Лорел Гамильтон - Strange Candy

“Ordinary?”

Very few people who came to us had even a remote idea of how rare vampires were, or why. “The deceased would have to have been bitten by a werewolf, vampire, or other supernatural creature, while alive. Being buried in unconsecrated ground would help. Your husband, Arthur, was never bitten by a vampire while alive, was he?”

“No,” she half laughed, “he was bitten by my Yorkshire terrier once.”

I smiled, encouraging her turn of spirits. “That won’t quite do it. Your husband can come back as a zombie or not at all.”

“I’ll take it,” she said quietly, all serious and very still.

“I will warn you that most families find it advisable to lay the zombie to rest af ter a time.”

“Why?”

Why? I saw the happy family embracing their lost loved one. I saw the family sick, horrified, bringing the decaying corpse to be put down. The smiling relative reduced to a shambling horror.

“What exactly do you want Arthur to do when he arises?”

She looked down and shredded another tissue. “I want to say good-bye to him.”

“Yes, Mrs. Fiske, but what do you want him to do?”

She was silent for several minutes. I decided to prompt her. “For instance, a woman came in wanting her husband raised so he could take out life insurance. I told her most insurance companies won’t insure the walking dead.” She grinned at that. “And that is what Arthur will come back as—the walking dead.”

Her smile faltered, and tears came again. “I want Arthur to forgive me.” She hid her face in her hands and sobbed. “I had an affair for several months. He found out, had a heart attack, and died.” She seemed to gain strength from the words, and the tears slowed. “You see that I have to talk to him one last time. I have to tell him I love him, only him. I want Arthur to forgive me. Can he do that as a.. .zombie?”

“I’ve found that the dead are very forgiving of the living, when they die of natural causes. Your husband will have ample brainpower to speak. He will be himself at first. As the days progress, he will lose memory. He will begin to decay, first mentally, then physically.”

“Decay?”

“Yes, slowly, but af ter all, he is dead.”

The relatives didn’t really believe that a fresh zombie wasn’t alive. Knowing intellectually that someone smiling and talking is the walking dead is one thing. Emotionally, it is very different. But they believed as time passed and as he or she began to look like a walking corpse.

“It’s temporary then?”

“Not exactly.” I came from behind the desk and sat next to her. “He could stay a zombie possibly forever. But his physical and mental state would deteriorate until he was not much better than an automaton in tattered flesh.”

“Tattered.. .flesh,” she whispered.

I touched her hand. “I know it’s a hard choice, but that is the reality.” Tattered flesh didn’t really touch the white sheen of bone through rotting flesh, but it was a term our boss allowed.

She gripped my hand and smiled. “Thank you for telling me the truth. I still want to bring Arthur back. Even if it’s just long enough to say a few words.”

So she was going to do it, as I had known she would. “So you don’t want him for weeks, or days, only long enough to talk.”

“I think so.”

“I don’t mean to rush you, Mrs. Fiske, but I need to know before we set up an appointment. You see, it takes more time and energy to raise and then lay to rest, one right af ter another.” If she laid and raised quickly enough, Mrs. Fiske might be able to remember Arthur at his best.

“Oh, of course. If possible I would like to talk for several hours.”

“Then it’s best if you take him home for at least the evening. We can schedule putting him back for tomorrow night.” I would push for a quick laying to rest. I didn’t think Mrs. Fiske could take watching her husband rot before her eyes.

“That sounds good.” She took a deep breath. I knew what she was going to say. She looked so brave and resolute. “I want to be there when you bring him back.”

“Your presence is required, Mrs. Fiske. You see, a zombie has no real will of its own. Your husband should be able to think on his own at first, but as time wears on, the zombie finds it very difficult to decide things. The person, or persons, who raised it will have control over it.”

“You and I?”

“Yes.”

She paled even more, her grip tightening.

“Mrs. Fiske?” I got her a glass of water. “Sip it slowly.” When she seemed better, I asked, “Are you sure you’re up to this tonight?”

“Is there anything I need to bring?”

“A suit of your husband’s clothes would be nice. Maybe a favorite object, hat, trophy, to help him orient himself. The rest I’ll supply.” I hesitated, because some of the color had crept into her face, but she needed to be prepared. “There will be blood at the ceremony.”

“Blood.” Her voice was a breathy whisper.

“Chicken, I’ll bring it. There will also be some ointment to spread over our faces and hands. It glows faintly and smells fairly strange, but not unpleasant.” Her next question would be the usual.

“What do we do with the blood?”

I gave the usual answer. “We sprinkle some on the grave and some on us.”

She swallowed very carefully, looking slightly gray.

“You can back out now but not later. Once you’ve paid your deposit, it can’t be refunded. And once the ceremony begins, to break the circle is very dangerous.”

She looked down, thinking. I liked that. Most who agreed right away were afraid later. The brave ones took time to answer. “Yes.” She sounded very convinced. “To make peace with Arthur, I can do it.”

“Good for you. How is tonight?”

“About midnight,” she added hopefully.

I smiled. Everyone thought midnight was the perfect time for raising the dead. All that was required was darkness. Some people did put a great deal of stock in certain phases of the moon, but I had never found it necessary. “No, how about nine o’clock?”

“Nine?”

“If that will be all right. I have two other appointments tonight, and nine was lef topen.”

She smiled. “That will be fine.” Her hand shook as she signed the check for half the fee, the other half to be delivered after the raising.

We shook hands, and she said, “Call me Carla.”

“I’m Anita.”

“I’ll see you at nine tonight at Wellington Cemetery.”

I continued for her, “Between two large trees and across from the only hill.”

“Yes, thank you.” She flashed a watery smile and was gone.

I buzzed our receptionist area. “Mary, I’m booked up for this week and won’t be seeing any more clients, until at least next Tuesday.”

“I’ll see to it, Anita.”

I leaned back in my chair and soaked up the silence. Three animations a night was my limit. Tonight they were all routine, or almost. I was bringing back my first research scientist. His three colleagues couldn’t figure out his notes, and their deadline, or rather grant, was running close. So dear Dr. Richard Norris was coming back from the dead to help them out. They were scheduled for midnight.

At three this next morning I would meet the widowed Mrs. Stiener. She wanted her husband to clear up some nasty details with his will.

Being an animator meant very little nightlife, no pun intended. Afternoons were spent interviewing clients and evenings raising the dead. Though we few were very popular at a certain kind of party—the sort where the host likes to brag about how many celebrities he knows, or worse yet, the kind who simply want to stare. I don’t like being on display and refuse to go to parties unless forced. Our boss likes to keep us in the public eye to dispel rumors that we are witches or hobgoblins.