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
