Best New Zombie Tales (Vol. 2)

By James Roy Daley

Want the Greatest Zombie Stories Ever Written? Award winning authors and New York Times Bestsellers come together in this fantastic zombie anthology. Includes great tales by David Niall Wilson, Rio Youers, Nate Kenyon, Tim Waggoner, Narrelle M. Harris, John Everson, Mort Castle... and so much more. A BESTSELLING HORROR TITLE.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Books of the Dead Press
• Release date: Sep 16, 2010
• ISBN: 9780986566486

James Roy Daley

James Roy Daley is a writer, editor, and a professional musician. He studied film at the Toronto Film School, music at Humber College, and English at the University of Toronto. In 2007 his first novel, The Dead Parade, was released in 1,110 bookstores across America. In 2009 he founded a book company called Books of the Dead Press, where he enjoyed immediate success working with many of the biggest names in horror. His first two anthologies, Best New Zombie Tales Volume One, and Best New Zombie Tales Volume Two, far exceeded sales predictions, leading many of the top horror writers in the world to view his little company as one worth watching. 13 Drops of Blood is his first collection.

Book preview

BEST NEW ZOMBIE TALES

Volume Two

Edited By

JAMES ROY DALEY

I'm proud to be a part of the Best New Zombie Tales series.

~ World Horror Grand Master, Multiple Award Winning Horror Legend, Ray Garton

BOOKS of the DEAD

Smashwords Edition

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This book is a work of fiction. All characters, events, dialog and situations in this book are fictitious and any resemblance to real people or events is purely coincidental. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book, or portions thereof, in any form.

BEST NEW ZOMBIE TALES Volume Two

Collection copyright 2010 by James Roy Daley

Cover art by Terry Callen

Edited by James Roy Daley

For more information, contact: [e-mail]

Visit us at: Booksofthedeadpress.com

* * *

CONTENTS

Introduction 2 ~ JAMES ROY DALEY

Bury Me Not ~ RIO YOUERS

Laundry Day ~ STEVEN A. ROMAN

Provider ~ TIM WAGGONER

The Truth About Brains ~ NARRELLE M. HARRIS

Gravedigger ~ NATE KENYON

Coming Home ~ DAVID NIALL WILSON

The Third Option ~ DEREK GUNN

The Worst Is Yet To Come ~ PETE MESLING

La Sequia ~ T. F. DAVENPORT

Viva Las Vegas ~ THOMAS ROCHE

’Til Decay Do Us Part ~ MYRRYM DAVIS

We Will Rebuild ~ CODY GOODFELLOW

Dredging Up The Dead ~ J. W. SCHNARR

Camille Smiled ~ JOHN EVERSON

Not With A Bang But A Whimper ~ MONICA J. O’ROURKE

Reunion ~ JAMES NEWMAN

Gran’ma’s in the Bathroom (… and she’s not coming out) ~ KEN GOLDMAN

The Old Man And The Dead ~ MORT CASTLE

The Finger ~ MATT HULTS

About the Authors

Copyright Acknowledgements

More From: BOOKS of the DEAD

Introduction 2

JAMES ROY DALEY

When I heard the loud and mechanical roar, as obnoxious and disquieting as it was, I thought nothing of it. Why would I? My small neighborhood may sit a fair distance away from industrious sounds of the big city but the sound of chain and steel wasn’t completely unheard of. People had trees to trim and fireplaces in need of wood for those oh-so-cold winter nights. A few of my neighbors even had a fire pit behind their homes, giving them every right and reason to use a chainsaw. I didn’t contemplate the grinding racket as it became louder and more obvious––not until the noise was clearly coming from my front porch. Then I thought, What the hell is going on here? Why is someone running a chainsaw near my house?

I had been sitting on my couch at the time, watching television and eating ice cream; my knees were apart and a bowl was sitting on my lap. Cautiously, almost nervously, I licked my lips, placed the bowl on the coffee table, and stood up. The saw was louder than ever, insulting the very essence of what a quiet borough was all about. The door was approached with forced footsteps and my hand was placed on the knob with an equal amount of concern. Before I had a chance to turn my wrist, the noise doubled in volume and the door started shaking. The knob began rattling. The pictures hanging on the wall next to me began bopping around like they were in a dance competition. I stepped back with my mouth flopping open. A moment passed and my knees began shaking. I yelled something, but Lord only knows what that something may have been. And just as the blade began making its way through the door––tearing apart the doorknob, the lock, and everything that was around it––the truth of the situation collided with my limited intelligence like a medicine ball in the stomach.

H. P. Lovecraft was here. He came back to finish what he started.

I guess this is a good time to point out that I already had one run-in with H. P., and I don’t mind telling you that I didn’t enjoy the experience at all. He mulched my hand apart with a blender, and he warned me that he’d return if… if…

If what?

I couldn’t remember.

While my mind tried to unravel the mystery of what he said, the door swung open in a cloud of sawdust and wood splinters. I saw the chainsaw and I stepped back with my arms held out like a man balancing himself on a log. ‘Arms,’ of course, being a loose term, what with one of my arms ending at the elbow thanks to my last encounter with Mr. Lovecraft.

I heard his voice mingled within the sounds of the machinery before I saw his face.

Zombies! he screamed. More goddamn zombies!

I tripped. If it happened in a movie I would’ve been thinking, Yeah right! As if!

Truth may be stranger than fiction some of the time, but life can be filled with enough clichés to make the worst Hollywood writer cringe in disgust. I tripped. Tripped over a fake plastic plant that had been collecting dust in the same spot for the past ten years. I won’t say that I felt stupid; it’s only now that I feel like an idiot for falling down. At the time my feelings were not traveling the embarrassment highway; the terror growing inside my mind was coming together in a way that blocked out all other emotions. H. P. Lovecraft had returned!

But why?

That was the question in need of answering.

He said he’d come back if…

If…

It hit me. He said, Make sure your zombie book is amazing. That’s what he said. He said, Make sure the book is amazing or he’d saw my empty head off!

Oh shit!

Wasn’t the first volume good? I thought it was good! It got great reviews… the writers are incredible… everyone tells me that the book looks beautiful… So why the hell is he back? What did I do wrong?

He stepped into my home and lowered the saw. His suit was clean and his tie was thin. I saw his face––his skinny, pale as a ghost, face. His eyes were darker than most and sat deep within their sockets. His slender nose was crinkled in a way that suggested that he was disgusted with me. The grin that haunted his lips evinced the emotion of hate.

I was in trouble, very serious trouble.

I said, Hello Howard. What brings you here?

Before the question tumbled across my trembling lips he was standing above me, revving the saw’s engine. His pupils narrowed into pinpricks.

"How could you?! he shouted. Did I not teach you anything? Are your thoughts utterly illogical, asinine, and incongruous? Are you completely moronic? You imperceptive, dimwitted, Neanderthal! You absurd, idiotic, pre-Gravettian, Blytt-Sernander, cavern-dweller!"

Drowning in my fear, I had no idea what half of those words meant. Did he make up a new language every time he spoke? Thinking about his fiction, it seemed very likely.

I warned you, he said. I warned you and now I’m going to eradicate you!

Wait!

Why should I?

Just wait––what did I do wrong? The book is good, right? Everyone agrees that I did a great job! So what’s the problem?

H. P. rolled his dark and narrow eyes. You’re doing a second volume?

Huh?

"You heard me! Your releasing a second zombie book; isn’t that right?"

Of course I am! You can’t put out a volume one without a volume two! Did you really think I was going to release a volume one without a volume two? He revved the engine and I screamed: Don’t kill me! You should have known it was coming!

For a moment he looked stumped. I can only assume that conflicting thoughts swirled inside his mind. Later I would come to the conclusion that my logic had saved my life. Not that it kept me safe. Or in one piece.

Pick one, he said.

And of course I had no idea what he was talking about. What?

Pick one! he repeated.

I don’t know what you mean.

H. P. spat on me. The last time I saw him he spat on the floor; this time the wad of mucus hit me in the face, just below my left eye.

Chuckling, he said, Leg it is.

He moved faster than a shark, and the saw came screaming towards me. Before I knew it would happen, my ankle was being chewed apart and blood was splashing the walls in generous amounts. My single hand pounded against the floor as pain washed over me like an electrical current. I heard the bone grind and I felt my muscles tear. When I pulled my leg away from the blade my foot didn’t come with it. It just sat on the floor, bleeding like a stuck pig. The last thing I remember is that crazy son-of-a-bitch whispering something in my ear. I wish like hell I could remember what he said. I have a feeling it was important.

* * *

Ahem.

Let me clear my throat.

Dear literate zombie fans; my name is James Roy Daley. What you’re looking at is a little idea of mine, brought to life by the power of hard work. If you’ve read the first volume you know what I’m doing here. I’m putting together the best zombie tales I can get my hands on. If you haven’t read the first volume, I figure you’re missing out. Volume one has some great stories. Ray Garton’s Zombie Love is a real treat, Matt Hult’s Feeding Frenzy is probably the strangest zombie story ever written, and John L. French wrote a tale called Paradise Denied that is so far removed from anything conventional that it belongs in a genre of its own. Plunking those with writers such as Kealan Patrick Burke, Jonathan Mayberry, Jeff Strand, Bev Vincent, Kim Paffenroth, and… well… you get the point. Great writers tend to make great books. And the book you’re currently reading is loaded with great writers.

First up, an amazing story by a very good friend of mine: Rio Youers.

Enjoy...

Bury Me Not

RIO YOUERS

She had known this day would come—had been prepared for it, every time she opened the front door for the last two and a half years: a perfect stillness, as if this iota of the world had ceased to be, and was suspended in its own time and place; a chill feeling, unmistakably the discontinuance of something that once was (an endness, she thought, and that peculiar word––endness—fell through her mind and shattered against her soul); and, of course, the smell. It stained the air. Abused goodness. Nothing natural.

He’s gone, she thought.

Michelle Weston braced herself and stepped into the hallway. She covered her mouth against the smell, took two trembling steps, and jumped when the wind caught the front door and slammed it with an angry sound.

Hello… Mr. Vandenhoff?

She didn’t expect a reply. She didn’t get one.

The hallway was gloomy, with faded walls, an old-fashioned dial phone on a small table in the corner, and Mr. Vandenhoff’s brown leather shoes on the floor—shoes he would never wear again (unless the undertaker chose to bury him in them). The dining room was on the right. Nothing in there but an empty table and a cabinet that housed Mr. Vandenhoff’s many humanitarian awards, along with several photographs of him and various luminaries, although the only faces she recognized were those of Nelson Mandela and the Princess of Wales. The kitchen was ahead, on the left, with the living room on the right. Judging from the smell, Michelle knew that she would find him in one of these rooms. Maybe he had died waiting for the toast to pop up, and was sprawled on the kitchen floor, as putrid as spoiled fruit. Or he was in the living room, sitting in his armchair in the exact position in which he had died, with Monday’s edition of the Wall Street Journal in his hands, open at the editorials.

This latter was almost the case; Mr. Vandenhoff was indeed sitting in his armchair, but he didn’t have the Wall Street Journal in his hands. He was actually holding the remote control for the TV, and appeared to be aiming the device at the screen. His thumb was poised over the power button. He had died before he could switch it on.

Oh, Michelle said. She had been expecting it—of course she had, but it hit her hard, all the same. Her legs weakened and she needed the support of the wall for a moment. Her instinct was to take several deep breaths, but the air was so foul that her throat contracted. She covered her mouth and gagged again.

Outside, she thought. Fresh air.

She crossed the kitchen and yanked on the sliding door that opened onto the back garden. Locked. Of course. She fumbled with the catch, coughing again, and ripped open the door. Fresh air—massive, invigorating lungfuls. She all but threw herself into the sky, like a man on fire diving into a pool of water.

Thank God. Oh my goodness. Her head span; the air was a drug and she hit it again, nostrils flaring. Oh my…

She dropped into one of the garden chairs and waited for composure, which took longer than expected, given that she had seen dead bodies before: two grandparents, an aunt, and a friend who died of leukemia. But they had all been in their coffins, dressed splendidly, their faces adorned with cosmetics. They looked unreal, like waxworks. It was hard to imagine that the hearts inside those soulless bodies had ever been beating. Mr. Vandenhoff, however… he looked very real. Very dead.

Deep breaths.

Michelle blinked. Better. Not great. She wasn’t ready to sing Zip-a-Dee-Doo-Dah, by any stretch of the imagination, but she at least felt ready to do what needed to be done next: call Mr. Vandenhoff’s doctor. He would confirm what she already knew, and then contact the funeral home. Mr. Vandenhoff’s family in Holland would be notified, and he would be buried according to his wishes. The end.

She nodded and took a few more measured breaths. The world balanced. She could hear a dog barking, a lawnmower purring, a jet plane cutting through the clouds. The houses in Mr. Vandenhoff’s neighborhood continued as normal. They ate their meals and showered. They watched American Idol and surfed the Internet… all completely unaware of the dead man in the little yellow house on the corner. This neighborhood—microcosm of the western world—epitomized the dichotomy between life and death. Although for Michelle, this division was about to become indistinct.

It started when Mr. Vandenhoff’s TV switched on.

To begin with, Michelle thought the sound was coming from next door, but soon realized that it was much closer—that it was, in fact, coming from Mr. Vandenhoff’s living room. An English accent, clearly a reporter, talking about relief work in Afghanistan. The BBC World News. Michelle knew this because it was Mr. Vandenhoff’s favorite channel. He watched it all the time.

He turned on the TV, she thought, and her heart made a fat, slow movement in her chest. She recalled his dead hand clasping the remote, his thumb hovering over the power button. It can’t be. There’s no…

Deep breaths.

Michelle stood up and approached the sliding doors—got a blast of the smell again and staggered backward. She counted to three, took a deep breath, and stepped into the house.

The TV played to a dead man… except that the dead man had moved ever so slightly since the last time she had seen him; his thumb had dropped an inch or so, and was pressed firmly on the remote’s power button.

Freaky, Michelle said. She had heard that dead people could twitch or move suddenly, even belch. Something to do with a build-up of decomposition gases, or a chemical reaction in the nerves. But even so, turning on the TV was all-out freaky. She inched into the living room, her legs unsteady. The screen flashed images from all over the world: Iraq, Sierra Leone, El Salvador, Burma: a collage of disaster. Mr. Vandenhoff had traveled to all these places. He had formed charities and provided compassion, education, and comfort. Now they danced in his lifeless eyes, a swirl of color, like oil on water.

She flicked off the TV.

Silence. Almost…

Flies buzzed and flicked across Mr. Vandenhoff’s body. She was no doctor, but he had obviously been dead for some time. The flies were something of a giveaway. The stench, too. There were also signs of putrefaction; his skin was greenish-gray, and his face bloated. There was darker coloring in his lower forearms and jowls—the blood no longer circulating, settling in the cold tissue like rain on a windowsill. As she watched, a fly landed on his swollen face and crawled across his eyeball.

Michelle swallowed hard. Her throat clicked and rasped, still clenched against the smell. It was time to call the doctor. His number was in the address book, next to the telephone in the hallway. She turned and started to walk away, but stopped cold when the TV flicked on again.

That didn’t just happen.

She pivoted on one heel. Her heart was a raging, crashing ocean. The BBC World News played on the screen, and Mr. Vandenhoff’s neck creaked stiffly as he turned to look at her.

"Begraaf me niet, he said, speaking in his native Dutch. Thick yellow pus dribbled over his lower lip. Ik bien niet dood."

The fly still crawled across his eyeball.

* * *

Michelle had first met Mr. Vandenhoff four years ago. She was eighteen at the time, working part time at coffee shop in her tiny hometown. He would come in at the same time every morning, with the Wall Street Journal under his arm, and order the same thing: a large black coffee and a blueberry muffin. She’d sometimes see him shuffling down the sidewalk, and would have his order prepared by the time he stepped through the door. He paid with the exact change, and always gave her a one-dollar tip.

Not surprising, then, that she got to know him a little better. When it was quiet, she would often sit with him and talk. Growing up in small town America (Deer’s Brook, OR., population: 785. Welcome to Our Slice of the Pie), she hadn’t met many worldly people (or any, come to that), so Mr. Vandenhoff was instantly engaging. Although, to begin with, she wasn’t sure that she believed his marvelous stories—how he had dined with presidents and princesses, pulled children from earthquake rubble in Armenia, and provided aid to victims of genocide in Rwanda. They were just too… well, too big for her small town computer to process. He changed her mind when he brought in a selection of photographs—so many places, so many faces—clearly showing that he had seen, and touched, the world. He offered Michelle an exciting new perspective, and made her want to be a better person.

He was sweet and gentle… and very old. When he didn’t come into the coffee shop one morning, Michelle was sure that he had passed away, and her heart ached for him. But there he was the next morning, and she delightedly handed him his black coffee and blueberry muffin. He explained that he hadn’t been in the previous day because he had been feeling under the weather, and some days it hurt to walk. Michelle asked if he had anybody to look after him… a nurse or family member, someone who could run to the grocery store for him, or just drop in a couple of times a week to see if he needed anything.

No, my dear, he said, his Dutch accent thick and quite charming. My family is in Holland. I should be there, too, but I don’t travel well these days.

Then I’m going to help you, Michelle said. After all the help you’ve given people, it’s the least I can do.

Michelle eventually took a full time job in Tillamook, but even with precious little free time she still visited Mr. Vandenhoff twice a week. His health deteriorated, to the point where leaving the house was difficult. Michelle arranged for his groceries to be delivered, but she would bring him his medication, newspapers, and books from the library. She often helped around the house—little jobs that proved too much for Mr. Vandenhoff, like changing a light bulb or taking out the garbage. He told her, often, that she was a blessing, and rewarded her with incredible stories. She would sit beside him, hold his hand, and listen as he shared his experiences, or showed her photographs, mementos, and hand-written letters from children whom he had taught to read and write, or whose lives he had saved. So many amazing tales. An entire world of wonders.

Mr. Vandenhoff never failed to surprise her.

"Ik bien niet dood."

It seemed he had saved the biggest surprise for last.

* * *

He pushed himself out of his armchair, still clasping the remote control. More pus dribbled from his mouth—from his nostrils, too. It ran down his bloated throat in grim yellow lines and stained the front of his shirt.

"Begraaf me… niet."

Oh dear Jesus, Michelle gasped, backing away. She stepped into the kitchen, bumped into one of the counters, and uttered a shrill cry. Something wobbled, fell to the ground, and shattered: an empty vase—void of flowers, of life, just like Mr. Vandenhoff’s body.

Not true, Michelle thought. He’s alive… must be alive.

But every modicum of good sense in her brain screamed otherwise. The smell—oh sweet mother of God, the smell—and the putrefaction, the pockets of bluish skin where the blood had settled and pooled, the bloating and blistering, the decay streaming from his nose and mouth, and of course, the flies. So many flies, breeding and hatching on his defenseless body. One of them had crawled across his eyeball—across his eyeball!

Not alive. No way.

He looked at her. A peculiar expression tweaked his mouth. It may have been a smile, but his lips were so dark and swollen it was impossible to tell.

"Niet dood." he mumbled, and started to walk toward her. She could tell that he was trying to walk properly, but there were serious communication maladies between his brain and motor neurons, and everything was off-track. He’d shuffle forward, and then sideways, and then his arms would move but his legs would not.

This isn’t happening, Michelle thought.

"Michelle… Mr. Vandenhoff groaned, discharge bubbling over his lips. Begraaf me niet." He looked appealingly at her, held out his hand (still holding the remote control; the TV flipped through channels as his thumb twitched along the buttons), and managed another forward step.

Michelle screamed. It came suddenly: a burning rush of fear, stupefaction, and emotion. Her throat ran raw as her lungs trembled and emptied, and she was left breathless, the room whirling, her heart booming in her temples like a thousand tribes.

The high-pitched sound startled Mr. Vandenhoff. His eyes widened. He jigged and shuddered for a moment, like a machine with thick belts and cogs grinding to a halt, and then fell forward. He hit the living room floor hard. Michelle heard something inside him split and leak.

She looked at him for a long time.

Nothing. Not a twitch. Not a flicker.

She continued to look at him, breathing in stale gasps, her heart fully revved.

Nothing.

Jesus Christ.

Michelle dashed from the house, taking the quickest route, through the sliding doors and into the back garden. She dropped to her knees and cried.

* * *

She wasn’t going back in the house. No way. Not in a million years. Her cell phone was in her car, and she would call Mr. Vandenhoff’s doctor from there. Easy enough getting the number; there were only two doctors in Deer’s Brook. They worked at the same practice and were known by everyone in town. She left the garden through the back gate, got into her car (locked the doors, too), and called her mother.

Mom, could you get me Dr. Nestor’s number?

Is everything okay, sweetheart?

She looked at her reflection in the rearview mirror. Her skin was cloud-pale, and her eyes swollen with tears. She looked terrible.

I’m fine, she lied. Mr. Vandenhoff is… She paused. Dead? She didn’t mean to raise the intonation, but that was how the final word slipped from her mouth. She repeated it, more firmly this time: Mr. Vandenhoff is dead.

I think.

Oh… oh, sweetheart. Her mother seemed genuinely upset for her. Did you find him?

Yes, Michelle said. She remembered the liquid decay pouring out of his nose and mouth as he stood up, and the fat black fly crawling across his eyeball. It was… horrible. I had to get out of the house. I’m calling from my car, which is why I need Dr. Nestor’s number.

Yes, of course. She could tell that her mother was flapping and flustering at the other end of the line, probably going through drawers, looking for the address book. Michelle closed her eyes; she should have called directory assistance, but she wanted to hear a familiar voice. A comforting voice.

Hurry, Mom… I just want to get this over and done with.

I know, hun.

Mr. Vandenhoff lurched across her mind. She opened her eyes and he disappeared.

Do you want me to come out there? her mother asked.

She managed a weak smile. The thought of a Mom-Hug made her eyes sparkle with fresh tears. No, it’s fine. I’ll make the call and be home soon. Just save a hug for me.

Her mother found Dr. Nestor’s number. Michelle wrote it on the back of an envelope, and then punched it into her cell phone. She gave the secretary the details, and then waited. She turned on the radio, normally tuned to KIX96 (Tillamook’s Hot New Country), but she flipped to a heavy rock station so that the music would bombard all her thoughts. It worked. The speakers rumbled and she thought of nothing. The sun slipped to the west with familiar grace, casting shades of wild pink and orange into the sky.

Dr. Nestor arrived some forty minutes after she had made the call. He was a small man with a round face and reassuring eyes, and she experienced a fleeting urge to share with him how Mr. Vandenhoff had moved—not just moved, but got up, walked and talked. She didn’t, though. She couldn’t; Dr. Nestor would take one look at Mr. Vandenhoff’s corpse and know that he had been dead for some time. Complicating the issue with an unlikely account of posthumous animation could lead to heavy medication, or perhaps an extended visit to Oregon State Hospital in Salem, which didn’t sound too bad… until you consider that it used to be called the Oregon State Insane Asylum.

No thank you.

She waited outside while he went into the house and did his thing, thinking that it wouldn’t take long. That Mr. Vandenhoff was dead she had no doubt, but she needed to hear Dr. Nestor say it. Without this confirmation, Michelle didn’t think she would ever sleep again.

But he was dead before, she thought. As dead as dandruff, yet he still stood up and did the funky chicken.

"Maybe he wasn’t quite dead, she said, but her words were as fragile as parchment. Either that, or his brain discharged a bolt of electric energy—just enough to make him jump to his feet."

Not possible.

Then I’m losing my mind.

More likely.

The front door opened. Dr. Nestor stepped onto the porch. He scratched his head thoughtfully, and walked toward her. She was somewhat troubled by the frown on his face.

He’s dead, right? she said.

He nodded. Oh, yes. I’d say he’s been dead for about three days.

Poor, Mr. Vandenhoff, she said, and while she felt sad for him (he was such a sweet old man, after all), she had more troubling emotions to deal with. Again she felt impelled to tell Dr. Nestor what she had seen, but was dissuaded by the thought of that big white hospital in Salem. It was where they had filmed One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest. Michelle had seen that movie. She liked it, but wasn’t thrilled at the idea of being a cast member.

Dr. Nestor scratched his head again, still frowning. You told my secretary that you found him, is that right?

Yes, Michelle replied. About an hour ago.

And no one else has been here?

Not that I’m aware of.

Okay. Thank you, Michelle. You can go home now.

She nodded, feeling scared and confused. Maybe she would visit her own doctor tomorrow and get a dose of something—anything—strong. She turned and started to walk toward her car.

Just one more thing, Dr. Nestor said, Columbo-style.

She looked at him. He was slightly hunched, one hand on his forehead. He even looked like Columbo.

Why did you move the body? he asked.

Michelle swallowed hard and said truthfully, I didn’t.

Well, someone did. Dr. Nestor smiled. His eyes had lost that reassuring quality. The livor mortis—the settling of blood in the skin—would suggest Mr. Vandenhoff died in a sitting-down position.

I don’t know, Michelle said, and tears rolled from her eyes. She wanted to tell him, but couldn’t—just couldn’t. He was… face down on the living room floor when I found him.

The living room? Dr. Nestor said. That’s peculiar.

Why?

He smiled again. Because he’s in the hallway now.

* * *

There had been many stories over the four years that she had known him—impassioned efforts of relief and succor, of tragedy and hope. Too many to remember, although, in homage, Michelle brought to mind as many as she could in the weeks following his passing, lighting anew the myriad