Zombies Don't Cry

by Brian Stableford

  “He wasn’t a lion,” I said, “he was a monster. And I reckon that if you’re going to be somewhere at all, you might as well be right in the middle. Otherwise, you’re just settling for being a spear-carrier, or some mug taking murky and jerky video pictures with a mobile phone.”

  “Are you coming home now?” she asked.

  “Actually, no,” I said. “The action might be over but the play goes on. We still need to show solidarity. We can’t stay here, of course—the place is a hell of a mess as well as a multiple crime-scene, so we’re all going to march en masse, as if in triumph, to the hostel in South Street. There aren’t enough rooms there for us to have one each, but we’ll cope, when the party finally winds down.”

  “Don’t drink too much,” she said, probably repeating an instruction from Mum.

  “Zombies never do,” I assured her.

  “And don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”

  “There’s no polite answer to that.”

  “And be careful. You might have survived this round, but things won’t be any different tomorrow.”

  “Yes they will,” I said. “Not much different, perhaps, in purely practical terms, or even in the way that people look at us when they see us in the supermarket, or kicking a ball around in a field—but trust me, a difference has been made.”

  “You are coming home eventually? You’re not going to move into the hostel permanently?”

  “No room—and there’ll be other zombies coming through who’ll need accommodation more than I will. Something tells me that Timmy’s County Set parents might take a dim view of what he just did for love of his zombie maid. I’ll be back some time tomorrow to begin catching up on my retraining course. Afterlife goes on, and there’ll always be a bureaucratic game to play. I’m going to apply for a job at the BBC, though—got to cash in on my celebrity while it’s still hot.”

  “What as? Please don’t say stand-up comedian.”

  “Don’t be silly—this is serious. As a presenter and commentator. It’s about time we had an afterlife current affairs show. We can’t let Resurrection Ward shape our image forever.”

  “Good luck with that,” she said.

  “Thanks,” I replied, with perfect sincerity.

  * * * * * * *

  Pearl came over as soon as she saw that I was no longer on the phone.

  “It was really stupid of you to get stuck in the crossfire zone like that,” she said, “but thanks.”

  “I had a premonition that it might all go wrong if I wasn’t there to do my humble bit,” I said, before switching my honesty back on to say: “but I’m not the one you have to thank. Assuming that you’re back on duty when he comes out of pupation, thank him for me too, will you.”

  “I told you he was harmless,” she said—and smiled.

  “You did,” I agreed. “I suppose I’ve lost my chance now—there’s no way I can ever compete with your knight in shining armor.”

  “His armor wasn’t shining,” she pointed out, accurately. “Anyway, you’ve already got a girl-friend. What was her name again?”

  “Helena,” I said. “Her name is Helena.”

  Bang on cue, my new phone rang—and when I looked down at the screen….

  “It’s her,” I said.

  For a split second, Pearl seemed sceptical, but then she capitulated with the whim of fate.

  “Good luck with that,” she said, and turned away.

  I retreated into a distant corner, where there was hardly any blood on the floor.

  “Hi,” I said, thinking that more than one syllable might be dangerous as well as difficult.

  “Are you okay?” Helena asked.

  “You know I am,” I told her. “You’ve been watching the TV.”

  “I still am,” she said. “I just wanted to make sure.”

  “And what if I weren’t?”

  “Then I’d be sad. I still care, you know. In fact, I’m still in love, but….”

  “With the living me,” I finished for her. “The man I used to be.”

  “Yes. I’m glad you understand.”

  I did—or thought I did. I thought I could explain it now, at least to myself. “It’s hard for me,” I told her. “You haven’t changed, you see. You’re still the person the living me was in love with…and inside, I still feel the same.”

  “I know,” she said. “I’m sorry.”

  “So am I—but I do understand. I have a lot to be grateful for. My old self was a lazy sod, who really didn’t appreciate the life he had. He just drifted through it, making wisecracks, without any sense of direction or purpose…except in regard to you. Thanks to you, he knew what it was to love someone. He knew what it as to have a reason for living. That was infinitely precious to him, although he never quite realized it at the time. It’s infinitely previous to me too, and I do realize it. Thanks to you, I wasn’t just alive—I had a life. And because I had a life, my afterlife is better by far than what it might have been. I could have died as Peter Pan, never having grown up, but thanks to you, my afterlife really will be an awfully big adventure, built on a sound foundation.”

  “That’s bullshit,” she said, cruelly. “I was only a part of your life. You had your parents, your sister, your e-reader, your football….” She didn’t bother to mention my job; there was no need to go to absurd lengths.

  “That’s all true,” I said, “but you were the center, the rest was just the periphery. You were the fulcrum, the hub, the…sorry, I’ve run out of synonyms.”

  “Axis,” she suggested. “Pivot. Focal point. Primary sex-object.” She was a primary school teacher. She was good at synonym-hunting, although she sometimes slipped in a dud.

  “Yes,” I said. “All of that.”

  “You won’t spin out of control for long, Nicky. As I said, I’m sorry. But as I said, I just can’t. I did want to make sure that you’re okay, though. Be careful. Be safe—and when you can, be happy.”

  “You too,” I said.

  “I will,” she promised—and I tried not to take it too hard.

  * * * * * * *

  This time, it was Stan and Methuelah who had been hovering, waiting for me to get off the phone. He was still bare-chested.

  “Thanks, Mate,” Stan said. “Good kick.”

  “You’re welcome,” I told him. “Nice phoenix.”

  “It looks better on me now than it did in life,” he agreed. “Maybe I had a premonition.”

  “Maybe you did,” I agreed. “Sorry I didn’t follow orders.”

  “Maybe you had a premonition too,” he suggested generously. “Anyway, I’m not really in charge, not officially—it’s just that I’m such a loudmouth that everybody thinks I am.”

  “They trust your judgment,” I told him. “Even about rockmobility.”

  He nodded his head, sagely. “They know it’s good for them,” he agreed. “But you and me, we really enjoy it, don’t we?”

  “We do,” I confirmed.

  Methuselah took advantage of the pause that followed to say: “You really didn’t have to do that. The police would have sorted it out.” That’s the ultimate function of a Wise Old Man: to be wise after every event.

  “But you’re glad we did, aren’t you?” I said.

  He didn’t have to answer that.

  “You do realize,” Stan said, after a long look around the Hall, “that we’re going to have to fix this place up ourselves, don’t you?” he said. “The Council will take forever if we leave it to them. It’s going to mean a lot of hard work—and I’m relying on you to do more than your fair share, Nicky, with your being so young and fit.”

  “I’m ready if you are,” I assured him. “I don’t think any of us will be found wanting.”

  “No,” said Methuselah. “They’ll all do their bit.”

  “We need to look at it as a golden opportunity, though, rather than a bitter necessity,” I told them. “If we put some effort into it, we could really do something with the place—make it more of a home
from home. We’ll need someone with a good eye for interior decoration, mind. Somehow, Stan, I suspect that your tastes and mine might be reckoned a trifle elementary by the truly sophisticated.”

  He grinned. “Mine, anyway,” he said. “Old headbanger, me. Might take me quite a while to grow out of it. You’re a man of taste, though. I can see that.”

  “Not when it comes to wallpaper and soft furnishings,” I said. “Alice is probably your best bet for that sort of thing. Something tells me that Marjorie isn’t much into frippery.”

  Stan grinned again. “We’ll be setting off for the hostel in a few minutes,” he told me. “The cops are just about ready to let us go—they want the place to themselves for a while, although I can’t see that there’s much for forensics to do—they’ve got the whole bloody thing on a hundred different tapes.”

  “It’s procedure,” I said. “We all have our scripts to follow. Lucky that ours is the one with the happy ending, isn’t it?”

  “Right,” he said, a trifle dubiously. I must have looked surprised at his lack of enthusiasm, because he glanced at my phone expressively. Maybe he had overheard a few things, or maybe he had just been tracking my facial expressions.

  “Maybe not entirely happy, in conventional terms,” I admitted, “but we’re zombies—we don’t exist in conventional terms. We’re still busy reinventing ourselves, and figuring out our own recipes for happiness…but that, in itself, is the happiest of all possible endings, for the time being, don’t you think?”

  “Amen to that,” said the Wise Old Man

  “Old headbanger, me,” Stan reminded me. “Haven’t a clue what you’re talking about, Mate.” But he didn’t mean it. He knew.

  * * * * * * *

  “Limelight-hogging little creep!” Marjorie muttered, when I fell into step with her as we all set off on the triumphal march from the former Salvation Army Hall to the former Bail Hostel. “I was watching you, you know, on my phone. We all were, huddled in that bloody cupboard. Why on earth did I let Stan order me away like that? I should have been out there, shouting the odds. At least Methuselah was up on the balcony, cheering you on. Stan’s got a bloody cheek, taking it for granted that the poor weak women needed to be shielded from the nasty men.”

  “He was in charge,” I reminded her. “Somebody had to be. You can’t really blame him for his chivalrous instincts. He knew that it didn’t matter if his brains got blown out—or mine, for that matter—but he had to make sure that you were safe. You’re our propagandist-in-chief, the one person whose life we had to preserve at all costs, in order to tell our story and make our case.”

  “Flattery,” she said, with a sigh, “will get you almost anywhere. Pity there’s nowhere you want to go.”

  “I don’t know about that,” I told her. “I rather thought that once we get to South Street, you might invite me up for a cup of coffee.”

  She looked at me long and hard, her pink eyes blinking even in the feeble glare of the street-lights.

  “Am I misunderstanding you?” she asked, dubiously.

  “I don’t think so,” I told her.

  “I thought you had a girl-friend.”

  “Not any more. Haven’t had for quite some while—I just needed time to get used to the idea. Methuselah was dead right about the logic of the situation, but you know how hard it is to take good advice.”

  “I’m fifty-two, you know, Nicky,” she observed, after a pause. “Almost twice your age.”

  “No you’re not. You’re at the very beginning of your afterlife, just like me. Old prejudices no longer count, and we need to shed them as soon as it’s comfortable to do so. Everything is in front of us, and we have no idea, as yet, where true happiness is to be found.”

  “Come off it,” she said. “You’re as horny as hell because you just narrowly escaped getting your brains blown out and valiantly kicked a madman’s gun into touch, flooding your system with adrenalin—and you’re desperate, because Pearl won’t play.”

  “You have the most romantic way of putting things,” I told her.

  She laughed. She actually laughed—probably with mild self-satisfied delight rather than actual humor, but I wasn’t fussy.

  “I hope you won’t regret it in the morning,” she said, sincerely.

  “I won’t,” I told her. “This is one of those nights—the first in my afterlife, and maybe my whole existence—when there’s no longer any possibility of regret. I hope it won’t be the last. There’s a fair to middling chance, don’t you think?”

  “What self-respecting zombie could ask for anything more?” she countered, finally getting into the swing of the kind of wittily relaxed conversation that people with a lot in common ought to have.

  And we marched on, into the coolly welcoming night.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Brian Stableford was born in Yorkshire in 1948. He taught at the University of Reading for several years, but is now a full-time writer. He has written many science-fiction and fantasy novels, including The Empire of Fear, The Werewolves of London, Year Zero, The Curse of the Coral Bride, The Stones of Camelot, and Prelude to Eternity. Collections of his short stories include a long series of Tales of the Biotech Revolution, and such idiosyncratic items as Sheena and Other Gothic Tales and The Innsmouth Heritage and Other Sequels. He has written numerous nonfiction books, including Scientific Romance in Britain, 1890-1950; Glorious Perversity: The Decline and Fall of Literary Decadence; Science Fact and Science Fiction: An Encyclopedia; and The Devil’s Party: A Brief History of Satanic Abuse. He has contributed hundreds of biographical and critical articles to reference books, and has also translated numerous novels from the French language, including books by Paul Féval, Albert Robida, Maurice Renard, and J. H. Rosny the Elder.