The Sinister Mr. Corpse

by Jeff Strand

  Martin was kicking his ass at the boxing video game, but of course Stanley had other things on his mind and (even more importantly) only one arm. Hell, you practically needed four arms to manipulate the kinds of controllers they had on video games these days, so Stanley was not embarrassed by his brutal trouncing.

  They were the only ones in the bunker. Veronica and Dr. Arnzin had gone home for the weekend, and Brant had gone out to take care of "extremely important matters" related to Stanley's "abhorrent behavior" and "irresponsible, reckless attitude" but that he hoped Stanley had an enjoyable time "wasting his life" playing that "crap."

  But Brant would be back. And Stanley and Martin would be ready for him.

  Sort of.

  Actually, they weren't really ready at all. Having a gun would've been a really great point in their favor, but they weren't allowed to leave the bunker. Well, Martin was, with the warning that if he left, he wouldn't be allowed to return until things calmed down. And they wouldn't have been able to smuggle a gun past the metal detectors anyway, so they sat in Stanley's room, playing video games, gunless.

  He did have a bottle of hair spray that could be used as a bludgeoning weapon, and a video game system that could be used as a projectile, but they'd decided to rely on their own brute strength if Brant failed to cooperate. Though neither Stanley nor Martin were exactly fearsome physical threats, Brant wasn't particularly intimidating, either. If they couldn't overpower a fifty-year-old scientist with a rod up his butt, they didn't deserve to know what was in the lab.

  "I'm getting that phantom itch again," said Stanley, setting down his game controller and scratching the air where his arm used to be.

  "What does it feel like?"

  "It's weird. It feels like it's right in my middle finger, like my arm is bent upward and I'm flipping somebody off. What's disturbing about it is that I think maybe somebody has my arm and they're playing around with it and flipping off their buddies."

  "I hope you're wrong."

  "Me too." Stanley scratched at the itch again. "You don't really think Donald's death was my fault, do you?"

  "No."

  "You don't seem sure."

  "Well, I'm not sure. I mean, he died trying to save you. It was just to further his career because he was a sleazy opportunistic bastard, but still, you put him in that situation."

  "Technically, the crackheads who kidnapped me put me in that situation. They could've grabbed me while I was on my way to the store for a quart of milk."

  "But you weren't buying milk."

  "I was out trying to save people," Stanley said, trying not to get defensive.

  "I know. That's why I'm not throwing any guilt trips on you."

  "You just did!"

  "You asked a question! Stop asking questions!"

  There was a knock at the door.

  "C'mon in," Stanley called out.

  Brant opened the door. "I'm just letting you know that I'm back."

  "Thanks, sweetie. Do you want me to rub your feet while you tell me about your day?"

  "Your fan club has grown. I don't mind telling you that they're very frightening people. A few of them were even wearing makeup to look like you."

  "That's pretty cool. Maybe I'll start a whole trend of Mr. Corpse impersonators. Then it will end in tragedy when there's a mass arm-severing. That would be an interesting fad, don't you think?"

  Brant raised an eyebrow. "Are you uncomfortable about something?"

  "No, why?"

  "You're babbling even more incoherently than usual."

  "Nope. Just bummed about my arm."

  Brant gestured to the television. "Well, I'll leave you two alone to enjoy your mental stimulation."

  "Hey, Brant, can we see the lab?"

  "I don't think so."

  Stanley and Martin got to their feet. "Are you sure?" Stanley asked. "Because I'd really love to see what's inside there."

  "It's hazardous materials, as you most certainly are aware. Why do you think we're in an underground bunker?"

  "Not sure I believe you, Brant."

  "I don't care if you believe me or not. I'm certainly not going to put our lives at risk to satisfy your curiosity."

  Stanley and Martin took a step forward. "I'm not sure you have a choice," said Stanley.

  "If I weren't an optimist who believes that there are limits to even your stupidity, I'd think that you were threatening me."

  "Is that what you think?"

  "No, because you couldn't possibly be that much of an idiot, even after being shot in the head."

  "I want you to show me the fuckin' lab," said Stanley. "Now."

  "See, Stanley, your overuse of profanity has diluted its impact. I'm not intimidated at all. Martin, I thought you were the reasonable member of your duo. That's why I've allowed you to stick around. Now, I'd advise both of you to sit back down, return to your fun little video games, and leave the intimidation tactics to people who are actually intimidating."

  "Get him!" Stanley shouted.

  They both rushed forward. Martin reached the doorway first, and received a punch to the jaw that knocked him all the way across the room and against Stanley's bed.

  Stanley took a split second to admit to himself that while he wasn't happy to have seen it happen, it was a pretty damn impressive punch. Then he tackled Brant and both of them fell to the floor.

  Brant punched him in the face so hard that Stanley swore his teeth rattled, his eyes spun in their sockets, his not-quite-a-nose bounced against the back of his head, and his hair rustled in the breeze created by Brant's mighty blow.

  "Jeez! How often do you work out?" Stanley asked.

  "Every day," Brant replied, delivering another punch. Stanley was glad he didn't have any blood, because it would be spraying all over.

  Stanley tried to hit Brant back and was embarrassed by his own effort. Brant's third punch was even harder than the first two, and Stanley decided that he didn't want to fight anymore.

  "Okay, okay! I quit!" Stanley said, climbing off of Brant. "Truce!"

  Brant stood up, wiped off his shirt, and then grabbed Stanley by the neck and slammed him against the wall. "We have a real problem here, Stanley. What do you suggest we do about it?"

  "Blame my head injury?"

  "I don't think so." Brant shoved Stanley back into the bedroom. Stanley stumbled and then fell on his butt, landing on the video game system and almost giving himself an unwanted sexual experience.

  Brant calmly shut the door, leaving Stanley and Martin inside. Stanley cursed as he heard it lock, then got up and sighed.

  "That was really pathetic," Stanley admitted. "We got beat up by a shriveled old geezer."

  "He's not shriveled," said Martin, sitting on the bed and massaging his cheek. "He actually looks really fit."

  "Yeah, but I was out there beating up street thugs! How does somebody like Brant get the best of me?"

  "You weren't beating up street thugs. You were making scary zombie faces at them and freaking them out when they shot you and you didn't die. Two of them kidnapped you and sawed off your arm."

  "But still, I think something weird is going on."

  "You also got beat up by that ice cream man that one time when he accused you of not paying for the drumstick."

  "I did pay for it."

  "I know. But he beat you up and you paid for it again."

  "Still, maybe he's on steroids or something."

  "Stanley? Give it up. He beat us because we suck."

  "You suck more. When I conceived this plan I didn't think you were such a weenie! One punch and you were out! It took three punches for me to give up!"

  Martin glared at him. "I might also point out that the plan involved things like lulling him into a false sense of security, following him out of the room, and tackling him by surprise. I'm pretty sure the plan was never to just run at him like a pair of jackass football players."

  "You were nothing like a football player."

  "Don't blame th
is on me, Stanley. I wanted to get him in a gunny sack."

  "We don't have any gunny sacks! I don't think they even make gunny sacks anymore!"

  "Then I said, how about a pillowcase over his head? A pillowcase would've worked. But no, you said, let's wing it. Let's wait for the perfect opportunity to strike. How did the perfect opportunity to strike suddenly become you shouting 'Get him!' when he was standing in the doorway?"

  "Everything's always my fault, isn't it?"

  Martin nodded vigorously.

  "Well, you can sit there all night and play the blame game, but I'm going to do some forward-thinking and figure out a way out of here."

  "Like what? Chew through the wall?"

  "At least that would be more productive than standing around here complaining!"

  "No, if you want to get technical about it, trying to chew through the wall would be equally productive to standing around here complaining."

  Stanley kicked the video game system. "That's it! You're fired!"

  "From what?"

  "Everything! You're fired from everything!"

  "Fine! Fire me!"

  "I just did!"

  "Good!"

  "Glad you approve!"

  "You know, Stanley, I've been your loyal friend for a long time. Somebody like you just cries out for fair-weather friends, but I've been your friend through every kind of weather there is. And do you know why that is? Do you know why I've stuck with you, through thick and thin, all of these years?"

  "Why?"

  "Because I'm a fuckin' idiot!" Martin smacked himself on the side of the head three times. "Dumb! Dumb! Dumb! What the hell was I thinking? You suck!"

  "I don't suck."

  "You do! You're, like, the devil! You're the worst thing that's ever happened to me! If I'd never met you, I'd have a real job and self-respect and occasional moments of happiness! You're this incredible moron who somehow convinced himself that he's a genius even though to be a genius you have to possess some sort of actual intelligence! You're like this...this...this cloud of foul, black evil that's ruining the world! You're the worst person who has ever lived in the entire history of mankind! You suck so much that if Carl Sagan were alive he couldn't even quantify it! Why the hell have I been hanging out with you all this time? What bugs are squirming around in my brain to mess with my thought processes so much that I thought you were a good choice of a friend?" He smacked himself twice more. "Dumb! Dumb! Dumb! Fuck you, Stanley! Fuck you with a goat! Fuck you with a...a...wide-screen television! Fuck you with a moose head!"

  The door opened.

  "I'm not done yet!" Martin shouted, not taking his eyes off Stanley. "Fuck you with a branding iron! With a calendar! With a beehive! With a--"

  "Martin, I think Brant wants to say something."

  "With a cannibal! With a goat!"

  "You already used the goat," said Stanley, calmly. "How about we discuss this later, when you're feeling, uh, different?"

  Martin sat down on the bed and buried his face in his hands.

  "You let out a lot of interesting emotions," said Stanley. "We'll delve into them, I promise."

  "Did I miss something?" Brant asked.

  "No, no, he just...aw, crud." Stanley's spirits sank even further as he saw that Brant was holding the dart gun. "Are you going to execute me?"

  "That all depends on you."

  Martin lifted his head. "What is that?"

  "The darts have an anti-Stanley formula," Stanley explained. "It'll boil my body from the inside out. If you ask nicely he'll probably let you shoot me."

  Brant chuckled. "It sounds to me like we could both get a lot of pleasure out of pulling the trigger simultaneously. But, alas, the Sinister Mr. Corpse is still useful to me. So we have to figure out what to do about this little problem. If I ignore it, next you'll come after me with a gun, or at least come up with a plan that isn't completely asinine. That leaves only punishment. I've punished you before and it didn't work. So I have to try something even more extreme."

  "You're going to chop off my other arm, aren't you?"

  "No. I'm glad you remembered the effect that the fluid in this dart would have on you. I never explained, however, that it does quite a number on regular humans as well."

  With a cruel smile, Brant pointed the dart gun at Martin and pulled the trigger.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  As soon as he saw Brant's hand move, Stanley leapt in front of his friend.

  The dart struck Stanley in the belly. He stared at it for a moment and then plucked it out. It stung a bit, but it wasn't too--

  A burst of excruciating pain tore through Stanley's stomach. He howled in agony and doubled over.

  Oh shit, oh shit, I'm really gonna die this time!

  He dropped to the floor and screamed as his stomach felt like it was being stuffed into a burning garbage disposal. The pain was so intense that his vision went black and he could do nothing but flail around and shriek.

  "Stanley!" Brant sounded about a million miles away, but there did seem to be genuine concern in his voice.

  Ow ow ow ow ow ow ow ow ow ow!

  "Roll him over!" he heard somebody say. He thought it was Brant, but the voice was so distorted that it could have been Martin or even Sherman Hemsley. "Stanley, stop moving! Stop it!"

  Stanley kept moving.

  "Hold him down! I have to get it in the exact same spot! Stanley, goddamn it, do you want to die?"

  Yes, Stanley thought. That would be lovely, thank you.

  He screamed and screamed and screamed and sort of felt like he was being rolled over onto his back but he couldn't quite be certain and he screamed and screamed and screamed.

  Then a gentle warmth flowed through his belly.

  Ahhhhh...that must be my soul seeping out. Sweet, sweet death. This is gonna be awesome.

  The warmth quickly flowed through his entire body, replacing the pain. Soon the agony was completely gone.

  He opened his eyes. Brant and Martin were on top of him, staring at him.

  "Hi," said Stanley.

  "Antidote," Brant explained, holding up the needle. "You had me worried for a--"

  Martin threw a vicious punch that struck Brant in the face, knocking him off Stanley. His head hit the floor and he lay there, unconscious.

  "Wow," said Stanley. "Nice work."

  "Thanks." Martin got up and extended a hand to Stanley. Stanley took it and Martin pulled him to his feet.

  "Look," said Stanley, "I'm sorry that I made it so that you felt the need to say what you said before."

  "That's okay."

  "You're only saying that because I jumped in front of the dart that was meant for you."

  "No, I'm only saying that because I'm still a fuckin' idiot. Now let's go see what's in that lab."

  * * *

  They didn't have anything with which to tie Brant up, so they settled for locking him inside Stanley's bedroom. Then they hurried to the end of the hallway, turned the corner, and swiped Brant's badge in the card reader next to the door of the lab.

  The reader beeped and Stanley opened the door, revealing a tile-floored room about the size of a classroom. The room was completely empty except for another door at the opposite end.

  "Maybe the virgin blood's invisible," said Stanley.

  They walked to the other door, which had a card reader, a keypad, and a small digital display. Stanley swiped the card. The reader beeped, and the display flashed "ENTER PASSCODE."

  "Damn," said Stanley. "What do you think his favorite number is?"

  "Six-six-six."

  "All right, I guess we'll have to beat it out of Brant. We'll take turns. Hopefully he won't tell us too quickly."

  "We could try that, but I don't think I could handle the humiliation if he got the upper hand again."

  "Yeah, you're right. Let's raid his office."

  * * *

  "Wake up, Mr. Sleepy," said Stanley, tapping the dart gun against Brant's nose.

  Brant opened his e
yes and groaned. "I never should've given you the antidote."

  "No, probably not. Hopefully you've learned your lesson. Now tell me the code to the lab."

  "Go to hell."

  Stanley tapped him with the gun again. "The stuff in this dart hurt really bad. I don't know if it has the same effect on non-zombies, but you implied that it was a pretty unpleasant experience. We couldn't find any more antidote. Please tell us the code."

  "No."

  "Pretty please?"

  "You'll just have to shoot me."

  "You think I'm bluffing, don't you?"

  "Yes. Because if you kill me, you'll never get into the lab, and you'll never get any more of your injections, and you'll die."

  Stanley thought about that. "Okay, I'll admit that you've got a pretty good theory about why I'd be bluffing. Lucky for us, we found a knife in your office."

  Martin held up a blue pocketknife and snapped out the blade.

  "It's not a very big one," Stanley explained, "but I think that if we stuck the blade under one of your fingernails and pushed really hard, you'd scream like a baby. Or at least a baby that was having a pocketknife blade shoved under its fingernails. Don't be that baby."

  "I know that we don't trust each other," said Brant. "But please trust me when I say that you do not want to see inside the lab. I promise you, you will not be a happier person for it."

  "I'll get over it."

  "I doubt you will."

  "Code, please."

  "No."

  "Are you really going to make Martin do the fingernail thing?"

  "I don't think Martin has it in him to do the fingernail thing."

  "You just tried to kill Martin. He'll do the fingernail thing."

  Martin gave Brant a look that indicated that he was not only willing to do the fingernail thing, but relished the opportunity.

  "Very well," said Brant. "I'll take you inside."

  Stanley kept the dart gun pointed at Brant's back as they walked into the empty room and over to the door of the lab. Brant typed in the code and the door clicked.