The Laughing Corpse - Laurell K. Hamilton [76]
“Ernie here is the best roommate I ever had,” the comedian said. “He doesn’t eat much, doesn’t talk my ear off, doesn’t bring cute chicks home and lock me out while they have a good time.” Nervous laughter from the audience. Eyes glued on ol’ Ernie.
“Though there was that pork chop in the fridge that went bad. Ernie seemed to like that a lot.”
The zombie turned slowly, almost painfully, to stare at the comedian. The man’s eyes flickered to the zombie, then back to the audience, smile in place. The zombie kept staring at him. The man didn’t seem to like it much. I didn’t blame him. Even the dead don’t like to be the butt of jokes.
The jokes weren’t that funny anyway. It was a novelty act. The zombie was the act. Pretty inventive, and pretty sick.
Willie came back with my Coke. The manager waiting on my table, la-de-da. Of course, the reserved table was pretty good, too. Willie set the drink down on one of those useless paper lace dollies. “Enjoy,” he said. He turned to leave, but I touched his arm. I wish I hadn’t.
The arm was solid enough, real enough. But it was like touching wood. It was dead. I don’t know what else to call it. There was no feeling of movement. Nothing.
I dropped his arm, slowly, and looked up at him. Meeting his eyes, thanks to Jean-Claude’s marks. Those brown eyes held something like sorrow.
I could suddenly hear my heartbeat in my ears, and I had to swallow to calm my own pulse. Shit. I wanted Willie to go away now. I turned away from him and looked very hard at my drink. He left. Maybe it was just the sound of all the laughing, but I couldn’t hear Willie walk away.
Willie McCoy was the only vampire I had ever known before he died. I remembered him alive. He had been a small-time hood. An errand boy for bigger fish. Maybe Willie thought being a vampire would make him a big fish. He’d been wrong there. He was just a little undead fish now. Jean-Claude or someone like him would run Willie’s “life” for eternity. Poor Willie.
I rubbed the hand that had touched him on my leg. I wanted to forget the feel of his body under the new tomato-red suit, but I couldn’t. Jean-Claude’s body didn’t feel that way. Of course, Jean-Claude could damn near pass for human. Some of the old ones could do that. Willie would learn. God help him.
“Zombies are better than dogs. They’ll fetch your slippers and don’t need to be walked. Ernie’ll even sit at my feet and beg if I tell him to.”
The audience laughed. I wasn’t sure why. It wasn’t that genuine ha-ha laughter. It was that outrageous shocked sound. The I-can’t-believe-he-said-that laughter.
The zombie was moving toward the comedian in a sort of slow-motion jerk. Crumbling hands reached outward and my stomach squeezed tight. It was a flashback to last night. Zombies almost always attack by just reaching out. Just like in the movies.
The comedian didn’t realize that Ernie had decided he’d had enough. If a zombie is simply raised without any particular orders, he usually reverts to what is normal for him. A good person is a good person until his brain decays, stripping him of personality. Most zombies won’t kill without orders, but every once in a while you get lucky and raise one that has homicidal tendencies. The comedian was about to get lucky.
The zombie walked towards him like a bad Frankenstein monster. The comedian finally realized something was wrong. He stopped in mid-joke, turning eyes wide. “Ernie,” he said. It was as far as he got. The decaying hands wrapped around his throat and started to squeeze.
For one pleasant second I almost let the zombie do him in. Exploiting the dead is one thing I feel strongly about, but . . . stupidity isn’t punishable by death. If it was, there would be a hell of a population drop.
I stood up, glancing around the club to see if they had planned