Backfire
(1,900 words)
Not every day does one wake up dead. Alfonso Luongo had dedicated much of his life to pondering solutions to the pesky little problem that haunted all of creation at the end of that all too brief a moment of consciousness we call living. That solution had turned out to be surprisingly elegant in its simplicity, and he now dearly wished he had written it down for someone, or even mentioned it to them before rushing headlong into immortality by consuming the contents of that bubbly vial.
As it now stood, he had been spending much of the day scratching the lid of his coffin, which was turning out to be of the highest quality. If the money spent on that vessel for the last journey of a man's earthly remains was a sign of the affection his kin had for him, Alfonso's family must have loved him very much. He hated them for it. Of course he did not like to think of the six feet of dirt pressing down on his humble abode that would await him were his nails sharp and strong enough, but he was a man who had always taken a step at a time. And he was grateful for not having been cremated, though he accepted the possibility that gratitude might wane should his stay be prolonged beyond reason.
He had however noticed something rather unsettling that temporarily distracted him from his ever weakening nails: he seemed to be unable to locate a pulse. And now that he began to think about it, his breathing was rather shallow as well. Shallow was a more comforting way to express it than non-existent.
He quickly grasped the situation, though he did not care for it much: he had found a cure for death, much like he intended, but therein lay the problem. Death being another disease that lurks in the shadows, ready to bounce on the weak and susceptible, means it must be treatable, but to cure a disease one must first be contracted by it, and that's precisely what he had, a cure, not a preventive potion. He had died on the floor of his laboratory, and was now doomed to wait in his coffin until all the world would change, and by some unforeseen development the very ground would spit out his casket.
It would be a very long wait.
Anyway, the wait was over, and the buried man could feel the earth all around him moving. He wondered what it could mean, were they moving the cemetery? were they exhuming his corpse? were grave robbers afoot? Whatever the reason was, he was hopeful it would lead to him breaking out from him underground prison, to roam the world as a breathless and bloodless fiend that feasts on human flesh and brains.
Yes, indeed, that seemed to be another side effect of his home made remedy for dying, or perhaps of the untold centuries of mental degradation caused by immobile solitude and regret, an inconsolable lust to devour raw meat. Although now that he reflected on it at length, he didn't really see any pressing need for it to be human meat, as such.
Now he heard scraping, someone was just outside his coffin. He tried to push the thing open, but the thing still would not budge. He had thought enough time would decay any casket, though he did admit that he had lost the sense of time quite soon into his experience, and really had no clear idea how long he had waited. It had felt like an awful lot of years. But suddenly the noises stopped, perhaps startled by him pounding the coffin from within. That's the sort of thing people don't like when they dig up other people they expect to be dead.
The oddest thing that he had experienced in quite a long time happened, and not only owing to a lack of competition. Bright light began simultaneously stream in through the entire length of seam that separated the lid from the coffin, until the entire lid launched up into the air with explosive speed in a pillar of white light. He covered his eyes not to be blinded, but though he could not see through the brightness he found the light did not hurt his eyes. He was not sure was that another perk and/or detriment of being dead, or some singular quality particular to the light itself, and did not have much time to think about it.
RISE, he heard a booming voice announce amidst the effulgence. RISE, AND YE SHALL BE JUDGED!
By who?
RISE, AND... What the hell?
The light vanished into the earth, and from the bottom of his grave the buried man saw two hunchback forms wearing robes and holding shovels peeping down at him, and past them up in the air was a floating figure, at least seven feet tall and wearing a silvery breastplate and helmet that shone even at night, as it appeared to be dark outside. On its back were enormous feathery wings. You're supposed to be dead, it said.
I have noticed something of the sort myself, he answer, and sat up in the lidless coffin. Little help? My legs are a bit numb.
The angelic figure descended next to the grave, and took a heavy leather tome from one the hunchbacks. What is your name? it demanded.
It's, my name is, the buried man began to answer, but then wavered. I don't remember.
You don't remember?
I think it began with an A.
Well that's helpful.
My stone, I think it should be on my headstone.
You're headstone, ha! he heard from above, and then nothing. He attempted to climb out of the grave, and was about to slip when the two hunchbacks grabbed his hands and pulled him up. Much obliged, he nodded to the two tiny grunts. What appeared to be their master, the angel, was now sitting on his helmet, his wings lowered in dejection and his mouth chewing a cigarette.
Is something the matter? the buried man asked.
Is something the matter? the angel parroted. Yes, something is the matter, namely you. You're not supposed to be alive!
I would have thought you people would be supposed to be up to date on these sort of things, the buried man said. The angel raised an eyebrow beneath his golden locks. What do you mean, you people?
You know, angels. I didn't even think you existed, but if there's someone who would know what to do with dead people, it should be you.
You know angels but don't know who you are, that's just great.
The buried man looked around, and understood what the angel had been laughing about. There was no headstone next to his grave. There were no headstones anywhere.
That's funny, he said. This used to be a big cemetery, I think.
I'm guessing a lot of things used to be for you, but that's not getting us anywhere, is it?
I'm hungry.
What?
I haven't eaten since I died, I want to eat.
Oh sweet lord, the angel muttered. Here, you can have my sandwich, it said and tossed a crushed wheat triangle wrapped in plastic to the dead man. You made me lose my appetite, anyway.
I can't eat this, he said. I need red meat. Extremely red.
Aren't we being picky today, for a dead man.
I feel like I should warn you, I have a very strong urge to eat raw meat.
Eat one of my hunchbacks then, I got to think what I'm going to do with you.
They won't mind?
The angel was furiously leafing through the pages of the tome and did not deign to answer. The buried man turned his eyes on the two hunchbacks who looked up to him, or at least would have had their necks allowed such an angle. Somehow he remember that dogs were not supposed to be able to look up, but that didn't sound right to him, although he wasn't even sure what dogs looked like. He would have liked to eat one anyway. Come here, he said to one of the hunchbacks. Come on, hunchback.
The hunchback took a step back and raised its shovel in a battle stance. You wanna dance, motherfucker?
I'm sorry, I didn't realize you could...,
Talk? So you thought you was just gonna be eatin some mute shitheels, that it? Bitch, I'mma cut you.
Will you shut up! the angel shouted. I'm trying to read here.
If you're not going to feed me, I would appreciate if you'd explain to me what the hell is going on.
Pretty much exactly that I don't get this figured out.
What?
Hell, it's hell for all of us if you're what I think you are.
And what am I?
Not so much what as how, the angel sighed and got on his feet. He towered over the buried man in all his silvery splendour, but his face was suddenly hollow and worn from worrying. On judgement day the dead are meant to rise, so we can sort them out. You know, kill them all and et cetera. But if you're already here, none of this will work. We knew there was something wrong, but God damn it, it just had to be you.
What are you on about?
We told Him, the angel was now raving. We told Him not to delay, that they were getting too smart for their own good, but oh no, He just loved his damn ant farm so much. It wasn't until you lot figured out how to extend your life to hundreds of years He finally caved and started the big showdown with Big Bob, but one of you rats just had to slip through the cracks.
Are we talking some Revelations shenanigans here?
Shenanigans indeed, and you being alive means it will stay that way. The dead can't be raised when you're still teetering on the border. It's the damn flood all over again.
The flood? So, you're saying..., the buried man said, and looked around the empty field that in ancient days was a cemetery.
I'm saying we killed everyone, because we thought we'll just raise them right back up. But you being alive, or dead, or whatever the hell you are, means we're done. Done. There's nothing left, and it's all your fault. They're all dead, even animals, expect for you, and you're barely alive. You're the kingdom of heaven now.
The buried man looked around again, and saw the sun was beginning to rise behind a hill, painting the sky red and orange. He smiled at the sight. It was the most beautiful thing he remembered ever having seen, and thought maybe it's not so bad, being all alone. He had been doing it a very long time already, and now he had more room to do it in. But suddenly his smile vanished, and he turned to the angel. So, there's no raw meat?
