The 2017 Halloween Parade
by Alasdair Stuart
At the top of the parade, as is always the case, comes the Controller. And as is always the case, your churros in one hand, your coffee in the other, you never actually see her appear. There’s a sense of her stepping up from somewhere, even though nothing is beneath us to step up from. Then, she walks to the center of the road, stops, and waits for the attention she knows she is due and she knows will come.
She claps her gloved hands once. And then she begins to walk.
And the nightmares come after her. The old faithfuls first. The blonde mage and the cheerful goth woman with eyes darker and deeper than time. The Monk with his chained book. The vegetable god and his sometime allies, sometime foes. And joining them, carefully positioned at the back, a small, stocky man in his late ‘60s. He is immaculately dressed, and has mischief in one eye and rage in another. Walking next to him is the living embodiment of human confusion, all muscle and pain and a facial expression that says ‘WHAT?’ He walks to the small man’s right. On the other side, a woman keeps pace with them whose form changes with every step. Lucille Ball becomes Marilyn Monroe. Marilyn becomes Mary Tyler Moore. Mary Tyler Moore becomes Dana Scully and back around they go.
And then come the podcasters. Clusters of people, deep in discussion, using their shared true stories like others use flashlights. Light the way, see what’s coming, fight it or get out of it’s way. The Archivist is deep in conversation with most of them, eyes flicking between skeptical and worryingly, desperately convinced. Nearby, a tall, stern man whose every aspect screams ‘I do not believe you’ is being talked at by the blonde mage. He doesn’t look happy. The blonde mage on the other hand, is having the time of his life. Off his right shoulder, shadow puppets and figures that move like old, restless film move through their own personal patch of darkness. At the center of it, a studious looking man makes notes, records their stories. Nearby, the two radio DJs argue with their friend the deputy.
Truth seekers, Runners, journalists, archivists, narrators, engineers, tech support, hosts. Not one of them look the same, not one of them look well rested and they’re all clearly having the time of their lives. The float is huge, much larger than any previous year and just as crowded as ever. Blank cabinet arcade machines, a shed deep in the woods, a lighthouse, countless Archives. A castle, on a hill, wrapped in tentacles that look much shinier than they did last year. True stories all.
AC/DC blares from the speakers and the Impala rounds the corner. This year’s passengers, the female sherriff and the new, worried looking young man are sitting in the back. The brothers in the front, as always. The angel, his coat wrapped around him, on the bonnet. The devil walking behind them. Always smiling. Behind him come their legion. The people they saved. The people they killed. The ones they lost along the way and the ever-increasing amount of people they found.
Behind the Impala, the woman with the impossibly old gun walks. She’s arm in arm with her sister, the cowboy off their right flank, the Marshal off their left. The sister? She is INTO this, smiling and waving. The cowboy too, smiles and doffs his hat. The woman and the Marshal? Their eyes only see targets and escape routes.
Behind them comes a dirty green Ford so clearly law enforcement in employment that it’s practically wearing an FBI badge. The younger man in the passenger seat, is staring intently at everything and everyone with a mixture of enthusiasm and total, surgical focus. The bigger, older man driving is staring straight ahead. The women in the back are looking anywhere but at each other.
The mass that follows them is an idea with a single voice and a hundred thousand faces. The Herd, because this IS a herd, of the dead move with the singular, insect-like purpose of non-sentience. Their eyes glazed, their rotted jaws clacking on imagined flesh. In amongst them, you spot a young man with long hair. he’s covered in blood not his and he’s smiling. Not because he’s survived but because he is, at last, alone.
Bringing up the rear of the Herd are the other zombies. The smart ones, the urbane ones, the ones with jobs and beef tacos where the beef is grey and used to have a name and memories. The young woman with the shock of white hair leads them, careful not to make eye contact with the soldiers on her right flank. Next to her, the tall bearded scientist smiles and scratches at his arm.
Behind them come the survivors. The man who used to be a sheriff and who learned how to be a leader, The farmer’s daughter turned commander of an army. The feral tracker whose family is now so much more than his bike, his bow and his brother. The King. The King’s tiger. The king’s aide. Most of them are walking point, weapons ready but safeties on. The King’s tiger roars good-naturedly. The King’s aide? He high fives every single one of the people on the rail.
The doctors follow them. Two groups, one a little faded in the colour scheme with hair that screams 1990’s. They don’t make eye contact with anyone, least of all each other.
Well, aside from one. He’s deep in conversation with a gentleman who looks very like him. A little older, hopefully wiser. Although the terrified group of medical students he’s shepherding may disagree with that.
The clown comes last, dancing and capering around the two sets of children. Neither of them are frightened, back to back as they walk the streets. Some in Ghostbusters outfits, some in 90’s clothes. At their center, the only two who aren’t white stand back to back, weapons raised. One has a catapult, the other a book. The only two girls stand with them. Silver glitters in one’s palm. The other is staring at the clown, her nose starting to bleed. She’s smiling.
And then the controller again, as ever, rounding the parade out as she starts it. But this time she’s not alone. The woman walking with her wears a single glove, something medical to its cut. She has shades on, a fabulous dress and the walk of someone getting used to not being bowed down anymore. She is the last person we see this year and, just as the Director started so specifically, she closes the parade with certainty, a bow and a smile.
She survived. We survived. Again.
See you next year folks, and Happy Halloween.
