Read Online The New Dead by John Connolly, Various - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: John Connolly, Various
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nothing else, I was thinking only of escape. Somehow I’d simply forgotten.
I suppose a pill overdose must be a good deal for General Reanimates. No cosmetic work to be done. Not that it much matters. I wear the uniform, and I don’t see many living people at all these days. I’m out in the desert, working on an alternative-energy project, setting out solar panels. At least I am making myself useful.
I cannot speak. I cannot will myself even to move, only to follow orders. My mind is mostly still there, though I do not feel entirely like myself. Maybe it is because my soul is gone, and maybe it is because I am dead. I don’t know. I don’t remember dying, don’t remember my soul leaving. I only remember falling asleep and then waking up in the General Reanimates lab. I cannot even wiggle a finger of my own free will. I’ve given up trying. I cannot imagine how Maisie did it.
There is nothing for me to do but endure my lot and think. It is hot here, and I feel it. We are not insensible. Our uniforms don’t breathe, and we cannot sweat. I am miserable and I itch, and every movement is painful. My bones feel like they are scraping together, rubbing, chipping, grinding down. I work twenty-four hours a day. There is no rest and no end. I can do nothing but what I am told, and I have no escape but my memories. I have told my story to myself I don’t know how many hundreds of times. I pretend there is an audience, but there is none, and there never will be. Someday, I hope, I will wear out, but for all I know, this torment, with regular servicing, will last a hundred years. A thousand.
Somehow Maisie could break through, if only a little. Maybe it was anger or the sense of being wronged. Maybe if my end were not so fitting, I could find the will, but I doubt it. I have tried. I don’t think anyone could try more than I have, but then I suppose we all try. The man right next to me must be trying, too, but he cannot tell me about it. I think it was just that Maisie was exceptional. Maybe in life, certainly in death. She was, and the rest of us are not, and that is what I must endure over the long, unending horizon.
COPPER
BY STEPHEN R . BISSETTE
‘I’m home, always home.’
Copper stands rock-solid, squints at the noise from across the street.
As usual, the cops didn’t show until long after the action was over.
Copper squints and spits over the railing.
‘If you need a statement, you know where to find me.’
‘We won’t be needing a statement, sir.’
Copper’s eyes shift downward, to the young policeman’s face. It’s the first time he’s made eye contact with the kid.
The policeman is a kid - hell, even I can tell he’s barely out of the academy. I can see that from where I’m looking out, three houses away.
‘No questions, nothin’ at all?’
Copper spits again, looks from the man in uniform doing nothing, to the men in uniform across the street, also doing nothing.
‘This is the sixth house they’ve gutted in this neighborhood. ’
‘Yes, sir, we appreciate your calling it in.’
‘I seen it all and I called it in - twenty-six hours ago.’
Copper lets that one stand. He tilts his head, cocking his neck, staring the policeman down.
‘I’ve called in every goddamned one of ’em.’
I can see the white of the cop’s scalp when he looks away from the old man’s glare.
The kid clears his throat and looks down, as if there were something of importance in his hand. He already closed his notebook. What can there be to look at? He doesn’t even have calluses to gander at.
‘City just doesn’t care, does it?’
The kid’s crew cut is too close, like a fresh military cut. His scalp gleams like a baby’s knee. This kid is green, the type that needs a weekly trim and says so, as if that were part and parcel of being a cop, to make up for doing nothing.
‘But come
I suppose a pill overdose must be a good deal for General Reanimates. No cosmetic work to be done. Not that it much matters. I wear the uniform, and I don’t see many living people at all these days. I’m out in the desert, working on an alternative-energy project, setting out solar panels. At least I am making myself useful.
I cannot speak. I cannot will myself even to move, only to follow orders. My mind is mostly still there, though I do not feel entirely like myself. Maybe it is because my soul is gone, and maybe it is because I am dead. I don’t know. I don’t remember dying, don’t remember my soul leaving. I only remember falling asleep and then waking up in the General Reanimates lab. I cannot even wiggle a finger of my own free will. I’ve given up trying. I cannot imagine how Maisie did it.
There is nothing for me to do but endure my lot and think. It is hot here, and I feel it. We are not insensible. Our uniforms don’t breathe, and we cannot sweat. I am miserable and I itch, and every movement is painful. My bones feel like they are scraping together, rubbing, chipping, grinding down. I work twenty-four hours a day. There is no rest and no end. I can do nothing but what I am told, and I have no escape but my memories. I have told my story to myself I don’t know how many hundreds of times. I pretend there is an audience, but there is none, and there never will be. Someday, I hope, I will wear out, but for all I know, this torment, with regular servicing, will last a hundred years. A thousand.
Somehow Maisie could break through, if only a little. Maybe it was anger or the sense of being wronged. Maybe if my end were not so fitting, I could find the will, but I doubt it. I have tried. I don’t think anyone could try more than I have, but then I suppose we all try. The man right next to me must be trying, too, but he cannot tell me about it. I think it was just that Maisie was exceptional. Maybe in life, certainly in death. She was, and the rest of us are not, and that is what I must endure over the long, unending horizon.
COPPER
BY STEPHEN R . BISSETTE
‘I’m home, always home.’
Copper stands rock-solid, squints at the noise from across the street.
As usual, the cops didn’t show until long after the action was over.
Copper squints and spits over the railing.
‘If you need a statement, you know where to find me.’
‘We won’t be needing a statement, sir.’
Copper’s eyes shift downward, to the young policeman’s face. It’s the first time he’s made eye contact with the kid.
The policeman is a kid - hell, even I can tell he’s barely out of the academy. I can see that from where I’m looking out, three houses away.
‘No questions, nothin’ at all?’
Copper spits again, looks from the man in uniform doing nothing, to the men in uniform across the street, also doing nothing.
‘This is the sixth house they’ve gutted in this neighborhood. ’
‘Yes, sir, we appreciate your calling it in.’
‘I seen it all and I called it in - twenty-six hours ago.’
Copper lets that one stand. He tilts his head, cocking his neck, staring the policeman down.
‘I’ve called in every goddamned one of ’em.’
I can see the white of the cop’s scalp when he looks away from the old man’s glare.
The kid clears his throat and looks down, as if there were something of importance in his hand. He already closed his notebook. What can there be to look at? He doesn’t even have calluses to gander at.
‘City just doesn’t care, does it?’
The kid’s crew cut is too close, like a fresh military cut. His scalp gleams like a baby’s knee. This kid is green, the type that needs a weekly trim and says so, as if that were part and parcel of being a cop, to make up for doing nothing.
‘But come
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