After You've Gone

Prologue

The day was overcast, appropriate weather for a funeral, but less than usual for an almost-Summer Day in Southern California.  The family and friends sat quietly graveside as the minister closed his Bible and walked over to say a few private words with the deceased’s mother as the casket was slowly lowered into the grave.  It hadn’t been a well-attended funeral, just a few relatives and some friends from High School, but it was all over now, and the mourners began taking their leave, tossing a handful of dirt or a flower onto the sinking casket before heading quietly to their cars.

Larisa hadn’t been the best of daughters, or the best and brightest of students, but she had been taken much too young — not that there’s a good age to die — and she would be missed.  There would be a few kind words and a moment of silence at the next day’s High School graduation ceremony, her things would be packed away or given to Goodwill over the next few days and weeks, then forgotten by many over the next years and remembered forever by others.  Yet she gone from this world.

But life goes on.

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Beneath the cemetery, painstakingly carved from the red sandstone, lay an extensive, dimly lit cavern-like space, the twice-head-height ceiling supported by columns of stone. It looked more like a crude parking garage than anything else. 

Adding to the impression of a parking garage was the chuff-chuff-chuff of a steam-powered vehicle as it slowly made its way into the space.  Constructed of copper, brass, and polished wood, the closed-cab vehicle pulled two trailers, the first an open bin, the second more of a flatbed.  A man sat in lotus on a platform behind the closed cab of the little vehicle, consulting a hand-held GPS.  He finally nodded to himself, put the GPS into a pocket, and pounded on the top of the cab, signaling the driver to stop.

“This is it.”

The driver stopped the vehicle, letting the engine idle with a more subdued chuff-chuff, and got out of the cab.

The two of them set some levers on the side of the little truck, and a platform began rising on a scissor-jack, trailing flexible hoses as it lifted to meet the stone ceiling.

They wrestled the larger of the hoses into the bin of the first trailer, then the driver pulled a lever to start pressurized steam through the smaller hose, attacking the ceiling around the edges of the platform and cutting into the sandstone.

As the platform cut into the ceiling, what was now sandy mud flowed down the large tube into the bin.  The platform continued to rise as it cut away the stone and the two men patiently waited for the work to be completed.

The man took the GPS out of his pocket and smiled.  “Beats the hell out of using a map.”

The driver snorted.

He put the GPS back into his pocket and muttered “Luddite”, pulling a newspaper from his back pocket to continue working the crossword puzzle while they waited.

The bin was nearly full of the red mud just as there was a grinding noise from the platform, and the cutting stopped.  The driver flipped a lever, and the platform began descending, carrying a dirty casket.  Once it had lowered far enough, they man-handled a folding chute from the platform to the second trailer, then guided the casket onto the flatbed.

Once it was settled, the driver removed the chute and restarted the platform toward the gaping hole in the ceiling.  As it was ascending, the other man bored a hole into the foot of the casket, fitted a tube from the vehicle and opened a valve, letting a gaseous substance flow into the casket.  He checked his watch, timing the operation.

Meanwhile, the platform had fully ascended, and the driver started a pump to begin sucking the mud out of the bin, a reversal of the previous process, filling the hole in the ceiling.  Just before the bin was empty, the driver dumped a container of sticky goop into the mix, stirring it with a large wooden paddle.

As the hole was being filled, the platform descended once again until the bin is empty.  The ceiling was left with a rectangular depression of a few cubic feet, about the same volume of the missing casket.

Glancing at his watch again, the other man shut off the valve and removed the hose from the casket.  He pried up the lid of the casket and looked inside.  He stopped and stared at the casket’s contents.

“Who’re we supposed to have here?”

The driver brushed his hands off on his pants.  “Professor H. R. Huntington.  A seismologist or something.  Why?”

Still looking down into the casket, the other man asked “About eighteen?  Long blonde hair and perky little boobs?”

The driver came and looked into the casket.  “Shit.”

The other man took the GPS from his pocket and tossed it far into the dim recesses of the cavern.

The driver, staring into the casket, asked “Put her back?” 

Larisa, lying in the casket, turned onto her side, bringing a thumb up to her mouth.  A stitched gash was visible on her wrist. 

“Never mind.”

He closed the casket lid. 

“They are SO going to fire our asses.”

The two packed up, got into the truck, and drove off.

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Chapter One

Larisa awoke on a sheet-covered examination table in the reception lab, still dressed in her burial clothes, the room full of medical laboratory equipment.  The first thing she saw, once her vision had cleared, was Nick standing over her and smiling.  Devilishly handsome, with a well-trimmed goatee and a broad smile, he was often mistaken for Someone Else.

He pulled a needle from her arm and disassembled the Vacutainer full of her blood.  He handed the vial off to Karen, his assistant.  She seemed comfortable in her skin, looking not-yet-forty.  She put it with the others Nick had already collected.

Smiling, he said “Hi.”

Larisa looked from Nick to Karen and asked, “Where am I?”

Karen tossed a satisfied smile at Nick, and he passed her a ten-dollar bill, which she pocketed.

“I’m Nick.”

“I’m Karen.”

Looking from one to the other, Larisa said “Hi.  Where am I?  What happened?”

“What do you remember?”

Larisa blinked.  “I was…”  She sat up suddenly on the table and looked at her wrists.  Both had unhealed, but mostly bloodless, gashes.  The mortician’s stitches had been removed.

Karen took her hands and began wrapping Larisa’s wrists in gauze.  “Here, let me take care of those.”

Still a little foggy, Larisa asked hesitatingly, “Is this Heaven?”

Nick chuckled.  “Good grief, no.”

Larisa pulled her arms away from Karen and scooted to the head of the table, as far away from Nick and Karen as possible.  She looked at Nick. “Then I’m — Down Below?

“Well, yes.  ‘Down Below’.  That’s cute.”

Karen smacked Nick on the arm.  “Stop that.”  She turned to Larisa.  “This isn’t Hell, dear.  Or Heaven.  Or Purgatory.  Or whatever.  It’s…

Nick grinned.  “It’s Los Angeles.”

Karen sighed.  “In a manner of speaking.”

Nick took the vials of Larisa’s blood to the analyzers near the head of the exam table and began setting up to perform the tests.

Laris held up her wrists to Karen.  “But I’m dead, right?”

Karen sighed once again.  “In a manner of speaking.”

Larisa looked around the room.  “Where’s Billy?”

Nick turned his head to look at her while the lab equipment gurgled.  “Who’s Billy?”

“I’m supposed to be with him.” Larisa showed her wrists to Karen.  “He…  He died in a car crash.”

“I’m sorry, dear.”  Karen was sympathetic.  “He’s not here.”

Over his shoulder, Nick told her “And you weren’t supposed to be here, either.  Whoops.”

She stared at Nick and finally came a little further out of her fog, catching up with what Karen had said.  “’In a manner of speaking’?”

“You did die — but we brought you back.”

“Accidentally,” Nick tossed in.

Taking Larisa’s wrists again to continue wrapping the wounds, Karen attempted to explain.  “We were expecting a seismologist.  You’re not a seismologist…?”

Larisa shook her head.

“No, I didn’t think so.”  Karen finished with Larisa’s wrists and smiled.  “There.  All done.  You’ll be as good as new in no time.  We heal quickly.”

“We?”

Karen cocked her head.  “Oh.  I thought that was obvious.  We’re dead, too.”

Larisa scooted back again, then realized all she has done had been to bring herself closer to Nick.

He smiled.  “It’s not so bad, once you get used to it.”

Larisa looked from one to the other.  “What about Heaven?”  Or…the Other Place?”

Nick chuckled.  “Which other place?  Valhalla?  Paradise?  The Happy Hunting Ground?  Kenosha?”

Karen gave Nick a look. “Nick…”

Nick stuck his tongue out.  “Karen.  ‘Down Below’.  ‘The Other Place.’”  He chuckled to himself, shaking his head.

Karen turned toward Larisa.  “I haven’t got a clue.  I could introduce you to a theologian, if you’d like.”

Nick, ever sarcastic, mumbled.  “And doesn’t that sound like fun.”

Karen, exasperated, asked her “Are you Catholic, dear?”  Larisa shook her head.  “Okay.  I’ll see if Tom can stop by some time, anyway.”

Nick leaned against the lab bench and crossed his arms.  “Aquinas is better at this than we are.  We don’t deal in souls here, just bodies.”

Karen continued, “But don’t worry about it.  If there is such a thing as a soul, I’m sure yours is where it’s supposed to be.”

“I don’t have a soul anymore?”

“No, dear.  You’re dead.  Remember?”

“But I don’t feel any different.”

“Hmm…  How do I explain it?”

“Typing,” Nick threw in.

Karen and Lisa both turn toward him, confused.

“What?  Like muscle memory.  Like riding a bicycle.  Or even walking, for that matter.”  Karen nodded, understanding.  “If you do something long enough, or often enough, it becomes second-nature.  It’s the same thing with your soul.  You had one for so long, you’re just used to feeling like you have one.  It doesn’t really matter if you actually do — or don’t — anymore.”

Karen nodded again.  “I guess that’s a good enough explanation for now.  Tommy can probably explain it better, but that’s the gist.”

Nick took up the explanation.  “And that’s why we don’t usually take anyone as young as you.  If there wasn’t enough time to get used to having one, the person might not be quite — right.”

Karen nodded once again.  “Actually, I think you’re probably the youngest we’ve ever retrieved.”

After a bit, Nick said “There was that kid in Germany a while back.”

Karen shrugged, “Before my time.”

“He didn’t work out well at all.”

Karen patted Larisa on the arm.  “But don’t you worry about a thing.  You’ll be fine.  Come on.  Let’s get you settled in.  We all done here, Nick?”

Nick glanced at the analysis equipment, still gurgling away, and waved them off.  “Yeah, yeah.”

Karen helped Larisa off the examination table, steadied her, and they walked off through the doorway and down the hall to the exit.

Coming out, Larisa gawked at the underground city outside the reception lab.  Like the area below the cemetery, the populated sections were low-ceilinged, artificially lighted, and seemingly endless.

The most obvious difference was the population and their homes.  There were people everywhere, going in and out of shops, strolling, working.  Ordinary people, doing ordinary things — but some looked vaguely familiar, and a few were definitely recognizable as people she knew to be dead.

Most of them seemed to know Karen and acknowledged her with a nod or greeting.  Most also checked out Larisa, at least a little bit.

The shops and homes covered a wide range of styles and periods.  There didn’t seem to be any order, or an attempt at consistency, except for leaving room for roadways.  The only characteristic they seemed to share is the lack of a roof, the walls reaching right up to the stone ceiling.

Karen, playing tour guide, filled Larisa in.  “It’s still a young city, but it’s growing too quickly, if you ask me.”

Larisa, still gawking, asked “Aren’t you afraid someone will find all this?”

Karen shook her head.  “We're down pretty deep.   Lately, though, we've had to block off whole sections and shore up the ceiling.  We had the same problem under New York.   What kind of idiots build subways in an earthquake zone, anyway?  That's just asking for trouble.   We really need that seismologist.”

“Sorry.”

Karen laughed, patted Larisa on the arm.  “Oh, honey, I didn’t mean you weren’t welcome.  Don’t worry.  Everything will work out.”

The two paused at a cross street as a steam-powered trolley with balloon tires stopped.

Karen led Larisa up into the trolley.  “Here we go.”  They found places on a bench seat along the walls and sat facing inward since the trolley was almost full.  The other passengers smiled politely at Karen and Larisa, their looks lingering a bit longer on Larisa.

Larisa leaned over to Karen and surreptitiously indicated the other passengers’ stares.  Karen whispered back, “They’re just curious.  Your age.  The way you’re still dressed.  Don’t worry about it.”

The trolley finally rounded a corner onto a street filled with small, old-style Hollywood bungalows.  Karen indicated the little houses.  “This is our stop.”

Karen and Larisa stood and stepped off the trolley, and Karen led her to the door of one of the bungalows.  The front door led directly into a small living room.

“This was supposed to be the Professor’s.  We’ll find him something else, if we ever get him down here.”

Larisa looked around.  The place definitely looked like one a retired professor would live in, with shelves of books lining the walls.

“We can make it a little more feminine, if you’d like.”

Larisa shrugged.  “That’s okay.  Maybe some brighter curtains?”

Karen continued the tour.  “And we’ll have to get you some clothes.  What is that, a prom dress?”  She pulled a wad of cash out of her pocket and handed it to Larisa.  “Here.”

They entered a sparse, masculine bedroom.  There was nothing much but a bed, a table, and a dresser.

“This should be enough for a start.  The trolley runs every hour or so, if you want to do some shopping.”

Karen opened the closet.  It was, of course, filled with men’s clothes.  Old man clothes.

“There’s definitely some shopping to be done.”  They went back out into the living room; Karen started toward the kitchenette.  “And here we have…”

Larisa, starting to think about the future, interrupted “What am I going to do here?

That stopped Karen.  “Pardon?”

Larisa plopped down onto the sofa.  “Do I work?  Is there a school?  Do I just sit around and watch —” she took a quick glance around the room — “Okay.  No television.  So, what do I do?”

Karen sat down on the sofa next to her.  “We'll find you something.  We'll just have to figure out what you'll be good at.   You can be whatever you want to be.  What do you really want to do?”

Larisa sighed.  “I want to go home.”

Karen was sympathetic, but not as well up to the challenge of explaining things as she had thought.  “Oh, Larisa.  Your family and friends...  Well, think of what that would be like for them.  They'd probably be more frightened of you, than happy.”

“So, I can never go back — up there?”

“Well…not right away.  The good news is you don’t have to grow old.  Guess when I was born.”  Karen grinned.

Larisa shrugged, not really interested in playing guessing games.

Karen stood up and posed.  “June 14^th, 1880, in Chicago, Illinois.”  A little twirl.  “Not bad for an old broad.  I think I still look 38-ish.  Don’t you?”

Larisa stared.

“You’re supposed to agree with me.”  She sighed.  “And there’s no reason we have to get all wrinkly, either, if we just stay out of the sun.”

Larisa, thinking she was starting to put things together, asked “The sun?”

Karen continued, “We don't age down here.  Up there, though, in sunlight...  I think they've decided it's the ultra-violet that does it.  So, if you only go out at night…”

“So, I can go back.”

“It's a bad idea to go anywhere people might recognize you.  But it's a big world up there, with a lot of places to choose from.”  She chuckled.  “Elvis seems to like Ohio, for some reason.”

“Elvis.”

“He’s forever getting spotted.  He just doesn’t seem to want to give up his cheeseburgers.”

“Oh.  Let’s see.  What else?” Karen started to pace, not very good at impromptu lectures.  “Food.  That's another thing.  You don't have to eat.  You can, if you want to, but it has no effect one way or the other.  You could eat nothing but ice-cream from now until Doomsday and never gain an ounce. But I'd really advise staying away from alcohol — even beer or wine.  It’ll go right to your head.”

“Can we be killed?  Killed again, I guess I mean?”

“Well, sure.  If the body gets too badly damaged, burned up, head chopped off, that sort of thing.  But what are the chances of that happening?”

Larisa raises a hand to her mouth and feels her incisors.  Karen looks at her, concerned.

“What is it dear?  Oh.  Sunlight.  No wine-drinking.”  She laughs.  “Don’t be silly. There’s no such thing as vampires.”  She stopped at a bookshelf, browsed the books.  “Although...  The first of us did come from Eastern Europe, way back when.  We may be the origin of the stories. I can get you a history, if you'd like.  I know.  Too much information, too quickly, isn't it?  You're not even here a whole day, and—”

There was a pounding at the front door.  Larisa and Karen both jumped, startled.

Nick stormed into the bungalow, clutching a printout, obviously upset about something.  He confronted of Larisa at the sofa, fuming.

“Why didn’t you say something?!  Didn’t you think it was important?!  Did you just forget to tell us?!”

Larisa cringed, and Karen shut the front door.  “Calm down!  What is it?”

Nick turned on her.  “Our unexpected guest here has a little secret.”

Larisa, confused, asked “What do you mean?”

Nick, still fuming, mocked her.  “What do you mean?”

Larisa just stared blankly, clueless.

Nick sighed.  “You really don’t know?”

Karen walked over to the two.  “Know what?”

Nick turned and paced.  “Oh, man.  I don’t know what to do.”

Karen turned Nick by shoulders, stopping his pacing.  “Know what?  Do what about what?”

He thrust the printout at Karen.  She skimmed it while he ranted on.

“Our newest citizen here is God-damned pregnant!”

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(Yes, please leave a comment, even if it’s just to say “Don’t quit your day job.”)