Jeff Strand - The Sinister Mr. Corpse

"I used to be, pre-zombie."

"Well, get back into it, because you'll be doing it a lot. They should be fairly generic questions. How do you feel, what was it like to be dead, that sort of thing. You'll probably be asked about the machine and chemicals that brought you back to life, but it's okay to admit that you don't know anything about them. Just be honest."

"Can I say that I was brought back by a DVD player and grape Kool-Aid?"

"No. Let me explain something to you. Your resurrection was shown on live television all over the world, but many people, perhaps even most people, think it was faked. They're sure you're phony. And when you do your press conference, I guarantee that somebody will accuse you of being some actor in makeup. So if you stand up there and make smart-ass comments, they're not going to believe that you're real."

"But that's what I am. A dead guy who makes lots of smart-ass comments. I'm thinking of eight or nine of them right now."

"Yes, but that's not what people expect from a resurrected corpse. I certainly encourage you to be funny, and especially to use the 'chance of a lifetime' joke, but you can't act like an idiot. Be charming and respectful. Can you do that for me?"

"Nobody is looking for a zombie to be charming and respectful. They're looking for me to devour human flesh and have body parts drop off. What if somebody decides to shoot me in the head?"

"Don't worry, the press conference will be secure. Would you like to watch your television special after you're done with breakfast?"

"You have it recorded?"

"Of course."

"Hell yeah!"

"Jeez, do you think they could pad this thing out any more?" asked Stanley, shoving a handful of popcorn into his mouth as they sat in his room; Stanley on the bed, Veronica on the recliner.

"Well, they had to fill a two-hour special," said Veronica.

"They didn't even get my biographical material right." Stanley picked up the remote control and fast-forwarded through a set of commercials. "Ah, here we go."

He watched on the television screen as Brant pulled the lever and the machine started pumping chemicals into his dead body.

Stanley shut off the video. "Maybe I don't want to see this."

"You've only been re-alive for a day," said Veronica. "You still need time to adjust."

"Yeah."

"Are you going to be okay?"

"Yeah, why? Do I look like I'm not?"

"You just look a bit disturbed."

"Nah." He ran a hand through his hair. "So if you died, would you want to come back?"

"Absolutely."

"Even if you looked like this?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

"I don't know. I just would."

"That's a lousy answer."

"I'm not the one who's supposed to be giving answers," said Veronica.

An unknown voice crackled over the speaker. "Dr. Lamber is ready for Mr. Dabernath."

Veronica got up off the recliner. "Okay, let's go prove that you're sane."

Stanley shifted uncomfortably as he sat across the table from Dr. Lamber. They were in a small room with mold-green walls (though not from actual mold) and absolutely nothing in the way of decor. Dr. Lamber, who was middle-aged, clean-shaven, and completely bald, had a piercing stare that really creeped Stanley out. He wished there were posters on the walls, maybe something in an "It's Good To Be Sane!" motif, to distract him.

"Are you ready to begin?" asked Dr. Lamber in his quiet, emotion-free, oddly eerie voice.

"Yes."

"What is your name?"

"Stanley Dabernath."

"Are you certain?"

"Yeah."

Dr. Lamber nodded in a thoughtful yet eerie manner and wrote something in his notebook. "Do you know this because you remember your name, or because people in this bunker have recently explained to you that your name is Stanley Dabernath?"

Stanley stared at him for a long moment. "Are you fucking kidding me?"

Dr. Lamber nodded thoughtfully again and wrote something else in his notebook.

"Did you write something bad?" Stanley asked.

"There are no right or wrong answers here."

"But did you write something bad?"

"Do you think you gave me justification to write something bad?"

"I don't know. I just don't want to get locked up in a padded cell as an insane cadaver."

Dr. Lamber nodded thoughtfully and wrote more in his notebook.

"You wrote something even worse, didn't you? Look, I'm sorry I dropped the f-bomb. I wasn't thinking. Let's just move on."

"When I asked you the question about your name, why did you think I might be kidding?"

"Because it was a very silly question."

"Why?"

"Because I know my name."

"I had no way of knowing that you knew."

"But you asked me again after I said I did know."

"I see. Did you think I looked like the sort of individual who would ask questions in jest?"

"I don't know. I just met you."

"I see."

They sat there in silence.

Dr. Lamber leaned forward. "What's your middle name?"

"Allen."

"Spell it."

Dr. Lamber shuffled through some papers, glanced at the top of one of them, and nodded, apparently satisfied.

Stanley sighed. "This is going to be a long interview, isn't it?"

"What made you call it an interview?"

Stanley felt at least thirty-five percent less sane as he walked out of his psychological examination, but he was pretty sure they'd stamp his file "Not a Whacko."

"I can't believe you made me go through that," he told Veronica as they walked down the hallway.

"You've been dead. We have to make sure that a professional finds you mentally competent to sign the contracts that are going to bring lots of money to you and Project Second Chance."

"Fair enough."

"Anyway, your physical exam is going to suck much worse."

"Well, helloooooo Stanley!" said Dr. Arnzin as Stanley walked into the examination room. This guy looked barely old enough to be playing doctor with a co-ed, let alone performing duties as a medical professional. His memory was fuzzy, but Stanley thought he might have been the scientist he punched out after his resurrection. "How are your dead bones doing today?"

"They've been deader."

"Good, good, good. That's good. Have a seat on that ice-cold stool and we'll look you over, okay?"

Stanley sat down on the metal stool and gave a friendly wave to the not-particularly-well-hidden camera on the wall. He didn't mind them recording him, but he did mind them insulting his intelligence by trying to hide it.

"Let's start by checking your pulse," said Dr. Arnzin, wrapping the cuff of the blood pressure monitor around Stanley's arm and inflating it. He glanced at the readout and nodded. "No pulse. Good."

"Can I see?"

Dr. Arnzin showed him the display screen. All three numbers read zero. "Pretty hard to have a pulse when you don't have any blood. Just wanted to make sure nothing was squirming around in there."

"I don't have any blood?"

"Not a drop. It's being stored in jars in a freezer somewhere in the facility. Do you want to see it?"

"Nah."

"I guess there isn't any reason to check your heartbeat," said Dr. Arnzin with a wink. "Not gonna hear a lot of activity in that area, now are we?"

Stanley pressed his palm to his heart. Nothing. "I'm not sure I like this," he admitted.

"Oh, don't let it bother you. I know I wouldn't."

"So isn't blood used to, y'know, carry oxygen around the body?"

"The red blood cells, yes."

"Then why do I need to breathe?"

"You don't. You're just used to it."

"Huh?"

"Try to hold your breath. Watch what happens."

Stanley sucked in a lungful of air and then held it.

And held it.