21st Century Dead

by Christopher Golden

  Carter nods. “Never more so.”

  “Zombies can’t talk,” says Silverman. “It’s impossible.”

  “That depends on your concept of what’s impossible,” says Carter. “We didn’t think it was possible to fly. Or to walk on the moon. Or to clone DNA. And before the dead started walking, we thought that was impossible, too. Now they’re starring on reality television shows.”

  “But the living dead don’t have functioning respiratory systems,” says Silverman. “They can’t talk. From what we know, they can’t even think.”

  Carter waves an arm toward the flat-screen, where a clip from Dancing with the Undead shows a professional male dancer performing a salsa with a female zombie as the entire flesh of one of her arms peels off like a glove. “None of them can think.”

  Silverman looks at the television, then back at Carter. “What are you getting at here?”

  “What would you say if I told you I could get you a zombie that could not only talk, but that could also rationalize?”

  “I’d say you need to lay off the inhalants for a while.”

  Carter smiles. “Hold on a sec.”

  Carter walks out of the office and comes back a moment later with a pale, limp-haired young man wearing wire-rimmed glasses, baggy pants, and a long-sleeved shirt buttoned at the wrists.

  “This is Ted.” Carter closes the door as Ted takes a seat in one of the leather chairs.

  Ted nods at Silverman. “Pleasure to meet you, sir.”

  “Who the hell is this?” says Silverman, sitting behind his desk, looking from Carter to Ted and back again.

  “Meet the star of your new zombie reality show,” says Carter.

  Ted sits in his chair, wearing a nervous smile.

  “Is this some kind of a joke?” says Silverman.

  “No joke.” Carter motions toward his client. “Ted here is a living corpse who has somehow managed to maintain his cognitive functions.”

  Silverman looks Ted up and down. “I don’t buy it. You look too good to be a zombie.”

  “I figured that would be your initial reaction,” says Carter. “Ted, show the man.”

  Ted stands up and unbuttons his left sleeve, then pulls back the sleeve to reveal an open, bloodless incision running from his wrist to his elbow.

  “Ted committed suicide in his bathtub,” says Carter as Ted unbuttons the sleeve on his right arm to reveal a matching wound. “He woke up the next morning to discover he was a zombie.”

  Silverman gives Ted a dubious look. “You killed yourself?”

  “It’s a little embarrassing to talk about,” says Ted. “Not just the suicide thing, but it took awhile to come to terms with the fact that I was a reanimated corpse. I mean, nothing can really prepare you for the shock, you know?”

  “Denial is the first stage to acceptance,” says Carter.

  “Wait a minute,” says Silverman. “How long are we talking about here? When did you commit suicide?”

  “It’s been almost a month.”

  “A month?” says Silverman. “That’s ridiculous. If you’ve been dead a month, then how come you’re not bloating or starting to liquefy? You weren’t even embalmed.”

  Ted glances at Carter, who puts a single index finger to his lips.

  “I’ve got a friend with connections in the mortuary business who gets me industrial-strength formaldehyde,” says Ted. “It helps to keep my decomposition to a crawl.”

  “Aren’t you worried about him outing you?” asks Silverman.

  “He doesn’t know what it’s for,” says Ted. “I mean, who would think I was using it for myself?”

  “Fair point,” says Silverman.

  “Besides,” says Carter, “once Ted’s on television, it’ll be a nonissue.”

  “Don’t get ahead of yourself,” says Silverman. “I haven’t said yes to anything yet.”

  “What do you need from us to convince you?” asks Carter.

  “A death certificate would be a start,” says Silverman.

  Carter nods. “I’m sure that can be arranged.”

  Silverman stares at the twin incisions on Ted’s arms. “Presuming you’re telling the truth, why did you want to commit suicide?”

  “I’m an accountant,” says Ted. “What woman in Hollywood wants to date an accountant, let alone have sex with one? Especially one who looks like me?”

  “All valid points,” says Carter.

  Silverman rubs his chin. “I still don’t believe it. It has to be a trick. You’re just wearing makeup. No one could be dead nearly a month and look as good as you.”

  “No makeup,” says Carter. “See for yourself.”

  Silverman gets up and goes around his desk and touches the incision on Ted’s left arm, the wound opening beneath his finger.

  “Christ!” He pulls his hand back. “You’re as cold as my ex-wife.”

  “Room temperature, actually,” says Ted.

  “No pulse or heartbeat, either,” says Carter. “See for yourself.”

  Silverman puts his fingers on Ted’s left wrist for about ten seconds, then he feels the right wrist before placing his fingers on Ted’s neck. “Incredible,” he says. “I wouldn’t have thought it was possible. How did this happen?”

  “I’m guessing he’s some sort of genetic anomaly,” says Carter. “One of a kind. Or at least one of a very small and unique group.”

  Silverman leans forward and sniffs Ted. “Why don’t you smell like a zombie?”

  “I wear a lot of cologne and deodorant.”

  “That works?”

  Ted shrugs. “It seems to do the trick.”

  Silverman sits down on the edge of his desk. “I’m still having trouble wrapping my brain around this, but for the sake of argument, let’s say you’re a zombie. So what’s the pitch?”

  “A Zombie’s Life,” says Carter. “We follow Ted around documentary-style to see what it’s like to be a zombie. We see the world through his eyes. What he has to deal with. How people react to him. Show the humanity of the living dead. The challenges of being a reanimated corpse in modern-day society.”

  “I like it,” says Silverman. “Keep going.”

  “Another idea is a show similar to Punk’d,” says Carter. “Only we would use Ted here as an apparent normal human, and when the unsuspecting victim realizes Ted’s a zombie, hilarity ensues.”

  “Not bad,” says Silverman. “There’s nothing else like it on television right now. But it seems a little derivative.”

  “There’s also Cadaver Camp,” says Carter, “where Ted tries to teach other zombies how to talk and act like him.”

  “That one has promise,” says Silverman. “What else?”

  “Tell him about Zombie Gigolo,” says Ted.

  “Zombie Gigolo?” asks Silverman.

  “It’s kind of like the concept behind The Bachelor,” says Carter. “Only this one’s all about sex.”

  Silverman nods. “Tell me more.”

  “There are hundreds of necrophiliacs and corpse fetishists out there who would love the chance to have sex with an honest-to-God living zombie,” says Carter. “Check the online forums and what’s trending on Twitter. The research bears it out. And I’m guessing with the right marketing we could top the ratings for The Z Factor and Undead Idol combined.”

  “I like it.” Silverman looks Ted up and down. “We’d have to spiff him up a bit, though. Give him a makeover. Colored contacts or some hip glasses and a new haircut. Maybe a personal trainer.”

  “We’d make him irresistible,” says Carter. “The Brad Pitt of zombies.”

  “And we’d have to prove he’s a zombie in order to make the show work.”

  “Not a problem,” says Carter. “We have a physician verify he’s dead. Get that death certificate you mentioned. Run a disclaimer before the show. Take him out for public appearances and get him on The Today Show and Letterman. Maybe even get him a guest spot on a couple of your shows and help boost their ratings.”

  “
Great ideas,” says Silverman. “But how long can we run with this? What happens when he starts to decompose? I’d imagine the effects of his formaldehyde treatments can only last so long.”

  Ted and Carter exchange glances.

  “What?” asks Silverman.

  Carter puts a hand on Ted’s shoulder. “What if I told you he doesn’t have to decompose?”

  “What are we talking about here?” says Silverman. “Botox injections? Plastic surgery? Organ transplants?”

  “Not exactly,” says Carter.

  “Then what?”

  Carter looks at Ted, who clears his throat.

  “Well, the first day I reanimated, I didn’t eat. As you can imagine, I didn’t have much of an appetite. Just spent most of my day curled up on the couch in shock.”

  Silverman nods. “I’m listening.”

  “But when I finally got some food in my stomach, it didn’t stay there long. Less than five minutes after eating a ham sandwich, it came right back up. Violently. Like a volcano.”

  “That would have made for good television,” says Carter. “Maybe we can get that in the first episode.”

  Silverman holds up one hand to Carter and points to Ted with the other hand. “Then what happened?”

  “I figured it was just nerves,” says Ted. “My stomach rejecting food because I was so upset. But it happened again and again. Every time I’d eat, no matter what it was, I’d throw it back up almost immediately after I finished. And I was starting to smell, which didn’t help matters.”

  “How long did this go on?” asks Silverman.

  “Until I found something I could eat that didn’t upset my stomach,” says Ted. “As it turns out, that same something keeps me looking like I’m still alive.”

  “I’m not following you,” says Silverman. “I thought you said your friend supplied you with formaldehyde to keep you fresh.”

  “I do have a friend who gets me formaldehyde,” says Ted. “But that’s just a backup plan. In case I need it.”

  “A backup plan for what?” asks Silverman.

  “What Ted’s saying,” says Carter, “is that he keeps from decomposing by eating human flesh.”

  Silverman looks at them, then lets out a nervous laugh. When he realizes that neither Ted nor Carter is laughing with him, his smile vanishes. “What the fuck are you talking about?”

  “Well, in spite of the fact that I was dead, something had awakened inside of me, this hunger I’d never known before,” says Ted. “So three days after reanimating, I finally went outside.”

  “Three days,” says Carter. “It kind of has a biblical feel to it, right?”

  “I went out at night,” says Ted. “After midnight, just in case people noticed I wasn’t, you know, normal, and I stumbled upon this young prostitute on Hollywood Boulevard who said she was just making some extra money until she landed an acting role.”

  Carter smiles. “I’ve heard that one before.”

  “Anyway, as soon as I saw her, I knew I had to eat her,” says Ted. “So I told her I was a talent agent and convinced her to go back to my place under the pretense of giving her a private audition.”

  “Only she was more like the late-night snack,” says Carter.

  Silverman just stares at him.

  “It was a lot easier than I thought it would be,” says Ted. “She was a little chewy, but I kept her down. Fed on her for more than a week. Eventually I realized I didn’t smell anymore. By the time I finished her, I discovered that I’d somehow managed to reverse the process of decomposition. I look better now than I did when I reanimated.”

  Silverman suddenly realizes he’s standing in front of a flesh-eating corpse and slowly backs away.

  “So what do you think?” says Carter.

  Keeping his eye on Ted, Silverman casually raises one hand and gestures for Carter to join him over at the wet bar. “I think I need a drink.”

  Carter turns to Ted. “Sit tight.”

  “Sure thing.”

  Silverman leads Carter over to the bar and pours himself a glass of scotch from the decanter. “Where did you find him?”

  “I caught him eating a waitress in an alley out behind the In-N-Out Burger on Sunset Boulevard,” says Carter. “Another aspiring actress. We got to talking, I gave him my card, and the next thing you know, here we are.”

  Silverman gulps down half his drink. “Jesus Christ.”

  “Is there a problem?”

  “Is there a problem?” whispers Silverman. “I’ll tell you the fucking problem. There’s a zombie in my office who eats humans, and you brought him in here.”

  “Oh, come on,” says Carter. “Look at him. He’s harmless.”

  They both look over at Ted, who smiles and waves back at them.

  Silverman takes another drink. “What the hell am I supposed to do with him?”

  “You sign him, that’s what you do.”

  “Sign him? Are you…” he starts to shout, then lowers his voice. “Are you crazy?”

  “You’re crazy if you don’t sign him,” says Carter. “Look, I could have gone to a dozen other studios, two dozen other studios, but I brought him to you because we have a history together. And if you don’t sign him, I guarantee you someone else will.”

  Silverman looks over at Ted, who is fingering the incision on his left arm.

  “Listen to me,” says Carter. “I’m giving you the opportunity to be the front-runner on this one. You can set the standard. Have the number-one zombie reality show on television. Blow all of the other shows out of the water.”

  “I don’t know,” says Silverman.

  “What’s not to know? This is a moment of truth. It’s only a matter of time before another Ted comes along, another genetic anomaly, and another and another, a new generation of reanimated corpses who can talk and think and who eat human flesh. And before you know it, they’ll all be starring in their own reality television programs.”

  “You think so?”

  “I know so,” says Carter. “We’re on the cusp of a new era in reality television and I’m offering you the chance to blaze a new trail of undead glory. Something unlike anything anyone has ever done. And you never know. If it turns out there’s only one Ted, then you’ll have the only show of its kind on television.”

  Silverman takes another drink of his scotch, thinking it over. “Okay. I’m not agreeing to anything, but let’s say for the sake of argument I sign him. How in the hell am I going to keep him from decomposing? He eats people, for Christ’s sake.”

  “Feed him fresh cadavers. Homeless people. Interns,” says Carter. “Better yet, feed him all of the reality show rejects who never make it past the auditions. Or maybe that could be the show. Think about it. Our own version of American Idol, only when someone fails the audition, they get eaten by a zombie.”

  “That would definitely add a certain edginess,” say Silverman.

  “Exactly,” says Carter. “And think about it. A zombie eating a human being on television? Imagine the ratings.”

  Silverman starts nodding, then catches himself. “Jesus, what am I thinking? This is insane.”

  “No. What’s insane is letting an opportunity like this pass you by.” Carter points at the flat-screen television, where reanimated corpses stumble out of a closet on Zombie Hoarders. “Do you want to keep producing shows like this? Crap that everyone can see on any other channel? Shows that never get more than a 2.5 rating?”

  Silverman watches the television for several moments, not responding.

  “You know as well as I do that if you pass on this and I take Ted to one of the major networks, they’d jump at the chance to sign him,” says Carter. “And you can bet that Showtime, AMC, and HBO would be all over him like maggots on a festering corpse.”

  “I could have done without the imagery,” says Silverman.

  On Zombie Hoarders, a female zombie stares into the camera, her eyes vacant. No sign of intelligence. No spark of conscience. Silverman looks from the mindless
zombie on the television to the sentient zombie sitting in his office.

  “How do I know he can deliver the goods?” asks Silverman.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean if I’m going to commit to this, I’m not comfortable investing in him as the next big thing unless I see him in action.”

  “What do you suggest?”

  Silverman swirls his drink for several moments, then hits the intercom button on the phone at the bar. “Ashley, can you come into my office?”

  “Be right there, Mr. Silverman.”

  “Who’s Ashley?” says Carter.

  “She’s an intern,” says Silverman. “Hey, Ted?”

  Ted stands up. “Yes sir?”

  “If you don’t mind, I’d like to see what you’re capable of doing,” says Silverman. “Can you do me a favor and go wait in the bathroom?”

  “Sure thing,” says Ted.

  “The bathroom?” says Carter.

  “Tile floors,” says Silverman. “Easier cleanup. Plus I just had new carpeting put in.”

  A moment after Ted closes the bathroom door, Ashley, a young blonde, enters the office. “You wanted to see me, Mr. Silverman?”

  “Yes. Could you please take my suit to the dry cleaners? It’s hanging on the back of the bathroom door.”

  “Absolutely, Mr. Silverman. Is there anything else?”

  “No, that’s all for now.”

  As Ashley approaches the bathroom, Carter leans toward Silverman, and says under his breath, “Won’t you get into trouble for this?”

  “I’ll let the lawyers handle it,” says Silverman. “Besides, she always forgets that I don’t like whipped cream on my mochas.”

  Ashley reaches the bathroom and opens the door. “Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t realize anyone was—”

  A hand grabs her by the hair and yanks her inside. She lets out a scream that cuts off almost immediately, then she’s on the floor, visible only from the knees down, the rest of her body obscured behind the partially closed door, her legs kicking and scrabbling on the tile. The only sounds are strangled gurgling and smothered grunting.

  When Silverman and Carter reach the bathroom, Ashley’s legs are still moving but there’s not much fight left in them. Silverman pushes the door open to get a better look and sees Ashley on the ground, her eyes wide open and blood pumping from a gash in her throat, her hands flailing uselessly at Ted, who crouches over her, tearing into her abdomen with his hands and teeth.