Dead Awake: Devil Six Feet Under

By Hades

Book 2 in the Dead Series, Compared to the #1 New York Times Bestsellers "A masterpiece of narrative fiction” “An enthralling story of the dead.”
With nothing in common, love sets the trap and they have everything to lose . . .
Gripping and powerful Dead Awake 2 thrashes drama and the emotional power of true love as it is thrust down to dark realms of damnation - where the delicate details of intimate love are scattered like ashes into the gulf of Purgatory and Hell. Because of his choices, despite they are meant to be, they will never last.
Stunning sense of physical detail and elegant metaphors” (New York Reader) interweaving two lives from opposite ends of the globe, illuminating the way against tradition. A deeply magnificent novel from an author “whose sentences never fail to make you catch your breath” (Los Angeles Reviewer).
In the style of A Doerr, a masterpiece.
For readers of Atul Gawande, Andrew Solomon, and Anne Lamott, this inspiring, exquisitely observed memoir of a dying man as he hopes for beauty in the face of insurmountable odds and attempts to answer the question What makes a life worth living? True love. But what makes life worth dying? Part of the Dead Walking series

• Language: English
• Publisher: Madhouse Books
• Release date: Jul 21, 2016
• ISBN: 9781370356812

Book preview

©2016 by S.N.

All Rights Reserved

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Published by Madhouse Press

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To my dear Bunny,

Whose perfection

forever I reverence

I hope you enjoy reading this book as much as I enjoyed writing it. Please take a minute to leave a positive review on Amazon.com

Part 1

The Transient

As the moments darkened and changed to night, no change occurred, no rescue appeared. Instead, I walked (the same as in the morning), just an empty person with neither a job nor hope for recovery. Like this I walked as a zombie, as the hours fell quickly into the night. Early or late, it mattered not, for the hours passed by as flies: buzzing but not catching my attention.

Could I be losing my mind, I thought, or at least some grip on reality? Was I being dragged into some altered state of consciousness: not caring as I used to, not feeling ill, nor pain for the present and not even caring about changing any of it. Was there some ounce of rationality left inside? At least the possibility of sane thought still existed, since I had self-analyzed the possibility of madness. No crazy person would do that. It proved, if only in theory, that one is not truly crazy if one suspects it. Of course, the opposite was equally a possibility. Did not the mad possess some wit of rational? Is there no chance that madness comes after the thought; contemplated right before the moment of lunacy, when sanity begins to escape? Right unto that last moment when indeed insanity takes over... And I could have been suffering from it, that very moment. The probability of it deserved some serious consideration, so I bent my mind upon it for some time before deciding that the first theory was more than likely to be correct and that I was not insane. This resolution calmed me (at least from that concern) and left me feeling satisfied as to my state of mind.

It was not a star-filled night. The clouds covered most of the sky, so I could not admire the twinkling dance this time. I wondered what effect the stars would have made on me that night. On the night I had gotten drunk, they had made me feel as though I were a nothing in a universe of everything, but now it was so dark. It was as though there was no light and everything had fallen off the face of the planet. The ocean, the birds, and the trees – they had all gone to sleep for me. I was left in a world where everyone and everything had gone away. For a moment I believed it and panicked from the loneliness. There was nothing left, as though the universe had taken everything from me. But then there was movement again and all the other things came back. The sea began to roar, the sky was there, still covered in gray clouds; except there were no people. Life was still gone! I was so lonely. They had all gone. Everywhere, the houses were empty, but it was dark and the island went to sleep early. Of course there was no one, but even so, it made the all alone seep in. Again I thought I was going mad, but it left when I saw someone.

At last, a person! Ahead, at some paces, a man staggered to me. He didn’t see me, but I saw him. It was a good sight, for I was tired from the loneliness and far from the central part of town where I might have found someone and where the lights from the pubs still shined. What a lucky sight, I thought. He must have come from a bar... As I got closer, the scent of a familiar drunkard hit, like the heavy cologne from a young teen. The drunk approached me and commenced the outpouring of his grief. Since I didn’t leave, he gained confidence and poured out his soul. He began by saying how bad the world was to him and continued onward in a series of cutoff-stories that made no sense (but to him they were all well formulated). He rambled on, as a drunk does, and I soon became his mentor, listening carefully to his despondency.

It was well with me. It took me from myself. I began to feel for this drowning man. His corruption was a thing of pity and yet the things he said made sense. The world had hurt him and had dejected his ideas. Who else would listen to the man? I had to. The things he said were positive, although the world had shunned him.

If he had been given a chance, things would be better. He was no worse than the professor, as he put it, although I disagreed when he said they both deserved to lie in the same gutter. And yet the blame was in the right place. The world, or this island, had made him the way he was. Perhaps it was partially his own fault and he could have done something about it, but how could he fight when no one wanted him anymore. Everywhere, he was shunned, so who could he turn to? I was listening, but I didn’t belong to this place, and yet the ideas he spoke were universal.

All over the world, everyone did the same to the destitute. And where was the help they all promised? It was nowhere. I had to do something about it. I had to help this man. Maybe someone would listen and he could be helped, otherwise how could we help ourselves? If no one did anything, he would remain a burden on society; he would be left an outcast. If they all pushed while he groped for help, he would always remain as a canker to the throat of our species. There he would eat at our society and leave us as a people that never evolve beyond its own problems. And he would be the one to suffer and deal with the pain; left helpless and left alone as before.

We had to do something; otherwise we would never advance into a better race. I had to tell someone to help this man. There had to be someone who would listen. I took him and made him come with me, assuring him that things would get better and that he would be fine.

"We are going to get you some help," I said and kept him comforted. His groveling words continued but they bounced from my skin. I was focused on a bigger issue that he could not see now.

"Yeah, yeah, that’s right." I answered, to whatever he said without paying attention, as he kept up the complaining babble. But all in good faith, to keep him occupied, so that I could take him somewhere where they would give him help. I wondered if in such a place, as this island, one could find Alcoholics Anonymous. Probably not. Someone would have to take care of him instead. It was the island’s duty. It was the burden of their social order and the responsibility had to be taken by someone.

I saw a lady as we approached the market that could definitely take the role of savior for this pour pathetic soul. She was a short, rounded, full-figured woman of about forty, standing four and a half feet tall. Her stature was standard on the isle for most middle-aged women. There was a rugged, but still motherly, look to her and that’s why I chose her. She was not like the sweet mom one imagines in a Betty Crocker commercial, but the more ruff and strict bathe you quickly in a bucket of cold water after dinner, kind of mother. My thoughts were ready to be poured out and I focused on what I’d say to her. I brought the man with me and approached her boldly. She was disturbed by the intrusion and backed off from us annoyed. The smell of the alcohol must have hit hard and put her on the offensive instantly. (Nobody likes a drunk to come near, especially when it’s dark and one’s all alone.)

"Nobody loves me," was the first thing she heard. She answered with a gesture of disgust and was about to back away, when I interrupted.

"Oiga dama, this man needs of our help. Can you offer some assistance to him?"

She looked at me as though I were a quack and then stood for some seconds to look us over. We must have both appeared to her as drunkards, but I made it very clear to her that I was perfectly sober. The only one that needed any help was the man next to me, and that was why I had stopped her.

"There has to be something done to help this man. I said, I’m sure there are no public social service places here, so we must get together and help this man."

"Why should I help him?" she answered, looking at me with another look as though