The Living Dead

'Try feeling for a pulse. Are you sure he wasn't just propping her up and moving her around like a puppet? But that wouldn't explain . . . .'

'You done with the pictures yet, Crane?' said one of the cops. Then, to me, in a light voice, 'Honey, come on out of there. Don't just lie there and let him photograph you like a corpse. You don't know what he does with the pictures.'

'Wait till the civilians are out of here before you start making jokes,' said someone else. 'Maybe she's just in shock.'

'Sheila?' said Marti from the passenger side.

'Marti,' I whispered.

Gasps.

'Sheila, you did it. You did it.'

Did what? Let him kill me, then kill me again? Suddenly I was so angry I couldn't rest. Anger was like the fire that had filled me before, only a lower, slower heat. I shuddered and sat up.

Another gasp from one of the men at the driver's side door. 'See?' said the one with the shock theory. One of them had a flashlight and shone it on me. I lifted my chin and stared at him, my microbraids brushing my shoulders.

'Kee-rist!'

'Oh, God!'

They fell back a step.

I sucked breath in past the swelling in my throat and said, 'I need a ride. And feeling for a pulse? I think you'll be happier if you don't.'

Marti gave me back her jacket. I rode in her Rabbit; the cop cars and the van from the medical examiner's office tailed us. Marti had a better idea of where she had found me than I did.

'What's your full name?' she said when we were driving. 'Is there anybody I can get in touch with for you?'

'No. I've been dead to them for a couple years already.'

'Are you sure? Did you ever call to check with them?'

I waited for a while, then said, 'If your daughter was a hooker and dead, would you want to know?'

'Yes,' she said immediately. 'Real information is much better than not knowing.'

I kept silent for another while, then told her my parents' names and phone number. Ultimately, I didn't care if the information upset them or not.

She handed me a little notebook and asked me to write it down, turning on the dome light so I could see what I was doing. The pain of scorching had left my fingers again. Holding the pen was awkward, but I managed to write out what Marti wanted. When I finished, I slipped the notebook back into her purse and turned off the light.

'It was somewhere along here,' she said half an hour later. 'You have any feeling for it?'

'No.' I didn't have a sense of my grave the way I had had a feeling for Richie. Marti's headlights flashed on three Coke cans lying together by the road, though, and I remembered seeing a cluster like that soon after I had climbed up the slope. 'Here,' I said.

She pulled over, and so did the three cars following us. Someone gave me a flashlight and I went to the edge of the slope and walked along, looking for my own footprints or anything else familiar. A broken bramble, a crushed fern, a tree with a hooked branch—I remembered them all from the afternoon. 'Here,' I said, pointing down the mountainside.

'Okay. Don't disturb anything,' said the cop named Joe. One of the others started stringing up yellow tape along the road in both directions.

'But—' I was having a feeling now, a feeling that Sheila had lived as long as she wanted. All I needed was my blanket of goofer dust, and I could go back to sleep. When Joe went back to his car to get something, I slipped over the edge and headed home.

I pushed the branches off the other two women and lay down beside their bodies, thinking about my brief life. I had helped somebody and I had hurt somebody, which I figured was as much as I'd done in my first two lives.

I pulled dirt up over me, even over my face, not blinking when it fell into my eyes; but then I thought, Marti's going to see me sooner or later, and she'd probably like it better if my eyes were closed. So I closed my eyes.

The Dead

by Michael Swanwick

Michael Swanwick is the author of the novels Bones of the Earth, Griffin's Egg, In the Drift, The Iron Dragon's Daughter, Jack Faust, Stations of the Tide, Vacuum Flowers, and The Dragons of Babel. His short fiction has appeared in Asimov's Science Fiction, Analog, The Magazine of Fantasy & Science Fiction, and in numerous anthologies, and has been collected in Cigar-Box Faust, A Geography of Unknown Lands, Gravity's Angels, Moon Dogs, Puck Aleshire's Abecedary, Tales of Old Earth, and The Dog Said Bow-Wow. He is the winner of numerous awards, including the Hugo, Nebula, Sturgeon, Locus, and World Fantasy awards.

This story, which was a finalist for both the Hugo and Nebula awards, first appeared in Starlight 1. Here, the zombies are not a menace but a commodity: luxury goods to be bought and sold on the free market. Besides zombies, it also features cold-blooded businessmen; it's hard to say which is more frightening.

Three boy zombies in matching red jackets bussed our table, bringing water, lighting candles, brushing away the crumbs between courses. Their eyes were dark, attentive, lifeless; their hands and faces so white as to be faintly luminous in the hushed light. I thought it in bad taste, but 'This is Manhattan,' Courtney said. 'A certain studied offensiveness is fashionable here.'

The blond brought menus and waited for our order.

We both ordered pheasant. 'An excellent choice,' the boy said in a clear, emotionless voice. He went away and came back a minute later with the freshly strangled birds, holding them up for our approval. He couldn't have been more than eleven when he died and his skin was of that sort connoisseurs call 'milk glass,' smooth, without blemish, and all but translucent. He must have cost a fortune.

As the boy was turning away, I impulsively touched his shoulder. He turned back. 'What's your name, son?' I asked.

'Timothy.' He might have been telling me the specialite de maison. The boy waited a breath to see if more was expected of him, then left.

Courtney gazed after him. 'How lovely he would look,' she murmured, 'nude. Standing in the moonlight by a cliff. Definitely a cliff. Perhaps the very one where he met his death.'

'He wouldn't look very lovely if he'd fallen off a cliff.'

'Oh, don't be unpleasant.'

The wine steward brought our bottle. 'Chateau La Tour '17.' I raised an eyebrow. The steward had the sort of old and complex face that Rembrandt would have enjoyed painting. He poured with pulseless ease and then dissolved into the gloom. 'Good lord, Courtney, you seduced me on cheaper.'

She flushed, not happily. Courtney had a better career going than I. She outpowered me. We both knew who