The Sinister Mr. Corpse (18 page)

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 cell. 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."

"Yes, Reverend."

Charlie sat back down, made a few more minor
corrections, and then printed out his sermon. It wasn't very good,
but he always ended up departing from the script anyway. It was as
if something deep inside of him took over, making the words flow
easily, spreading the gospel of The Corpse as if The Corpse himself
were controlling Charlie's body.

Who was to say that The
Corpse
didn't
have
the power to possess Charlie's body and tongue?

Charlie gathered his pages and walked out
into the main hall of the church. It was a small, wooden, abandoned
Catholic church that had been falling apart when Charlie found it.
But with the help of a group of volunteers, he'd cleaned it up,
replaced Jesus with Stanley Dabernath where appropriate, and now
held weekly services. The benches seated about sixty people, but he
was pleased to see that several others stood against the back
wall.

He walked up behind the podium as William
began to play haunting chords on his electronic keyboard. Charlie
gazed lovingly at his flock, adoring each of them, wishing only
that his wife was there to see him in action. Sadly, she'd left him
shortly after he formed the church, taking his son with her.

The music stopped. Charlie cleared his
throat.

"Friends, sons and daughters, we are here to
give worship to our Savior, Stanley Dabernath, The Corpse. For He
returned to life to spread His gospel, to share His message of love
and understanding! What is that message?"

"
Life is precious!
" chanted the
attendees.

"And life is indeed
precious! I did not always know this. No, I thought life was
worthless! In fact, I thought my own life held such little value
that
I was ready to end
it!
"

Though they'd heard this story before,
several people in the front rows gasped.

"That's right, and I was ready to kill our
Savior! Because I didn't believe. I didn't have faith. I thought He
was a charlatan. A trickster. And I took my gun, and lo, I did walk
into His hotel, and lo, I did wait for our Savior to emerge. And
lo, He did emerge."

William emphasized this point with a musical
sting.

"And I spoke to our Savior, and He did try to
show me the way. But I was blinded by madness, and I did not listen
to His message. My ears were clouded. I could think only of my
cancer, of my own mortality, and in an act of shame I did shoot our
Savior in the chest!"

A young woman in the front row crossed
herself.

"Dammit, Tammy, I asked you not to do that in
here," said Charlie, annoyed.

"Sorry. Just a habit."

"Knock it off. The Corpse did not die upon
any cross, and to confuse Him with other saviors is blasphemy!"

Tammy's husband, Fred, raised his hand.

"What?" Charlie asked.

"I was thinkin', our Savior died from chokin'
on milk, right?"

"Indeed He did. You can read all about it in
the Book of the Corpse!" Charlie picked up one of the pamphlets
he'd created and held it up to the crowd.

"Maybe instead of crossin' ourselves, we
could do a chokin' thing. Like this." Fred placed both hands on his
neck, closed his eyes, and let his tongue loll out of his
mouth.

"Are you ridiculing our Savior?" Charlie
demanded, furious.

"Naw, I just thought--"

"When the time of Rebirth is upon us and the
Resurrections begin, I will make sure that your festering body
remains lying bloated on the dirty ground swarmed by flies! Leave
this house of worship immediately!"

"Aw, c'mon--"

"Begone, infidel!"

Fred got up and sheepishly headed for the
church exit, followed by Tammy. Charlie wanted to throw something
at them, but all he had was the brochure and he figured that it
would flutter harmlessly to the ground.

"I will not tolerate ridicule of our Savior!"
Charlie announced. "I have seen Him take a bullet fired by my own
gun and stand back up to live another day. And He forgave my sin! I
ask, how many of you seated in this house of worship would forgive
one who struck you down with a bullet? If a deer hunter mistook you
for his prey and pumped a shotgun shell into your chest, would you
forgive him? You would not! But my actions were no mistake, and I
did indeed intend harm upon our Savior, and He forgave me, and He
helped me, and He saved me! All praise The Corpse!"