Fiction: The Dead Ones Rising
A short prose about a “chosen one” named George and his choice.
The dead ones rising. The dark shapes break the earth into a moonless sky. Even the stars hid behind blackened clouds. They rise, dark masses lifting from the earth. Childless children, parentless parents, they move forward, alien to this world. They have eyes. Stark white contrast to their blackless shapes and they stare forward, never closing, never winking.
The City ahead of them looms like a splurting cancering growth. Smoky filth rising from the dull bright lights. The dead ones move towards it, over the flat lifeless fields, unused roads, empty buildings, dying cattle, they move growing ever certain. Certain that the last vestiges of life lay buried in the machinations of the City. Certain that movement is all that is left.
There is a chosen one. Someone who will stand b’tween them.
A few days before, George worked late into night. The office empty except for a solitary cleaner whose Hoover echoed eerily. George ignored the cleaner as he typed madly on his keyboard. His only light was the bright reflection from his monitor that threw colourful shapes on his face. The deadline loomed intimidatingly on his screen.
“George, is it finished?” The sun glared rather then shone into the office. The clouds had parted wide enough to allow the unhealthy sun to beam its pain into the windows of George’s Bosses’ office. George was staring at the wall. His new boss had only recently removed his previous’ bosses’ pictures; a dark black rim remained on the wall. His boss was standing, he was one of those “go get them”, full of drive and serious professionalism backed by a smile.
“Sorry what?”
“Did you finished it?”
“Yes, yes. Last night.”
“My god George, you’re incredible. I was only a little afraid we were going to be late.” George attempted a slim smile at his new bosses’ compliment.
“It’s only because I worked the longest on the project…” George played down the compliment. He felt so alone among all these strangers. Each member of the team had been replaced over the years, some moving on to new projects, and others changing cities or even countries (Europe is good for that). His boss was the last to change. He had left for a different climate only months ago. “Why don’t you take a day or two off, late nights can really kill the brain cells…” Take days off to do what? Everyone he knew here had moved on, he had even received notice that he was going to have to change apartment.
“No, no… I’d only be bored.”
George walked the dark street to the dart train. The moon peered with eye between gathering clouds. The street was empty of people. He had worked late again.
There was a crash. Loud and violent. A bum pushing a trolley had crashed into a wall. She mumbled and then started arguing with the air. George crossed the street to avoid her. Eventually she waved the arguing air away and moved on. It was well past midnight.
George moved on. Towards the train station.
“George, George, the dead ones are raising, George, George. They see you.” She was yelling. He turned to see her staring at him, her figure pointing at him. He was frozen to the spot. Something blew across the street distracting his attention. She had moved on.
There was a parcel for him at his single room flat. A 6-month late birthday present from his Mum. It was a single sock; she hadn’t finished knitting the other. In fact she had got bored and hadn’t bothered to start the second one.
The TV was full of crap, ads full of 0800 number chat lines, repeats of bad sitcoms and marketing campaigns that attempted to pass for entertainment, claiming that if you’re not bonking your friends sister, your not living. He fell asleep watching it.
Dreams filtered in and slowly filtered out. But one seemed vibrant, more real, more telling. He floated through the city. The smog turned to a magical haze. The buildings were rotten towers of some old castle. There was a woman of white floating with him. He knew somehow she was the bum. “George, George, the dead ones are raising, George, George. They see you,” she kept saying. He tried to fly away but he suddenly discovered that he couldn’t, that in fact he was trapped in some sort of wind. “The Dead Ones, The Dead Ones”. The City was evolved in shapeless dark forms, the city towers crumbling and melting.
“George? Are you alright?” She was new to the project. George became suddenly awake. “You had fallen asleep at your desk.” She had a pleasant smell and her being so close was nice.
“I think so. Just tired I think.” George took the rest of the day off.
It was still day, though with the dark overcast clouds it might as well be night. He took his car from the underground car park underneath his flat. He drove out of the city as night fell. The dead ones floated by his moving car in the night.
They paused briefly before going into the city. No chosen one stood against them. The city would crumble under their mass. George drove far away.