space thronged with audience. Somebody up there started clapping again, alone for a few moments before the wave of applause began afresh. But now few of the company took pride in it.
Even from the stage, even with exhausted and light-dazzled eyes, it was obvious that no man, woman or child in that adoring crowd was alive. They waved fine silk handkerchiefs at the players in rotted fists, some of them beat a tattoo on the seats in front of them, most just clapped, bone on bone.
Calloway smiled, bowed deeply, and received their admiration with gratitude. In all his fifteen years of work in the theatre he had never found an audience so appreciative.
Bathing in the love of their admirers, Constantia and Richard Lichfield joined hands and walked down-stage to take another bow, while the living actors retreated in horror.
They began to yell and pray, they let out howls, they ran about like discovered adulterers in a farce. But, like the farce, there was no way out of the situation. There were bright flames tickling the roof-joists, and billows of canvas cascaded down to right and left as the flies caught fire. In front, the dead: behind, death. Smoke was beginning to thicken the air, it was impossible to see where one was going. Somebody was wearing a toga of burning canvas, and reciting screams. Someone else was wielding a fire extinguisher against the inferno. All useless: all tired business, badly managed. As the roof began to give, lethal falls of timber and girder silenced most.
In the Gods, the audience had more or less departed. They were ambling back to their graves long before the fire department appeared, their cerements and their faces lit by the glow of the fire as they glanced over their shoulders to watch the Elysium perish. It had been a fine show, and they were happy to go home, content for another while to gossip in the dark.
The fire burned through the night, despite the never less than gallant efforts of the fire department to put it out. By four in the morning the fight was given up as lost, and the conflagration allowed its head. It had done with the Elysium by dawn.
In the ruins the remains of several persons were discovered, most of the bodies in states that defied easy identification. Dental records were consulted, and one corpse was found to be that of Giles Hammersmith (Administrator), another that of Ryan Xavier (Stage Manager) and, most shockingly, a third that of Diane Duvall. 'Star of
There were no survivors. Several bodies were simply never found.
They stood at the side of the motorway, and watched the cars careering through the night. Lichfield was there of course, and Constantia, radiant as ever.
Calloway had chosen to go with them, so had Eddie, and Tallulah. Three or four others had also joined the troupe.
It was the first night of their freedom, and here they were on the open road, traveling players. The smoke alone had killed Eddie, but there were a few more serious injuries amongst their number, sustained in the fire. Burned bodies, broken limbs. But the audience they would play for in the future would forgive them their petty mutilations.
'There are lives lived for love,' said Lichfield to his new company, 'and lives lived for art. We happy band have chosen the latter persuasion.'
'There was a ripple of applause amongst the actors.
'To you, who have never died, may I say: welcome to the world!'
Laughter: further applause.
The lights of the cars racing north along the motorway threw the company into silhouette. They looked, to all intents and purposes, like living men and women. But then wasn't that the trick of their craft? To imitate life so well the illusion was indistinguishable from the real thing? And their new public, awaiting them in mortuaries, churchyards and chapels of rest, would appreciate the skill more than most. Who better to applaud the sham of passion and pain they would perform than the dead, who had experienced such feelings, and thrown them off at last?
The dead. They needed entertainment no less than the living; and they were a sorely neglected market.
Not that this company would perform for money, they would play for the love of their art, Lichfield had made that clear from the outset. No more service would be done to Apollo.
'Now,' he said, 'which road shall we take, north or south?'
'North,' said Eddie. 'My mother's buried in Glasgow, she died before I ever played professionally. I'd like her to see me.'
'North it is, then,' said Lichfield. 'Shall we go and find ourselves some transport?'
He led the way towards the motorway restaurant, its neon flickering fitfully, keeping the night at light's length. The colors were theatrically bright: scarlet, lime, cobalt, and a wash of white that splashed out of the windows on to the car park where they stood. The automatic doors hissed as a traveler emerged, bearing gifts of hamburgers and cake to the child in the back of his car.
'Surely some friendly driver will find a niche for us,' said Lichfield.
'All of us?' said Calloway.
'A truck will do; beggars can't be too demanding,' said Lichfield. 'And we are beggars now: subject to the whim of our patrons.'
'We can always steal a car,' said Tallulah.
'No need for theft, except in extremity,' Lichfield said. 'Constantia and I will go ahead and find a chauffeur.'
He took his wife's hand.
'Nobody refuses beauty,' he said.
'What do we do if anyone asks us what we're doing here?' asked Eddie nervously. He wasn't used to this role; he needed reassurance.
Lichfield turned towards the company, his voice booming in the night:
'What do you do?' he said, 'Play life, of course! And smile!'
Stockholm Syndrome
by David TallermanDavid Tallerman's stories have appeared in a variety of publications, such as
'Stockholm Syndrome' follows an unnamed protagonist who has survived the beginning of the zombie apocalypse, but at the cost of his family, his home, his whole way of life. 'While he's not a bad guy, he's not really a good guy either,' Tallerman says. 'Stuck on his own with no one to talk to and not much to do, he has to confront that for maybe the first time in his life. He sees some uncomfortable similarities between himself and the walking corpses out in the streets, which has to be a harsh awakening for anybody.'
Tallerman argues that facing a single zombie is usually just funny, but if you get a hundred of them, or a thousand, then suddenly they don't seem so funny anymore. On the other hand: 'It's easy to forget the threat of a lone zombie,' he says. 'At least until he's chomping on your guts.'
One of them, I called him Billy—he was more, what'd you call it? More
