Richard Brant turned the light back on as he walked into the room, holding a briefcase. "Are you feeling more peaceful, or should I leave for another hour?" he asked.
"I'm fine."
"Good." Brant sat down next to the bed again. "I apologize for that. It wasn't very polite. But there's a serious physical risk if you get too worked up, and so I'll have no choice but to do the same thing if it happens again. It's for your own safety."
"Thanks. I feel very safe now."
"Excellent," said Brant, apparently oblivious to the sarcasm. "So let me restate the situation. You died and we brought you back to life."
"If you say so."
"The truck fell over, crushing one of your feet, and you drowned in the flow of milk that leaked from the side. The driver of the truck was killed instantly. He was drunk and hadn't been wearing his seatbelt, so it's no loss to the gene pool. Another driver arrived several minutes later and called for help. You were brought to the hospital where you were pronounced dead. You lay on a mortuary slab for several hours. The tag that had been on your toe is doing quite well on eBay, for what it's worth. Your corpse was then taken into custody by Project Second Chance. Two months later, you were the star of a television special where we brought you back to life. And now you're here. Any questions?"
"No, I guess you covered it pretty well," said Stanley. "It's good to be in the know."
Brant set the briefcase on the floor and stood up. "You're probably going to scream," he said. "That's fine. But don't struggle or you'll only hurt yourself."
He pulled off the fluffy pink blanket.
Seeing his body without the mental cushion of blurred vision and disorientation, Stanley realized that it was even worse than he'd thought. Sickly grey. Shriveled. Almost skeletal in places. And covered with small splotches of black rot. "Oh shit…" he whimpered.
"You should feel fortunate," said Brant. "Because of the treatment we gave you in the morgue, your body didn't decompose the way a normal body would. It looks bad on the outside, but we believe that your internal organs are in more or less perfect working order. Normally they would have liquefied."
Stanley felt absolutely sick to his non-liquefied stomach. "Is it going to get worse?"
Brant shook his head. "You'll be given an injection every twenty-four hours. They will halt the process of decomposition. If you should miss one of them, it will be unattractive. I suggest that you don't miss any of them."
"But this is all going to heal up, right?"
"Sadly, no. We're able to stop it from spreading, but there's no way to reverse it. My apologies."
Stanley sat up as much as he could. "I need a mirror."
"I don't think you're ready for that."
"Goddamn it, get me a mirror!"
"Are you going to make me leave you in the dark again?"
Stanley sunk down into his pillow. "No."
"Good. Now, you will continue to eat, sleep, and handle necessary bodily functions like a normal living human being," Brant explained. "However, you will not bleed. Shall I demonstrate?"
"No, no, that's okay, I trust you. I'll wait until I accidentally cut myself on something."
"That sounds reasonable. I realize you're upset, Stanley, and I don't blame you at all. However, keep in mind that this is a blessing. You should still be dead. Your body looks bad now, but think how it would look six feet underground, covered with maggots and spiders."
"You're right. Every day's a sunshiny day when you don't have maggots and spiders eating your guts."
Brant smiled. "I'm glad to see you've maintained a sense of humor. I must admit, I was worried that you'd wind up catatonic or completely insane. You certainly wouldn't be a good spokesman for Project Second Chance if you could do nothing but babble and shriek, right? By the way, if you're feeling up to it, we'd like you to do a brief press conference tomorrow. The world wants to see The Amazing Mr. Corpse."
"Say the hell what?"
"That's what the press has dubbed you. I think it's rather catchy."
"I don't want to be known as Mr. Corpse."
"The Amazing Mr. Corpse."
"I'm gonna be The Amazingly Pissed-Off Mr. Corpse if you don't untie these straps. C'mon, how am I gonna run away if my legs are rotting off?"
"Actually, your motor functions will hold up remarkably well. You'll be a bit stiff, but…" Brant trailed off and grinned. "Stiff. That was kind of funny."
"I'm laughing my ass off."
"You'll be doing that literally if you miss an injection. Anyway, Mr. Corpse, I do hope that you'll be as charming as possible at the press conference. You're a celebrity, Stanley. This could be a huge opportunity for you."
"Sure. Pay a quarter to see Stanley Dabernath, the disease-ravaged freak."
"You still don't believe that you were dead, do you?"
"Oh, I'm sure you would never fib to me. This whole strapped-to-the-bed thing proves that you're a trustworthy chap."
Brant knelt down. Stanley heard him open the briefcase, and then Brant stood up again, holding a small stack of photographs. He held the stack in front of Stanley's face.
"Recognize this handsome gentleman?" Brant asked.
The top picture was of Stanley, lying on a gurney, dried milk on his face, his eyes open, his expression lifeless.
"So? That's me in a coma," said Stanley, even though it didn't look anything like a coma.
Brant flipped to the next picture. "How about this?"
In the photo, Stanley lay on a metal table, his body the appalling gray color, his eyes still open. Stanley turned away.
"What's the matter, Stanley? Is it disturbing to see yourself dead and refrigerated?"
"They're fake."
"Right," said Brant. "While you were unconscious we put some makeup on you and took some photographs just for an elaborate practical joke to convince you that you'd been deceased."
"And that's supposed to be a less plausible explanation than that I'm a re-animated zombie?"
"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.