Excerpt


“Bill.” John tipped his hat to William Carr Jr., beloved husband and father, to Sunny’s right. Bill had been a thoroughly decent man, the sort John had never quite been able to be, and the heart murmur that killed him was a crying shame.

John looked at the earth to the left of Sunny’s grave. It had been disturbed, as if for a burial, but the edges were also ragged and it was rather shallow.

“Maybe she left something down in there?” John mused. He was able to clamber down fairly easily into the hole. Pawing through the dirt revealed nothing but loose stones, but a sound a moment later caused him to jump back.

“Hello? Is anybody there?” The shout, muffled, was coming from the other side of the dirt – the occupied grave.

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“I’m looking for someone at this address,” John said. “Sunny Carr. Young girl, late teens, braces. You see anyone like that?”

The security guard looked over his mirrored glasses. “They don’t pay me enough to keep track of everyone that comes or goes,” he said.

Annoyed, John raised an eyebrow. “Well, what do they pay you for? Cuz it sure ain’t the conversation.”

“Watch your mouth,” the guard said, his hand brushing against the Glock in his holster. “I’m here to keep anyone from digging folks up.”

“I thought you weren’t allowed to shoot the risen,” replied John. “Wasn’t there some kind of court thing about that?”

“The stay expires at midnight and Michigan’s got trigger laws that kick in at 12:01. But trespassing and grave robbing are still castle doctrine material.” His hand caressed the Glock in its holster again, as if the urge to put 17 bullets in something were nigh irresistible.

“And the risen?”

“Long as they stay in their holes, we’re all good. Go on in and lay your flowers, wise ass, but don’t take too long.”

John pulled the Ram through. The guard didn’t follow, but in the rear view mirror John could see him making finger guns at the truck as it drove deeper into the forest of headstones.

Just like Maria had said, he found Sunny near the back.

“Sunny Carr, beloved daughter,” he read off the headstone.

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It had been a long time since John had fallen off the wagon that hard, and even longer since he’d had a voicemail waiting for him when he awoke.

“John, it’s Marie. I’m sorry to do this, to call you so late, but I really need you to do something for me.”

Rolling upright, John groped for something to write with.

“It’s my daughter. It’s Sunny. She needs help and…well, I’m not really in a position to help her right now. Would you please, please get her to my house? She is at 1610 Riverside Drive, near the back corner. Take her to my new place, 2781 County Highway 183. Please, John. Matter of life or death. There’s no one else I can trust.”

Even though he and Marie had been divorced for, what, eighteen years now, give or take, John reached for his keys. When your ex-wife still took your calls at 2am, pulled you out of the drunk tank on occasion, and held your head in a men’s room in some dive bar…well, that was a big IOU to cash. John might have just turned in his 2-year AA chip, but he wasn’t turning his back on that debt.

Luckily, the old Ram had a GPS suction-cupped to the dash, so all John had to do was focus on the intense Teutonic voice as she guided him through rural northern lower Michigan. When Brünhilda the GPS called out that he had arrived, though, John had to pull over and squint to make sure he wasn’t seeing things.

1610 Riverside Drive: Eternal Rest Cemetery.

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“Rising” refers to the reanimation of a person who has died, anywhere from 8-48 hours after their death. Only observed in humans and two species of great ape (chimpanzees and bonobos), rising results in a slowing of active decay, a resumption of movement, and in most cases, the ability to see, hear, and speak. Sensation appears to be greatly deadened but not absent, as is the sense of smell. The sense of taste is completely absent, and indeed the GI tract is largely non-functional other than occasionally expelling matter that was left in the system pre-mortem. While ingestion can occur, the material simply sits in the stomach until it is regurgitated or rots. Cognition can no longer be measured, as an EEG will show a flatline or sporadic and seemingly random impulses, but in most cases the risen seem to retain all memories of their life and full intellectual function of a sort.

What causes rising is currently not well understood. The use of modern embalming chemicals seems to increase its incidence, accounting for the perceived increase in risings since the early 1800s, but it has been argued that preservatives simply increase the chance of a successful rising, as in pre-modern mortuary systems bodies would have been buried or burned too quickly to rise. One thing that can be conclusively proven is that embalming chemicals can delay the onset of rising, stretching the 8-48 hour window of an un-embalmed body to days, weeks, or even months. Careful research indicates that risings have taken place throughout history, though in most cases the risen were detected almost immediately and destroyed.

Traumatic injury also seems to decrease the chances of rising, as those killed in a severe automobile or airplane crash are 90% less likely to rise. However, once rising takes place, traumatic injury seems to have little effect on the risen, as they are able to remain motile and communicative even up to the point of being completely skeletonized. Immolation or systematic destruction by dismemberment seem to be the only ways to destroy a risen body. Eyewitness accounts and anecdotal evidence indicates that such destruction is as traumatic and painful for the risen as it would be if inflicted upon the conventionally living.

Obviously, the mechanism of rising is poorly understood, and this is not helped by a total ban on studying the process, even in apes, passed by the International Medical Foundation in 1956 and renewed in 2016. The advocacy organization Association Internationale des Ressuscités (AIR) holds that rising is a scientific, quantifiable, and researchable process; it is simply one that is not understood at present. The official position of many other organizations, including the Universal Church Council, the Imamate Consultorium, the Ecumenical Rabbinical Society, and Buddhist Unity, is that the risen are unholy abominations possessed or influenced by infernal powers.

The religious position, one which is shared by many secular people and institutions, has led only 61 out of the 195 internationally recognized sovereign entities to grant risen the same civil rights as they possessed before their rising. The remaining 134, including China, India, Brazil, the Russian Federation, the United Kingdom, and 26 states in the United States, regard risen as legally dead. As a result, there are generally no laws protecting risen or their property in those jurisdictions other than general statutes about desecration or grave robbing. Indeed, as in 16 states in the United States, many jurisdictions criminalize the risen themselves (under the aegis of so-called “body autonomy” laws) and any risen encountered are subject to harassment, imprisonment, and summary cremation–the latter of which is particularly horrifying to activists. In one oft-cited piece of precedent, the US Supreme Court, in Davis v. Doe (2015), ruled that the risen are not citizens and have no rights explicitly granted by the Constitution in a landmark 8-1 decision.

As a result, many risen are forced to exist on the margins of society, either attempting to pass as traditionally living or banished to shantytowns or imprisoned for menial labor. Still more are forcibly cremated or interred, with the latter often leading to clashes between cemetery guards and groups of risen and their allies attempting disinterments. As horrifying as cremation is, many risen activists consider forced interment to be worse, as it imprisons a sapient being in a dark box without recourse and is considered a particularly cruel and extended torture.

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“The difficulty we run into with a quantum zoo is that animals from different universes have wildly different requirements,” says Laurie Scuggs, senior assistant quantum zookeeper.

“The Brunner’s Purple Mugthorpe is one of our most popular animals, since it’s bright purple and its mating song sounds like K-pop,” Scuggs continues. “But it breathes in pure argon and exhales copper cyanide gas, so we have to be very careful.”

The quantum exhibit has seen its fair share of controversy in recent years. It was even temporarily shut down after a toddler was allowed to get into the enclosure of a Zaxxian iome, a primate-like creature that liquefies bone and drinks it through a proboscis. Many point to the iome’s killing by a flying squad of city police as ending ther enthusiasm for the quantum zoo project altogether.

“I know they are extinct in their own dimensions, but breeding them here to reintroduce them in another universe just seems like a bad idea,” one zoo patron says. “I think we should take care of our own universe first.”

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“Now, I’ve been working as a psychopomp for 70 years,” Obol says. “I’ve seen the reaping of souls go from putting coins on closed eyes to cryogenic suspension in a generation.”

Responding to a field call, Dr, Obol is on his hands and knees, pulling the soul out of a stubborn cow with a set of old-fashioned reaping chains. “The thing I like about this job is that it keeps me busy, it keeps me on my toes, and I never know what’s going to happen,” he says.

“This cow, for instance, it’s her time. But she’s stubborn, won’t give up the ghost. Some psychopomps might give up at that, go in for an expensive wasting illness or even a chess game. But not me, I’m not afraid of getting my hands dirty.”

The community has come to appreciate Dr. Obol’s unique manner. “Those other reapers, they’re all menacing and silent, dark figures cloaked in the raiment of the grave,” said a local farmer. “Dr. Obol’s different. He cares. Why, he chatted with my aunt even as he collected the should from her body and bore it to the hereafter.”

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And yea, the way unto the land of milk and honey would be opened by a buzzing bush, one whose flower-laden boughs attracted bees by the hundreds. Being wise in the ways of honey as they were, these bees would act as the Hive for a great Queen, and in so doing lead the faithful and sting the unrighteous.

This was all so until the prophet did swat at one bee of the buzzing bush, finding it irksome, and was set upon by their number. For in so swatting the bee, he had upset their Swarm and their Queen, and the land of milk and honey was therefore set apart from him, a land he would see only after forty years and even then not enter. For although the prophet had built a lot of buzz, it had been of the wrong kind.

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Mockingbirds will raise a hue and cry if they see a hawk
Screeching to anyone who will listen before leading an assault
I saw one the other day attacking a hawk perched near its nest
Its cries had attracted only one other bird
And its dives and slashing attacks did not seem to faze the hawk
The raptor sat there, unbothered, as something smaller and weaker broke against it
There are times in my life when I have felt like the hawk
But now, and for the recent past, I feel like the mockingbird
Throwing myself, screaming, at those who would eat me
While they blithely sit there, growing stronger even as my strength flags

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The sound of clattering plastic led to a figure seated in shadow, his suit neatly divided into 20 portions, from spotless to scarred.

“I knew I’d find you here,” Mole-Man, the Subterranean Crusader, said as he drew near.

“Yes, the site of the gaming tournament that made me the man I am today.” Worrying a d20 in one scarred hand, the speaker leaned forward, revealing a face that was also broken into 20 variably-scarred pieces. “Do you want to see what fate has in store for you, Mole-Man?”

“I make my own fate,” the Terrific Tunneler growled. “But roll it if you must, d20-Face.”

The dice clattered to the table. “19. One higher and you’d have been dead instantly, due to double damage.”

“I don’t think it works that way,” Mole-Man said.

d20-Face was already flipping through his manual. “Hang on,” he said. “The encounter table value for 19 refers to another table. You’ll meet your fate just as soon as I get the initiative sorted out.”

“Just tell me where the school bus you kidnapped is,” Mole-Man sighed.

“We’re in here!” a voice said from the other side of a nearby door. “He threw us in here with a 5e starter set and now he won’t let us leave!”

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They say that he lurked near playgrounds and beaches. Always dressed in neon, the latest trendy clothes at the time. Always friendly. Ask any question, make any request, and the answer was always “totally.”

But it didn’t take long for the cracks to show. Greying roots showing through the dye. Skin cracked on the edges of the wrap-around sunglasses. A well-practiced boniness of the fingers.

Mr. Totally was a lot older than he said he was. And he had been at this game a long, long time. Your best option was to turn and run, straight to your mama.

Was Mr. Totally responsible for the spate in disappearances from 1984-1993? No one knows for sure. Only that the disappearances stopped when he, himself, vanished.

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