Husk (24 page)

“He touched you, didn't he?” Rowan demanded, answering herself before I could get a word around a mouthful of petri meat. “That son of a bitch, he knows better than that! We could lose all funding, you know. One slip-up, one scratch, and that's it, 150-million-dollar production, guaranteed return in
DVD
sales, all shot to shit. Like it wasn't hard enough getting insurance for this thing. You know how much you cost us, just to be allowed to have you on set? God, why couldn't you just have a drug problem, or
AIDS
?
Those
are insurable, but you, the great uninsurable one, you have to be an unclassifiable. You are one step away from an act of God, that's how difficult it was to insure you.”

I let her rant on while I sucked down the last of the phony baloney. She had a point: I was at all times only one good sniff of fresh human blood away from rampage, but I always went on set fully gorged, my appetite dampened to a manageable pang for anyone within my zone of reach. Besides, Rhodes had made remarkable strides in improved flavor and consistency of his laboratory loin. The blood was real, but I didn't feel too bad about that: he told me they got a discount on some Canadian bulk blood from the Red Cross, all tainted with a variety of pathogens that would definitely kill lesser, more life-enabled sorts. Recycling, really.

Duane came back in near the end of Rowan's spiel, dressed in new leggings and frilly shirt, frowning in confusion as she promised to personally gut the producers of
Plague
should anyone so much as think of touching me without following proper procedures. The actors were far braver than most, but there was never any actual contact; Johnny was instructed to wear gloves when our characters shook hands, to minimize risk, and during larger, more crowd-laden scenes, a sheet of Plexiglas was installed between the extras and myself. This was necessary not only for their protection but for mine as well: already, two extras had rushed the wall, trying to breach it to get within touching distance. One wanted my autograph — should have waited, I made it a point of habit to sign all proffered papers at the end of each and every shooting day; I got more requests than all my co-stars combined — and the other was out for blood. Not figuratively, not in a murderous rage, but rather literally wanted a vial of my
DNA
as a keepsake. Not that I had any blood left; Rhodes had replaced most of the fluids in my veins with an organic formaldehyde that kept me limber. The extra couldn't have known that, charging up to me with an extended syringe in his hand, only stopping when his forehead hit first the transparency and second the floor, where he was repeatedly hammered by Iris about the face and shoulders with a blackjack.

“ . . . and that's what we'll do.” Rowan leaned against the wall and lit a cigarette, her anger spent for the moment. She'd been getting touchier of late, prone to profane outbursts that, even for her, were startling in their length, breadth, and overall cruelty. Her façade of coolness was crumbling, her hair often untended and loose, her age wrinkles more prominent. I recalibrated my estimation of her age; she was a young fifty, possibly young sixty if she had availed herself of Rhodes' services. “So that's what we'll do,” she repeated to herself.

“Good,” I said, throwing a wink to Duane. “Then that's that.”

“That's what, exactly?” Rowan asked, annoyed, puffing out a cloud of smoke.

“Whatever that was.” I waggled a finger at her nonchalantly. “That, what you spoke of. It is that.” Rowan scowled. “No, I wasn't listening. You've been on one speed lately. I can't be expected to keep up. With your rants.” Fame
had
gone to my head a bit, but as Rowan had treated me (and others of my character-actor-at-best ilk) like an inconvenience for years, a poorly traded stock option she couldn't be bothered to sell, I figured a little payback through actorly bitchiness was only fair.

“I'm looking out for your best interests here. For everyone's interests. Yours, mine, Duane's.”

“You look out for me? Get me a refill.” I waggled my empty glass at her.

“You think this is easy, you undead bitch?” she shot back. “You think I'm not constantly fending off not only paparazzi, not only goth fans, not only freaking corpsers, but the fucking government as well, the
CIA
, the
CDC
, the
ACLU
? You've got nerve, Shel, treating me like a flunky.”

“Hey, who works for who here?” Duane spoke up. “I don't see you complaining about the money he's making you. Talk shows, articles, toys—”

“Unt dat video game?” Dr. Rhodes threw in. “Iz zat ztill on zee table?”

“The video game appearances in
Dead Island 3
and
Mortal Combat
, thank you, the fashion shows, the swag. He's making you a mint in publicity, he's a walking fame magnet.” Duane crossed his arms.

“You nearing a point?” Rowan spat.

“You work for me,” I said. “That's the point. I appreciate all you've done for me. But you want to go? You're not happy? Say the word. I make one call to Masters. I get a new agent.”

Rowan's veneer cracked open, minutely, and I could just glimpse the person underneath the persona. She was tired. She was angry. And scared for some reason. She opened her mouth to retort. Her cell phone jingled in her pocket, cutting off her answer. She answered, her eyes darting about as she listened to the speaker on the other end, and left the trailer to talk outside.

“Thanks, Duane.”

Duane shrugged and took the glass from my hand. “She doesn't deserve you, that's all. You're the one suffering here. I just hate to see her making a mint off you and then complaining about it.”

“Iz a clazzic victim zyndrome,” Rhodes said, taking a seat next to me and putting on his glasses and latex gloves to begin our daily physical examination. “Narzizzizzm. She haz to make everyzing about her, jah? She iz zee zenter of zee world, to her. She cannot zee you az a perzon, only az an accezzory to her life. My professional opinion, anyvay. But I'm not a head doctor.” He chuckled. “Not in zat vay, anyvay.”

“It's not that I don't appreciate her,” I said as Rhodes removed my goggles and shone a small flashlight in each eye. “I'm just tired of the constant harping. It's getting worse and worse lately.”

“Vell, giff her zee zpaze, jah?” He rapped underneath my knee with a hammer. No response. He jotted this down on a notepad, humming to himself. “She cannot help herzelf.” He prodded the muscles of my arms, watched the indents refuse to pop back out. Frown lines formed on his forehead. He pursed his lips and began to pull at the skin on my left arm, forming fleshy peaks that stayed put. “I vaz afraid of ziz. I thought ve had more time, but . . .” He let his sentence trail off.

“What's the diagnosis, Doc?” I asked.

He ran his fingers through his hair and puffed out air. “Vell. I zink I haff zome bad newz.” He stared into my eyes. “I am afraid you are dead.”

“That was only funny the first seventy times.”

“Jah, but zere iz an ackzeleration of zee decompozition now. You and I, ve haff done zome remarkable vork here. Ve kept you together with metal unt rubber. I filled your veinz vit fluid unt kept you limber. I even made you zmell better.”

“And thank you for that,” I said, meaning it. Before shooting began, Rhodes had prepared and implanted subcutaneous pockets of potpourri that filtered through the slightly perforated skin and effectively masked my standard aroma of an untended monkey enclosure. He then moved on to other variations; Duane's favorite was cinnamon, I was partial to rosemary. As a result people tended to get hungry when I was around, rather than lose their appetites.

“But now, I zink zat, vizout zome major modificationz to your zkeleton and muzculature, you might not lazt zee year.” Behind him, a small gasp escaped Duane's lips.

I smirked. “Being dead for eight months is. Bad for your health. Who knew?”

“You can fix him, though, right?” Duane asked. “I mean, he's already dead. You've kept him together this long. Can't you, I don't know, give him a skin transplant or something?”

“I do not make ziz ztatement lightly. Your body, Sheldon, it cannot take much more than I haff already done. Zere are limitz to vat zee body can take, even in your caze. I can keep you here, like ziz, to complete the film, jah? But after zat?” Rhodes clapped imaginary dust from his palms. “Over.”

“So, what, you're going to let him fall apart?” Duane pulled at his hair. “What kind of a doctor are you, didn't you take an oath?”

“Jah, for zee living, Duane. Zee
living.
Ziz? Zere iz no oaz for ziz.”

“Duane, please, don't panic.”
Maybe this is for the best
, I thought. I had already lasted the better part of a year after death, and only killed ten or so people, I thought. Quite a record. I'd leave everything to Duane, I decided then. He deserved it.
I should make out a will.
Can I make out a will? Is that legal now?
I'd better start transferring funds while I still can.
Sofa coiled herself around my ankles. I bent down and rewarded her with an ear rubbing. “We knew this was coming. I think we should just accept this.”

“No, c'mon, Shel.” Duane's eyes began to swim. “You can't just give up like that. The doc here is a genius, he can do
something
, can't you?”

“Duane, no tears, okay? No one should cry for a zombie.”

“You know,” Rhodes said, “I
haff
been zinking about juzt ziz zort of zing. I didn't vant to tell you ziz zo zoon, but now ve haff little time.” He pulled a folded piece of paper from his bag and flattened it over the endtable. It was a sketch of a skeleton, drastically altered, a scenario from the mind of a
DC
Comics artist. “If ve can keep your brain and zpinal column intact, vich I beleef ve can, I zink ve can replaze your entire zkeleton. Zare really iz no need for it, and zinz you feel little pain, over time ve could zvitch every bone viz a titanium vun. Zare are zum people I know, colleaguez, zey haff zome ideaz on how to zubzitute your muzzelz vit a hyper-rubberized alloy zat could, zeoretically, make you even ztronger zan you are now.”

“Wait, we talking superhero stuff here?” Duane asked. “Make Sheldon into, what, Wolverine?”

“Not az zuch, no, but zee bazic idea iz zee zame. Sheldon, you haff a unique opportunity to completely revamp zee human body. Ve'd haff to keep zee digeztive zyztem intact, but ve've already zeen zat your body can take a lot of punishment. Theoretically, ve could
eventually
replaze your entire body viz zat of a zyborg.”

“So, this is possible?” I asked. “I could become a, a supersoldier?” I looked closer at the rough plans; I was certain I was looking at some sort of gun lodged in the chest cavity.

“Superzombie,” Duane said. “Shel, you could fight crime. That is so
awesome
.” I shushed him with a finger.

Rhodes nodded. “Zeez are, az I zaid, hypozeticalz. But Sheldon, you are vazting avay. Vizout major reconztruction I cannot do much more zan vat I haff already done.”

“And what would be the purpose?” I asked. “I'm not saying no. But we've already kept me. Running for this long. Why should we go longer?”

“I von't lie to you,” Rhodes said. “You couldn't be an actor anymore, not looking like ziz. I am zinking, maybe military? If ziz vold vorked, you vould be more machine zan man. Ve could uze you in combat.” His accent got thicker as he became more animated at the thought. “Ve could get government contractz, jah? Build you into zee ultimate mobile veapon. Zink of zee money, Sheldon. Zink of zee glory.”

“Captain America,” Duane whispered.

“Captain Canuck,” I corrected.

“Take on the Taliban, one on one. You'd be Robocop, Shel.”

“Come on!” I said, angry. “This is beyond stupid. I am not going to wander into a war zone. And become a tool of the military. I'd be blown up in a day. I'd rather just rot away in a corner.”

“No, don't you get it?” Duane said. “They'd keep you safe, they can't touch you, you're a celebrity. These wars aren't popular, even I know that. They'll do whatever they can do for some good press. I mean, fuck those phony action stars, visiting a few soldiers for photo ops. You'll really go in there, in the shit. Holy god, you could be a hero. Think of the people you could save.”

I almost let myself think about it. I had killed a number of people, could this work as absolution? I shook my head, sure I could feel my vertebrae loosen. “Absolutely not. This is idiotic. We can't work with the government. I start down this road? I completely lose all rights. I am not willing to become a. Fucking machine in a stupid war. Just to keep up morale.” Duane looked crushed, almost betrayed. “Duane, I know you mean well. But this is not an option.”

Rowan popped her head back in, still cradling the cell phone next to her ear. “Doc, I need you outside. Now.”

He patted my knee as he stood up. “Vell, you zink about it, jah? I von't make you do anyzing you don't vant, but ziz iz alvayz an option.” He made to the door, then paused and turned back. “Unt time iz running out. Right now, if ve do nozzing, I giff you four monz. Zen, you fall apart completely.”

As the door shut behind Rhodes, Duane made as if to speak. “Don't,” I said. “Don't say a thing.”

“I don't want you to die,” Duane said.

“Die more, you mean.”

“Don't make jokes.” He picked up Sofa and squeezed her to his chest. “I want you to stay. I don't care if you're a zombie or a robot or a cyborg or a head in a jar.”

“I don't get a say? Aren't I entitled to the right to die? Again?”

“Aren't I entitled to ask you to stay? If there's a choice?”