Dead-Go
by Matt Tighe
The woman in front of me has the pale face and sunken eyes of the recently deceased. The real clincher, though, is the Dead-Go implant, shining like a flat black bug nestled in the stubble at the back of her head. She raises one hand and scratches at it, and then gives me a polite smile as her partner helps her further along the row of seats. She still has a ways to go to get all the way back, but she is back. Second chance city, baby.
Maybe it is bad taste to bring a dead person to something like this, but I’m not in a position to judge. At least they fill a couple more seats. Not many bother coming to a pre-funeral. They are confusing events, to put it mildly.
Herb’s widow stops next to me.
“Hello,” she says. Not a question, but a question all the same. You can’t not answer a widow at her husband’s own show. I stand up.
“Hello,” I say, and take her hand as briefly as I can. I hate my job.
“I work with Herb,” I say.
She smiles. She has been crying, but you can tell nowadays when someone isn’t quite convinced of their own loss. There is hope reflected both in her cracked smile and in her mostly intact mascara — a fragile belief that the flat black implant in the back of her husband’s head will fix what was once unfixable. While Dead-Go doesn’t work all the time, it is more reliable than any of the cheaper knock-offs. And Herb is a prime candidate, having been taken by a relatively minor heart issue that has been corrected since. No issues rebooting a system with a burnt-out motherboard, so to speak.
“Oh, lovely of you to come. And I hope Herb gets the chance to thank you, as well.”
Sure. Herb is really going to thank me.
“I’m so glad Dead-Go is part of the company’s employee package. You know, Herb and I laughed about it, when we saw it in the contract. So funny.”
“Yes,” I say. “But it may not take.”
“Oh, I know,” she says, and the almost dryness of her eyes creeps me out. She doesn’t know anything she should know.
She sweeps on to greet the dead woman and her partner in front of me, and I try to ignore her little laugh in response to something one of them says. She is expecting Herb to sit up shortly, and this little pre-funeral will become a welcome-back party. Man, I really hate my job.
At least we don’t have to sit through anything like a funeral or eulogy. That would be just too bizarre. There is an uncomfortable moment as everyone settles and then stares at the low, white-sheeted bed at the front of the initialization room. Herb’s widow stands up and glances at the Dead-Go technician in their almost clergy-like black suit. The technician nods and Herb’s widow pushes the button on the sleek metallic stand next to the bed. For a second nothing happens.
And then Herb sits up. No fan-fare, no flashing lights or electronic buzzing. His wife gasps a little, in either relief or surprise, and there is a stilted clapping from someone, but it dies almost before it has begun. Herb looks around, his eyes as bloodshot as they probably looked after a late night of checking accounts at work. He raises one hand dreamily and scratches at his Dead-Go implant.
I’m a chicken. I wait until most everyone is gone, and until Herb’s wife has drifted away to talk to the dead woman and her partner. Maybe she is organizing a double date, or something.
“Hi Herb,” I say, and then wait. He is fresh, so he is going to be a bit slow on the uptake. He looks me over a little blearily.
“I know you?” he asks. He sounds like he has just woken up from a long, particularly hard nap.
“I work for your company’s HR, at Head Office.”
His wife appears next to me. I was hoping to get this done before she came back, but there is nothing for it now. I hand over the large manila envelope. Herb’s hand floats up slowly towards it, but his wife intercepts.
“What is this?” she asks. She should be suspicious, but she is still riding the high of Dead-Go putting her life back together.
“It’s your relocation package,” I say.
“What?” Her smile is fading. She doesn’t get it yet, but she is close.
“We are growing in the southwest, and we need someone to manage the new accounts. Herb is the best we have.”
Herb frowns slowly while his wife laughs uncomfortably.
“The company offered a transfer last year. We said no. Our whole life is here.”
I shrug. Here we go.
“It’s not negotiable.”
She stares at me, looking very much like her husband — like she is slowly waking up.
“Well, Herb has lots of experience. He won’t have trouble getting another job.”
“True. We value him very highly, but he is free to leave, of course. All company property will have to be returned, though.” I pause, letting my gaze move to the top of Herb’s head. “All of it.”
Her eyes widen. Herb is frowning now as well. He is coming around pretty quickly — a good indication of his value to the company. I turn away as his wife starts yelling. I’ve heard it all before, of course. I catch myself scratching at the back of my head and force myself to stop. I hate my job so damn much, but it’s not like I’ve really got a choice.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Matt Tighe lives in south-eastern Australia with his amazingly patient wife and children, Sherlock the dog and Mycroft the cat. He is an academic in his other life. His work has appeared in Nature Futures, The NoSleep Podcast, Daily Science Fiction, and other places. He received the 2021 Australian Shadows Award for his short story ‘A Good Big Brother’ published in the award-winning anthology ‘Spawn: Weird Horror Tales About Pregnancy, Birth and Babies’, and was a finalist for a Ditmar award for the same story. You can find his sporadic attempts at humor on twitter @MKTighewrites and other info at https://matttighe.weebly.com/ (including a cool picture his son drew of his father’s brain).
