Thursday Stories: Deceased As Is

A New Story Most Thursdays

In This Edition of Thursday Stories: The ghosts in the machine fight back…

Happy August, Friends and Neighbors, and welcome to Thursday Stories. Looking back over my dusty herd of short stories, I realize that some of these rascals haven’t seen the light of day in quite a spell. Time to let them romp a bit! And so—drumroll please—I give you Thursday Stories. I’m not guaranteeing a new story every Thursday, but I will do my best until all the archived tales have been set free.

You can find all of my stories and more at the Marco Etheridge Fiction Website:

Marco Etheridge Fiction

This week’s edition of Thursday Stories features Deceased As Is. A brutal regime, the victims of their interrogations, and the ghosts in the machine fight back. The genre is psychological horror. Deceased As Is first appeared in Pulp Lit Mag, 2024.

Now, without further ado, I give you another edition of Thursday Stories. I hope you enjoy it.

Deceased As Is

by Marco Etheridge

Sara Grimes cannot move. Her body is immobilized, strapped tight to a steel table, ankles, wrists, waist, shoulders, even her skull.

Two men in black uniforms hover above, left and right in her vision. The shadow men disappear. The ceiling is grey and dirty. Then the men are back, leaning over her, holding something above her skull. A device like the devil’s halo, a crown fashioned from steel and wire, emitting a sick green light.

The men cradle the evil ring over her face. Sara’s eyes see what her brain cannot comprehend. Blue latex gloves, outstretched fingers, the halo descending, closer and closer, blotting out everything else.

Screams fill the room. Then strangled words. Pounding heartbeats pass before Sara recognizes her own voice.

“Please stop, please, don’t do this. You don’t have to do this. Please.”

Her words fill the room and die away. The men don’t stop, don’t hear, don’t want to hear.

The halo touches her head, pushes down tight, cold and hard. A sharp click. Sara is blind now, the room melting into a green glow. Metal bands tighten around her head. She fears her skull will spill open.

Voices float above the glow.

“Halo attachment?”

“Check. Ready for sequencing.”

Then the smell of coffee, stale sweat. An unseen presence beside her ear, too close, intimate. A hoarse whisper.

“Listen to me. Better if you don’t fight it. Less pain.”

Gone in the next heartbeat, replaced by bored monotones.

“Collection nodes energized.”

“Right. Powering up. Clear.”

A sharp ascending tone, electronic thrumming. Sara’s breath freezes in her throat. Panic courses through her. She hears a click, and a million angry wasps fill her skull. She falls into a pit filled with clawing beasts. Then a burst of white-hot agony, and nothing.

 *  *  *  

Director Coldson is not pleased, and he intends to share his displeasure. As head of the City Guard, the Director’s task is to protect and preserve. He is the gatekeeper of thought and deed, employing a firm hand to police New City. His motto and mission are clear: Preserve, Protect, and Prevent. Stopping misdeeds before they happen is Director Coldson’s trademark. Failure stings the Director, and he will not suffer the sting alone.

Valuable information is being lost. His technicians are failing to achieve complete success. The New Council expects answers and Coldson will be the man in the hot seat. Before the Director appears before the council, he’ll make damn sure he has the answers, and that harsh punishments will have already been meted out.

A hidden intercom pulses. A breathy voice intones his title. Coldson speaks into the air above his gleaming black desk.

“Yes, Miss Steele, what is it?”

“Jenkins to see you, Director.”

Coldson reaches for a touch sensor beneath the desktop, triggering access to his inner sanctum. He keeps his own gate as carefully as he guards the streets of New City.

A man dressed in a uniform of black coveralls enters the spartan office. Before he takes a second step into the room, a soundproof door locks behind him. The uniformed man walks across the office, a clipboard at his side. He halts in front of the huge desk.

“Jenkins.”

“Director.”

“Sit. Give me the bad news. You lost another subject.”

“Yessir, a woman.”

Jenkins consults his clipboard.

“Sara Grimes, thirty-two. Expired seven minutes into phase one, very similar to the other cases.”

“And the data set? Her memory readout?”

“It’s gone, Sir. No trace of her data in the system. None.”

Coldson says nothing, but his stare speaks volumes.

“I know it’s a setback, Sir, but we’re only losing about one in ten. That means the Halo Program is running at a ninety percent success rate. Before Halo, we were losing about eighty percent of the interrogation subjects without extracting any useful information. Halo represents a vast improvement over those numbers.”

Coldson leans forward and tents his fingers.

“Jenkins, let me be clear about this. I don’t give two shits about the subjects. You can kill all of them and good riddance. They’re a blot on New City, every one of them.”

A pause and a hard look at his subordinate.

What I want, and what the council demands, is the information in their skulls. Get their memories, that’s what matters. The problem is not a dead subject. No one will mourn Sara Grimes. But if the program kills this Grimes woman without gathering her valuable, no, essential information, then it becomes a very large problem indeed. And I will not dump problems in front of The New City Counsel without extremely valid explanations. So, by all means, explain.”

Jenkins clears his throat, checks his clipboard, and squares his shoulders.

“The best data that we have indicates that approximately one in ten of the prisoners expires during phase one. If the subject survives phase one, they almost universally survive the entire procedure. Their memory print is extracted and stored, ready for the analysts.”

The Director stops Jenkins with a raised hand.

“Yes, nine live, one dies. Got it. But what happens to the memory print from our unlucky number ten? Where does the data go? Their memories, names of accomplices, members of their dirty cells, the structure of their organization, that’s what we want.” 

“Sir, I believe the short answer is that the memory print stored in a subject’s brain dies when they die. We’ve labeled it DAI: Deceased As Is.”

The Director leans back, eyes on the ceiling. He lets the moment linger, allows Jenkins time to squirm.

When will these wonks understand? Success means succeeding, not eking out a percentage of success. Percentages do not keep a man in the director’s chair.

“Jenkins, one of these dangerous scumbags might hold the key to their pathetic insurgency, the lynchpin that undermines their house of cards. That’s the information I want. It’s your job to get it for me. Extract the memories before they die and I’m happy. The New City Council is happy. Everyone wins. Kill the subject without sucking their dirty heads dry, and I’m not happy. Not one tiny bit. Get the point?”

Jenkins nods. The Director waves his hand, then touches the sensor beneath his desk. Across the room, the black door hisses open. Jenkins scurries off without a word. Coldson chuckles to himself.

Run away, little rodent. Nothing like a dose of fear to put a spring in a man’s step.

 *  *  *  

Sara slams into awareness. A disorienting flash, a jarring shift from black nothingness. She cannot comprehend what she sees. The only sound is the voice of panic echoing in her head.

Where am I? What is this place? Where is everyone? Where’s the ground? I’m falling! I’m going to die!

Then another voice, grim and certain.

Stop it, Sara. The bastards already killed you. The dying already happened. This is something else.

Emptiness replaces panic. There is no residual fear, no metallic taste of adrenaline on her tongue. Sara feels nothing. No, this is less than nothing. A complete absence of sensation. No heartbeat. No gasping breath. No terror, only a void.

Sara feels herself tumbling through a space so enormous it has no end. She is engulfed in a silent snowstorm. Illuminated flakes as big as playing cards, and behind the snowflakes an inky blackness.

Hands float in front of her. Sara sees naked arms glowing with the same eerie illumination as the tattered snow. She looks down, sees a body, legs, feet, flesh made phosphorescent. Then the sudden realization.

Your body, naked in the darkness.

The black void rotates up, down, end over end. But no, it’s her ghostly body spinning head to heels and back again. She wills it to stop, spreads arms she cannot feel, arches her back. She cannot sense muscles constricting, but her body obeys. The rolling slows, stops.

Now she hovers in nothingness, yet there is movement all around her. What she took for snow seems to flow in invisible channels and streams. Tattered shreds of lighted chaff pulse and spin, gathering on unseen currents that disappear into the void.

There are hundreds of these snow rivers, thousands, vanishing to shining threads. Here and there the flows intersect, creating nebulae that spin and pulse. Then the rivers of light flow on, tracing bright paths across the emptiness.

The streams undulate like serpents of stars across an endless night. One glowing intersection draws near. Fascinated, Sara extends a ghostly arm, dips her fingers into the flow. Shreds of light pass through her hand and then everything vanishes.

She is sucked into a vortex of fear, blazing images, and deafening thunder. Split-second memories race past. The grey room, straps, can’t move, men, her screams, please stop, please. Skull-crushing pressure, voices, panic, the bolt of lightning, then blackness.

Sara opens her eyes. She floats in the void. There is no grey room, no men, no torture device. The stream of light has changed course, leaving her to float in the darkness. She raises her hand, expecting to see a charred stub, but her flesh is unharmed. She wills her hand to move, and it does, translucent in the emptiness. Her first lesson: Avoid the rivers of light.

How long does she float, alone and pondering? She cannot tell. Hours, maybe days. Time does not exist here.

She observes the currents, looking for a sense of order. That way, to her left, multiple streams braid into something larger. Then a decision without thought. Sara wills her body to move, and it does, following the current upstream. There is a source, and she will find it.

Her journey lasts hours or weeks. There is no way to know. The braided river runs on forever, and behind it the void, and she follows. Nothing changes until the moment when everything changes.

Far ahead, two objects glimmer. Hope, she feels hope. Drawing closer, the shapes take human form. A man and a woman, both naked. They float as if waiting for her. Sara drifts near, wills herself to stop, and then there are three.

Sara hears the woman’s voice in her head.

You found us.

Were you waiting for me?

No, we weren’t waiting. But we found each other, and we knew there would be another. I don’t know how we knew, but we did. And now you’re here.

And before this?

The man’s voice now.

Same as you. Captured by the goons, the grey room, the Halo strapped to your skull. Then this.

Sara nods her, though she cannot feel it.

That’s exactly what happened to me. Those bastards did something to my brain. Like a monster clawing inside my head. Then I was here. How did you know?

It was the same for us. I can’t explain it any more than that. We found each other and now you’ve found us. I don’t know if names mean anything here, but in the camps, I was called Jack. That’s where they grabbed me, Camp Seven outside New City.

And I’m Beth. I worked in a cell in another camp. Who are you?

Sara. I was in New City. They snatched me off the street. It’s hard to remember. I only have bits and pieces. Like, I remember they didn’t ask me any questions. They just took me to that room and…

Jack’s voice again, filling in the blanks.

The goons don’t need questions anymore. They have the Halo. Our cell leader had information about a new interrogation device, a machine that extracts memories from a human brain. I didn’t believe it then. I do now. Beth thinks we’re inside their network. I can’t explain it. I ran weapons, not computers.

Three forms float in silence. Then a thought comes from Sara’s head and the other two hear her.

Then we’re dead. Outside of here, I mean. Whatever here is.

The thought hovers until Beth’s voice answers.

I think that’s right. Something went wrong. Their new toy killed our bodies, but they didn’t kill our core being. We’re not dead in here. And I don’t think the goons know it. Sara, what did you do in New City?

Information, organizing. I was a recruiter.

Right, and Jack ran weapons. I was a hacker. I have an idea, maybe a way we can keep fighting these monsters.

The three new comrades huddle together, thoughts flying between them. Pulsing streams undulate around them. When there is nothing more to say, they set out. They follow the plexus upstream, searching for the nexus.

There is no need for food or water, no desire for sleep. They follow the currents. Far across the void, the light grows stronger. When they reach the end of their search, there is no doubt they’ve found what they are looking for.

Before them lies a great tangle of streams flowing from every direction of the void. Where the light streams intersect, spinning nebulae swirl and glow. The balls of light are of different colors and different shapes, but they seem alike in purpose. Hundreds of these nebulae are packed together in an irregular grid.

The newly dead rebels halt a short distance from the glowing grid. It is Sara who asks the obvious question.

Holy shit! Beth was right. But how do we attack it?

On the weapons teams, we were always short on gear and most of it was junk. Our motto was adapt, improvise, overcome. So that’s what we do now.

Without another word, Jack swims away from Sara and Beth, gathering speed toward the first nebula. He smashes through it. Currents of light waver and falter. There is a silent explosion of what looks like illuminated confetti. The shattered streams coil and retract like severed tentacles.

Jack tumbles past the aftermath. His return is slower than his attack. Beth and Sara reach for him, but none of them feel the contact.

I can’t believe that worked.

You gotta have faith, Beth. Hell, it was your idea.

Yeah, but I never said use yourself as a battering ram. Are you okay? What did it feel like?

Yeah, I’m okay now. It felt terrible. Those cloud things aren’t any bigger than we are. Hard to tell until you get close to them. I smashed into it because what other weapon do I have, right? Then I felt like I was watching someone else’s movie. I saw the goons and their goddam Halo machine, but it wasn’t me in the room. Then I was yelling and kicking and punching. Bang, the whole thing explodes, and here I am.

Sara points to the nearest nebula.

That one’s mine!

Then she’s off, willing her body to swim faster and faster. She smashes headlong into the cloud of light. Instead of an impact, it’s like stepping through the wall of a familiar room. She sees black-uniformed guards and some poor bastard strapped to an evil-looking table. She feels the fear, hears the prisoner’s cries.

Sara claws with her hands and kicks her legs, fighting everything she sees. The room explodes into fragments. A searing pain shoots through her skull. Then she is back in the void. Currents of light shrivel and die around her. Jack and Beth float forward and hover beside her.

Damn, Sara! You kicked ass.

Not as easy as you made it sound. It hurt like hell. Except it wasn’t my pain. I saw a guy strapped into the Halo, and I felt what he was feeling. It was so weird. But smashing that room to pieces, man, that was great.

Same for me, except it was a woman on the table. What do you think that means?

Sara and Jack turn to Beth. She raises two glowing palms to ward off their expectations.

Don’t look at me. I don’t know how any of this is possible. First we’re dead, then we’re not dead. We found this place because we followed the data streams. That was just a lucky guess. I think you experienced different images because each of these… things are the stored files, the memories the goons grabbed with their fucking Halo device.

So, you think we’re smashing up memories?

No, I think we’re destroying the goon’s data. I don’t know if they have copies or backups, but throwing a wrench in the works, even a temporary wrench, seems like a damn good idea to me.

Beth swings around and speeds toward the nearest nebula. Sara and Jack see her collide with the thing, see the pulse and the soundless explosion.

Then she is back beside them.

Right. Let’s get to work.

The three ghosts maraud across the grid, destroying nebulae one by one. Each cloud brings a new wave of pain, a new glimpse into someone else’s suffering. They find a rhythm to their work. Charge a pulsing cloud, burst through it, wait until the pain subsides, then charge again.

Lacking a sense of time, they do not stop. Yet as they fight deeper into the grid, some of the nebulae begin to change. There are denser intersections with eight or ten currents leading into and out of a cloud. One of these is in their path, pulsing red and purple.

The three warriors hover side by side. Jack points a ghostly finger.

What about that one, Beth?

I don’t know. None of this makes sense, but it looks more dangerous than the others.

Then I better get a good run at it.

Before Beth and Sara can react, Jack loops back out into the void behind them, then speeds past in full charge. He smashes into the cloud. The intersecting streams thrash and swirl. They see Jack’s outline inside the nebula, see his limbs writhing and struggling. Then the whole of it explodes into nothingness and the explosion carries Jack away. When the dismembered tentacles of light shrivel and fade, he is gone.

Now they are two.

Sara reaches for Beth’s hand. She cannot feel their intertwined fingers, but she can see. They hover in the void, hands clasped tight. Then she hears Beth’s voice.

Now what?

Now we do what we have to do, just like Jack. We keep going, tear up as much as we can. Dead is dead. I don’t want to be stuck here forever. How about you?

Right here with you, Grrl. C’mon, let’s fuck their shit up.

Hands unclasp and the two ghosts speed forward, crashing into clouds of light. They work their way across the grid. One after another, nebulae blink out of existence.

Suddenly, Sara sees a burst of light larger than the rest. Now there is only one ghost in the machine, a ghost named Sara. A long moment passes, unmeasurable in this timeless place. Then that single ghost moves forward, flying at the remaining nebulae, smashing, smashing, smashing.

 *  *  *  

Director Coldson squirms. The seven members of The New City Council glare down at him from behind a raised ebony dais. The dais forms a semicircle looming over the hot seat. The council members are not smiling. A cold voice fills the chamber and Coldson is its target.

“These reports are very disturbing, Director, very disturbing indeed. As I recall, you assured us that the Halo Program would be a huge step forward. Those were your very words. I believe I have the minutes right here. Ah, yes, here it is. A huge step forward in undermining the insurgency. Do I misremember, Coldson?”

The Director leans into the microphone.

“No, Councilman.”

“I see. It seems to me that instead of a huge step forward, what we’re looking at is a huge disaster. Valuable information lost; memory files erased from the system. No backups, no paper printouts. This council demands answers, Coldson. How could this happen?”

“First, let me say that everything is being investigated. Yes, the system has been damaged. However, not all the data has been lost. Some of the files were printed out for analysis.”

Another member of the council interrupts.

“How many files, Coldson? Give us numbers.”

The Director consults his notes.

“Approximately fifteen percent, Sir.”

“Meaning eighty-five percent have vanished, or do I misinterpret?”

“As it stands now, that is correct, Sir. But we are investigating the events, and we hope to recover more of the lost memory prints.”

“Before you continue, Director, I need not remind you that this is the worst breach of security in the history of the City Guards. In fact, I don’t believe I am overstating when I say this is the most serious breach since the founding of New City. Do you disagree?”

Director Coldson feels a rivulet of sweat work its way down his spine. He covers the mike and clears his throat.

“I don’t disagree, Councilman. We believe this was the work of saboteurs, including at least one senior member of the Guards. It appears that, despite our best precautions and screenings, this man acted as a rogue agent. A mole if you will. We are interrogating him at this moment.”

A stir runs the length of the council bench. The members whisper to each other behind their hands, leaning close. In his lonely seat, Coldson feels the trickle of sweat become a stream.

The head of the council calls for order.

“Director Coldson, I warn you that your reputation and your standing with this council are both very much in jeopardy. Tell me, are you using the Halo device on this rogue agent of yours? And if so, how will you secure any data you might gather?”

“No, Sir, the Halo Program is on hold. We are employing more, ah, traditional methods with this subject. We expect to learn everything that he knows. Once we have gathered that information, we will root out this cancer and destroy it. You have my word on that.”

“I think the council is demanding a great deal more than promises, Coldson. And the payment for those demands may be very high. Tell me, what is the name of this traitor?”

“Jenkins, Sir.”

“I see. I have a suggestion for you, Coldson. I suggest that instead of sitting here making up excuses, you hurry back to the basement of the City Guards. I strongly suggest that you take charge of interrogating this Jenkins fellow. Hands-on, if you know what I mean. Your hands. Failure in this matter would be most unwise. Does the council agree?”

Grim nods are the only answer.

“Very well. We stand adjourned.”

Director Coldson ejects himself from the hot seat and scuttles out of the chambers. Coldson does not return to the basements of the City Guards. He hopes Jenkins sings them a good tune before the end, but it doesn’t matter anymore. Jenkins is no longer his problem.

Coldson understands the leaders of New City better than they know themselves. Regardless of their words, he understands exactly what The Council will do to him. The clock is ticking. It’s time to run, fast and far. The soon-to-be former Director does not know who’s beaten him, or how, and he doesn’t have time to care. By nightfall, he will be far beyond the fences of New City, far beyond the camps, and still running.

You can find Pulp Lit Mag here:

https://issuu.com/pulplitmag/docs/pulp_issue_three_part_three

That’s it for this week’s edition of Thursday Stories. More stories are coming your way. How will you know when a new story breaks? Glad you asked, Friends. Read On! Drumroll and… Meanwhile, don’t miss any upcoming stories. You can stay tuned for all the latest by following the MEF blog:

https://bro.uxw.mybluehost.me/whats-new-in-marcos-world-the-blog

Marco Etheridge is a writer, an occasional playwright, and a part-time poet. He lives in Vienna, Austria. His work has been featured in over 180 reviews across Canada, Australia, New Zealand, Europe, the UK, the USA, and India. Marco’s story “Power Tools” was nominated for Best of the Web for 2023 and is the title of his latest collection of short fiction. When he isn’t crafting stories, Marco serves as a contributing editor for Hotch Potch Literature and Art and as a reader for Marrow Magazine. In his other life, Marco travels the world with his lovely wife Sabine.