Something to Call Your Corpse
by S. E. Archer
University of North Carolina Wilmington
S. E. Archer is a member of the class of 2022 at the University of North Carolina Wilmington. She studies creative writing, with a minor in both business and English, and is a member of her university’s pep band as a piccoloist. She’s been writing for about seven years and aims to open her own publishing house in the future. When she isn’t writing or playing music, she likes to relax with her cats and spend time among friends.
As two burly men dressed in black carry the dead body away, all I’m aware of is a thick drop of sweat sliding down the side of my face. I watch the crowd around me part to let them through, and someone else comes out to take away the gun laid out on the ground. The screaming and cheering of the fifty-plus people in the warehouse are nothing more than a dull thudding in my ears. Adrenaline still races in my blood.
I glance up at a broken clock on the far wall: it reads 2:38 a.m., or p.m. depending on when it was broken. It hasn’t moved since I came here hours ago. I still look at it from time to time, just to ground myself.
My next opponent sits down across from me, setting his elbow on the edge of the table. The subtle, metallic thud it makes jolts me from my thoughts, and he laughs at my surprise. I get a good look at him; he’s old, about sixty, and he has a terrible beer gut. From his unshaven face and the dark circles under his eyes, I can tell he hasn’t slept in a while.
“What’s a kid like you doing in a place like this?” he asks, as if he doesn’t believe I’m allowed to be here. “This isn’t a playground, you know.”
“I’ve been here a bit,” I say.
Again, he laughs.
“Well, since you’re so sure of yourself, I guess I don’t need to feel guilty over trading my life for a kid’s.”
A thin man, the moderator, sets a new gun on the table between us. The silver metal of the revolver shines in the dim light, freshly polished. My opponent glances at it. We wait for the moderator to initiate the game.
“Davis,” the moderator says to me, “heads or tails?”
“Tails,” I say.
My opponent nods, as if approving my decision.
“I’m not a fan of heads either,” he says.
The moderator flips a silver coin, and the crowd goes silent. It seems to fall in slow motion. It still feels that way even when it finally hits the table. The moderator slaps his hand on it to keep it from rolling off, revealing the heads side up. My breath catches in my throat.
The moderator picks up the revolver, checking the chamber to make sure there’s just one bullet. He spins it, clicking the chamber back into place before we have a chance to see which slot is the unlucky one. I exchange a glance with him before he hands me the gun. My hand sags under the weight.
“Hold on now,” my opponent says, holding up his hand. “I’d like to make this a little more fun. How about we ask each other one question before we shoot?”
“You mean, before you shoot?” I say.
“Come on, kid,” he says. “It makes it more personal. Go ahead. Ask me something.”
“What’s your name? So I have something to call your corpse.”
“The name’s Jerry,” he says. “But you can call me Mr. Garret.”
“I won’t do that.”
Jerry laughs.
“No respect in the youth these days!”
I roll my eyes and bring the revolver up to my temple. My skin prickles. I’ve been through six matches already today; this one’s the seventh, and it may be the last. I count on the lucky number seven to get me through this. With a sharp breath in, I pull the trigger.
There’s no bullet this time.
The moderator passes the revolver to Jerry; they do this to make sure there’s no foul play, although I don’t see how anyone would be able to cheat at this. Jerry plays with the gun, bouncing it between his hands.
“Why are you here?” he says. “Why are you sacrificing your life?”
I don’t want to answer him. But he answered my question, and there’s a part of me that wants to return that gesture.
“Quick money,” I say. “Why else would anyone play Russian roulette in an abandoned warehouse?”
Jerry scoffs, shaking his head in disapproval.
“No shit you’re here for the money,” he says. “Why do you need it?”
I shrug, and my eyes find a spot on the wall to avoid eye contact.
“My single mother is dying in the hospital, and she’s the only family I have left.”
Jerry nods. “Not a bad reason.”
“Why are you here?” I ask.
He holds up a hand.
“Wait your turn, boy!”
He holds the revolver to his forehead and pulls the trigger. Again, there’s nothing. With a satisfied grin, he hands the gun back to the moderator, who passes it along to me.
“Why am I here?” he repeats. He takes a long breath. “I’ve racked up so much debt that I could never pay it off. But the thousands we get from winning this thing will help drown me in something else, at least.”
I pull the trigger. The empty click sends waves of relief through me, and I can tell Jerry already has his next question.
“What’s your best memory, kid?” he says.
The question reaches into my chest, pinching the wall of my heart. I draw a blank. It takes a minute to think about it.
“When I was really little,” I say, “my mom would take me to our city pool. There was this other kid there that I became real good friends with, and we’d always make sure to go to the pool at the same time so we could play together. The time I spent with him was the best. We were great friends for a few years until he moved away, and I haven’t heard from him since.”
Jerry gives the trigger another quick pull. The gun comes back to me.
“Any family?” I ask.
Jerry shakes his head.
“Not anymore,” he replies. “I don’t need any.”
My eyes lock onto the revolver. The crowd waits hushed; they’ve been counting the shots like I have, and they know this is it either for me, or for Jerry. I struggle to breathe, but I’ve made it this far. I raise the revolver to my temple and pull.
I’m still here.
Jerry looks like rigor mortis has already set in. He’s good at keeping a stoic face, but his eyes betray what he’s really feeling: gut-wrenching horror. The next shot will take his life—and he has to take it. Jerry receives the revolver.
“What do you want your last words to be?” he says to me.
“What?”
“Your last words,” he repeats.
“You should be thinking about yours,” I say.
Jerry chuckles, an empty, hopeless laugh.
“I guess you’re right, huh?”
He takes a deep breath, looking up at me. In the quiet of the room, I swear I can hear his heartbeat, beating against his ribs and skin trying to escape. I almost feel sick looking at him. But I don’t envy him.
“Lucky you, kid,” Jerry whispers.
He reaches across the table and grabs my hand. Excited mumbles ripple through the crowd at his actions. With my palm open, Jerry takes the revolver and wraps my fingers around the grip. He keeps his sweaty grasp locked on my own hand, wrapping his other hand around it as well, pulling the gun to his forehead. Jerry leans into the muzzle and closes his eyes.
“I think I want my last words to be ‘take the shot,’” he says. “If I’m dying because of you, I want you to pull the trigger, Davis.”
My name comes out almost like a hiss. The crowd shouts and stomps on the concrete floor. Now my heart feels like it’s been replaced with Jerry’s, and I hesitate to shoot.
“Come on!” Jerry yells. “Take it!”
The crowd picks up his words and chants like an infection.
“Take it!” they shout. “Take it! Take it!”
My eyes lock onto the silver hammer.
“Let’s go!” Jerry yells again.
Jerry shakes as he screams at me, his face bright red. He squeezes my hands so tight it feels like my circulation is being cut off, and he leans farther over the table to get closer to me.
“Take the shot, kid!”
It barely lasts a second. When Jerry’s body slumps back into his chair, the crowd erupts. I let the revolver fall to the table, taking in a deep breath to steady myself. I feel hands on my shoulders, shaking and congratulating me. I ignore it; instead, I watch as the moderator takes the gun, and two giant men carry Jerry away through the mass of people.
When he returns, the moderator hands me a manila envelope, and inside is the prize money for the round; it comes out to the exact amount I was promised. The moderator then whispers to me, encouraging me to play again. After a moment of hesitation, I agree, and he takes the envelope away.
A minute later, my next opponent sits down across from me.
Interview With The Author
1. What was your inspiration for this piece?
I was inspired to write this after reading a prompt that said “write a story about two characters in a life-or-death scenario.” I didn’t know where to start with it, but I didn’t want to let the prompt go, and I eventually came up with what it is today.
2. What is your creative process?
My creative process is entirely chaotic. Sometimes I’ll make an outline, detailing every little thing I think about, and other times I’ll simply write one-line ideas on a sticky note and put it on my wall. But at the end of the day, what I usually do is start with a climactic, main scene in mind and work the rest out from there.
3. What are some influences on your artistic process?
I draw most of my influence from fantasy novels. When I was younger, I was one of many who read theWarriors series by Erin Hunter, and that really spurred my interest in the genre. Ever since, I’ve taken inspiration from other novels, most notably The Mark of the Dragonfly by Jaleigh Johnson, and from many story-driven video games in recent years.
4. Is there anything more you’d like our readers/viewers to know about you or your work?
I try to embody a wild card mentality. New ideas, experiences, and genres—I’ll try them all. Writing with the flow, creating things that both challenge and entertain, and dipping a toe in every pool is what I aim to do. The next thing I make will always be different from the last.
Editors’ Comments
Something to Call Your Corpse is a chilling good read. With the mystery of the Russian Roulette game, you will be on the edge of your seat, wondering what will happen next.