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Authors: Tonia Brown
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version of Weekend at Bernie’s?”
“Excuse me?”
“You know, the movie where they drag around—”
Satan held up his hand to silence Jonah. “Yes, yes, I know the plot. Ugh, I try so hard to forget about that celluloid disaster. Thanks a lot for reminding me about it. Whatever happened to good movies? That’s what I want to know. Actors used to have such pride in their profession. And now, it’s all flash-in-the-pan dead humor. Every pun intended.” Under his breath, but just loud enough for Jonah to hear, Satan added, “Why is it every time I try to get someone to carry around a dead body, they always bring up that damned movie?”
Sensing a sore spot, Jonah smirked, then lowered himself to a crouch over Dale’s corpse. He picked up a limp arm and said, “Maybe I can rig a wire to make him wave at passing cars.” Jonah wiggled Dale’s dead hand at Satan.
“Don’t be so gauche. I’ll tell you what. Let’s make this a little easier on both of us. Shall we?” With a slight grunt, the Devil nodded at Dale’s corpse.
Jonah waited for something to happen.
Nothing did.
At least nothing immediate.
“How are you going … to … make …” Jonah started, but his words trailed off when he realized the dead hand he held was twitching. He lowered his gaze to Dale’s corpse just in time to see the body jerk once. Then twice. Jonah dropped the now-thrashing arm and leapt back, crawling up the hood of the Focus, recoiling in horror.
Dale groaned a long, low moan before he flopped over onto his back. There, the corpse writhed, bones cracking, cartilage creaking, as the body twisted into shapes most unnatural. Under the heat of the afternoon sun, Dale’s mortal coil danced macabre on the blacktopped shoulder of the California highway, wriggling and wiggling, shucking and jiving, shaking and baking, until, as if its dime had been spent, the thing fell still again.
Jonah held his breath, hoping that was the end of the gruesome display, but inexplicably confident that it wasn’t quite finished. Something was to follow. Something terrible. Something ominous. And given all the time left in the universe, with an extra Sunday to boot, he could never have guessed what that something was. What happened next not only surprised the young Jonah, it almost killed him on the spot with the shock of it all. As Jonah looked on, the corpse’s eyelids shot open, wide and wonderful, and the corpse sat up.
And the once-dead Dale declared, for all the world to hear, “Whoa. Did anyone get the number of that bus?”
****
Chapter Five
Still on the shoulder of I-80, California
Not expecting the corpse of his best friend to sit up, much less to speak, Jonah did what any young man in his situation would have done. He screamed. And it wasn’t just a simple little shriek, either. No. He screamed long and loud and with a slight feminine timbre that would have embarrassed him had it been played back on a recording. But in that particular moment, he didn’t care. The scream came from a place deep within. A lot of passion and communication went into that scream. It not only conveyed certain emotions—which included but were not limited to fear—it also implied at least one of a variety of statements.
The scream said something like, “I am not pleased with this turn of events.”
Or perhaps, “This was a bit unexpected. Please excuse me while I sort this out.”
Or maybe the presumptuous, “Oh, what is this now? Really? This whole corpse revitalization thing is just passé. Yawn. Where’s Mary Shelley when you need her?”
But most likely, the scream said, “Holy fuck! My dead best friend just came back to life and is talking to me! What in the hell is going on? I think I might be crazy!”
“Calm down,” Satan demanded.
Jonah ignored the Daddy of Demons and kept on screaming.
“Yeah, buddy,” Dale said, as he got to his feet. “Calm down.”
Jonah almost choked on his own scream at the casual tone of the
“Excuse me?”
“You know, the movie where they drag around—”
Satan held up his hand to silence Jonah. “Yes, yes, I know the plot. Ugh, I try so hard to forget about that celluloid disaster. Thanks a lot for reminding me about it. Whatever happened to good movies? That’s what I want to know. Actors used to have such pride in their profession. And now, it’s all flash-in-the-pan dead humor. Every pun intended.” Under his breath, but just loud enough for Jonah to hear, Satan added, “Why is it every time I try to get someone to carry around a dead body, they always bring up that damned movie?”
Sensing a sore spot, Jonah smirked, then lowered himself to a crouch over Dale’s corpse. He picked up a limp arm and said, “Maybe I can rig a wire to make him wave at passing cars.” Jonah wiggled Dale’s dead hand at Satan.
“Don’t be so gauche. I’ll tell you what. Let’s make this a little easier on both of us. Shall we?” With a slight grunt, the Devil nodded at Dale’s corpse.
Jonah waited for something to happen.
Nothing did.
At least nothing immediate.
“How are you going … to … make …” Jonah started, but his words trailed off when he realized the dead hand he held was twitching. He lowered his gaze to Dale’s corpse just in time to see the body jerk once. Then twice. Jonah dropped the now-thrashing arm and leapt back, crawling up the hood of the Focus, recoiling in horror.
Dale groaned a long, low moan before he flopped over onto his back. There, the corpse writhed, bones cracking, cartilage creaking, as the body twisted into shapes most unnatural. Under the heat of the afternoon sun, Dale’s mortal coil danced macabre on the blacktopped shoulder of the California highway, wriggling and wiggling, shucking and jiving, shaking and baking, until, as if its dime had been spent, the thing fell still again.
Jonah held his breath, hoping that was the end of the gruesome display, but inexplicably confident that it wasn’t quite finished. Something was to follow. Something terrible. Something ominous. And given all the time left in the universe, with an extra Sunday to boot, he could never have guessed what that something was. What happened next not only surprised the young Jonah, it almost killed him on the spot with the shock of it all. As Jonah looked on, the corpse’s eyelids shot open, wide and wonderful, and the corpse sat up.
And the once-dead Dale declared, for all the world to hear, “Whoa. Did anyone get the number of that bus?”
****
Chapter Five
Still on the shoulder of I-80, California
Not expecting the corpse of his best friend to sit up, much less to speak, Jonah did what any young man in his situation would have done. He screamed. And it wasn’t just a simple little shriek, either. No. He screamed long and loud and with a slight feminine timbre that would have embarrassed him had it been played back on a recording. But in that particular moment, he didn’t care. The scream came from a place deep within. A lot of passion and communication went into that scream. It not only conveyed certain emotions—which included but were not limited to fear—it also implied at least one of a variety of statements.
The scream said something like, “I am not pleased with this turn of events.”
Or perhaps, “This was a bit unexpected. Please excuse me while I sort this out.”
Or maybe the presumptuous, “Oh, what is this now? Really? This whole corpse revitalization thing is just passé. Yawn. Where’s Mary Shelley when you need her?”
But most likely, the scream said, “Holy fuck! My dead best friend just came back to life and is talking to me! What in the hell is going on? I think I might be crazy!”
“Calm down,” Satan demanded.
Jonah ignored the Daddy of Demons and kept on screaming.
“Yeah, buddy,” Dale said, as he got to his feet. “Calm down.”
Jonah almost choked on his own scream at the casual tone of the
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