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.
To Chuck's horror, she was headed straight for him.
"My husband," the thin-lipped woman said. She gestured with her cane to the burning building before them. She didn't seem to see George, Frankie and their allies standing to the right, a new section of mayhem about to be performed. "My husband lives there." She glanced at the round, grey pods that were arranged on the left of the first row of guards. "I assume he is in one of those."
"No...Mrs. --?"
"Mrs. Crone," she said, her voice as brittle as her frail appearance. She fixed grey, watery eyes on him. "Where is my husband?"
"I'm sorry, but the fires took him," Chuck said.
"What fires?"
"The ones burning uncontrollably before you, Ma'am."
"This is highly frustrating." She clasped her boney hand tight on the curve of her cane. "I came all the way here by cab just to see him. He'd had all that work done, too." She toddled back to the cab, and came back, unevenly balancing a small, white box. "I'd just had it specially made, you see. For his birthday."
She handed the box, which was held together by a thin white ribbon, to Chuck who took it with confused reverence. He glanced back at Frankie and her crew, only for all five members to shrug in unison back at him. Not sure what else he was expected to do with the package, Chuck undid the ribbon and opened the box. He let out a small gasp of surprise.
I understand," Mrs. Crone said, fully sympathetic. "They got his eyebrows wrong. I told them they were thicker."
"A head?" Chuck said, the box held away from him as though it contained dynamite. "What the hell are you doing
walking around with a severed human head?"
"He needed a new one, of course."
"He's already snacked on two," Chuck said, gesturing to George.
"Don't be silly. No one can eat this one." She reached in and pulled the head of the unfortunate former Mr. Crone out of the box. "There are some lovely reconstructive artists in the city, and when I told them my husband needed a prosthetic, and for which body part, they used a younger photograph and built this likeness. I rather like it." She tapped her cane in impatient disappointment. "Now it seems I've gone through all that effort for nothing." She tucked her husband's head under her arm like a football. "Oh well. Perhaps this could find its place on my mantle. We could enjoy a cup of coffee together every morning. That would be nice."
Chuck frowned at this. "You aren't upset?"
She blinked rheumy eyes at him. "Upset about what?"
"Your husband's death," Chuck said.
"My husband died years ago," Mrs. Crone said, looking on Chuck as though he were mad. "There's no point being upset about that *now*."
"But you went through all the trouble of keeping him animated."
"Yes. I agree," she said, sadly. She looked on the prosthetic head with fondness. "This would have been far easier." She paused, her cane tapping the ground in thoughtful reflection. "Do you think it would be strange to have them create a full body prosthetic? After all, I need to attach his head to something."
She took Chuck's stunned silence as an answer and made her way back to the sleek, black car, head under arm, her cane tapping her way to a plastic everlasting life. "I should think, considering they say 'family is forever', that Dr. Osmosis and his company have to reconsider their slogan. False advertising is a crime nowadays. Do tell your employer that I expect a full refund."
"I don't work for Osmosis," Chuck tried to tell her. But she had found her way back into the car and it was already heading in the opposite direction. The head of Mr. Crone was probably bobbing around in the seat beside her, staring up at her in quiet, permanent wonder.
"A prosthetic head," Chuck murmured to himself.
"Sir?" A national guard on his left stood nervously at attention. He couldn't have been any older than nineteen, a baby in these parts. "We're still waiting on your signal."
"You'll have to wait a long time," Chuck said, and he unloaded his rifle, taking out the clip and tucking it safely away in his back pocket. His government issue flame thrower was at his feet, and he kicked it to one side. "I'm not giving you any orders."
They remained in this existential checkmate for some time, with Chuck and his threat of arms on one side while George stood dumbly in the sun, spittle mixed with gasoline slipping past his purple lips. "If we shoot you down, it won't be a merciful end, George," Chuck shouted out the warning to him. "You'll be a twitchy mess of bones and flesh, not recognizable but still living. We'll be bagging you up and storing you in a dustbin in one of the cheaper facilities."
"He's not going there!" Frankie shouted at him. She shook a furious finger at Chuck, her genuine grief a strangely sobering threat. "This is all your fault! We had no plan to continue on past our due date, but it was you, and your fool enzymes and your triops mindset. Eat each other up until only one left standing, isn't that how it's going to work from now on? Well, too bad if it's my George left and he doesn't want to keep your immortal flesh wheel going. He's got a right to die, like any normal thing, natural and right, do you hear?"
"For the last goddamn time, I don't work for Osmosis..."
"The only one you're fooling with that line is yourself," Shirley said.
With Frankie, Shirley and Larry surrounding him in support, George blinked dumbly into the sunlight, his fading mind seeming to chase after some important point that was forever eluding him. He glanced over his shoulder at Chuck, eyes glazed over with the cataract film of the dead, his world muted beneath the white milky filter. He was rotting out here in the elements, the beautiful summer day wreaking havoc on his flesh. Flies buzzed around him in a thick blanket, fat bluebottles laying eggs in the various holes of rot that oozed from his ears and the back of his neck. The slime of putrefaction dripped off his chin like syrupy sweat.
George picked up the red can of gasoline and took another long, thankful drink. He focused unevenly on Chuck and made the sign of a V at his lips. Victory? Chuck thought. Over what?
"I just want my George to have some peace," Frankie cried. "He's worked hard all his life. He was a good man. He doesn't deserve to spend the rest of his eternity as some half-crippled corpse."
George pressed his fingers against his lips again, more urgently now. Just what the hell was the undead, unthinking rogue trying to say?
Just like that, it hit him. Chuck stared at George, wide-eyed in shock at the idea of a rogue having that kind of self-awareness.
That V, pressed against his lips.
Damn it all to Hell. George was asking for a cigarette.
"I don't smoke," Chuck shouted to him.
He might be rotting in the sun. He might be the most foul smelling hunk of putrescence known to humankind. But the dejected slump of defeat in George's shoulders hit Chuck deep in his gut, and once that well of sympathy was finally opened, it simply wasn't possible to shove it all back in. He nodded to the kid soldier shaking in his boots next to him. "Go on, give him one."
"Give him what, Sir?"
"Believe me, kid, he's the one who needs them, not you. Toss him the pack of cigarettes in your pocket."
"The whole thing?"
"Damn right the whole thing."
"But...We're not supposed to bargain with...With those things..."
Chuck impatiently sighed at the kid's green attitude. "Seems to me I'm running this show, and what I say goes. If your Osmosis buddies have a problem with my decisions, they can take it up with me. Can't figure why they'd want to talk to me about any of this, considering I don't work for them."
Chuck waited exactly two beats of confused silence before continuing. "There's your answer. Toss him your pack of cancer sticks. It's mighty cruel to keep a corpse waiting for his death. Don't be going halfway, kid." Chuck reached into the soldier's pocket and pulled out a lighter. He tucked it neatly into the package of cigarettes and bid the youth to toss it to his target. "Give the man his out."