The Phenomenal Fracas (GBS2G6) [Round Five: The Ambitus Phenomenon]

Originally posted on MSPA by Sruixan.

---

Name: Zachariah Shaw
Gender: Male.
Font colour: #404072
Race: Human, albeit dead. Kinda.
Description, abilities, weapon blah blah: After the events described below, Zachariah Shaw is now a man of two halves. One is a ghost, in the traditional sense of being able to pass through walls, be tangible with a fair bit of exhaustive effort and float wherever he pleases. The other half is his recently reincarnated corpse, three days dead. It's a traditional, slightly brain-dead (not too much, since he wasn't dead for long), slow-moving but stronger than normal zombie.

Before death he had a reasonably dead-end job in an accountants office, being a typical twenty-something graduate with bookish tendencies and a passion for scepticism. Reasonably tall, his hair is almost a literal mop, black in colour, that was forever getting in his eyes. On the fated night, if it is at all important, he happened to be wearing a scarf and duffel coat. Both still adorn his corpse, if a little more ragged than before, and their spiritual versions still clothe his ghost which, for some reason, is a slight shade of purple.

Biography: WARNING! TEXT WALL AHEAD!

Show Content

SpoilerBarring his surprisingly continued sentience, Zachariah Shaw was reasonably certain he was dead. Not that he had much experience of what it was like to be dead, but he could at least take an educated guess. For a start, he'd just suffered the misfortune of having a couple of bullets tear their way through what he was reasonably certain was his stomach (he'd never been good with Biology at school). It didn't take a genius to postulate that, after a couple of excruciatingly agonising minutes twitching on the concrete, the sudden evaporation of every last needle of pain probably meant he'd passed on.

That and the fact he was standing up. Admittedly, he couldn't remember having instructed his legs to do so, but his present view, taking in the dumpster at the end of the alley, illumined under the suffusion of a faulty streetlight somewhere behind it, was not one he would have thought you could see in the night sky.

With the arguably naïve idea that some miracle might have occurred, Zachariah looked down. There was his corpse, lying there silent and still, with something rather similar to a wisp of smoke flowing from the aperture where the bullets had struck him. With trepidation starting to tarnish his euphoria, he followed it up. It turned a corner about two feet above him (the dead him, that is), then came back towards him. The “living” him. Which, it seemed, was indeed the vapour floating freely above his cadaver.

Lovely.

-~-~-~-~-~-~

Down a rather unfrequented alleyway, slightly out of the main city centre, someone had traced an outline onto the floor in off-white chalk. It was the figure of a man. You could tell that, since at some point since the time of death a passer-by had added, in their own yellow chalk, the correct genetalia.

Meanwhile, fifteen yards away, in an equally secluded warehouse, Zachariah Shaw was squatting. It had taken some considerable time to drag his body out of the elements, but that didn't exactly bother him. Counting the passing hours was by now a mere distraction, rather than a fundamental part in his existence. Time wasn't that noticeable, really; sure, the sun did set occasionally, but that stopped mattering shortly after everything else did. Eating, for example. He'd had quite the panic after a day or so when he suddenly realised he'd been forgetting about sustenance altogether, but that, he'd concluded, was merely denial. About, well, being dead.

For a fair while now, huddled into a corner that seemed far too small to him, he'd been sulking. Not crying, mind; no tear ducts. The mental trauma of being noticeably undead was taking its toll. It turned out that it was a pretty expensive fare. Toying with explaining it all to the police, to his friends, to his family; all of those hare-brained schemes had been shot down after several “hours” of back-and-forth thinking. For a start, he was tethered to his immobile cadaver and lugging the bugger around was surprisingly tiring. Tangibility was proving difficult.

Outside, some patchy drizzle was pattering out soft rhythms onto any surface it could find – he'd found, if you listened hard enough, and for long enough, the constant drumming became melodic and tuneful, all on its own. Then the radio guys switched to some new rap-heavy crap and it became more about trying not to listen at all.

At the moment, it was fine. The radio, perched on a girder that would soon make up the neighbouring construction, was playing something peaceful. It had a gentle beat, meandering between harmonies with graceful ease. Another rhythm faded in, more regimented, getting louder with every passing tap, ceasing abruptly, jogging Zachariah out of deep hypnosis.

To his left, someone cleared their throat.

“Afternoon.”

Someone had crept up on him, it seemed. Well, actually, with the benefit of hindsight footsteps are easily identifiable, but still. It was a man, sporting a frivolously long ponytail in an impossibly shiny shade of blonde. A pair of old-fashioned pince-nez was perched precariously on the end of his nose, through which he was currently staring at Zachariah. Setting him back another couple of decades was the cane he held in his right hand, which was itself covered by a velvet glove.

He had a smile on his face that made him look a little crazy, but an air about him that reeked of the impossible.

“Zachariah Vivian Ernest Douglas Shaw? Your parents weren't sadists, were they?”

All five names were correct, but after what he'd been through, nothing could really surprise Zachariah. Besides, he had a theory; it was a tad leftfield, but he drew on what remained of his courage and voiced it:

“Are… are you Death?”

The smile quivered a little, then grew.

“Oh no, of course not. That's a silly thing to say.”

Before a look of surprise could even find its way to Zach's face, the other man continued.

“He couldn't make it today, I'm afraid. Too much paperwork. Honestly, you'd be amazed how quickly it piles up when you go off for a few dozen millennia, swinging an oversized farming tool around the place like it's nobody's business. It was I who noted he could do with filling some of it in, actually.”

In that case…

“Um… are you God, then?”

His response was another unfathomably enormous grin.

“Not exactly, mate. I fall short of the definitions you people have come up with over the years, if memory serves. What were they now? Omniscient? Bugger that, I have trouble knowing what day of the week it is. Omnipotent? Well, for certain definitions, maybe, but if you want a miracle or an earthquake or a choir of angels, a week's notice would be appreciated… what was the other one? Oh, omnipresence; only every other Tuesday.”

Zachariah hadn't the faintest idea what his new acquaintance was rambling on about. He was pretty sure it was a “no”.

“And another thing; I'm a bachelor, dammit. I never got anyone pregnant, alright? I haven't had a son, courtesy to popular belief. You know, apparently, if I was God, according to your manifold religions, I should have one hundred and thirty different sons by now, not to mention seventy-two bleedin' daughters. I'm mean, I've been around, yeah, but not that around.”

The overwhelmingly bemused expression on the face of his unfortunate listener stopped him from getting any further.

“Anyway, actually, I kind of am your god, for the moment at least. Right now, your fate is in my hands. Well, no, hang on; technically, it's in yours. You've got a decision to make. See, what power I have is currently all geared up to do one of two things. The first is to leave you be, as you are, right here, right now. I'll do away with the past couple of minutes, if you like, just for your peace of mind. Existence will continue. You'd make a pretty good ghost, to be frank; I expect you could find yourself a better building than this to haunt…”

The deity paused, absent-mindedly peering through a hole in the warehouse wall. Zach's patience was being tested; not that he knew that, of course.

“And the other choice?”

“Well, I decouple you from that wretched corpse of yours and you'll be a free man, eventually. You'll still be a ghost; I can't fix that. But you won't have to lug you around and I guarantee you things will be easier.”

The smile turned into a sneer

“On one condition.”

“What is it?”

”I'm not telling you. What would the fun be in that? I promise you, I won't kill you; I'm a pacifist at heart. I won't steal your soul and I won't make your life a living hell. Well, more of a living hell. Point is, it's just a favour. Not much to ask, honest.”

The internal musings and reflections took about ten seconds. Zachariah didn't really see that he had a choice.

“Promise you won't do anything nasty?”

“I am a man of my word. I shan't do a thing to harm you.”

“Alright. What've I gotta do?”

The Gentleman known as Sruix smiled.

“Try not to blink.”

Everything suddenly went very, very dark indeed.