The Sinister Mr. Corpse

by Jeff Strand

  "What the hell are you people doing?" a woman screamed. She'd somehow gotten hold of the megaphone. "This is insane! Leave him alone!"

  The crowd's hysteria was too intense. They continued ripping at Stanley's clothing and flesh. One particularly crazed-looking gentleman had a pocketknife and was trying to saw a chunk out of Stanley's belly.

  The pain became overwhelming...and then Stanley felt at peace. This wasn't happening to him. This was happening to some other poor zombie bastard. He was doing just fine.

  He looked at the psychopaths trying to eat him and decided that, no, this was happening to him, but he was detached from the proceedings.

  This must be what it felt like to die.

  Of course, the first time hadn't been like this, but go figure.

  So many things he'd never be able to do...

  ...tell Martin just how much he truly valued his friendship...

  ...meet Veronica's lesbian girlfriend and envision the oh-so-naughty things they did to each other in the privacy of their bedroom...

  ...reconcile with his parents...

  ...punch Brant again...

  ...smell a daffodil at dawn on Easter morning (where the fuck had that come from?)...

  ...hear gunshots...

  No, wait, he'd just heard gunshots.

  He became very much re-attached to the current situation as he realized that somebody was shooting into the air. A cop. Cops ruled.

  "Back off!" the cop shouted. "Everybody!"

  Though nobody technically backed off, they did cease the cannibalism. Stanley scrambled away from them, trying not to look at all of the chunks missing from his body. He was shaking and absolutely terrified but knew that if he could just get back down into the bunker...

  "No!" Charlie hollered. "Eternal life!"

  He rushed toward Stanley. Another gunshot rang out and he pitched forward onto the ground, bleeding from the chest.

  At least three women and one man screamed.

  Stanley continued scooting backwards. His arm twisted at a weird angle and this time the crack definitely belonged to him.

  Brant was still standing around. The sick bastard looked like he was enjoying this. He'd lost his mind.

  The crowd began to move forward again.

  Apparently gunshots weren't much of a deterrent when potential eternal life was available.

  This may be the end of me, Stanley thought, but I'm going to make sure it's the end of Brant, too.

  He jumped up (which really hurt) and ran (which hurt even more) toward Brant. He let out a screech that he hoped was intimidating but probably wasn't. The lack of intimidation value became clearly evident as Brant stepped forward to meet his attack.

  The cop fired more gunshots into the air, but they had no effect.

  Stanley knew that he'd need every last bit of strength to pull off what he intended to do, and though his strength was in limited reserves at the moment, he certainly had willpower. Having another arm would've been helpful along with the willpower, but he'd make do with what he had.

  He grabbed Brant by the back of the head and slammed his face into the open part of his stomach. His arm cracked again, and a lovely piece of bone poked through the skin, but he held on for as long as he could. Which ended up only being another second and a half.

  Brant stood up straight again and wiped off his wet mouth. "What the hell--?" He hadn't actually eaten anything, but nobody else had to know that.

  The crowd tackled Stanley and brought him to the ground again. He hit arm-first and wished he hadn't.

  "Listen to me!" he screamed as loud as he possibly could. "The chemicals...they transfer!" He pointed a crooked arm at Brant. "It's inside him! His body carries it now! Eat him!"

  Brant's expression quickly switched from "What the hell is he talking about?" to "Oh shit!"

  And then things really got out of hand.

  Several people in the mob immediately turned on Brant. He tried to run but they took him down before he made it three steps. There were too many bodies involved for Stanley to see exactly what happened, but there was shrieking, spurts of blood, and disgusting smacking sounds.

  Stanley actually felt a little sorry for him, even as the insane folks in the crowd bit at his own body.

  One man tried unsuccessfully to push his way through to get at Stanley. Stanley saw the look of realization on his face as he decided that if Brant had the chemical from eating Stanley, so did everybody else who'd dined.

  He bit into the neck of an obese woman. She cried to claw out his eyes but he got a nice big mouthful.

  Two other people went after him.

  And as the feast went into full swing, Stanley again detached himself from the proceedings and floated into a happy place where people rarely if ever tried to eat each other.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  "And we're back with Frank and Freddy's Morning Zoo! Wow, how about that incident with Mr. Corpse, huh?"

  "That was just plain wacky!"

  "What did they say, five people dead? Over a hundred injured?"

  "A hundred and sixteen, I think."

  "Wow. That's a pretty impressive injury count. For those of you at home who've been too drunk to follow the story, apparently a crowd of people who'd formed some sort of cult around Mr. Corpse became convinced that eating his flesh would give them eternal life!"

  "Cuckoo! Cuckoo!"

  "Heh heh heh, cuckoo is right, Frank. Police are still investigating, but word is that people in the crowd started trying to eat each other!"

  "Mmmmmmmmmm! Yummy!"

  "I've gotta say, if I were going to eat somebody, it sure wouldn't be Mr. Corpse."

  "I agree with you there. I bet he's all gamey."

  "So who would you eat?"

  "Oh, I can think of about ten people off the top of my head. Cheerleaders, mostly."

  "Heh heh heh. Anyway, Mr. Corpse is alive, as far as we know, but a lot of him is digesting in the bellies of some very disturbed citizens. I wonder how pissed off they'll be when they develop stomach cancer or something and realize that they don't have eternal life?"

  "I bet Mr. Corpse will get hit with a lot of lawsuits."

  "It could happen!"

  "So, listeners, who would you eat if you had the chance? Give us a call!"

  * * *

  Three days after the unfortunate events, Stanley lay in bed, hurting. Many of his wounds had healed already. Others, like his missing thumb, were permanent disfigurations. A couple of the bites had gone all the way to the bone, and those didn't seem to be healing right.

  The girl in the lab, Marcia Dunlan, was going to live. The FBI had a million questions and was conducting an in-depth investigation. They'd thus far been unable to tie any murders to the pool of gook on the lab floor. Stanley had cooperated without actually mentioning that he knew anything about a potential black magic connection. Let them analyze the funky symbols on the wall for themselves.

  Dr. Arnzin had fled. Nobody knew where he was. Stanley still sort of liked the guy, and hoped that he was doing okay. Not great, but okay. Reasonably happy, yet not enjoying his meals as much as he should.

  Stanley had three injections left. He felt a bit sick to his stomach using them, knowing how they were created, but it also didn't make sense to let them go to waste.

  And he had one last big favor to ask Veronica, after he made a very important phone call.

  * * *

  "Mom?"

  "Stanley?"

  "Yeah, it's me."

  "Oh, so now you're calling? I'm finally good enough for you to talk to? Should I have a parade? What, did you decide to pay for the booze you snuck out of our house? Do you know that your father and I flew all the way to New Mexico to see you? New Mexico isn't close to Florida. Two connections, and your father hates to fly. Do you know that we were worried sick? Do you know what I've seen on the news? Do you hate us? Is that it?"

  "It's not like that, Mom."

  "Then what's it like? Tell me so I can become e
ducated!"

  "I was embarrassed to have you see me."

  "Ohhhhhh, you were embarrassed! You know what a son should be embarrassed about? A son should be embarrassed not to call his parents! That's embarrassment! Breaks my heart. Do you know how much your father cried at your funeral? Do you?"

  "Mom, my cell phone minutes are just about out..."

  "He cried the entire time! Like a baby! Never a dry eye!"

  "My reception is cutting out, too..."

  "Your father's in the den. I could tell him that you're on the phone, but the shock would kill him. You want to kill your father? Is that why you called?"

  "Gotta go. Talk to you later!"

  * * *

  Hawaii.

  Stanley, Veronica, and Martin stood at the edge of the volcano. The lava did not look comfy. But Stanley didn't want to just melt away, he wanted to go out with style, and he thought that this seemed like an appropriate way to sacrifice himself. Getting to the edge of a volcano was not an easy task, but fortunately he had a shitload of money and no future to spend it on.

  Veronica wiped a tear from her eye. "You're sure you want to do this?"

  "Not really, no. Maybe we should skip this and go to a luau."

  "I'm up for that."

  Stanley gazed into the mouth of the volcano. "That lava does look hot. But that's good. It should sizzle me all at once."

  Martin sniffled.

  "Are you crying?" Stanley asked. "I thought you promised me that there wouldn't be any crying."

  "I promised you no such thing."

  They hugged, and Martin burst into tears. Stanley had difficulty extricating himself from his best friend's arms.

  "Admit it," Stanley said to Veronica. "You'll never have another client as interesting as me."

  "That's a pretty safe bet."

  "Are you gonna show me your tits before I jump in there?"

  "No."

  "That's just wrong. I'm about to make the ultimate sacrifice. If you were going to leap into a volcano I'd whip out my dick."

  "How about a hug instead?"

  "Yeah, that works."

  They held each other tightly, and Stanley fought to resist the urge to start crying himself. He only had to use humor as a defense mechanism for a couple more minutes.

  "I want you to make me a promise," he said, glancing at Martin over Veronica's shoulder. "I want you two to shamelessly milk my fame for everything its worth. I'm dying young, so that'll boost the marketing value. Sell my clothes, make a theme park, mix recordings of my voice into current pop hits...just squeeze every drop you can out of this. Write a book, both of you."

  "We will," said Martin.

  Stanley pulled away from Veronica. "Well, I guess I should do this before I lose my nerve." His voice cracked a bit, and he cleared his throat. "What do you think? Feet first or head first?"

  "Head first," Martin suggested. "It'll be over faster."

  "Yeah, but if I mess it up I could end up doing a belly flop. Maybe this is a bad idea."

  "It's entirely your choice," said Veronica.

  "I know." He stared at the lava and sighed. "Okay, so, should I say something profound? I guess I can't say 'I regret that I have but one life to give.'"

  "Say anything you want."

  "Ah, I've got nothing. I love you guys. Don't forget to milk my fame. I don't suppose either of you want to jump in here with me to keep me company? Didn't think so. I guess this ends the tale of the Sinister Mr. Corpse."

  He closed his eyes, pinched his finger over what little nose he had, and then jumped.

  "You have to jump forward more," said Martin.

  "I'm working my way to it. Okay, time to quit playing around. I'll miss you. Tell everybody I said something uplifting."

  He took a deep breath and jumped into the volcano. He plunged into the lava, sunk beneath the surface, and was gone.

  EPILOGUE AND A WARNING

  Do you dare?

  Do you dare to enter CorpseLand, the official theme park of Stanley Dabernath, The Sinister Mr. Corpse?

  Do you dare to immerse yourself in this grisly land of the MAD and the MACABRE, the BIZARRE and the GHOULISH, the DEMENTED and the HORRIFIC?

  If you do, brave voyager, use caution.

  No nurses are on duty.

  The fire exits have been boarded shut.

  Your personal floatation device will sink like a rock.

  Do you dare?

  Cold sweat will trickle down your spine as you ride the Corpse Coaster. Waves of dizziness will pulsate through your skull as you spin around in the Dead Wheel. Maybe, just maybe, the beating of your heart will cease in Stanley's Snack Bar. If you are truly courageous, perhaps you will make a purchase in one of our THIRTEEN sinister gift shops.

  There is still time to turn back.

  But if you are a person of valor, your adventure begins right through those gates.

  Do you dare...?

  Other Books by Jeff Strand

  Fangboy

  Wolf Hunt

  Dweller

  Benjamin's Parasite

  Pressure

  Kutter

  Graverobbers Wanted (No Experience Necessary)

  Single White Psychopath Seeks Same

  Casket For Sale (Only Used Once)

  Gleefully Macabre Tales

  The Severed Nose

  Disposal

  Mandibles

  Elrod McBugle on the Loose

  Out of Whack

  How to Rescue a Dead Princess

  The Haunted Forest Tour (with Jim Moore)

  Draculas (with JA Konrath, Blake Crouch, and F. Paul Wilson)

  Suckers (with JA Konrath)

  Visit Jeff Strand's more-or-less official website at http://www.jeffstrand.com

  BONUS PADDING!

  Occasionally, as a professional novelist, you find yourself writing books that, including the copyright notice and "Other Books By The Author" and all of that other stuff, come out to somewhere in the 59,671 word range. That's not a bad length; I mean, the book's a zombie comedy, so it's not like you want some massive Stephen King-sized epic. But it's also a bit frustrating to be just below the 60K mark. What if readers round down? "Wow, that book The Sinister Mr. Corpse looks like a jolly good read, I think I'll head right on over to the online retailer of my choice and...hey, wait a minute, this thing is only 50,000 words! What the hell are they trying to pull here? Remove from cart!"

  I suppose I could've tried to add a few hundred words to the novel itself, but the only thing I could think of was to add a lot of references to Stanley's eye color, such as "Stanley used his deep hazel eyes to look at the man who was pointing a gun at him." I dunno, maybe you would have enjoyed that. I don't remember what color Stanley's eyes are, or if that's even information that I chose to share with the reader. Eye color seems to be the default complaint about books being plagued with continuity errors ("The hero's eyes were blue in Chapter Three, and then in Chapter Six they were green! This book is bullshit!") but I never notice any of that stuff. I don't even notice when real-life people, such as friends, co-workers, or spouses, change their hair color. I'm like "Uhhhh...uhhhh...I think something is different, but what if they changed it three weeks ago?"

  By now, I hope you've accepted that this bonus material is not going to deepen your understanding and appreciation of the work of literature you've just finished reading. I wish I had some outtakes to include. I do have this one, which was part of the section with all of the newspaper headlines and Stanley doing all kinds of famous-person stuff:

  Jeff Probst's expression was unreadable as he held up the final vote. "The first person voted out of Celebrity Survivor is...Stanley."

  "[Expletive deleted]!"

  But nobody at Project Second Chance would've let Stanley take a few weeks off to be on Survivor, and he probably wouldn't have wanted to do it anyway, and the destruction of logic was not worth the opportunity to create a scenario where if I ever ran into Jeff Probst I could say "Dude! I love your
show and I made a joke about it in my zombie novel!" He'll probably never read this book, and that is the darkest tragedy of my life.

  Wow, this padding went by pretty quick, huh? Thanks for reading.

  --Jeff Strand