Jeff Strand - The Sinister Mr. Corpse

He looked at his arms and chest. They were just as bad.

Stanley let out a dry heave, and then passed out.

"Stanley…?"

"Huh?"

"Stanley, my name is Richard Brant. How are you feeling?"

Stanley opened his eyes. It took a few seconds for his vision to focus, and then he saw that he was in somebody's bedroom. Aside from the bed, the only furnishings were a large bookshelf and a wide-screen television. The walls were decorated with paintings of peaceful scenes, mostly beaches at sunset. He was under a fluffy pink blanket, which was bunched under his chin but completely covered the rest of his body.

"Stanley, can you hear me?"

Stanley realized that his hands and feet were strapped to the bed. He began to violently tug on them, but quit immediately when it felt like he was going to rip his arms and legs out of their sockets. His left foot hurt particularly bad and felt like it was wrapped in something.

The prick who said he was Richard Brant was seated in a chair next to the bed. He was middle-aged, with a full head of completely gray hair, and wore glasses and a neatly-trimmed goatee. He was wearing a casual tan sweater-vest.

"Let me go," Stanley pleaded. "I won't tell anybody about what you've done, I swear."

Brant chuckled. "Oh, on the contrary, we've spread the news far and wide. You're a star, Stanley."

"What did you inject me with? Am I gonna die?"

"No, you're certainly not going to die. Tell me what you remember."

"Let me out of here."

"Stanley, I need you to calm down. I apologize for the fact that we awakened you in such a cold, clinical environment. This room is a bit nicer, don't you think? You even have a waterbed." Brant leaned over and pressed his hand against the mattress, jiggling Stanley a bit. "Are you in pain?"

"Yeah."

"Where?"

"Everywhere."

"Yes, that's to be expected. Don't worry, if you follow our instructions, it will fade before long. Now tell me what you remember. What happened to you before you woke up in the other room?"

"I don't know."

"Try and remember."

"I think I stomped on a fish."

"Did you, now?"

"Yes…no, wait…I don't know. No, I didn't. I watched it. Extreme Fishing. I went out for a walk, and this semi came at me, and it fell on me and I couldn't get away from the milk. I almost died."

"And what do you remember after that?"

"I'm not sure." Stanley tugged at the straps again, wincing in pain. "C'mon, let me go."

"Not yet."

"At least take off this blanket. You did something to me. My skin is all messed up."

"Try and concentrate, Stanley. What do you remember after you nearly drowned?"

Stanley thought for a long moment. "Nothing."

"Nothing at all?"

"Just waking up in the other room with all those tubes stuck in me. Please take off the blanket."

"I need you to take a long, deep breath. Can you do that for me?"

"You can't keep me here! The cops'll find you! My parents are probably looking for me right now!"

"Stanley, you have to calm down or I'm going to walk out of this room and leave you alone in the dark for a while. I'm sure you don't want that, so how about taking that long, deep breath for me, all right?"

Stanley closed his eyes and took a deep breath. His lungs burned as he did so.

"You didn't almost drown after that truck hit you," Brant explained. "You did drown."

Stanley opened his eyes again. "What?"

"You died."

"Did not."

"Yes, I'm afraid you did."

"I didn't die. I remember…" He tried desperately to recall what had happened to him afterward, but his mind was blank. "Well, I sure as hell don't remember dying!"

"But you did. And I brought you back to life. On national television. With record ratings, I assume."

"Fuck you. You give me some disease and tell me you brought me back to life? You think that's funny? What kind of sick bastard are you? When the cops get here, they'll lock your deranged butt away for good."

"You have no disease. You are, in fact, remarkably healthy for somebody who was dead for eight weeks." Brant stood up. "I'm going to remove the blanket now, and it will probably disturb you. You may even pass out again. But I need you to be strong. Can you be strong for me, Stanley?"

"I can be strong enough to kick your ass."

"You know, Stanley, we're going to have to work on that profanity problem. We can't have you being a celebrity with such a foul mouth."

"Quit saying 'Stanley.' It's not nearly as soothing as you think it is."

"Very well. You don't seem willing to calm down, so I'm afraid I'll have to leave you for a short while. Take this time in the dark to compose your thoughts and make that special effort to cooperate."

Brant stood up and left the room, shutting off the light behind him.

Oh, sure, like I'm supposed to be scared of the dark, thought Stanley. I'm not five years old anymore, you jerk.

He took another deep breath and exhaled slowly. He didn't know exactly what kind of perversions were going on in this place, but he sure as hell hadn't died and been brought back to life. Or if he had, it was one of those deals were he'd been legally dead for a couple of minutes and they revived him. He definitely hadn't been dead for eight weeks.

He did smell pretty bad, though.

Maybe he had leprosy.

Or maybe they'd infected him with one of those flesh-eating bacteria.

It could even be some experimental disease commissioned by the government to use in combat. That was the most likely explanation. They were going to see how long it took for him to die. Well, these sadists weren't going to get any good research out of him. He'd find a way out of here and inject them with their own funky virus.

The dark was kind of scary.

He almost tugged at the straps again but decided against it.

He needed to stay calm and focused. If he just played along with them, there was bound to be a chance to escape. And they probably had an antidote for whatever disease they gave him. He'd be fine. Everything would be fine.

Did something move next to him?

No, no, he was just imagining things.

Deep breaths. Lots of deep breaths.

He needed to distract himself.

I spy with my little eye…

You're in the dark, dipshit.

I'm going on a camping trip and I'm bringing an apple.

I'm going on a camping trip and I'm bringing an apple and a box.

I'm going on a camping trip and I'm bringing an apple, a box, and a cooler.

I'm going on a camping trip and I'm bringing an apple, a box, a cooler, and a deadly disease, one that's eating through my legs at this very moment.

He wasn't going to panic.

He wasn't going to scream.

Who had saved him from the milk? Maybe it was the idiot driving the semi. Or maybe it had been Martin. Hopefully it was some hot chick who'd given him mouth-to-mouth.

I just need to get some rest.

Stanley closed his eyes. He got no rest.

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?"