Terry Pratchett - Johnny And The Dead

It was a quiet night in Blackbury Central police station. Sergeant Comely had time to sit back and watch the little lights on the radio.

He'd never really been happy about the ra- dio, even when he was younger. It was the bane of his life. He suffered from education, and he'd never been able to remember all that 'Foxtrot Tango Piper' business - at least when he was, e.g., pelting down the street at 2 a.m. in pur- suit of miscreants. He'd end up sending messages about 'Photograph Teapot Psychological'. It had definitely blighted his promotion chances.

He especially hated radio on nights like this, when he was in charge. He hadn't joined the police to be good at technology.

Then the phones started to ring. There was the manager of the Odeon. Sergeant Comely couldn't quite make out what he was saying.

'Yes, yes, all right, Halloween Spectacular,' he said. 'What do you mean, it's all gone cold? What

do you want me to do? Arrest a cinema for being cold? I'm a police officer, not a central heating specialist! I don't repair video machines, either!'

The phone rang again as soon as he put it down, but this time one of the young constables answered it.

'It's someone from the university,' he said, put- ting his hand over the mouthpiece. 'He says a strange alien force has invaded the radio telescope. You know, that big satellite dish thing over towards Slate?'

Sergeant Comely sighed. 'Canyou get a descrip- tion?' he said.

'I saw a film about this, Sarge,' said another policeman. 'These aliens landed and replaced everyone in the town with giant vegetables.'

'Really? Round here it'd be days before anyone noticed,' said the sergeant.

The constable put the phone down.

'He just said it was like a strange alien force,' he said. 'Very cold, too.'

'Oh, a cold strange alien force,' said Sergeant Comely.

'And it was invisible, too.'

'Right. Would he recognize it if he didn't see it again?'

The young policemen looked puzzled. I'm too good for this, the sergeant thought.

'All right,' he said. 'So we know the following. Strange invisible aliens have invaded Blackbury. They dropped in at The Dirty Duck, where they blew up the Space Invaders machine, which makes

sense. And then they went to the pictures. Well, that makes sense too. It's probably years before new films get as far as Alfred Centuri ...'

The phone rang again. The constable answered it.

'And what, we ask ourselves, is their next course of action?'

'It's the manager of Pizza Surprise, Sarge,' said the constable. 'He says—'

'Right!' said the sergeant. 'That's right! They drop in for a Number Three with Extra Pepperoni! It probably looks like a friend of theirs.'

'Wouldn't do any harm to go and chat to him,' said the constable. It had been a long time since dinner. 'You know, just to show a bit of—'

'/'// go,' said Sergeant Comely, picking up his hat. 'But if I come back as a giant cucumber, there's going to be trouble.'

'No anchovies on mine, Sarge,' said the con- stable, as Sergeant Comely stepped out into the night.

There was something strange in the air. Sergeant Comely had lived in Blackbury all his life, and it had never felt like this. There was an electrical tingle to things, and the air tasted of tin.

It suddenly struck him.

What if it were real? Just because they made silly films about aliens and things didn't actually mean, did it, that it couldn't ever happen? He watched them on late night television. They always picked small towns to land near.

He shook his head. Nah ...

William Stickers walked through him.

'You know, you really shouldn't have done that, William,' said the Alderman, as Sergeant Comely hurried away.

'He's nothing but a symbol of the oppression of the proletariat,' said William Stickers.

'You've got to have policemen,' said Mrs Liberty. 'Otherwise people would simply do as they liked.'

'Well, we can't have that, can we?' said Mr Vicenti.

The Alderman looked around at the brightly lit street as they strolled along it. There weren't many living people around, but there were quite a lot of dead ones, looking in shop windows or, in the case of some of the older ones, looking at shop windows and wondering what they were.

' I certainly don't remember all these shopkeepers from my time,' he said. 'They must have moved in recently. Mr Boots and Mr Mothercare and Mr Spudjulicay.'

'Whom?' said Mrs Liberty.

The Alderman pointed to the sign on the other side of the street.

'Spud-u-like,' said Mr Vicenti. 'Hmm.'

'Is that how you pronounce it?' said the Alderman. 'I thought perhaps he was French. My word. And electric light all over the place. And no horse -. . . manure in the streets at all.'

'Really!' snapped Mrs Liberty. 'Please remember you are in company with a Lady.'

'That's why he said manure,' said William Stickers, happily.

'And the food!' said the Alderman. 'Hindoo and Chinese! Chicken from Kentucky! And what did you say the stuff was that the clothes are made of?'

'Plastic, I think,' said Mr Vicenti.

'Very colourful and long-lasting,' said Mrs Liberty. 'And many of the girls wear bloomers, too. Extremely practical and emancipated.'

'And many of them are extremely handsome,' said William Stickers.

'And everyone's taller and I haven't seen anyone on crutches,' said the Alderman.

'It wasn't always like this,' said Mr Vicenti. 'The nineteen thirties were rather gloomy.'

'Yes, but now..." The Alderman spread his arms and turned around. 'Shops full of cinematography televisions! Bright colours everywhere! Tall people with their own teeth! An age of miracles and wonders!'

'The people don't look very happy,' said Mr Vicenti.

'That's just a trick of the light,' said the Alderman.

It was almost midnight. The dead met in the aban- doned arcades of the shopping mall. The grilles were up and locked, but that doesn't matter when you're dead.

'Well, that was fun,' said the Alderman.

'I have to agree,' said Mrs Sylvia Liberty. 'I

haven't enjoyed myself so much since I was alive. It's a shame we have to go back.'

The Alderman crossed his arms.

'Go back?' he said.

'Now, then, Thomas,' said Mrs Liberty, but in a rather softer voice than she'd used earlier that evening, 'I don't want to sound like Eric Grimm, but you know the rules. We have to return. A day will come.'

'I'm not going back. I've really enjoyed myself. I'm not going back!'

'Me neither,' said William Stickers. 'Down with tyranny!'

'We must be ready for Judgement Day,' said Mrs Liberty. 'You never can tell. It could be tomorrow. Supposing it happened, and we missed it?'

'Hah!' said William Stickers.

'More than eighty years I've been sitting there,' said Alderman Bowler.

'You know, I wasn't expect- ing that. I thought things went dark for a moment

and then there was a man handing out harps.'

'For shame!'

'Well, isn't that what you expected?' he demanded.

'Not me,' said William Stickers. 'Belief in the survival of what is laughably called the soul after death is a primitive superstition which has no place in a dynamic socialist society!'

They looked at him.

'You don't tzink,' said Solomon Einstein, care- fully, 'that it is worth reconsidering your opinions in the light of experimental evidence?'

'Don't think you can get round me just because you're accidentally right! Just because I happen to find myself still ... basically here,' said William Stickers, 'does not invalidate the general theory!'

Mrs Liberty banged her phantom umbrella on the floor.

'I won't say it hasn't been enjoyable,' she said, 'but the rules are that we must be back in our places at dawn. Supposing we stayed away too long and forgot who we were? Supposing tomorrow was Judgement Day?'