Shit. He’d raised three zombies on his first night out, and I was going to be talking to Bert about the wisdom of sending Larry out on his own.
Besides, we were outside. “Go ahead.”
“Thanks.”
He lit the cigarette and drew a deep breath of nicotine and tar. Smoke curled out of his mouth and nose, like pale ghosts. “Feel better already,” he said.
I shrugged. “Just so you don’t smoke in the car with me.”
“No problem,” he said. The tip of his cigarette pulsed orange in the dark as he sucked on it. He looked past me, letting smoke curl from his lips as he said, “We’re being paged.”
I turned and, sure enough, the lawyers were waving at us. I felt like a janitor being called in to clean up the messy necessities. I stood up, and Larry followed me.
“You sure you feel well enough for this?” I asked.
“I couldn’t raise a dead ant, but I think I’m up to watching you do it.”
There were bruises under his eyes and the skin was too tight around his mouth, but if he wanted to play macho man who was I to stop him? “Great; let’s do it.”
I got salt out of my trunk. It was perfectly legal to carry zombie-raising supplies. I suppose the machete that I used for beheading chickens could be used as a weapon, but the rest of the stuff was considered harmless. Shows you what the legal system knows about zombies.
Andrew Doughal had recovered himself. He still looked a little waxy, but his face was serious, concerned, alive. He smoothed a hand down the stylish lapel of his suit coat. He looked down at me, not just because he was taller but because he was good at looking down. Some people have a real talent for being condescending.
“Do you know what’s happening, Mr. Doughal?” I asked the zombie.
He looked down his narrow patrician nose. “I am going home with my wife.”
I sighed. I hated it when zombies didn’t realize they were dead. They acted so… human.
“Mr. Doughal, do you know why you’re in a cemetery?”
“What’s happening?” one of the lawyers asked.
“He’s forgotten that he’s dead,” I said softly.
The zombie stared at me, perfectly arrogant. He must have been a real pain in the ass when he was alive, but even assholes are piteous once in a while.
“I don’t know what you are babbling about,” the zombie said. “You obviously are suffering from some delusion.”
“Can you explain why you are here in a cemetery?” I asked.
“I don’t have to explain anything to you.”
“Do you remember how you got to the cemetery?”
“We… we drove, of course.” The first hint of unease wavered through his voice.
“You’re guessing, Mr. Doughal. You don’t really remember driving to the cemetery, do you?”
“I… I…” He looked at his wife, his grown children, but they were walking to their cars. No one even looked back. He was dead, no getting around that, but most families didn’t just walk away. They might be horrified, or saddened, or even sickened, but they were never neutral. The Doughals had gotten the will signed, and they were leaving. They had their inheritance. Let good ol’ dad crawl back into his grave.
He called, “Emily?”
She hesitated, stiffening, but one of her sons grabbed her arm and hurried her toward the cars. Was he embarrassed, or scared?
“I want to go home,” he yelled after them. The arrogance had leaked away, and all that was left was that sickening fear, the desperate need not to believe. He felt so alive. How could he possibly be dead?
His wife half-turned. “Andrew, I’m sorry.” Her grown children hustled her into the nearest car. You would have thought they were the getaway drivers for a bank robbery, they peeled out so fast.
The lawyers and secretaries left as fast as was decent. Everybody had what they’d come for. They were done with the corpse. The trouble was that the “corpse” was staring after them like a child who was left in the dark.
Why couldn’t he have stayed an arrogant SOB?
“Why are they leaving me?” he asked.
“You died, Mr. Doughal, nearly a week ago.”
“No, it’s not true.”
Larry moved up beside me. “You really are dead, Mr. Doughal. I raised you from the dead myself.”
He stared from one to the other of us. He was beginning to run out of excuses. “I don’t feel dead.”
“Trust us, Mr. Doughal, you are dead,” I said.
“Will it hurt?”
A lot of zombies asked that; will it hurt to go back into the grave? “No, Mr. Doughal, it doesn’t hurt. I promise.”
He took a deep, shaking breath and nodded. “I’m dead, really dead?”
“Yes.”
“Then put me back, please.” He had rallied and found his dignity. It was nightmarish when the zombie refused to believe. You could still lay them to rest, but the clients had to hold them down on the grave while they screamed. I’d only had that happen twice, but I remembered each time as if it had happened last night. Some things don’t dim with time.
I threw salt against his chest. It sounded like sleet hitting a roof. “With salt I bind you to your grave.”
I had the still-bloody knife in my hand. I wiped the gelling blood across his lips. He didn’t jerk away. He believed. “With blood and steel I bind you to your grave, Andrew Doughal. Be at peace, and walk no more.”
The zombie laid full length on the mound of flowers. The flowers seemed to flow over him like quicksand, and just like that he was swallowed back into the grave.
We stood there a minute in the empty graveyard. The only sounds were the wind sighing high up in the trees and the melancholy song of the year’s last crickets. In Charlotte’s Web, the crickets sang, “Summer is over and gone. Over and gone, over and gone. Summer is dying, dying.” The first hard frost, and the crickets would be dying. They were like Chicken Little, who told everyone the sky was falling; except in this case, the crickets were right.
The crickets stopped suddenly like someone had turned a switch. I held my breath, straining to hear. There was nothing but the wind, and yet… My shoulders were so tight they hurt. “Larry?”
He turned innocent eyes to me. “What?”
There, three trees to our left, a man’s figure was silhouetted against the moonlight. I caught movement out of the corner of my eye, on the right side. More than one. The darkness felt alive with eyes. More than two.
I used Larry’s body to shield me from the eyes, drawing my gun, holding it along my leg so it wouldn’t be obvious.
Larry’s eyes widened. “Jesus, what’s wrong?” His voice was a hoarse whisper. He didn’t give us away. Good for him. I started herding him towards the cars, slowly, just your friendly neighborhood animators finished with their night’s work and going home to a well-deserved rest.
“There are people out here.”
“After us?”
“After me, more likely,” I said.
“Why?”
I shook my head. “No time for explanations. When I say run, run like hell for the cars.”
“How do you know they mean to hurt us?” His eyes were flashing a lot of white. He saw them now, too. Shadows moving closer, people out in the dark.
“How do you know they don’t mean to hurt us?” I asked.
“Good point,” he said. His breathing was fast and shallow. We were maybe twenty feet from the cars.
“Run,” I said.
“What?” his voice sounded startled.
I grabbed his arm and dragged him into a run for the cars. I pointed the gun at the ground, still hoping whoever it was wouldn’t be prepared for a gun.
Larry was running on his own, puffing a little from fear, smoking, and maybe he didn’t run four miles every other day.
A man stepped in front of the cars. He brought up a large revolver. The Browning was already moving. It fired before my aim was steady. The muzzle flashed brilliant in the dark. The man jumped, not used to being shot at. His shot whined into the darkness to our left. He froze for the seconds it took me to aim and fire again. Then he crumpled to the ground and didn’t get up again.