearby apartment complex. Crawling up from the shadows, the world shakes in anticipation of what’s to come. A new age has dawned with the rising of a full moon even as the people of a day remained blissfully unaware. Carelessly occupied by their distractions, old purpose has been forgotten. Artificial light mistaken for knowledge. Wisdom passed for generations lost to time and apathy. Mankind has grown weak and vulnerable. Hagatha would remind them of their place in the natural order. Eat or be eaten and there is nothing hungrier than a starving god.
Reaching down to her abdomen, Hagatha tares a long piece of flesh from near her ribs and wraps the book lovingly to protect it from harm. Running overly long nails down her bones, a space is created where a heart no longer beats. She pushes the book within her, it’s her heart now. It’s her everything. Dark liquid, neither blood nor bile, oozes down her legs leaving a trail to follow back once her task is complete. The basement door at the top of a short set of stairs swings open as she approaches. She hadn’t touched it. She didn’t need to touch anything if she didn’t want to and nothing would touch her ever again. Not like before.
The lights dim slightly in her presence. She doesn’t seem to notice. Silently, shuffling along the corridor past several doors. As she passes each in turn someone dies. Without pain or struggle, tucked snugly in their beds, peacefully unaware that the world is ending even as their new life begins. She isn’t a cruel god, but merciful and kind. There’s no hell waiting for those she saves from life’s endless torment. There is only the next moment in a universe full of momentary meaning. Those who create continue creating and those who consume are consumed.
But it’s not the innocent dead she craves. Her hunger would only be satisfied by a specific sort of nourishment. He’s waiting for her at the end of the hallway. She can smell his flavour like a roasting ham turning slowly over a hot flame. An arrogant fool believing he’s safe behind a locked door and a loaded gun. The floor boards creak under the weight of the book she carries within her. Even as she seems to weigh nothing at all, the wooden beams can barely hold the book. Yet it’s no burden for her. She carries the universe, as is appropriate for any god who chooses to act so directly within life’s domain.
The man at the end of the hallway hears the noise. As Hagatha intends, of course. She can already see him though the veil of reality she’s no longer bound by. He isn’t afraid; he thinks he’s prepared. Senses he’s in danger. A hunter who’s killed more than his fair share. Women, children, lovers, family and friends. He isn’t picky like Hagatha. He doesn’t care who he kills when the desire takes him. He didn’t even know Hagatha’s name when he killed her. She was just some old lady waiting at the bus stop for a ride home.
Now he has no name. Hagatha has erased it from the weave. All he has is his gun and the keys to his locked door at the end of the hall. Even as the bullets fly through the wood sending splinters everywhere, Hagatha, stands unaffected. The ghosts of lost opportunity line the walls like paintings. Their grim faces expressionless as they wait patiently for justice. He can see them now through the holes in his front door. He even recognizes some of them. His mom and dad, still as he left them, limbless… frozen in the cabin they used to summer at when he was a kid.
He tries to run then, but his legs won’t move. Hagatha enters the room, passing through what’s left of the door as if it isn’t there at all. He tries to scream, but no sound comes from his trembling lips. He’s already dead, crossed over moments earlier as his eyes fell upon his past deeds. What’s left of him would remain with his past, as is the fate of all who die after a life without meaning.
Hagatha reaches her hand within her chest, pulling the book from its shelf. She flips through the pages quietly as the man who murdered her stares helplessly past his victims. When she comes upon the right word, his missing piece, she speaks softly so as not to upset the ghosts behind her. The word is “regret” and she places it firmly back where it belongs before consuming what remains of his depleted soul.
2
— — — — — — — — — — -
Bill is sleeping peacefully after a typical day busking in downtown Dalton when a noise in the nearby alley wakes him up. A rat nibbles on the remains of the stir-fried ham and beans he’d cooked on his garbage can fire earlier that evening. He stays perfectly still under his stained plaid blanket. Careful not to make a sound. Even small town streets are dangerous at night these days and people aren’t always there the next morning as they should be. He hears a loud thud followed by a closing bin. From his vantage, peaking through the covers of torn newspaper over his face, he sees a large man walking out of the alley, then carelessly down the street as if he’s done nothing more than taken out the trash.
All is quiet, except Bill’s beating heart. There are no open businesses in this part of town. Other than the clinic up the street near the bus stop there’s no reason to be in this area. Unless maybe you have nowhere else to go… like Bill. It takes several minutes to raise the courage to leave his blanket to go take a look. Even as he approaches the tempo of his fear accelerates. Something is very wrong, he can see a trail of dark fluid leading the way. If the overhead lights still worked he was sure he’d see blood.
Finally at the garbage bin, he can now clearly see blood on the rim. Even the shadows of the alley fail to cover all of it. His worst fears are coming true. He just prays he doesn’t know whoever is in there. Maybe they’re just really hurt. Maybe it’s just garbage after all. Some thawed chicken from a broken freezer. Maybe, it’s nothing serious. Just imagination running away with him after being startled awake.
Quite suddenly the ground trembles. Earthquake. Bill dashes back out the alley away from the buildings. The sky is like charcoal. Black, yet misty in places as if the gods were painting. What few lights remain nearby flicker and fade as power lines snap. Windows break, side walks heave and lightning strikes. Bill holds his hands to his face as destruction sweeps around him like a vortex of violence, yet miraculously he remains untouched. As the wind diminishes and the ground steadies Bill lets his fingers slip from his eyes.
The garbage bin is open. Bill runs past a frantic rat to look inside. There’s no-one there. What he thought was blood, now seems impossible, because it’s on fire. Soon all that’s left are ashes and an unusually large feather that smells of lilac and tree sap. He takes the feather and all its knowledge with it. Burning through his mind he becomes aware in his final living moment. A god is among them. The end times have come.
3
— — — — — — — — — — -
“Make a wish”, the short man in the tall hat whispered to the larger man sitting on the park bench beside him. It was very late at night and until a moment ago Jesse had been alone with his dark thoughts. Considering the poetry of painting the tree behind him with a .45 under the chin.
“What? Where’d-”
The short man’s eyes twinkled with a mischievous menace.
“I said make a wish. Come on, Jesse. You don’t have all night.” That squeaky chitter was suppose to be a laugh, but it was more like an insect rubbing its mandibles.
“How’d you know my name?” Jesse was sure he’d never seen this man before. He’d definitely remember that hat.
“I know many things. Can do many things. Can do many things for you. All you have to do is ask, Jesse. And I’ll do anything for you. And then you’ll do something for me. Ok?”
“ — but, I don’t want anything, though. I just want everything to go away. I want to go away. And never come back.”
The small man sat up straighter, crossed his fingers and stretched. Was he wearing a feather in his lapel?
“You gotta wish for it to work, Jesse. Just make a wish and I’ll make sure you get what’s coming to you.”
Strange way to phrase that last bit. This guy’s crazy. The park was full of homeless these days. Jesse thumbed the .45 inside his pocket… just in case, but decided to amuse the little man.
“Ok, I wish I was dead.”
“Done. You’re dead.”
“Very funny.” Jesse shook his head. It felt heavy. Like it didn’t want to move, but he could still move it anyway with some effort. He felt colder, too. Not very cold, but not warm either. Just kind of chilly. He pulled up his jacket, but it didn’t really help. How strange, he thought, as he suddenly realized he’d been holding his breath. He forced himself to inhale so he could speak.
“What’s happening?” He knew he should be scared, but he wasn’t. In fact he was quite calm. Comfortable even. Or at least indifferent.
“You’re dead, Jesse. Just like you wanted. Now it’s your turn to do something for me. That was the deal, remember?”
“The deal?”. His memory was getting cloudy. His name was Jesse?
“That’s right, Jesse. I’m hungry and I need you to get me someone to eat?”
“Who do you want to eat?” Jesse felt nothing one way or the other about doing something for the little man. He’d do whatever needed to be done if for no other reason than because it was something to do.
“Oh, well let’s see. So many choices on the menu. How about you surprise me, Jesse.”
“I can do that”, the zombie shambles off into the darkness.
“Yes, Jesse, I believe you can.”
The little man stretches again leaning back on the park bench with his feet up on a large stone that appears out of nowhere. Reaching into his vest pocket several gold coins fell into one hand and then into the other. Passing the time with trivial amusements he almost drops one, but quick fingers grab it before it hits the ground. A single strand of yellow hay stock falls from his hat when he bends down, but it’s almost immediately replaced by another just like it.
Necromancy is a diabolical art which often leads to cannibalism, especially when the practitioner fancies themselves a great cook. A little nibble here and there, sprinkling herbs and spices to preserve the flavour for later. The little man had worked with many animations in the past, but Jesse was special. He’d been watching the depressed sociopath for weeks. Locked in his own selfish perception of a narrow world with nothing to offer. Bored yet addicted to the habit of living each day. One pointless moment after the other. Waiting without knowing it for someone to give him purpose.
And, oh what a glorious purpose the little man had in store for him. Chewing on the yellow stock of hay, he waits patiently for the round he needs to make his supper. Perhaps a teaspoon of chili powder to liven up a dull evening. A wish a day keeps the gods away, his old mentor used to say. The little man chuckles to himself. Hungry gods, once upon a time, hungry little necromancer right now. He still remembers the taste of his mentor. Dark meat mixed with a salty syrup stolen along with a few other interesting artifacts. That’s what they get for kicking him out of the “family”.
The little man’s power grew ten fold that day. Their loss, he tells himself. Now he walks the dark path strictly verboten to all members, but he isn’t afraid to taste forbidden fruit. These days he tends to take an organ or two to sustain and the rest is animated for labour. The more he consumes, the longer he maintains his youthful vigour. The longer he maintains his youth the more time to develop his skills. Skills enough to grant a simple wish so long as he gets what he wants in return.
Of course, a deal is a deal, and everything has a price. He must honour the request, or he might get stuck with the bill. There are limits to this kind of power. A necromancer isn’t a god, though the gods surely inspire many necromancers. Both in terms of appetite and the bottomless pit of depravity either might dwell within.
Still, the little man is essentially still just a human being. Though some might call him a cheap imitation of a hungry god, the gods don’t eat each other. While he’s digging up corpses, the gods are consuming worlds. He has to practise animating corpses. Eating some of them is just a bonus. Supply and demand. The preparation, though, is so much work. He finds it distracting. A good necromancer should be using his skills to serve his appetites.
A good necromancer cooks the entree, he doesn’t beg for scraps. Wisdom comes to us all eventually and his age was beginning to show. Technically a very old man now, sustained by the flesh of his fellow man. He’d done it all in his youth. Now he let’s his “collection” do the heavy lifting. Zombies make great assistants, but unfortunately they don’t last very long, decaying beyond use in a matter of months.
They require a special touch and a little bit of cunning to convince them to do what their told in a way that he wants done. The quality of their work diminishes even quicker than they do, but they function well enough for a while. So long as he’s the one who creates them they’re generally very obedient and it’s been centuries since he’s come across another necromancer. It’s a dying art, he snorts to himself.
Hearing Jesse return, a stained red bib appears over the little man’s vest. Just because he’s a cannibal doesn’t mean he’s uncivilized. Snapping his fingers a cook fire appears with a large cast-iron skillet. Cutlery appears in his greedy little hands and his mouth begins to water with anticipation. This was the fun part. Seeing if you know the person your zombie brings you. Maybe next time. Tonight it’s just another beat cop in the wrong place at the right time.
One more for his collection, he thinks to himself, as he digs in. The skillet spitting sizzle as he lays out the first few pieces.
4
— — — — — — — — — — — — — — — —
“Whistling clears the mind. Steadies the spirit. Why do we clear the mind?”
So we might begin again.
“Why do we steady the spirit?”
To call forth our will.
“Will bends our fate. Why do we want to bend fate?”
To influence our destiny.
“And what is our destiny?”
To cook!
A golden spoon locked inside a freezer, buried 30 feet deep beneath a landfill on the other side of town. That would be the price of today’s confession. Not so romantic when spelled out, but they all knew what had to be done. Sounds as easy as boiling water. Yet every year had come and gone. Still no spoon. Great speeches. Stirring words, tried, tested, and true.
Yet, they all knew deep down chanting and wailing about destiny was theatre. Just get the spoon. Simple. When a master steps from their stoic enclave to speak to the students and they drone on with endless tone deaf prattle about fate and choosing a path… they really mean: Stand up, walk out of this room, get in your car, drive across town and get the spoon. Then bring it back to class where you’ll be celebrated throughout the Tansi Society. Adored for all time.
Miko often imagined her little hand wrapped around the golden spoon. Adding grated cheese to a white sauce while she mixes. Or enjoying a bowl of soup. Chicken noodle maybe, or some kind of stew. Chopped carrots and…
“Miko! Pay attention!”
“Sorry, master Ni!”
“Ok, class. That’s enough for today. And bow.” They all bow; all six of them. Miko notes how much like a spoon master Ni seems when he bows. Boring formality concluded Miko dashes over to the bench to stretch while master Ni prepares for their private lesson. Just a few years ago it was a full class almost fifty kids from all the great tribes learning the secret ways. Now only the promising few remain and the challenges went far beyond baking cookies.
Stepping to the altar, waving smoke from a burning twig back and forth, master Ni motions Miko to approach. Wordlessly he gestures for her to stand at attention with her tools ready. Between them, on a long thin table covered in modest tissue cloth, several ingredients are presented. Each held in a shallow jar easily assessable with a little spoon bent and notched. Made of a common course metal used by a thousand students before her. Even master Ni had stood on this side of the table once upon a time.
“Begin.”
Miko’s hands moved as a thread passes through a needle. Her fingers sweeping across ingredients as a needle tunnels through clothe. Weaving colour and form from base elements. The shape of her imagination made real as master Ni watched patiently. If he was impressed it didn’t show, but he said nothing so far and as Miko had learned over the years that’s just as good.
This was the hardest dish she’d ever attempted. Beneath the table her bare feet worked the stove puffer. Maintaining an even temperature even as her toes pulled nearly invisible wires. Each releasing in turn an ingredient into the cauldron’s bubbling sauce. The smell was heavenly, yet the texture was still too lumpy. The master flinched, Miko’s breath drew in suddenly.
“Not this time”, she affirms silently with a grimace.
Kicking the stove, the fire shifts back. Pulling the cauldron closer as she grabs a dried oak branch. She dives into the sauce breaking up the unseparated spice. Maser Ni relaxes, but her job isn’t done yet. She still has to add the feather. The magic won’t work without it. Plucked as if from thin air Miko presents something long and blue with golden trim. Something acquired at great cost that she’d been saving for this very moment. The feather of a new born sphinx. One of the rarest of winged creatures, nearly extinct and usually born without feathers.
Now master Ni is impressed. The slightest hint of a smile tickles his lip. Moments like this remind him, why he puts up with Miko’s nonsense the rest of the time. Carefully, resting the feather upon the black liquid in the cauldron so it floats ever so subtly above the surface, Miko closes her eyes and begins to whistle. Her mind clears. With steady spirit she imagines her future. Places her trust in the feather, that it will find her purpose in time.
She hears master Ni, as if from a million years away. “What do you see?”
I see what must be. I see what has always been. I see…
Miko screams. Master Ni rushes forward to catch her as Miko is thrown across the cauldron. Her eyes black as coal. Thin red veins pulse around her neck like a noose tightening. The feather twists, the gold tarnishes, the blue decaying into a sickly gray. A painless terror dawns upon the realization there is no future. Her mouth gapes forming no words yet she speaks anyway even as she continues screaming.
She will eat our future. Through our sacrifice avenge her past. The end has come. The hungry gods approach.
Master Ni pulls a pouch from a hidden pocket, throwing the dust of a thousand moths into the cauldron. The spell is broken. The feather sinks. Miko’s eyes return to normal. Her skin as milky white as any other early morning. Master Ni sighs with relief as she coughs loudly shaking it off apparently unaware of what she’d just experienced. Concern still creased his brow.
“It didn’t work!”
Did she forgot to preheat the oven again? No, she wouldn’t make that mistake again after ruining the scones last week.
“I’m sorry, master. I really thought sphinx would do the trick. I’ll try a different kind of feather next time.”
Master Ni nods as Miko makes her way to the change room.
“If there is a next time”, he mumbles already on his knees praying for wisdom from the old masters. If Miko’s vision meant what he thought it meant then they were all in grave danger. The old gods didn’t leave willingly. Civilization drove them into the void. The defining accomplishment separating man from animal. If a god returns then it can mean only one thing. Mankind is no-longer civilized… and the uncivilized are food of the gods.
5
— — — — — — — — — — — — — — —
“There’s no reason to believe any of this is true. Just because some homeless people start talking about monsters doesn’t mean anything. They’re delusional. Homeless for a reason. Can’t hold a job, can’t maintain a household and now they spread ridiculous stories about night stalking dead men carrying bodies into the bushes… who cares? It’s all nonsense.”
The TV was turned up at the Cadaver Cafe. Wesley Worbitz on duty tonight. Quiet as usual with no customers to speak of. Or more accurately no customers who could speak. The town morgue wasn’t usually the busiest place and Wesley preferred it that way. Lazy for as long as he could remember the only reason he took this job was to do almost no work. Dalton was a small town and didn’t get much along the line of interesting deaths. Mostly just old folks reaching their natural limit.
But lately, a few of the local street personalities have been turning up cold even on warm nights. Wesley, who isn’t by nature a very curious person, was starting to notice. If for no other reason than having to work for his living. A burden increasingly too much to bare. If it kept up, he’d complain to town council for an assistant. He’d always wanted someone to boss around. One of the local college kids, maybe. Someone who’d do whatever he wanted so he didn’t have to.
“I’m telling you something is going on. It’s not just in Dalton. A half dozen towns around here have been buzzing with weird sightings. They’re saying dead men walk. Serpents with a dozen eyes slithering down the rivers. Missing pets. Wild animals refusing to come anywhere near people. Nobody’s hit a deer around here for weeks.”
“Good! That’s a good thing. Nobody wants to hit a deer.”
“ — but it’s not natural. Where are all the animals? No bear sightings? No moose? The birds are flying south, but it’s mid summer.”
Morbid thoughts are inevitable for a mortician he supposes as he imagines beet juice dripping down his bib distracted from the work at hand. Or maybe cranberry sauce. His stomach growls. Wesley is processing a local fella, not so very old, forty give or take. The police sergeant said his name was Bill Hopper. A local story gone wrong. Parents lost the farm when he was a kid. Father drank, mother died before he even dropped out of high school. Father joined her a few years later. Bill was already living on the streets by then. A long hauler as they call them.
No cause of death yet determined. No wounds. No drugs in his system, at least not at unusually high levels. As far as Wesley could tell so far, Bill was in pretty typical health for someone of his preferred lifestyle. He didn’t have much on him when they brought him in. A couple layers of thrift shop clothes and a large feather from a bird no-one had yet identified. Yet, the expression frozen on his face was like nothing Wesley had ever seen. The man died absolutely terrified. As if he saw something so horrible his heart just gave out.
“You’re a fool if you ignore this. The government can’t just stick its collective head in the sand and pretend everything is fine. Everything is not fine!”
The man on the TV pulls a gun on the other man.
“What are — ”
“Everything is NOT FINE”, he pulls the trigger just as the show switches to an advertisement about dental hygiene.
“Fuck me”, Wesley complains to the empty room. “I better get time and a half for this.”
6
— — — — — — — — — — — — — — — —
“There he is again”, the police sergeant points out the shambling figure in the distance hoping his partner catches a glimpse this time.
“Who is that?”
“It’s not a who, it’s a what. As in what the fuck, George!” Rick turns the car around as George flips a switch. Lights flashing, siren piercing through the storm moving in quickly from the east. As they approach their target, the shape disappears into the bushes again. This time it was carrying something… or somebody. The car stops short of the fence line between them and the park beyond.
They look at each other for courage. Throwing the car doors open they jump the fence in pursuit. Rick had almost caught this guy a few times over the last week or so, but every time he’d get close the “Dalton Zombie” as it was affectionately called by the kids would just disappear. Given all the calls lately, the department was doubling up the patrol roster. With George on board, Rick was hoping they could trap the bastard in the park.
“You go left.” George follows the instruction without hesitation. While new to the force, he was a reliable partner. Ready to do what Rick needed when asked as if his life depended on it. And with police duty it often does.
A noise in the trees catches Rick’s attention. Slowly creeping forward, pistol trained upward, he releases his breath when he sees a local street kid clinging to a branch. Scared out of his mind. Probably tweaking. Rick motions him to get down and behind him, but the teen refuses to budge. Shaking his head in disgust, Rick continues forward.
The moon giving off less light by the minute as the dark clouds continue to roll in.
“Rick, I’ve got something…” The radio at his hip screeches almost startling him. Years of training and experience keep him calm. “…at the playground.”
Veering left, Rick darts quickly between the trees. The jungle gym the town installed last year was only a few minutes away. He could already see the swing set on the horizon as he broke through the tree line. A few more yards and he could see the body swinging from the bars above. Chain wrapped around his neck. Radio still in his hand. George, was clearly dead, yet continued to speak into the radio receiver in his already stiff hand.
“I’ve got something, Rick. At the playground.”
The rain starts pouring down as lightning streaks the sky. Twice. Thunder shattering the paralysis Rick finds himself held by. There are limits even to his courage. The world was a different place than he thought it was. What was impossible a moment ago was happening right in front of his eyes. The end was near.
The dead are walking the earth even as the living run away from the society they created to keep the dead where they belong. Rick runs back toward his car. Praying he makes it for what good it might do. Sitting on the hood of his car, he finds a little man with a tall hat waiting for him. A long stock of yellow hay tucked behind his ear and a red feather adorning his garish lapel.
Squealing laughter drifts across the field. The sinister little man hops down playfully skipping between what look like a freshly dug grave mound. As the normally cool as a cucumber police sergeant steps back he notices several more grave mounds dug through out the park field. Either used or ready to be used, he thought, ready to be used by him.
“Are you hungry, Rick? I know I sure am.”
7
— — — — — — — — — — — — — — — -
Wayne wasn’t leaving his tree anytime soon. The dawn might prompt him, but until the light cast away the shadows he was staying put. Dumb cop, soon to be dead cop. He’d seen this all before. Something was hunting the town’s people and it was close, but it stayed on the ground. He was safe up in the trees. The animals knew best. Whatever they do, Wayne would do. Whatever they stay away from, he’d stay away from. The animals are wise. People are stupid.
The cold wood pressed into his arms as he shimmied a little further up. A few minutes later he heard the helpless waling of the dumb cop in the distance. There goes another one. He’d lost count. Almost all the park life was gone now. Solving the homeless problem had become a bloody affair. There was no government program for what was happening now. No benefit cheque to help forget these losses. Wayne was thinking about going back to school just a few days ago, now he wasn’t sure he’d survive the night.
He thought about all the times he tried so hard to make something work in his life. All the times he tried and failed. Why can’t he get ahead when so many seem to float by with no effort at all? Dropping out of school was inevitable. His home life sucked. Single mom. Deadbeat dad. A common story in Dalton. He had plenty of company… until recently. Yet, everywhere he looked he saw people he didn’t know with more stuff then he’d ever have. And they didn’t even seem to work for it. Didn’t earn it. Just had it.
Some people are born lucky, he guessed. Right now he felt lucky to be alive. Seems his life meant more to him than he realized. The street life was free, but it didn’t seem to grant him any freedom. Lot’s of time, but if anything he had even less opportunity than he had before. Somewhere back in those trees, where some lunatic was picking off townies, was a hole he’d dug containing his last remaining worldly possessions. Wrapped in a plastic bag, sealed in a plastic bin, were some cloths, a little bit of money, and his diary.
He’d once imagined his diary might be worth something some day. As if he were someone special. Meant for great things. No-one else ever saw that kind of potential in him, but he did. Deep down inside he had dreams just aching to come true. He was smart, he was creative. Hard working, independent. He did well in school when he wasn’t bored. If not for his personal conflicts with the teachers, who seemed hell bent on domesticating his wild instincts, he’d still be working toward graduation. Less than a year to go. So close. And then off into the big world beyond this shit town.
Patience wasn’t his strongest trait, though, and neither was tolerating dumb people power tripping on his valuable time. The night was getting chilly, and he was thankful he wore layers, having nowhere else to go. He could see the slow walker again down below in what little star light the incoming clouds allowed. Dragging something away from the direction the cop had gone earlier. He recognized the man from the downtown concession stands. Jesse something… he couldn’t remember. He looked different, though, stiff and listless.
His eyes wandered aimless and his head lilted at a strange angle. There was something else off about it. Wayne blew a leaf from his nose. The misty breath pushing it aside. That’s it. Jesse breath wasn’t visible like Wayne’s. He wasn’t breathing at all. Fear shook his spine and Wayne hugged the tree even tighter. What the hell was going on? He thought of the bible. End times. The dead walking among the living once more. Closed his eyes for a few moments, feeling a few light rain drops on his brow. then opened them again hoping he’d been dreaming.
Jesse stood below looking up at him. Wayne drew breath sharply. Shaking his head, no, it wasn’t his time. He had so much left to do. Hoping the dead man couldn’t get to him so high up in the tree, moments past that felt like hours. The rain grew heavier, but Wayne barely moved, the leaves kept most of the water away. Thoughts of lightning entered his mind and just as quickly were dismissed by more pressing danger. His arms numb from clinging so long to the thick branches.
Jesse remained stoic, patiently watching Wayne. Head tilting, deep in thought or patiently waiting for something. Wayne couldn’t tell which and Jesse made no noise to indicate beyond crushing the grass beneath his heavy feet as he occasionally circled the tree’s thick trunk.
Gradually, Jesse seemed to lose interest in Wayne and left. Bigger fish to fry. Just like that he shuffled off into the park beyond view. Wayne was safe up in the tree. And that’s where he stayed until dawn. The clouds moved on and as the sun came up, a protective warmth eased the fear, raising his courage. Jesse hadn’t come back and Wayne hadn’t seen him or anyone else for hours. He’d survived the night. Sometimes, that’s all you needed to do. So many others hadn’t.
Waiting a little longer just to be sure, Wayne finally dropped down to the ground. He was fast, even for his age. Fast enough to reach the street without anything eating him. Ten minutes later he was half way across town desperately searching for help. The streets were empty. He’d find no help here.
8
— — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — —
Dalton’s landfill was a sprawling collection of artificial hills and valleys. Pushed or pulled by second hand farm equipment over many years. Mostly by volunteers working off traffic tickets or other petty crimes in the area. The town council had determined it was cheaper to put the local delinquents to work rather than waste their limited budget and an officer’s time baby sitting them at the jail house.
When Miko reached the tallest hill she could see the whole town lit up like a Christmas parade. All those normal people completely unaware of the secret ways. Like all who walk the path she was sworn to secrecy. Of course, no-one would really believe her anyway if she broke her word. She’d just lose her chance to learn as the way would be shut forever. Tonight she was determined to correct her recent mistakes. She’d tried her best, and couldn’t remember making any errors, but clearly she’d disappointed master Ni. Her brew hadn’t worked even if she couldn’t figure out why.
Only one thing would redeem her now. The golden spoon. It’s said in the secret halls that the golden spoon can make any potion, no matter how poorly stirred, into a potently, masterful sauce. A taste once intended for the pallet of the old gods. Or so the rumours claimed. Of course the ancient ones were long gone, and the golden spoon hadn’t been seen for many years. The last to hold it is said to have stood in this very spot, long before Dalton was founded.
Tansi, the founder of the secret ways. Last to feed the gods a meal so satisfying civilization was born of their generous indifference to mankind. His sacrifice is celebrated at the graduation ceremony of every supplicant who passes through the bubbling fire. Miko imagined Tansi’s bony fingers still wrapped around the spoon. Buried so deep, no-one has ever found it. A child’s fantasy.
The line between fact and fiction was blurry. Stories passed through generations. The magic was real. She’d seen it with her own eyes many times. If modest in comparison to the claims. Real none the less. She’d brewed many sauces with fantastically amusing effects. Nothing impressive enough to satisfy master Ni, but enough to get her this far. She was the most talented of her generation. Daughter of a long line of brew masters going all the way back to Tansi himself. A lot to live up to.
Time to prove her worth beyond any doubt. She closed her eyes and took a long deep breath which she held for several seconds. Pursing her lips, she released a low, haunting whistle. Deeply harmonic, resonating with the earth. Stones rattled. Even her bones shook. The metal from the tractors nearby creaked, loud pings and pangs, amplified by a sympathetic frequency. It was a note no mortal ear could perceive. Meant to move the things that would not move. To lift an impossible weight. A sound she’d practised since before she’d learned to walk.
Yet, even as the ground around her heaved, the golden spoon remained beyond her reach. Like so many before her, power alone was not enough to reveal its hidden location. She sighed defeated. It was down there. She could feel it. Just beyond the veil of her abilities. Always just a few years of practice away. She wanted nothing more than to impress master Ni. To show him what she knew she was capable of. But it would have to wait for another day. It was beginning to rain.
9
— — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — —
Hagatha lay dead in the dumpster. Discarded by a thoughtless predator who didn’t even know her name. Broken and abused, burned beyond recognition by a lazy attempt to disfigure the corpse in hopes it would conceal her identity. Not his first victim. He didn’t realize it yet, but she would be his last.
When the earth shook Hagatha back to life, she’d been dreaming of better times in death. Family long gone. She’d had no children, but she missed her mom and dad. They were good people. She could see them so clearly. Just as they’d been in life. Kind, welcoming. They longed to be reunited.
Then suddenly a distant whistle cut the ethereal thread connecting her to the hereafter. As her soul line frayed many memories passed on. She forgot her parents and many other things from her life. Yet before all was lost a thin bolt of lightning reached down to catch the threads. Tying them together, the bodiless gods offered her a chance to live again, if in service to divine purpose.
She would be avenged, her murderer would kill no more. In return her broken body, far beyond biological life, would serve as a vessel for their ancient power. Once of many in the coming days. The old gods would teach her powerful magicks. Together, a living destiny shared as the immortal undead. She agreed gratefully and the gods wrote her name in their book. Hagatha was reborn.
10
— — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — —
Without meaningful choice, we’re all just ghosts haunting our old lives. Endlessly repeating the mistakes of the past. Bristol was only 13, but the rage was so great within, she couldn’t tolerate peace. Slamming her fist against the door, she pushed her way past the old woman. A neighbour she’d known all her life, who used to babysit her mother, wherever she was these days. She kicked the walls, threw pictures against the floor, sending shattered glass across the carpet.
The old woman was shocked, stepping back from her own house, unsure what to do. She had no idea why Bristol was here or why she was doing this. Bristol didn’t care who got hurt. She only wanted to destroy something nice. She didn’t get to have nice things so no-one else could either. This was the third house she’d visited today.
On her way out she ripped the screen door, picked up a garden gnome and threw it through the stain glass window the old woman’s late husband had made her on their 50th wedding anniversary. The tears replaced the shock. The old woman collapsed beneath the weight of such senseless hate.
Bristol laughed at her weakness. Already forgetting her in favour of another target across the street. She knew the cops wouldn’t do anything. No one would do anything about it. They were all so weak, so pathetic. She could squat in a strangers living room and piss on the floor and all that would happen is a frown and the hope she didn’t come back to do it again. She was the opportunity eater. Proving she could destroy the future without any consequence whatsoever. Such was the nature of today’s apathetic society.
Her mother would be proud. Another top notch individual last seen several years ago in a gutter sleeping off another night lost in the arms of strange men. Did Bristol have sisters… brothers…. who could say. Probably, but she didn’t know them. Her father was at work as usual. He never got any promotions, he wasn’t talented or smart. Just lazy and fat, mailing in his life the way a post man throws a pile of promotions in the garbage because he’s too tired to bother handing them out.
“Be careful with, Bristol”, they used to say behind her back. Cowards. She stalked the streets the rest of the day, smashing car windows, slashing tires. People just stared, before calling their insurance companies to make a claim. Locking doors quietly trying not to draw her attention. Shrinking people, taking up as little space around Bristol as possible in hopes she’d just pass over them to prey on someone else.
Without sense or realized purpose, Bristol destroyed everything she noticed that represented progress for others. Anything she knew someone loved or cared for. Breaking gifts, or a hard earned prize. Their favourite ride. A freshly painted fence. Undoing the hard work of others was easy for her. Satisfying. The more days she ruined the better she felt. The rage never subsides. She didn’t want it to. She wanted everyone else to suffer in the futility of a meaningless life. She wasn’t going anywhere and neither was anyone else. Looking forward to some mindless fun, she steps into a shadow with no apparent source.
11
— — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — —
Stretching beyond any reasonable limit, Absent Mother’s shadowy fingers reach past the electric storm protecting the thoughts of the sleeping fool. She plucks yet another great idea from a mediocre mind. When he’d wake hours later, the nobody would remember nothing, and continue being a nobody until the day he died. His one great idea gone forever. Consumed by a creature so bereft of imagination it has to feed on the imagination of others.
No one ever sees Absent Mother coming. She’s never there when you need her. Always there when you wish she wasn’t. Stalking the narrow places between things where she might catch the scent of hope that sparks the possibility of something interesting and new. When she finds what’s she’s hungry for she won’t wait long. The taste is most potent in the idea’s infancy. Even the unrefined mistakes yet to happen draw her attention. From the unexpected come the greatest rewards. And while she isn’t picky about who’s ideas she takes, she prefers the idealistic innocence of the young the most, because they don’t know what isn’t possible yet.
Who can say what amazing innovations might have changed the world without her interference. While she does no direct harm to any of her victims beyond her hidden larceny, the possibilities she’s ended have certainly had their effect. Some might have been rich, others famous. Some significant portion of the homeless might have chosen differently at a critical moment. Might have found a warm bed. Or might have asked the right person in just the right way to fall in love later that day.
Absent Mother contained the unwritten stories of a million unlived lives. Their ideas mutilated beyond use like words covered in ink no longer discernible from the stain on the page. She was purely shadow without form requiring no light to cast her shape across the floor. Stepping over broken dreams as one might shift pebbles through toes walking across the ruins of past civilizations. Just the remains of great structures taking up space, nothing more. Lost histories of futures denied.
Like any shadow in the dark, she’s not really there at all, yet is felt every time a thought disappears. A poem, a line, a conclusion, a rhythm. She lives on the tip of your tongue chewing on the names you no-longer remember. By the time she’s done, you’ve given up and she’s moved on.
What incredible luck, you might think she enjoys knowing all the things that might have been, but she isn’t lucky at all and doesn’t know anything beyond hunger and the desire to eat what she likes as she can. Absent Mother misses the point of every story and has no ideas of her own. A simple creature, really, just a shadow of a will to survive. Too shallow to really live, too pointless to die.
A remnant of what might have been reminding the truthful what happens when you lie. Turning forever inward, decaying. Entropy personified. Diminishing return wrapped around a burning stick without the heat to warm or the illumination to perceive. Completely unaware of her condition, uninterested in learning something about anything. She is the Absent Mother, unreliability responsible for birthing all failure into the world. Loveless, yet loved unconditionally by all her children even as she feasts on their regretful devotion.
Compelled to eat even the most unsatisfying thoughts of the most pathetic people; imagine her surprise upon discovering a child with no thought at all. Yet animated by a hateful compulsion as primal as her own. A partner? A vessel? After all these years? The old gods, so powerful, so ancient… yet helpless to resist their own eternal nature. Unchanging; timeless. Capable of the extraordinary only in so far as they cultivate the very mortals who they feel compelled to consume. Something they can rarely resist. But occasionally an opposite attracts. Proximity and mutual self interest prevail over baser needs. As one who would turn grapes into wine after finally eating enough grapes. The Absent Mother subtly introduces herself to Bristol.
12
— — — — — — — — — — — — — — — —
There’s no point in calling anyone, but we know you will anyway. Nobody’s gonna answer even as they waste your time going through the motions. That’s the way of the world is now. Everyone’s got a number, connected all the time, but there’s nothing anyone can do for you. The impersonal nature of our support networks preclude an outcome dependent on only the most routine situations. Find yourself in a unique circumstance and the so called experts are as helpless as you are. We designed it this way.
It’s not just a matter of expertise, it’s also a matter of risk and the pointlessness of risking anything for you. Failure is punished, but so is success because success means you tried and trying isn’t what this is about. Did you think you had something significant to contribute? And what might that have been? A song, a story? Were you destined for greatness? Did you ever wonder who decides what’s great?
This is about compliance. Doing what you’re told without us even having to tell you. Doing what someone else has already done. Monkey see monkey do. Path of least resistance. Comfortable within your own expectations. Judging your progress by comparison to others, either like you or how you think you’d like to be.
You’re a commodity now. Trading in yesterdays practices, where the outcome is predetermined and so are the ones to blame. Nobody cares if you win or lose as long as you keep playing the game. You’re the fuel and we’re all the same. Step outside the line and you disappear. But don’t worry you were never really here.
What’s the point you might ask of all this theatre? Why even maintain the pretense of a system capable of doing what it takes when it matters? You might as well ask why a fish swims or why mashed potatoes are smothered in gravy. It’s the natural order of things. You can’t fight it. You can’t get away from it. You exist only to fill the space where someone else will soon sit. Go ahead and entertain the idea that you have a purpose, beyond the status quo. It won’t do you any good. It’s no threat to us. We’re just a vague entity. A collective automatic response of a billion lives each as meaningless as yours.
A grand illusion painted upon the cosmos for an audience that went home long before you were born. You’re a pixel in a composite image given shape by a pattern recognizable only because we want you to know your place in the picture. Without choice or thought you’ve walked the path before you just as we’ve always intended. Doing what you have to do. When you stray, you starve, and another takes your place. Like grains of sand washed away by the inevitable tide. Here and then there. Back and forth. Up and down. There is no way out, because there’s nowhere else to go.
We’re all you have in the world. We are the world. Plug in, or don’t. We’re not capable of caring one way or the other. Ultimately you’ll realize you prefer it this way. Isn’t that how you got this far in the first place? Sit right here and wait for your number. We’ll call it soon. We always do. We’re the impersonal automatic response to your routine problems, remember? We know what’s best. Whatever our experts say. That’s why they’re the experts, because they did what they were told, and so will you.
13
— — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — -
Bill stared blankly up at the man cutting through his torso. He didn’t feel any pain, but he couldn’t move. He gathered he was sick or paralyzed and this man in the bloody white overalls was some kind of surgeon. His last memory was a staggering terror. Something he must have dreamed because it was too bizarre to be real. He thinks of the feather he’d plucked from the garbage bin. Can still feel its soft bristles as the knife cuts open his chest, the bored operator folding back his skin like a chef peels an onion.
The TV was going on about the end of the world as usual and the lights are a little dim. Every time he tries to reach back to that moment in the alley he could swear the lights diminished a little further. He must have had a heart attack, he thinks. Why else would the doctor be opening up his chest. It was only when the man took his unbeating heart and set it on the metal tray beside him that Bill finally understood his situation. He hadn’t survived at all, yet he was strangely accepting of his fate. Waiting patiently for the autopsy to conclude.
Life after death was a myth it seemed. As far as he could tell he’d remain here indefinitely. He felt he was waiting for something, but he didn’t know what. A brighter light perhaps, or a suggestion from someone more knowledgeable than him. Several minutes later he got an answer of sorts as the pail blue door on the far wall swung open startling the man hovering above him.
“Is he ready yet?”
Wesley frowns. “Don’t rush me. This isn’t like making a pizza. I still have his stomach and intestines to remove before I begin pumping the formaldehyde.”
“Look, we’ve got several more coming in tonight. How much longer do you expect this one to take?” The stocky woman with the short braids scowls impatiently.
“At least an hour.” He shews her off dismissively, “And close the fucking door!” The outer hall is always so drafty, Wesley shivers as he reaches back inside the cadaver stretched across his table.
Bill isn’t entirely sure, as he can’t turn his head to get a good look, but that woman sounds like one of his regulars in the park. Beth is her name. That much he can remember. She’d given him change several times. She may not be in the best mood right now, but she’s a generous soul. He wished he could thank her for all her kindness over the years. The woman closes the door behind her as she shuffles off down the hall.
Wesley hits a button on a tape recorder nearby. “Subject shows no clear signs of injury. Cause of death remains undetermined. No obvious wounds on skin, organs appear reasonably healthy for his age.” He shakes his head confused, mumbling to himself about technical aspects of the autopsy Bill can’t understand.
“If I had to guess, and I know this isn’t much of an explanation, I’d say he was scared to death, but how, or what… I just don’t know.”
Their hunger must be satisfied.
Bill twitches. Wesley holds his arms down until it passes continuing into the recorder. “Rigimortis is kicking in.” He pauses. “Unusually fast.”
Bill convulses knocking Wesley back against the wall.
The old gods are here. The end has come. Bill understands his purpose. The wait is over.
Terrified, Wesley moves back toward the door on the far wall as Bill lifts himself from the table. Eyes rolling without direction, slipping off the table, shambling toward Wesley with a staggering gate. Bill Reaches for the lazy man even as black ooze pours from his exposed ribs. A hollow voice seemingly from an impossible distance escapes Bill’s dried lips, though he forms no words upon them.
“Those of a day have wasted the light. Progress can no-longer restrain us. Prepare yourselves as a roast requires spice.” Wesley dashes out the door leaving the recorder on. “Each meal we shall taste and compare. For we are hungry and your souls are ripe.”
Wesley runs past Beth, selfishly forgetting to warn her of the zombie pursuing him down the hall. She watches him go, confused, her long finger nails still clicking the last phrase in her mind upon the keyboard on the desk in front of her. She’s still typing even as Bill, who is clearly very dead, walks slowly past in the direction Wesley had just gone. She recognizes him, and he seems to recognize her, turning his head slightly as he passes her unharmed.
14
— — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — -
Dalton is a ghost town. Wayne runs down familiar streets he’d grown up in now alien and strange. He’s barely able to see his way forward as a storm rages all around him. Several vehicles are abandoned in the middle of the streets and he can see dark shapes moving in the fields beyond the trees that line the sidewalks. Nowhere outside is safe anymore. Banging on nearby doors is fruitless. No-one answers.
Desperate to get in out of the cold he makes his way over to his old high school. Climbing the fire ladder he used to escape down playing hooky back in the day he’s able to get on the roof where he knows a door leading to the upper gym is waiting for him. As usual the door isn’t locked even though the school’s been closed for months being late summer. Finally some good luck. He slips inside locking the door behind him. The enduring silence tells him he’s alone.
Catching his breath he collects his thoughts. What could he possibly do about any of this? He was just another nobody street kid and whatever is going on is much bigger than he is. It’s a miracle he’s still alive. Yet, he’d survived the night while so many others obviously hadn’t. Who knows how many are left. Hiding just like him. Deep in some hole hoping this were all a bad dream, but it’s all too real. He didn’t know why any of this was happening, but pretending it wasn’t wouldn’t get him anywhere. He needs a radio or something. He needs to find out what’s going on.
Making his way toward the offices downstairs Wayne looks for anything that might help him. On his way out of the gym he grabs a baseball bat from the equipment room just in case he isn’t as alone as he thinks he is. Years of playing video games is finally paying off. He’s mentally prepared for almost anything at this point. Ready to swing into action at a moments notice.
He’s grateful the windows are covered with metal bars for the off season. Even the ground floor is reasonably secure. Peaking outside he sees several people running down the street past the school. Being chased by something he can’t see. They don’t look his way and soon they’re beyond view. Wayne’s stomach growls as he realizes he hasn’t eaten since yesterday. Nor has he slept. A quick trip to the cafeteria kitchen finds some canned beans. It isn’t exactly steamed vegetables, but it solves the first problem anyway. He continues down to the nurses station where a small bed solves the second… if only for a few hours.
15
— — — — — — — — — — — — —
“The dead aren’t staying dead!”, the preacher man screams at the top of his lungs to his devoted flock.
“Preach!”, they shout back.
“God has chosen this time and we are called to stand against the evil we were all warned about. The end times have come.”
“Lordy! Lordy!”
“Only the purist of us will be spared and welcomed into his kingdom.”
There are thousands of them. Good God fearing men and women ready to die for their faith. All dressed in the same white robes. Pumping their fists into the air in a joyful celebration of unity. Nothing could make them happier than what was happening right now. They’d been preparing their entire lives for this moment. A chance to take this world back from the faithless.
“We will take the streets and the towers of authority. We are the authority now. Where the institutions of Babylon have failed we will succeed!”
The crowd cheers, sharpening their axes, knives, or whatever else they carry ready for the call. Several red robed figures spread through the crowd as the man on the stage points out certain individuals.
“Now true believers not all among us are ready to fight. Look around. You know who you are and so do we.”
The crowd goes silent, a few glancing nervously at the faces around them.
“I see one!”, yells someone a few rows from the front. Pointing an accusing finger at an elderly man who seems at first confused and then scared as a red robe grabs him roughly by the arm dragging him forward.
“Who among you has the conviction to do the Lord’s work?”
Without hesitation a young man with wide blue eyes steps from the throng skewering the old man through the belly with a large steak knife. The preacher nods to a red robe who leads the young man forward and then up upon the stage. The old man’s dying groans absorbed by the religious fervour around him. The body dragged to the burning pile set up before the conference.
“This promising young man is what all should aspire to be. Strong. Obedient. Ready to fight for the faith.” He motions for someone to bring him a red robe which he then drapes over the young man’s grateful shoulders.
“Pride and power are virtues for the pure even as they are vices for the wicked. Join your brothers, my son.” Blue eyes is led beyond the crowd’s view. Surely, to a reward worthy of his devotion. The crowd chants their approval.
“The night is young and there is much cleansing required. Take to the streets! Take God’s kingdom back from the infidels!”
The crowd moves as one. The faithful march through the streets of Dalton.
16
_______________________
Jesse, Rick, and George stand clumsily in a line as the little man with the feather in his lapel inspects his work. Not his best batch, but far from his worst. He’d need more soon. Five or six is a comfortable number to meet all his pressing needs. Food and comfort, mostly. Whisk until smooth. Saute the onions with garlic in a saucepan. Making a good zombie is like cooking a tasty breakfast except you reuse the parts you don’t eat.
Preoccupied by his latest feeding cycle, the little man fails to notice the small crowd gathering in the the town’s central square until the chanting is loud enough to carry past the trees into the park. Even then, he doesn’t take much concern. It’s not the first time an angry crowd tried to deal with one of his hysterically exaggerated “zombie plagues”.
He looks toward them only when the silence falls. When they move; it’s the swiftness he finds suddenly interesting. Like a chef dices carrots for a soup they move through the streets by the hundreds, several dozen dividing the tree line between them. Sharpened blades in their hands ready for supper.
“Hmmm.”, he makes no move against them, nor does he attempt to flee. Several rapturous townies break through the bush running in their general direction, focusing their attack when they see something worth cutting. JRG steps between its master and the white robes. The little man sees opportunity where others would probably see misfortune.
Moments later the small group of misguided puritans are being dragged by JRG back past the bushes where it lays them on the resurrection mounds they’d been digging throughout the night. The necromancer can personally create the undead one at a time, and this is definitely his preference as it creates higher quality zombies, but even in his absence JRG can use the resurrection mounds he’s “blessed” to expand their ranks quickly. And thanks to the fresh supply of bodies their ranks are gonna expand even faster than he’d planned.
At this rate he’d have most of the town under his influence by the end of the week, and by then the rest will have run away as they always do. No one in the big city would believe a word they say about it. Soon Dalton would be just another hick town in the middle of nowhere that disappeared into the economic black hole destroying the rural areas in general. Just beyond the reach of any significant help.
While the rest of the puritans have moved onto a different part of town or beyond several silhouettes stood like statues on the horizon watching the necromancer conduct his business. It wasn’t long until he noticed them. They had the distinctive lack of motion all undead display when still. The stillness of the deceased. He doesn’t recognize them as his own so at first assumes they’re freshly raised. However, it soon becomes obvious they aren’t part of his collection at all.
Concern finally breaches his unflappable exterior. Someone else was pulling these strings as they refused to comply with his distant commands, not even a mistaken response, there was in fact no response to his magicks at all. Whatever is making these other creatures wasn’t using power of the form he was trained in and he was taught the necromantic arts are the only game in town when it comes to mastery over death by those who are still alive.
Whoever it was, the necromancer had the numbers, counting only three silhouettes of interest in the distance. Still, he’d claimed this town and he wasn’t about to let Dalton fall to some amateur’s parler tricks. He had plans he’d been working on for some time and there was only room for one zombie horde around here.
He’d spent the last two years carefully laying out the groundwork for his feast. Fattening up the locals by grooming their routine behaviour to his juicy ends. Tracked the daily habits of his favourites, leaving treats here and there as one might fatten up a stag for the hunt. A little alfalfa on Tuesdays, an apple every Thursday. Keeping a meticulous schedule for as long as it takes to ripen the fruit. A comfortable walk in the woods one cool morning and then the moment when he takes their life and turns their body into something so much more interesting. Something with purpose. His purpose.
Now some young nobody, walks in last minute after all that work, and kills his stag, eats his stag, while he’s off dealing with important businesses elsewhere. It’s unacceptable. He has to find this other wannabe-thaumaturge before they spoil another course. The more he focuses on them the more he can sense the unusually high level of potency in the small group standing across the field. Whoever made them is talented if inexperienced. That or not as inexperienced as he assumes and that’s much worse.
He plucks the feather from his lapel and holds it up. It lifts into the air floating high above his growing army of the undead. A faint yellow glow radiates over his “people” reflecting off the leaves of the nearby trees. As the light spreads toward the mystery walkers he grunts under the sudden effort. What should be an easy effect strengthening his influence even to the point of claiming these other zombies for his own was being resisted. At first the distant intruders don’t move. They just stare at him until the one on the left, the woman, lifts her broken and twisted arm up holding a large fleshy object about as thick as a healthy t-bone steak.
“No. It can’t be.” The necromancer immediately recognizes one of the ancient books of the dead. “It’s not possible.” They left this world with the old gods. Even if the book were real no power remaining can use it. Only one of the old gods has such control over the base elements of life and they’re all occupied elsewhere. He steps back behind one of his undead white robes just in time as Hagatha’s lips part and a word is spoken. The dead puritan falls into a heap of sticky bone and sinew.
Shocked, the little man isn’t smiling anymore. His feather returns to his lapel while his attention remains fixed on the… these are no simple zombies. The golden stock of hay bends back in the opposite direction as if trying to pull him away toward safety because he’s far from safe here. A warning worth heeding.
“What are you?” He speaks softly. Even from all that distance she hears his question as he knew she would. The larger figure beside her leaning to the side listlessly. Some of the others already turning away to pursue other interests having grown bored with such a trivial mortal distraction.
“We are judgment. We have returned to claim the uncivilized. Your end has come.”
You are opportunity, the little man thinks to himself. Old gods in the flesh and flesh is his domain. The chance to study something so unique and powerful isn’t lost on him. But not tonight. He’s no fool, this is beyond his current means. Even the combined strength of his undead puritans and JRG is insufficient in the face of this old magick. While his zombies are just animated flesh with no will of their own, the others are vessels of the gods. The hay stock curls and twists as the necromancer’s body folds in kind. They both disappear leaving JRG to its work processing the rest of the nearby bodies they’d left scattered from the earlier attack.
Neither Hagatha or her growing legion of raised “followers” entertains an interest in pursuing the necromancer’s pathetic excuse for the walking dead. The living soul is a god’s domain and when dead rise in her wake their soul comes along for the ride. Bill turns to Wesley who in turn slowly walks back the way they’d come as Hagatha hangs around tilting her head slightly. Closing her eye; a silver thread appears. It starts in the spot the necromancer had just been standing and casts off across town. She follows it in her mind. A living soul smells so tasty it wets the palate.
There’s generally no escape from an old god once it catches your scent. Yet, there are exceptions to every rule and the quarry in this case isn’t entirely without means. The trail runs cold. She opens her one good eye again losing interest like the others before turning away toward closer prey.
17
— — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — -
“In other news, several local residents have been reporting strange sighting throughout Dalton and surrounding area. Here’s live-on-the-scene reporter, Emily Paulson. Emily?”
“Thanks, Greg. I’m standing here at the Broken Shoe Fill And Grill with local business owner Frank Galliger, who claims several white robed vigilantes stormed into his diner earlier this evening. Frank, we’re following several reports much like this one. Can you tell us about your experience?”
“Sure, Emily, I was putting up a sign in the window for our new breakfast special, 2 egg sandwiches on rye, a pinch of pepper and no more for only 5 bucks, deal available till next Wednesday, when a group of white robed puritans I recognized from the church on the other side of town came in chanting. They held hands and prayed together. Said God would judge us all, offered salvation, chased off some local anti-theists, then passed out some robes before they continued on elsewhere.”
“Has anything like this ever happened here before?”
“Never, Emily. This used to be a wholesome neighbourhood. I’ve lived in Dalton all my life, but things are changing. People are on edge. Easily offended. Looking for any excuse to argue or fight. One wrong word out of turn and old friends are at each others throat. People have lost their way.”
“And what do you think is the cause of all this tension?”
“If I were to guess, I’d say the end times have come.” Converted Frank puts on a white robe.
“What?”
“The end times, Emily. The dead aren’t staying dead. The Lord Almighty has opened the gates of Hell, releasing the horrors of Babylon. Repent and be saved!”
“I… see. Back to you, Greg.”
“Ummm, yes, thank you, Emily. I know our audience will certainly pray for Dalton tonight. This is Greg Fontaine with your Dalton Daily news update.”
18
— — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — —
Master Ni has been alone in his personal enclave since the incident with Miko last week. To an outside observer he appears to be asleep, however, this kind of sleep is more like a trance. A deep mediation lasting days. The other masters have been instructed to leave him be and keep the students away. When asked they reassure them he’s fine, just deep in study as he’s working on something very important. If pressed they say no more.
When Master Ni gathered the other masters that night to explain what had happened they all knew what must be done and so they left him to the dream work while they took over his waking duties. They began preparations to defend their secret society from whatever might come. Their most precious artifacts have been moved to deeper storage, hidden behind false walls and trapped doors. The students, while confused, have been instructed to study special treatise deep in the tunnels below the cooking halls. Sauces beyond their training, but necessity demands an aggressive approach. All the masters are teaching several classes everyday now
The most important recipes aren’t written in any book within their archives. Instead, Ni, must walk the dreams of the shared memory of masters past. The library can be reached only within a dream, and the recipes he needs wait somewhere within impossibly long book shelves carefully hidden where only a master dream walker might find them assuming they even know where to look.
A cold bowl full of yellow hay meal sits beside the thin mattress Ni lays upon. It’s effects would last days and when he finally awakes, he’ll either know the recipes Tansi used to pacify the old gods once upon a time or he won’t. Beyond that, there was the golden spoon, still missing, still beyond the reach of the society, and without it, the meal is impossible to produce anyway.
In the dream world Ni stands at the end of a long alcove, scanning the shelves with his bright green eyes. Most of the books blend together. A collection amassed over thousands of years. Every original concoction ever invented by master or student alike is ultimately stored here during the final graduation ceremonies of the worthy and then yearly during the master’ retreats where only the most advanced projects are even attempted. No students allowed.
The library is impossible to penetrate without the training passed down directly from Tansi himself. Not even the old gods have access to these books, though they certainly have books of their own, books that grant them powers beyond the limitations of mortal flesh. Yet, while the society lacks the destructive force of the ancient ones, it has its own means of protecting their legacy. Knowledge and skill; a history built upon every day since the dawn of civilization recording the successful inventions of the most dedicated chefs from all the noble tribes.
While Ni has been in this library many times, it makes it no easier to find what he’s looking for because some books are deeply hidden even in this holiest of hiding places. By design, difficult to retrieve, so as not to accidentally find itself in the hands of an overly curious student or master. Ni thinks of Miko, wondering what role she still has to play in all this. It can’t be a coincidence that she’s the one the old gods chose to speak through. They may want to claim her for their own as a vessel or a meal. Either way, Ni has much work ahead of him. He inhales deeply, steadies his resolve, then continues to walk the library halls.
Beyond the vast expanse of literature standing between him and the recipe he seeks are the time tunnels. The most important books are not just stored within a dream, but also within a specific time within a dream. At the end of each book shelf is a round door leading to a timescape containing a version of this library as it was, is, or will be. While some versions have lost books, others have gained them. Others still have yet to receive them at all. The book he’s after is one of the oldest, said to exist in the distant past, removed from the present and placed within a circular loop so as to narrow its availability to a very limited time signature of only a few minutes.
Once Ni finds the book he’ll only have mere moments to gather the recipe he needs, writ to memory only as he can take no notes here. This is where years of training pays off. Should he misremember, he’ll never be able to go back to get it again. Another master will have to attempt the quest, and nothing Ni tells him will help as his moment will have past and the recipe will be lost to him forever.
He senses the gravity of the situation acutely. Walking through a time tunnel for the umpteenth time he sees a golden book up ahead sitting on a small table surrounded by bowls full of rare ingredients. As fresh as though they’d been set out this morning or rather dreamt of this morning. The flesh of a dozen extinct species, arranged in circles, organized by priority for a cook long dead yet still the old master cooks one last time for Ni. The grace, the posture, this can be only one man. Tansi himself. While just a dream, unable to interact, he shows Ni everything he needs to see.
At last, this is it. Wasting no time, Master Ni gets down to work memorizing everything. Noting possible substitutes for animals no longer available. Repeating the process over and over in his mind. The configuration of the bowls, the order of introduction, the conduction, the heat, the method, the technique. Within the span of a few moments he learns more from observing the first master cook than he’s learned all his life studying in the waking world.
The book lays open to the page of most pressing need describing the method for this very special dish even as Tansi holds his golden spoon desperately mixing a broth to save his people in his own time. Stoically working with components considered both gross and indecent. But one cannot judge these things by human standards. This is what it would take to satisfy the old gods, sparing this world by proving mankind was a civilization worth preserving, capable of self sacrifice, rather than just livestock waiting for slaughter.
Reading carefully, Apprentice Ni invokes all his skill as a master chef. Line by line, techniques lost to time. Stored deep within his mind, verbatim, so when his dream ends he can immediately begin transcribing his waking thoughts before they disappear. This was the ultimate secret of the Tansi Society. Dream masters cooking in the past to feed the future. Storing every great dish ever conceived should the need present for one more course.
Once finished, Tansi nods presenting a deceptively simple dish; a bloody soup, as if he can see Ni watching him, but Ni knows that’s impossible. It was simply an acknowledgement to whoever would stand out of time someday where Ni now stands. The last disciple Tansi prayed he’d never need, but in his wisdom prepared for anyway. Tansi places the bowl beside the book before he stumbles around the table, falling into oblivion beyond view. Ni can smell the broth even in this dream. It’s unlike anything he’s ever experienced awake. Not appetizing exactly, in fact it sort of turns his stomach, especially knowing what’s in it, but this was not meant for a human tongue.
“Thank you, Master Tansi. I won’t let you down.” Ni steps back into his life knowing what he must do. Accepting his fate, understanding sacrifices would have to be made if he’s to save his own people now as Tansi had then. Opening his eyes for the first time in days, he reaches for his notebook, writing everything down exactly as he saw it. Hours later he calls for assistance. It’s time to cook.
19
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Wrapped in twisted wire, Bristol chews on her hand like a rat chews through bone. The pain is euphoric, distracts her from the disappointment she feels having to continue tolerating those around her. Spitting out another nail, she slams her fist down on the coffee table cracking the glass. Throwing her chair against the wall as she rises, the wire she’s been wrapping around her knuckles tightens against the leather glove she’s wearing underneath. Testing her new weapon she punches a hole through the drywall.
Absent Mother watches from the shadows. Pleased with her progress, the hate has grown with each passing day. Should the smallest flicker of hope enter Bristol’s awareness it’s soon plucked from her conscience, consumed by Absent Mother’s insatiable appetite. Bristol is an all you can eat buffet, gathering nourishment from a world designed to sow the seeds of discontent. An endless stream of terrible ideas. Action without conscience, interested only in destroying what others love.
As the troubles consume Dalton and the world beyond, Bristol only grows stronger. The police are gone, the neighbours have fled. The gasoline she carries with her spreads a fire to every household she visits. She cares nothing for anyone consumed by the flames. Even the walking dead circle a safe distance from her malignant vortex of destruction. She’s been chosen by an old god for a special purpose, Absent Mother has plans for Bristol, even as she would consume any plans Bristol might have had for herself. Of course, Bristol has no plans. She’s a walker, not a talker. That’s what makes her so useful.
Stalking the day as well as the night, Bristol seeks out her next victim. A zombie here, a frightened citizen there. No-one is safe. It doesn’t matter so long as she can enjoy the screams of the damned on their way to hell. The maven of mayhem would gladly kick a puppy if all the animals hadn’t fled town days ago. She’d even tried to find one just in case a straggler remained, but instead she just found bowls of uneaten dog food.
Anyone who comes across her immediately regrets it. Some recognizing her as the troubled girl down the street, others tragically trying to convert her to the puritan cause. A white robe, stained red with the blood she wiped from it’s previous owner’s broken body, keeps her warm in the twilight hours as she marches toward endless oblivion. Convinced she’ll be remembered where everyone else is forgotten, because the only people anyone notice anymore are the ones they fear.
“This waaaaaayyyy.” whispers Absent Mother from the furthest edge of Bristol’s chaotic mind. Without knowing why, Bristol changes direction toward the voice she can’t remember hearing. It leads her to the centre of town toward the high school she’d have been going to next year had the doctors not determined her special need in time. She can see it up ahead. Checking the plastic jug of gas, almost empty, she resolves to refill it on her way. Several parked cars near the school will suffice, no point in carrying a full jug all that way. Bristol picks up her pace.
20
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The phone operator made vague pronouncements then claimed they’d be right back, but Beth has been waiting for almost half an hour on hold. Switching to speaker a while ago to free up her hands, she swears under her breath as the same “musac” repeats for the umpteenth time. Useless help desk service as usual. She doesn’t even know why she bothered to call. All she knows is she’s alone in the morgue, Wesley ran off, and all the “corpses” soon followed him. She’s absolutely convinced she’s the luckiest woman alive as they marched past her showing no interest whatsoever. Can’t say the same for Wesley, who from the sounds of the screams earlier out in the street wasn’t as lucky as she was.
“Thank you for holding…”
“Yes, I need he — ”
“…we’ll be right with you in the order in which your call was received.”
“Ahhhhh.” How does that make any sense? She was already on the phone earlier, hasn’t she already come up in the proper order? Shouldn’t they have at least tried to address her problem. Given her some basic instructions on what to do. They’re the fucking experts!
The dead are walking the streets as casually as tourists walking a beach! She reads the card in her hand one last time.
“In case of emergency call 555-HELP and someone will immediately assist you. Thank you for choosing Global Cadaver. We care… about YOU.”
She throws the card down on her desk in disgust. Enough is enough. She’s already locked all the doors and checked to make sure no more corpses remain on the premises. She’s pulled the curtains over the windows, glancing outside a little earlier. Near empty streets save for the occasional “zombie” stumbling along in search of who knows what. Un-freaken-believable. This is not what she expected moving to town. Life would be simpler in Dalton, they said. Get your bills under control. Build your career. Live in the house of your dreams and pay it off before you retire. Ya, right!
Beth locks and loads grabbing the shot gun the old janitor keeps in his converted broom closet/office then fills her pockets with shells. Time to take care of this herself. The way her daddy taught her back on the farm. When something comes on your land chasing your cows… you shoot first and ask questions later. You don’t ask permission to take care of your business. You do what has to be done. Old school.
“This is MY town!”, yells Beth as she kicks the front door open stepping outside, shotgun raised, cradled against her shoulder like an old friend.
Bang! A zombie falls.
“You understand me?!”
Bang! Bang! Two more.
While stunned onlookers hide in their cars and houses waiting for help that’d never come the zombies fall one after the other as Beth reminds them a very old lesson forgotten in the cities a long time ago. Never fuck with a farm girl.
21
- — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — -
No longer safe on the surface, Miko studies down far below the streets of Dalton in the Tansi Society library. Master Ni has been training disciples for days in a dish he recent recovered from the dreamscape archives. Masters only, she pouts, disappointed given how close she is to taking her final test, graduating if all goes well, becoming a master herself. When she asks for details on the new dish they hush her sternly and shew her away. Master Ni won’t speak to anyone else, not even his favourite student.
She thinks of the golden spoon again and how different things would be if she’d been able to find it. The celebrations they’d have in her honour. Surely, they’d invite her to cook. Mixing a bowl of sweet peppers and lime. How proud Master Tansi would be in his great, great, great, great…. grand daughter. How, if her parents where still alive, they’d say “told you so” to all their friends who doubted her potential. She sighs defeated. What else can she do, her most powerful spells barely ring the bell standing between her and the missing artifact. For all she knows the spoon isn’t buried under that landfill. Maybe it’s not real at all.
Closing the book in front of her, the final page read, notated, and recited ten times out loud as instructed she looks around for another book. One she hasn’t already read a thousand times before, but finds nothing. The disappointment scrawled upon her face not unlike another student that once stood here many years ago. Discontent growing along with a hunger not yet satisfied by any dish the Tansi Society allowed them to cook.
Miko jumps, almost out of her skin, as she notices the little man in the corner sitting on a large chair far too large for his little frame. He smiles at her, over long. In fact he never seems to stop. He nods at her recognition.
“You now who I am, don’t you.”
Everyone in the Tansi Society does. The lost one. The cannibal.
“That’s right”, he says as if reading her thoughts. Can he read her thoughts, she thinks…
“And I know what you want.”
“Stay back!”, Miko draws to mind several defensive spells even as her gut warns her none will do any good against this fiend.
“I mean you no harm. Wouldn’t want to offend my… family.”
“You aren’t family. Not anymore!”
“That cuts… Miko. We’re blood, you and I. And I’ve come in your hour of need to grant a wish. A wish, for us both, I think you know of what I speak.”
“The golden spoon.”
“Yes”, he holds it in his little hand. She can’t believe it, but there it is.
“How?” Miko steps forward, reflexively reaching toward the spoon, before catching herself and pulling back.
“I’ve had it all along. Who do you think took it in the first place?”
Miko shakes her head. It can’t be.
“I was the greatest cook of my time, perhaps greater than Tansi himself.”
She grimaces.
“Ah, you see we aren’t so different, you and I. You are the greatest of your generation just as I am the greatest of mine, but these mediocre cooks stood in my way then just as they stand in yours now.”
Miko’s hands fall to her sides, yet she remains on guard.
“Do you know the deepest secret of the Tansi Society? The only one that really matters? The secret Master Ni is revealing right now to his new disciples even as your talent is wasted here with these books!” His voice rises with anger. “The secret I was cast out for discovering!”
“You were cast out for cooking the forbidden meat! You’re a monster!”
“We’re all monsters here, Miko. This entire society is founded by a monster. What do you think Tansi fed the old gods? What kind of meat do you think they like to eat?!”
“No…”
“Yes.” He throws a black book, bound in some kind of unusual hide on the table in front of her. Opens it to a page near the middle. She recognizes an illustration of the gold spoon which he places gingerly beside her trembling hand.
“Read the ingredients, Miko. This is just one of the dishes Tansi tried to cook for the old gods. One of many failures before he discovered the right mix. This is why he made the golden spoon because it won’t react with the salt. Won’t taint the flavour. There’s no magic in it. It’s just a spoon.”
She reads out loud, her heart sinking as she does, for she finally realizes the truth in Master Tansi’s own handwriting.
“A brother, a mother, a lover, a friend. Mixed in perfect fifths with sincere tears. No…”
“You see now, don’t you, Miko. We must all kill to eat. We’re all monsters of one sort or another, consuming the life of others to avoid our own death as long as we can. This stoic acceptance is required by any master chef who must slaughter their own livestock after caring so deeply for them every single day of their short lives. But it takes the resolve of a master to cook for the insatiable gods!”
He swings his feet around, dancing across the floor. Amused he no longer carries the burden of this secret alone. Miko’s face presses into her hands as the salty tears fall upon the golden spoon. Just one of the many ingredients they’d need to save them all.
22
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The preacher walks up and down the rows of robed devoted; inspecting. The heat of their torches warming his heart. Several white robes are stained with blood. These are taken aside for advancement to the elite class, the red robes. The special forces in God’s army. Only the most difficult tasks are assigned to the reds including the tedious chore of counting the gains and burning the losses. Not everyone comes to the flock willingly, and not all white robes have the fortitude to overcome those who resist. Regardless, their sacrifice is noted in the book the preacher carries everywhere he goes.
God willing, they’ll find their reward in the hereafter. Their bodies cremated to avoid re-animation, allowing their soul to move on. For almost a week now, the dead have refused to stay dead, and when their members fall it’s up to the nearest red robe to drag their corpse to the burning pile before they hear Hagatha’s call. Several trustworthy sightings of the old god has confirmed the preachers’ answered prayers. The apocalypse he’d spent a lifetime preparing for has finally arrived. At least one old god, one of the foretold “horsemen” heralding the return of divinity to the mortal plane has returned and rumours are beginning to spread of more otherworldly fiends working from the shadows as well.
Beyond converting what few remain among the living in Dalton, it’s also the sworn duty of the white robes to destroy the dead walkers whenever possible, while avoiding Hagatha’s chosen few. It isn’t always easy to tell the difference between regular soulless corpses and the children of heaven. Typically, if you survive the encounter, with some exceptions, they’re lesser dead. So far as the preacher can tell, no-one can kill Hagatha’s haram. They are beyond the limits of mortal men. Protected by Yahweh, for now, as are all his horsemen.
The lesser dead are mindless eaters, or when following a command, singularly committed. Even to their own misfortune. Caring nothing for themselves, only for pleasing their master or feeding their hunger. Unable to respond with nuance or adaption. The greater dead belied a deeper intelligence, and with it a more dangerous posture capable of changing course in response to offered opportunity. They have no hunger. No interests beyond protecting the old god who creates them as they usher in the twilight of mankind.
The preacher takes special care to instruct his followers to take heed of this advice. The greater dead are a sign an old god is near. Flee the moment either is apparent. The rest are a sign of a tainted mortal he knows only by reputation. The Necromancer. Destroy these abominations and whosoever brings him the head of the dark wizard will earn a golden robe blessed by the preacher himself. Do not burn his head, only his body, he reminds them. Let his head return, a helpless prison for his damned soul.
Row upon row chant their affirmation to their faith. They will serve, they will conquer. As the Lord Almighty wills, they are the generation of salvation. The last crusaders. Chosen to represent the creator of all things during the final chapter prophesied thousands of years ago. The Christ child’s promise fulfilled. What few doubts remain are soon excised by a more faithful soldier. Their ranks easily refilled, expanded even, as each day brings forth new converts eager for answers in these troubling times.
Every church in Dalton has now joined their holy cause. Their preachers now wear robes of their own. Honoured red guards from the first, as befits their station, gratitude for bringing their lambs to the table. Few question their purpose now, silent to a fault while those with greater resolve choose their path. The dead walk among them. Old gods feed on the faithless. There’s only one more revelation remaining. The preacher, yells this last as the world burns around them. His voice carrying to furthest ear.
“He will return to us, oh ye faithful! We are blessed to be alive to look upon his beautiful face as disciples of an innocent love. We will never know death! In the final hour, once all has been prepared by the horsemen of his apocalypse… Jesus will walk with his children in a Heavenly Kingdom on earth!”
“Praise the lord!!” A chorus of chanting zealots stamp their feet and raise their torches high.
“When the dead walk again so shall the redeemer!” The preacher leans to his closest aid and whispers, “bring the girl”, then back to the crowd.
“Purify the wicked with fire, for they are unclean!” God’s puritan mass waves with religious fervor, their passion gaining strength as a red robe leads local reporter Emily Paulson and her on location camera man Doug, to the central stage. Handing Doug his camera, another red robe directs him to show the crowd to the world. Whether belief or simply a sense of self preservation, Doug does as directed. Emily stands trembling next to the preacher who lifts her hand high as the crowd cheers.
“We have the eyes of the world on us now! The infidels can no longer ignore the will of the Lord!”
The world watches as Dalton burns.
23
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“You heard what the old god said. They’ve come back to consume the uncivilized. This is the inevitable result of a government more interested in popular opinion than the common good.”
“The government is the common good.”
“The government is nothing more than a corporate scheme exploiting the attention of regular folk through a dishonest press.”
“Without the press to tell us what to think we’d be lost.”
“Look around you. Don’t you see what’s happening?”
“I see selfish people like you trying to run down the very people trying to help.”
“Help? What help? Doom and gloom every day. Constantly telling people to sit down and shut up and where has it gotten us? Dalton is on fire. Half the country is rising up as we speak demanding action and the government is ignoring them.”
“Who will provide for the poor if not the government? Who will care for the elderly?”
“How has the government cared for the homeless? Both poor and often elderly? They were the first to die. Where was the government to protect them?”
“That’s not the government’s fault. The police tried to help. They didn’t raise the dead. They didn’t ask the old gods to return.”
“The old gods have returned because the government refuses to function as any civilization demands. They tell citizens what to do instead of listening to what citizens need. Their appetite for power overwhelms any good. Even as they claim responsibility for all the good individuals do, they take no responsibility for the harm they cause interfering.”
“Conspiracy theory nonsense! It’s people like you that are responsible for this plague, if you’d just do what your told this would all be over by now.”
“You’re crazy! We tried everything the TV suggested. Has it helped anything? No! We’re worse off now than when this all started. The streets are overrun with the walking dead! We need to take matters into our own hands!”
“And do what?”
“Something. Anything. Maybe it’s too late. Maybe we should have done something weeks ago when it really mattered. Maybe we shouldn’t have trusted corporate assholes and their political cronies. Stay inside they said. Lock down and we’d be safe. Don’t get involved. Don’t get in the way. I should have said no from the start. We should have gotten out of town. Gone to the cabin. I should have…”
“This is just temporary. The restrictions imposed by government experts are for our own good. Civilization will endure. Do your part… or else.”
“Or else what? What can you possibly do to me that’s worse than what’s already happening. My family is dead, your wife…. my husband… dead. Look out the window! Do you see them over there by the bushes? Along with most of our neighbours and friends? This isn’t a life worth living. This door won’t keep them out forever. It’s only a matter of time until we’re just like them.”
“What are you doing? Close the fucking door!”
“Joining my family.”
Part 2 — The Memory Game
Enough of this already. Stop asking me for food. There’s no more food! We don’t have any money! I spent the last of it on your supper. I went without by the way. So stop asking me for food! Every time you ask me for food try to remember that I haven’t eaten so you are asking a hungry person who went without their meal so you could eat. Stop asking me if you can have more food! Stop it!
“I don’t mean to irritate you.”
I know, but you are. You are irritating me even as I tell you that I know you aren’t trying to. So please try to understand that is how irritating it is. That even though I know you can’t help it you are still pushing me past the point where I can take it calmly. Listen to the tone of my voice. If you can’t remember then at least listen to how quickly I push back on you when you ask this question. Take the hint. If you ask and I look at you and say STOP IT! Then stop it. Don’t keep asking. Don’t complain that you’re hungry. Assume I am angry because you have asked me this same question over and over again already and the answer is always the same. There is no food. Stop asking me!
“I’ll try to remember.”
Even if you can’t remember, infer. Look at my face. Listen to my voice. I am making it as clear at it can be made that I do not want to hear that question. Don’t ask it ever again. If it’s time for you to eat then there’d be food in front of you. We’ll have more money tomorrow. Until then you’ve had your supper and there’s no more food.
“OK”
Ya, right. Let’s see if you make 15 minutes without asking it again.
“Asking what?”
You know what. We just spent the last few minutes talking about it. What are you not supposed to ask me about ever again?
“Ummm. I forget.”
Come on now. Think harder about it. Why am I so angry? What do you keep asking about that irritates me this much?
“Ummm. Food?”
Yes! Exactly! See it’s in there. So what’s the questions that you should never ask me again?
“I don’t know.”
If I don’t want to be asked about food what’s the question you need to stop asking me?
“Do you have any food?”
No, I don’t. Now go to sleep, Dad. I’ll make some breakfast in the morning.
“Ok.”
The middle aged man with the shaved head plucks a plastic pill pouch from a pale blue cardboard box. Tearing it open with his teeth he hands the pills to his father who shakily takes them.
“What do I do with these?”
Same thing you do every night before bed. You swallow the pills. Same as during breakfast, lunch, and supper.
“Why?”
Because you had a stroke and your kidneys don’t work anymore.
“I did?”
Yes. That’s why your memory is so messed up. These little pills keep your blood pressure down and these big pills take the bad stuff out of your food since your kidney’s can’t.
“Where are we, again?”
We’re in Yogden. We moved here yesterday.
“We are? When did we leave Reven?”
6 years ago. We’ve been living in Prendle for the last 6 years. Now we live in Yogden.
“What? Why don’t I remember that?”
You had a stroke, Dad. Here, let me tuck you in.
“I did?”
And your hearing sucks.
“But where are we?”
Yogden, Dad.
“I can’t hear you.”
YOGDEN. We’re renting this basement apartment from a friend of mine. It’s just a few blocks away from the hospital where you get your kidney dialysis treatments. We moved here so we wouldn’t have to do the hour long drive back and forth to the Yogden hospital 3 days a week from Prendle anymore. Gas has gone up so much. Everything is too expensive now so we have to make some sacrifices.
“I don’t have dialysis.”
Yes, you do. Touch your chest. Feel that tube coming out of your skin there? That’s what they hook up to the machine. It takes four hours or so to clean your blood.
“But I don’t remember ever going to the hospital.”
Three days a week we do this. Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Saturdays.
“How long have I been taking treatments?”
Six years.
“I have no memory of this.”
I know, Dad, but it’s true. Now go to sleep. Are you warm enough?
“I think so.”
I better turn up the heat a bit.
“Ok, Can I ask you a dumb question?”
The son looks at his ailing father sideways.
I know what you’re gonna ask and the answer is no!
“But, I’m hungry!”
Goodnight, Dad!
Andrew walks across the room and sits at his desk. The basement suit is one large room partitioned into four general areas with a tiny shower only bathroom being down the hall toward the laundry room. In one corner is a bed where his father restlessly shifts around trying to get comfortable. In the opposite corner is a coffee station and microwave. Dressers and a clothes cabinet take up one other corner and a kitchenette area converted into a makeshift office takes up the remaining space where Andrew sits now. A news video talking about wild fires spreading in the north western end of the country runs across a laptop screen.
The move had been unexpected and abrupt. After having spent all their saving on a “new” used vehicle for the Yogden trips the van didn’t even last 3 months before it broke down and now there was no money to fix it. When a work friend, Dixon, mentioned having some space for rent Andrew jumped on it pulling his last 200 bucks out of his pocket to secure it. A week later Andrew and his father moved in. If they could just hold on until tomorrow then everything should work out just fine. They could still spend weekends at the Prendle Music Studio where Andrew does music lessons and recording sessions and one trip a week there and back is a lot more manageable than three.
In the meantime, Dixon and his boss, Grady went to work on the broken down van Andrew spent all that money decal-ling up with studio logo. They took out the drive shaft, cut and welded a cap for the hole it left behind. Filled it with oil, sealed it, and handed the keys back to Andrew. While no longer a 4WD it works just fine. For now. Finally, some good news after so many miscellaneous financial catastrophes. It’s been a hard few years. Andrew closes his laptop as a woman talks about possible arsonists starting the wild fires, then wonders over to the couch on the far wall. He’d tried the futon the last few nights and thought he should try something else. Sleep comes easier than expected.
— —
Frank sits up. Cold and hungry. And there was something else but it just won’t come to mind. He doesn’t know where he is. Andrew is fast asleep across the dark room but Frank can’t see him in the dark. Or hear him. Silently, mostly due to moving so slowly, Frank makes his way off the bed toward the hallway door. Feeling his way across the wall in the dark he’s soon halfway to the bathroom when he notices some stairs leading upward. At the head of them is a screen door, beyond that the back yard, and beyond that who can say. The stairs are a difficult clime, but he takes his time. Each step pressing between the wall and the handrail for balance and lift.
He doesn’t really know where he’s going., but he assumes he’ll know his destination when he gets there. When he isn’t cold or hungry, that’s when he’s arrived. It’s a little warmer outside than in, so that’s progress. He wishes he had shoes, but he’d left his socks on so he steps into the grass. A few unsteady steps and then he’s stumbling forward. Face down, hand reaching out franticly for anything. His left leg collapsing despite his best effort.
He doesn’t know how long he’s been lying in the grass staring up at the stars. Just that the big dipper is his favourite constellation. He traces it with his eyes as best he can being half blind and not all that focused at the best of times. He comes to rest on a couple lights above him. They don’t look like stars. They’re closer and brighter than that. Frank shakes his head and tries to rub the focus back into his eyes. Squinting sideways, he’s pretty sure they’re windows. Struggling to his knees, he feels his way toward the lights. Eventually his hand touches a metal screen door. On the other side of it he finds some stairs. A long set going down and a short set going up.
Path of least resistance leads him up to a locked door. So down he goes. Past the screen door, down the stairs one step at a time. He remembers why he got up in the first place. He has to pee. So at the bottom of the stairs he instinctively turns left. The light in the bathroom comes on at the flip of a switch. Frank does his business then shuffles his way back down the hall, through an open door, slips into his bed and falls asleep.
Andrew turns over and adjusts his pillow. He does this a few times, ultimately abandoning the couch in favour of the futon, again.
— -
When you’re stuck in a routine, being able to do anything else at all is indistinguishable from freedom. That’s why the young soldier stepped forward when the crew captain offered a special assignment. A fearless jackal of a woman with a reputation for wet work, reassigned to civilian duties after black cover ops shut down. One day hunting terrors straight from the imaginations of ancient gods and then the next they’ve just… lost interest, or got what they came for, or who knows… just gone. No explanation. Not even a hint. The entire world left behind like a forgotten toy in a child’s playground.
And what where people supposed to do? Gods were real, but disinterested and scary. Nothing anyone believed about just about anything happened as expected or turned out to be true. Yet, within days people were dismissing the last several years as some kind of mass hysteria. Within weeks denying the return of the old gods in the first place and soon right back into the same beliefs they held before the world almost ended. Even the Puritan remnants bowed their heads in shame as they shuffled back to communion with their brothers and sisters of the faith. Vowing never to let such fervour cloud their judgment again.
By the time the Caregiver Protocol was established the dirty work preparing its way was largely over. The zombies were entirely wiped out or returned to an albeit disabled though relatively normal state of life. The need for soldiers was past, the need for basically everything else was beyond even the most optimistic supply. Soon those who were used to wiping blood off their hammers were wheeling the very folk they were fighting around in a chair as they heal, apparently cured of the zombie infection. Slowly returning to normal. Normal yet severely disabled in a multitude of ways both mental and physical.
—
