DEATH CLEARINGHOUSE The Novelette: DEATH CLEARINGHOUSE, #0

By EL Whitehorse

DEATH CLEARINGHOUSE, The Novelette, won the coveted Semifinalist Award in the largest Science Fiction Contest in the world—Writers of the Future. Semifinalist indicates top 16 places out of thousands of quarterly entries.

 

MEET THE DEATH COUNSELOR

Pretend for a moment that you just died. What happens now?!

You'll go to the light of course—you've heard that before. And then you'll wake up at a very important interview. The Death Counselor will ask you three questions and your answers determine where you go next. Are you leaving this to chance? Or would you prefer to have a cheat-sheet?

Come along on a wild ride with a rebel Apache as he turns the after-life upside-down and becomes the Controllers' worst nightmare. All while having his memory wiped!

 

READER TESTIMONIALS  

• An excellent, surreal tone. It definitely made me want to keep reading.  –JC
• Great tension both in danger and sexual.  –SH
• The story has a dream-like quality. I also liked the way you characterized the Apache protagonist as well as the Navajo medicine man. It rang true from my experience as a reporter for Tucson's Arizona Daily Star.  –DR

• Language: English
• Publisher: EL Whitehorse
• Release date: Jun 28, 2019
• ISBN: 9781393318194

Book preview

1 Trapped

I blink the gritty sand from my eyes.

Pressure on my chest. Decayed-meat stench. I swipe my black hair aside and disturb a buzzard pecking my ribs. Peeling my tongue from my teeth, I shout and spray him with pebbles. In slow-motion, the giant bird spreads his wings and lifts off squawking.

Sprawled between desert boulders, I rise and stretch my lanky frame. Beneath the bloody t-shirt are unknown knife-cuts. A storm of panic whirls in my chest. Can’t breathe. Leaning against a warm rock grounds me. What did you get yourself into now, Bobcat ole boy?

Last thing I remember: Nothing!

Withered trees stab their lightning-burnt fingers at the heavens. Below in the valley women herd horses along a lazy river and an eagle screeches over pale mountains. Peyote chants ride the ribbons of cedar smoke issuing from tepees.

But overhead? The sky is chrome! A mixing-bowl turned upside-down. A freaking metal dome, horizon to horizon. My stomach lurches and I hunch over. I steal another peek. Chrome!

Dreaming? I rake blueberries from a nearby bush and yellow finches flit off griping. Berries squish purple, staining my brown skin. Their tartness stings my tongue. Verdict: they’re real.

I look up. Not real.

A flaming tumbleweed hisses downhill. I cover my head and duck. It bounces over me to collide with a woman below. She wails while her companion slaps cinders from her skirt. Mother of pearl!

Gotta move. I brush the dust from my jeans and head uphill towards rowdy voices, soon encountering a half-woven rug hanging from a tree branch.

A native man thrashes in the sand. I’m drowning! I move to help when his wife races out, drags him to their hut and proceeds to breathe into his mouth.

I lay my hand on the peeling tree-trunk for balance and dare to glance to the sky. By God, an artificial metal dome. I lean over to tie my tennis shoes, something normal to reduce the surrealism.

Woman, what is this place? In the Apache language.

Wind whistles through the scraggly trees. You poor boy, arrived so young. Did you marry?

A shiver worms up my spine. What year is it?

Stupid, too. It’s 2020. She rocks her husband. The year you died.

My mouth falls open. Dead? I probe my ribs, bleeding stopped. Where am I?

Happy-Hunting-Ground. Pulls her husband inside, slams the door.

This can’t be happening. Must be dreaming.

A lifeboat adrift, I float along. The air cools as I reach the peak where tentacles of smoke encircle me. The pungent odor of roasting meat sets my stomach growling. Native men on tree-stumps feast around a campfire but they ignore me, their handsome faces familiar but ghostly. Crows caw up a racket. Between bites, the men pitch stones and curse the birds. No luck for crows, nor for vultures hunched on the top branches.

I rub my forehead, trying to make sense of it all when a small leathery man pops into the space before me. Ozone assails my nostrils. How did you—? Off-balance I topple over, crying out as I slam onto bruised ribs. He cackles, extending a greasy hand. The other hand clutches a barbecued rat.

His horizontal gash of a mouth and beady black eyes... tease my mind like a whisper from the past. Sunbaked skin puts him at ninety years plus. Coal horse-hair rests scruffy on his shoulders, chopped by knife.

An elder by the fire tears into the hot meat. Best bison!

I turn to the short man beside me. It’s a rat!

Shh-they-don’t-know. Words beat like a pow-wow drum.

My stomach tightens. Wh-where am I? My mind swims and I reach out for support.

He shoves a cool bag of water into my hand. Happy-Hunting-Ground.

A chill ripples across my skin. Old-school Apache: the after-life. What’re you saying? I can’t be dead, look at me. I pat my firm body.

Stop whining. Husky, like a war leader.

Heat rises to my cheeks. If I’m dead, how come I’m not transparent like those guys by the fire? The men joke while devouring the never-ending feast.

Everybody solid in his own dimension.

The fire crackles. This ain’t my dimension. The men lick the rats and I shudder.

When you dream, are you solid?

Yeah, I think so. Again a feather-touch in my mind. Do I know this guy? I inspect him closely, his permanent scowl, fringed buckskin. I slap my forehead, helping the memory pop out. Do I know you, old man?

His eyes mist over. Together we moved like the wind.

I take a step backwards. You got the wrong guy, I’m a lone wolf. Smoke blows in my face, making me cough.

Long seasons I wait you. He moves forward, crowding me.

My breath quickens. What are you talking about?

One hundred years. He jabs his finger on my forehead. Wake up, Chief.

My stomach jolts like I’m crash-diving. The sand swirls up to mix with the gray scrub cedars like a