In my day job I’m a patrol supervisor for the San Antonio Police Department, working the west side of town. The police officers who make the calls, who make the arrests, who keep the peace in the busiest part of the city, they work for me. I’m the one they call when they have crime scenes that need managing, or when something just doesn’t look right.
What that means is that I get to see a lot of dead bodies. And I mean a lot of them.
Like last week. One of my officers called because he had a decomp (police parlance for a body that’s been rotting in place for a good long while) and he wasn’t sure if it was suicide or homicide. So I showed up to the apartment and there was the dead guy, seated on the floor (or almost on the floor; his butt was about two inches off the carpet). He had a noose around his neck, though you could barely see it because his skin was so bloated and gummy with rot that it had sort of oozed over the rope.
“So, what do you think?” the officer asked.
“Suicide,” I told him.
“But he’s sitting down. Wouldn’t he have rolled over or something when he started to choke? That’s like an instinct or something, isn’t it?”
“No,” I said. “What you’re looking at is an act of will power. If you want to do something bad enough, you’ll see it through.”
He looked from me to the body and shook his head.
“Besides,” I added, “look at all that medication in there in his bathroom. Those drugs are for hepatitis and cancer. He did this because he was hurting pretty bad. And look up there.” I pointed to the ceiling where our dead guy had nailed the rope to the rafter. “He did that because he didn’t want the rope to slip off. And look at where he chose to do this, here in the bedroom, so his relatives coming in the front door wouldn’t have to see him. I bet if you look around here you’ll find a note. Probably in the other room, out of sight of the bedroom.”
The officer nodded.
We both stood there, staring at the body. The apartment didn’t have air conditioning, and it felt like standing inside an oven, even though it was the middle of the night. The smell was really bad.
The officer kind of chuckled and said, “So Sarge, I guess this is one for your next book, huh?”
I offered him a bland smile. Cops develop their gallows humor long before they learn that it’s actually a defense mechanism against the horror of confronting your own mortality, and this officer was one of the young ones. He still had a lot to learn.
“Go look for the note,” I said.
When he was gone I found myself looking into that suicide’s face and sighing. The suicides always get to me. Something about standing in the presence of someone so desperate to take control of their pain and their emotional devastation that they would resort to this makes me feel numb.
In the other room, the young officer was clumsily knocking around. Something fell over and broke. I almost called out to him to be careful, but held my tongue. You see, my mind had drifted from my day job to my night job. I was thinking about what he’d said about my next book. So many people seem to have that opinion about horror, and about zombie fiction in particular. To them, a book about shambling dead things eating the living must be nothing but gratuitous violence and gore. What else could it be?
Well, I take exception to that.
I started writing because I was scared of the future. My wife and I had just gotten married. Then we had a daughter, and the world suddenly seemed so much more complex. In the wink of an eye, I went from a carefree young cop – a lot like the one in the other room knocking stuff over – to a man with more responsibilities than he could count. I had obligations and commitments coming at me from every angle.
I’d been writing stories for a good long while at that point, starting sometime in my early teens, but never with the intention of doing anything about them. I would write them out on a yellow legal pad, staple the finished pages together, and leave them on the corner of my desk until the next idea came to me.
Never once did it occur to me to do something with what I’d written. I just threw those stories away and forgot them. But then came adulthood, and parenthood, and I found myself groping to put the world in order, to regain some of the control I felt I had lost. I realized that writing could help me with that. I realized that I could focus my anxieties and make something useful of them.
And so I started writing a science fiction novel. It was a big space opera epic, and it was pure trash. Every word of it was awful.
The reason? Well, it wasn’t authentic. It wasn’t me.
The real me, the kid who sat at his desk filling up yellow legal pads rather than going out bike riding with his friends, was a horror junkie. I was crazy for the stuff. Horror was my first literary love, and I figured seeing as love was what drove me to return to writing that I should write what I love. I was feeling like the world was rushing at me from every side, so I wrote a zombie story about characters who had the living dead rushing in at them from every side. That’s when things started to click. That’s when it all made sense.
But it wasn’t just that simple. You see, I sincerely believe that fear is the most authentic, and the most useful, emotion available to the storyteller. It is as vital as love, and indeed, gives love its profundity, for what makes love, and family, and everything we treasure so valuable but the fear that it could all be taken away in the blink of an eye. For me, fear goes far beyond monsters. It is the catalyst for my creative process, and without that creative process, I’m afraid I would wither up inside. I’m not saying I’d end up like that suicide I just told you about if I couldn’t write anymore, nothing that melodramatic, but absence of that creative outlet would be a hole that nothing else could fill.
So that’s why I write the dark stuff.