Punk Losers vs The Living Dead

Up In Smoke

**TW-homophobic slurs and bad vibes in this chapter. Sorry!!

Richie had run off with Beverly, leaving Eddie to stew in his emotions and politely listen to the rest of his friends drunkenly discuss death.

"Do you ever fantasise about being killed?"

Stan asked, propped up against one of the cemeteries many willow trees. He sat there in Mike's coat, the black collar contrasting with his light spirally hair. His arm was propped up on his knee as he stared wistfully at the cigarette clasped between his fingers looking like he should be on the cover of an album by The Cure.

"I try not to think about it."  Mike offered.

"N-no." Bill said quickly and maybe if Stan wasn't so drunk he would've remembered Georgie. Bill's little brother and the victim of a hit and run. Eddie figured it was a violent enough end to make Bill reluctant to add his thoughts to the current conversation.

"You never sit there thinking about all the violent and horrible ways to die?"

"I guess," Mike acquiesced, "if I had to choose. Probably being eaten alive."

"Yeah, by a bunch of old men. Their ancient fingers digging into you're young flesh." Stan said with a morbid excitement.

If Richie had been there he probably would've made a weird sex joke.

The bottle of whiskey made its way through the boys eventually finding its way to Eddie. He took it downing a few mouthfuls before he could really think about what he was putting into his body. While the rest of the Losers argued the different gruesome ways to bite it he couldn't help but think about his fight with Richie. The ground had been pulled out from under his feet with a few simple words.

So you admit you flirt with me

How could he even ask Eddie that question? Of course the answer was a resounding yes. But he always assumed it was sort of an unspoken thing. Talking about it out loud made him feel nervous and weird and exposed.

It was the same ice cold feeling he got in his fingertips in the ninth grade when he came home to his Mother clutching his magazine in her bovine hands. The magazine he kept under the bed. The one he'd snatched from the seedy magazine stand on the other side of town. The dirty magazine circa 1979 with two strong men on the cover. One splayed out on a black leather couch in the tiniest pink shorts ever designed, his muscles gleaming in the cheap studio lights. The other tan and firm with one hand pulling at the band of those little shorts.

Golden Years- Experiences for loving men from loving men.

He'd all but retched all over the avocado green kitchen walls as he was forced to look Sonia Kaspbrak in the eye when she questioned him. Forced to listen to the terrible words that left her puckered mouth.

At least your Father died before he could see you turn into such a disgusting faggot.

Disgusting

Disgusting

The words echoed in his mind. That Saturday was spent involuntarily in church. Sonia set up a special meeting with the pastor. Threats were made, both in this world and in the afterlife. Eddie spent the day staring at his recently bruised reflection in the church's many windows as he cleaned them.

Idle hands are the devils workshop

"How about you, Eddie? Worst way to die?"

"Burning to death."

He spoke with little thought. Immediately feeling like Stan afterwards as he looked to Mike, who had lost his parents in a fire. Yet, thinking back to the wild look in Pastor Dayton's eyes while he spewed graphic details of the crispy flesh and howling screams of the damned he knew it was true.

"Definitely burning."

...

Ben regained his consciousness but wasn't ready to open his eyes when he heard Frank and Burt speaking in hushed tones. For a millisecond, he was able to convince himself he was sleeping. This all had been some crazy fever dream. A believable lie with the weakness he felt and his sore brain. But with the addition of a third voice he knew this was not a dream. He knew it was time to open his eyes.

"Yes sir, I believe you owe me big."

"And this will destroy everything right? Nothing left over. No bones?"

"No, no bones. Everything'll go. Hardest thing to burn is the heart, anyway."

"The heart. Why's that Ernie?"

"The hearts nothing but a big tough muscle. This things hot enough to burn it though. Won't be nothing left but a bitty pile of ashes."

"We don't even want the ashes."

"Then I'll turn it up higher, Frank. No ashes."

Ben opened his eyes the events of the night slowly filing into his mind. The trioxin gas. The split dogs. Frank slicing up that noisy cadaver. It's cut up little pieces still writhing on the floor.

Frank had the bright idea to bag up the parts and head next door to the funeral home. The embalmer Ernie, a short older man in a velvet track suit, had a crematorium. He'd be able to help them. If cutting the thing up wouldn't kill it fire should.

The smell of burnt hair and barbecue filled the air causing Ben to jolt up from his resting spot on a metal gurney. He leaned over to force out the contents of his stomach.

"Boys awake."

Ben looked up through tired eyes at the men huddled around the oven. He felt sicker knowing the gurney he was on was usual home to the dead.

"What happened?"

"The stress of the evening got to ya, son. As soon as we walked in and you saw Mr. Walker over there," Frank gestured to a corpse on the other side of the room. A pile of his organs lay next to him on a steel tray, "you hit the floor."

"It's not stress, Frank. I feel really sick."

"Aw, hell," Burt adds, all but collapsing in Ernie's office chair near Ben, "I feel real sick too."

Outside the sky seemed to have opened up, rain coming down in sheets. The air crackled with the sharp sound of thunder.

...

Beverly and Richie stood outside the medical warehouse for few minutes sucking whatever nicotine was left out of their cigarettes. The rain that had come earlier in the evening had been gone a while but as she looked up at the dark sky Bev had a strange feeling it was going to come back. As if on cue the crematorium next door began to belt out a huge cloud of grey smoke.

"What time is it? Shouldn't Ben be here?"

Richie glanced at his watch.

19:27

"Fuck, it's almost half passed."

A groan escaped Bev's lips while stomping out her cigarette.

"Men."

"Yeah, they're complete shit."

There was a smile on Richie's face as he adjusted his glasses but it felt hallow. He was about to add something else, probably about Eddie. It was always about Eddie. Before he could there was a rumble of thunder and buckets of rain started to fall from the sky.

"Oh Christ!"

"That's it. We're going in."

The couple rushed to the front of the building hurrying inside. They'd only been outside a minute in the torrential downpour but they were soaked.

Beverly was suddenly freezing. Any exposed skin she had felt a cold stinging burn.

"Fuck, my skin burns."

Richie ran a hand through his curls before taking off his glasses to clean them. A moot point when he looked at the state of his very wet shirt.

"Mine too. That rain is like acid."