Death, Be Not Proud Read online

  Most people weren’t happy with this turn of events. Especially the nurses who work in the hospital. Can’t say I blame them to some extent. I mean, you go to school to help preserve life, and you end up preserving death. Kind of a weird turn of events, if you ask me.

  So where do I fit into all this?

  Picture yourself with a loved one who’s died and come back to life. They don’t seem to recognize who you are and every now and then, they might try to eat you. You’re not allowed to shoot them, because it’s illegal. As a matter of fact, any form of cruelty toward zombies now is considered a hate crime, believe it or not.

  You do your best for them, after all this could be a parent, child, spouse, etc. You even put them in one of these homes or asylums, hoping they’ll get the care they need.

  Then, you realize they’re not being cared for at all. They’re simply set free during the day to roam around the grounds aimlessly, and fed raw meet four or five times a day. Then tied down at night—since zombies don’t sleep—while the staff watch movies or sleep.

  This whole set-up was put in place to preserve the quality of life. The problem is, how is this doing that? There is no quality of life.

  We’re talking about people who can understand what is going on around them. They hear us speaking to them and understand what we say. They have their own thoughts and are probably trying to communicate those thoughts to us, but aren’t able to do so. They can only move at a rate of about two feet a minute and have no speech capabilities. Not to mention the decomposition of the body. People are literally watching their loved ones waste away.

  This doesn’t sound like much of a life to me. Most people who have someone in their life who’s been turned into a zombie tend to agree with me, and these people become my clients.

  I like to think most of them come to me because I realize zombies are still people and still have cognitive thought, and I treat them as such, while others in the same line of work act just like those cops on zombie duty. They go around killing zombies as if they were twelve-year olds playing the latest video game.

  That isn’t how I roll, so to speak.

  The asylum was like a fortress. Fortunately, I had an easy way in.

  The first few times I had come here, when I first opened up shop, I entered under the guise of being a visitor. I’m smart enough to realize this ruse wouldn’t work for very long. It doesn’t take a genius to notice a dead zombie every time I’m there, and they’d eventually pick up on the fact that I’m visiting a different one every time I go there. I needed to figure something else out.

  One good thing about once having been a cop, you learn a few tricks on how to commit crimes. I was able to swipe a set of keys during one of my pretend visits and the nice thing about many hospitals—mental hospitals specifically—is there are so many doors always locked up, so they tend to use one key for the majority of them. Sunny Vale Mental Health Center was no exception. I only needed to make a copy of one key to get in where I needed to be.

  It’s very nice of the good nurses at the asylum to make my job easier.

  The other thing was; there was only one security guard on at night. Most of you reading this are probably thinking what I thought the first time I found this out: it’s never a good idea to only have one guard on at any given time, mostly as a safety precaution. Having said that, the reality of the situation is security companies are in business to make money. They really don’t care about their guards and prove this by paying them very little and having as few on duty as possible at any given time.

  Due to this, I was able to walk through the front door and walk past the security office where the underpaid and overly disgruntled guard sat at his desk watching a movie on his laptop, and who didn’t even bother to glance up at me since he must have assumed I was a staff member coming in late or who had gone for a coffee run. Either way, I had made it past my first obstacle.

  The second obstacle was no greater challenge. The door to the switchboard office was always closed. All I had to do was duck under the window and sneak right past to the stairwell.

  I went to the top floor, up the back stairway, which led to a fire exit. I knew this was the best way to go since the door was not connected to the alarm and I would not have to go anywhere near the nursing station. The door led into the hallway just outside the patients’ rooms.

  Every time I walked onto the ward, my heart sank. I don’t consider myself to be the most sensitive person in the world, but I hated seeing people treated like animals. My first time on the ward, when I pretended to be a visitor, it was during the daytime. The zombies were allowed to wander around the floor, but the nurses kept themselves at their station, behind shatterproof glass. They never left except to throw food out for the patients a few times a day.

  At night, they were put in five-point restraints. This meant both wrists, both ankles, and their chests were tied down to restrict just about all movement. This allowed the night staff to feel safer, I suppose, but I still felt it was a violation of the zombies’ rights.

  Once I was through the door, I made my way to where the rooms were. I checked all the rooms until I found one with a bed marked EDWARDS, GLORIA. This must be Nathan’s mother.

  I walked to the side of the bed and knelt on one knee, looking at the shell in front of me.

  “Gloria,” I whispered. She turned her head to face me, recognizing her name. “My name is Tom. I’m a friend of Nathan’s.” I could have sworn she tried to smile when I said her son’s name. Her eyes definitely lit up.

  I waited a moment for her to register what I had said—there’s no telling how fast a zombie’s brain processes information— before continuing. “He asked me to come here to help you. He told me you’re suffering.”

  This is the part that really separates me from the other “hitmen” who do this. In order for me to do this right, without any violation of a person’s freewill, I need their permission before doing anything. This is why I made sure Nathan understood my method of operation. There are no guarantees in the way I do things. However, if the patient turns down my offer, the client is refunded any money paid in advance. I only charge if the service is performed. I’m an honest businessman.

  “Do you feel you’re suffering, Gloria?”

  I waited for a full minute before she nodded slowly.

  “Would you like me to end your suffering?”

  It took almost two minutes this time, but she nodded again.

  “You realize this means I will end your life?” Okay, “life” may be a poor choice of word in this case, but there really is no other way to say it. Either way, she nodded a third time, which meant I was able to move on to the procedure.

  I reached into my pocket and removed a syringe I had prepared before leaving the office. This made things a lot quicker. The syringe contained an anesthetic that would dull any pain. I had promised Nathan—as with all my clients—I would do this in the most humane fashion. Which meant, the patient would feel as little pain as possible.

  Before I could do anything, I heard faint footsteps coming down the hall toward me. I quickly and quietly got down on my stomach and pulled myself under Gloria’s bed in time to see a pair of white shoes with legs sticking out of them enter the room. They walked right up to Gloria’s bed, only a foot away from my face.

  Did they know I was there?

  I held my breath, terrified of being caught. Since killing zombies had been turned into a hate crime, the punishment was severe.

  The nurse seemed to be checking something, though from my position under the bed I couldn’t tell what, then walked over to each bed and seemed to do the same thing before leaving the room.

  I let out my breath, but waited a few minutes to make sure the nurse wasn’t coming back.

  Once back on my feet, I rolled Gloria over onto her side, stuck the needle into her spinal cord, and pressed on the plunger until the fluid inside had emptied out. Then I let her roll onto her back once again, and waited a few more moments fo
r the medication to take effect. I wanted to make sure this was done right.

  One thing about this job, is when trying to be silent, it’s difficult to find good ways to kill someone when you have to disable the brain.

  A gunshot to the head works wonders, but way to loud. Even with a silencer is no good, since the there’s always the possibility of them tracing the bullet back to me.

  I found the best way was with a hammer and spike. A couple of quick taps, and it was all over.

  I used one of those small hammers that come in those pocket-sized toolkits, for portability. The spike was about six inches long. I made sure to wear gloves too. You can never be too careful.

  I placed the spike in the middle of her forehead and held the hammer just above it. I could almost swear there was a tear rolling down her cheek.

  “Nathan wanted me to tell you he loves you. He asked me to do this because he can’t bear to see you suffer anymore, Gloria. He only wants what’s best for you.”

  Then the hammer came down. Once, twice and a third time and the job was done. I didn’t bother to remove the nail when it was over. I just got the hell out of there as fast as I could without making any noise.

  When I got back to my car, I let myself cry. It never got any easier, though I’d done this dozens of times. I still felt like a cold-hearted killer.

  I drove to my apartment in complete silence. I had no wish to listen to the radio. I just wanted to be alone with my thoughts for the moment.

  Since my wife left me and got the house, I decided an apartment was all I needed. I even thought of getting rid of that and living in my office, but I needed a home away from work. Somewhere I could go and not be disturbed.

  There were no messages on my answering machine when I got home, which was a relief. I was thinking of taking some time off. I needed some time to heal emotionally and mentally. I think the job was getting to me. I’d quit, but this business needs someone who does things right. Someone who does it because he cares about people.

  I figured I must be doing something right. I mean, even my ex’s husband had come to see me when she and my daughter turned. He said he knew I would do it so they wouldn’t suffer.

  He was wrong.

  Dead wrong.

  I walked into the room and turned on the light so I could see the two figures tied up, leaning against the wall.

  I walked over to them.

  “Hi, honey,” I said, kissing Dianne on the cheek.

  “Good night, princess.” I gave Laura a peck as well.

  Maybe one day I’ll be able to build up enough courage to end their suffering. But so far, I haven’t been able to bring myself to do it.

  * * *

  Joseph Mulak is the author of several short stories that have appeared in such anthologies as Masters of Horror: The Anthology and Dark Things II. He lives in North Bay, Ontario with his four children where he is at work on several other writing projects.

  You can find out more at http://josephmulak.org/

  STATE OF THE UNION

  Joe McKinney

  For Mark Twain

  I know when I’m being lied to. It’s not hard to figure out, even when you’re a stranger in a country halfway around the world and you don’t speak the language. Bullshit smells no matter how it sounds. And that’s what our Chinese hosts were trying to shovel down our throats.

  Bullshit.

  Pure unadulterated bullshit.

  Our group went down for dinner at 8. We stepped off the elevator, but barely made it into the hotel’s lobby before a couple of blue-shirted cops started yelling at us to go back upstairs.

  “What’s this all about?” asked Brad Owens. He was our leader, a Young Democrat from Columbia University. He was tall, slender, dignified. Brad stood an easy six inches taller than the cops, but it didn’t seem to impress them at all.

  “You go back upstairs,” one of the cops said. “Go now.”

  “But I want to know what’s going on,” Brad insisted. He pointed to the reception hall. “They’re supposed to be throwing us a party.”

  “No party for you. Party over. You go now. Go upstairs.”

  While Brad was busy arguing with the Chinese cops, I was looking through the glass doors of our hotel. Outside, Beijing was in the middle of a riot. I heard screams overlapping screams. I saw people running for their lives, others throwing rocks. A small crowd knocked down an injured man right outside the front doors and swarmed over top of him, like they were trying to pull him apart.

  “But why do we have to go upstairs?” Brad asked.

  The concierge came over. He looked utterly frazzled, and more than a little distracted, but he kept his tone level and his smile bright when he talked to us.

  “Please,” he said with a slight bow. His accent was good, even if the syntax was off. “Please, you and your friends to go upstairs please. We have the flu outside.”

  “The flu?” Brad said.

  I looked out across the Beijing skyline and saw buildings on fire in the distance.

  “People don’t riot because of the flu,” said Jim Bowman, our Young Republican representative.

  The concierge’s smile wavered for a moment. “You to go upstairs to your rooms now,” he said, and then muttered something to the cops in Chinese.

  The next moment we were being hustled upstairs and forced back into our rooms.

  I tried the door, but it was locked from the outside.

  I beat on it with my fists but got no reply.

  I looked out the peephole and saw the cops pacing the hallway. They looked scared and anxious and I didn’t like it. One of them kept swallowing, his Adam’s apple pumping up and down in his throat, looking to his partner for some clue what they were supposed to do.

  I gave up on the door and sat down on the foot of the bed and tried to get online. Nothing worked. Email; Livejournal; Twitter; Facebook; even Google was down. I put my iPad down and tried my iPhone. Same thing. I had been sending emails all that day. I had even sent my latest article to my editor at The Crimson right before I took my shower and got dressed for dinner. But now, nothing. Just a network connection error message.

  That’s when it really hit me. Not only was I a stranger in a strange land, but the Chinese government had somehow managed to shut down the Internet. My one umbilical cord back to the real world had just been cut.

  It hadn’t seemed real, standing down in the lobby and watching Beijing tear itself apart, but once I found out the Internet was down...well, that was the clincher.

  We were being lied to.

  And like the old Bob Dylan song goes: “You don’t need a weatherman to know which way the wind blows.”

  Okay, so what do you need to know?

  Introductions first, I guess.

  My name is Mark Wellerman. These days, I run a small farm in Georgia. It’s not much, but I grow all my own food, raise my own livestock, make my own bullets. I can take care of myself. That’s a far cry from the plans I had growing up, but don’t think for a minute that I’m a failure. Like I said, this farm makes all the food a man could ever need, and there is no fortune greater than that.

  Believe me. I know that better than anyone.

  I’m 35 now, but I was 22 when this story I’m about to tell you happened. I was a senior at Harvard, majoring in Journalism. I had the world at my feet, every door ahead standing wide open. And that’s how I landed in Beijing that summer. I was one of two dozen college students from across the United States selected to take part in an exchange program to China called Our Best, Your Best.

  Our group was called the Young Americans. We were supposed to represent the best and brightest of America’s up and coming generation. We were a cross section of this once great country, our own mini melting pot. We had Brad Owens, our Young Democrat from Columbia; Jim Bowman, a Young Republican from the University of Texas at Austin, and Sandra Palmer, a junior Tea Party Patriot from the University of Nebraska; all three of them intent on becoming president one day. But we had
a lot more than politics going for us. We had a cop from a junior college in Texas, a West Point cadet, a teacher’s assistant working on her master’s degree at Florida State, a UAW assembly lineman from Michigan doing an online graduate degree in Pension Fund Management, computer programmers, rich kids, poor kids...we had it all. Hell, we even had a guy who was attending UC Berkley illegally but got to go with us anyway because of the DREAM Act. Between the 24 us, we were America.

  For better or for worse.

  Most of the trip up to that last night in the hotel was mindless arguing, everybody talking and nobody listening. I had plenty to write about, but it still wore me down. I remember feeling irritable every time Brad or Jim or Sandra opened their mouths. The bickering just seemed so pointless.

  But all that changed later that night. I hadn’t taken off my clothes. I was standing at my window, looking across downtown Beijing 20 stories below, every now and then catching the wail of a siren or the muffled cry of a nearby scream, when the Chinese cops burst through the door. One of them went for me, the other for my luggage. As I watched, the cop tossed my phone, my iPad, even my headphones into the trash. Then he crammed some clothes into my backpack and threw it at me.

  “But, my phone...” I said.

  He said something in Chinese and pointed to his partner, who pushed me outside.

  Everyone else was already standing there, trying to get somebody to tell them what was going on. Jim Bowman was yelling, and it wasn’t hard to see why. The cops had pulled him and Sandra out of bed without even giving Sandra a chance to put on her pants. She was standing behind him, tugging her jeans over her hips and looking embarrassed as hell.

  Those of us who could speak a little Chinese tried to get answers out of the cops, but they weren’t talking. They hustled us downstairs and out the back door.

  As soon as the doors to the parking lot opened, we could hear the sound of screams and gunshots and sirens in the distance. I saw what looked like military helicopters sprinting overhead. I watched them race over the heart of the city, and when I looked back down to street level, I saw a group of burned and bleeding people limping toward us. One of them was so badly burned I couldn’t tell if it was a man or a woman. The poor devil was black as charcoal, and still trailing wisps of smoke. The others behind were less burned, but each of them were terribly wounded and their clothes dark with coagulated blood.