Charles M. Shumaker had been a technical support advisor for the local community college. He had an immaculate record for attendance and professionalism and would have been liked, as well as respected, if not for his unassuming, quiet nature and general lack of enthusiasm. It wasn't that he did not like his work--on the contrary he rather enjoyed it--but his entire existence was defined by a desire not to intrude on anyone else’s life. However meager he may have been, Charles considered himself lucky; he was paid a modest wage for a job he was good at, he had a wide range of hobbies that kept him busy, and his friends made for good company.
When it came time for him to die, Charles M. Shumaker knew it was beyond his control. Life was a rather complex thing and it seemed to him that the rest of the world spent what little time they had fruitlessly battling against it. As the end approached, the people around him kept to their characters and Charles felt that it was his place to do so too. He would leave life how he spent it, without a fuss. So, with good beer and good music, Charles M. Shumaker sat outside and died without so much as a whimper.
THE HOST FROM THE SOUTH
An Insufferable Yes Man
by J. Ian Manczur
Father Thomas had always hated the man. To see Charles now, an abomination with more hunger and passion in death than life, pleased Thomas more than words could do justice. It occurred to him that an opportunity had presented itself, but the exact nature eluded him. Turning from the window, he spied the remnants of his dinner, two cans of clam chowder that he had eaten cold, right from the container. The first one missed, simply clattering on the sidewalk below. The second one, however, beaned Charles squarely on the forehead. This small action may not have accomplished anything, but it did feel wonderful and, really, it was the small victories that kept him going.
The now-agitated creatures below started making a fuss, so Thomas moved away from the window. With dinner finished and having already decided to improvise tonight’s sermon on the unfortunate victims of Bob Hurley’s stupidity, Thomas found himself with little to do, which was a rather unusual situation.
He debated sitting down to read, but decided against it. Darkness was settling in and Thomas found reading by candlelight too dim for his tastes. Besides, whoever had lived in the apartment he currently occupied had a masochistic taste in furniture. And so, for the first time, Thomas wished that he had someone to talk to.
In his previous life, Thomas had been a solitary man. He had lived alone, dined alone, and spent his best days alone. His job generally involved talking at people, not with them, and the times he had to actually interact with others, they usually came forward with questions or were in search of guidance.
Thomas often questioned why he had chosen to lead these people and tonight was no different. He always came to the same conclusion, that there was no one else that could do it. Oh, he had met others who might have done the job, but they were either dead or had proven him wrong.
With the tragic events that happened today, Thomas knew more than ever that his people were going to need him and, quite honestly, he could barely shoulder any more of the burden. All he wanted was peace and quiet, at least for a night. That was why he suggested a feast, a meal that all could prepare together and enjoy together. It would be a moral booster and bonding experience between the couple dozen survivors left. That is, unless Bob Hurley fucked that up, too.
Father Thomas rubbed his temples. A headache was setting in and he was all out of painkillers. He wondered if the previous occupant had owned a cat, which would have explained it. Then again, it was probably a good part Hurley, who didn’t understand a god damn thing about other people. He heard a cough made to deliberately draw his attention. He then understood his headache, it was David Shiner, the source of all his woes.
“What do you want Other Dave?” David winced at being called Other Dave, before returning to the shit eating grin he always wore. Except for the most instinctual responses, he refused to show discomfort even in the most trying of circumstances. Father Thomas knew the nickname bothered him, though, and would use it at every opportunity.
“LoL.” With every word he spoke, Thomas hated him more and more. “You know I hate that name.”
“What would you like to be called?”
“How about David, or maybe Dave?”
“That would be unfair to the better Dave, who was here before you.”
“Um, well sir, he’s dead.”
“I suppose so. Tell you what, I’ll think about it.” Thomas sighed and leaned back to get what comfort he could. “I assume you aren’t here just to discuss your name, so let‘s get it over with.”
David Shiner had been an insufferable yes-man before the hell that was this world and remained so afterwards. The minute he met Thomas, he attached himself to him, taking on the self-appointed title of personal secretary. David saw a future as the second in line to power, but had only succeeded in becoming a nuisance, adding bureaucracy where none was needed. Thomas had hoped that with the addition of Hurley, David would find greener pastures with him. Yet, letting Hurley have power only added to his headaches and David seemed perfectly content with staying as Thomas’s personal idiot.
David continued talking and Thomas resigned himself to this annoyance. Even though it had only been a few weeks, there was a definitive before and after in Thomas’ mind. After the fall, there were a few days of pure bliss, a brief few days before David. Back then, Thomas encouraged an open dialogue. People were happy, for what it was worth. There had been no accidents; not only were deaths non-existent since the first night, but their numbers grew.
Now, death struck with renewed vigor and was present in everyone’s mind. Now, Bob Hurley called the shots. Now, David Shiner was always talking. Thomas had to interrupt.
“I know all this. You know I know all this. You were there at the meeting. Everything you are telling me I heard an hour ago!”
He kept smiling, Thomas contemplated murdering him right then and there. “That may be true, but this will be good for you. Think of it as a refresher on the day’s events.” He went on. Perhaps, just maybe, Thomas had died and this was his very own hell. It seemed fitting, he wanted someone to talk to and he got the worst form of his wish.
Thomas drifted between thoughts of murder, suicide, and combinations of the two. Finally, Other Dave finished his summation of the day. He paused, which sparked Thomas back to reality. “Andy Muir died from his wounds.” It was grim news, Andy had not only been one of their best gunners, but one of the funniest and most optimistic among them. “That brings the total to three deaths and we still have seven unaccounted for. Lt. Hurley is investigating who panicked and opened fire on the group, but so far no one saw anything.”
Thomas shook his head. “Of course.”
“On the bright side, we met three more survivors. Two are with Lt. Hurley and you will meet them at mass. A third, one Dr. Felicia Hernandez, was, you’ll like this, and I quote, “genuinely unimpressed” by the lieutenant.”
Things finally looked like they were turning around. “A doctor! Thank god.”
“A doctor of anthropology to be exact.” Of course she was. “Regardless, she is looking forward to meeting you later tonight.” Other Dave flipped through his papers and concluded, “Well, that’s all the news that’s fit to print. Anything you need me to do?”
“Yea, do you have a gun on you?” Other Dave set down his papers and passed Thomas his gun. He watched as Thomas walked over to the window and fired two shots at something below.
David Shiner had to inquire. “What was that about?”
“Oh, just relieving some stress on the past.”
“Did it work?”
Thomas thought for a second. “Yes, yes it did. But not as well as it will once you’re a one of them.”
“LoL.” Fucking Other Dave…
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