Zombie Dan

They figured out how to bring people back to life—not everybody, just some peo­ple—and this is what happened to our friend Dan Larsen. He had died falling off a yacht, and six months later, there he was, driving around in his car, nodding, licking his pale, thin lips, wearing his art­fully distressed sports jackets and brown leather shoes.

Dan's revivification was his mother's doing. Yes, it was his father, Nils Larsen, who greased the right palms to get him bumped up in the queue, but his mother, Ruth, was the one who had the idea and insisted it come to pass, the one who called each and every one of us—myself, Chloe, Rick, Matt, Jane and Paul—to enlist our emotional support as friends and

neighbors and decent, compas-

Isionate Amer­icans. When Dan revived, she explained, he would need to rely upon the continuing attention and affection of his loved ones, and it was all of us—his old high

I school chums— whom he would need the most. Of course we agreed; how could we not?

Dan's mother brought us all together in the living room of the Larsen penthouse —a place of burnished mahogany, French por­traiture and thick pink pile carpet, which none of us had ever imag­ined we'd see again—and told us what was about to happen. We stared, petits fours halfway to our gaping mouths, and nodded our stunned assent. A thin, bony, almost miniature woman of 60 with an enormous dyed-black hairdo like a cobra's hood, Ruth Larsen gazed at each of us in

turn, demanding our fealty with hungry gray eyes. The procedure would take several days, and then Dan would need a few weeks to recuperate—could we be counted on to sit at his bedside, keeping him com­pany in regular shifts? Why yes, certainly we could! Were we aware just how important a part of the revivification process it was to remind the patient of his past, thus effecting the recovery of his memory? And did we know that, without immediate and con­stant effort, the patient's memory might not be recovered at all? And so would we commit ourselves to assisting in this informal therapy by enveloping Dan, for the entire month of March, in a constant fog of nostalgia? Sure, you bet!

Excellent, Mrs. Larsen told us, her papery hands slid­ing over and under each other with the faint whisking sound of a busboy's crumb brush.

What remained unspoken that day, and went largely unspoken even among ourselves in private, as we waited for Dan to be brought back to life, was that we had pretty much gotten over Dan since the funeral and could not have been said to have greatly missed him. Indeed, by the time Dan reached the age of 25,

:he year of his death, we had basi­cally had all of Dan we could ever I have wanted. He was, in fact, no longer really our friend. The yacht he'd fallen off belonged to some insufferable blue blood we didn't know—that was the crowd Dan had taken to running with, the crowd he'd been born into, and all parties concerned had seemed satisfied with the arrangement. Dan's being dead was no less satisfactory to us than his having drifted out of

I our circle. But Ruth Larsen didn't know this, so we were the ones she called upon in Dan's time of Fithpr that nr fhp

able blue bloods had refused. At any rate, we agreed to do what Mrs. Larsen demanded, and for better or worse he would be our friend once again.

The discovery of the revivification process had resulted initially in great controversy. Surely, the naysayers wailed, not everyone who died could be brought back to life. What would separate the haves from the have-nots? Sci­ence offered one answer. To be eligible for revivification, you had to die a certain way. Drowning was best. Suf­focation. Anything that resulted in a minimum of harm to the body, other than its being dead. Freezing wasn't too bad, and a gunshot wound, if tidy, could be worked around. Electrocution was pushing it, as was poisoning. Car crash, cancer, decapitation, old age? Right out.

But still, who then? Who among the drowned, the frozen, the asphyxiated would get to come back? Surely not everyone.

No, not everyone. The rich. Naturally.

Riots had been predicted, the burning of hospitals and medical schools, the overthrow of the government. None of it materialized. The rich had been getting the goodies for millennia—why should that change now? People shrugged and got over it. After all, it wasn't like the rich could live forever now. They would still die—it was just that now they could get a second chance, in certain circumstances. And the rich had always gotten second chances at everything. No, the fact that they

could be brought back to life was no big deal and, when you thought about it, not even very surprising.

Besides.

Besides, once the process started becoming com­monplace, once people had gotten a look at the revivs, had talked with them, touched them, slept with them, it became clear that, as a general rule, they were a little bit off. You could miss it if you weren't paying close attention, but they were definitely not quite right. They had, for instance, a way of walking, a kind of sway, an instability. Their hips seemed to ratchet back and forth, like the platen of a typewriter. Their fingers had a habit of twitching or suddenly clenching. Their jaws moved with a bovine circular motion, whether or not they were eating—and when they did eat, they were fussy, often choosing a single item from a varied dish and pushing the rest aside, like children. They had a watery way of speaking and a faraway look in their eyes, but when you asked them, with irritation, if they had heard even a single word you had said, they were able to regurgitate your side of the conversation with pedantic thorough­ness, all in a deadpan monotone that made every­thing you said sound foolish and dull. And they rarely advanced any ideas themselves, no intellectual abstrac­tions, no opinions, not even suggestions for where to eat dinner or what movie to see. They were robust, it seemed, healthy-looking, upright, but passionless—you would never see them jump for joy or raise their voices in anger. They seemed to have a normal sexual response, all the parts worked, and if they liked you, they would do what you suggested and appear, in some detached way, to get off. But the expected and hoped-for moans, screams and grunts just did not happen.

Also they smelled different. A bit spicy. Not at all bad—better, in fact, than regular people. But it was different all the same.

So if you asked a random person off the street whether, if they choked to death on a Jolly Rancher, they would like to be revived, the answer was gener­ally yes. But not an especially enthusiastic yes. "Sure," accompanied by a shrug, was the common response. By and large, revivification was thought to be some­thing weird rich people did, something along the lines of hymenoplasty or owning an island. It was impres­sive, but maybe it wasn't exactly a great idea.

You weren't, it turned out, supposed to call revivs "revivs." Political correctness dictated that, if you had to refer to them, you should call them restored-life individuals. But, the argument went, since they were not disabled, any specialized term was an insult, and it was best to say something like "Ronald has gotten a second chance at life," or "Francine has recovered from her fatal trauma." Better still to keep mum—to just pretend there was nothing amiss, because really there wasn't. Everything was totally normal. Calling somebody a reviv was a lie—every person is just a per­son, and that's all there is to it.

You were never, in any circumstances, supposed to call them zombies. This was, however, the most com­monly employed term.

"My God," Chloe said after that first long day at Dan's bedside. "He's a fucking zombie." The six of us were sitting around a table at the nearest bar to the hospi­tal, a too-well-lit place with vinyl settees separated by terra-cotta planters full of ferns. The settees were too low for the table, and we had to reach up to get our drinks, which we needed very badly.

As it happened, the meeting at Dan's mother's apartment was the first (continued on page 116)

zombie dan

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time we'd all been together in many years. Our manner with one another was familiar and weary. As teenagers, we had been inseparable; now we were grown, and had grown apart. Not com­pletely apart, of course. We knew too much about one another for that: the bro­ken homes, the crazy relatives, the dra­mas of self-discovery, the dirty secrets. The myths we armored ourselves with, out in the world, were worthless here among people who had witnessed their genesis, and allegiances and estrange­ments had come and gone among us more times than anyone could count. Chloe and Matt were once an item, as were Chloe and Paul. Rick and Jane had once seemed destined to spend their lives together, but they had broken up, and now Jane had married Matt. Paul and Rick had spent a drunken, carnal week together in a cabin upstate, and now Paul was in a relationship with a man twice his age, a painter from Long Island, and Rick had a girlfriend in Brooklyn. Chloe evidently had a boy­friend—they lived in New Haven—but I had long carried a torch for her, and she and I managed a few moony glances at each other over the course of the day. I had a good feeling about Chloe. Hear­ing her call Dan a fucking zombie sent a pleasurable itch across my back. She had always been vulgar.

"I'm afraid you're right," Paul groaned.

Matt sighed, shaking his head. "How did we ever get into this mess?"

"It's my fault," said Jane, who always blamed herself for everything.

Rick said, "Let's just tell Ruth to go to hell."

"Oh, we can't do that," I said.

"Fuck, no," Chloe agreed, offering me a sly glance from the corner of her eye.

The group parted at the subway sta­tion. I lived nearby and could walk. Instead of following the others to the train, Chloe grabbed my hand. "Let's go to your place."

"Don't you have a boyfriend?" I said.

"Feh," she said, with a shrug, and we walked off arm in arm.

As the days passed by, Dan slowly came around. He looked pale and there were bandages on his head and neck where the revivification fluids and electrical current had gone in, but his eyes were clear and he followed us with them as

we moved around the hospital room. Chloe and I had taken to sharing each other's shifts.

"Let's make out," she said one morning.

"He's watching us."

"So?"

She sat on my lap, and we snogged as a cool polluted wind blew through the open window. I hazarded glances at Dan, who gazed at us intently, blink­ing. His soundless mouth opened and closed. Since he'd been away from solid food, his doughy countenance had given way to a new and slightly fright­ening chiseled look.

"I think he's trying to talk."

"Who?" Chloe said.

"Dan."

She tossed her hair over her ear and winked at Dan. "Zombie Dan," she said. "Do you remember sex?"

A small groan seemed to escape him. Or maybe it was a noise from outside.

"How about boobs? Do you remem­ber boobs?"

"I'm sure he remembers boobs," I said, trying to nip this one in the bud.

"Here," Chloe said brightly, hop­ping down from my lap. I awkwardly adjusted myself with a sweaty hand. Chloe stood beside the bed, unbutton­ing her blouse. Dan stared. He seemed excited, though not in an especially lascivious manner. Before he died, women's breasts had always rendered him speechless; he tended to ogle. It had always irritated me when this resulted in his getting laid, which was most of the time.

But now his excitement seemed purely empirical, like that of a sci­entist gazing in sober wonder at the test results scrolling across a com­puter screen. Chloe unlatched her bra and did a little dance. "Remem­ber, Dan? Boobies?" She scat-sang the stripping song.

"Okay," I said, "that's probably enough."

"It's therapy," she said. "We've got to get his motor running." She leaned over, bringing her chest about six inches from Dan's stunned face. "Here ya go, pal. Get a good look."

Neither of us was prepared for the speed with which Dan's hands shot out from under the sheets and clamped themselves onto Chloe's breasts. She yelped. I gasped and jumped out of the chair. I reached out to pull her away, but she warded me off. "No, no," she

said. "I think it's all right. Look at the little bastard go." Dan had settled into a firm, somewhat mechanical knead, palpating Chloe like a masseuse in training. He scowled, licking his lips. A sound escaped him.

"Was that a word?" Chloe asked.

"Oh my God," I said.

"Stizz," said Dan.

"It was a word!"

"Niztizz!"

"Oh, listen!" Chloe cried, turning to me. "He's talking! He's saying, 'Nice tits'!"

It was true. He was quite coherent now. Clearly he was remembering— "nice tits" was a thing he always used to say.

We called Ruth Larsen, who since the procedure had spent far more time than we had expected sitting around the family apartment. She claimed to be attending to Dan's business affairs. But a zombie didn't have any business, and it seemed clear that she was really spending her time drinking. Chloe had been encamped in one of the many guest rooms at chez Larsen and could attest to the woman's dissolution, which involved a lot of vituperative mutters and slow, self-indulgent moans. A nurse had told us that her reaction upon see­ing her child show the first signs of renewed life was to run crying from the room. We hadn't seen her around the hospital since, though she insisted she habitually sat with him through the night. The nurses, hearing she had told us this, had rolled their eyes.

"He what?" Ruth barked in response to the news.

"He spoke," I repeated. "He looked out the window and said, 'Nice day.'" This was the lie Chloe and I had agreed upon.

"It's cloudy."

"Maybe he thought that was nice."

A silence hung between us. I cleared my throat.

"Do you want to come see him?" I said. "Chloe and I are here now."

"What is she doing there? This isn't her shift."

"We're sharing," I said.

Mrs. Larsen sighed. "I'll be there in an hour," she said.

It was a very long hour. Now that Dan was responsive and alert, he was uncomfortable to be with. Also he appeared to want to feel up Chloe again. He stared at her once-again-clothed chest, blinked rapidly and emitted a trickle of inarticulate mumbles that occasionally, startlingly, broke out into intelligibility. "Frummar-fladmmbabaamummumm-boxuirtle," he said. "Gunnuunnnununnnufrench-fries. Hoffoffofoffffagaggaafucker-salas salassallaaaapeanut, peanut, peanut." He licked his lips, which would prove to be a permanent tic.

"I'm going out for a smoke," Chloe said quietly.

"All right," I replied.

"Mummahumummacigarette," Dan said.

"You want a cigarette?"

" U mmacigarette."

She reached into her purse, removed a pack and slid out a cigarette. Dan leaned forward. She placed it in his mouth.

"It's backward." I said.

"Like he knows."

Dan relaxed into his pillows. The cig­arette dangled from his lip like a dead branch from a maple tree. He seemed relieved, and his blinking slowed.

When Chloe returned, it was with a slightly unsteady Ruth Larsen, who gripped Chloe's arm for support. The first words from her mouth were "Jesus Christ."

"Hi, Mrs. Larsen," I said.

A change came over Dan when his mother walked into the room. He sat up again, and the cigarette went erect in his mouth. He brought up his hands, much as he had when Chloe took her shirt off, and his fingers groped and twitched. He scowled.

"What did you do to him?" Mrs. Larsen demanded.

"He just got like this," I said weakly.

"Fudder. Fudder! Prmbnmnshn."

"Daniel!" she bleated. "Stop that non­sense immediately!"

In response, Dan let out another "Fudder" and sprang out of bed. We all jumped back. Mrs. Larsen screamed a little scream.

After weeks of his being dead, and days of his lying insensibly in the hospi­tal, Dan's sudden mobility struck us all dumb with astonishment. He tottered

around the room like a child, bracing himself against the table and chairs. His gait was stiff and rubbery, but he made it to the window and looked out. He turned, his cigarette clenched between yellow teeth. "Fudder!" he growled. His mother cringed.

"You're scaring your mother, Dan," Chloe scolded.

She shouldn't have called attention to herself. Dan turned to her. His face relaxed, his eyes grew misty, and the wet cigarette fell out of his mouth. "Tizz," he moaned, flecks of tobacco sticking to his chin, and he lunged for­ward and embraced Chloe, lifting her off the ground. She let out a yelp. His hands found her behind, engaging it in a desperate clutch. "My God," Ruth Larsen said.

"Dan," I offered, "put her down, please."

"Sazz. Nisazz."

"Thank you, Dan, that's enough," Chloe gasped. It seemed to get through to him. He set her on the ground, and she gently pushed him away.

"Peanut," he said. "Fucker."

"What have you done to him?" his mother again asked us.

"Mrs. Larsen," Chloe said, her face red, "we'll be taking a little break now. I think you need some quality time with your son."

"He needs you, Mrs. Larsen." She motioned to me with a thin, pale finger. "Let's go," she said, panting.

I followed. She led me right to my apartment and into bed, where we went at it with giddy elan. When we were through, we lay together, tangled in the sheets, breathing slow and even

breaths. It was a relief to be alone after the day's shocks and embarrassments.

"How long do you have off work?" 1 asked her.

'Just this week."

"Me too."

I waited a moment before asking, "What should we do then? I mean, the two of us."

She didn't answer immediately. I assumed she had dozed off, so 1 nudged her and asked again. Her response was a sigh. "I heard you the first time."

"Sorry."

"Let's not talk about that now."

"Okay."

"Let's just be quiet."

"Okay."

"Good."

By week's end, Dan could almost pass for normal. He was allowed to go home, and his doctors paid him visits there. They were surprised at his speedy recovery and expressed this surprise with smug, proud ejaculations, piquant little hmms and huhs, which they deliv­ered while nodding. Dan returned them in kind, an unlit backward cigarette still dangling from his mouth, his fingers clenching and unclenching at his sides. His speech was coherent but strange, as if run multiple times through transla­tion software. The doctors asked him questions and recorded the answers on dictaphones.

"Please describe your 10th birthday party."

"Hmm?" Dan replied.

"Daniel, the caboose?" his mother spat. "The magician?"

"Hmm, ahh. yes. Motherpaida-man. ParkingthecabooseinCentral-Park. Eatingicecreaminside, yes. Mymanyfriends. Yes. Andthemagician-.vithhisrabbit. Ofcourseyes. Fudder. And-Ghloewiththequartersinherears."

Chloe giggled. It was true; the magi-:ian had removed quarters from her jars as a trick. All of us had been there it that party, and all of us were here now, rrowded around the fireplace.

"Peanut. JanekissedMattbehindthe-buntain. Yesss."

"I did?" Jane said suddenly.

Matt turned to her. "You don't remem-)er? How could you forget?"

Her face crumpled. "I'm sorry, darling."

"But how the hell did Dan know?"

Dan, however, had gone on reminisc-ng. "Mmmmmremmmmmemberitwell," le said, nodding. The cigarette bounced >n his lip. "Andmotherfatherfighting. vlothersayinghowcouldyou. And with-hatwhore, she said, yesss."

Ruth Larsen's eyes grew wide.

"Andfatherfantasizingmurdering-lerinhersleep, yess. Fudder. Watching-he magics how, dreamingofslitting-nothersthroat, yessss."

Nils Larsen was not home. Upon Dan's arrival he had left suddenly, and wisely, on a "'business trip" from which he had not yet returned. Everyone else, though, was staring at Zombie Dan in horror. He seemed to notice not at all. He was standing beside the fireplace, leaning against the mantel, rubbing his chin. Every once in a while his tongue shot out and licked his lips. The ciga­rette sagged but never fell.

"AndofcourseRick, fudderfudder, Rickwasstealingmoney. Fromthehouse-keeper. Yess. Stealingmoneyfrom-herpurse. Stealingabottleol medicine. Tryingtogethigh, yessss, andthehouse-keepertoldRicksmother. ThatRick-wasstealing. Andhismotherfiredher. Fudderpeanut, yesss."

"What!" Rick said, leaping to his feet.

"Sotrue, sotrue. Attheparty, Rick, felt-soguilty, yesss, nicetits, yesss. Butheforgot, everyoneforgot, everythingisforgotten."

Rick was slowly lowering himself back into his chair, his face crumpled like an old newspaper. Jane threw her arms around Matt, as if for protection. The doctors amplified their hmming. Pencils scratched on little pads. Beside them, Paul gazed expectantly at Dan, his face livid with masochistic excitement.

"Do you remember, Danny? Do you remember what I was thinking?"

Dan ground his jaw, seemed to sniS the air. "Skidmark. Skidmark. Youpooped-yourpants."

Paul's face blazed with delight.

"AndChloedearChloe," Dan said,

seeming to study a corner of the ceiling.

Chloe sat up straighten

"Chloechloe, alwayslovedhersovery-much. Betsywasmygirlfriend, yesss, JenniferAmyPaulaNancy, but Chloe, fud-derfudder, Chloemysecretlove. Yesss."

"Oh my," Chloe said.

Dan turned and looked at her and smiled. The cigarette tipped up, and for a brief moment he looked quite a lot like FDR.

"Peanut," he said. "Nice ass."

Chloe had gone pink. "Thank you, Dan."

Ruth Larsen stood up suddenly. "I want you all out of here. All of you. Now!"

Jane obeyed immediately. She pulled Matt to his feet and began to drag him toward the apartment door. He appeared lost as he stumbled after his terrified wife. Paul followed, a wry smile in place on his lips, and Rick slouched after, his face shattered.

I glanced at the exit, hoping Dan wouldn't notice me. I motioned to Chloe, and she got up from her chair, but she headed for the hallway and the room where she had been staying. I offered a questioning look, but she only winked. I supposed she wasn't going back to New Hasen just yet. Meanwhile Mrs. Larsen was shouting at the doctors, "Liars! Liars! You didn't tell me they could do this!"

A squirrelly-looking man in thick glasses was nodding and stroking his plasticine goatee. "Yes. well," he said. "Yes, well, we're still researching this

particular... unexpected... ah...quirk..."

"Hmmm, DoctorGiles," Dan said, gesturing with his cigarette, "youreally-shouldhavethatlookedat."

"Pardon me?"

"Thethingonyourback, hmm, couldbe-fudderprecancerous...."

The little man's eyes widened as he backed out the door, his coterie of asso­ciates encircling him like a hedge.

"Out! Out!" screamed Ruth I.arsen.

I wanted to go after Chloe. But instead 1 turned and left.

I went back to work. I was a graphic designer for a natural-products company. It wasn't something I'd ever intended to do—I'd begun there as a copy editor— but when the previous graphic designer had quit to move to Wyoming and raise pigs, 1 temporarily plugged the gap. Temporarily turned into permanently, though I was still making my old salary. My boss, Patty, had rejected eight drafts of my new herbal-douche label and was now demanding changes to my ninth. We sat alone in the conference room with the reeking remains of lunch pushed to one side, and she squinted at the proofs, curling her nose in disgust.

"It's too girlie," she said.

"It's for girls," I offered.

"Not for girlie girls. For womany women."

"You want it womanier?"

"Womanier, yes."

When I spoke to anyone at work, for any reason, this was usually the kind of conversation that resulted. I missed the crass directness of Chloe. I yearned for her, in fact. I masturbated in the men's room on our floor with a cardi­gan sweater over my head, in protection against the surveillance camera. And of course I called Ruth Larsen's apart­ment several times a day. Nobody ever answered. I even looked up Chloe's boy­friend in New Haven and called him to see if he'd spoken to her. "That sick bitch can go fuck herself," he replied. Matt and Jane hadn't seen her—"We would both like to put this behind us forever,' Matt said sternly, seeming by "this" to mean, among other things, me—and Rick's girlfriend wasn't letting him come to the phone. Paul just laughed at me. "Don't be a fool," he said. "You don't want her." I didn't have the guts to ask why not.

I spent my afternoon womaning up the douche label with some elegant Edwardian script and digitized sprigs of ivy. Then I went home. There was a mes­sage on my answering machine—a wom­an's voice. She had left only a number ind an unfamiliar one at that. I called it. Ruth Larsen answered. It sounded like she was out of doors—I could hear traf­fic and voices.

"Meet me at the Homburg Bar," she said, and gave me an address downtown. 'We have business to discuss."

"What kind of business? Have you seen Chloe?"

Mrs. Larsen tsked and let out an impa­tient sigh. "All in good time," she said.

What, then, is the soul?

No, really. If there were one issue revivification raised that could not easily be resolved, it was this. If you believed in the soul, in heaven or hell, in eternal life, what did revivification tell you? On the face of it, not much. Revivs could often remember their death trauma and the events leading up to it, and they had no trouble remembering their return to life. But in between was a blank. None of them ever remembered a single moment. They

didn t even seem to have noticed the passing of time— there was death and there was life, and nary a wisp of a dream intervened between the two.

One school of thought held that the revivs disproved the existence of the soul. They remembered nothing, the argu­ment went, because there was nothing. When you're dead, you're dead. The res­toration of life, then, was no big deal—it was like starting up a car. God was nowhere shaking his shaggy head in divine disapproval. There was only man and nature and eter­nal oblivion.

There was anoth­er school of thought, however, that re­garded revivification as proof of the soul's existence. The evi­dence was that the revivs were differ­ent. Something, the

argument went, was missing. 1 hat thing was the soul. The revivs were zombies. Their souls were in heaven, or in hell, and what limped around on earth was an empty shell, a machine.

I had never been much for religion, but the second school certainly seemed to have a lot going for it. When asked to describe their revived friends and neighbors, when asked to choose a word thai best character­ized this new breed of human being, just about everybody said the same thing.

Soulless.

The Homburg was a hole in the wall, or more accurately, in the ground. It was

in a basement underneath an art gal­lery and had a cement floor, its concav­ity sloping toward a central drain, like a locker room shower. The walls were tile and the lights harsh and bare—yet it was murky, its corners lost in dark­ness. Mismatched tables wobbled here and there, occupied by bored-looking hipsters, and I wondered how on earth someone like Ruth Larsen had heard about it.

I saw her bony hand first—beck­oning from a corner booth that was partially concealed by a curtain—and then her equally thin face, peering out from behind the fabric. I went to her. She had already ordered me some­thing—a whiskey, neat.

"I'm sorry," I said. "I don't drink whiskey."

"Drink it." Her eyes were sunken and red and underslung with postman's sacks, and her cowl of hair drooped like a bro­ken umbrella. I did as she asked, dispens­ing with the drink in a single gulp.

"Gahhh," I said.

"Now," she muttered, peering once again behind the curtain, "let's get to business."

"Mrs. Larsen," I said, "please. Can you just tell me if you've seen Chloe?"

She nodded. "Yes. I have seen Chloe. She is still in my house," she spat. "She has quit her job and spends her days having sex with Dan."

"Urn," I said. "Oh."

"They drive about in his convertible, eat at restaurants, attend parties and hump all night in his bedroom."

"Okay...."

"On my husband's dime."

"I see."

1 suppose I knew all along that this was going on. But why him? Why Zom­bie Dan? He was without any redeeming qualities whatsoever. 1 hung my head. A little bit of whiskey seemed to be left in the bottom of my glass, and I held it upside down over my mouth for long seconds as it found its way out.

"I suppose you're wondering what Dan has that you don't. I suppose you're thinking he's not a real man. That he's a

zombie. That he has no soul."

"Sort of," I admitted.

"You're full of anger."

"I am pretty angry," I said.

"Rage. You're enraged. Well, I am here to tell you that I am too."

"You are?" I asked her.

"Yes, I am. And I bet you're wonder­ing why. Well, it's because that thing is not my son." Her long finger emitted a faint, damp rattle as she waggled it in my face. "It is not my Daniel. It is a mon­ster, and it must be stopped. It can read my thoughts. It remembers things about me that I worked very, very hard to forget. It is an offense against nature."

"Well," I said, "I wouldn't call-----"

1 nose smug

quacks! They knew it all along! All they wanted was another test subject—it's all part of their stinking quest for knowledge." She leaned closer. Her fingers, horribly dry, brushed my wrist. "It's true about zombies, you know. They do eat brains." She bit her lip, as if the thought made her hungry. "Their souls are gone, so they want yours, and mine. They can steal them, right through thin air!"

She peered once more behind the curtain, then reached into her handbag. "And that," she said, bringing out a small silver pistol and setting it on the table, "is why you're going to kill him."

I let out a litde yelp. "Whoops! No, no, sorry...."

She shushed me, seizing my arm. "I paid to bring him here, and I will pay to send him back."

"But that's murder!"

Slowly she shook her head. "That's where you're wrong. Killing a human being is murder. Killing a zombie is a public service. Especially one with dangerous powers. My son is dead, and his body has been stolen by a monster. A monster that is fucking your girlfriend."

"I don't think shooting Dan will get Chloe to like me again."

"Chloe isn't going to like you again anyway, you idiot," she growled. "That's not the point."

I felt very strongly that 1 ought to leave, but something kept me there, even aside from Mrs. Larsen's death grip. Perhaps it was the whiskey. I felt slightly dizzy and very much open to suggestion.

"Did you slip something into my drink?" I asked.

"Yes, dear, liquor." She seemed to relax a bit and released me, leaving pale, throb­bing stripes on my numb wrist. I slowly dragged it into my lap. "You were about to ask me," she went on, "what the point was

of killing that...creature in my home."

"What's the point?" I obliged.

"Do you," she asked me, "love your job?"

"I hate my job."

"Do you love your employer?"

"I can't stand her."

"Would you prefer never to have to work again? Would you like to invite your employer to perform a sex act upon herself?"

I pictured a scenario of this variety, one that would beg to be followed up with an all-natural douche. I said, "I'd like that, yes."

She pushed the little gun an inch closer. It made a sound like fingernails scraping the lid of a coffin.

"We'll take care of everything," Mrs. Larsen whispered, leaning close. "We have means. People on our side always get a second chance. And you'll be on our side from now on."

Slowly, gently, I reached out and picked up the gun.

In the taxi on the way to the apart­ment, I tried to get it all straight in

my head. If the existence of the revivs meant there was no God, then revivs were as human as anyone else, which meant that killing one was wrong. But if the revivs, by their very soul-lessness, proved God was real, then it was all right to kill them, because they weren't human. But, given this logic, the existence of God made kill­ing okay, and his nonexistence made it a sin. Somewhere I was missing some­thing. I watched the buildings of the avenue heave by outside, as darkness brought their corners into sharp relief, and I considered just how unimport­ant it was—what I was about to do—to almost all of humanity, and how very much peculiarity the world seemed capable of absorbing.

I got out at the Larsens' building and walked to the elevator. The door­man nodded at me, glancing at my jacket, which was tugged down on one side from the gun's surprising weight. I managed a nervous smile.

There was no one else in the eleva­tor, no one else to slow down the ride. I stared at myself in its mirrored wall. I didn't look like a killer. I wasn't a killer. I was going to set things right, the balance of nature, the balance of my checking account. 1 cleared my throat, though I didn't have anything to say. I didn't intend to speak to Zombie Dan, just put him out of his misery.

He answered the door before I even reached it. The doorman had called ahead, of course.

"Ah, hellothere, comein, fudderfudder. Wewerejusttalkingaboutyou."

"Urn. You were?" He grabbed me by the arm and pulled me into the apartment.

"Good evening." Chloe said. She was standing in the hallway in a bath­robe, rubbing a towel on her hair. She turned to Dan. "You've got this under control, honey?"

Dan nodded. "Nicetizz." I reached for my pocket and found Dan's hand there, waiting for me. His other hand already contained the gun. His tongue gently dragged along his top, then bottom, lip; he seemed to have found a stylish way of executing the tic. "Fuddernevermindthis," he said. "My poor mot her. Dreamingnightand-day. Peanut. Ofmydeath."

"Oh," I said.

"Shcalreadytried. Mattnjanc. AndRick. Not Paul, shcsafraidofhomos, rudder."

"Is that so?" He was leading me into the living room. The gun he tossed onto the pink shag. I winced as it hit the ground.

"Don (worry, fudder, I took-outthebulletsthismorning. Now." He sat me down on a comfy chair, removed a cigarette from a pack in the pocket of his sports coat and inserted it backward into his mouth. "Wehavealot. Totalk-about. Niceass."

"We do?"

His eyes were not blank, not empty. There was something in them, some­thing new and strangely comforting. I felt, under their scrutiny, very small and inert, like a pebble, perhaps, or a scrap of paper. Dan"s smile was crooked and not quite under control, and the unlit cigarette twitched on his lip.

"Whvyeswedomyfriend." He blinked, and blinked again. "Suchasyourfudder. Father. Forinsssstance."

"I never knew my father," I said. Behind him, Chloe could be seen saun­tering barefoot into the kitchen in a cotton sundress and cardigan sweater. She caught my eye and gave me a little wave. She seemed different too. More confident. Gentler. 1 longed for her.

"Ofcourseyouknewhim," Zombie Dan said, crossing his legs. "Thefish-ingtrip. Whenyouweresix."

"I never went fishing with my father," I said. "He left my mother when I was too young to remember. He was...abusive. It led to her break­down." I'd said this so many times before, to so many people: therapists, girlfriends. But for the first time it didn't seem quite right.

"Butyouseethats where youre-wrong." The cigarette stood at

attention, wiggling at me like an accusing finger. "Fudderfudder. Itwas-yourmother. Whodrovehimaway. Nizass. Thefishingtrip, hetoldyouthis. Butyoudidntbelieve, fudder. "

"That's not true!" I said. My under­arms were slick with perspiration, and I had to pee. I thought about the phone conversation I'd had earlier. With my boss. When I was trying to get a cab. The terrible things I called her. The suggestions I made to her about what to do with her douche label. I sunk a little deeper into the comfy chair.

It was in a cabin of course, a log cabin. In the Adirondacks. It had a shag carpet and smelled like spray deodorant, and we ate all-beef franks raw from the plastic package.

"Damn," I said.

"Dontworryoldbean," Zombie Dan said, leaning close and resting a cold hand on my knee. "Thislife, fudderfudder, ismerelyascrim. Betweentheconscious-mind. Andthesoul. Tits. Andnowwepull. Backthecurtain. Cigarette?"

"I don't smoke," I said.

His response was a stiff, sad smile. He reached into his pocket, took out a ciga­rette and proffered it, backward, to the

vicinity of my face. Chloe's head poked out from the kitchen door.

"Go on," she said to me brightly. "It feels jo good to let go. ]ust give him what he wants." And she disappeared with a wink.

Where was he now, my father? Far away, no doubt, maybe with some other family. And my mother? Right where I'd last seen her, in her sad, sag­ging house upstate, four hours away, loo bitter, too angry, too crazy, really, for me to visit. A card at Christmas, a card on her birthday. If she was so terrific, why had I changed my phone to an unlisted number? Whv did I shudder at the very thought of her? My life, I could see now, had been a lie. I supposed that I had always known—why else would I have lived it so leadenly. in denial of its imper-manence, insulated from its deepest pleasures and agonies? Like I wasn't really alive at all.

I looked deep into Dan's eyes. His hand was steady. His tongue darted out and licked his lip. I opened my mouth and let him place the cigarette there, a sacrament.

WHO

AMONG THE DROWNED, THE FROZEN, THE ASPHYXI­ATED WOULD GET TO COME BACK? THE RICH. NATURALLY.

She leaned over, bringing her chest about six inches from Dan's face. "Here ya go, pal. Get a good look."