The Nekropolis Archives

by Tim Waggoner

  "I'm sorry, you'll have to speak up."

  She looked around once more and then said, with exaggerated lip movements so I'd be sure not to miss it this time, "I need you."

  I was flattered, and like I said earlier, she was very attractive. Still, I couldn't take advantage of her offer even if I wanted to. "Sorry, I don't go in for that kind of thing anymore. I'm dead. And I don't get off on fulfilling other people's necrophiliac fantasies. Enjoy the festival." This time I did go, forging a path through the partiers in the general direction of Papa Chatha's.

  "You don't understand." Her words sounded in my ear, and although I couldn't feel her breath, I was sure it was cold, like a draft from an open grave.

  "Vampire, right?" I said without turning around. "That's why I didn't hear you come up behind me just now."

  "Please, we prefer the term Bloodborn."

  "And I'd rather be referred to as Previously Living, but at the end of the day I'm still just a damned walking corpse." I would've loved to shake her off my trail, but even if the street hadn't been so crowded, I probably couldn't. I'm not as fast as I used to be, and at my fastest, I'm still standing still compared to a vampire… excuse me, one of the Bloodborn.

  So I just kept on slogging through the crowd toward Papa Chatha's, and hoped she'd get bored soon and go find another dead man to put the moves on. I'd used my handvox – Nekropolis's version of a cell phone – to call Papa earlier. He'd been out celebrating at his favorite hangout, the Bar Sinister, but when I told him I needed some serious repair work, he promised he'd be home when I got there. Papa's the best houngan a dead man could have.

  "They say you're a detective."

  That's when I realized the vampire wasn't warm for my undead form. I felt stupid, but I wasn't about to show it. "They say wrong. When I was alive, I was a cop, yes. But I'm not alive anymore." I wiggled my detached arm to emphasize my point.

  "But you helped that woman, the one the lyke killed."

  "Sometimes I do favors for people – for a fee. Preservative spells don't come cheap, you know."

  "I am in desperate need of a favor. And I can pay. Please!"

  She sounded as if she might burst into tears at any moment. But that wasn't what made me stop. I knew Papa Chatha would only give me so much for Honani's soul. And now thanks to that miserable lyke ripping off my arm, I needed more work done than when I'd decided to help Lyra. More work than Honani's rotten spirit would pay for.

  It wasn't her beauty, and it wasn't the threat of her tears. It was the money. Really.

  I turned around. "All right, Miss…?"

  "Devona," she supplied. "Devona Kanti."

  "You can come along, Devona. We can talk after I see Papa. But I'm not promising anything," I cautioned.

  "Of course." But she smiled in relief just the same.

  I rotated my left arm and then flexed it a couple times.

  "How's it feel?" Papa Chatha asked.

  "A bit loose," I admitted.

  Papa ran long, slender black fingers through his short gray hair, and then sighed. "That's what I was afraid of."

  "I don't like the sound of that."

  Papa Chatha was a dignified, handsome black man in his sixties, with a tattoo of a blue butterfly spread across his smooth-shaven face. The edges of the butterfly's wings seemed to ripple, but it was probably just my imagination.

  I scanned the shelves in Papa's workroom, taking in the multitude of materials that a professional voodoo practitioner needs to perform his art: wax-sealed vials filled with ground herbs and dried chemicals, jars containing desiccated bits of animals – roos ter claws, lizard tails, raven wings – candles of all sizes and colors, varying lengths of rope tied in complicated patterns of knots, small dolls made of corn shucks and horsehair, books and scrolls piled on tabletops next to rattles and tambourines of various sizes, along with pouches of tobacco, chocolate bars, and bottles of rum. Papa said he used the latter three substances to make offerings to the Loa, the voodoo spirits, and while I had no reason to doubt him, I've noticed that he tends to run out of rum before anything else.

  Papa sat on the only chair in his workroom, a simple wooden stool, and smoothed his loose white pants which matched his pullover shirt. He then tapped his bare toes on the wooden floor.

  I had the impression he was stalling.

  "You're a self-willed zombie, Matt. Do you have any idea how rare that is?" He had a deep, resonant voice that was usually full of good humor. But he was somber today.

  "From what you've told me, pretty damned rare."

  He nodded. "Most zombies are merely reanimated corpses, bereft of souls, linked to the life-force of the sorcerer who raised them from the dead. It's this link, this sharing of a living being's life-force, which prevents their dead flesh from withering away. But you have no master." He frowned. "How did you become a zombie, anyway, Matt? You've never told me."

  "Just too stubborn to die, I suppose."

  Papa looked at me a long moment before going on. "Since you have no master–"

  "I know," I interrupted. "I need you and your magic to keep my body in tip-top condition."

  Papa gestured at the collection of odds and ends that cluttered the shelves and benches of his workroom. "My meager arts can only do so much, Matt. And I fear they've done all they can for you."

  I don't feel emotions the same way I did when I was alive, but I felt an echo of fear at Papa Chatha's words. "What do you mean?"

  "That this last application of preservative spells almost didn't take. And they may not last more than two, three days."

  "You mean–"

  "We've staved off the inevitable as long as we could, my friend. I'm sorry."

  I felt like a man who'd just been told by his doctor that he only had a short time to live. And I suppose in a way, I was.

  "Nothing personal, Papa, but is there anyone else who might be able to help me? After all, Nekropolis is lousy with all sorts of witches and magicians. Maybe one of them–"

  Papa shook his head. "I'm afraid not. While it's true there are others more powerful than I, there is only so much power can do."

  I thought for a moment. "Could my spirit be caught, like Honani's, and implanted into a second body?"

  "Perhaps," Papa allowed. "If you are willing to steal another's form."

  So much for that. After what he'd done to Lyra, Honani deserved to be evicted from his body. But I couldn't do that to someone else just to save my own life. If I did, in effect I'd be a killer, no better than Honani.

  I stood there, trying to come to terms with what Papa had told me. I wasn't going to die. I couldn't; I was already dead. But my body was going to… what? Collapse into a puddle of putrefaction? Or just flake away to dust? And when it was gone, what would happen to me? Would I end up wandering Nekropolis, a disembodied spirit like Lyra? Or would my soul depart for some manner of afterlife? Assuming, of course, that there was any beyond Nekropolis. Or would I just cease to be, my spirit rotting away to nothing along with my body?

  As much as I hated my mockery of a life, it was the only mockery I had, and I didn't particularly want to lose it. There had to be a way for me to continue existing, a way that wouldn't result in my having to steal another's body. I'd just have to find it within the next couple days.

  I shook Papa's hand. "I appreciate everything you've done for me." I reached into my pocket, intending to hand over the soul jar containing Honani's spirit to pay for Papa's services.

  "Keep it, Matt." He smiled sadly. "This one's on the house, okay?"

  I didn't know what I'd do with Honani's soul, but Papa refused to take it, so in the end I walked out with the jar still in my pocket. I had two souls now, when what I needed was another body. Life – and death – is full of little ironies, isn't it?

  Devona was waiting for me outside, leaning up against the wooden wall of Papa's shack, arms crossed, surveying the Descension Day celebrants in the street with a wary, nervous gaze. The crowd was thinner this far from the cen
ter of the Sprawl, but there were still a lot of loud, drunken monsters about, and they bore watching.

  Devona's leather outfit clung to her like a second skin, and even though I no longer had any libido to speak of, I couldn't help appreciating how good she looked in it.

  I had my own problem now, and no time for hers. But I thought I could at least hear her out. Maybe her problem would turn out to be something simple. And I could use the darkgems; I would need them if I was going to find someone else – someone more powerful than Papa – to extend my unlife.

  "All done. I'm ready to talk." I didn't feel a need to mention the bad news I'd received. After all, Devona and I had just met.

  "Not here. We need someplace private."

  Like I'd told her, I wasn't a detective, no matter what she'd heard from them, whoever the hell they were, and I didn't have an office. But my apartment wasn't far from Papa Chatha's.

  "How about my place?"

  She nodded.

  A few more blocks of negotiating our way through the chaotic riot of partiers – which for Devona meant slapping more than a few males of various species and states of life and death who decided to grab her shapely leather-clad posterior – and we were there.

  My neighborhood is actually one of the more mundane sections of the Sprawl, a street of urban townhouses, which, except for the fact that the bricks appear to be made of gristle, looks perfectly ordinary.

  We went up the front steps, inside, and up more steps to my apartment. I had unlocked the door and was just about to grip the knob when a voice behind us said, "Hey, Matt!"

  "Hell," I muttered, and turned around to greet my neighbor. "Hi, Carl," I said without enthusiasm. "What's up?"

  Carl was a grizzled old fart in a rumpled seersucker suit which had probably once been white but was now mostly yellow.

  He grabbed a sheet of paper from the stack under his arm and thrust it into my hand.

  "Just finished printing out the latest edition of the Night Stalker News. I'm breaking a major story this week."

  I glanced at the headline: WATCHERS FROM OUTSIDE PLOT CITY'S DESTRUCTION.

  "Sounds ominous, Carl. I'll be sure to read it."

  I quickly opened the door and gestured for Devona to go in; she did and I hurried after her.

  Carl scowled. "Don't you humor me now, Matt. It's true! None of the other media will have anything to do with the story. It's too hot for the Tome, and even that rag the Daily Atrocity won't touch it. If we don't do something about it soon, we'll all be–"

  I closed the door in Carl's rapidly reddening face, cutting him off.

  "Just you wait!" came his muffled voice from the other side of the door. "You'll be singing a different tune when the Watchers come!"

  He shouted a bit more before finally moving off, grumbling to himself about idiot zombie cops.

  "Who was that?" Devona asked.

  "Just some nut who lives upstairs. Used to be some sort of tabloid reporter back on Earth, but he can't find work on any of the papers in the city. The stories he comes up with are too crazy even for Nekropolis. Don't worry; he won't bother us anymore. He'll no doubt head out into the street to harangue the festivalgoers with his latest paranoid expose." I crumpled Carl's so-called "paper" into a wad and tossed it into an empty corner while Devona surveyed the room.

  "It's better than a tomb, even if it does have about as much personality," I said, feeling only a little self-conscious. A threadbare couch, a single wooden chair – with one leg shorter than the others – and a Mind's Eye set sitting atop a wooden stand comprised the sole contents of the living room. No pictures, no rugs, not even curtains. No toilet facilities, either, but then I don't need them. One of the perks of being dead.

  Nekropolis doesn't have television. Instead we have Mind's Eye Theatre. Mind's Eye is exactly what it sounds like: psychic transmissions are received by your set and then relayed straight into your brain. The process is kind of hit and miss for me, probably because my zombie brain doesn't get good reception, so I tend not to watch too often. I read instead, hence the reason for the piles of books stacked in the corners of the room. Right now the set was off, the large eye closed, its lashes crusted with yellowish crud, probably because it had been so long since I'd turned it on. I wondered if the set had some kind of infection, and I told myself to remember to call a repairman.

  "Do you have a bed?" Devona asked.

  "I told you: I don't do those kinds of favors."

  She gave me a look which said I was being less than amusing. "I'm just curious. Do zombies sleep? I've never thought about it before. But then, I've never been to a zombie's apartment, either."

  "I have a bed." Though it was just a lumpy mattress sitting on the floor, no sheets, no covers. "I don't sleep, exactly, but sometimes I feel a need to… rest. To relax."

  "And so you just lie there and stare at the ceiling?"

  "Sometimes. Sometimes I close my eyes. So tell me, what's it like to sleep in a coffin? Ever feel like a sardine?"

  "Bloodborn don't sleep in coffins," she said disdainfully.

  "Even when they're half human?"

  Her eyes widened in surprise. "How did you know?"

  I shrugged, the gesture a bit lopsided thanks to the bite Honani had taken out of my shoulder, which Papa hadn't been able to repair completely. "Little things. You don't move as gracefully as other vampires. Your pallor isn't as white. And whatever your problem is, it's got you tied up in knots inside. I've never seen a full-blooded vampire afraid. It doesn't seem to be an emotion they're capable of."

  I went into the bedroom, and she followed. Aside from my mattress, the only other items in the room were my laptop computer, the desk it sat on, and the chair I sat on when I used it. In Nekropolis, the computers are organic, fashioned from bone, cartilage, muscle, sinew, and specialized organs. The machines breathe, gurgle, and moan – especially when doing difficult tasks – and have even been known to burst blood vessels if asked to perform too many functions at the same time. The damned things literally get sick when they catch a virus and become all mopey and lazy, refusing to do any work until they get better. The spoiled things are worse than pampered cats.

  My computer made a soft humming sound to catch my attention, and I grudgingly went over and scratched the top of its casing. In response, it let out a moist, phlegmy purr.

  "You use your bedroom as your office too?" Devona asked.

  "I don't have an office because I don't have a business," I said. "I mostly use the computer to play DVDs – it works better for me than the Mind's Eye – and to hop on the Aethernet from time to time." The Aethernet is Nekropolis's answer to the Internet back on Earth. Information is swiftly transported through the system by data-ghosts: the spirits of executed criminals sentenced to spend their afterlives ferrying bytes back and forth for the rest of us.

  "So you can check out zombie porn?" Devona asked with a wry grin.

  "You ever see one of those sites? No? Well, if you get curious, take my advice and don't eat for a week or two before logging on."

  I removed the soul jar from my pocket, and placed it on the desk next to my computer. I then walked over to the closet and removed my torn jacket, tie, and shirt. I opened the closet door, dropped my ruined garments on the floor next to my footlocker, and scanned my pitifully small collection of clothes for replacements. If Devona felt any disgust upon seeing so much of my bare zombie skin with its slight grayish cast revealed, she showed no sign.

  "You said you don't think vampires experience fear," Devona said, picking up the thread of our earlier conversation. "But they do. They just don't like to show it. But you were right about me; I'm only half Bloodborn. My mother was human."

  From my closet's meager offerings, I chose a brown shirt, yellow paisley tie, and a brown jacket. I could wear whatever I want, I suppose. I'm not a cop anymore, and besides, I'm dead. Who cares how I dress? But old habits – and old cops like me – die hard, I guess. And besides, wearing the sort of clothes I wore in lif
e makes me feel more… well, human.

  I dressed and stood before the cracked mirror hanging on the wall and adjusted my tie. Thanks to Papa Chatha's latest round of spells, I didn't look too much different than I had in life, grayish skin aside. Black hair, brown eyes, features on the ordinary side of handsome (or so I'd been told by my ex-wife; I'm no judge of such things). Face a bit thinner than when I'd been alive. Death is a great diet plan.

  I put the soul jar in the pocket of my new jacket. I'm not really sure why; it just didn't seem like the sort of thing a person should leave lying around, and then I turned to face my guest. "And who's your father?"