***AS SEEN IN*** PLANET SCUMM ISSUE 13: SOMETHING UP AHEAD

**Written by HENRY SANDERS-WRIGHT**
*Illustrations* by Maura McGonagle

THERE’s NO-ONE LEFT TO HAUNT

Henry Sanders-Wright

Be warned, earthlings—another Planet Scumm story has escaped containment and is loose in the wild! This one hails from Issue 13 and features a zombie apocalypse, irritated ghosts, and bittersweet familial relationships. Approach with caution!

The first rays of the morning sun peek through the blinds of my small flat, lighting my living room in blades of gloomy gray. With a shudder, the black, rotting flesh of my old face groans to life. It turns away from the wall that it’s been staring at dead-eyed all night. Halfway through its shuffling pivot, it locks eyes with me. The expression doesn’t change, but I know what’s going on in its decrepit little mind.

It’s remembering that I’m not food.

I roll my eyes. “Hurry up or you’ll miss the herd.”

I’m never sure if it understands me, but my zombified corpse responds with a moan and crosses our small flat to the door. Wait—is it missing an ear? How long has that been gone?

Death is shit, Holly. If you’re dead, I hope you were spared this, because I hate being a ghost. If you’re still alive, then don’t die.

I look at the pictures on the wall, the same my corpse stares at nightly. Moments from your childhood, smiling back at me from behind long dark hair. I’m sure I was there when a few of those were taken, but it’s probably not as many as I think. I wish I could take one with me—something to keep you close. But, annoyingly, ghost pockets don’t work. Nothing does when you’re incorporeal. I’m a dimly glowing breeze now.

Dead or alive, I hope you’re doing better than I am.

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.

What do you say to someone like that, Holly? Tentatively, I open my mouth to offer empty condolences, but a powerful, unpleasant shiver interrupts me. My corpse steps through me, the rotting sludge, the man, and then continues on. It never breaks its pace.

“You utter prick,” I mutter at my own back.

The man looks between my corpse and I, realisation bubbling into an anger more violent than before as he sees the lingering similarity between us. Quickly and awkwardly, I follow the dirty footprints of my zombie. The man screams curses after me as I leave.

Even when the shouting is far behind, I can’t shake the thought of the man. He’s a reminder of the inevitable. My corpse is doomed for the same fate. They all are. Flesh isn’t made to last. Axes, guns and tanks are like sharpened sticks compared to the best zombie-killer: time.

Great news for anyone still living, bad news for the new ghost community. Anchored to our remains, we won’t be able to go farther than thirty feet in any direction.

Stuck here.

Forever.

I don’t let my corpse leave my sight for the rest of the commute. Usually, I can’t stand looking at it—a reminder of what I was. Now I’m fascinated by it, analysing every inch, trying to work out how many commutes it has left.

It’s definitely slower than the others, its paces shorter. More flies too, although I’m not confident what that means. It probably reeks.

More… bits have been falling off it lately, although I’d thought it was more due to ineptitude than rot. Its biggest threat is itself. It’s never even bit anyone. Should I be relieved or disappointed by that?

I made a poor zombie, Holly. I’m sure you know I wasn’t exactly a great human, either, but I didn’t think I’d make for such a dreadful zombie.

My corpse shambles onward to my office, ambivalent to my analysis and most of the world around it. I flinch when another zombie bumps shoulders with it. The realisation comes to me then as it teeters, barely managing to stay upright.

It’s not going to last much longer, is it?

“Fuck.”

I shiver, feeling the chains tying me to the earth tighten. I don’t have long.

*Cover by the illustrious Planet Scumm Art Director, Maura McGonagle*

Being a ghost didn’t come with a guide or rulebook. Horror movies were only ten percent accurate. When we died in the rising, everyone left a zombie behind, but not everyone left a ghost. The vast majority of people fucked off to whatever pearly gates are beyond this existence, leaving their corpse behind like a snake shedding skin.

According to the supernatural grapevine, unfinished business holds the rest of us back. Tasks on Earth we have to complete before we’re free. We weren’t given a lot of time to tie up loose ends when the dead rose. Honestly, it’s surprising that more people weren’t held back.

In contemporary times, the norm was to haunt a house for a century or two and bother a family until they got so sick of you that they went out of their way to get rid of you.

Now there’s nobody left to haunt.

I want to finish my business, but I don’t know what I’m meant to do. Incorporeality doesn’t help, either, and the only tool at my disposal is falling apart, braindead and as useful as a ghost’s toothbrush. Still, it’s better than nothing. Through excessive motioning and a lot of shouting, I’ve baited and manipulated my zombie into achieving simple tasks. It has led to some creative problem solving.

I died on my lunch break, so at first I figured if I made my corpse attend all the meetings I had scheduled for that afternoon, that would sort it. It was easy: my corpse still hadn’t yet grasped the concept that it couldn’t eat me, so it followed me obediently from room to room, biting me constantly. Unpleasant, but efficient.

I’ve also tried tidying my desk (lacking any coordination, my corpse only made things worse), feeding the office cat (ending with my corpse herding it into a group of zombies—R.I.P. Tallulah) and clearing out my email inbox. That last one took some real patience, as I tried to get my corpse to hit various keys through shouting and pointing. My laptop died just before we got into my emails. I’ve never felt such anguish.

Unsure what else I could do, I stopped trying months ago. I still don’t know.

You would though. God, I wish you were here.

I have to do it today, before it’s too late. There must be something. I don’t want to end up like the man in the suit, alone and stuck between two places until the end of time.

My corpse and I slowly peel away from the herd as zombies disperse into various offices, shops and restaurants. We pass the local Pret and I avoid looking at it. Bad service, cold coffee, and being killed with nothing but a “Wiltshire-cured ham & greve cheese baguette” to defend yourself really changes your perception of a place.

We make it to the office: a squat, five floor concrete building squeezed between towers twice its height. I’m not sure what has saved it from refurbishment. It’s a bit of an eyesore, but part of me does have a soft spot for its outdated, bleak design.

As my corpse shuffles over, I search by the office doors. My unfinished business probably isn’t outside, but I’m not taking any chances. Maybe I’m supposed to clean up the cigarette ends that litter the smokers’ area? Surely not. I only ever smoked at business lunches with clients.

My zombie doesn’t even glance at me as it steps through the closed automatic doors, the glass smashed during the rising. I hope my fate doesn’t lie in the cigarette butts as the leash between us drags me inside.

As with every day, I follow my corpse as it repeats my daily work routine. It seems to knock into every colleague and wall in its path, and I find myself wincing with each one. In truth, I wouldn’t mind it stopping here. Better than the road, and the office always felt like home to me. Probably why your Mum hated the place—and me, for that matter.

First, my corpse takes us to the coffee machine to stand with a few other zombies for ten minutes. Zombie gossip is mostly silent, occasionally punctuated by a groan. Ghost gossip isn’t much better. Despite a number of my colleagues’ corpses milling around, only a few have their spirits still attached. A lot of my colleagues were more ready to die than I gave them credit for.

I use the time to search the break area, looking under the small white tables and colourful plastic chairs. Maybe I didn’t clean away after myself? I hope it’s not that. The contents of the bins have been spread to the four corners of the room and I’m not confident I could get my zombie to clean it if I had eternity.

My remaining incorporeal colleagues give me questioning looks, but say nothing. Another benefit to death: we don’t have to pretend we like each other anymore.

Done with its chit-chat, my corpse takes us on a slow journey up three flights of stairs to my desk, where it will stand for the next eight hours. The climb is particularly agonising to watch today, so I go ahead and wait by my desk as soon as I have enough slack on my leash.

A picture of you is blu-tacked to my monitor. You’re older than you are on the walls at home, dressed as the Wicked Witch for a school play. I smile when I see it, but only now do I wish I had seen the play. At least my corpse hasn’t knocked the picture off with everything else.

The sun is shining through the office window, high and bright in the sky by now. I look up and squint through the sunlight, but I don’t feel its warmth. I hope you don’t have to suffer this.

I look at the chaotic mess that had once been my desk, trying to spot anything I’ve overlooked. By the time my corpse finally arrives, I’m pacing the room anxiously. I have no leads and my zombie took longer than usual to arrive.

“Don’t you dare stop on the stairs. I’m not spending eternity between the second and third floors.”

My corpse ignores me as it stumbles in front of the desk. While it stands there, slack-jawed, staring at the monitor in what I’m sure is some form of undead mockery, I explore the length of my leash, walking back and forth across the office. Every lap of the floor gets faster as I cross possibilities out in my head, stamping back and forth, knowing I’d done this all before months ago.

When I return to my desk, my zombie taunts me with a blank look. Buckle up for eternity, pal.

I scream. My fists passes through its face as I try to punch it. All I get is a buzzing shiver up my arm.

Surprised by my sudden attack, my corpse falls backwards onto my desk, smacking the monitor onto the floor. The picture of you is trapped beneath.

For a moment, I worry my zombie isn’t getting up, but it manages to right itself. It looks at me, almost expectantly.

“Sorry. You didn’t deserve that,” I say.

It groans at me, which could mean anything, but I like to think it’s accepted my apology. Teetering into movement, my corpse knocks against my desk and towards the door. I wonder where he’s off to until I see others ambling the same way. Lunchtime. That’s the fastest a morning has gone in six months.

I’m about to follow when something catches my eye. From the gap behind where my monitor stood, a red folder flops onto my desk. I don’t remember that? It must have been wedged back there. Probably misplaced by Julian. The man was so scatterbrained in life, I’m surprised the zombies didn’t ignore him.

The tugging starts—my corpse must be faster going down the stairs than going up. I follow, slowly. Lunchtime is my second most disliked part of the day, after the entirety of the night. If I listed it all out, there’s probably only a very narrow part of the day I can actually stand.

There’s a line at the Pret by the time I catch up. Corpses politely queuing still surprises me, a habit even death can’t break. Inside, a few ghosts are sat at tables, eyes closed, likely imagining themselves anywhere but here. They look like they’re having the time of their undead lives.

I wait outside for my zombie to shuffle up to the counter, stare silently at the cashier for a few minutes, then leave. I can’t go inside, not after how things ended. The fact that I’m brought back here every day is the biggest joke of my death. Imagine being haunted by a sandwich shop.

The idea of my corpse collapsing here crosses my mind. I zombie-watch to distract myself. How many of them did I know? Most are too rotted—you definitely wouldn’t recognise mine. A rare few even have makeshift weapons lodged in them, like a fork in the eye or a pen sprouting from the forehead. Speaking of Julian, I’m sure I saw him in the early days with a laptop charger wrapped around his—

Oh.

The red file—it’s not Julian’s, it’s my quarterly report. Sat on my desk since the start of the uprising, it was due the day of my death. It’s about two quarters late.

“Oh shit.”

That’s it! My unfinished business! I’m sure of it.

I peer through the shop window and spot my zombie at the front of the queue. “Hurry up!”

Ghosts frown at me, wondering what I have to be urgent about. I ignore them. This is it. I have my way out.

My zombie ambles out, ignoring my urging as it makes its steady way back to the office. It seems even slower than before.

I rush ahead of it as far as I can, the leash trying to pull me back. I struggle against it, desperate to get back to my desk. As soon as my corpse is close enough, I go back and stare at the red folder. I can’t believe I’d forgotten about it. It took me three weeks to put it together. One busy lunchtime managed to completely wipe it from my mind.

When my corpse arrives, I wave and click in front of its face to get its attention. It takes a lot of movement, but it finally responds with a low moan, looking at me with milky eyes.

“Pick this up!” I point frantically at the folder on the desk.

My corpse stares at me blankly.

“Pick it up!” I scoop at the folder like an overly-aggressive mime. My hands pass through it, tickling unpleasantly, but I repeat it, hoping something will get through to my zombie.

After a frustratingly long few minutes, my corpse moves forward and claws at the desk. It looks more like it’s digging than trying to pick something up, but I don’t care. As long as it does what I need, that’s all that matters.

Clumsily, it manages to scrabble the folder into its arms. I cheer and my zombie almost drops the folder in surprise. I pray my paper-clipping skills are enough to hold the folder together.

“Come on! There’s a tasty person over here. All helpless and ready to be eaten.” I run ahead of it as far as I can before the leash between us strains, trying to pull me back. The tether goes slack as my corpse gets the idea and follows, shambling after me.

I lead it through the maze of desks to the other side of the third floor where my manager’s office is. Caution hasn’t completely abandoned me. I choose the widest paths between the desks, trying to minimise the risk of a fall my corpse wouldn’t get up from. Death won’t have the last laugh—not this time.

Waiting for my corpse by the open office door, I’m bouncing from foot to foot. I can’t remember the last time I was this excited, even before death.

As my corpse catches up, I step into the office. My manager’s zombie stands behind a desk, wearing a once-pink shirt, and greets my corpse with a groan that passes right through me. I’m surprised that my manager wasn’t kept behind. He was cheating on his husband and everyone knew about his coke addiction. If anyone had something unfinished, it should have been him.

“Here’s that report you wanted,” I say to my manager’s bloated corpse, excitedly. Probably too much, especially as it can’t hear or see me.

I motion to my corpse to put the folder on the desk. It stares back. I sigh and throw my arms in front of me several times. It mimics me and the report flops unceremoniously onto the desk between us.

The remains of my manager grunts at the report, then turns away.

That’s it. It’s done. There is absolutely nothing left more for me to do. I need fireworks to be going off right now, along with a round of applause and a final pint of Stella.

My business on Earth is finished.

How will it come? Angelic light? Hellfire? Will it be painful?

I look around for a sign. Nothing. I look down at my hands, hoping it will be a simple and undramatic fading from existence. I really hope it doesn’t hurt.

My zombie watches me - can it see it happening? At least this will be the last time I’ll have to look at my own rotting face. I blow it a kiss.

#

Nothing happens.

I’m still here.

My corpse quickly loses interest in me and shambles away. I don’t follow it until the chain starts to tow me along, forcing me to close the distance. Even then, I don’t join it back at my desk. I stop at the far end of the tether between the second and third floor, staring at the speckled floor tiles.

I don’t understand. The report has to be my unfinished business. My life was spent in this office and I’ve scoured it. There’s nothing left for me to do. Nothing to hand over to my shoddy replacement. Why can’t I leave?

Maybe it was all bollocks. I’ve never actually seen any other spirits leave this miserable existence. For all I know, it could be ghostly rumor, a vain hope of escape. I believed it, easily. It was a light to stay on in the dark. Eternity doesn’t seem so long when you don’t think it’s forever.

But maybe that’s part of the punishment. Stringing us along, making us think we can escape, stretching years into centuries into millennia until the end of time. I see it now. You can’t torture someone that’s given up. Bravo to Satan for that master stroke.

I punch the wall, but my hand passes through, sending that uncomfortable buzz up my arm. I don’t remove my arm immediately. It’s not painful, just annoying, but it’s something. If this was a punishment, wouldn’t it have pain?

I don’t know what this is anymore. I just want to leave. I want it all to end.

I wish you were here, Holly. Even if you couldn’t help me. I know I don’t deserve it, but seeing you again would make my afterlife.

Figures stumble through me, along with my own corpse, and I realise how much time has passed. Home time. I leave the office, probably for the last time, and join my undead colleagues in the dying light. Surprisingly, part of me is relieved. I don’t want to spend eternity in the office. Your mum wouldn’t believe me if she heard that.

Trailing behind my corpse, I stare at my own feet. The last thing I need is to watch my zombie nearly topple for the entire journey. The anticipation is the worst. At least the first time I died it was over before you could say “Pret A Manger.” Getting my guts ripped open wasn’t even that bad in hindsight. I’d prefer it again over the eternity I’m about to face.

The walk home feels longer than usual, as if my despair is weighing my corpse down too. We flag behind and the herd eventually moves on without us. By the time we reach our apartment building, it’s almost pitch black. A thin veneer of moonlight only serves to give the bones of the old world a faint outline. It’s enough to find my way in.

I’m surprised my zombie can still manage the stairs, but it tackles them, one shaky step at a time.

Surely it can’t go much further. If there’s any mercy left in the world, it’ll collapse in my living room. I think I can deal with haunting the flat for eternity. At least I can see you until the pictures fade. And I know no-one will touch my stuff. I’d even be okay with the stairs.

Anywhere but the road. Existence would be marked by the passing of the herd twice a day until it marches itself to dust, and then it would be a long nothing. Knowing my luck, I’d be stuck next to the man from this morning.

I reach our floor, relief washing through me. My corpse has stopped a few metres from the front door. It tilts its head from side to side. I frown. Is this it? I suppose the hallway is close enough.

My corpse sniffs at the air, once, then twice. Faster than I expected, it stumbles over the wreck of the front door and disappears inside.

“What’s got you so excited?”

I follow but stop short when I hear a grunt, a thwack and a heavy thud.

Someone is here. Someone alive.

And they’ve just killed my zombie.

I enter the flat, cautiously peering around the corner. Old instincts, even after all this time. I have nothing to fear. I can’t die a third time.

The stark light of a torch highlights my corpse flat on its back, unmoving. An axe splattered with gore has split the top of its skull. An unexpected tightness forms in my chest when I see my dead zombie. I’m going to miss the conversation.

My eyes follow the torch beam to face the killer, mulling over whether to thank or curse them. “Holy shit.”

It’s you.

You’re here!

“Oh fuck,” you say as you bend down to inspect my corpse. “Sorry about that, Dad.”

I forget myself and step over my corpse to hug you. My arms slip through you like smoke. You shiver and tense, looking around warily, but you’re alone.

“You look well, Holly. Better than me.” I study your face in the torchlight. You look thinner, definitely a lot grimier, but you’ve survived well. It makes me proud to say that you look badass. Your long dark hair is short and jagged—who cut it? A blind guy with a shard of glass? It’s less fashionable for sure, but I suppose more convenient. Zombies aren’t going to be yanking it back for a bite. You always were smart.

You wrench the ax free, throwing skull shards and brains everywhere. “I can never fail to give you a headache.”

You always were a bit of a smart arse too. We know where you get that from.

“I wanted to see you both. I looked for Mum first but I couldn’t find her. Maybe she’s still out there,” you tell my corpse, your voice low. I hope your mother is suffering as much as I am. “I’m surprised you’re here—I thought you would be at the office, even after hours.”

There’s a stinging edge to your voice that hurts, even though it’s well-deserved. Six months ago, I would have argued back, telling you I work hard for us—for you. I’ve had a lot of time to think in six months.

“I knew you’d be a zombie.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I almost didn’t come,” you say. “But I needed to know what happened to you, so I’m not left wondering. I don’t like leaving anything unfinished—even if it is to your zombie.”

I smile. My clever girl.

Quiet stretches between us. There’s something absolute about the quiet and then I realise it’s the first time in six months I haven’t had to listen to my zombie’s ragged breath. Already, I find myself enjoying it. Maybe some actual peace and quiet for eternity won’t be so bad.

You run a hand through your hair, blowing out air slowly as if releasing a pressure inside. I miss when your hair was longer. You look too grown-up now. It reminds me of what I’ve missed.

“You were a shit, Dad.”

My smile wavers and falls. Reflexively, I want to argue, but it would be empty words. I’ve known for longer than death that you’re right. Before, I didn’t care. I thought I was providing. Now, with all the time in the world to think, I realise I was hiding behind that excuse.

“But I forgive you,” you say, “because, in your own way, I know that…” Your torch trails along the walls, highlighting the photos of yourself.

You don’t finish the sentence, but I can see in your eyes that you know. Since the moment of my death, there’s no one else that I’ve thought about more.

Torchlight returns to my rotted face. You take a deep breath. I think I hear a sniff. Then your back straightens and you hoist your ax onto your shoulder. Briefly, I don’t know who I’m looking at—there’s no way this young woman could have been raised by me.

You’ve got a long life ahead of you. You’ll be okay. You’ll do great.

Something tugs at me, gently but firmly. It feels different than before, not like I’m being anchored down, but more that I’m being lifted up.

Ah, so this is how it happens. This doesn’t seem so bad.

“Goodbye, Dad,” you say, giving my corpse a final look.

The tugging has turned into a wind, cool and sweet, growing stronger. The flat’s floor has already slipped away from my feet.

“Goodbye, Holly.”