Frankie & Formaldehyde

Chapter Fifteen: Choice

A man should choose how he lives, but he's got no claim on how he dies.

These words, paraphrased, reverberated through Chuck's consciousness, the logic of them eluding him. What was happening now was not part of any random act from what he could see, George was a rogue, and whether his wife wanted to admit it or not, there were repercussions to her decision to house him. Sure, it was bad luck that put him here, alive and walking around calmly killing people instead of providing fertilizer to his neighbour's gardenias like a good, unfashionable citizen. But this small detail had been overlooked, and thanks to Frankie's indecision, George had murdered two people in cold blood. And now, with that gas can held so tightly in his grip, he was set to kill once more.

The nagging understanding that George, as a rogue, should not be able to make that kind of premeditated mayhem was confusing, and it made Chuck's trigger finger itch. Behind George, the Happy Restful Afterlife Home was a black and orange ball of apocalyptic revelation, a latent Judgement Day that had spoiled after sitting on the shelf for too long. Chuck sighed, watching George through the telescope on his government issue flame thrower.

The undead man scratched the side of his head, his one remaining ear neatly falling off. Beside him, Frankie held his hand, tears staining her red cheeks, a growing sense of horror in her eyes. Her co-workers stood beside her in full support, the large, Amazonian woman's arms crossed over her thick chest, her firm stance daring the world to stop the tide of the fiery river Styx from claiming its souls. The fire was certainly doing just that, with the odd resident wandering out, calm, smouldering figures that gradually dwindled into grey ash and collapsed into a heap on the tarmac. There were no screams, no wails of terror, no panicked hordes rushing for the hope of life. The calm was eerie, the fire roaring through the building with soft crackling in the manner of a bonfire on a sweet summer's eve.

Right now it was life that caused pain, the long, artificially protracted version of it that stood in the form of George, the red gas can held high in defiance. A person had a right to live, that was a given, but the right to die...They'd missed the mark on that one somewhere along the way to immortality.

The National Guard were laid out along the horizon in neat lines, guns ready for Chuck's order should he give it. This was his jurisdiction, and while they made it plain how they wanted things to happen, Chuck wasn't so sure he was willing to go along with their plan. They were loaded with tranquilizers, ready to take George and his mutant version of the Osmosis 37 enzyme back to some hidden lab, where he would be housed in a government run arena with the other rogues. He wouldn't last five seconds in such a place, Chuck thought, he'd be ripped apart and eaten before those scientists even had a chance to check his mutated cell structure. He knew they were covering their asses with this, Osmosis knowing full well what was going to happen. The cruelty of it was harder to understand. George would be ripped apart, and he'd be aware of it, he'd feel it in some way. He'd know that every body part consumed was becoming part of some other monstrous appetite that could never be sated.

Still...A man can't pick the way he dies.

He was ready to lift his arm and give the signal to fire at will. It didn't feel right, and he had to admit he had developed a certain kinship with George, even if the man was a dangerous anarchist trapped in the dull witted body of a rogue. Chuck sent up a silent prayer for forgiveness, since the moment was charged with doubt.

A stealthy visitor approached, creeping unnoticed onto the conflict.

A black car pulled up behind the row of National Guards to his left, and Chuck was momentarily distracted by the tiny, shaking, elderly woman that struggled her way out of the back passenger seat, her cane tapping the ground in a fruitless attempt to find balance. She was dressed in black, her pale face veiled behind dark lace that left shadows in her sanguine skin. Her spindly arms swung in an uneven rhythm, in order to keep her upright.