Dead City (4 page)

“More wine?” asked Laura, already pouring before Ashley had the chance to decline.
She had taken sanctuary in her friend's spare room  since the ExorSisters started their work. Laura's husband, Steve, was in the kitchen whilst the two women were decompressing with a second bottle of merlot.

“You'll be back before you know it.” said Laura, emptying the last drops into her already-f glass.

“Yeah.” said Ashley, unsure whether she actually wanted to go return to the house.

“Don't be like that.” Laura said, nudging her. “You've loved that house ever since you first laid eyes on it.”

“Past tense relevant right now...” Ashley said, her words trailing off as she looked away.

“Um, ladies?” said Steve, backing out of the kitchen slowly.

“Yes?”

“Dinner is...” he turned to them, then took another glance at the kitchen counter. “Dinner is dancing on the worktop.”
The two women poked their heads round the corner and watched with an unfamiliar combination of amusement and terror as a large salmon danced the lambada with a head of broccoli.

“Have you maybe thought about going to the Spectre Advice Bureau?” asked Steve.

“I guess that's my next stop.” replied Ashley, watching uncomfortably as the salmon switched the dance up to a tango and leaned over to the dish resting on the stove, returning with a sprig of parsley in its mouth.

* * * *

The next morning Ashley walked up the steps to the angular, angry-looking building that had become The Spectre Advice Bureau, a plaque by the entrance proudly stating:

Established October 15
th
1977
Opened by HRH Queen Elizabeth.

Ashley walked in, not convinced that the declaration was something the building and its occupants required a plaque to commemorate, even if the Queen did drop by for five minutes to cut a ribbon.

The inside was as drab as the exterior, as if the seventies had nested, laid eggs, then crawled up and died. She approached the drab off-white reception desk, the clerk interrupting as she opened her mouth, before Ashley could even get a single consonant out.

“Possession, haunting, reanimation or miscellaneous?” he asked, in a monotone drawl.

“Haunting.” Ashley replied.

“Apparition, spook, spectre, poltergeist, ghost or miscellaneous?”

“Poltergeist.”

“That's a P-O-6-4-6 you need then.” the clerk said, leafing through a drawer and pulling out the relevant form.  He slid it over to her.

“It's not a normal poltergeist.” she said. “At least, that's what the exorcists said.”

“Were they government licensed exorcists?”

“I don't know?”

“You'll need to see a specialist then.” he said, snatching the form back. “You'll need a P-O-6-4-7.”  after a further rummage through the drawer, he slid a new form across the counter.

Ashley took a seat and filled the form in, taking it back to the clerk and proceeded to wait three hours for her appointment. Everyone else around her who was waiting seemed to get seen almost instantly.  Eventually her name was called, and she walked along dull grey corridors, into a dark room with a crystal ball at the centre of the table. A large Caribbean woman was sitting behind it.

“Am I in the right place?” Ashley asked.

“Yes y'are.” said the woman. “Got a spirit I see.” she was looking over Ashley's shoulder.

“Is it here?” she asked, turning and seeing nothing behind her. “Is
he
here? 
Is
it a he?”

“It is. But not f'long.” The woman's long, plump fingers waved around the ball, and it started to glow.
The light shone into the room, and as Ashley turned her head to hide her eyes from the light, she saw a figure standing behind her.

“Ash!” it said, in a voice like the wind.

“Yes?” she replied, trying to make out the details of the spirit, who mostly looked like a faceless silhouette in the glare of the light.

“It's me, Ash. Can you see me?”

“Who are you?”

“I was trapped for God knows how long, it was so fucking boring! But I'm back! It's going to be okay no--”
His words were cut off as the light reached a crescendo, and in an instant, the apparition was  gone. The orb at the centre of the table now had a faint glow, indicating that the spirit was trapped within the confines of its spherical glass walls.

“There we go, deary.  All done.” she said, pulling a lever by her chair. A chute opened under the orb and it hurtled down a tube hidden beneath the table, speeding through a network of tunnels deep in the bowels of the city.

“But wait!” said Ashley, confused at the spectre's swift departure. “Who was haunting me?”

“Don't cha know, girl?” said the medium, placing a new orb at the centre of the table. “That be y'husband.”

The Dead City visitor's centre hadn't been invested in since 1993, and it showed. The paint had peeled itself into intricate networks of patterns, that if one was to look at absent-mindedly, might be mistaken for an old map of the London Underground. Damp, rot and various moulds underneath the cracks bled through with the rainbow colours of the different tube lines.

Jon traced his way from Pimlico to Mornington Crescent as he waited for the Minister to arrive. The old man was late, as always. Jon knew better than to expect him on time, but still insisted on being prompt each and every week.

'He didn't have much routine in his life, but what little there was he appreciated. The job was hard, the life was harder, but it was the only job he ever knew, and the only life he was ever gonna have.'

Finally, after trips from Hendon Central to Cheshunt, Mile End to Shadwell and navigating all the way round the Circle Line, the Minister arrived. The two of them were separated by an inch of bullet proof glass with quarter-inch wide holes drilled for sound, and occasionally contraband, to pass through.

George Grant had been the Minister For Unliving Affairs since the crisis began. Despite changes in parties over the decades, they always insisted on giving him the position. He was there when it started, and if some Members of Parliament had their way, he'd have the job for long after he died. Over forty years on from the day the dead rose, the man was no longer the slender blonde of his formative years, no longer looked as confident and suave as when he was first given the position. The stress was getting to him, hair thinning, gut attempting to burst forth from his shirt, and he knew he wasn't looking his best.

“You're looking good. Lost some weight?” asked Jon.
He hadn't.

“Are you covered in blood?” asked the Minister.

“It's not mine.” said Jon.

“I don't know whether that's a good thing or not...”

“Found a kitten. Poor little fucker didn't last long.”
The old man was concerned for his liaison.

'The government man looked at him with big ol' kind eyes, but he knew better, knew better than to take anyone in charge of this whole mess at face value. It was clear something going down, chances are this guy was in on it, but this was his only man on the outside, so he had to at least feign trust in him.'

George broke the silence left as Jon narrated to himself. “You doing okay in there?” he said, with a smile that appeared genuine.

“Yeah.” Jon said, as he looked into the Minister's kind, fatigued eyes and felt the need to back-peddle. “No, fuck it, no. It's getting worse.”

“How much worse?” asked the old man.

“People breaking in, ghouls getting soul-boners, monolith's killing anything they can get their hands on. It's like a tide of unrest washing up against the shore, and some day soon there's gonna be a wave so big that takes the whole place down.”

“So what's to do?” asked the Minister.

“I think I know the guy kicking the dog...” said Jon. “But I need to know for sure.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out the stolen vial, putting it up to one of the holes in the glass.

“That doesn't look like it's going to fit, old chap.” the Minister said.
Jon lined it up with the hole and slotted it through.  The vial fit perfectly in the gap.

“Well I'll be...” said the old man, taking the vial.  He pulled the stopper out and sniffed it, a foul odour filling the air. He plugged it back up and put it in his pocket.

“You'll tell me when you get a report back, right?” Jon said, knowing he shouldn't have to ask.

“Soon as I know, you'll know.” the Minister said, wishing Jon a good week as he got up to leave.

'He turned his back on the elder statesman, the closest thing he had to a boss, and marched on outta there. Despite the coffin-dodger's words of support, he still didn't know if the old bastard could be trusted, and even if he could, he was a senior citizen on the other side of the wall, what use could he really be to someone down on the ground, knee-deep in the shit?'

The man without a body was trapped. The light surrounding him was gripping tight, and although he had no physical sensations, he had the impression that whatever little form he had was curled up, surrounded by warmth, as if returned to the womb.

Beyond the light, the orb rushed through the tubes under the city, speeding past abandoned underground stations and sewers until the border of the Dead City was up ahead. Under the walls, the City limits were marked out by a man-made subterranean river leading back to the Thames.

* * * *

The dead, it was often believed, could not cross running water. Whether that was actually true had only been briefly tested in the seventies.

Margaret Thatcher went to the trouble of having the river re-routed nonetheless, because that was the kind of woman she was.

* * * *

Crossing the stream, the orb flew towards the end of the tunnel, emerging out of a sewer in Dead City, careening straight into a building, and smashing on impact, the particles of glass falling to the floor to join the remnants of previously shattered spheres. He burst forth from the light, which swiftly dissipated, and found himself in unfamiliar surroundings. The clean and bright buildings and streets of living London were gone, and all that resided in this new place were vistas of decay and death.
A loudspeaker installed in front of his arrival point squealed at him.

“New arrival, you have a visitor. Please make your way to the visitor's centre.”
The route was signposted, albeit by rusted signs that were barely legible. As he made his way through the city, he was terrified of all those he passed, as zombies, ghouls, and various other sub-species of unliving walked by. Their rotting flesh was unlike anything he had ever witnessed in his life, or post-life for that matter.

When he saw the visitor's centre up ahead he was grateful to find a sanctuary, if only for a short time, and after all his experiences since death, couldn't wait to see Ashley again. Walking straight through the door, he saw her waiting behind the glass.

“Ash!” he cried.
She didn't respond, looking around as she waited anxiously for him to make his appearance. He moved closer to the glass, intending to go straight through it, when inches from its surface he discovered he could move no further. The river running below was doing its job, keeping the dead things in.
He watched her, unable to get nearer, when bulbs above the glass burst to life, illuminating him.

“Oh God.” she said, as the light filled the room, arcing out around what was left of the man she loved, finally giving him form.
He stood before her, no face she could make out, but he was there. A silhouette that felt so familiar, leaning right up against the glass.

“Ashley.” he said, a longing in his whisper of a voice.

“I thought you were--“ she interrupted herself. She thought he was dead, and after all this time, it turned out he was.

“Are you okay?” he asked. “Have you been okay?” he had no idea how much time had passed since they had last been together.

“I am. I have.” she replied. “Where have you been all this time?”

“How long has it been?”

“Three years, almost four.”

“Jesus.” he said. “I'm sorry.”

“It's not your fault. How could it be your fault?”

“How did I...” he trailed off, couldn't bring himself to say 'die'.

“I don't know...” she said, looking at his undefined, ghostly face. Trying to find the features of the man she loved.
They stared at one another in silence. Neither knowing what to say to the other. Then the light went out, and in an instant, he was gone.

“Where are you?” she asked.

Without the aid of the light, she could no longer see or hear him. The door opened, and she was ushered out by a guard who informed her that their time was up.

“I'll be back next week.” she cried back at him.

There was no response, but she knew he heard her. He watched her leave, and went through the wall back out to the streets of Dead City.

As Ashley left the visitor's centre she passed a stout, balding man, who gave her a polite smile. She turned and watched as he entered, the guard giving him a respectful nod as he ushered him inside. She'd seen him before, but couldn't put her finger on where.

* * * *

The Minister returned to the visiting room and waited patiently. He wasn't a patient man, but the second of his weekly meetings forced patience upon him. As he sat there, charting the cracks in the paint, following the journey from Highbury & Islington to Ruislip, he felt a knot in his gut. The same knot he felt at the same time every week.

After twenty minutes of rapping his fingers on the glass, his foot tapping unconsciously on the floor, the door on the other side of the glass opened. The Necromancer shuffled himself in. Slowly, he took a seat and smiled at the Minister with a rotting grin, the scent of decaying meat on his breath wafting through the holes in the glass.

“Your boy wants to redistribute wealth...” said the creature, taking the lead in the conversation, as he always did. “He's got quite a red streak, it seems.  Didn't think he'd swing that way.”

“That doesn't matter.” said the Minister. “We have bigger problems. Your separation appears to have failed.”