King of the Ghouls

King of the Ghouls

by Elle Lewis

Miguel Santiago gripped the clipboard. There were three names on his list. Three names belonging to three bodies. His Majesty would be arriving soon. Miguel wiped the fine sheen of sweat that had appeared on his brow. Everything must be in order. His eyes flicked nervously to the clock that hung on the wall. The transport service was running late.

The funeral home was pristine, although the smell of chemicals had long faded. Bodies were no longer embalmed or buried. After a particularly horrendous virus in 2045, the government had forbidden traditional burials, mandating that all dead bodies were to be cremated. Miguel’s father had simply changed the name of the family business and invested in a better cremation chamber. What once had been known as Sunset Funeral Home & Cremations was now Sunset Cremations. That had been nearly fifty years ago. The year 3000 was quickly approaching, which shocked Miguel. He had always assumed the world would have gone up in flames by now.

Miguel opened the back double-doors. He peered into the gathering dusk. “Hurry the fuck up.” How long did it take to transport a few bodies from the hospital? Jesucristo.

Miguel propped the doors open and walked down the ramp. He was a short man, his stomach more rounded than it should be. His black hair was combed back, with fine streaks of silver peaking through. His skin was the color of cinnamon, his wrinkled eyes clear blue.

His gaze drifted to the huge skyscrapers that climbed into the darkening heavens. Bright neon lights and floating billboards cast an unnatural glow over the sprawling metropolis. The city was overcrowded. Hell, all cities across the country were overcrowded. The uncomfortably dense population size forced architects to reimagine the way buildings were built. Instead of expanding outwards, the structures climbed higher and higher, like metal beanstalks. Miguel squinted. High above the clouds he could make out the iridescent blue lights guiding air traffic. He shook his head. Flying cars. Miguel could not afford one. But even if he could, there was no way in hell he would buy one. People were bad enough drivers on the ground.

His niece wanted one. But instead of a car, she had her eyes on an air-powered motor bike, the equivalent of a flying Harley Davidson. Miguel tried to talk her out of it. Jessie argued they were faster, bypassing the congestion that crawled along the roads at a snail’s pace. Miguel snorted. Maybe if the damn hospital transport had taken the air routes, his bodies would be here by now. Flying bodies. Miguel snorted again. God the world was so fucking weird these days.

Headlights appeared in the gloom. Finally. Miguel waved down the transport truck, guiding them into the small space behind the crematory. Miguel assisted the two transporters as they unloaded the bodies.

“Place them here please,” Miguel instructed, indicating three silver tables.

“You don’t want them in the refrigeration units?” One of the transporters asked.

Miguel shook his head. “No, on the tables please.”

“But—”

“The tables,” Miguel insisted sternly.

The transporter shrugged. “Whatever you say man.”

The transporters transferred the corpses onto the silver tables, the body bags squeaking as they slid them on.

Miguel took a moment to verify the paperwork. After confirming that everything was correct, he dismissed the transporters. The two men left. Miguel watched them drive away and then closed the back doors, keeping them unlocked. The bodies would not remain on the tables for long and there was no sense in bolting the doors.

Miguel’s eyes returned to the clock—6:30pm—sunset. Any minute now. He began to feel nervous again, his heart skipping. To distract himself, Miguel examined the paperwork, notating the type of urns the families of the deceased had selected. Miguel went into his storage room with a rolling cart, placing the three urns on top. He then grabbed a heavy burlap sack that rested against the wall of the storage room. With a grunt, he loaded it on the bottom shelf of the rolling cart. Miguel brought the items back out into the main room.

The crematory was perfectly rectangular, the shiny linoleum floors an alternating pattern of white and black. The walls were a light mint green. There were no windows. The front wall was lined with the silver refrigeration units. The cremation unit was on the back wall. Both hadn’t been used in so long, Miguel wasn’t sure they even worked anymore. His father had cut off power to the refrigeration unit’s years ago.

He placed the urns on an unoccupied examination table and opened the sack. It was filled with grey ashes. Although ashes was not an accurate word to describe the sand-like granules that filled the bag. Most of it was ground seashells and burned paper. His ancestors had perfected the color and consistency until it accurately resembled cremated remains. It was a standing joke—the family recipe.

Miguel began scooping the fake ashes into the urns, trying not to think about his anticipated guests. You are safe, he told himself. His Majesty will not harm you. Think of the agreement. They need you. Miguel went through this every month. It did not get any easier. He knew that they wouldn’t hurt him. The Santiago family had been protected for generations. Still, he could not help his fear. His Majesty was not human. Miguel could feel his otherworldliness. Miguel’s instincts—his very soul—recognized the unnaturalness of what he was. Death wafted from him like heavy cologne. La Muerte.

Miguel knew more than most humans. The variety of species. The politics. It was a world within a world. El subterraneo. The underground. Other human families had made similar agreements, an assurance of safety. But you had to offer something of value, an exchange for protection. The Santiago family had thankfully been in the right business. Most humans were not protected. Miguel had heard terrible stories. Missing children. Whole families slaughtered. Human auctions, where monsters bid on their dinners.

“Hello, Miguel.”

Miguel jumped, spilling fake ash all over the floor. He spun, his hands immediately trembling as he faced the individual who now stood mere feet from him.

“Your…Your Majesty,” Miguel stammered.

“Please, Miguel. My father insisted on being called that. It does not suit me. How many times do I have to tell you? Call me Nathaniel.”

Miguel licked his lips. “My apologies, Nathaniel.”

Nathaniel smiled. His upper incisors were filed to razor sharp points as were his two lower lateral teeth. The effect was bone chilling, reminiscent of the teeth of a saber tooth tiger. The King of the Ghouls was dressed in an immaculate suit. His straight brown hair hung like silk to his waist. Two additional Ghouls flanked him, also dressed in suits. They immediately took on a protective stance, one moving in front of the back doors, while the other remained directly behind Nathaniel.

“May we speak a moment, Miguel? There are things I wish to discuss with you,” Nathanial said.

Miguel looked at the corpses lying on the tables and then returned his gaze to Nathanial. “But, sir, the bodies are —”

Nathanial held up a hand. “The bodies are perfect. As usual my friend, you have upheld your end of the bargain. There are other matters however that we must discuss. May we sit?”

Miguel nodded, his stomach twisting uncomfortably. “Yes. Yes, of course.” Miguel quickly gathered two chairs, placing them next to the exam table that held the urns and fake ash.

Nathanial silently lowered himself into one of them. Miguel sat down nervously, unsure what to do with his hands. He crossed his arms over his chest, but worried it looked too defensive. He then placed them flat on top of his thighs and again changed his mind, finally folding them together.

Nathanial smirked, flashing sharp teeth. “Are you comfortable?”

Miguel nodded and forced himself to hold Nathaniel’s gaze. The Ghoul’s eyes were a vibrant green, like freshly cut grass.

“Things are shifting Miguel. And not in a good way. I’m afraid a war is brewing my friend.”

Miguel frowned. “Between who, sir?”

“My clan and the Vampires. As you know, they killed my father. And now they are making a power play. I cannot tolerate it. I will not tolerate it. My father clung to archaic ideals. He was a politician, not a soldier. I on the other hand am willing to fight. Unfortunately, that puts you and your family in the cross hairs. This establishment is known as Ghoul territory. If I launch an attack on the Vampires, you become a chess piece that they will attempt to take for themselves. We will do everything in our power to protect you. I will not lose this crematory.”

“Do you have allies sir? Will the Dragons help?”

Nathaniel grunted. “That is complicated. They would—the Dragons hate the vampires as much as we do. However, the Vampires are currently holding the Dragon King’s daughter as prisoner. He will not move against them as long as she is within their possession. Do not worry my friend, a plan is in motion. The Reapers are also fed up with clan Vampire. They are finally willing to act. Well…one of them at least. What I need you to do is inform your niece about our arrangement.”

“Jessie?”

Nathaniel inclined his head. “Yes, Jessie. She is your named heir and will inherit this establishment upon your death, is that correct?”

“Yes.”

“I want her to be informed of your family’s arrangement. It is time. The Vampires are out of control. If you die, I will need her. The Ghoul clan requires sustenance, especially at times of war. She needs to know and be prepared to continue our arrangement. Do you understand?”

Miguel’s heart fell. “I understand.”

“Good.” Nathanial stood. “I want to speak with her in person at next month’s collection. I expect her to be here and in the correct frame of mind. I am sure you will see to that?”

Miguel nodded. “I will.”

Nathaniel walked over to one of the body bags, his footsteps silent. He unzipped the bag and folded the top half over, revealing pale bruised flesh and a set of unseeing eyes. Nathaniel reached into his pocket, pulling out a small knife. His movements were elegant and graceful, the mannerisms of an 18^th century gentlemen.

Nathaniel pressed the knife against the corpse’s shoulder, slicing off a long strip of flesh, the way someone would cut the skin off an apple. He put the dead flesh in his mouth, chewing it with delicious fervor, his green eyes becoming luminous as he ate. Nathaniel swallowed and then returned the knife to his pocket. “It’s too cold,” he murmured as he resealed the body bag.

He then nodded to the two other ghouls, who immediately began loading the three bodies into the waiting van out back. They finished within seconds, their movements inhumanly fast.

Nathaniel inclined his head politely. “Talk to Jessie. I will see you soon my friend.” The three Ghouls disappeared into the night, the back double-doors closing with an ominous clank.

Miguel remained sitting in the chair, his breathing a little too fast. His throat felt tight and there was an uncomfortable pressure squeezing his heart. He wiped his brow again, but the sweat continued to pour.

I will need her.

The pressure in his chest intensified. He knew one day it would come to this, but he had put it off, desperately wanting to protect her for as long as possible.

Miguel gasped. Air. He needed air. He got up from the chair but as soon as he stood, the pressure in his chest exploded to an unbearable level. He toppled over, falling onto the floor, his face pressed into the spilled ash.

He cried out and clutched his chest, unable to breathe.