by Peter Giglio
“The song,” she said. “Please.”
“But you love this—”
“Not now,” she said. “Please.”
His eyes didn’t leave Monika as he walked to the old turntable and lifted the needle from the vinyl. His look was neither cold nor kind; rather, detached. “Is that better?”
“Much. Thank you.”
“It hasn’t been doing anything for her anyway, as you can see.”
“She looks like she’s ready to go.”
“No,” he said, his voice firm but not loud. “Not yet.”
But Monika knew she was right. The corpse was a sunken shell. She’d never seen a second-lifer look worse, and none of them looked well. This was nothing more than a skeleton in a patina of leathery flesh. And draped in that garish dress, an affront to good taste, she was anything but dignified. Monika could tell this was lost on the pastor. His mind was in the past and had been there for a long time.
“Perhaps,” he said, “you could talk to her. She might engage you.”
The bag of bones in the recliner was little more than dust in Monika’s estimation. Unable to move without the assistance of her caregiver, Glory was hardly sentient. And if second life was any kind of life at all, she was vegetative by even that low standard.
But Monika didn’t want to voice that opinion. She knew the score. If Lingk saw her as disposable, he would act accordingly and turn her over to her employer. And though she didn’t feel comfortable in this asylum of despair, two things were clear: AdCorp would be less understanding of her recent transformation than Lingk, and Frank Allen, unlike the pastor, was capable of precise harm.
“Maybe,” she replied.
“I would be grateful for any assistance.”
“What would I say?”
“I don’t know. Whatever comes to mind. Tell her about your transformation. Ask her to come out and play. Tell her you’re her friend. She never felt like she had any real friends, other than me.”
“Can I express my true opinion?”
“If you wish, but consider a few things before you do.” He sat on the floor next to her, put a hand on her shoulder. “You seem to be feeling better,” he said. “In less pain?”
“Yes,” she said.
“Good,” he said. “Now I want you to tell me the downside of second life. Just start at the top and list all the reasons why it’s wrong.”
She laughed. “Seriously?”
“Humor me.”
“Okay, it’s wrong because it strains the economy. And the money spent on taking care of them could be spent on technological advancements or feeding the poor or creating jobs. It’s wrong because it’s unnatural, because the second-life mind isn’t a real mind at all. It’s a cold, emotionless void. It’s wrong because it gives people false hope, makes them believe in life after death, which isn’t fair. I’m not saying there isn’t a Heaven or a god or… I’m just saying that it’s unfair to manufacture hope in the absence of facts. And…I’m sure there are other reasons, Lingk, but I haven’t had much time to form a proper argument.”
He chuckled. “No, I’d say those are pretty good reasons. And I’ve been hearing them for years. I’m not going to run down your list and refute what you’ve said, because I can’t. But I will remind you that we haven’t gone to war since second life started. Governments are a lot less likely to bomb villages when some of the collateral damage might include Glory’s Children. Even drones have a real person at the controls, someone who doesn’t want to endure The Curse.
“Now consider the worldwide reduction in violent crimes over the last fifteen years. It’s much harder to kill a person when you know they’re going to come back.”
“Second-lifers can’t testify or accuse,” she countered.
“Indeed,” he said, “but don’t underestimate the psychological component. As you pointed out, people have been given hope.”
“False hope,” she corrected.
“Yes, but hope can only be false in the eyes of a third party. To the individual who possess it, hope is simply hope, regardless of truth. You mentioned the absence of facts earlier. Well, here’s a fact: Crime rates are way down over the last fifteen years. One can interpret that a number of ways. I believe people are afraid of being confronted by those who they have wronged. Another interesting fact: hardly anyone commits suicide anymore. People are less likely to jump from a building knowing they might wake as a decaying paraplegic. And what’s the point of taking a bottle of sleeping pills if you’re only going to open your eyes to a fresh hell, a reality more depressing than the one before?”
“But these are elements of control,” she said.
“All laws, man’s and nature’s, are systems of control, Monika. Freedom is an illusion.”
His argument was strong. Also wrong. But she was tired, didn’t want to encourage debate. She needed to build strength and decide what to do in the morning.
“Will you talk to her?” he asked.
She smiled. “Yes, but not tonight. Tomorrow, I promise.”
* * *
In his old bed, Eric dozed without effort, at peace with his ordeal. Fast decisions, like breaking up with Melody and deciding to abandon his career, were capable of lifting his spirit for a moment, but they also acted like a drug. A soaring high followed by a crash. Though he had never been diagnosed with a mental malady—not that he’d ever subjected himself to such testing—he suspected this was a flaw in his psyche.
Tonight had put everything in perspective. Life was too short to worry about things beyond his control. Making decisions and standing behind them was only part of the equation. He would have to be more patient with himself.
For now, he needed sleep.
* * *
Comfort follows him into the dream. An inner tranquility so consuming it can’t be extinguished by the horror his mind projects: chaos in progress on a city street, creatures assaulting the living.
He is above this, looking down.
These monsters are not second-lifers, at least not as they’ve come to be known, but it’s clear they’re dead. Impossibly, they move fast, their teeth sharp, bodies strong.
Pinned to the pavement, a girl—only a child—squirms beneath the weight of her attacker.
Eric’s focus is trained on this, not by choice.
Her screams pierce this dreamland, then are silenced as the thing—the zombie—bites her throat from her neck.
Her eyes go mercifully dead.
The monster feeds.
Silence.
Eric can’t look away. Nor does he want to. Running has been the solution too many times in the past. And it doesn’t matter, because this isn’t the way things are. Nor is it the way things will be, he tells himself. And yet none of that changes what’s most important.
The time has come to face his fears.
Asphalt meets his bare feet. He turns his head…
Finds himself standing in the road, surrounded by eviscerated bodies. The sharp caw of a crow spins him. The oily bird perches on the neck of a corpse, pecking at the bloody crater where a face should be.
Small and close-joined shadows race across the blood-spattered detritus, and with them, the unified squawk of a mammoth murder.
He gazes up as birds break from one another, descending like fighter planes in an airshow. But these birds don’t feed, and their performance is beautiful.
The few pitiful creatures still dining on the dead are not part of this majestic flock.
Which he knows has come for him.
No more than a dozen feet away, the birds begin to join, forming a growing body strangely smaller than the sum of its parts—two at a time, then four, then more, in a flurry of activity beyond dizzying.
Soon they’re absorbed into the new form, which slowly changes from black mass to beacon of light.
A woman, facing away, her blonde hair blowing in the death-drenched breeze…
He knows who she is.
The power of choice is his; he can feel it. He approaches
, puts his hand on her shoulder, expecting her face to be decayed when she turns. Rather, she’s radiant, as she was in life, sunlight glinting from her blue eyes.
She kisses him and he doesn’t resist. He clings to her. Her to him. Then…
He’s back in the car with her. She unfastens her seat belt, mouth agape …
And through the windshield, an eighteen-wheeler loses control, the cargo cab swinging into the oncoming lane.
“How did I forget this?” he asks, knowing that what he sees is real.
No time to brake, to react—
“Sometimes it’s easier to forget,” she says.
She yanks the wheel…
And the kiss ends.
Tears spill from his eyes, the first he has cried for her, the only girl he’d truly loved.
“This is real,” she says.
He shakes his head. “Thank you just the same.”
“You have to stop Steven Lingk.”
“Stop him from what?”
“I don’t know yet.”
“No. This isn’t real. None of this.” He looks around at all the dead bodies. “Not this.”
“It will be,” she says, “if we don’t stop him.”
“You’re not Monika. She’s dead.”
“I am alive now, and Julie Stewart is dead. The reports only say she’s missing. You’re probably a suspect.”
“No. She’s fine.”
“Watch the news, Coop.”
“That’s ridiculous.”
“Turn on the TV,” she says. “And I’ll see you soon.”
* * *
Monika’s eyes shot open.
She was lying on the couch in the pastor’s office, in the same spot she’d fallen asleep. The world outside the windows was dark, but the clock on the wall read a few minutes shy of six a.m. Dawn would arrive soon enough.
She had been asleep for more than eight hours, yet it only seemed like minutes had passed. Her dream, though short, had been incredibly lucid, but that didn’t make it real. She shook it off and cleared her throat, feeling much better than she had the day before.
One thing she knew for certain, it was time to leave. She crept through a series of hallways until she came to the main chapel. As she stepped across the stage, a slash of light from a passing vehicle caught the dead reflection of an eye.
She jerked back with a gasp.
Then, sight adjusting to the relative dark, she saw Glory in her recliner, still connected to the SSA. Lingk wasn’t around. Hopefully he was sleeping in another room.
When Monika started down the stairs from the stage, a rumble of static crackled from the speakers.
“Don’t go,” a faint electronic voice said.
“I have to,” she whispered. “I’m sorry, Glory.” She paused on the steps, waiting for Glory to say more, but that didn’t happen, and Monika couldn’t wait any longer.
From the chapel to the vestibule, she ran. Throwing the dead bolt on the large wooden doors, she glanced back at Glory for a moment and wondered why the second-lifer had asked her to stay. She already had a theory for how Glory had done it, but now was not the time.
Without further delay she scampered down the temple’s stairs, then fled toward downtown.
CHAPTER 18
It was early when Eric woke; still dark outside. He pushed himself from the bed, then got dressed. He didn’t know why, but he was in a hurry to leave.
In the living room, he found his mother awake. She pressed the stop button on his old boom box and pulled earphones from her head.
“Did you even sleep?” he asked.
“I couldn’t.” She started to get up. “Let me make you some—”
“No. I have to get going.”
“So soon?”
“I’ll call you tonight, okay?”
She nodded. “Eric, do me a favor.”
“Sure,” he said. “Anything.”
“Be careful.”
The request struck him as odd. He tilted his head and narrowed his gaze. “Of course, Mom.”
“I worry about you. You’re all I have left.”
“Tonight,” he repeated, heading for the door.
It wasn’t until halfway home in the car that he remembered the dream. He laughed at his urgency. “Stupid, stupid,” he moaned.
Then he turned on the radio and wished it were that easy.
“…friends of Stewart reported her missing when she didn’t arrive home from a bar outing. Though police are following several leads, there is still no update on the whereabouts of Globe reporter Julie Stewart. News time is eight after the hour.”
When the video screen on his dashboard filled with the smiling visage of Steven Lingk, Eric killed the stereo’s power. He could already feel himself breaking out in a cold sweat, and his hands were shaking.
Whatever was happening, it wasn’t just about him anymore. He searched his mind for a rational explanation but came up empty. Then he thought of the girl who’d been killed by the zombie in his dream. Was she real? Someone’s daughter?
He couldn’t let that happen.
As soon as he pulled into his parking space in the garage, he hurried from the car. Not wanting to wait for the elevator, he threw open the door and sped up the stairs. When he turned the corner into the hallway, he saw a man standing outside his door.
Cheap suit. Cheaper haircut. A cop.
For a moment he thought about running, but then he remembered his earlier resolve. That wasn’t what he was about anymore. Besides, he was guilty of a lot of things, but killing Julie Stewart wasn’t one of them.
Pulling himself together, he approached the waiting man.
“Excuse me,” he said, “is there something I can help you with?”
“You Eric Cooper?”
“I am, yes.”
“Detective Kyle Ridley.”
Eric shook hands with the man. “Good to meet you. How can I help?”
“Do you know Julie Stewart?”
“Briefly, I’m afraid.” Eric unlocked the door of his apartment. “You wanna come in for a cup of coffee?” He opened the door and they entered.
“No coffee for me,” Ridley said, “but thanks.”
“Don’t mention it. Mind if I make some?”
“No. Go right ahead.”
In the kitchen, Eric slipped a caramel macchiato disc into his coffee machine and slid a mug under the spout. When he looked over the counter, the detective was holding a pen with a yellow pair of panties dangling from it. “Interesting,” he said.
“Those were Julie’s,” Eric said, doing his best to remain composed. “Sure you don’t want anything to drink, Detective?”
Ridley eyed him strangely. “She’s missing, you know.”
“I found out a few minutes ago. Was staying at my mother’s last night, you can call—”
“Do you stay at your mother’s often?”
“Sometimes.”
The detective twirled the panties on the pen. “Don’t tell me you’re one of those guys who picks up girls and rushes home to tell Mother about them?”
Eric rolled his eyes. “Of course not. Julie and I met at the bar. I’d just gotten through a rough breakup and was having problems at work. We had a little fling, nothing more. Didn’t even exchange phone numbers.”
“Casual sex?”
“As casual as it gets, I’m afraid.”
“Is that still a thing?”
“Oh, yeah, it’s still a thing. Especially when heavily intoxicated, which we both were. I’m sure Lily from O’Rourke’s can confirm that.”
The detective looked around the apartment. “You’re a very…” he seemed to consider his next works for a moment, then snapped his fingers. “A very casual man.”
“What is this?” Eric asked. “Some kind of Columbo routine?”
“You know your classic television.”
“Of course. I’m in advertising. I know the last fifty years of pop culture backwards and forwards.”
“A smart
man, huh?”
“About some things, I guess. But not smart enough to get away with a crime. Not as drunk as I was.”
“Then why are you afraid? Felt it in your handshake.”
“I found out twenty minutes ago the girl I fucked on Friday night is missing. Come home and you’re standing at my door. Of course I’m nervous. Wouldn’t you be?”
“Kinda disrespectful to call her ‘the girl I fucked,’ isn’t it?”
Eric lifted the freshly brewed cup of coffee to his mouth and took a sip. “Maybe. But that’s what she was. Is there a law against fucking now?”
“You’re being defensive.”
“You’re being an asshole.”
“Yeah, but it’s my job. You’re standing here in your kitchen, drinking coffee and being an asshole for free. You know what innocent people do when I stand in their kitchen and ask questions?”
“Look, I’m sorry—”
“They show respect. Show concern. Ask if they can help.”
“What do guilty people do?”
“Pretty much the same thing.”
Eric laughed. The detective didn’t. “Look,” Eric said, “I didn’t do anything to that girl, all right? I hope she shows up soon for everyone’s sake, but I’m not the guy you should be talking to.”
“Oh?”
“No, you should be talking to Pastor Steven Lingk.”
“Already did.”
“And?”
“What can I say, he showed me respect. Showed concern. Offered to help.”
“Well, Detective, sir, I hope the girl is okay. And if there’s anything I can do to help, just let me know.”
Ridley slapped a business card on the counter and scowled. “Was that so hard?” he asked.
“Not at all,” Eric said with a smile.
The detective held two fingers up in a V, pointed them at his eyes, then turned them on Eric. He slid Julie’s panties into a plastic bag, sealed it shut. “Call me if you hear anything.”
“I will.”
When the door slammed, Eric took a deep breath and rolled his eyes. It took him several minutes to stop laughing. Though still terrified, he couldn’t help himself. Real crime was damn near nonexistent these days, and he wondered how long the detective had been storing up his real-cop routine. Then he imagined the guy practicing in front of a mirror, which made him laugh more.
