Dead City (5 page)

Since the brief meeting with his wife, the disembodied spirit was lost, literally and figuratively. He cursed himself for not having inherited his father's gift for memory, fondly recalling how the old man could recall directions and street names, plan routes around the city with the speed and skill of a cab driver. His father used to say he had 'The Knowledge', or at least an abridged version, given that there were entire square miles of the city that were completely blocked off.

Seeking shelter, the spirit had attempted to enter several buildings, only to discover that each of them was populated, and whether they be ghouls or deadites, spectres or wights, each had claimed their domain and did not appear to take kindly to strangers.

As the sun began to set, he settled by a dumpster in an alley, just about giving up finding somewhere to call his own. He knew he didn't actually need a physical shelter. It wasn't like he could feel cold, and rain would pass right through him, but the thought having a roof over his head might give him the subconscious veneer of having some remaining thread of humanity. The shadows of the city stretched out as night drew forth, and the nocturnal creatures began to stir.

Hidden behind the dumpster he hoped and prayed he wouldn't have to see anything hideous. If he could just last a week he would get to see Ashley again, and if only for a short while, could pretend that things were normal.

His prayers were not to be answered. The dumpster began to shake as something inside it started to wake. The hatch flew open with an almighty
clang
and bursting forth to tower over him was what he could only describe as a monster. Its flesh was melted charcoal-black, fingertips of raw bone carved into jagged points. It loomed above him and unlocked its jaws with a
clack
, swinging them wide like a snake, revealing cracked, sharpened teeth as it twisted and turned its head towards him, eye sockets hollow, but still seeing somehow.

“Ssssssoul!” it said, lifting long, spindly legs over its shoulders, as if it were performing in a disgusting circus act.

All four appendages clutching on to the lip of the dumpster, it stretched its body towards him, and started sucking deep at his essence. The spirit felt like he was being ripped apart atom by atom, consciousness draining, thoughts slowing. He was unable to move or act. Darkness cascaded around his field of vision and he could hear his last thoughts echoing through his disembodied mind.

'Three years after I die and I'm actually going to be gone...'

From somewhere beyond the shadows, a series of loud fleshy
thwacks
rang out. The darkness steadily subsided, and slowly, the alley came back into view. He looked around at the
teyollocuani, the soul-eater that was formerly standing over him,
to discover it was now in several pieces across the alley. Its head was lying across the road from the dumpster, desperately trying to suck at his spirit, but failing elegantly.

He looked up at a shadow standing over him. A man in a trilby and overcoat, extendable batons in each hand.

“What the fuck?” asked the spirit.

“I just saved you from... well, more death than you're unliving right now.” said Jon, steely pride in his voice.

“I meant what the fuck are you doing in my Goddamn body?!”

Mary Gilligan was reading by the fire. It wasn't cold, but she had always liked the way the light and shadows danced around the room. The mantle above the flames was laden with photos of her long departed husband and their still-missing son. Having been retired for some time, she now found solace leafing through the library of over a thousand books her partner of over five decades had left her.

The doorbell rang, and the warmth of the fire proved itself only skin-deep, as a chill ran through her weary old bones. It was after dark, and she was expecting nobody. She recalled the stories that were often on the news, of old ladies answering the door at night, only to be snacked upon by some unspeakable fiend. She dared not think of it further, for fear of her blood pressure.

Another ring, followed by a
rat-a-tat
on the door. Whoever it was didn't seem to be going away, and they definitely wanted her attention. Cautiously, she walked to the door, as another knock of knuckles rapped on the old wood.

“Who is it?” she asked with a tremor in her voice, trying to contain her fear.

“It's me.” said the voice on the other side. “It's Ashley.”
The pensioner breathed a sigh of relief, unbolting the door, pulling back deadbolts and finally the latch. As the door swung open, Ashley was greeted by a warm smile inviting her embrace. She held back her combination of joy and sadness and simply hugged the old woman.

Mary insisted on boiling the kettle, even though Ashley declined tea, and put out a selection of biscuits that had been waiting for someone to eat them since long before the two even met.

“Mary, will you sit down?” she asked, taking the woman's frail hand.

“Oh, hush girl, I'm not that old.”

“No, please.” she led her mother-in-law to the chair by the fire, and pulled up another opposite her. “It's about Jon.” she continued.

“He loved you, you know that?” she said, her big old eyes becoming glassy.

“I know.” said Ashley, trying to talk over a lump in her throat. “Now, you've got to listen to me, okay?”

“Of course, dear.”

“I saw him today.”
The old woman said nothing, her eyes thick with tears, a smile of false teeth wide on her face.

“He's...” Ashley didn't want to say it, saying it would only hurt the elderly woman she adored. “When he left, when he disappeared, he didn't do that on purpose.”

“You spoke to him?” Mary asked.

“He, he doesn't remember what happened. But somehow, he...” again, she couldn't use the d-word. She held her mother-in-law's hand tight and looked into her eyes, both knowing what she was going to say, and both on the verge of tears.

“He passed away.”

The two women cried by the fireside, their tears glistening as the warm light pirouetted shadows around the room. Ashley stayed with Mary until the old woman was too exhausted to cry any longer. She put the fire out and helped her out of her chair, stopping as her eyes met the mantle.

“I knew I'd seen him...” she said to herself.

“What's that dear?”
Ashley was staring at the photos. In one of them, alongside Mary, between her husband and a younger Jon was the Minister.

“Who's he?” she asked, pointing at the man.  The photo was taken at a time when he was thinner, his hair still mostly in-tact, but it was unmistakably the same person she saw earlier at the visitor's centre.

“That's George.” said Mary. “He was Mike's best friend back since they were at the ministry together. Best of friends through to the end.” she smiled, lingering on happier memories.

“George? But I've seen him somewhere else.”

“On the telly maybe, he does something in government still, although I don't know what these days. Don't like to watch the news too much, there's never anything cheery happening.”

Ashley offered to help her mother-in-law up to bed, but she refused. As she wished the old lady goodnight, she realised she was walking away with more questions to be asked about Jon's disappearance than she had arrived with. But finally, after almost four years, she had someone to address them to.

'It was just another ghost, another apparition haunting him like all the others. He knew that, but he didn't like the feeling he got when the thing talked to him. He knew it was just another mad, fucked up spirit, a lost soul trying to mess with his head, but it was starting to make him question –'

“Would you stop for a second?” asked the disembodied spirit, as he chased after Jon.
Jon was mid-strut and trying to get an good internal narration going, but every time he hit a flow, his pursuer interrupted.

'It was making him ask questions; how come he could see ghosts? What was it about him that was special, when most people couldn't see the damned bastards? Was it--'

“Hold up, we need talk about this!”

“There's nothing to talk about.” said Jon, hastening his stride at the sound of groaning up ahead.

'Was it why he was given the job? That question only made him ask more questions. How long had he had the job? He couldn't remember, there was so much he couldn't remember and –'

The narration was stopped once again, but it wasn't due to the spirit haunting him. He turned the corner to find six zombies trawling the streets.

“Hey!” he yelled to them. “You know the Goddamn rules...”

* * * *

The rules of Dead City, few as they were, stated that zombies weren't allowed to roam in groups larger than three. They had a habit of herding, and once that started, one man alone had no chance stopping a stampede.

The Dead City in Shanghai once had to bring the army in to stop a herd, after a thousand zombies grouped together in a matter of minutes. After four days of walking in circles, the creatures finally found their way to the wall, climbing on top of one another to reach the peak, falling over the top and exploding on to the streets below like water balloons of organs and viscera. One by one they burst on the street until there were enough bodies and entrails to cushion the fall of the others, at which point they started stalking the streets of Living Shanghai.

Of course, a liaison keeping zombie groupings down was easier said than done. They had a hard time remembering rules, let alone counting to three.

* * * *

The zombies were not pleased at Jon's request, and lunged at him. A few flicks of his wrist, and half of them were on the ground, the remaining three looking at their fallen comrades, confused.

“That's three.” explained Jon. “Three on the ground.” he indicated to their fallen brethren. “And three of you standing, you understand?”
They grunted in acceptance. Whether they actually understood was another matter entirely.

“What are you, some kind of fix-it man for the pulse-retarded? Presenting Sesame Street for the undead?” asked the spirit.

“I'm the living liaison.”said Jon.

“How'd we get that shitty job?”

“There is no 'we'.” Jon insisted. “There's just me. I don't know who the fuck you are, but you're not me, we're not an 'us'.”

“Well how'd
you
end up in this shitty job?”

“I...” Jon faltered. “It's my job, It's been my job for as long as I can remember.”

“And how long can you remember?”
Jon didn't answer. He didn't know. He started his walk back up with a swift stride, in the hope of avoiding further questions, and their source.

“You know I don't breath, right?” said the spirit. “You're going to get winded before I will...”
Ignoring his stalker, Jon continued his walk trying not to listen to his unwanted companion.

Distracted from the job at hand, he didn't see or hear the
teyollocuani
with its recently reattached head standing in the shadow of the doorway. It reached out with a bony hand, dislocated jaw hanging, ready to suck the life from his body. Whilst Jon was distracted, his ghost was not, and as he saw the monster lunge for his body, cried out as he tried to push himself out of the way.

The push never happened. As he impacted with his corporeal form, he found himself sucked into his former body, finally able to feel, to move with muscle and bone. The momentum of the collision between the two pushed Jon's body out of the grasp of the creature, it caught air and turned to try again. Jon didn't know what to do. He didn't have the memories of the man who had walked in his skin whilst he was in the corridor. So he ran.

'There were no dames to rescue, but there's always some kind of trouble out on the streets...'

The narration played out in his head like a voice-over, whilst Jon's feet hammered on the pavement.

'What the hell is this?'
his own
thought chimed in, over the top of the narration.

'The big bad city needed someone to stand up for it, needed someone who was willing to do what it took to keep it safe.'

'Seriously, what the fuck?'

Jon stopped running, lungs aching, heart punching him in the chest. He relished every ache, all the pains. He had no idea how much he missed having a body, and as he felt a tickle in his nose, looked forward to the impending nasal explosion. He sneezed and found himself thrown out of the body, like a giant sentient germ.

“What the actual, genuine fuck was that?”

“I remember!” said Jon. “I remember  everything!”

Jon's pace was fast, but he let his spirit keep up with the strut. This time he had no need for a fictional life of narration. The memories were fading, but he still held on to pieces that were most important.

“She needs us.” he said to his ghost.

“Ashley?  Yeah, she's needed us for almost four years.”

“Four years? Has it been four years?” their combined memories were still missing a chunk of time.

“Yeah, tell me about it... Where are we going?”

“We've got to get out of here, and only one person knows how.”
They turned the corner and walked towards the casino. The bouncer was raring for a fight, having been beaten down earlier in the day without the chance to throw a punch. Jon had him knocked to the floor, swallowing his own teeth before he had a chance to raise his fist.

“I don't remember being so violent.” said the ghost, raising an ethereal eyebrow.

“Yeah, we've learnt a few things since you went out for a stroll...”
Kicking open the door of the Necromancer's lair, the creature smiled, welcoming them in despite the intrusion.

“Always a pleasure, my dear Jonathan, and who's your friend?”

“He's me. I need a favour.”

“Straight to the chase, aren't you? I'm always happy to lend a hand, as well you know.”

“Quid pro quo, no doubt.” said the ghost.

“Not for my favourite liaison!” hissed the creature. “What can I do for you, dear boy?”

“I need a way out.” he said.

“Nobody leaves a Dead City, you know that.”

“There are ways out.” said Jon. “There are
always
ways out.”

“Well,” the beast said, feigning rumination. “I've heard of tunnels underground, but if you believe the stories, only the living may pass over the rivers that run beneath...”

“Where's the entrance?” asked the Jons.

* * * *

Before they could leave, there were affairs that had to be put in order. Jon returned to the office and instructed Dildo to take his place and do his rounds whilst he was gone.

“You understand what you need to do?” Jon asked Dildo.

“Know who killed me?” asked Dildo.

“Dildo, you know how you died.” Jon indicated to the note in his pocket.

“Paper kill me?”

“Pay attention.” he said, tapping Dildo on the forehead. “You must protect the city while I am gone. Do you understand?”

“He doesn't understand.” said the apparition.

“He does.” Jon insisted.

“Coffee?” Dildo inquired.

“Jesus, give me a second.” the ghost said, jumping straight at Dildo, the impact pulling him inside the zombie.

“I real dumb. Hole in head break brain.” he said, followed by a sneeze, releasing the spirit.

“Dildo protect city.” he said, this time of his own volition.

“Good. We'll be back soon.” said Jon, putting his trilby on Dildo's head and making for the door.

“Mr. G, y'aint introduced me to your sexy spirit friend.” whined Sheila, with a eyelidless wink at the ghost.

“He's me, and even if he had a body, he's not going to sleep with you.” said Jon as they left the office.

* * * *

Until they entered the sewer, Jon had never been envious of a ghost before. The spook happily trundled through the tunnels, whilst his corporeal counterpart tried to quell his natural desire to vomit copiously and repeatedly.
Despite being entertained by his living-half's suffering, the ghost thought it best to try and distract him.

“What's you last memory?” he asked.

“Before the sewer stench started melting every cell in my brain?”

“Before all this. What do you remember now?”

“My dad.”

“Our dad.” the spirit corrected.

“He was sick.” said Jon

“I think he was just old.” said the ghost.

“He was in bed, attached to a thousand machines, that seems like sickness, not age.” said Jon.

“You'd think we'd remember that...” said his ghost.

“You'd think we'd remember a lot of things.” Jon said, hearing something up ahead. “Hold up.”

“What?”

“I'm almost definitely going to have to vomit. And I'm going to aim it right where you're haunting.”

“You could just say 'standing'.”
Up ahead, amidst a tower of shit, was a Shitite.

* * * *

Some people die of old age, others die of sickness, and then there are those who die drowning in a toilet full of shit. Jon compared it to something he half-recalled Freud saying, that your first sexual experience digs in to your mind and sows seeds for your future fetishes and kinks.

The Shitite, as rare as it was, was the unliving version of that. It lived in shit, it bathed in shit, and it ate shit.

* * * *

“I'm really glad I don't have a nose.” said the ghost.

“I'm pretty close to cutting mine off.” said Jon.

“Wouldn't that just act like larger, bloodier nostrils?”

“Maybe I could punch myself in the face until I seal it shut.” Jon said,  reaching to his holsters as the Shitite raised its head.

“Lay-zon?” it said, its malformed mouth teeming with excrement. “Liaison!” it said again, excitedly, after swallowing the mouthful.

“You!” said Jon, with a smile and faux recognition. He turned to his ghost and shrugged, then looked back at the shit-beast, feigning a memory of the creature.

“This'a good man here.” said the Shitite, indicating Jon to the ghost. “Save me from'a monsta'!”
Jon couldn't recall, but was happy to accept the credit, assuming the thing didn't touch him.

“He'sa good man.” the Shitite said again, slapping Jon on the back.
Jon shivered, and felt a little bit of vomit crawl up his throat. He wondered if he'd ever be able to get the smell out of his coat.

“Seen a river round here?” Jon asked, trying not to throw up in the friendly dead thing's face.

“I gots'a river right ova'there.” it said, pointing beyond the mountain of crap.

“Great. Let's go!” said the ghost, with enthusiasm that Jon wanted to stab in the face repeatedly.
Whilst his ghost floated through the shit, unfazed, Jon tried to walk around the pile, but found himself wading deeper and deeper. The filth was soon coming up beyond his knees, then beyond his thighs, and soon nestling up to his crotch with every further step.

“What's taking so long?” the ghost asked, prancing around in front of him, mocking his body with its incorporeal form.
Jon grabbed his spirit, and the ghost found himself possessing his own body again.

“Oh God I'm going to die of this smell!” said Jon.

'At least if you shit yourself after you die, nobody will notice.
' thought the voice inside his head.

“I hate you so much.” he said to himself, as he waded to the bank of the river, throwing up repeatedly, trying not to have to walk through his own vomit on top of the shit.

When they arrived at the river, self-possessed Jon put his legs in, trying to soak off the shit, but the stench remained.

“We should have brought some spare clothes.” he said.
There was no response. He wasn't listening to himself.