R.V. Roush
�I always find it odd that so many know me and my work, but so few new dead are willing to help me help themselves.�
�Really?� Mike said, looking at Amy Sitters� chiseled legs.
�Yes. You�re not being condescending to me, are you?�
�Of course he is, Mrs. Sitters,� Ariadne answered.
�Well, well why?� Amy replied, slightly befuddled.
�We�re happy here, Mrs. Sitters,� Ariadne said. �We�re happy with segregation. We don�t want to be assimilated into your separate but equal facilities.�
�Do you enjoy being here with us? If you weren�t wearing a gas mask, you�d be sickened by the smell. You must be concerned about the carcinogenic effects of the steaming formaldehyde. Doesn�t our nakedness offend you? Do you feel out of place here?� Mike asked in a staccato fashion.
�I do feel uncomfortable here, but I sacrifice.�
�Please, leave us in peace,� Mike said. �We have already sacrificed and we choose now to help only ourselves, to be selfish with our time.�
The Penchants watched Amy move to another group of new dead at the chess tables. She didn�t exactly huff away, but she did convey her displeasure in her hard walk. Mike Penchant got a hint about how Amy Sitter�s calves got so defined.
�I think we should get into our suits and drop in on our daughter.�
�The walk will be pleasant. The leaves are just budding on some of the bigger trees.�
�Isn�t it funny how we�ve become so much more aware of the simple existence of nature?� Ariadne asked as they each stepped into their suits. She zipped his up and joined the adhesive flap over the zipper. Then Mike closed his wife�s suit.
�I can�t think of a more relaxing way to release our hold on reality.�
As the Penchant�s were stepping through the double front doors, they were joined by Amy Sitters, who deeply inhaled the outside air.
�I didn�t get your names,� she said.
�We�re the Penchants,� Mike offered.
Amy scrunched up her brow and said, �That name sounds familiar.�
�Maybe you�ve bought some of my ceramic art,� Ariadne said. Her life had to amount to more in the minds of others than the curiosity of her death.
�That could be,� Amy said. �I wanted to apologize to you both for disturbing you. I appreciate your comments. Maybe I should redirect my focus. I realize that not all new dead think alike.�
�That�s a start,� Michael said, turning to look at the top step, preparing to take it.
When the bullet hit Michael Penchant, Ariadne saw the hole in his forehead, the splatter pattern of brain matter on the wall behind where he�d been standing, the mess suddenly appearing on Amy Sitter�s form-fitting blue and white plaid suit jacket.
�What kind of man would kill a harmless new dead?� she shouted hoarsely.
On the roof, Peter muttered under his breath.
�Don�t look at me with those dead eyes, bitch!�
He popped two bullets into Ariadne�s head and one into her chest as she fell back.
He moved the scope to the picklehead lover in that crazy plaid jacket. He saw her wide open mouth, imagined the terror coming from deep in her lungs. Her hands were fluttering around her face. Maybe she feared that she was next, Peter thought. She couldn�t possibly care about those sacks of chemicals he�d wasted. He saw her huddle into a corner, quivering.
Then he watched as Michael Penchant inched his way over the sidewalk to his fallen wife, his mouth moving.
�I missed saying goodbye before,� he whispered to her. �Not again. We had a good life, and I�ll miss you, Peaches.�
His wife moved her arm and tilted her head slowly in his direction, just enough to see his raised face in profile from the top of his head, which was nestled in her lap. She watched through slits in her downcast eyelids as her hand grasped the shoulder of his body suit, willing herself to turn him over and pull him to face level or to pull herself down to him.
A fifth bullet caught her husband under the chin, snapping his head back, spattering much of his remaining brain matter over his wife�s dying body.
�Goodbye,� his wife whispered, her husband�s upturned face a pallorous blank.
Losing the strength to close her eyes on her husband�s pain, she turned her face away. She saw a concrete urn on the step, the branches of a shabby fern wrangling over the pitted gray edges of the urn. She reached feebly, imagining a walk in the park.