Fresh

*Bob! How do you feel?*

This thought was the first thing I became aware of, once I was able to pay attention to anything other than the muck.

*I'm in the muck. I am not pleased with that. How, and who, are you? Why am I in a hole, in the muck?*

Did you ever throw yourself into muck on a rainy day? Just because you could, and you'd never thought about doing anything of the kind before in your entire life? Generally speaking, if I may be so bold, you probably had about as much of a life to look back upon in search of insight as I had at the time: the brief life of a foolish child.

I think I was about eight when I first pulled this stunt, but I'm sure things vary widely. It could be that you have never succumbed to the urge to thrash around in the muck. I bow to your exemplary self-discipline. My point is that I remember thrashing about in the muck quite gleefully once upon a time.

The trouble is, the thrill doesn't last during these madcap moments governed entirely by juvenile jouissance. Eventually, I realized that I was cold and smelly and felt like a perfect moron. I vowed never to behave that way again. It felt daring and innovative for a few minutes. I felt like a beast or a god, flouting convention. It's fun to go mad, at first.

Then you figure out why other people don't stay locked in that mode: filthy and smelly and revolting is simply not a way one wants to be for long. I put away childish things.

Here I am again, though. In the bloody muck, looking up at a beautiful lunatic, who seems to be able to hold conversations without moving her lips, or mine. That whole "luck of the Irish" thing is a dangerous myth, right? I can't believe my glasses are intact.

Laughing at the pain of others has got to be a hallmark of sociopathy. She doesn't seem to mind. What's with the fit, then? Was she on her way to a bloody costume party when she decided to have a look in my hole? She ought to have that hand looked at, too. Bits of you are not supposed to glow with green, eldritch energy, as far as I'm aware. Better safe.

I suppose one benefit of telepathy is that you can guffaw at someone's grave distress and let your thoughts be known at once. That is, your thoughts are pretty clear thanks to the loud cackling, but you can spell them out without recourse to your larynx. She has some tricks, this one.

*I am Xibaaraa. You may address me as Xi, if you like. I am a necromancer, and you are my first, undead thrall! I'm so excited to begin this journey with you. You do look rather uncomfortable though. Climb out of there and let me get a real look at you! Bring the gun, Bob.*

My hand scrabbles about in the muck and extracts a gun. It occurs to me that this is probably the gun that finished me off. I don't want to touch it, but I do, and it's in my pocket and I'm climbing awkwardly toward her before I can so much as wonder why. You must understand: my own volition has nothing whatever to do with it. I could have been willing myself to sing an aria or do cartwheels. She willed me to do a thing, and I did it with gusto. My body did, at any rate. It doesn't look or feel great, by the way, and I'm through whining about the muck. It's not that. My arms and legs feel like someone else's. They look pale and strange, too, especially because my suit has been through it. It's a mess, and what I can see of myself as a result isn't pleasant.

*Was I dead?* She's got to know what's up. She'd be terrified rather than giggling if any of this was an unpleasant surprise. I'd have run away at the sight of myself, I think. What was that about a thrall?

*Oh, I'm afraid you were, Bob. I think someone wanted you to stay that way, in fact. See there, in your chest? I think you were shot. Then you were buried in this shallow grave in the woods by someone with some serious problems with you, Bob. It's alright, though. I've got lots of fun activities planned! You like fun, don't you, Bob?*

I've been studying my hand, and I don't like what I see. I am clearly a rotten remnant of myself, and that won't do. Sure, I was getting on in years, but many thought me rather distinguished. Handsome, some said. A grey eminence, a silver fox, that sort of thing. Now, I feel like shit and look worse. Fun? I hardly think so. *I like fun well enough to know that this is not it. What are you playing at, exactly? How did you make me clamber out of the muck like that?*

She's busy gathering things. A bowl, some candles that are unusually shaped and black, chalk that she clearly used to decorate my mucky hole and oh, that's nice, a rather wicked looking knife, and someone's angry little dog. He doesn't look well. Oh, there he goes, whence I came. There is no dignity in a hole in the muck. Have you ever envied a deceased, angry little dog? Now I have. What a night.

*Bob, you really must pay attention, or we shan't have any fun! As I said, you're my undead thrall. Your form does as I wish. There is a wrinkle, though. Were you a fan of any of the zombie stuff pop culture has been coming up with recently, Bob?* She gestures with that shiny hand of hers, and I'm giving the angry little dog a burial, though it's not what I would call decent. I'm quite good at digging, all of a sudden. With my hands, no less.

*I've seen my share of zombie flicks, sure. An episode of The Walking Dead now and again, when there was nothing else in the stream. Why? Are you sure this is good for my hands?* There's no pain, so that's a plus. You don't feel the leaves when you rake them, you know? I finish filling in the hole and don't feel out of breath. In fact, I don't seem to be breathing at all. It's one more thing to stop worrying about, I guess.

She looks over my handiwork with a satisfied grin and brushes some dirt off of my shoulder. *Well, most depictions of undead thralls imply that they are nothing but decaying, grotesque bodies without minds. Older cultures would have put it in more archaic but truer words, and described bodies without souls. As you know, Bob, that's nonsense, especially because I'm beta testing a spell designed by my grandmother. You're conscious and rational in there, Bob, but only I know it. Our minds are linked by the spell.

It makes sense, doesn't it, Bob? Isn't the point that being an undead thrall really blows when you know that's what you are?* She pats me on the head. Some dirt, and some of my hair, cling to her palm. She winces and stoops to rub her palm clean in the grass.

*So the point isn't just to have someone's body as your instrument, but to let that person watch as you use their body as you like? That's pure and simple evil, don't you think?* I would sit down in the moonlit grass to think this over, but she hasn't willed me to do so, so I just stand and rot.

Her smile would be dazzling if I did not know the reason for it. *I'm not sure evil is the word I'd choose, Bob. Would you rather be having fun, or lying in the muck and slowly joining it? Think of this as a reboot, Bob. We're going on an adventure together, and I promise that it won't be boring.

You know Bob, you're smart. If you were fresh, I think I'd like you quite a lot.* She straightens the vestiges of my tie. It's an intimate gesture, that--the sort of thing that used to warm my cockles, when I had cockles to warm. She gathers her things into a stylish, black velvet bag and pulls the strings. She does seem to be fond of doing that. She scans the scene. She listens.

*So, I'm your thrall. What would you have me do? More digging?*

She whispers something and gestures with that greenly glowing hand. I expect to spring into unsightly action, but I remain still. Her eyes flash with that same energy for a blink, and she points eastward, into the trees. *The people who hurt you like this place, Bob. It's remote, a little scary and surrounded by ugly rumors and superstitious talk. It's perfect for doing things you don't want people to see. No wifi. Spotty cell coverage. Full of trees and animals and birds and bugs and, well, people like you, Bob, though most can't get up. We're going to pay a visit to someone you knew when you were alive, Bob. Doesn't that sound like fun?*

She starts walking eastward, and I automatically shamble along in her wake. She's got a spicy, confident gait, Xi. The surroundings are mostly grey and fuzzy to my eyes, but parts of them look like they're haloed in dim light. I can see a racoon in the undergrowth a few meters to our right, and a crow on a branch just over her regal, hooded head. A moth is moving through the air just to her left. I have an eye for life now, I suppose.

*You're not a thug, like that fellow who killed you, are you, Bob? How did you get mixed up with these villains?* She doesn't bother to turn around to address me. I wonder what that angry little dog's name was?

*I'm--I was--a college lecturer. There was a young man in one of my classes named Dean Sheehan. He was generally bored or belligerent, but when we started reading Hamlet, he bucked up. He started staying after class to ask me about duty, especially the duties and responsibilities of a good son. I was impressed by his nuanced, careful reasoning and his enthusiasm, which are both rare these days.

I searched for him online, and discovered that his father, Frank, has quite a long rap sheet.* I stumble on a root. I feel it, but dimly. It's like bumping your leg against the dresser when your leg has gone to sleep, you know? The faint echo of a real sensation. She looks back, just to make sure I'm still making progress.

*Be careful, Bob. It's easy to get stuck if you don't watch where you're going, especially when I've commanded you to follow. You can't be hurt, but you can be stopped, for a while. You'll only run into real trouble if I'm hurt, but you're here to make sure that can't happen. So, Dean's dad is the thug?*

*Right. A hired gun for a local gang, from what I can gather. Dean spilled his guts eventually, just after we had discussed Hamlet's murder of poor old Polonius. That really got to Dean. He told me that he was feeling the heat. His father, and some of his father's friends and their knuckle-dragging, bloodthirsty sons, were leaning on him to quit school and devote his time to the study and practice of crime.*

A possum meanders around a tree to her right, with a faint, amber aura of life around it that makes it vivid to me. He--or she, I can't tell--seems to think about crossing Xi's path. I'm not sure exactly what changes his mind, but he retreats with surprising speed. I can't say I blame him.

We're getting close to more than one, living person. I'm not sure how I know that, but I do. My nose isn't very sensitive anymore, but I think I detect an aroma that used to wash out of my fridge when something had gone bad inside of it. I realize that I'm smelling myself, and feel grateful that I can't do it very well.

She stops, which means I do. *So Dean was having a crisis of conscience, was he? How did you counsel him, Bob? Did you explain how he could tell a hawk from a handsaw, when the wind is southerly?* Spontaneous literary allusions, let alone verbatim quotations, used to send a frisson of delight through my sinews. I get nothing from her thought. I resent that.

Something falls into the grass and dead leaves next to me. I follow the soft thud, and recognize my right ear.

*I cited Polonius, and told him to be true to himself. He told me that 'thine' sounds gay, and that he wasn't sure who he was. I told him that he ought to pay attention to moments when he felt himself resisting or rejecting something. I think there is a profound link between aesthetics and ethics. Judgments of taste are judgments about right and wrong: your sense of how things ought to be as opposed, all too often, to how they are. He seemed to like that.*

I can hear human voices to our right. I mean, I know that human beings are speaking to one another, but I can't make out individual words. It's clear that Xi can hear them too, doubtless with greater clarity and precision. She touches my elbow.

*Bob, I knew most of this story before we met. I can't find a reason to lead you on anymore--forgive the pun. Dean's father is my first, paying client. He's pretty shrewd about contemporary technology and forensic science, having been busted quite often, and being no stranger to the grey bar hotel. He's decided that natural methods are bound to get you into trouble, whereas supernatural methods are beyond the ken of law enforcement.

You got to Dean, as did the melancholy Danish prince. Dean's preparing to tell the authorities everything he knows. He's here tonight to enjoy himself a little before he takes the leap. His father can't abide a turncoat, Bob. So you're going to take care of Dean.* She rubs my elbow in a way that she must think is comforting. It's a bit like having your gums massaged after the dentist's anesthetic takes hold.

*You've got to be kidding! I like this kid, and he's ready to do the right thing. Do you really have to use me?!?* I can't help but wonder if she's sensitive to the ironic tension between my plaintive entreaty in thought and my dead, flat expression. This is ugly, and I hate it.

She's got real pity in her eyes, for a moment. It doesn't linger. *I know it's hard, Bob, but it's necessary. I can't botch my first contract. As I told you, we're running a spell my grandmother came up with after consulting with a number of my deceased ancestors. The rituals required to summon them call for a lot of rare, expensive ingredients, and I'm planning to enroll in a new Cultural History of the Occult program at Dartmouth in the fall. Do you have any idea what tuition is like at the moment, Bob? You're a thrall; there is no way I'm going to become one thanks to student loan debt.

You might enjoy it, you know. It's in your nature, now--to feed. Dinner is served, Bob. Don't touch his friend. She is not for you.* Her hand is greenlit again, and I'm cantering crazily through the shadows toward a car in a little clearing a few meters ahead of us and to the left.

The voices become more distinct. Dean sounds quite excited. I think his friend is touching him inappropriately, and he likes it. Poor kid. Enjoy it while you can. I catch sight of myself in the driver's side rearview.

I'm appalling. I am the cigarette butt of myself: a shredded manuscript of Bob Marbhan, full of stupid typographical errors, undead as an AI generated essay. I hate the sight of me. I watch my reflection carefully as I silently scream inside myself. It does not flicker.

"Mr. Marbhan?! Are you okay, dude?!" Dean's twig and berries are exposed, and the young lady with him rears back and screams as I approach. I recognize her: Chelsea, I think. The daughter of a colleague from Poli Sci. A real social climber, if memory serves. Quite a flautist too, it appears. Her eyes flash green for a moment and then she's lolling unconscious in the passenger seat. Xi.

My left arm is through the open window and my left hand is around Dean's throat. He looks horrified, but genuinely concerned about me, which is awful. Then I've hauled him through the window and my right hand forms a fist I don't want it to and punches a hole in his head. There's a revolting crack, as if someone is preparing an ostrich egg omelette. Dean's desperate screams have dwindled to inarticulate gurgling. My fingers are probing the opening and drawing out grey, viscous, glinting morsels of his fresh, young brain. His hands were scrabbling and pushing at me at first; now his arms are as slack and long as the strands of a discarded wig.

It's terrible how delicious his brain is. My senses have been wrapped in gauze for the most part, but the moment I get a bit of Dean into my rotten maw, my palette comes to and starts singing. Everything is charged with light and color. My fist strikes his skull a second time to expand the opening. I recognize pleasure. I scream again, silently.

*Don't be afraid to enjoy it, Bob. This is what you're for, now. Most people, fresh or rotten, never do exactly what they're meant to do.* I can feel Xi's ecstatic satisfaction. It threatens to become mine, to bleed through her mind into mine and paint my disgusted interior green and black.

I'm surprised to discover that I've released Dean and jumped with implausible agility to my left. I feel the shot before I hear it. It feels like being bumped by a stranger on the subway. I realize I've taken one for Xi, at her command. I'm embarrassed to discover that I'm hungry.

The second bullet gets to her. I hear her shocked, "What?!?" then watch her fold. I'm folding, too. Her mind is silenced. I am buried beneath an avalanche of icy loneliness.

I must have dropped the gun that killed me when I grabbed Dean, and Chelsea shrugged off Xi's spell, somehow, and grabbed it. She's crying and babbling over Xi now. She shoots Xi a second time. Everything is fading. I hope the undiscovered country will renew my visa quickly.

Poor Dean. Does reading Shakespeare sweeten the brain?