RSS 2.0 FeedIssue Four-June/July 2009, Cover Stories, Speculative Satire Fiction
Fresh
Sometimes you gotta do what you gotta do. Even if you're a zombie.
Franklin K. Peabody, professional zombie, removed his left eye every night. It was not, he insisted, so different from a living person removing a contact lens, although it took an unpleasant deal of poking and gouging. Lifetrue(tm) jelly acrylic eyes required regular disinfecting soaks; leaving one in a rotting socket overnight would be would be unsanitary, and Franklin took personal hygiene very seriously. He had devised an entire series of sanitation rituals designed to prolong the viability of his corpse, and he had managed to avoid significant decay for nearly two decades and counting.
There were . . . issues now and then, of course. Ears fell off. Gangrenous wounds opened and oozed unsightly green pus at inopportune moments. Brittle bones snapped; limbs swiveled awkwardly out of joint. Franklin kept his briefcase stocked with a necessary arsenal of quick fixes - needle and thread, medical tape, gauze, splints. At home, he experimented with more permanent solutions. He had once reattached a finger with spackle. Five years later, the digit was still in place.
Anything could be saved with enough spackle.
His only real loss to date was his left eye. Soon after his death, an infection had liquefied the eyeball and sent it dribbling down his cheek in a thick, milky glob. If I knew then what I know now, he often thought while gulping down another course of black-market antibiotics.
Each day began with an invigorating soak in a diluted bath of arsenic-based preservatives and industrial cleansers, which disinfected and safeguarded his various problem areas nicely. He followed that with a bleach gargle, a liberal dousing of cologne - without which he smelled vaguely like a restaurant dumpster on a summer afternoon - and a brisk rubdown with a concoction of antibacterial creams and lotions. He repeated the routine before bed. On particularly warm days - and Los Angeles had plenty of those - he often did it around lunchtime as well. It kept him feeling fresh.
After discovering how difficult it was to keep blood from going stale and rancid, he had drained his and replaced it with a formaldehyde blend. The change left him with a constant reptilian chill. He did not enjoy the feeling, but he rationalized it with the hope that his lower body temperature might retard decay. He enjoyed the regular build-up of putrid gases in his abdomen even less, but such matters were an inevitable consequence of the decomposition process. His solution came in the form of a small spigot, not unlike the plastic stopper on a child's inflatable pool toy, which he implanted near his navel. Once or twice a day - and always, always in private - he held his nose, unplugged the spigot, and ridded himself of bloat. The process embarrassed him, but he preferred it to the far greater mortification of an accidental gas expulsion in public.
If he anticipated a lot of time spent outdoors, he added a strong sunscreen to his daily routine. His skin was deteriorating rapidly enough without the addition of avoidable sun damage. He had experimented with a range of enzymes and hydroxy acids, but none were strong enough to keep his skin from graying and flaking, so he made use of moisturizers and cosmetics on days when he had to look presentable.
The employment prospects for a professional zombie were limited, but Franklin managed to exist comfortably. Horror movies were his specialty; he had been an extra in dozens of films. Occasionally he won a small speaking role, but his lines usually consisted of moans and slack-jawed grunts, which embarrassed him greatly.
He was proud, however, of his convincing portrayal of Jacob Marley in a made-for-television adaptation of A Christmas Carol.
The Halloween season always brought extra work, especially in advertisements. He had a special disdain for used car lot commercials, which invariably had him staggering among rows of dented Toyotas and discounted Ford pickups while an announcer went on about "frighteningly low prices," but the resulting wages had paid his October rent more than once.
Still, movies were his bread and butter. He was famous among the industry's best make-up artists, who dropped his name whenever directors and producers were casting new horror projects. Make-up artists loved him because he saved them so much time.
When his agent, Jim Newberg, called to arrange a meeting, Franklin assumed Jim had lined up some auditions. The last year had been lean, as far as working gigs went, but Franklin was optimistic about the upcoming autumn.
"Have you eaten yet?" Jim asked when Franklin entered his office. "I'm just about to send my assistant out for sandwiches. We've got this great deli down the street - let me tell you, the turkey's top notch. Want a sandwich?"
Franklin sat down, placed his briefcase near his feet, and smiled. "No, Jim, but thank you. I'm vegan, remember?"
"A vegan zombie." Jim shook his head. "You'd think that'd be weird enough for me to remember, huh? Well, uh, what can I order for you? What do vegans eat, again? Sprouts?"
"I'm fine," Franklin said. "But again, thank you."
Jim shrugged and, over the intercom, asked his assistant for a turkey on rye. Then he returned his attention to Franklin. "How'd a zombie ever become a vegan, anyway?"
"I've found that a simple, natural diet keeps me fresh," Franklin said. "Not that it's easy to turn to broccoli when I'm really craving a brain, of course, but in the long run, the trade-off is worth it."
"Brain, hah." Jim smiled. "You're a funny guy, Frankie. I like you."
"Thank you," said Franklin.
"Which makes what I have to say even harder," Jim continued. "Look, Frankie. I'm sure you've noticed that you haven't been working much lately."
"Yes, unfortunately. I've learned to accept dry spells. But with Halloween coming-"
"This isn't just a dry spell," Jim said. "The movie business has changed. Your last few pictures bombed, Frankie. People don't want zombie flicks anymore. You know what people want? People want psychos and stalkers and axe murderers. They want new kills and fresh corpses, not a pile of old rot."
"Pile of old rot? What exactly are you saying?" asked Franklin, who hoped he did not already know exactly what Jim was saying.
"It's nothing personal, buddy, but I'm not going to be able to rep you anymore."
"What?" Franklin's jaw fell open, and he felt its joints pop out of place. Frowning at the inconvenience, he signaled a pause, then gave his jaw a painful upward shove. The joints reconnected, and his teeth clicked together.
Jim grimaced. His assistant slipped in with the sandwich, threw Franklin a glance of absolute terror, and hurried back out.
"Could you move your chair back a little, Frankie?" Jim asked. "I'm trying to have my lunch here, and that stink of yours isn't exactly appetizing."
"I'm sorry," Frankie said, scooting back. "It's a very warm day." He moved his jaw from side to side, testing its stability. When he was satisfied, he said, "Jim, please. Let's talk about this. You were instrumental in getting my career off the ground. I can't lose you now. The movie business is cyclical; we both know that. In another couple of years, all the studios will be looking for zombie projects again."
"I have clients who need my attention now," Jim countered. "I can't afford to keep wasting resources on a has-been. I'll give you a ring if I hear about any open casting calls, but the horror market isn't what it used to be."
"Well, what about those remakes of Japanese horror movies? There's been no shortage of them in production."
"You remember what happened last time I got you a part in one of those," Jim said around a mouthful of sandwich. "You dislocated both shoulders during a stair crawl and delayed the shoot for three hours. You might look like a ghoul, Frankie, but you can't play one anymore."
Franklin was angry. He gripped the armrests of his chair so tightly that his spackled finger snapped off again. It rolled under the door and into the outer office, where Jim's assistant screamed. "You can't do this to me, Jim," Franklin said. "There are other roles for me. Look what I did with Jacob Marley - I could be just as good as Hamlet's father. I read the trades; at least three studios have given Shakespeare adaptations the green light this year. That could be my new niche."
Jim shook his head. "You think I haven't thought of that? No one wants to work with zombies these days. No offense, but you're not exactly pleasant to look at, and you smell like a broken sewer line. Producers are tired of hearing the rest of the talent complain about you."
"I need you. Dropping me now is an insult. It's..." Franklin sneered. "Well, it's lifeist. That's what it is. You're prejudiced against dead people."
"Lifeist?" Bits of turkey on rye flew from Jim's mouth. "Oh, that's a fine thing to say, after everything I've done for you."
"Everything you've done?" Franklin stared hard out of his good eye. A wash of red had begun to tint his vision. "Like dumping me without any warning? What am I supposed to do if I can't act? I'm not sure if you've noticed, but there aren't a lot of career paths open to a man like me." He stood up, his rage shoving him toward Jim in a loping stagger.
"Don't you pull that scary shit with me," Jim said, pointing an accusatory finger. "I know you too well."
Franklin's hands clenched and unclenched. He wanted to grip and break and tear. "Give me one more chance. Jim. One more year."
"I'm sorry, Frankie. My mind's made up."
"Oh, I think I can change it." Franklin lurched forward and caught Jim's head between his palms. He squeezed his hands together until he felt a satisfying crack; then he yanked up Jim's scalp like an old carpet, flicked away splinters of shattered skull, and helped himself to a gluttonous chomp of hot, wet brain. If he had to lose his agent and go off his diet on the same day, he reasoned, he might as well make the most of it. He gnawed and bit with relish, and he scooped up the last juicy scraps of cranial matter with his hands and slurped all nine fingers clean. Then he pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed at his mouth, freshening up as best he could.
On his way out, he paused by Jim's assistant's desk and picked up his finger. He wished the assistant a good day; the assistant fainted. Franklin temporarily reattached his finger with some tape and gauze from his briefcase; then he gave his full belly a satisfied pat and went home to find the spackle.