Best New Zombie Tales Trilogy (53 page)

* * *

Mum gave Mrs. Muldoon the zombie book back, and Treece was grounded for a month. Mum and Mrs. Muldoon are talking again now. They won’t say why they fell out, but Treece and I know it was something to do with Mrs. Harper and that creepy book back at university.

Though it’s sort of nice that the zombie book brought them back together again.

Now our mums are talking, Treece and I are best friends. I know she’s good in a crisis, and she has excellent taste in books. We swap stuff all the time, although she leaves her mother’s locked collection strictly alone.

Dylan is mostly back to normal. His arm and ribs healed quickly and you’d never know he had been dead for four days.

He remembers a little of what happened, but not much. Sometimes he tries to bite Ryan still, more on reflex than because there’s any of his soul left in Ryan. I hug Dylan more often than I used to, though I still call him Dill. He still steals my stuff, the pest.

I’m pretty well behaved myself these days. I seriously do not want to get on Mum’s bad side.

Gravedigger

NATE KENYON

Bobby DeCourci slipped a middle finger inside the dead woman, probing upward until he reached resistance. In up to the third knuckle. The feeling was like the pocket of a wind-breaker on a wet day, slick and cool and loose, nothing like a live one. Not that he’d felt that in some time. He wasn’t one to get a lot of pussy, not since the accident. And Damon never let him forget it, the shithead.

He hooked his nail on the package and pulled gently. It slipped out of the vaginal opening with a slight sucking sound and fell into his waiting hand. A simple plastic baggie, filled with what looked like white flour and coated with fresh semen.

“Gotcha,” he said aloud.

“Yeah?” Damon said from across the room. Bobby glanced over. He thought (not for the first time) that Damon was like a boil situated at that one place on your back; a boil you want desperately to pop, but can’t quite reach. They had been working together in this goddamn basement for almost five years now, keeping time with the dead, and he found that on the whole he’d rather spend time with a corpse than the only other living thing in the room.

The man’s hunched shoulders shook as he scrubbed himself at the sink. Bobby grinned. He’d been worried for a moment, but Damon was so fucking tiny he hadn’t even felt the package in there, even as he went at the woman on the slab like a rabbit on speed.

It had ended in a minute, tops. The pervert couldn’t even satisfy the dead.

“Nothing,” he muttered.
Keep scrubbing, Casanova.
He slipped the baggie in his coat pocket and went back to work draining fluids from the woman’s body. She was in her late thirties, judging by her face and the flesh on her hips. Her breasts were like deflated gray balloons lying on her chest, and the skin around her eyes was unnaturally taut. Had some work done already, Bobby thought. Probably came from money. His family, money was a four-letter word. His own mother had lived off welfare in the same trailer for damn near thirty years after his father had run out on them, and when she died she turned it over to him along with a credit card bill and a kitchen drawer full of expired coupons. He had tossed the coupons, dragged one bookcase full of glass gnomes and crystal snow-flakes to the curb, turned the rug in the living room the other direction and called it his own.

Bobby looked down at the bags of flesh and sighed. Embalming someone was a bitch. Most people thought being an undertaker would be creepy, but the bulk of it was damn practical. It was all just dead meat that had to be cleaned up and prepared for viewing. But it wasn’t pretty. There was all the sewing they needed to do, and the makeup to cover up the damage. In the end, Bobby always thought they looked like a wax doll. Yessir, cremation was the way to go. The alternative, slow rot in a wooden box buried six feet under with the worms, was plain fucking nuts.

“Fuck
off
.” Damon rubbed himself with a towel and zipped up. “Where?”

“Her finger.”

“
Oh oh oh, do me baby!”
Damon sang in a falsetto voice as he slid across the room on his socks.
“Do the humpty hump…”

“Shut up,” Bobby said.

“Tell me the truth. You on drugs again? You know what happened the last time. Man, I’ll never forget the way you looked—cheek like raw hamburger. That was some fucked up shit.”

Bobby touched a hand to the nasty purple scar that ran across his left cheekbone, over his lips and underneath his jaw, a self-conscious gesture that had long ago become a habit. The dog had chewed on him for a while before losing interest. He’d been so high he hadn’t felt a thing, and when he woke up and tried to light a cigarette he was shocked to discover his mouth wouldn’t hold onto it properly. He’d looked at himself in the mirror and found his lower lip hanging by a thread of skin.

It wasn’t until almost ten minutes later that he’d noticed Emma lying dead on the kitchen tile.

“No, dickhead, I’m not using.” He shivered. He’d been clean ever since, almost three years now.
Never again.
Not that he didn’t want it; not that he didn’t
crave
it, every single day. He just knew that to start up again would mean death, that he would not be able to stop, no matter what happened to him, and that sooner or later he would end up on one of these tables, with someone else sticking the line into his veins to drain him dry.

Like Emma…

“Just look at the finger, okay?”

“Which hand?”

Bobby pointed to the woman’s offending digit and swallowed, feeling the click of his dry throat. Dry as a bone. Like her pussy. Damon had squirted on the lube before he entered her, or even that baby carrot dick wouldn’t have had a chance of getting up in there.

Bobby shook his head. He didn’t want to go anywhere near that thing.
Reflex, my ass.
She’d been dead at least twenty-four hours. He told Damon so.

A noise from beyond the closed doors made them both turn. A man in a black leather jacket walked in. He was the size of a pro linebacker, and Bobby thought he’d probably played ball at one time, or maybe it was boxing, judging from his flattened, crooked nose. Hair shaved close to the scalp, ice-colored eyes. Looked sort of like Rutger Hauer on ’roids.

Had to be J.D.’s guy, but he was way too early and Bobby had never seen him before. He obviously didn’t know the drill. Knock twice, come in like you’re the janitor, clean out the trash basket by the door and leave the payment under the fresh bag at the bottom. Everything neat and simple. They’d been running this system for a long time, and Damon never caught on, which was good, because they all knew that first he would have demanded a piece of the action, and then he would have screwed things up somehow, most likely by opening his big fat mouth to the wrong person. J.D. knew Damon from way back (they’d grown up together, in fact), and he wouldn’t trust him as far as he could spit. Bobby would trust him about two feet less than that.

“Who the fuck’re you?” Damon said. Surprise made him look like a mental defective, and it took him a moment to recover. “You can’t come in here.”

“He’s a friend of mine,” Bobby said quickly. “Name’s Sam.”

“It’s Rocko,” the man said. “Fucking douchebag.” He walked over to Damon’s scraggly, chicken-winged form and put a hand the size of a dinner plate on his face, palming his skull. He gave a shove.

Damon flew backward into a rack of surgical equipment, which clattered to the floor. He sat up and skittered backward on his palms and feet until he reached the wall, little patch of hair on his chin quivering. A few strands of his dirty blond hair had come loose from the ponytail he kept tight against the back of his neck. “You—you can’t do that shit!” he said. “What the fuck? I’m calling the cops! You hear me shithead? I’m calling––”

Rocko took a step in his direction and Damon put his hands up. “Hey, easy, listen, I’m kidding with you, man, understand? Just fucking around. No harm done, okay?” He swiped at a thin line of blood that trickled from the corner of his mouth. “Look, I’m fine, I’m cool.”

Rocko nodded in the direction of Damon’s groin. “Zip up your fuckin’ pants,” he said. Then he turned to Bobby. “Where is it?” he said.

“Where’s what?” Damon said from the corner. “We’ve got nothing of yours. I swear!”

Rocko stared at Bobby and sighed. His eyes were as lifeless as the corpse of the woman that lay next to him on the table. He hadn’t looked once at her.

“Does he always run his mouth this fuckin’ much?” Rocko said.

“Only after he’s gotten laid,” Bobby said. “Pillow talk, you know.”

Rocko nodded, as if that was the most natural thing in the world to say at that moment. He slid a hand into his jacket pocket. “J.D.’s changing his approach. Seems to think you might be taking some off the top. I’m here to find out if that’s true.”

“You got it all wrong, man. Tell J.D. there’s nothing like that going on.”

“I wanna take a look myself. So. You gonna make me ask you for it again?”

Bobby shook his head. A bead of sweat slid from his temple and ran down his cheek. He didn’t want to look rattled. “I’d prefer to talk outside,” he said.

It was then that the woman on the table sat up.

* * *

“mmmmmph,” the dead woman said. “plmmmnnnahhhhhh-blrrrrrm.” Her neck cracked as she turned to stare at them. Her dead eyes rolled, purple skin across her cheeks shiny-tight with bloat. She lifted a hand, fingers plump and gray as uncooked sausages, and reached out, as if in pain.

Emma. She looks like my Emma dead on the kitchen floor—

“Holy fucking shit!” Damon jumped up, stumbled against the equipment scattered at his feet and pressed his back against the wall. “Sit the fuck down, you crazy bitch!” He picked up a stainless steel bowl and threw it at her. The bowl struck the woman in the shoulder and clattered to the floor.

Slowly, very slowly, she turned her head and looked at him.

“Bobby, what the fuck is this! Huh? What the fuck?”

“Shut up, Damon,” Bobby said slowly. Something was very wrong here, but his brain just couldn’t seem to process things properly. Somehow he and Rocko had ended up against the other wall near the refrigerator unit door, although for the life of him he could not remember moving away from the thing on the table.

His voice hadn’t seemed to work at first either; now his eyes were on Rocko, who had pulled a very large gun from his jacket. The gun barrel went from the woman, to Damon, to Bobby and back again.

I must be losing my fucking mind.

Bobby tried to make his brain start moving again, but everything seemed to be coated in a thick fog. This could not be happening, of course. Somehow he had fallen asleep, or Damon had slipped him something in that Pepsi they’d shared earlier. Damon was having a good laugh on him.

Bobby could see Rocko’s finger tightening on the trigger. The room seemed to sharpen at once and snap back into place. He showed Rocko both palms. “Take it easy,” he said. He looked at Damon. “Go check on her,” he said.

“Are you fucking crazy? I’m not going anywhere near that nightmare.” Damon shook his head and blood from his split lip spattered on the wall.

The woman moaned, as if in answer.

“Look,” Bobby said. “Obviously she’s not dead. We gotta help her.”

“You drained her, man.” Damon pointed to the needle and line that still ran from the woman to a half-full bag of dark fluid. Purple livor mortis marks leered like old tattoos sketched across her right side. “You gotta be high if you think she’s anything but worm food. She’s been dead since yesterday, you said it yourself.”

“I don’t know what’s going on, okay?” Bobby said. “Maybe some kind of coma? Just get over there and check her pulse. Just do it.”

“Oh, man.” Damon shook his head again, took a step and then skittered backward again, took another couple of steps, reaching out tentatively, licking his lips. “I gotta be nuts. They don’t pay me anywhere near enough for this shit. Okay. Okay.” He took another step, only a couple of feet away from the table now. “You okay lady? You hear me?”