The Sinister Mr. Corpse Read online

  The Sinister Mr. Corpse

  Title Page

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  The Sinister Mr. Corpse

  by Jeff Strand

  The Sinister Mr. Corpse copyright 2007 by Jeff Strand

  Slightly revised version copyright 2011 by Jeff Strand

  Published at Smashwords

  Cover design by Lynne Hansen http://www.LynneHansen.com

  Cover zombie Jim Morey http://www.JimMorey.com

  All rights reserved.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without written permission from the author.

  Did you notice how I avoided the "living, dead or undead" joke that gets used all the time in things like this? That's my commitment to quality. I'm also not going to say "No zombies were harmed in the writing of this book."

  For more information about the author, visit http://www.JeffStrand.com

  Dedicated to my wife, Janice. Here's to many, many more years of love, friendship, and zombie movies.

  CHAPTER ONE

  "Whooooo-eeeeee, take a look at the size of that thing, willya?" The elderly fisherman grinned and winked at the camera as he lifted the thrashing bluegill out of the lake and into his net. "Now that is a prize fish. Just like I said, all the fancy mechanical lures and baits in the world can't compare to a good ol' fashioned hook and worm."

  He set his pole on the floor of the small wooden boat and carefully removed the hook from the fish's mouth, then proudly held his prize, still in the net, up to the camera. "Sixteen inches. You see, any good fisherman knows that it ain't about the technology, it's about patience and skill. Yep, patience and skill."

  The fisherman winked at the camera again. He held the bluegill up to his face and made some kissy sounds at it. "Betcha wish you hadn't gone for that worm, huh? Not quite as comfortable in my net as it is in the cool fresh water, is it, little fella? No, no, no, I'm guessing that you're not a happy fishie at all right now."

  He chuckled, then bashed the fish against the floor of the boat, rattling the camera. "Take that, you little shit!" He bashed it again, then smacked the fish against the side of the boat three times in rapid succession. "Yeah, you messed up real good this time, little fishie!"

  The fisherman stood up, dropped the bluegill, and stomped on it over and over until it was unrecognizable pulp. "Die, you wormy piece of filth! Scaly vacant-eyed little bastard! Die!"

  As the fisherman scraped the mess on his shoe off on the side of the boat, the words "EXTREME FISHING!" flashed on the screen, with the exclamation point formed out of fish bones. Then a series of jump cuts set to heavy metal music: a man gutting a large trout, a topless woman firing a shotgun into a lake, a man getting his arm bitten off by a great white shark, two guys burning a fish with lighters as it dangled from the hook, and a man in a fish costume being severely beaten with a baseball bat.

  The small television screen faded to black.

  "What do you think, sir?" asked Martin Vines, timidly. He was in his late twenties, wore a long goatee and wire-framed glasses, and always dressed entirely in green, like a Bohemian leprechaun.

  Stanley Dabernath stared at the blank screen for a long moment. "Did he really kill that fish?"

  "I believe so."

  "I don't think we can show somebody bashing a real fish to death. The animal rights groups will have a hissy fit."

  "Do they care about fish?"

  "Are you kidding? Those squirrel-huggers get their thongs in a twist over roaches. I liked the naked chick, though. We could put her on the front of the box, maybe with severed fish heads over her nipples. I'd buy that, wouldn't you?"

  "I could be convinced."

  Stanley thought for a moment, then shrugged. "Yeah, let's do it. Fuck the squirrel-huggers. We'll say it was a CGI fish."

  "Excellent idea, sir."

  "Set up a meeting with the filmmakers for tomorrow. Make it late so we can get some booze into them."

  "Yes, sir."

  "Thanks, Martin. I need to make some phone calls." Stanley pushed back his chair and stood up. "Keep everybody out of my office for the next hour or so."

  Stanley left the screening room and walked to his personal office at the other end of the trailer. He shut the door and pulled off his t-shirt, which was drenched with sweat. He could barely stand to be in the screening room anymore since the fan broke last month.

  He sat down on his cot, pressed a snot-stained pillow to his face to muffle the sound, and began to sob.

  Stanley cried and cried, occasionally pounding his fist against the blanket. How had he ended up in such a miserable existence? Sixty thousand dollars in debt, evicted from his apartment, washing his clothes in the bathroom sink, eating stolen Ramen noodles three times a day...it just wasn't fair. Hell, the only reason he could work out a distribution deal for the Extreme Fishing tape was because he'd be screwing over the filmmakers on the deferred payment clause.

  Demented Whackos Video should have made him a millionaire. He'd started this business with nothing more than an e-mail account, the rights to a no-budget zombie flick, and a $19.95 a month storage unit. Now, three years later, Demented Whackos Video had thirty-nine offerings in its catalog, but he could no longer afford the storage unit. The DVDs were stacked in the trailer's kitchenette.

  It just didn't make sense. Cheap horror crap was supposed to be a sure profit, but nobody was buying it. He'd fired and rehired his marketing department, Martin, eight different times and nothing was working.

  Stanley sniffled and wiped his nose on the pillow. Oh well. Times were bad now, but he was not one to give up. Yeah, it was pathetic that he was thirty-five years old and had to swipe alcohol from his parents' refrigerator to use in business meetings, but all he needed was one hit to put Demented Whackos Video on the map. One sicko product to capture everybody's attention.

  Maybe Extreme Fishing was just that product.

  Stanley got off the cot and put his t-shirt back on. He always felt refreshed after his daily cry. Things would be improving very soon, he could feel it.

  And even though he would be dead within the next hour, he was right.

  * * *

  Despite his line of business, Stanley had never given much thought to his own mortality. His only real concern was that he might be decapitated. He'd read somewhere that the human head could continue to see for several moments after it was severed from the body, and that idea seriously creeped him out.

  "What if you were decapitated, but your eyes were poked out first?" his ex-girlfriend Charlene had asked as they lay in bed one night. "Would you be cool with that?"

  Stanley admitted that he probably wouldn't care for that scenario either, and then dumped Charlene the next morning (after the sex).

  B
ut beyond the decapitation phobia, Stanley wasn't one to dwell on his own possible death. Physically, he felt fine. He got plenty of exercise thanks to not being able to afford car repairs or gasoline, and had a steady stream of girlfriends. His love life was perhaps lacking the kinky threesomes with gorgeous blonde twins that a handsome film distributor deserved, but he wasn't complaining, save for the occasional comment about the lack of kinky threesomes with gorgeous blonde twins.

  Well, maybe "handsome" was stretching it a bit, but he certainly wasn't ugly. He had thick black hair, cut short, and almost perfect teeth in his winning smile. His ears didn't stick out or anything and his nose was sized just right. If he had to be truly honest with himself, he'd say that he was average looking, but at the upper end of average. And despite his career setbacks and daily wallow in shameful self-pity, he still managed to project an aura of self-confidence.

  Fourteen minutes before his death, Stanley walked out of the trailer park and along the unpaved street. A good cry and a long walk each day was what kept him sane.

  He walked for a while, lost in thought. He heard a large truck approaching behind him, and stepped further off the road so it wouldn't mess up his hair when it rushed by.

  Maybe a compilation tape would work. The Best of Demented Whackos Video. He could use clips from Vampire Splatter and The Bloodshot Eyeball and The Mysterious Case of the Chunks of Flesh and Put Down That Chainsaw, I'm Not Made of Wood and--

  Brakes squealed behind him.

  Stanley glanced over his shoulder to see the semi truck weaving off the road, headed straight towards him.

  He dove out of the way and tumbled onto the gravel, scraping the hell out of his arm and the side of his face.

  The semi came to a screeching halt.

  Then it started to topple over.

  Stanley frantically tried to scoot away from the falling vehicle and almost succeeded. It struck the ground with a thunderous crash, landing on Stanley's left foot.

  He shrieked in pain.

  Cold white liquid began to pour from the vehicle. Stanley got a huge mouthful of milk and spit it out, but more and more milk poured upon him. He desperately struggled to free his pinned foot to no avail. As he screamed, milk filled his mouth and his nostrils and burned his lungs and his eyes and he felt himself choke.

  Unrestrained panic set in.

  He couldn't breathe.

  His arms flailed helplessly.

  And then a moment of peace.

  A moment of clarity.

  I can't fucking believe I'm going to die by drowning in milk, he thought.

  CHAPTER TWO

  "We're going live in fifteen seconds!"

  Donald Mandigan clenched the microphone tightly in his left hand, hoping that the beads of sweat on his forehead wouldn't be visible on camera. This was either going to be the big break that turned him into a television superstar, or he was going to look like a complete ass in front of the entire world.

  Please, please, please don't let me look like a complete ass in front of the entire world, he prayed.

  "Live in five...four...three..."

  Donald took a deep breath. As the floor manager pointed to him, he addressed the camera.

  "Death. Once upon a time, it was thought to be the end of our worldly existence, at least in our current body. But has this changed?"

  Donald gestured to a steel door in the hallway behind him. "Behind this very door, scientists are taking out their felt-tipped red pens and rewriting God's plan. And here, on live television, you are about to witness it for yourself. I'm Donald Mandigan. What you are about to see may disturb you. It may offend you. It may even terrify you. Because tonight you will witness the very first resurrection of a human corpse, or at least the first one since that popular Jewish carpenter a couple of millennia ago."

  Please, please, please, please, please don't let me look like an ass, he silently begged.

  "Is what you will see tonight wrong? Is it evil? Is it perhaps even the beginning of the end? I suppose that's only for the man upstairs to decide."

  Donald paused for a moment of reverent silence, then continued. "The corpse in question is Stanley Dabernath. An ordinary man, taken from this world far too early in a tragic accident several weeks ago."

  "And...we're clear," said the floor manager. "Back in eight minutes."

  Donald wiped the perspiration from his forehead and forced himself to relax. The show had now switched to a pre-recorded retrospective of the life of Mr. Dabernath, from his normal childhood in Illinois to his sleaze-bucket years as a failed film distributor in Florida.

  "If this show ends and there's still a motionless body on that table, I'm going to kick every butt in this place."

  "Don't worry about it," said the cameraman. "If the guy doesn't come back to life, we'll just tie some strings to him and make him dance around."

  "Real funny." Donald ran his hand over his forehead again. "Look at me, I'm sweating like a pig. I never sweat like a pig."

  Missy, the makeup girl who had refused to sleep with Donald on seven different occasions but caved in on three others, hurried over to touch him up.

  Donald couldn't believe he was doing this. The ratings were probably going to be killer, far beyond any of the other Bizarre Reality specials he'd hosted, but the risk was incredible. There was a damn good chance that he'd spend the next hour of his life trying to convince the viewing audience that the motionless dead body on the table wasn't the biggest dud in the history of television.

  Quite honestly, Donald didn't know why they hadn't just prerecorded the resurrection and told everybody it was live. After all, they were in an underground bunker in New Mexico, whose location had been kept secret to avoid the protestors. There'd been thousands of them gathered outside the network headquarters for the past week, and in fact seventeen of them had been badly injured when things got out of hand yesterday morning.

  In the most recent poll, twenty-six percent of the American public was morally opposed to the resurrection, while twenty-three percent were in favor. Fifty-one percent thought the whole thing was bullshit.

  Donald stood there for a few minutes, sweating and wondering what hilarious jokes the talk show hosts would crack at his expense if this was, in fact, bullshit.

  "Did you all watch the show last night with Donald Mandigan? We didn't get to see a body come back to life, but we did get to see something die: his career!"

  "We're back in five...four...three..."

  At the floor manager's cue, Donald addressed the camera again. "And now, ladies and gentlemen, let's go beyond the steel door." He warned the audience again about the possibility of being disturbed, offended, and/or terrified, and then opened the door and walked inside the small room, followed by the cameraman.

  The cadaver of Stanley Dabernath rested on a gurney, dressed only in a pair of white boxer shorts. Considering the amazing talent of contemporary mortuary workers, Donald felt they could've made the poor guy look a little less hideous, but at the same time the visible decomposition would make the return to life all that much more impressive. The cadaver's left foot was in a white plastic cast. Two scientists in white jackets stood around the gurney, and a dozen or so tubes were hooked up to the corpse.

  "Welcome, Donald," said the lead scientist, reading off a cue card. "So glad you could join us."

  "The pleasure is all mine. Ladies and gentlemen, this is Richard Brant, head of Project Second Chance. Mr. Brant, how do you respond to those who feel that this is unnatural, that man should not be trying to conquer death?"

  "I understand their concern," he admitted. "However, I believe that if the Good Lord has given us the creativity, persistence, and desire to bring a human being back from the dead, we'd be turning our back on His gifts if we didn't pursue it. As you know, Congress did not uphold the attempted ban on our project, and I feel that the possible benefits of our research simply cannot be overstated."

  "Let's talk about another question that I'm sure is on the minds of our vi
ewing audience. Why Stanley Dabernath? With all due respect to Mr. Dabernath and his estate, he's not in the best physical shape at the moment, and I think viewers at home can consider themselves fortunate that they aren't here to experience the scent. Why wouldn't you use, for lack of a better term, a fresher specimen?"

  "That's an excellent question," said Brant. "Of course, the body has been refrigerated for these past two months or else it would look substantially worse than what you see before you. However, while the science involved is too complicated to get into in this forum, suffice it to say that a certain amount of decomposition is required for our chemicals to work properly."

  "And what exactly are these chemicals?"

  Brant chuckled. "Oh, no. You're not getting that information out of me until we get the patent."

  Donald returned his attention to the camera. "We're only moments away from the attempted resurrection of the corpse you see here before you," he said, perfectly aware that the actual resurrection was at least three commercial breaks away. "Please stay with us as we bring you this historic and controversial moment, live."

  As the show went to commercial, Donald looked over the body. There was no doubt that it was dead. He'd touched the body--the leg--before the broadcast and it was either a real corpse or the most realistic artificial one ever created. And having spent some time in morgues for his special on medical malpractice, Donald wasn't sure it was possible to fake that good ol' dead body smell.

  The next segment was a pair of prerecorded interviews, one with a New York pastor expressing his outrage at this blasphemy, and one with a college professor and award-winning author who felt that this was the dawn of a glorious new world. After another commercial break, they went to a series of grammatically questionable comments by normal people on the street. After another set of commercials and a segment on the protestors, the show returned live to the resurrection room.