Dead Awakened/Issue 1 (old)

''“Good morning good morning good morning! DJ Faris here waking you up for another glorious work day… it’s 7:50 AM, 76 degrees…”''

Kenberg opens his eyes to the pleasant, slightly high-pitched voice of DJ Faris, the man that’s been waking him up for the past month. He’s been hoping to change the alarm of his radio clock for a while now, but has been putting it off. He’s decided a cheesy radio station isn’t all that bad.

“… that’s like, the third crime in the past week… things just aren’t getting any better, are they?...”

He turns to the red display of numbers in his clock, as DJ Faris talked to his caller. It was 7:51 AM with crime on the streets.

''“Like I always say—for the past three days now—forget all the bad stuff and just wind down with some music. Here’s Alicia Keys with ‘If I Ain’t Got You’—”'' Kenberg taps the button on the top of his clock, muting the radio. He’s got a feeling this won’t be the last time he’ll be hearing from DJ Faris, though.

He stretches his arms wide, then stands up, walking over to the bathroom on the left side of his bed. He leans against the counter of his sink, and faces the mirror. He checks on the sides of his chin, for the facial hair that’s slowly growing on it. To shave, or not to shave? He’s not a big fan of beards, but he doesn’t want to shave, either.



He decides to get ready even before eating breakfast. One, because he needs to leave soon, and two, he can’t shake the feeling that he isn’t alone in the house. He puts on a gray shirt, some jeans, and casual (yet stylish) rubber shoes to seal up his whole outfit. He looks for his brown jacket, but remembers that he left it in the living room.

He exits his room and walks over to the narrow hall leading to the rest of his house. He confirms his hunch when he hears echoes of paper being folded just ahead of him.

He arrives at his kitchen, and someone reading the newspaper on the dining table. There was no mistaking it. He’s pretty much the only other visitor of this house.

“Morning, champ.” His rough yet extremely friendly tone was distinct. It was Sullivan, his uncle.

He places his newspaper down and looks at him with a smile, a smile that makes his small eyes squint. Kenberg returns it with his own, similar smile, something that seems to make him his uncle’s son, instead of nephew. But no, he really was just his uncle.

“Striker was scratching the door when I was coming in,” Sullivan says, folding his newspaper back up. “Had to let ‘em out.”

Kenberg turns to look at his front door, which was just to his right. He could see the scratch marks and paint peeled out from the bottom. “Did… did you push the floor for him?”

He glances him for a second. “Oh… not really. I assume he just ran for the stairs.”

Kenberg nods. “Hm, okay. Should be fine, then.”

“I made ya some french toast, by the way.” Sullivan looks behind him, where the rest of the kitchen was. This explains the warm, sugary smell that’s been feeling his nose once he came in.

“I can smell it,” he says, smiling, as he walks over to the counter next to the stove with a used griddle above it. He sees a piece of golden-brown bread with steam rising on a green plate. He takes it, pulls open the shelf below it, and takes a fork.

He walks over to the dining table, sitting at the far edge to the left-hand side of his uncle.

“The bread was just sitting there, going to waste… thought you’d’ve used it by now.” Kenberg slices the corner of the toast, and eats it.

“Why’d you buy food again…? For that… um…” A smile starts to grow in Sullivan’s face, as he looks away from his newspaper to try and recall this particular memory.

Kenberg couldn’t help but grin, almost close to laughing. It was supposed to be a bad memory, but it’s been so long that it was worth having a joke over.

“…ah, nevermind. I forget.” Kenberg was glad, to say the least. His uncle’s bad memory was starting to become more reliable. Sullivan looks at him, waiting to be corrected.

“Sophie, uncle. She didn’t want the pantry empty.”

“Oh, right—her.” Sophie was a problematic girl, at least in Kenberg’s eyes. They just didn’t work out completely.

“She was nice. Cared about you a lot.” His uncle begs to differ, though.

“Yeah, but…” He decides to start eating the toast without his fork; he was halfway done, anyway. “… she got really… controlling near the end. And that doesn’t change the fact that she cheated on me.”

“Right, right… she cheated.” Sullivan scratches his bearded chin. “I thought it was her age, but… I guess she was just trouble from the start…”

His uncle was somewhat right. Sophie was at least five years younger than him. Still, she did bring out the youth in him…

He takes his plate, brings it over to the sink, and sits right back down.

“Well, how’re ya champ?” He folds his newspaper down and looks at him. “Y’been alone for too long.”

Kenberg was looking at the crumbs he left on the table. “Yeah… but it isn’t all that bad. Still got Striker.”

“Yeah, but…” He knew what he was trying to say. Mid-thirties, and still lacking a family. Sometimes he hated it when his uncle acts like his dad. But he’s also thankful, because he’s the only one he’s got left.

“Listen… the flight’s in about two hours. Jaime’s waiting up front. When you pick him up, you guys can have the day off and just wind down. Show him around.”

“Yeah.” Kenberg nods. “We should.”

Sullivan looks at watch on his right wrist. “I’ll stay for Striker, let him in.”

“Alright.” Kenberg walks over to the sofa, and grabs the jacket he threw there last night.

He slips it on fairly quickly, and walks over to the front door.

“Ken—” He turns to look at his uncle before opening the door.

“You should ask the concierge girl. I…” He looks away, trying to remember something.

“Who? Sam?”

“Yeah! Sam. She’s lookin’ awfully bored down there…”

And that’s when he finally chuckles. It was something his uncle was extremely good at.

“You’re kidding, right?” he replies, pulling the door open.

“No!”

“I’ll try!” he continues, his voice fading. He closes the door, shaking his head. Sam is the last person he thought of.