The Sinister Mr. Corpse (4 page)

"Here, watch yourself rot." Brant flipped
through the next few pictures, which showed Stanley on the same
table, his body decomposing more and more with each photo.

"Having fun, you sick fuck?" asked Stanley,
feeling like he was about to vomit.

Could he still vomit?

"This isn't about having fun. I'm proving a
point."

"This isn't proving a damn thing. And how
come you won't give me a mirror, but you'll shove these nasty
pictures in my face?"

"Fair enough," said Brant, straightening the
stack of photographs. He knelt back down, dug through the
briefcase, and stood up with a small mirror in his hand. "Just to
warn you, though you'll be on every magazine cover in the country,
it won't be as the Sexiest Person Alive."

Brant held the mirror in front of Stanley's
face.

Stanley stared at his reflection in stunned
silence.

"Oh, Christ..."

This wasn't him. It couldn't be.

His face wasn't a face at all. It was a skull
with grey skin tightly stretched over the surface. He barely even
had a nose, just a pair of nostrils.

He tried to touch his face, momentarily
forgetting that his hands were still bound.

What disease could possibly have done this to
him?

He knew he couldn't be dead, because he could
see a tear trickling down his cheek, and dead people didn't
cry.

"It's upsetting now, but you'll get used to
it," said Brant.

"I'm a freak."

"Oh, no, you're a scientific phenomenon.
Freaks stay locked in basements, or are gaped at in carnivals, or
are hidden away in padded cells. You, my friend, are destined for
much better things."

Stanley kept staring into the mirror and said
nothing.

"I think you've seen enough for now," said
Brant, lowering the mirror. "And I think it's safe to undo the
straps. How does that sound?"

Stanley didn't respond.

Brant stepped over to the foot of the bed and
began to unfasten the straps that bound Stanley's feet. "I don't
know if this will make you feel better or not, but if you look at
the pink blanket, you'll notice that there's no residue from your
body on it. We really did stop the decomposition. I'm just pointing
that out in case you were worried about it."

"Thanks," Stanley said without
enthusiasm.

Brant finished undoing the foot straps and
then moved over to unfasten the ones binding Stanley's hands. "I
think we've made a connection, Stanley, and I'm confident that you
won't try to do anything foolish. So please don't take offense when
I mention that your parents and your friend Martin Vines are here,
and I would hate to see you do anything that might force me to
restrict visiting hours. Do you understand?"

Stanley nodded.

"Out loud, please."

"Yes, I understand."

"Good." Brant finished undoing the straps.
"You're free now. This room is yours, and before too long we'll
give you a chance to redecorate it to your personal taste."

Stanley sat up, but a wave of dizziness
struck him and he nearly fell back onto the bed. He braced himself
upright and rubbed his forehead, closing his eyes so he wouldn't
have to see his rotted palms.

"You shouldn't have any problems walking on
that cast," Brant assured him. "Your foot was completely crushed,
but you'll be surprised how much it has healed since your
death."

"How could somebody's foot heal after they're
dead?"

Brant winked at him. "That's my little
secret."

"Don't wink at me."

"You'll find that you heal remarkably well.
The holes in your side where we put the tubes are already starting
to fade. I can't say for sure, but I suspect that your foot will be
back to normal within a couple of days. Just the crushed part; the
rest will still be rotted."

"Dandy."

"Well, I have things to take care of," said
Brant. "If you need anything at all, there's a call button on the
headboard of your bed. Do you have any questions before I go get
your first visitor?"

Stanley shook his head.

"Remember, Stanley, this is a blessing."

"Yeah, right."

"It is. And you'll understand that before too
long. I'll talk to you soon."

Brant picked up his briefcase and left the
room.

Stanley just sat on his bed for several
minutes, staring at the wall. This was no blessing. This was a
nightmare. This was hell.

There was a timid knock at the door.
"Sir?"

"Martin?"

"Can I come in?"

"No, not yet." Stanley hurriedly lay back
down on the bed and pulled the pink blanket completely over him.
"All right, come on in."

The door opened, somebody walked in, and the
door closed again. "Sir?"

"Hi."

Stanley heard Martin approach the bed. "Sir,
I've already seen how you look. You don't have to hide
yourself."

"I'm not hiding. This blanket is very
comfy."

"Sir, really. I've seen far more disgusting
things in our videos."

Stanley pulled the blanket away from his
face. Martin flinched and recoiled a bit, but then composed
himself. He was wearing green slacks and a green sweater, and held
a large glass of water. "Good to see you, sir."

"Martin, what the hell is going on?" Stanley
quickly sat up and swung his legs over the side of the bed. "What
did they do to me?"

"They brought you back."

"Oh, c'mon, don't you give me that horseshit
too."

"It's the truth. You were dead. I saw you out
on the road. I was with you in the ambulance. You drowned."

"I did not drown. People don't die and come
back to life!"

Martin placed a reassuring hand on Stanley's
shoulder, although Stanley noticed that he hesitated before
actually touching him. "I've never lied to you. I've had plenty of
opportunities to, and I know that you've lied to me many, many
times, but I swear that I have never lied to you in all the time
we've worked together."

"I know."

"You were dead, sir. I saw you. I saw you
after it happened, and I saw you in the morgue, and I saw you right
before they brought you back to life on television."

"So I'm a zombie?"

Martin shrugged. "I guess that's what you'd
call it."

"I can't be a zombie, Martin. I just can't. I
can't do the whole hungering for human flesh thing."

"I don't think that's a requirement."

"I mean, look at me." Stanley tossed the
blanket aside, stood up and turned around in a circle. "I'm
grotesque. I'm revolting, and appalling, and...and just plain
gross! Don't tell me I don't reek."

"I won't tell you that."

"I just...I don't...I don't get it. Why me?
Why bring me back as a rotting monster?"

"Something about your DNA mixing with the
chemicals. They said it was very complicated."

"You've got to get me out of here, Martin,"
said Stanley. "I'll go live in a cave or something. I can't stay
here and let them do experiments and stuff on me for the rest of my
life. You know what, I don't even know if I can die again. Can
I?"

"I'm not sure."

"Something to look into. But I have to get
out of this place. You can help me, right?"

Martin was silent for a long moment. "I think
you need to trust these people. They brought you back from the
dead, and they have only your best interests in mind."

"My best interest? The son of a bitch
strapped me to the bed, left me in the dark, and told me my body
was gonna turn into gook!"

"That's only if you don't get your
injections."

"The guy's a sadist. You've got to help me,
Martin. I need you."

"I'll be here for you, sir. I'm staying in
the bunker. I promise I won't let them hurt you."

"But I--"

"I promise I won't let them hurt you," Martin
repeated, looking Stanley in the eye.

Stanley relaxed. "Okay."

"I'm going to go now," Martin said. "Oh,
here, this is for you." He handed Stanley the glass of water.
"You're supposed to just lie down. If you get plenty of rest, by
tomorrow you should be feeling fine."

Stanley nodded. "If you say so."

"I'll send your parents in, all right?"

"No. They can't see me like this."

"Sir, they've seen your body."

"I don't care what they've seen. I can't let
them see me like this. Tell them to go home."

"They'll be disappointed."

"Better disappointed than terrified."

"All right," said Martin. "If you change your
mind, you can press the button. It's good to see you again, sir.
Things will be fine. You'll see."

"Uh-huh."

"Really."

"Whatever."

Martin looked as if he wanted to give Stanley
a hug, but then changed his mind and left.

Stanley drank the entire glass of water in
one gulp, except for what dribbled out of a small hole in his lower
lip. He set the glass on the nightstand and then lay back down on
the bed and closed his eyes. He'd never had a waterbed before. It
was kind of nice. And the pink blanket was undeniably soft and
comfortable. Maybe Martin was right. Maybe things wouldn't be so
bad.

He lay there silently for a long while, and
then fell asleep.

CHAPTER FIVE

Stanley woke up feeling...good. At least in a
physical sense. There was no trace of the pain from before, and no
wave of dizziness when he got out of bed. He almost felt like doing
some jumping jacks, but still wasn't entirely convinced that useful
bits of flesh wouldn't fly off in the process.

"Ah, I'm glad to see you're up," said Brant,
entering the room.

"Uh-huh, I'm sure you just happened to walk
in here right as I got out of bed."

Brant smiled. "Well, of course we're
monitoring you. You're a scientific phenomenon."

"Yeah, well, knock next time, asshole."

"We really do have to do something about that
mouth of yours. Perhaps a swear jar is in order."

"Sure. Every time I say 'fuck' I'll drop a
finger in it."

"No need to be morbid." Brant walked across
the room and opened the closet door. "Some of these are your own
clothes, and some are new. Put on whatever you'd like."

"Aren't you going to dress me?"

"Maybe later." He opened another door. "You
have your own private bathroom, of course, with a shower. The cast
is completely waterproof. Your, ah, scent should fade in a day or
so, but until then you're welcome to be generous with the cologne
you'll find in the medicine cabinet."

"Thanks."

"So, get ready, and then we'll head down for
breakfast. You haven't eaten anything except intravenous fluids for
two months, so I assume you're hungry."

"Yeah, I had myself a hankering for some
brrrraaaaaaaains."

"Very amusing. Anyway, enjoy your shower, and
I'll be back to walk you downstairs."

"Is it, y'know, safe?" Stanley asked.

"Is what safe?"

"The shower."

"Oh, certainly. Make it as hot as you'd like.
We gave you your injection about three hours ago, so there's no
danger of you going down the drain."

After Brant left, Stanley walked into the
bathroom, stumbling a couple of times because of the cast. He
opened the medicine cabinet and quickly scanned the contents.
Nothing that could be used as a weapon, but he did have a nice
large box of Q-Tips. He wondered how much earwax a living corpse
produced.

He turned on the water. He stared in the
mirror for a long moment, still horrified by his almost skeletal
face. More importantly, though, he was really dreading what he
might see when he removed his boxer shorts.

Please, all deities within hearing range, I
beg of you, don't let me have a decomposed dick. Just spare me that
one appendage and I'll be your slave for all eternity.

He stripped off his boxers. The most positive
thing he could say about his penis was that it was still
attached.

It wasn't like he'd ever be getting laid
again anyway, but the process of decomposition could've been kind
enough to spare his dick. Would that really have been so much to
ask?

Stanley flipped up the toilet lid and took a
long piss, terrified that he might spring a leak and hit himself in
the eye. But at least his equipment seemed to be functioning
fine.

He got in the shower. The hot water felt
wonderful against his skin. He lathered himself up, tentatively at
first, but Brant seemed to be right, no flesh was detaching. He
stayed in there for about fifteen minutes, until the hot water ran
out while he still had shampoo in his hair. He cursed and rinsed it
out in the cold water, then grabbed a towel and dried himself
off.

He brushed his teeth, trying not to gag as
some foamy toothpaste leaked through the hole in his chin. He wiped
off his mouth and noted that he didn't need to shave. He wondered
if this meant that the hair on his head had stopped growing,
too.

He returned to the bedroom and put on fresh
underwear and white socks, then dressed in a pair of his own jeans
and an unfamiliar orange polo shirt. He returned to the bathroom,
combed his hair, and then stepped back in the bedroom just as Brant
was entering.

"What did I tell you about knocking?" Stanley
asked.

"My apologies."

"Were you spying on me in the shower? Pity
about my dick, huh?"

"Are you ready for breakfast?"

"Sure. I'm always up for a good old bowl of
Corpse-O's."

They left the room, walking into a barren,
sterile white hallway. "So where are we?" Stanley asked.

"About one hundred feet underground," said
Brant.

"So it's like we're all buried, huh?"

"If you wish to think of it that way. I
prefer to think of us as being safe. Believe it or not, not
everybody is entirely pleased with the idea that we've brought a
dead human being back to life, and so precautionary measures are in
order."