*Ah, Clicky, the library looks lovely. Happy Halloween… /lights up and smokes… I’ve popped in to post up my latest Ronageddon story…*

Happy Halloween, Dear Reader!

I have some good news and some bad news for you. I’ll start with the bad news and get it out of the way: Underdog Anthology XXIV: Monster! is not yet published. Yes, it is an anthology of Halloween stories and ideally, we would have had it published long before today, but this time round, Leggy was completely swamped with story submissions, over forty of them, of which 39 were just too good not to include. He is a sucker for a Halloween story. At 400 pages, it is a tome and a half, but at least naming the anthology this time round was fairly easy.

As soon as it’s published, I will of course let you know, which brings me on to the good news: my effort, ‘Buffering’, can be read now for free. That’s the good news, the for free bit 😉

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Buffering

by Roo B. Doo

Death materialised out of thin air at the front of the coach, just as the vehicle had started to careen off the icy road. The screaming passengers, however, were not yet aware of the arrival of the diminutive grim reaper and nor was the driver, who convulsed violently in his seat, even as he gripped the steering wheel, trying to prevent the coach from crashing through the barrier that separated the road from a steep embankment.

Death remained immobile, silent and serene as the coach first tipped onto its side and then onto its roof, rolling over and over, down the embankment. The same could not be said for the rest of vehicle occupants. With a sickening crash of glass, metal and bones, the coach finally came to a shuddering stop, its large wheels slowly rotating against the cold, night air. All was silent for a moment, save for the ticking engine and the soft hiss and crackle of flame. Then the moans and screams began in earnest.

Coach party, Death thought dully, I hate coach parties. He pulled his Psi-Pad from the folds of his robe and flipped open the cover. The glowing screen showed a list of thirty two names, some of which were coloured red. Soon enough they all would be red.

Bing! the Psi-Pad chirruped.

The sudden explosion was loud, engulfing the broken wreck and its unhappy passengers in blooming fire and black, acrid smoke that reached up into the dark, starless sky.

***

“Oh man!” the zombie cried unhappily. “This is the worst Halloween ever!”

He stood in a group of other zombies, staring at the burning coach with wide eyes and open mouths.

“Excuse me,” Death called, trying to get the horde’s attention. He’d never seen so many zombies together in one place. “When I call out your name, I’d like you to step forward.”

“Who are you?” the lamenting zombie asked. His blackened eyes stood out against his pallid face, except for his lips, teeth and chin which were all stained blood red.

“I am Death,” Death replied gravely.

The lamenting zombie wasn’t convinced. “Are you sure?”

Death had experienced doubt before from those he’d reaped. On the whole, the newly departed expected to be met by a Grim Reaper that was somewhat taller. Actually, a lot taller. It was best to ignore any scepticism, Death had found, and to just plow on. “Yes, I am Death and I have come for you.”

“Really? ‘Cos you look more like a Jawa.”

Death didn’t answer; he didn’t know what the zombie was talking about.

“You know, a Jawa. From Star Wars,” the lamenting zombie explained. “Utinni!”

Death was at a loss. He’d been mistaken for many things, including a child, a hobbit, a dwarf and a munchkin. Being likened to a Jawa was a new one for him. “Star Wars?”

“Yeah,” another zombie interjected excitedly. “Episode four, A New Hope. 1977. The original and the best film, in my opinion.”

“Nah, nah, nah,” the lamenting zombie replied. “The Empire Strikes Back is far superior in every way.”

The excited zombie was having none of it. “Wrong, Graham. Granted, entombing Han in carbon was a stroke of genius, but-”

“Excuse me,” Death said firmly. His telescopic scythe shot out of the sleeve of his robe, the sparking electric blade finally grabbing all the zombies’ attention. “I AM DEATH.”

The change of tone worked; the horde fell silent. In the distance, sirens wailed mournfully as emergency vehicles raced to the scene of the crash.

“Now,” Death continued, “there are quite a lot of you to process, so I would be grateful if you would step forward smartly when I call your name.”

He retracted his scythe back up his sleeve of his robe and pulled out his Psi-Pad. He checked the list on the screen. “Alison Dawkins.”

A disheveled female zombie pushed through the horde and faced Death. “That’s me. Utinni!”

Behind her, the lamenting zombie called Graham sniggered.

***

The night sky now pulsing with blue lights as the fire engines, stationed on the road above, streamed foam down onto the burning coach, and Death had finally processed the horde. They weren’t really zombies, Death had gleaned, but merely a group of cos play enthusiasts returning home from a Halloween Zombie sponsored walk. Their spirit souls were still adorned in the clothes they wore upon their demise, including the make-up and fake gore that they had assiduously applied and now enhanced by their ethereal appearance.

“So, what happens next?” Graham asked. The horde behind him was starting to get restless.

“I will now escort you all to The Other Side,” Death replied.

“What’s on the other side?” the excited zombie, who in life had been Chris Waterman, a small business adviser for a high street retail bank, asked. “Is it heaven? Hell?”

“Tatooine,” Graham smirked.

Death ignored the jibe. “It is The Other Side. Please, follow me.”

“Well, what about him?” Alison asked, pointing toward a weeping figure sat alone on the embankment.

“Who?” Death turned to look in the direction that Alison was pointing.

“The coach driver,” Alison said. “Don’t tell me he got out alive and we all perished, because that would really not be fair.”

The zombie horde moaned in agreement.

Death checked his Psi-Pad. He had ticked off all of the 32 names on the list, and 32 freshly processed zombies stood in front of him. “Hmm. I will check.”

He glided toward the weeping coach driver, closely followed by the horde, who shambled along behind in true zombie fashion. Even in death, they remained in character.

The coach driver looked up at his former passengers surrounding him, his face contorted with grief. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. It wasn’t my fault,” he wailed.

“Don’t worry,” Alison stated in an effort to comfort the man. “We all know. It was an accident.”

Death agreed. “Indeed it was.”

He flipped open his Psi-Pad then turned and glared at the surrounding horde, who were craning to see what was written on the screen. “Could you step back, please? I wish to speak confidentially with the driver.”

The moaning horde shuffled back a step.

“What is your name?” Death asked the distraught man.

“Phil,” the driver croaked. “Philip Bland.”

Death tapped the screen of his Psi-Pad. “Do you have a middle name or names?”

The horde inched closer behind Death.

“No,” Phil said, wiping his sleeve across his eyes.

“And your date of birth?” Death asked. He quickly spun round and glared at the horde, who shuffled backward somewhat abashed. “Thank you.”

“25^th December 1968,” Phil with a sniff. “Mum always said I was her Christmas gift from Santa.”

As one, the female contingent of the horde cocked their heads to one side and sighed. “Ah.”

“It’s not great having your birthday on Christmas Day though,” Phil confessed. “Everyone else gets two days a year for presents. I only had one.”

“Aww,” the male portion of the horde responded, shaking their heads. “Mate, that stinks,” Graham said.

Death continued tapping the Psi-Pad screen. He tapped it some more, hunching over it to prevent the prying zombie eyes that were now right over his shoulder. The horde waited in hushed expectancy of what Death would say next.

“Philip Bland,” Death proclaimed, flipping the cover to his Psi-Pad closed. “Unfortunately, I cannot take you to The Other Side at this present moment.”

“Why not?” Graham asked indignantly.

“Yeah,” the horde agreed. “Why not?”

“Did I do something wrong?” Phil asked plaintively.

The horde moaned louder.

“No, no, not at all.” Death tried to calm the situation. “Well, maybe but that’s not what’s important. Philip Bland, can I ask you if you were a recipient of the Rona vaccine and a participant in the subsequent booster shot programme?”

“What?” There was general confusion amongst the horde. “What’s that got to do with anything?” Chris demanded.

“Of course I did,” Phil answered Death. “Everyone did.”

“I didn’t,” Graham stated loudly.

“You lied!” Chris was most aggrieved. “Graham, you knew it was mandatory in order to participate in the Halloween Zombie Walk in 2021.”

“And 2022,” Alison moaned. The rest of the horde agreed.

Graham shrugged his shoulders. “Pfft. Sorry, but there’s no way I was letting the bloody useless NHS pump an untested drug into me.”

The horde stared back at him.

“What?” Graham sneered defensively. “All that you lot were doing was fluffing some mega pharmaceutical company’s executive’s massive bonus. Fuck that.”

“Wait, wait.” Phil reached out a hand to Death. “What does that mean?”

“It means,” Death said gravely, “that you, Philip Bland, was murdered. You must remain here until you either avenge your death or until we can reschedule you for a later collection. I’m afraid it might be some time. There’s rather a large backlog.”

“What are you saying?” Alison demanded. The mood of the horde was becoming more aggressive.

“What I am saying,” Death said, pulling himself up to his full height of three foot three and shooting his scythe out from the sleeve of his robe, “is that he’s not on the list.”

“You’re just going to leave him here?” Alison was aghast.

“I must,” Death replied firmly, turning his back on Phil. He addressed the zombie horde. “Now, would the rest of you will please follow me.”

“Now wait a moment.” Chris stepped out of the horde. “You’re saying that the Rona vaccine killed Phil, here.” He gestured toward the driver. “Murdered him, but not us. But we all took the jab.”

“Again, I didn’t” Graham said, holding up his hands.

Chris shot him a dirty look. “If we’re all vaccinated the same as Phil, then why aren’t we considered as murdered?”

“Because you died as a result of an accident,” Death explained. “The late hour, the icy conditions, your driver suffering a catastrophic seizure at the wheel all contributed to your death being categorized as an accident. Tragic, but an accident nonetheless.”

The horde quietened into somber silence.

“Well, I’m not going.” Graham puffed his chest out. “I’ll stay here with Phil.”

“You will come with me,” Death asserted.

Graham moved out of the horde and sat on the grass next the driver. “I don’t think so. I’m not going anywhere with a Jawa peddling a bad motivator. I’m staying right here.”

“Thanks mate.” Phil turned to his new friend, his bottom lip wobbling. “Appreciated.”

“No problem, Phil,” Graham said, placing his arm about his shoulders. “I could do with some avenging.”

“You’ll be a ghost,” Death declared.

“Wrong, Jawa!” Chris blurted out. He too broke from the horde and sat next to Phil. “We’ll be zombie ghosts!”

“Yeah,” Alison shouted and the rest of the horde agreed. “Zombie ghost avengers!”

They shambled past Death and surrounded Phil, Graham and Chris.

“Will none of you come with me to The Other Side?” Death cried. He was confounded; he’d never experienced a mass declination before.

“No!,” the horde replied as one. “Utinni!”

“Very well.” Death stowed his Psi-Pad inside the folds of his robe and turned away from the horde. “Coach parties,” he said with disgust, and disappeared back into thin air.

*******

We hope you enjoyed the story, Dear Reader. I’ll be back soon enough once the latest anthology has been published, but in the meantime, have a Song…