Upright Beasts

by Lincoln Michel

  Tracy held on to Tim’s hand so hard her nails cut little semicircles into his palm.

  “Guys, I just want you to know what amazing friends you’ve been and how much I’ve treasured life’s journey with you, even though the journey turned on to a burning road of shit. I always thought of you like a little brother, Tim. Tracy, I know Charlotte was going to surprise you later by asking you to be her maid of honor. Isn’t it crazy we’ve known each other for twelve years?”

  He stayed at the door and gulped in his throat. Tim and Tracy didn’t say anything.

  “Tim, buddy, I’m sorry I broke the bro code and slept with Tracy. You two are welcome to stay here as long as you can. Maybe you can even build a life together while everything else is falling apart. Just remember that love is the key.”

  Byrd surveyed them for one last time, sniffled, and closed the door.

  “What?” Tim shouted.

  “Oh my god,” Tracy said. “What is he going to do?”

  “You slept with Byrd?”

  “Tim, we have to stop him.” Tracy jumped up and headed for the door. They could hear thumping and sporadic moans from the room next door.

  “When did this happen?”

  “I don’t know. He was so sad. It just happened.”

  “Jesus Christ,” Tim said. He lay back on the bed. “My best fucking friend.”

  “This isn’t the time, Tim!”

  But Tim stayed there on the bed, moaning. Tracy stayed with him. They listened to a door opening and the sounds of two people shuffling down the hall and out into the lush woods.

  The undead continued to come and go. Some stumbled to the north and others ambled toward the south. Tracy thought they were different ones each time, until she saw the man who’d ripped up their garden crawling across the backyard. He was missing a foot, part of his rib cage, and both eyes, but the dried-up tomato vines were still wrapped around his leg.

  Tim came into the living room holding a dusty box.

  “Hey, I found this jigsaw puzzle.”

  Tracy was sitting on one of the only chairs that hadn’t been used to reinforce the doors. She had the shotgun between the chair legs.

  “That’s great, Tim. Productive.”

  “Look you don’t have to be sarcastic,” Tim said. “I’m just trying to be proactive.”

  Tracy saw something at the edge of the woods and jumped for the gun, but it was only a baby deer. Was it a zombie baby deer? She sat back down and looked at Tim. He looked so angry and sad, but she didn’t know what to say. They had no electricity, no home they could return to, and only half a grocery bag of food left. She hadn’t done anything she’d wanted to do in life. She hadn’t gotten her JD, hadn’t learned ballroom dancing, and never got to live in Venice. For all she knew, Venice didn’t even exist anymore. She hadn’t even finished War and Peace yet for Christ’s sake.

  “Fuck it,” Tim said after a while. “I’m going to go root through the storage room in the basement.”

  “No, wait,” she said, forcing a smile. “I’ll come with you. Maybe we can find a flare gun or something.”

  A week later, while searching the forest’s edge for kindling, Tim was injured when Byrd, Charlotte, and a crawling, half-formed blue fetus leapt out from behind a sycamore tree, grappled him to the ground, and sunk in their teeth.

  Tracy found Tim crawling toward the front porch, bleeding and moaning. She screamed and locked the door. Tim heaved his body against the wood. Tracy watched through the peephole and cried for a long time.

  She poured a glass of wine she had distilled from wild blackberries, sat down, and closed her eyes. She could still hear Tim’s muffled thumps. Her hands were shaking, and some of the wine in her glass spilled down her arm. It dried there in dark red streaks.

  Tracy thought about her life with Tim. They had met, drunk, at a party during her first weekend as a college freshman. He had fallen asleep on top of her two minutes into sex, and she could barely breathe. His warm body was comforting though. Second semester they had the same sociology class, and he asked her out, and she thought he seemed sweet. Things snowballed along in the way they do. She had even thought they might get married since they’d been together for so long, and she didn’t know what else to do.

  Tim had always been nice to her, always buying her little bundles of flowers that died in a day or two. She felt she had never been as nice to him. She liked to spend her time by herself, and he always seemed angry about how often she couldn’t fit him in to her schedule. Tim was always angry about so many things, from his failed sports career to his nonexistent writing career.

  If she ignored Tim, maybe he would crawl away and go where all the other undead people were going. Maybe that would be the place where he could be happy.

  For the next five mornings, Tracy awoke to Tim’s thumps. She realized he was never going to go away. He was going to keep thumping against the wood, compelled by some brainless inertia, until he turned into mush on the doorstep.

  The sun was shining angrily through a hole in the curtain. After eating the last of the oatmeal, she sneaked out the side door and went to the shed. She grabbed the largest weapon she could lift and walked back to the front porch.

  Tim felt pain. Saw Tracy and Tracy was sad. Tracy was sad and causing pain to Tim. Causing pain with sharp metal thing.

  Tim held up hand. Tracy brought down metal thing and hand fell off. Held up other hand. Same thing.

  Water came out Tracy’s eyes.

  “Gwah?” Tim said.

  Tim didn’t understand. Tim didn’t understand pain or sadness. Never understood whole life. Tim thought pain and sadness would never stop. Hoped stop all time. Hurt all over and wanting to hurt other things. Always like this. Every day he remember. Why? Angry at sad and pain. On and on.

  “Klluuuuurggg,” Tim said. “Traggeee! Gwah? Gwah? Gwaahh?”

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Many thanks to:

  My friends and fellow writers who read drafts of these stories, especially Adrian Van Young, James Yeh, John Dermot Woods, Chloé Cooper Jones, and Adam Wilson.

  All the professors and mentors who encouraged me, especially Sam Lipsyte, Alan Ziegler, Ben Marcus, Rebecca Curtis, Maxine Clair, David McAleavey, Rob Spillman, and Diane Williams.

  My Gigantic people.

  Halimah Marcus, Andy Hunter, and Electric Literature.

  Friends who provided advice or support, including Ann DeWitt, Rozalia Jovanovic, Isaac Fitzgerald, Ryan Britt, Benjamin Samuel, Will Chancellor, Catherine Foulkrod, and Justin Taylor.

  Internet literary friends. You are real to me.

  My brother, my mother, and my father.

  The Millay Colony, the Lower Manhattan Cultural Council, and the Virginia Center for the Creative Arts for much needed space and time.

  Every magazine, journal, or site that published my work over the years.

  Michelle Brower, my agent, who fought to find my work a home.

  Anitra Budd, my fantastic editor, as well as Chris Fischbach, Caroline Casey, Molly Fuller, Amelia Foster, and everyone else at Coffee House for seeing something in these odd little stories.

  Most of all Nadxieli Nieto for counsel, support, design, and everything else.

  And, of course, last but never least—I couldn’t forget—thanks are due to you, you vile, luminescent animal, sitting there with this book in your gnarled and sculpted hands.

  A NOTE ON THE TYPE

  This work has been set in Berdych, a typeface named after Antun Berdych, who was a prominent typesetter and printer in the first half of the seventeenth century. The typeface was originally designed as a stunted, incongruous font, with the kerning between the glyphs inconsistent and the vowels improperly rounded. The typeface was given its name by rival typesetter Milos Heyduk on the occasion of Berdych’s death in April of 1657. Heyduk designed the typeface to cause strain in the eyes while reading and to impart a lingering ocular discomfort throughout the day.

  Heyduk and Berdych were neighbors a
s children, both born into long lines of carriage makers in the southern Czech town of Pisek. Local legend says both boys pined after little Rayna Richta, the last daughter of lingering Hussite nobility. As children, they played the usual games of rocks and sticks in the dusty streets together. Berdych always knocked the rock farthest and broke the stick quickest, while the clumsier and more portly Heyduk would trip and fall into the dusty street. “Come Milos,” Antun would say, “You’re rolling in the dirt like a filthy piglet.” Little Rayna would giggle with glee.

  It was expected that both boys would follow in their wood-shaping fathers’ footsteps, but young Antun and Milos became embroiled in the typesetting heyday of the early 1600s. Both decided to leave Pisek to seek their fortunes: Berdych to Paris, Heyduk to Antwerp, Cologne, and then Berlin. Both men found some degree of success, but it was Berdych’s early seventeenth-century print series of French erotica commissioned by the Duke of Lorraine that propelled him to instant stardom in the close-knit world of typesetting. Berdych rode his success by designing a startling series of elegant yet salacious typefaces—the glyphs allegedly fashioned after the curves of his various mistresses—that caused disquiet and scandal among high society.

  For his part, Heyduk developed a line of competent, stout typefaces that found an acceptable following among German accountants. After two decades in Berlin, Heyduk returned to Pisek with his modest savings and attempted to kindle a romance with Rayna Richta, whose first husband had died at the infamous Battle of White Mountain in the early days of the Thirty Years’ War. Heyduk set up his shop on a lonely street in the south side of Pisek and slowly wooed the widow Rayna for many years, until—when her savings had run dry and her looks had faded in the mirror—she consented to marry again. The Heyduks’ marriage progressed satisfactorily for a decade until 1642, when Antun Berdych, beginning to tire of the overwhelming life of Parisian high society, returned to Pisek and set up his famed Golden Drips printing shop.

  The homecoming of the handsome and now famous typesetter, complete with his by all accounts beautiful Parisian bride, Stephanie née Verdurin, caused something of a stir in Pisek. The couple arrived by way of the rivers Vltava and Otava on a royal barge on loan from the King of Bohemia and Holy Roman Emperor himself, Ferdinand III. The citizens were overjoyed to have their most famous son returned. Town records indicate the homecoming celebration lasted for sixty-eight hours and involved the accidental deaths of at least two townspeople.

  Milos Heyduk watched with barely contained venom as Berdych’s Golden Drips shop was erected across the street from his own modest shop. Every day, Heyduk glared at the stream of prominent clients from Prague and Vienna approaching Berdych’s shop while his own stayed dim and empty. At night he watched Berdych strolling past his office window with his beautiful wife, whose features so contrasted with the withered faces of Rayna and himself. Over the years, these images turned Heyduk into a foul and bitter man. He would toss rocks at dogs, taunt children that approached his shop, and fight with his wife so loudly the neighbors were kept up long into the night.

  For either revenge or refuge, Rayna began an affair. When Heyduk learned of the cuckoldry, he smothered her to death in their bed with the straw-filled sack that served as their pillow. The police found him the next day, sleeping soundly with Rayna’s body knocked onto the floor. Although it is commonly believed that it was Antun Berdych who seduced Rayna and coaxed her into having the affair that led to the grisly nighttime murder, this is apocryphal. In truth, the Berdych that Rayna conducted an affair with was a local cobbler of no relation.

  Heyduk was incarcerated for several decades. During this time, Antun Berdych developed the incurable case of consumption from which he eventually perished. Upon the news of his rival’s death, Heyduk quickly began designing the Berdych typeface on smuggled paper in the corner of his prison cell. Upon his release, Heyduk employed the unpleasant typeface almost exclusively. He printed it on newsletters and flyers that he tacked on every wooden door in Pisek. The typeface soon became famous for its sordid origin and its attachment to the celebrated Berdych. In a diary entry near the date of his death, Heyduk remarks, “Although I will soon be snatched away by my maker, I comfort myself with the knowledge that Antun, that horse’s ass, will be forever linked with discomfort and ugliness.”

  Over the centuries, various typesetters have fixed the irregularities in the Berdych typeface and reshaped many of the serifs to come into line with Berdych’s own manuscripts. Today it is widely regarded as one of the most royal and elegant typefaces and enjoys a dedicated following in scholarly circles. Heyduk’s original designs are said to still be held in the basement of the Pisek Public Library. The visiting hours are 10 a.m. to 2 p.m. on weekdays.

  ALLAN KORNBLUM, 1949–2014

  Vision is about looking at the world and seeing not what it is, but what it could be. Allan Kornblum’s vision and leadership created Coffee House Press. To celebrate his legacy, every book we publish in 2015 will be in his memory.

  The text of Upright Beasts is set in Weiss. Composition by Bookmobile Design & Digital Publisher Services, Minneapolis, Minnesota.

  LINCOLN MICHEL RECOMMENDS

  Windeye

  by Brian Evenson

  The Story of My Teeth

  by Valeria Luiselli

  Prelude to Bruise

  by Saeed Jones

  The Baltimore Atrocities

  by John Dermot Woods

  A Girl Is a Half-formed Thing

  by Eimear McBride

  FUNDER ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Coffee House Press is an independent, nonprofit literary publisher. All of our books, including the one in your hands, are made possible through the generous support of grants and donations from corporate giving programs, state and federal support, family foundations, and the many individuals that believe in the transformational power of literature.

  We receive major operating support from Amazon, the Bush Foundation, the McKnight Foundation, Target, and the National Endowment for the Arts. To find out more about how NEA grants impact individuals and communities, visit www.arts.gov. In addition, this activity is made possible by the voters of Minnesota through a Minnesota State Arts Board Operating Support grant, thanks to a legislative appropriation from the arts and cultural heritage fund. Special project support for this title was received from the Jerome Foundation.

  Coffee House Press receives additional support from many anonymous donors; the Alexander Family Foundation; the Archer Bondarenko Munificence Fund; the Elmer L. & Eleanor J. Andersen Foundation; the David & Mary Anderson Family Foundation; the Buuck Family Foundation; the Carolyn Foundation; Dorsey & Whitney Foundation; the Lenfestey Family Foundation; the Mead Witter Foundation; the Schwab Charitable Fund; Schwegman, Lundberg & Woessner, P.A.; Penguin Group; US Bank Foundation; VSA Minnesota for the Metropolitan Regional Arts Council; the Archie D. & Bertha H. Walker Foundation; the Wells Fargo Foundation of Minnesota; and the Woessner Freeman Family Foundation.

  THE PUBLISHER’S CIRCLE OF COFFEE HOUSE PRESS

  Publisher’s Circle members make significant contributions to Coffee House Press’s annual giving campaign. Understanding that a strong financial base is necessary for the press to meet the challenges and opportunities that arise each year, this group plays a crucial part in the success of our mission.

  “Coffee House Press believes that American literature should be as diverse as America itself. Known for consistently championing authors whose work challenges cultural and aesthetic norms, we believe their books deserve space in the marketplace of ideas. Publishing literature has never been an easy business, and publishing literature that truly takes risks is a cause we believe is worthy of significant support. We ask you to join us today in helping to ensure the future of Coffee House Press.”

  —THE PUBLISHER’S CIRCLE MEMBERS OF COFFEE HOUSE PRESS

  Publisher’s Circle Members Include

  Many Anonymous Donors, Mr. & Mrs. Rand L. Alexander, Suzanne Allen, Patricia Beit
hon, Bill Berkson & Connie Lewallen, E. Thomas Binger & Rebecca Rand Fund of the Minneapolis Foundation, Robert & Gail Buuck, Claire Casey, Louise Copeland, Jane Dalrymple-Hollo, Mary Ebert & Paul Stembler, Chris Fischbach & Katie Dublinski, Katharine Freeman, Sally French, Jocelyn Hale & Glenn Miller, Jeffrey Hom, Kenneth & Susan Kahn, Kenneth Koch Literary Estate, Stephen & Isabel Keating, Allan & Cinda Kornblum, Leslie Larson Maheras, Jim & Susan Lenfestey, Sarah Lutman & Rob Rudolph, Carol & Aaron Mack, George Mack, Joshua Mack, Gillian McCain, Mary & Malcolm McDermid, Sjur Midness & Briar Andresen, Peter Nelson & Jennifer Swenson, Marc Porter & James Hennessy, the Rehael Fund-Roger Hale & Nor Hall of the Minneapolis Foundation, Jeffrey Sugerman & Sarah Schultz, Nan Swid, Patricia Tilton, Stu Wilson & Melissa Barker, Warren D. Woessner & Iris C. Freeman, and Margaret & Angus Wurtele.

  For more information about the Publisher’s Circle and other ways to support Coffee House Press books, authors, and activities, please visit www.coffeehousepress.org/support or contact us at: info@coffeehousepress.org.

  LINCOLN MICHEL is the online editor of Electric Literature and the coeditor of Gigantic. His work has appeared in Tin House, NOON, the Believer, American Short Fiction, Pushcart Prize XXXIX, and elsewhere. He was born in Virginia and lives in Brooklyn, NY.