The Sinister Mr. Corpse (3 page)

They were a sickly grayish-blue color, with
small splotches where the skin looked like it had rotted away.

What had they done to him?

What disease had they injected him with?

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.

CHAPTER FOUR

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?"