by Jeff Strand
She shook her head.
"Good." He walked over to the stereo and ejected his CD. "I don't know what you're all upset about, anyway. I thought you didn't get along with your family." He gestured to her father's body. It took six separate gestures to do so. "Hey, it's not like he can complain about your bad grades now, can he?"
The girl closed her eyes and sobbed. The sound made Henry's teeth ache. He didn't enjoy his job, but he was looking forward to getting to watch this one suffer.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Four months after his return to life, Stanley relaxed in a hammock in the living room of his luxury apartment. His interior decorator had just about had a stroke when he insisted on it ("No! No! No! I won't do it! I won't!"), but Stanley liked the hammock and used it often.
He'd moved to New York City into a building where the security actually prevented gun-toting maniacs from shooting him. He had a whirlpool bath, a wide-screen television with eight trillion channels, three video game systems, enough movies to open his own rental store (but not enough to avoid being immediately put out of business by NetFlix), some paintings that Veronica assured him were fine art, and basically everything he'd ever wanted.
Stanley had not pressed charges against Charlie. Veronica had suggested that approach, saying that showing sympathy for a dying cancer patient would be good for his reputation, but Stanley hadn't wanted to press charges in the first place. Charlie was a complete whack-job, obviously, but somehow he'd gotten to Stanley. Not enough to ask him to move in and share the Jacuzzi, but enough that Stanley found himself thinking about him quite often.
Charlie's lawyer had argued that because Mr. Corpse was known to be impervious to death by shooting, his client's actions could only be considered assault, not attempted murder. Since Stanley argued for leniency on Charlie's behalf, he was indeed only found guilty of assault. He received probation and underwent outpatient psychiatric treatment.
His son was pretty darn adorable. Stanley gave him a free action figure.
The intercom buzzed. Stanley reluctantly got out of his hammock, walked over to his door, and pressed the button. "Yeah?"
"It's me," said Martin.
"I'll buzz you in."
A minute later Martin opened the door and came inside, wheeling in several boxes. "I brought your mail."
"Thanks." Stanley had a pair of secretaries who spent all day sorting hate mail from fan mail and stuffing form letters into envelopes (Stanley's first draft of the form letter response to hate mail had been, to nobody's surprise, rejected), but they didn't work on weekends. He picked up the magazines and flipped through them. "Wow, I'm not on any of the covers. How'd that happen?"
"Yeah, you are. It's the top headline on Entertainment Weekly."
"'Are People Getting Sick of Mr. Corpse?' What the hell is this?"
Martin shrugged.
Stanley chuckled in disbelief. "Okay, so, their top story is about how people are sick of me being the top story. How stupid is that?"
"Well, you are kind of overexposed."
"Excuse me for being interesting."
"You have to admit, you don't really do anything."
"What do you mean, I don't do anything? I do stuff every day!"
"No, what you do is go out and promote the fact that you're The Amazing Mr. Corpse. You're famous for being famous."
"I'm famous for being a scientific phenomenon!"
"Yeah, but you don't actually do anything with it. It's not like you're out there teaching science or performing resurrections on your own."
"I was in a rap video!"
"It was stunt casting."
"I'm writing a book!"
"Your ghost writer is writing a book."
"I have more Twitter followers than 'Weird Al' Yankovic! I'm always a trending topic!"
"So?"
"I did a beer commercial yesterday!"
"That's not an accomplishment. You're just cashing in on your fame. You don't even like that brand of beer."
Stanley set the magazines down on the counter. "Did you just come over here to harass me?"
"Pretty much, yeah. I've been thinking about this. I think you're wasting the gift."
"I'm a goddamn millionaire! I'm one of the most famous people in the world! How am I wasting the gift?"
"I just think that perhaps we should do something of lasting value, instead of simply exploiting your resurrection."
"Are you kidding me? Do you remember where we were before I died?"
"Of course."
"We were living in a run-down trailer, running a sleazy movie distribution business that didn't make a dime. We sucked. I cried every single day. Did I ever tell you that?"
"No, but I heard you through the door," Martin said. "You were kind of loud."
"We had nothing going for us! We even talked about distributing porn! Is that what you want me to do? Do you want me to become a porn actor?"
"God, no."
"So what the hell do you want?"
"I don't know, exactly. But I think you're squandering the gift, and I think if you continue this track you'll be washed up before you know it."
"Martin, there's no such thing as a has-been zombie!"
"There will be, if you keep this up."
Stanley couldn't believe what he was hearing. "All I'm doing is what Project Second Chance tells me to do. I'm their freakin' puppet. You know that."
"You don't have to be."
"Actually, I do. They sort of keep me alive."
"I'm not saying to run away from them. But there are things you could do on your own. I've been thinking about this idea. You're going to live forever, right?"
"In theory, maybe."
"That means that a hundred years from now, you'll still be around and everybody currently walking around will be dead."
"Except for a few babies."
"Right. You should be wandering the land, meeting people, gathering stories. You would be the only person who knows what it was really like to live in the 21st century. You could be a source of unparalleled wisdom and experience."
"What the fuck?"
"Think of how much knowledge you could gather."
Stanley plopped down on his sofa. "That's what the Internet is for! Do you really think I'm going to wander the countryside like a vagabond? What kind of drunken hippie bullshit are you babbling about?"
"I just think you should do something important. It doesn't necessarily have to be the unparalleled wisdom thing."
"What's this all about, Martin? Are you jealous? Is that it? You wish it was you who got flattened by that milk truck?"
"No, but as your friend--"
"My leech."
Martin froze. "What do you mean, your leech?"
"You're leeching off my success. You have been from the beginning."
"I was your employee when you were Stanley Dabernath, and now I'm your employee when you're Mr. Corpse. How is that leeching? I work for you!"
"Then if you work for me, don't try to throw a guilt trip on me! I don't have to put up with this kind of crap from you. I'm the Amazing Mr. Corpse!"
"I thought you hated that name."
"Yeah, well, I thought you were my friend."
"I am your friend! I'm just trying to keep you from becoming a flavor of the month!"
"Flavor of the month? Fuck you!"
"Fuck you back!"
"Fuck you sideways!"
"Fuck you forward!"
"I don't even know what the fuck that means! You're fired! Get the fuck out of my apartment, fucker!"
"I'm fucking leaving!"
"Then go! And you say 'fuck' like a sissy!"
"Fuck you!"
"See?"
Martin turned and stormed out of the apartment, slamming the door behind him. Stanley had never seen him lose his temper. Jealousy affected people in strange ways.
What a jerk. How dare he tell Stanley that he was wasting the gift? Famous for being famous. Yeah, right. He was the first human be
ing ever brought back to life by scientific means. Famous for being famous. Jesus Christ.
Martin could go get a job at McDonald's for all he cared. Let's see how worthless he thought Stanley's life was when he was flipping burgers for a living.
Jerk.
He slammed himself down into the chair in front of his computer. Martin Vines didn't have six billion websites devoted to him, now did he? Jealous bastard.
Stanley had plenty of friends now, and he didn't need to hang around with some dopey-looking green-wearing weenie.
He played around on the Internet for a few minutes, visiting new sites where he could learn new information about himself.
He read a short article.
Read it again.
Then slammed his fist against the desk hard enough to rattle the monitor. "Son of a bitch!"
* * *
Project Second Chance had set up a small New York City office, about a twenty minute drive from Stanley's apartment. He called his bodyguards, Brett and Thomas, and they met him down in the lobby and accompanied him in his limousine.
"Is it true?" Stanley demanded, bursting into Brant's office.
Brant looked up from some paperwork. "Are you going to provide a definition of 'it,' or do I have to run down a list of things that might potentially be true?"
"Is it true that you're making another Mr. Corpse?"
"Where did you hear that?"
"I read it online."
"The same site that said you were an alien?"
"It was on a legitimate site. It said that Project Second Chance is planning to resurrect somebody else."
"That's not such a bad idea. Perhaps we could create a bride for you. That would be romantic, wouldn't it?"
"Is it true?"
"You look upset. What's the matter, Stanley? Worried about competition? Worried that if there's another zombie running around, you won't be so special?"
"You haven't answered my question."
"I'm under no obligation to answer your questions."
"Tell me, damn it!"
Brant smiled. "No, we are not planning to resurrect anybody else in the near future. Rest assured that the conditions surrounding your return to life were difficult enough to recreate that you'll be a unique zombie for quite some time."
"Okay. Thanks."
"You seem to have a rather selfish attitude. Don't you want to share your miracle with others?"
"I'm leaving now."
"Oh, don't leave. You just arrived. Is that all I am to you anymore? Somebody to yell at when you're feeling paranoid?"
"Sorry about the misunderstanding, okay?"
"I don't think you are sorry. You burst into my office like you own the place. I hope you're not getting too big for your britches again."
"I'm not scared of you."
"You should be."
"I'm not. You're the one who brought me back to life, but I'm the one who keeps the money flowing. If you got rid of me, you'd have nothing. Nobody gives a shit about Project Second Chance; they care about The Amazing Mr. Corpse."
"Is that so?"
Stanley nodded. "And you know it. You can threaten me with your Wonder Dart all you want, but I know you'll never use it. And you'll never withhold injections from me. So you, Brant, can kiss my dead ass."
"Getting a bit of an attitude, are we?"
"I'm a scientific marvel. I'm what you have to show for your life's work. So, yeah, I think I'm entitled to a bit of an attitude."
"Scientific marvel." Brant chuckled. "Right."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"Oh, nothing."
"Seriously, what's that supposed to mean?"
"Why don't you have a seat?"
Stanley sat down in front of Brant's desk.
"I know how enamored you are with the 'scientific marvel' idea, Stanley, so what I have to tell you may be painful to hear. But I'm okay with that." He leaned forward. "You're not a miracle of science."
"What the hell are you talking about?"
"I'm saying that you're a fraud."
"Oh, right, so I was never dead, huh?"
Brant smiled. "When we first spoke, you insisted that that was the case. What changed your mind?"
"How about getting shot twice and healing right up?"
"That's certainly a convincing argument. And no, I'm not saying that you were never dead. What I am saying is that science had nothing to do with it."
"Say what?"
"Science didn't have anything to do with it. You, Stanley, are a product of black magic."
"Say what?"
"Your injections? Virgin blood. The chemicals that the machine put into your system? Virgin blood. The science was all for show. You were brought back to life with an unholy ritual."
"Uh-huh. Give me a freakin' break."
"Do you think I'm kidding?" Brant's voice was chilling.
Stanley stared into his eyes, searching for any sign that the son of a bitch was joking. He couldn't find one.
"I...I came from witchcraft?"
"Not witchcraft, technically, but something very similar, yes. Still feel like copping an attitude, Stanley? You might as well be a voodoo zombie."
Stanley felt like tumbling out of his chair onto the floor. He felt dizzy and sick to his stomach. This couldn't be true. He was supposed to be a revolution in science, not a supernatural monster.
"So...why me?"
"You met the criteria of the ritual. You were born in the right year, had the right color of hair, and most importantly, you died in the right way."
"But I drowned in milk."
"Yes. Mother's milk. Something we need at the start of life."
Stanley braced himself against the desk, suddenly feeling as if he might pass out. "This isn't fair."
"What's the matter? Didn't like that revelation?"
"Why'd you bring me back?"
"Why do you think? We received enormous contributions from private financers that we didn't have to spend on any actual research. And you've proven to be even more lucrative than we'd anticipated. You're one profitable zombie, Stanley."
"You bastard."
"Oh, surely you can call me something more inventive than a bastard."
Stanley couldn't.
"What makes you think I won't tell everyone?"
"First of all, they won't believe you. Second, if they do believe you, you'll become an outcast. You have quite an enviable lifestyle. It seems foolish to put it at risk. And don't let your inflated sense of self-importance make you think that I won't withhold your precious virgin blood if you try to rock the boat."
"Where do you get the blood?"
"Donations."
"Willing donations?"
"Yes, Stanley, willing donations. It's taken from Red Cross supplies. Don't worry, we aren't out murdering virgins on your behalf. We perform a quick ritual on the blood, and presto, you get to live for another day."
"Why didn't you tell me?"
"Because you're not the one in charge, and you'll do well to remember that."
"Does Veronica know?"
"No. Now please leave. Unlike you, apparently, I have important work to do."
Stanley walked out of his office. He didn't say a word to Brett and Thomas as they escorted him back to his limousine and back to his apartment.
He climbed into his hammock and stared at the ceiling for a long, long time.
Black magic?
That made him a creature of evil.
A monster.
He cried.
CHAPTER TWENTY
"He's gone." Veronica's voice on the other end of the line sounded uncharacteristically panicked.
"Who?"
"Who do you think? Stanley!"
Brant sat up straight. "How long has he been missing?"
"I don't know. He's supposed to be on the morning show in an hour, but when I got here to pick him up, he was gone. His bodyguards don't know where he went. I called Martin but he didn't answer his home phone or his c
ell. I'm scared that something happened to him."
"I'm sure he's fine," said Brant, wiping some perspiration from his forehead. He could see Stanley pulling a vanishing act just to make him sweat.
"How do you know that? He never goes anywhere without his bodyguards!"
"Have you called the police?"
"Not yet. I wanted to call you first."
"Stanley wouldn't miss a public appearance. He's probably on his way to the studio right now. Let the producers know that there may be a problem so that they can find an emergency replacement, but don't call the police yet."
"Okay."
"Keep me informed."
"I will."
Brant hung up. It was just a prank. It had to be. Or else Stanley was going on his own little journey of self-exploration, which would come to a halt when he ran out of injections. Brant had been against the idea of providing him with a week's supply in the first place, but he'd caved in to pressure from Veronica and Dr. Arnzin. He should have known better. Should have kept Stanley on that tighter leash.
Of course, he also shouldn't have told him the truth about his origin. Well, most of the truth. But he couldn't stand for that rampaging ego-maniac zombie to think that he was the one in charge. And if Brant had put the whole cash cow at risk because of his own power trip...well, everybody had their own little quirks.
* * *
"Our Savior did not appear."
Charlie looked up from his laptop, where he was busy typing some last minute revisions to today's sermon. "I beg your pardon?"
"He was scheduled to appear on Channel 8, but he didn't show up at the studio and he was replaced by a comedian whose jokes were stale and poorly delivered." William, Charlie's sixteen-year-old volunteer assistant, fidgeted nervously.
Charlie stood up. "Did they say what the problem was?"
"No."
"Does the rest of the congregation know?"
"Not yet."
"Then we'll hold off until we have more information. Our Savior may just have been caught in traffic. Start passing around the collection plates."
