Issue #13 | Excerpt, "There's No One Left To Haunt"

***AS SEEN IN*** ***PLANET SCUMM ISSUE #13***
**WRITTEN BY** HENRY SANDERS-WRIGHT
*Illustration by* Maura McGonagle

A tugging pulls gently at my chest, beckoning me towards the front door. Death is particularly shit when you’re anchored to your own decomposing corpse, like an ethereal balloon tied to a profoundly ugly and deeply stupid dog.

“Are you getting faster or am I getting slower?” I call after it, but it doesn’t respond. I get up from my once-cream sofa, where I’ve spent the night waiting for dawn, and stretch, relishing in it. There’s no physical relief for my phantom body—it just feels right. It’s the only part of my morning routine I can still do.

I take another look at the pictures of you, each artfully folded to crop out your mum. “See you later, kiddo.”

The ethereal leash pulls on me harder, threatening to drag me along as my corpse descends the stairs. “I’m coming!”

I follow my remains out, passing the mound of dirty laundry that’s been festering in the corner for six months. In life, it never bothered me if it was left for a week or two. Death has pushed many of my limits. I’ve never wanted to do the laundry more.

Stepping over the wreck of my front door, bashed down by my zombie on our first night together, I catch up with my corpse downstairs before it joins the herd. It’s rush hour as the building’s undead file out into the street, a few followed by ghosts of other unlucky tenants. They look as miserable as I feel.

Catching eyes with my remaining neighbours, we exchange brief nods. As was the case in life, we have nothing to talk about.

We join the zombie herd, glowing fish in an ocean of the undead, swept along by the tide towards the city. Everyday, the zombies come and go—to work and to home—spurred on by muscle memory, something etched deep within their decaying minds. A never-ending Monday.

Between the sea of decaying faces and ragged breaths frosting like cursed sea foam, I glimpse other ghosts, easily noticeable by the downcast eyes and lack of burrowing maggots. None of us have any choice in this cyclical hell—we’re all along for the ride.

I don’t really mind the commute. It’s probably what’s kept me sane. The nights are long and boring, and I can’t sleep anymore. I’m stuck at home in the dark with only my rotting corpse for company. Out here, at least I’m moving, going somewhere, doing something.

An hour into the march–or possibly two, I don’t know, I didn’t die wearing a watch–I look up from my shuffling feet. The buildings on either side of the street have grown taller and wider, blending from brick to steel as we cross from suburbia into the city centre. The damage is worse here: burnt cars gridlocked for eternity, blown out shop windows like gaping pores, and glass ground daily into a fine sand by thousands of feet. The city has a hangover it will never recover from.

Shouting rolls across the top of the herd. The undead don’t notice, so I know it’s another ghost. Unless it’s their own spirit, zombies can’t see or hear ghosts. Even if the zombies could see us, they wouldn’t care. They can’t eat us. As soon as mine realised that, I was dead to him.

“Not here! You couldn’t have made it a bit further, you lazy bastard?”

I spot the source of the shouting—a man caught in the middle of the herd’s flow. Zombies pass through him, completely unaware. He shudders when they do, growing angrier each time. I’m almost jealous. I haven’t been that angry in months.

“Mind where you’re going, you rotting assholes!”

Curious and almost excited for a change of pace, I drift closer. A mound of dirty sludge is heaped at his feet, crawling with flies. Bones poke from the pile. I wince, knowing exactly what it is.

Our eyes meet, and he calms. He’s clean-shaven, wearing a tailored suit, hair freshly cut and groomed—at least, it was six months ago. I hope he was happy with the haircut, because it’s like that for eternity now. I wouldn’t be.

“I thought I had longer,” he says, anger melting away. His eyes drop to the mound, what had recently been his zombie and, before that, him. Now it’s just an anchor, tying him to the middle of the street for who knows how long. Probably forever.