Lee Clark Zumpe has been writing and publishing horror, dark fantasy and speculative fiction since the late 1990s. His short stories and poetry have appeared in a variety of publications such as Weird Tales, Space and Time and Dark Wisdom; and in anthologies such as Horrors Beyond, Corpse Blossoms, Abominations, Withersin’s Unkindness and Cthulhu Unbound, Vol. 1. His work has earned several honorable mentions in The Year’s Best Fantasy and Horror collections.
An entertainment columnist with Tampa Bay Newspapers, Lee has penned hundreds of film, theater and book reviews and has interviewed novelists as well as music industry icons such as Paddy Moloney of The Chieftains and Alan Parson. His work for TBN has been recognized repeatedly by the Florida Press Association, including a first place award for criticism in the 2007 Better Weekly Newspaper Contest.
Lee lives on the west coast of Florida with his wife and daughter.
The Scourge of Zarablaan
Lee Clark Zumpe
Below a towering column of burnt-brick which sent shadows streaming over Bel-ah'zund's sandy streets, and beneath the sinuous tendrils of flowering, fragrant herbage in Zur Qumattai's gardens verdurous, a grievous pact I fool-heartedly embraced. To the black-tongued monarch, whose name had bled from the mouths of one hundred thousand slaves in death, I bartered without due consideration my stalwart loyalties for a scant parcel of immortality. I played a pathetic beggar for the seemingly glorious prize he offered; and now, a doleful fool I feel for ingesting wholly that loathsome proposal
It was but a season ago when I was summoned to stand before his throne, yet it seems as if only a handful of heartbeats have gone by since that day.
His lions golden-clad had scarcely retired their weapons after their return from far-off Suntanakri when once more he called upon his angels of war. Soldiers wearied and worn donned their gleaming helms of bronze and without question or complaint rallied for Zur Qumattai's crusade with their undying fiery zeal.
"To Zarablaan!" cried the Zur.
Aye, to gilded Zarablaan they would march that very day at the charge of the black-tongued monarch. To Zarablaan, that foreboding and cryptic citadel which at the desert's heart sat like a crouching colossus too cumbersome to migrate yet too stubborn to wither and die. To Zarablaan they would march, swords flashing.
Every man, no matter how old or how youthful, no matter how wise or how addle-headed they might be, knew well the tales that twined like vipers around that distant citadel. The rumpled old war-dogs of Bel-ah'zund in their colorful yarns muttered of wicked Zarablaanian wizards who prattled at leisure with things nidorous and vile, and of the folk there who took great pleasure in devouring their own dead kith and kin. Such legends were whispered throughout the lands, and it was widely-accepted that within that demon-haunted acropolis sinister and strange hell-born desert-spirits long ago converged and had since lorded it over the sad mortal denizens.
To Zarablaan Zur Qumattai sent four delbraths of his valiant and never-before thwarted soldiers.
And I, vain soldier risen from the ranks, did Zur Qumattai commission to oversee this ruinous campaign. My ascension lacked both pageantry and pomp, for the silken-robed Zur of Bel-ah'zund beckoned me to his leafy gardens and once there charged me with the office of khmaisi. I would command his four delbraths, each ten thousand warriors strong; and, moreover, a dozen and three supplymen would heed my call. For but the glory of the post would I have welcomed the appointment; but a gem seemingly indeclinable Qumattai offered up to me to tighten his invisible grasp upon me.
Locked behind those mountainous walls of Zarablaan, which in the ruthless desert sun shone with copper brilliance, was a mystic object of nebulous origins which the very populace of Zarablaan was committed to defend. More precious than the survival of the city and more valued than the lives of all its citizens was this mysterious treasure which Zur Qumattai imparted to me. Of such consequence was this thing that as sentinels, the web of netherworlds pitchy and arcane had ushered in a host of fetid, darkling rogues. So malign were they that their mere image could cause a pure man's heart to burst -- and so it followed thusly that in Zarablaan not a pure man dwelled.
That which was so rapaciously hoarded by its keepers, it was disclosed to me, was to the Zur revealed in a nightly vision; the Jewel of Kwilaleut it was named. Those oracular and phantasmal sages of Qumattai's dreams urged him to send henceforth forces to seize the Jewel. Those who possess the jewel, claimed he, need not worry over their sources of sustenance, nor fret over the outcome of a battles waged by their armies in distant lands, nor even fear the threat of death. Though its precise properties he deliberately left undefined and its potency he intentionally withheld, I quickly became as obsessed with its liberation from Zarablaan as Qumattai himself. Only now can the spring of my unrelenting longing be recognized; only now can I clearly discern the fountain of dark sorcery which governed me.
And so quickly we put behind us the fertile lands of Bel-ah'zund and made way for the inhospitable and barren lands of the southern marches. The emerald fields and flourishing forests soon gave way to the hostile steppe-country; and in little time almost all trace of life was gone from the lands over which we advanced.
Across the feverish land of desert waste we swept, gorged on our patriotism and pride, and thirsting hungrily for bloody battle and for conquest over Zarablaan. Over dunes of scorched sand perpetually shifted by blistering winds I led my delbraths four, gloating over the fact that I commanded this noble force.
When finally that ominous citadel peered above the distant horizon, its silvery spires twinkling atop the jade skulls of sacred cupolas, not a single man in forty thousand was found beset by a sliver of fear. And when the silhouetted shapes of defenders were observed weaving eccentricity on the rim of that enormous wall, figures which at a distance might or might not have been men, not one soldier in my command hesitated even fleetingly.
At my command, the forerunners rose high their bannerwands which bore the standard of Zur Qumattai. Our colors tossed with the wind as they were unfurled, and the men gave up an ardent, fiery warcry. The defenders replied, and from behind the walls we heard their strange calls-to-arms: Though it must have been horns which they trumpeted to rouse Zarablaan, the sound itself was more akin to the maddened howl of a stalked animal. That hail shall echo in my head forever, I believe.
We lay siege to formidable Zarablaan, I with my host of forty thousand valorous warriors who were both iron-hearted and high-spirited. My archers in practiced unison plucked their bowstrings and sent forth a deluge of poison-tipped shafts which showered down upon our foes. We were close enough to know that their aim was true, for we heard clearly the rising wails of fallen guards followed quickly by desperate calls for reinforcements. By nightfall our catapults lobbed great torrents of fire, and sent them soaring over the wall to plunge mercilessly beyond, setting ablaze the heart of the city. Flames defiantly kept the dark desert night bright, and by dawn the sky was ashen from the soot of burning Zarablaan.
On the fourth day, we brought up the battering ram and made for the city gate. The fighting was the fiercest as nearer we drew, and arrows and spears and coals rained upon us incessantly. Many soldiers fell whilst they stood beside me, and the ground was so strewn with bodies that vultures from distant mountains filled the skies above, circling and cheering our folly with their shrill caws.
Stubbornly determined and wolfishly savage were the defenders of Zarablaan, but by the time the sun had its slow descent begun on the fifth and final day of our successful siege, I and my soldiers knew we soon would soon have our victory over the embattled city. No more could our foes repel our ruthless assaults, for their numbers were waning and their city slowly succumbed to our flames. At long last the battering ram was successfully hauled into position, and at long last I dispatched the order that would secure the town -- and our fates, one and all. Still I can hear it, echoing over and over: The pounding, the crashing, the thundering; that crushing roar as the great hammer collided again and again with the seemingly impregnable gate of Zarablaan. Finally the wood cracked and split and splintered. The bolt groaned and snapped and the braces bowed and failed as all gave way to explode into millions of fragments which tumbled and showered all over the sandy ground. And as the last sliver of that devastated gate came to rest upon the rubble, from my army arose a deafening cheer -- a cry of ultimate conquest borne by dignity and allegiance. I, too, felt that call as it welled up from my lungs and ripped through my throat and screamed over my lips. Zarablaan was ours.
Through the gates and into the city marched my delbraths four, swords bloodied and spirits soaring. Fires yet burned, and some streets we found impassable for the debris in our path was thick. As darkness had come into bloom, I and my advisors thought it wise to hold the gate and advance no further till the dawn could illuminate our path; and so, after several days of battle, we were afforded one night of rest.
When again the sun rose, I had already hand-picked a hundred warriors with whom I would storm the city. All others, thought I, could remain behind to be called upon as I found necessary.
Down the narrow streets of conquered Zarablaan I stepped anxiously, leading the procession of one hundred soldiers. Through every aperture with care I looked, to the darkened end of each thin alley I gazed trying to catch a glimpse of a foe awaiting our final intrusion. Between high walls decorated by rows of cat-like faces, thirty on either side, and by red and black enameled tiles we were lead as the road meandered through weird brick complexes. At each crossroads and corner an altar was set, whereupon the wicked Zarablaanians must have long worshipped their hideous gods and offered up their own kind as sacrifices. The gray stone slabs hinted silently at the horrible rituals which had been performed upon them, and from them I sniffed the scent of blood and murder.
On either side, the buildings drew farther apart as the road widened. Into a sandy-carpeted courtyard stepped we servants of Zur Qumattai, where there before us rose up an enormous stepped tower which at once I knew must be set at the very core of Zarablaan. Fires blazed in great bowls set upon pedestals at its corners and a thousand steps marked the single steep path toward its solitary and benighted doorway. Dozens of red and black banners symmetrically positioned about its base stewed listlessly on the foul-aired breath of the desert which snaked through these streets like a hungry stalking serpent.
This towering terraced monster of architecture was the central temple wherein our prize rested. I, and my men, eyed that place with such a sense of hatred I can not say how it is that we did not tear it apart brick by brick just to revel in its destruction -- but again, our emotions I know now were not our own.
And so up the steps we rallied, not taking time to question why not one single defender came from the shadows to challenge us; not wondering why the dead lay not in great numbers in the streets through which we had passed; not noticing that all the buildings save the great temple had been touched by fire. Blind and rage-driven we raced forward. Forward, into the waiting arms of our own ruin, we charged.
Dark and dank were the chambers within the ziggurat of Zarablaan. We sped through narrow corridors, thrust firebrands into blackened cells to illuminate the stagnant shadows, and grimaced at the horrors we imagined once thrived within this foul temple. At length, we stumbled upon a great hall buried deep in the bowels of the place, and there we found the fabled Jewel of Kwilaleut. The much-hoarded treasure and sparkling gem of mystical properties rested before us upon a marble dais. Its sparkling surface captured the glimmering flames of our torches and redesigned them into a shimmering issuance that entranced both I and my soldiers. Our attentions were so diverted that each of us was taken aback when from the shadows leapt a single, ragged figure, eyes wild and lips drawn back in a savage snarl. He plunged screaming through the hall, a dagger firm in his clenched fist and held high.
I reacted poorly. My sword was scarcely out of its sheath when the madman was upon me. I could see the terror of my own eyes reflected in the smooth surface of the falling blade and I could hear the air rush as its keen edge hastened toward my chest.
Before the dagger could slice into my flesh, a spear sailed by me and caught the Zarablaanian in his gut. He staggered back, blood spurting out over his lips, and sank violently to the floor.
"How many others?" I demanded forcefully, kneeling at the fallen guardian's side.
"None," he whimpered, as tears sprang to his eyes. His chest shuddered and his breath grew more faint as moments raced by. "We have fought to the last man to keep the Jewel from the hands of others; we have failed. My sympathy to you and your countrymen is all I can offer."
"We burn your city and crush your armies and you offer us your pity?" I looked down inquisitively at the last Zarablaanian as he lay dying at my feet. When no response issued forth from his lips, I turned to my soldiers and smiled. I told them: "We have their Jewel, we have their souls and their swords, and now they offer us their sympathy as well -- the Zarablaanians are a generous lot after all!"
Had I known that the Jewel was the Scourge of Zarablaan, I would not have taken the moment so lightly. A hearty round of laughter was shared by all, and soon we were leaving that horrible temple. I and my delbraths four soon departed fallen Zarablaan. We hauled with us back to Bel-ah'zund an abundance of spoils: Chests brimming with gold and silver pieces; diamonds of rare and exquisite beauty; precious gems and trinkets and baubles, charms and medallions and such. We claimed fine swords and axes and other weapons of war. But most important of all these things was the very Jewel of Kwilaleut.
During the days we spent returning to our homeland, I reflected upon the alleged properties of that strange gem that had so enchanted the zur. It troubled me that Zarablaan sat amidst a sea of wastes though the jewel promised fertility. It puzzled me that Zarablaan had not forged an empire as the jewel vowed that her armies would never fall on foreign soils. It frightened me that the jewel assured its bearers that death should not be feared, and yet not a single Zarablaanian survived our conquest.
Soon after our arrival in Bel-ah'zund, after the Jewel of Kwilaleut had been installed upon the crown of our victorious Zur Qumattai, I realized the nature of the plague I had brought upon our noble kingdom.
It occurred to me when wine and ales and food no longer enticed the masses. It occurred to me when strange howls filled the night skies of Bel-ah'zund, and shadows grew darker and more persistent even in the light of day.
When the first demons stalked our streets, I understood what had happened to poor Zarablaan.
Now, as the green fields encircling our city slowly wither and turn brown, I sit in the long shadows cast by a towering column of burnt-brick. I mourn the loss of the zur's flowering gardens, obliterated by a blight spread by those wicked things that serve that insidious jewel.
Our bellies are always full, and we are always ill.
Life here is now intolerable, yet escape is impossible. Those who have attempted to withdraw from the horrors of Bel-ah'zund have found it impossible: A ring of invisible fire sweeps around the city wall and prevents passage. Death is no more an option, for we cannot die by our own hands.
Now, we endure the scourge that has beset us, and we wait for an army to besiege our accursed city. When such an event comes to pass, we shall welcome death under their swords; or, perhaps we shall fight like the noble Zarablaanians, trying to keep the poor fools from sharing our detestable fate.
Kate Roediger is a former intelligence officer with degrees in science, philosophy and strategic studies. Her favorite science is physics and her favorite philosopher is Hegel. She is also co-driver and bush mechanic for a rally team.
Nobby
by Kate Roediger
Nobby heard the distinctive ping of a small spring landing in the least accessible corner of the room. She pulled out a magnetic claw and scrabbled over dismantled components of the power plant. Her arms were too short so she stepped lightly onto the timing control unit she had removed minutes before. Stretching full length she hooked the magnetic claw over the top of the consol, closed her eyes and felt for the spring; willing it onto the claw. Just when she thought she had it she heard a crack like a pulse blast and found herself tumbling backwards through the air.
She awoke to pain, confusion and footsteps. The lump behind her ear explained the pounding headache but why was the shift supervisor glaring at her? What was she being blamed for now? Slowly she recalled where she was and what had happened during her attempt to fix the power loss occurring at lower cycle rates; her unscheduled attempt. Turning her head she could see the timing control unit and the hole where her foot had gone through the casing.
“What did you do?” asked Ragnal Moloney quietly. Usually he was a shouter. The quiet desperation in his voice was worse than being yelled at; he was scared. Behind him other members of the shift were arriving, picking up scattered parts and murmuring to each other in low voices.
“I was removing the load tap changer when the retaining spring on the cover pinged off and …”
“Why were you removing the load tap changer?”
“I think it’s causing the power loss at low …”
“You weren’t fixing the power loss. You were doing routine level two maintenance,” Maloney hissed.
Nobby stood up, ignoring a wave of nausea. Moloney’s desperation annoyed her. Everyone was so scared all the time.
“I was fixing the power loss because the power loss needs to be fixed. If you leave me alone I can finish fixing it. I just need a new timing unit casing,” she snapped.
“You need a whole new timing unit,” said Moloney. “This one’s ruined.”
“So get me a new unit,” snapped Nobby. “I’ll repair that one later.”
“Primary power plant going off-line in thirty minutes,” announced the computerized address system. “Commence run-up on secondary power plant.”
“Think you can fix it without any air to breathe?” Moloney shouted. “You dirt-siders have no idea. Get her out of here. Inform Chief Farrell that the secondary unit is non-functional; prime will have to be kept running until we can fix it.”
“You’ve got a tertiary unit why don’t you …” Nobby began.
“Get her out of here,” Moloney screamed. “Lock her up, put her on a ship, throw her out an air-lock, just get rid of her.”
‘Typical Roider hysteria,’ thought Nobby as she was dragged ungently from the room. ‘Don’t realise how many layers of fail-safe they’ve got.’
She went back to the sleeping quarters she shared with the other engineering apprentices. Lying down caused pin-points of light to dance in front of her eyes. She gazed past them to the newsprint holo above her bunk. ‘Annabelle Randall wins Stoker Prize’ the headline announced. The holo showed Nobby accepting her prize while an older woman watched proudly. Nobby kept it because it was the only good holo she had of her mother.
“I miss you,” Annabelle whispered. “Nobody’s on my side anymore.”
The call chime woke her from troubled dreams.
“Nobby here,” she said.
“Annabelle Randall you are to report to Chief Farrell immediately.”
The caller hung up before Nobby could respond. Minutes later she was waiting outside Rhys Farrell’s office rubbing at grease stains and trying to comb her hair with her fingers. Chief Farrell expected his engineers to keep themselves and their workplaces immaculate; it was one of many topics on which he and Nobby disagreed.
Shift Supervisor Maloney was waiting with the Chief but Nobby ignored him, keeping her eyes on Farrell. In Nobby’s opinion Farrell was the only engineer on the station who was better than her. She might not agree with how he ran the engineering section but she respected his ability. Farrell was ignoring her, his thick fingers wove patterns in the air, manipulating holographic representations of the oxygen scrubbers. Only Farrell’s desk had this capability and Nobby itched to pull it apart and see how it worked. In the meantime there was the tedious dressing down to endure. She’d been through several before and when Farrell looked up she took a hurried breath, ready to explain her latest deviation from the schedule.
“Annabelle you’re out,” he said. “You’ve been given more chances than any other apprentice and you’ve wasted them all. There’s a position in the ore loading docks or you can return to Jove. You’ve got two hours to report to either Chief Sandersen or Captain Purcell. Either way you’re to have your things out of engineering within the hour.”
The world fell away for the second time that day. This time Nobby managed to keep her feet. Pride propelled her from the room and carried her to the nearest mess where she ordered a bulb of tea: hot, sweet and milky, the way Roiders drank it. The catering unit informed her that her entitlement to rations expired in two hours. So it was real. Chief Farrell had terminated her employment and taken her off the engineer’s ration card.
She looked up as movement caught her eye and saw Inaka smiling and waving. Inaka was goalie for Nobby’s featherball team and, while they often quarrelled, she was the closest thing Nobby had to a friend. Inaka’s smile faded and she crossed quickly to Nobby’s side asking: “what’s wrong? Are you hurt? You look awful.”
“They sacked me.” Nobby’s voice was thick with rage. “If they’d just left me alone I could have fixed everything but nobody ever gives me a chance; stupid paranoid Roiders don’t know what they’ve got.”
“We should be grateful we’ve got a Stoker Prize winner should we? Stop worrying that you’ll plunge us all into darkness or vent us into space,” said Inaka hotly. “Don’t give me that look. Everyone knows you fiddle with stuff without understanding how it all fits together; you see the machines but you never see the system. Out here the system keeps us alive.”
Inaka stalked off leaving Nobby holding a half full bulb of tea and the tatters of her rage. What now? Even in a state of shock Nobby was an intelligent woman. If she didn’t like the ore loading job then she could resign from it and return to Jove. If she went back to Jove now, she’d never be accepted on a station again. She returned the half-full bulb to the recycler, ignoring the ‘waste nothing’ sign that adorned every disposal chute, and headed for Chief Sandersen’s office.
Farrell would realise he needed her soon enough; she was the only other competent engineer. As she walked to Sandersen’s office she imagined various engineering emergencies where a frantic Farrell would drag her out of ore loading to help him save the station. It was what she had come here for. In the meantime Sandersen should be pathetically grateful to get a recruit with some brains.
“I’ve already told Farrell that I don’t want you,” said Sandersen. “You can’t follow procedure. People die in the ore loaders if procedure isn’t followed. Go and see Captain Purcell.”
Nobby’s visions of heroic engineering collapsed. She stared at Sandersen unable to move. For once, her pride didn’t rise to the occasion and she was lost.
“I don’t want to go,” Annabelle whispered. Sandersen waited for her to continue but Nobby had nothing more to say.
“I’ll give you a week’s trial,” he said eventually. “You can service the main rollers.”
“Can I work on the pulse blasts?” asked Nobby. The pulse blasts expelled spoil that drifted into the station’s meagre gravity well. Keeping the station’s home paddock clear was the most challenging aspect of the ore loaders work.
“You can report to Captain Purcell,” Sandersen replied, turning away from her.
“No, I’m sorry. I’ll service the rollers. I just thought engineering might resent me doing their work.”
“Engineering’s flat out keeping the station running. We do all the maintenance on the loaders,” said Sandersen. He gave her a penetrating stare. “You worked in engineering for nine months and you never realised how close to disaster we are all the time. You’re about to find out. You’re at the business end now. Riley will show you your duties.”
The noise of the loaders was literally deafening or would have been without the headset. With it the world was eerily silent except when the line manager ordered Nobby to her next task. By the end of her first full day the isolation had frayed her nerves, already strained by the sudden change in her circumstances.
Nobby’s first meeting with her new bunk mates hadn’t been pleasant. They knew of the hot shot engineer who’d bombed out and resented her descent into their ranks. She wasn’t keen to see them again so she lingered in the maintenance tool shop after stowing her gear.
A communications room adjoined the tool shop and over-riding the lock was so simple that Nobby didn’t consider it breaking in; the door had practically been left open. Inside banks of screens showed extra-station activity in each of the surrounding 36 sectors. Nobody was watching. This was a tertiary comms room, part of the Roider’s paranoid layering of systems. It was the work of a few moments for Nobby to link her headset to the station comms link. She found a channel with good bandwidth and commandeered it to link her to the station’s library.
The next day was better. The work was still mind-meltingly dull but she could listen to the comms chatter or anything she wanted from the library. At first the chatter made little sense. By the second shift she had worked out many of the call signs. Ships all started with V: VL for the freighters, VR for tugs, VJ for passenger ships. Station facilities all started with M: MG for traffic control, MS for individual docks, MA for customs. These were the most common but others turned up sporadically. Most began with V or M but a few started with E.
Nobby listened in to the mysterious E- messages trying to work out where they originated. Towards the end of the second shift a voice with call sign ESR asked for activity in sector 17 to stop. Nobby listened for a response but none came. The voice again asked for activity in sector 17 to stop so that ESR could retrieve an out-worker whose line had come undone. Again there was no response.
Nobby wondered why the dumb Roiders weren’t doing anything. This was clearly a search and rescue unit. You’d think everyone would be listening out for them. In fact you’d expect them to have their own dedicated channel.
Nobby dropped the spanner and ran for the communications room, yelling into her headset: “ESR needs all activity to stop in sector 17. Stop all activity in sector 17. You’ve got to tell them to stop.”
Inside the comms room Nobby headed for the board she had used to get her library link. To her left one of the screens flashed white: a pulse blast. The blast echoed through Nobby’s chest. Even before she checked the number she knew which screen it would be. In sector 17 four figures were tumbling into space: the out-worker and the team who had come to rescue him. Only it wasn’t a ‘him’; it was Inaka’s voice screaming for help.
Nobby reached the board and reversed her previous night’s work. Now the whole station could hear the search and rescue team. They could hear Inaka’s screams and a man speaking earnestly. On the screen Nobby saw one of the rescue team clutching at his suit-leg. Despite the blast, the tumbling and damage to their colleague’s suit the voices of the ESR team were calm as they talked Inaka through the rescue protocol. Soon the figures had stopped tumbling. They were still heading out into deep space but now in pairs: Inaka and her would-be rescuer, and the rescuer with the damaged suit, now being helped by his colleague.
The monitors showed that activity had stopped in all 36 sectors. Ore loaders retracted. Out-worker teams returned to docking stations. An inbound ship burnt precious fuel, stopping dead in space. The giant station whose air, water, food and fuel were all bought with the proceeds of ore refining was idle while a second rescue team retrieved their own. Somewhere, Nobby knew, a third team waited, prepped and ready.
Soon the all-clear was sounded. The station had regathered its lost lambs but there would be no celebration. All around the station work resumed while Annabelle Randall crawled under a consol and wept.
Farrell found her there. He stood with arms folded while she clambered out, wiping her face and tugging at her hair.
“Are you going to get that cut?” Farrell asked. She looked at him blankly. “Your hair, it’s always in your face. Are you going to get it cut?”
“Okay,” Nobby replied. “First thing when I get back to Jove I’ll shave it off.”
“If you like,” Farrell replied. “Why are you going to Jove?”
Again Nobby stared open mouthed; perhaps he didn’t know.
“I did it,” she said eventually. “I stole the ESR comms channel. That’s why nobody could hear them. I nearly killed four people.”
Her voice broke but she didn’t cry; Annabelle Randall, engineering dux, Stoker Prize winner, daughter of the late great Margaret Randall was wept out.
“I know. Everybody knows,” Farrell replied grimly. “Most importantly you know. Do you feel like doing anymore unscheduled tinkering? Still think you can understand the machines without understanding the system?”
“No,” Nobby blurted. “I don’t want to do any tinkering. I’m no good at it.”
“You’re not bad,” Farrell replied. “Not as good as you think you are but not bad. Do you want your old job back?”
“You’d take me after this?”
“We don’t like waste out here in the belt. You’ve just had a learning opportunity. Prove to me it wasn’t wasted on you; report to my office for reassignment. Get a hair cut first.”
Chief Farrell found Nobby in his office an hour later. She had short hair, clean overalls and a complicated twist of metal and wires in her hand. His eyes tracked the trail of wires from her hand to the hole in his desk: the hole where the holographic unit used to be. The unit was the most expensive and sensitive piece of equipment in his office; just by bumping the desk he’d knocked the kinaesthetic feed out of alignment and now this fool child had pulled the whole unit apart.
Nobby followed his gaze and rushed to explain: “it’s okay, the holographic unit isn’t connected to anything. I checked. You logged a job to realign the kinaesthetic feed so I thought I’d get started. I think the problem’s with the projection unit.”
She turned the assembly over pointing to what looked like a seashell cut in half. Her eyes were glowing.
“Tasks aren’t to be started until they’ve been logged out,” said Farrell.
“I’ve done that sir,” Nobby replied.
“Tasks are supposed to be done according to the schedule.”
“This one was listed on the ‘as available’ register meaning that it isn’t urgent but can be undertaken any time that a suitably qualified engineer is available and the unit is not in use,” said Nobby quoting the relevant section of the regs. “Also I checked with Ensign Markworthy that you wouldn’t be needing the unit this afternoon and I’ve logged the unit as unavailable. I’ll change its status as soon as I finish work.”
“It’s a sensitive piece of equipment,’ said Farrell.
“I know sir. I downloaded the schematics and read all the handling instructions before I started work,” said Nobby.
“You’ve read the schedule, put yourself down for an appropriate task, checked the availability of the equipment in question, logged the changed status, reviewed the schematics and read the handling instructions,” said Farrell. “For the first time in your life I’m guessing.”
“Yes sir,” said Nobby her feet practically lifting off the ground with her officious rule-following zeal. “All in accordance with engineering procedures as set out in the standing regs, sir.”
“I see. Annabelle, you’ve been removed from the engineering personnel list,” said Farrell. “How did you access the schedule and how did you get the computer to recognise you as a person authorised to download the schematics let alone log out the task.”
“You did say you wanted me back because I’m good, sir” said Nobby.
Nathaniel Tower writes fiction, teaches English, and manages the online lit magazine Bartleby Snopes. His short fiction has appeared in over 50 online and print magazines. A story of his,The Oaten Hands, was named one of 190 notable stories by storySouth's Million Writers Award in 2009. His first novel, A Reason To Kill, is due out in July 2011.
The Funeral Arrangements
by Nathaniel Tower
Arnie Hardin had a gut feeling that he was going to kill himself tomorrow. He had another gut feeling that no one would much care that he had.
He hadn't yet made arrangements for when or how he would do the deed, but nevertheless he decided to visit a nearby funeral home. Since he was confident that no one would take the time to put together a respectable funeral for him, he figured it was best to do it himself. He'd always been a firm believer in the old saw about doing a job yourself if you want it done right.
Arnie pulled into Westcroft Funeral Home just before noon, hoping to beat the lunch hour rush. The parking lot was nearly empty, and he chuckled to himself that the place sure was dead. For a moment, he wished someone else were there to hear his joke.
Inside, the funeral home was much different from what he expected. A massive chandelier greeted him with its glinting light. The décor had a modern-antique feel that invited all styles and classes. The stuffy old smell of death his nostrils waited for was nowhere to be found. In its place was the refreshing scent of lilies and lilacs. It was a beautiful place. Arnie knew immediately that this was where he wanted to take up his everlasting rest.
"Welcome," a hushed voice interrupted Arnie's musings. Arnie centered his attention on a man who appeared in his mid-forties, much like Arnie. The man had a touch of gray in his otherwise neatly-cropped brown hair. He donned a navy blue sport coat that complemented his pale blue shirt and tan khaki pants. The sport coat had a small red crest on the right breast pocket, probably the emblem of Westcroft.
Arnie wanted to study him further, but the man prodded Arnie for a response.
"Are you here for one of this afternoon's visitations?" the man asked after glancing at the grandfather clock tucked tastefully in the corner of the massive entryway.
Arnie shook his head.
"How may I help you then?" The man took great care to make sure his voice sounded accommodating and somber. Arnie found his tone both comforting and disturbing. He couldn't understand what disturbed him about this man. The man seemed quite hospitable, and there was nothing noticeably creepy or abnormal about him.
"Sir?" the man said as he stepped closer. He reached out a friendly hand for Arnie to take. "I'm Eugene Downwater," the man said affably.
Arnie took the man's hand, offering his own dead-fish of a handshake.
"Are you okay?" Eugene said after releasing Arnie's loose grip.
"Yes, yes, I'm fine," Arnie finally said, his voice cracking on the second yes.
"How may I help you today?" Eugene repeated his earlier question.
"I need to arrange a funeral." He tried to emulate Eugene's tone.
"I'm sorry for your loss," Eugene replied in a way that seemed automatic rather than sincere.
"I didn't lose anyone," Arnie snapped. "It's for me."
"Wonderful," Eugene incanted, his voice suddenly bursting with life. "Please follow me." Eugene gestured with a widespread arm.
The pair walked through a short hallway before entering an office.
"Please, have a seat." Again Eugene gestured.
Arnie sat in a blue padded chair. The chair almost swallowed him. His body had never felt so comfortable in all his life.
"You've made a wise decision," Eugene began. "Making your own life celebration arrangements takes the burden off of your loved ones and offers everyone involved peace of mind."
Arnie looked at Eugene but remained silent.
A sudden panic overtook Eugene. "Wait, you're not terminally ill, are you?" The somberness returned to his voice.
Arnie again shook his head.
"Good, good, good," Eugene’s voice became jovial again. "I'm glad to hear that you have your health. It's always pleasing to see a young man so in tune with his mortality and the future of his family. By planning your arrangements now, you are also saving your loved ones a lot of money."
"Are you the undertaker?" Arnie suddenly asked.
Eugene laughed. "I'm afraid we haven't used that term for quite some time now. I am the Chief Life Celebration Director here at Westcroft. But I suppose it's just a fancier name for what you called it." Eugene smiled a row of straight teeth. Arnie noticed they were free of coffee and cigarette stains. He returned the smile.
"Shall we get down to business?" Eugene asked as he handed a form to Arnie.
Arnie accepted the form as he tried to get a better look at the crest on Eugene's jacket. It looked like a dove was emerging in the center of a 'W', but it also seemed that a serpent had wrapped itself around the letter. He figured his eyes were playing tricks on him as he picked up a fine silver-plated pen that had been resting on Eugene's desk. He began filling in his personal information.
"So, Mr. Hardin," Eugene said after Arnie completed the name portion of the form, "let me just walk you through the process here. We can do as much or as little as you want here today. Our pre-end-of-life arrangement services range from purchasing a casket and/or burial plot all the way through the finest details such as food and beverages, card packages, transportation, headstones, decorations, and duration of services." Eugene paused to make sure Arnie had soaked in all of the information. "Today we will take a short tour of the facility, if you'd like, and I will show you the different packages we offer."
"I'd like the whole package," Arnie replied quickly. He glanced up at Eugene to gauge the man's reaction. Eugene's eyes widened and a sly smile crept unto his face.
"Very well," Eugene said, trying to maintain his composure. "I will show you the finest we have to offer."
"Yes, please know that I am willing to spare no expense for this. I'd like everything you have to offer." Arnie set the pen down on top of the form and slid them both over to Eugene. Eugene studied the form for just a second before standing and gesturing for Arnie to exit the office.
"Let's start by choosing your casket," Eugene said as he led Arnie to a spiral staircase.
"Just show me the best you have," Arnie said happily. His gut seemed pleased with his decision to come here.
During the next hour, Arnie and Eugene traveled around the funeral home and made small talk as Arnie picked out only the finest Eugene had to offer. Arnie told Eugene about his wife and kids and job. Although Arnie never considered himself a talkative person, he realized after awhile that he was doing most of the talking. Of course Eugene prompted most of what Arnie said. Eugene didn't say much of anything about himself, opting mainly to ask questions. Arnie was glad he had someone to talk to and thought that Eugene could've been a good friend.
Soon they were back in the office finalizing the paperwork. Arnie smiled as he signed his name. The arrangements seemed quite extravagant, much better than anything anyone would have planned for him. He was particularly pleased with his choice of coffin. It had real gold-plated handles and ornate carvings of the Archangel Gabriel slaying a pack of lions along the sides. At least he thought it was Gabriel. Inside the casket was lined with beautiful purple velvet that was so soft and inviting that he had almost asked if he could just crawl into it now. He wondered if his life insurance would cover the cost of the whole thing. He'd hate to think that his wife would be stuck with the bill. Although their marriage had lost a bit of its steam over the years, he still loved her and didn't want too much of a burden on her hands.
"Do you have many funerals this week?" Arnie asked after handing over the signed document.
"Just a few," Eugene replied, his tone becoming somber again. "But as you know, things happen quickly. We could be completely booked by the end of the day."
Arnie nodded as if to agree that this was a sad fact.
"But we do have openings as of now," Eugene suddenly added while gathering all of the information to hand to Arnie.
As Arnie collected the necessary documents and brochures, he thought about telling Eugene about his plan to kill himself tomorrow, but instead he opted for a joke. "Let's hope I'm not one of 'em," he said with a wink and a chuckle.
Eugene smiled but didn't laugh.
"Yes, let's hope not," the director echoed after a long pause. Then he added something to Arnie about enjoying his day. The two exchanged a few more pleasantries and Arnie departed.
On the way home, Arnie thought about everything that happened at Westcroft. He was pleased with the details, but something began to feel unsettling about the whole thing. He tried to shake it off and follow Eugene's advice about enjoying his day, but then he started to think that the man had said "enjoy your last day" instead of "enjoy your day off." Pulling into his driveway, Arnie wondered if maybe the funeral director was onto him. He shuddered at the thought of working at a funeral home. It took a special breed, he thought.
At dinner that night, Arnie's wife commented on how he seemed distant. Arnie brushed off the notion and said he had a lot going on at work. She didn't know he had taken the day off. Arnie half-listened to her as she told him that she had spoken to both of their sons who were away at college.
When he went to bed he found himself in a sleepless state of near panic. He began sweating as he thought about when and how he was going to kill himself. Did he have to plan it all out, or should it just be a spur of the moment thing? He wanted to make sure he went through with it, but he didn't know much about suicides. Surely there were full-proof methods that weren't too messy. He knew he wouldn't bother with pills, but he also didn't want to spill his own blood all over the house. Maybe the electrocution in the bathtub or a good old-fashioned noose. And then there was the issue of whether or not he should go to work. It didn't seem to make much sense to spend his last day alive at work. Maybe it made the most sense to just take care of it first thing in the morning. As the questions swirled around in his head, he tossed and turned, trying to come up with quick answers so he could just go to sleep. He wanted to be rested for the big event.
"Are you okay?" his wife asked him after awhile.
"Yeah, I'm fine," he gasped. He looked at her, his eyes struggling to adjust to the sight of her face in the dark, and then offered her a quick kiss before turning his back to her.
"I love you," she said soothingly as she brushed his arm.
"I love you, too," he said as he closed his eyes and begged for sleep.
Before he knew it, it was morning. The alarm buzzed him out of bed, and he put on the work clothes he had set out for himself. He moved quickly so as not to disturbed his wife, offering her a quick peck on the forehead before heading downstairs to start his morning coffee. As the coffee readied itself in the pot, he went outside to grab the newspaper. A dream from that night about Eugene from Westcroft ran through his mind as he grabbed the paper, but he couldn't quite put together the details. He just knew there was something twisted about it.
As he walked inside the front door, the newspaper slipped out of his hands and spilled open. He swooped down to pick it up with a gentle curse. Grasping the paper and trying to collect it into its original state, something caught his eye. He froze. There, in the Obituary section, was his own picture with a short blurb that read:
Arnold "Arnie" Hardin, forty-four, passed away in his own home during the evening. Information on the cause of death was not immediately available. He is survived by his wife, Alice Hardin, and his two sons Robert and Patrick. Visitation will be held at the Westcroft Funeral Home on Thursday from 4-8. The funeral will also be at Westcroft on Friday at 10 AM. A lunch buffet reception will follow. All are invited to attend.
Arnie shook his head and assumed he was dreaming. He closed his eyes and opened them again. The obituary was still there. He pinched himself. The obituary was still there. He read it again. It couldn't be a coincidence. He decided he would call Eugene later that day and ask what was going on. He crumbled up the page and tossed it into the trashcan before he sat down to enjoy a hot cup of coffee and a blueberry bagel. Arnie decided to go extra heavy on the cream cheese that morning.
He left for work in a rush, not wanting to run into Alice before departing. He didn't need to have any tearful goodbyes. He knew he would beat her home today and take care of what needed to be taken care of. He wondered how she would react when she found the body, but then he decided to think about something else. Bruce Springsteen soon took his mind off of all his morbid thoughts.
Work was dull as ever that day, at least until one of his coworkers came into his office with a copy of the newspaper.
"Did you see this?" the coworker asked as he handed Arnie the paper.
"Weird," Arnie said after pretending to read it. "Must be some really crazy coincidence." Arnie laughed.
The coworker laughed awkwardly and told Arnie he could keep the paper as a token of remembrance.
Arnie took an early lunch. He knew it was the last lunch he would ever take, and he knew it was the last time he would ever leave work. So as not to arouse any suspicion, he left his bag in his cubicle and left his computer logged in with the screen on. On his way out he told someone that he was really hungry and needed to take an early lunch. He added that he might be back a little later than usual because of a quick errand he needed to run. No one invited themselves along or tried to stall his hasty exit.
Arnie stopped at a fancy steak restaurant he'd always admired from the road. After dropping seventy-five dollars on a lunch for one, he drove to a hardware store to find some good sturdy rope. In the aisles of the hardware store he laughed about a nine dollar baked potato and wondered what his wife would think when she received the credit card bill next month. Perhaps she would still be too hung up on his death to care. Or maybe she would assume that this hadn't been a lunch for one and that he had spent his last day dining with someone else. He hoped she wouldn't think that. He had never been unfaithful or even thought about doing so, and he wouldn't want to leave a bad taste in her mouth. The affection she had shown him last night as he struggled to sleep surfaced in his head. Reimagining the scene, he contemplated driving to the bridge and ending it there. That way she wouldn't have to come home to the awful sight of his self-killed body.
Gripping the steering wheel tightly, he realized how foolish it would be to throw himself into the river. What if they never found him? Then the funeral arrangements would just go to waste, and that was an awful lot of money to waste. Convinced that the bridge was a bad idea, Arnie continued home. The rope was really the only way to do things right.
As he pulled into the driveway, an awful thought swept over Arnie. What if Alice came home while he was in the middle of the act? He decided he would work quickly. After parking the car in the garage, he hastily grabbed the rope and ran inside the house. The receipt slipped to the ground on his way out, but Arnie didn't notice.
Once inside, Arnie went to work at tying his noose. That morning at work he had spent several hours studying the finer points of noose making. He became so engrossed in his studies that he forgot about calling Eugene to ask about the obituary, and he forgot about doing any actual work. It wasn't all that big of a deal though; rarely did he accomplish much that was worthwhile.
After several tries tying the noose, Arnie began to get frustrated. The knots just weren't holding together. He thought he had it once, but the moment he stuck his head in, the knots unraveled. The rope simply wasn't cooperating.
Arnie frantically searched the house for something else that would be quick and clean. Nothing seemed to suffice. Just as he was about to give up, he had a great idea. He would climb up to the roof and jump off onto the concrete driveway below. This was the best idea of all. Then it could even look like an accident.
Back in the garage, Arnie tossed the rope in his trunk before pulling out the ladder. He set it up carefully against the front of his house. After making sure it was sturdy, he climbed to the top of the ladder and pulled his body onto the roof. The shingles were warm. He sat there for a moment and thought about his life. A neighbor walked past.
"What're you doing up there?" the neighbor called.
"Just checking the gutters," Arnie replied without pause.
"Be careful. You can check mine too if you want," the neighbor said before moseying along.
"Check them yourself," Arnie muttered. He looked down at the concrete below. The drop was easily thirty feet. He wondered if it would hurt or if he would die instantly. He also wondered if Alice would notice his body before pulling into the garage. The thought of her running over him, even if he was dead, caused him to shudder. Thinking about his wife suddenly brought into his mind again her kindness from the night before. She obviously still loved him a great deal. Looking at the ground below, he realized he loved her a great deal as well. He couldn't go through with this. There was just too much to live for.
Since he was on the roof anyway, he decided to check the gutters. As he reached for a clump of leaves blocking the downspout, he wondered if Eugene could give him a refund. At least a partial one.
He also wondered how he would explain the charges to his wife.
Lost in his thoughts, he became careless in his action and started to slip. His feet skidded down the roof a few inches before he placed his hands firmly on the roof to brace himself. His heart palpitated uncomfortably and gave him a sudden realization of the fragility of life. Arnie tossed the pile of leaves to the ground below and hurried off the roof and down the ladder.
When Alice came home that night, Arnie told her he wanted to take her out to a fancy dinner. She acquiesced after showing a bit of surprise. The dinner was marvelous, and Arnie imagined how he would take her home and make love to her over and over. Something about being on that roof had given him a new spark to life. He was even looking forward to going to work in the morning.
After a gluttonous dinner and two rounds of sex, Arnie's body was exhausted. He fell into a deep and dreamless sleep that was interrupted just before midnight by a voracious rumbling in his stomach. He couldn't believe he was hungry at all after eating two hearty meals that day. After trying to sleep it off for a few restless minutes, he rose from the bed and went down to the kitchen to grab a little snack.
Much to his surprise, a dim light emanated from the kitchen. "We must've left the light on," he thought to himself as he instinctively went for the fridge. His eyes were filled with tiredness, and as he rubbed them on the way to the fridge, he bumped into something unusually solid. "What the hell?" he said aloud as he freed his eyes.
Before him was the unmistakable sight of a gold-plated casket adorned with slain lions. The Archangel seemed to be missing, but Arnie probably had just forgotten what side he had been on.
"I must be dreaming," Arnie said as he tried to push the casket out of his way.
"I assure you that you aren't," came a somber voice from behind.
Arnie didn't have to turn around to know who was speaking to him.
"What the hell is going on?" Arnie asked before looking back at Eugene.
Eugene placed a hand on Arnie's shoulder. The coldness of the hand seeped through Arnie's nightshirt and onto his clammy skin.
"I might ask you the same thing," Eugene said.
Arnie glanced at the man and noticed he was wearing the same outfit from the previous day. The crest on the jacket blazed brightly, and Arnie noticed that something was missing from the center of the 'W'. He couldn't remember what had been there, but that wasn't really his main concern at the moment.
Eugene released his grip on Arnie and reached for the casket. He flung the lid open with a flick of his wrist. He did it with such skill that it seemed he had been opening caskets his whole life.
"Get in," Eugene ordered as his swooping arm made a grand gesture.
"What the hell is going on?" was all Arnie could think to say.
"It's time for you to rest." Eugene's voice bordered on joyous, just as he had sounded when Arnie first told him he hadn't lost anyone.
"I'm calling the police," Arnie said as he tried to turn away and march for a phone.
Eugene shook his head.
"Don't make this more difficult than it has to be," the funeral director uttered.
As if suddenly unable to control his movements, Arnie found himself climbing into the casket. The act seemed no different from climbing into bed.
Before his body was flat against the soft fabric, Eugene began to close the lid. Arnie's arms shot up to try to prevent it from closing, but the lid was too heavy for his weary body.
The lid echoed as it closed, and Arnie responded to that echo by pounding his fists on the fine lacquer finish of the inside of the lid. The pounding reverberated through the coffin and filled his ears with a hideous ringing that he simply couldn't bear. He ceased his pounding and dropped his arms to his side.
Before the final reverberation of pounding stopped, Arnie found himself admiring the softness of the purple velvet lining that seemed to swallow him whole.
