Dead Mann Walking

doubted they’d help. Near the tanks was an open door to an MRI room. The giant white doughnut-shaped machine was still sitting there. Better yet, hanging in the center of one white wall was a plastic box marked DEFIBRILLATOR.

Hoping to hell it had instructions, I wheeled Misty as close as I could and ripped the box open. Two paddles tumbled out and dangled by their coiled cords. Inside the door, bless it, were five steps printed in big type, so simple even a chak could follow them.

I yanked Misty onto the MRI platform and flipped the switch to power the paddles. Nothing. No power. I wanted to punch the freaking wall, but I had to keep my head. All those security lights in the basement were on and the elevators worked; there had to be power.

I looked around as if expecting the answer would be hanging in the air. It wasn’t, but it was clinging to the walls. Thick cables led from the top of the defibrillator up to the ceiling. There they joined with a set of even thicker cables from the MRI machine. All of them headed for a junction box on the far wall. It had a single red lever, so I pulled it.

The ceiling fluorescents flickered feebly. Green and red lights glowed on the MRI. I slammed the button on the defibrillator again. This time it hummed and crackled. I didn’t think there was enough time to undress Misty like the instructions said, so I jammed the paddles onto her chest and pressed the second button.

The loud gzt that followed reminded me of the bug zappers back at Green’s mansion. Misty’s whole body, thin and bony, contracted like someone had thrown a bucket of ice water on her. Her chest rose and collapsed. Then she fell silent again, looking as fragile as glass. I watched for any sign of movement. Not seeing any, I charged the paddles again.

Gzt!

Again she contracted, looking like a broken doll being yanked upward by her chest. Again I watched for some sign of movement, but none came. And then . . .

A giggle.

“The dead trying to bring the dead to life. Isn’t that redundant?”

Turgeon stood in the doorway.

In one hand he held the duffel bag, its contents twitching. In the other he held the clippers. He looked like a headhunter returning home from a tough day at the office. He lowered the bag, put his arms out, and said, “Surprise!”

Got that right. How had he survived? He looked none the worse for wear. There was nothing different about him I could see, except . . . one of his eyes wasn’t blue anymore. A contact had fallen out. What was behind it had no color at all.

In a repulsive flash, I understood why the gas hadn’t worked. “You’re a chak.”

He nodded. “I wanted to know what Daddy knew, so I had myself killed and immediately resuscitated. There was no decay at all, just a little complexion problem. And this way I can continue my work forever.”

I flipped through what there was of my memory. “Didn’t you ask me what it was like to be dead?”

“All the better to fool you. You’re really very stupid, you know.”

I’d certainly had better days. He held up the open blades. My eyes darted around for a way out, but I was up against the MRI, as backed into a corner as you can get.

Two steps and he was within striking distance. Some remaining body instinct made me hold up my arms to protect my neck.

Disappointed, Turgeon shook his head. “Come on, now. I win. Don’t be a baby about it.”

Look who was talking. I didn’t think I was getting out of it, but I didn’t drop my arms. If I timed it right, I could make a desperation move, shove my arms between the blades and try to twist the clippers out of his hands before they got through the bone.

He gave me a second chance. “Do you really want to lose your arms first?”

I held my ground. With a little shrug, he jumped.

That was when Misty, lying on the MRI table, maybe a foot from Turgeon’s ear, bolted up and let out the longest, most bloodcurdling scream I’ve ever heard, in life or afterward.

“Gyaghhhhhhh!”

My ears were ringing, but it was a sweet, sweet sound. She was alive.

Turgeon gasped. I dodged right. The closing blades nearly sliced my ear, but I landed on the floor behind Misty. Above me, the lights from the MRI control panel glowed red.

With a loud, rattling wheeze, she inhaled and screamed again. “Gyaghhhhhhh!”

I heard Turgeon coming, but I was down on my chest, no room to roll, no way to flip or kick. I reached up to lift myself, but my hand hit the controls. There was a loud crashing whir, like a miniature construction site had come to life inside the big white doughnut of the machine.

Misty screamed for the third time. “Gyaghhhhhhh!”

Still facing the floor, I felt something slip from my pocket. There was a clatter. A loud thunk.

Turgeon began cursing like a big boy. “No! Fuck! No!”

Pushing Misty out of the way, I flipped over and saw that the clippers were held fast against the buzzing, clanking machine. MRI—magnetic resonance imagery. I’d read once about a kid who’d been killed when some idiot left an oxygen tank in the room with the machine. The MRI pulled it through the air and into his body. This time it’d drawn the choppers to it.

Turgeon yanked at the handles. They wouldn’t budge. They weren’t the only thing the magnet was pulling. The dolly shook by its metal handles, rattling like a rocket ship ready for liftoff.

I grabbed Misty and dragged us both back to the ground. Like an animated corpse, the dolly stood on edge. It waddled a half a foot, then flew over the MRI platform toward the machine. The only thing keeping the metal bar from the magnet was Turgeon.

I’d like to say it hit him at the neck, but it was a little lower than that, around the shoulders. A lot of what looked like fat turned out to be padding, part of his liveblood disguise. As the dolly handles pressed into him, pulled by the machine, the stuffing puffed through the openings in his clothes. He was always a little pale, but the slightly pink tinge to his skin that helped fool me turned out to be some sort of skin dye. As the dolly handle tore through his clothes, patches of gray chest appeared.

Turgeon was pinned, helpless, as the powerful magnet drew the bar of the dolly deeper and deeper into his body. It took ten, twenty seconds for the handle to travel all the way through him. When it was finished, most of his torso stayed up, held in place by the handrail. What I guess you’d call his bust tumbled to the ground.

There it twisted its head and looked around, confused.

I killed the power. The dreadful sounds of the machine stopped. Cart, torso, and choppers fell in a heap. In the sudden quiet I could hear Misty panting, the heads hissing in the duffel bag. I even heard, though it was muffled by the hospital wall, an ocean of cries from the riot outside.

Misty looked at me. Tears were streaming down her face. Her eye makeup was running. “Hess . . . what the fuck?”

I put my hand to her cheek, forced myself to speak with my hurt tongue. “Long story.”

She saw me wince. “What’s up with your tongue?” She scanned me. “And your foot!”

As I thought about how to explain using the fewest, shortest words, the heads forced their way out of the bag. Once they saw it, they marched toward Turgeon’s split body, looking like soldiers buried up to the neck in linoleum.

One didn’t join them right off. Daddy wriggled its way up to us. Misty stiffened and looked ready to scream again. I put my arm around her. It was trying to tell me something, but her teeth were rattling so loudly, I couldn’t make out what.

Bbbbmmm . . .

“What?”

“It can talk?” Misty squeaked.

“Shh!”

Bbbbmmmm.