A Boy and His Corpse Read online

Alan crossed his arms and in a sudden movement, Mort leapt in front of him, crossing his arms to block the blow. But Herbert sliced the air and didn’t even touch Mort. An array of green stars erupted from his fingertips and Mort flew aside as though swept by a gust of wind. Alan kept his arms up, but it wasn’t enough.

  Herbert grabbed his son by the lapel and lifted him. The stress made his back screech in agony.

  That’s going to hurt later.

  “You’re going to work for the Undead Militia and that’s final. They need you!”

  Alan blinked rapidly until his eyes went wide. “I don’t want to!”

  Herbert did everything in his power not to backhand his son, but failed miserably. He hesitated for a second, but then, slapped him anyway. His son’s face went to the right. What kind of pansy was his ex-wife making of the boy anyway when he visited her on the weekends?

  Alan turned his other cheek in a very Christian display of defiance. Unfortunately, Herbert wasn’t feeling very Christian today and slapped the other cheek, too. Alan simpered, his lips drawn back in disgust.

  “I want to live with Mom!” Alan shouted.

  “Like hell you do, you disgraceful tub of guts.”

  “I’m sick of living here!” His voice cracked.

  “And what makes you think your mother even wants your fat ass around all the time anyway, huh?”

  “Screw you.”

  “Why do you think she agreed to this current arrangement in the first place? You think she wants you there with her boyfriend around? Huh? Is that what you think? She gave you up so she could be with him and not have to deal with you. Why do you think you only go there on weekends?”

  Alan’s lips trembled and hatred filled his eyes. Peering into them, Herbert saw that he had gone too far, but he didn’t care. He couldn’t care. Armand Raad, with his smile on page 5, certainly wouldn’t care, so he knew he couldn’t, either. He needed Alan to be strong, for America’s sake.

  His voice softened. “Your country needs you, Alan. That’s why you have to stay here with me, so I can make a man out of you. We’re the only two necromancers in the entire world. The world! You have to understand that everything I say or do to you is to make you stronger. Besides, you can barely even control Mort, let alone conjure up any other magic. What makes you think you could even start a wrestling league? You’re not strong enough.”

  Alan was tight-lipped for a moment, but he soon stared back with cold eyes. “I hope you die and rot in Hell.”

  Herbert’s lips quivered. If only his son knew the sad truth. He stared at the handprint he left on his son’s face and knew that it would definitely leave a mark in the morning. What had he done?

  Herbert jumped when he felt something grab his shoulder.

  When he turned, he saw that Mort had his corroded hand on him. His yellow eyes were slits as always, but in those slits lived a sort of melancholy, as if he begged sympathy for the boy.

  Alan cried deeply now. His tears streamed down his chipmunk cheeks like a rivulet, and tears slid down Mort’s face, too, which was astounding. Alan must have transferred his entire being into the corpse. His very soul!

  Herbert let go of his son and stared deeply into the corpse’s eyes. Mort had been with the family almost as long as Alan had. But for the first time ever, Herbert actually saw sorrow in the corpse. Mort’s cheeks sagged and a frown weighed heavily upon his green face just like Alan’s. In all of Herbert’s years of necromancing, he had never seen a corpse show actual emotion before. In truth, Herbert knew that the corpse only reflected what Alan himself felt, but the degree of the transferred emotion astounded him. Alan was much stronger than he even knew.

  With Herbert’s hands off of him, Alan ran out the room and up the stairs. Mort simply stood there with his mouth hung open. Herbert traipsed to his favorite chair and slumped back into it.

  What the holy hell am I going to do?

  Alan

  Alan emptied his book bag and crammed it with jeans and wrestling t-shirts. He really wished he had some luggage.

  But he had to travel light anyway. He didn’t know where he was going or how he was getting there, but he knew he had to get out of here. He was so done with this place.

  The thing is, does mom really feel that way about me?

  He sat down on his bed.

  Mom did only see him on the weekends, after all.

  Alan forced another pair of jeans into his bag and punched it in several times when he thought of his mother’s boyfriend, Chance. The one saving grace about the tall, lanky African was that he was rarely at his mom’s house during the weekends. Still, a troubling thought rested on Alan’s mind: Did his mom really pick Chance over him?

  Like his father said, it was pretty strange to have such an arrangement when it came to child custody. His other two “friends” (maybe acquaintances would be a better term), Steve and Logan, lived with their moms rather than their dads. And Logan didn’t even see his father at all, apparently.

  So why was Alan living with his father more than with his mom?

  In truth, he had believed his father two years ago when he told him that Mr. Rovas wanted him to see less of his mother now that she had a boyfriend. It made sense, really, as she already had agents tailing her every move ever since she left underground with them two years ago. The amount of visible cameras she had in her house was staggering, and Alan could only imagine how many “invisible” cameras she had in there. Hell, he was sure there were plenty of hidden cameras in this house, too. But now, Alan wondered if that “boyfriend” business was just an excuse that his mom had concocted to get him out of the house.

  “Oh, please. Like I really care.” Alan had heard his mother say from the other room two years ago when Chance first came into the picture. I won’t tell Chance about your precious, little secret.”

  “Or Alan’s,” his dad had demanded.

  “Or Alan’s. What would I have to gain if I told anybody anyway? It’s not like I have any friends. How could I when I was living underground for twelve years?”

  “Well, I’m just saying, Lorraine. You better keep it to yourself. For Alan’s sake. And for your own.”

  Alan had never felt more like a freak than he did that day. And as he currently stared at his wall, he heard his father’s heavy footsteps coming up the stairs. He threw his book bag underneath the bed.

  His dad knocked lightly.

  “Can I come in?” his father asked, which was strange because he never asked to come in the room before. He would always just knock and throw the door open. Sometimes, he even came in at the most embarrassing moments.

  “What do you want?” Alan asked the door with narrow eyes. He expected it to get kicked down at any moment.

  “I just want to talk, Alan,” his father said instead. “Will you please let me in?”

  Even though Alan said only a moment ago that he hoped his father rotted in Hell, he stood watching the door with parted lips. Was his father actually…repentant? Alan ground the left side of his cheek with his rear molars. He didn’t know what to think of this new development, but he didn’t like it.

  “Just give me a second,” Alan said, kicking the bag even further back. He sat on the edge of his bed and listened to his father shifting his feet on the other side of the door. Alan pinched the bridge of his nose. What was he thinking? He couldn’t run away. Where would he go? Besides, he couldn’t leave Mort, and if he took him, then his dad would easily trace him.

  “Son?” His father said again.

  Alan ground his teeth into his cheek even harder.

  “Come in,” Alan eventually said with his head down.

  Herbert came in the room talking. “Look, Alan, I’m sorry about what happened downstairs. I didn’t mean to hit you. Can I sit down?” He pointed to a spot on the bed.

  “Go ahead,” Alan said. “It’s a free country.”

  “I’m actually glad you said that, Alan, because it is a free country,” Herbert said as he sat down on the bed. Alan
scooted away, leaving at least a whole person width between them. “And do you know why it’s a free country, son?”

  Alan rolled his eyes. “Because of people like you?”

  A thick vein revealed itself on his father’s forehead, and for a moment, Alan thought he would be slapped again, but his father closed his eyes and exhaled through his nose.

  “Look, Alan, I know I’m hard on you sometimes, but I do it because I love you. Life is struggle. Life is pain.”

  Alan snorted.

  “What’s funny?” Herbert asked.

  “You love America much more than you ever loved me.”

  “But that’s where you’re wrong, Alan, as I love you both equally. Don’t you get it? We have a gift, boy.”

  Alan avoided his eyes and shoved his hands into his pockets. “Yeah, and?”

  “And we need to use it for good,” Herbert continued. “And there’s no greater deed than—

  “Fighting for one’s country,” Alan finished for him. “Yeah, yeah, yeah, like I haven’t heard that one before.”

  He shot a quick glance at his father’s eyes, and then averted them again. His father’s face didn’t look calm, even if his voice strained to be.

  “Sorry,” Alan grumbled, “but that still doesn’t explain why you slapped me downstairs.”

  Herbert’s shoulders slumped. “Look, Alan. I said and did a lot of things downstairs that I’m not proud of, and I’m sorry. But you know how I get when you bring up that wrestling crap.”

  “It’s not crap, Dad.”

  “Fine, fine, fine. It’s not crap. But you and James were wrestling with Mort again, and how many times do I have to tell you that he’s not a toy? I would think you of all people would know better than to hurt him. Don’t you care about him at all, boy?”

  Alan winced. “Why? Is he hurt?”

  “I mean, he feels okay to me. But how does he feel to you? You’re closer to him.”

  Alan gave a mental tug downstairs, and felt Mort lift his head. For all intents and purposes, he felt okay. But that was a terrible bruise James gave him. Stupid James. Always so damn rough.

  “The fact of the matter, though, and the reason why I’m up here—besides to apologize, of course—is because you really need to start practicing more, son.”

  Alan crossed his arms over his flabby chest. “I don’t see why I have to be involved in all this when they already have you.”

  “Yes, son, but—”

  Alan threw out his hands. “I mean, seriously, all I want to do is start an undead wrestling league for God’s sake! Is that too much to ask? They’re my powers. Can’t I do what I want with them?”

  “Look, Alan. Only thirteen people in the entire world know about what we can do, and one of them is the President. Another is your damn fool of a friend. The mere fact that you told him makes me feel like an idiot for not keeping us underground. Do you have any idea what would happen if he told anybody about what we could do? More importantly, do you have any idea what would happen if people actually saw corpses wrestling on TV? What’s perfectly natural to you and me—”

  “And James.”

  Herbert shook his head. “And James, wouldn’t be natural to everybody else. It would be freakish and scary. That’s why it must be kept a secret at all costs. You don’t want to cause wide-spread panic.”

  “I think if it was introduced the right way, it could work.” Herbert opened his mouth to say something, so Alan pushed on. “And James won’t say anything to anybody. Trust me. He’s not that stupid.”

  Alan expected his father to at least smile at that last comment, but Herbert only shifted on the bed instead.

  “Well, he’d better not. Not only for his sake, but for his family’s as well. To be honest with you, I’m surprised Covington and Heinzelman haven’t taken him out and buried him somewhere with all the times he’s been inside our house. They have to have eyes on him, what with all of the cameras we have in here. Mr. Rovas has to know about him.”

  Alan stiffened. “You didn’t tell him about James, did you?” He asked, feeling cold.

  “It’s never come up,” Herbert said. “But if it did, I wouldn’t lie about it. What would be the point?”

  “You can’t tell Mr. Rovas about James, dad! He’ll kill him.”

  “Don’t you think I know that, boy? Dumb as he is, do you think I want to see your friend disappear?”

  “Please, just don’t tell him,” Alan said. “Besides Mort, he’s the only real friend I have.”

  “Hmm,” Herbert said in a way that could have meant anything and nothing at all.

  The father and son were silent for a time, and Alan thought about his mother again.

  “The fact of the matter, though,” Herbert said, “is that you can’t be wrestling with Mort anymore. And you need to train harder. Have you been flexing your mental muscles like I taught you?”

  “Yes,” Alan lied. “Every night before I go to bed.”

  “Yeah? Well, it certainly doesn’t look like it,” he stopped and hesitated for a second before he looked Alan right in the eyes. “Because I’m not going to be here forever, you know.”

  “I know,” Alan said. “But I am trying. Really, I am.”

  “I know you don’t follow the news, but there was a bombing in Tel Aviv.”

  “I know,” Alan said. “God, I’m not oblivious.”

  “Good, because I saw some of your potential downstairs when Mort leapt to defend you. You react on instinct, which is good. But you can’t always rely on instinct with corpses. You have to have control. Instinct could get you killed on the battlefield.”

  “Or, it could save your life,” Alan said.

  “Yes, that’s true,” Herbert said, standing up. “Should I take that as a sign that you’ve actually put some thought into joining the Militia?”

  “No. I was just stating a fact. I’m starting up an undead wrestling league, even if it kills me. I’ll make it work. I will!”

  “But,” Herbert said, flabbergasted. “You—It’s—But.” He rubbed his forehead. “We’ll talk about it in the morning. It’s getting late. Before you go to bed, please clean up your room. It stinks.”

  He left the room and closed the door quietly behind him.

  Alan reached underneath his bed and took all the clothes out of his bag. Running away was a stupid idea, but Undead Wrestling wasn’t. The International Wrestling Federation had grown stale as of late and faker than ever. But having corpses bang each other up and using real wrestling moves on each other would be better than awesome. He knew it would be. And people would love it, too. They had to. It was different and unique, and…and…He didn’t have the words for it. He didn’t care what his dad said. He was going to do it. And for that, he would train his mind.

  He lay on his bed, and put his hands behind his head. When he closed his eyes, he imagined Mort tombstone pile driving another corpse straight to Hell. The victim's head exploded like a watermelon. He soon fell fast asleep.

  Alan

  Alan woke up to the sound of a buzzing alarm clock. It felt like an 18-wheeler had collided with his cheek. He rubbed it and groaned.

  As if I wasn’t ugly enough, now I’ve got this thing on my face.

  He rubbed the raised lump and frowned.

  Mort stood beside his bed as he always did when Alan awoke. Whether he controlled the corpse in his sleep or his dad put him there every night, he didn’t know. He never bothered to ask.

  Alan dragged his feet across the carpet and headed into the bathroom. One look in the mirror confirmed his fears. His face, which was already plump in the chin and cheeks department, bulged out where his father had hit him. He wondered if anybody at school would call Child Protection Services or something.

  He brushed his teeth and winced from the sharp pain in his jaw as he opened his mouth.

  I swear, I need to get out of this house. Thank God it’s Friday.

  But then, the thoughts of his mother not wanting him around crept back into his
mind. A sadness knotted up his stomach and he forced himself to breathe through a tightness in his throat. His dad had to ruin everything, didn’t he? But he wouldn’t ruin his dreams of having Mort body slam another corpse into a flaming table. Alan picked up the toothbrush and scrubbed against the pain. His father could bruise his body, but he couldn’t bruise his dreams.

  After his shower, Alan headed downstairs. His dad sat at the kitchen table with his face concealed by newspaper pages.

  There was an orange and toast on the table.

  Alan cleared his throat. For some reason, he felt emboldened. The pain in his cheek made him brave.

  His father flipped a page, but didn’t say a word, so Alan cleared his throat again.

  “What?” Herbert said, not lowering the paper.

  “You said we would talk about the Undead Wrestling Federation in the morning.”

  Herbert flipped another page. “We’ll talk about it on Monday.”

  Alan opened his mouth, but the words stuck in his throat. The man couldn’t even give him the pleasure of looking him in the eyes while trying to squash his dreams.

  Alan swiped the toast off the plate and took a bite out of it as he stormed out the kitchen. The bread was burnt and it hurt to chew. This was going to be a bad day. He could feel it.

  President Rosewater

  “Sir, we simply have to do something about this Israel situation. Your polls are anemic right now,” the President’s chief advisor, Tom Mitchum, said. They walked side-by-side down the White House’s West Wing.

  “I’m doing everything I can, Tom,” President Roger Rosewater said.

  “If you don’t mind me saying so, sir, it doesn’t seem like it. You have to clean this up before next week’s debate or Senator Daly’s going to wipe the floor with you on this issue.”

  The President snorted. “I’d like to see him try.”

  The two made a turn and traveled down a long corridor toward the Oval Office. Presidential portraits in ornate golden frames lined the walls on both sides. As they made their way through the West Wing, staffers and interns hurried from office to office. They paused as he passed but withheld their usual chorus of “Good morning, Mr. President.” The dark look on his face and quickened pace prevented such pleasantries.