by J A Campbell
I'm almost impressed. Didn't know the dude had it in him to be philosophical and wax poetic and all. "Listen, Hans my bro, I can't think what to tell you. You're in a really unique position. I guess as long as you still have free will, you can kind of dictate your own actions, you know? In a reasonable and thoughtful manner, without feeding on humanity."
The moaning from the graveyard gets louder.
"I'll tell you something, man." Hans twirls his cape, all dramatic effect, and holds one finger up like he's telling whatever's over there to chill, to just be patient. I think Vlad left his personality behind when they switched. "For seven years I worked for the Big Lady and I thought that was pretty rad. But I got kinda homesick, you know? All I wanted to do was get my butt back home. I didn't expect to learn so much along the way."
I had to take the bait. "So tell me, dude. What kinds of things have you learned?"
"Well." He starts counting on his fingers. "First I thought I had it made, right? Up there, where everything's happy and there's like songs and parties and sunshine all the time. But when I got down here, I realized those wings weighed a ton. And there was poor dead Queen Anne, pretty as a little peach except for the whole severed head thing. To me, the wings and halo didn't have much value, but to her, they were everything. I wanted like...no weight at all, so it was a great trade. Then when I was a ghost, we met that revenant dude, and he was all sad about being visible, and I was all sad about being invisible, so I was totally stoked to trade for that. It was cool, I mean, he got to wisp on out of there, but I got to be seen again 'cause like what's the point of going home if no one can see I'm there? So I definitely made out like a bandit there." He stops, smooths back his already flawless hair. "Then we get here, and that poor Vlad dude. Man, my effin' heart broke at his story, can you imagine? He wanted that stake in the chest, and I don't know if it was some twisted death wish or whatever, bro, but I was sick of carrying that thing around. And who doesn't want to be able to dress sharp and fly? One more time, I made the best trade ever. I just keep getting happier and happier. Every step along the way reminds me of that."
Wow, he really is a philosopher. "And to think I doubted you." I slap him on the shoulder and move him toward the graveyard. If nothing else, we can find a nice coffin for him to sleep in there. "You're all right, Hans, my man."
As we get closer, we hear this moaning sound, and this dude who looks like absolute...well, crap shuffles over, arms outstretched.
"Whoa, dude." Hans eyes the guy. "What's the deal, bro?"
"Can't... sleep," grunts out the guy.
* * *
"Oh, honestly, Gabriel. You can't mean to tell me there's more?" Disgust is written all over her face as plain as day, but I pretty much feel that again, this is not my problem.
"Au contraire, ma'am, but there is. I think you'll like it. As in it's best-seller material, Boss. They'll be reading it for years."
"It had better be good, with a lead-in like that." The tap-tap-tap of her fingernails against the coffee cup is unnerving and distracting, but I'm used to it after all this time.
"Guaranteed blockbuster, Boss." I'm sure of that. I get paid to keep track of these things, and down on Earth, the undead are really "in" this year.
* * *
Hour Eleven:
The guy shambles forward hesitantly, his clouded-over eyes searching both our faces. He looks almost plaintive, or would if he had more actual muscle tissue to express with.
"Whoa, dude, no brains here, at least not of the edible variety." I hold my skateboard out in front of me like a weapon, which is a more accurate description of it than a lot of people think. Board, sword, not much difference sometimes. "Weapon, my man," I say like it has to be reinforced. "Weap. Pon."
"Tired," the zombie groans.
"I know what you mean." Philosophical discussion at an end, Hans glides forward. "You're tired and I just wanna go home." A glance up at the sky makes him frown. I figure we have maybe half an hour before sunrise.
"Home." Monosyllables don't make for great discussion, and I know it's not my job to step in and cause any trouble, but it isn't like dawn's gonna wait for us to have a nice long discussion on the merits of sleeping in coffins or anything.
"I think it'll be naptime pretty soon, bro." Hans steps forward–oh, screw this–and rests a perfectly manicured hand on the zombie's shoulder. "Want to swap with me? You can get some nice undisturbed sleep, and I can shuffle off to Buffalo, metaphorically speaking. You game or what?"
The zombie nods. "Fair." Then he makes what seems like a circular motion with one stiff-fingered hand. "You. Me."
Everything about it says swap and just like before, the air does this little shimmer: body exchange complete. The former zombie looks down at his newly-smooth skin, grins enough so his fangs show, and laughs. He sounds just like Vlad. In the meantime, Hans is just kind of standing there, a big goofy-ass vacant smile on his face.
"Mmmm," he croaks out happily.
"I'm glad you like it, my friend. Let me introduce myself. My name is...was...Stefan. A year ago I came upon two children, a girl and a boy, playing in the woods, surrounded by a number of bread crumbs. Had I noticed at the time their general clumsiness and allowed myself to feel the utter wrongness of the situation, I might have fled and gone running back to my family in Huedin but I was curious and approached. 'What are you doing out here,' I called, 'soon it will be dark, and there are foul beasts about. You should run along home, give thanks to your mama and your papa for keeping you warm and fed.' How little did I know? These woods are not safe and have not been safe for centuries. The children, of course, had been infected and turned. They were playing with the remnants of their dinner."
Stefan stopped, and like he'd suddenly forgotten how to talk, he flexed his jaw. If I didn't know better, I'd have to say it looked like the dude's version of macho posturing. His eyes, glinting red, clouded over for a sec. "You can guess what happened next."
"Dude. Let me guess: you were dessert."
"Da." With a frown, Stefan fingers the silk lining of his cloak. "For a year I have been wandering. I would like to say I have wandered in search of redemption, but that would be a lie. In that state"–he gestures broadly to Hans, who's happily staring down a blade of grass–"thoughts are limited. What a relief for me to be able to express myself in words again. I am so happy, I might weep."
"Watch out if you do, bro, your tears will be blood."
"Ah, yes. Blood. I thank you for the warning, my friend. In the meantime, I must be finding a safe place to rest. I know of a few likely coffins that are seldom disturbed by the villagers. Like me, they have learned their lessons, but with less deadly consequences. Or should I say undeadly?" The dude laughs at his own joke, grins that fanged grin again, lets out a couple choice words I don't need to repeat as he bites his own lip, and wanders off into the remains of the night.
Me, I just look at Hans. He's still grinning like an idiot, happiest he's looked all effin' day. "Come on, bro." I lift him gently by the arm so I don't break it off. "Let's get you home."
"Home," he says, and nods as vigorously as a zombie can. I've gotta tell you, that's not saying much.
* * *
The boss calls for another cup of java. While she's waiting on it, she stares me down over the lip of the parchment. Finally, she shakes her head and clears her throat. "You make a far more decent babysitter than I expected. Maybe I'll make it your new career."
She probably sees the look of utter tragedy on my face. I mean, I'm good at emo, had centuries to perfect it, but this time it's honest. I've gotta plead my case. "No offense, ma'am, but maybe you should, like, finish reading before you rush to judgment."
The boss tilts her head back and laughs. "Feeling gullible, are we?" Then she gets all stern and composed again. "Rush to judgment? I ought to be insulted." But the ghost of a smile plays behind her scowl as her coffee arrives.
"Just brewed a fresh pot, Your Lordship," squeaks the little wing.
Mom blows across the top of the porcelain cup, picks up my report, and gets back to business. I hate it when she gets all practical joker on me. And most people think she doesn't have any sense of humor.
* * *
Hour Twelve:
Taking a zombie for a hike ain't no stroll in the woods. Or technically, I guess it is. It's just slow going, and it's a quiet business. Oh, sure, every now and then Hans manages some syllable beyond "grrrrrr" or "ugh." He points to a bird and goes "Biiiiiird," and to a squirrel and says "Squiiiiiiirr," but for the most part it's a long slow trek, primarily in silence. Hans, though. You know how he's always been a few marbles shy of the full complement? I've gotta say this zombie business seems like the right fit. For a dude without much brains to start with, he at least seems, you know, happy.
Hans also proves he's got a keen-ass sense of direction, 'cause he just keeps plodding along. Through woods and fields, past towns and villages and cities. I know you said no interfering, but I kind of feel like it's my duty to keep this crazy douchebag zombie safe for the duration. I'm thinking the people aren't gonna take lightly to seeing Mr. Risen-From-The-Grave plow through their field, so I make us invisible. I figure it's not interfering. Hans doesn't even have the most modest capacity left for worming his way out of trouble anyway.
Every once in a while he stands up perfectly straight and sniffs at the breeze, waves his arm in one direction or another. "Home," he announces finally, and points to a little cabin nestled in the woods. We shamble over–or he shambles, I ride–and just before we get to the door I hop off my board and turn Hans toward me. Straighten his jacket, smooth down his hair,
"Hey. Dude. Listen to me."
Hans gives me a distracted glance, sniffs the air again. "Home."
"Yeah, yeah, bro, I know. But first, I want to remind you. It's been like seven years. Your mom, she might not be expecting you. Especially–"
"Mom!" He cracks half a smile.
"I know, my man, I know. But just maybe she's not expecting you like this." The words, they're hard to get out. I'm a little bit more fond of the crazy-ass dude than I was when we started, you know? I'd hate to see his mom recoil in terror or whatever.
"Like...?" Hans frowns.
"Don't do that too much, bro, I'm afraid your face will crack and fall off." All I can do is shrug, I guess, and face the music with him. "I mean, like a zombie. Think your mom will be cool with it?"
"Cool." Now he nods so much I'm afraid his head's gonna pop off like Queen Anne's did. I'm all ready to catch it if it does, but Hans steps back and turns toward the door, shuffles over, and knocks his shoulder against it. Once, twice, three times.
I'm holding my breath. I both can't wait to see how this goes and dread his poor mom's reaction and I think about using my own powers, limited though they are, to change him back to the Hans I knew at first. Blazing with inner light, wings and all, but you said not to interfere so I don't. I just stand back and try to be inconspicuous. Imagine my surprise when the door opens. This old lady, gray and bent over, peeks out.
She doesn't scream. She doesn't look horrified. Instead, she sniffs the air, eyes the zombie, and cracks a half-assed smile of her own. With hands that have probably torn out their own share of human innards, she pushes the door back so strongly it almost bounces off its hinges, and then reaches toward Hans.
"Son!"
"Mom!"
"You... back."
"Home."
It's like a one-syllable reunion word contest, right there in the middle of the forest. Zombie mom to zombie kid, all effin' happy and now I get it. Now I get how come you said not to interfere. I'm thinking about poetic justice and all that when Hans' mom turns my way, sniffs the air, and fixes her undead stare on me.
"Fooooood."
"Dude, I think your mom is drooling."
"Your... mom." Hans grins, kind of, and licks his chops.
That's when I figure it's time to beat feet and hightail it the eff out of there. I make it back in record time, a reverse bolt of lightning from down there to up here. And that's my report. Signed and dated in front of reputable witnesses this day by your ever so humble servant, Gabe.
* * *
Boss-lady sets down the parchment and settles back in her chair. She looks pretty pleased with herself. Takes the report, rolls it up, ties the little silk ribbon around it perfectly, and tosses it over her shoulder. It's immediately scooped up by one of the staff, spirited off to the repository.
Me, I'm all nerves. It's been a long time since I was sent on a mission like that and while I think I did good, it's hard to tell. The boss fixes me with that stare of hers and I can feel my face heating up. I'm determined not to be the one to break the silence, but it's making me squirm in my seat. Finally, she finishes her coffee and sets the cup down. Mom steeples her fingers and nods slowly.
"Well done."
I breathe out a huge effin' sigh of relief.
"You're excused."
There's one thing nagging at me, one thing I have to ask. "Can I just–"
"Ask away, Gabriel."
How do I even put this? I open my mouth to speak, but I want to think it through. Don't want to be all insulting or whatever, but finally I just go for it.
"Hans, that dude was always different. Was he, like, all zombified before he came here?" That would explain a lot. Like about how he was always pretty much just bare-bones basic. Not the brightest bulb, always liking the simpler things, easily satisfied. Able to distill things into basics, then into easier basics. It all makes me wonder how he got himself up here in the first place. Maybe he traded for it, just like he traded for everything on our little journey. If that's the case, it could just be that lame douchebag Hans is smarter than he looks.
Boss-lady just smiles at me. "What do you think?"
I swear, talking to her is like talking to a shrink sometimes. All I can do is laugh, roll my eyes, pop my earbuds back in, crank the volume, and skate off.
Yeah, just another day on the job.
* * *
Snow White? Been there. Sleeping Beauty? Done that. As a mom, I've told and retold fairy tales countless times, often blending them with other favorite works. For this anthology I wanted to choose one of the more obscure classic fairy tales. I'd never seen Hans in Luck retold or reworked, so I sat and meditated on a way to bring the necessary elements into it. Luckily, inspiration struck. Why settle for one particular flavor of the undead when there are so many out there just waiting to jump out from behind rocks and trees and tombstones? Why not let them all join the party? Why not include a brash and off-the-cuff impartial observer as my narrator? Why not use that skateboard sitting across the room for added inspiration?
Why not indeed. I threw in a healthy dose of pop culture, then sat back to watch it collide with the Brothers Grimm. There you have it: the recipe for a mash-up of ridiculous proportions.
~G.L. Jackson
The Angel
by
Troy Lambert
Part the First:
Here's so cold, and winds outside are frightening, But in dreams–ah, that's what I like best: I can see the darling angel children, When I shut my sleepy eyes and rest.
~ Hans Christian Anderson, The Dying Child
Abel
Thump-step.
Thump-step.
How he hates that sound! The sound of crutch striking against stone! The cobbles make to trip him but he resists with what little balance and strength he has. There, a lamppost! A resting place created by the city for beggars such as him.
The clattering of wagon wheels interrupts his heavy breathing. A noble man it is indeed, who rushes by with such fine horses and iron clad wheels. His passage wakes the city.
An old dog barks. Also a cripple and a beggar, the dog often competes with him for meager scraps. He ignores the animal. At the present his interests lay not with his stomach, but in an empty lot ahead. Debris covers the place where a fine building once stood. It burned to the ground last winter.
The ashes of the once majestic structure now hold a rare sight of beauty in this landscape so blighted by humanity. In the ash-enriched soil, sprouts a flower garden. Every day he can manage, he tends the flowers.
Thistles and weeds attempt to raise their heads and he strikes them down, killing them with reckless abandon. Nearby, he found a discarded miner's pick. When he cannot pluck the weeds with his weak arms, he uses it to tear them from the earth.
As he rounds the corner, a fit of coughing doubles him over. He leans on another strategic lamppost and closes his eyes.
Medicine served up in dreams heals his ruined frame but he wakens daily to the reality of his life. A runaway from the orphanage where the headmaster touched all the boys in unpleasant ways and continued to receive payment from the Baron anyway, the streets became his home and the stray dogs his family. The other beggars became his competition.
He learned the harsh rules of street life. He walked without fear, ate with regularity that made others jealous, and even shared when he could. He kept only one thing completely to himself: this flower garden.
On a Thursday, he saw the doctor walking home. In his arms he held a bundle of flowers bought from the market. An idea bloomed.
There's no harm in trying, he thought.
* * *
"Drink this."
The taste assaults his tongue and bruises it worse than the rotgut wine the older beggars make in barrels under the bridge.
"You're a sick young man."
He nods.
"Where are your parents?"
