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She gripped my hand and smiled. “Thank you for telling me the truth. I still want to bring Arthur back. Even if it’s just long enough to say a few words.”
So she was going to do it, as I had known she would. “So you don’t want him for weeks, or days, only long enough to talk.”
“I think so.”
“I don’t mean to rush you, Mrs. Fiske, but I need to know before we set up an appointment. You see, it takes more time and energy to raise and then lay to rest, one right after another.” If she laid and raised quickly enough, Mrs. Fiske might be able to remember Arthur at his best.
“Oh, of course. If possible I would like to talk for several hours.”
“Then it’s best if you take him home for at least the evening. We can schedule putting him back for tomorrow night.” I would push for a quick laying to rest. I didn’t think Mrs. Fiske could take watching her husband rot before her eyes.
“That sounds good.” She took a deep breath. I knew what she was going to say. She looked so brave and resolute. “I want to be there when you bring him back.”
“Your presence is required, Mrs. Fiske. You see, a zombie has no real will of its own. Your husband should be able to think on his own at first, but as time wears on, the zombie finds it very difficult to decide things. The person, or persons, who raised it will have control over it.”
“You and I?”
“Yes.”
She paled even more, her grip tightening.
“Mrs. Fiske?” I got her a glass of water. “Sip it slowly.” When she seemed better, I asked, “Are you sure you’re up to this tonight?”
“Is there anything I need to bring?”
“A suit of your husband’s clothes would be nice. Maybe a favorite object, hat, trophy, to help him orient himself. The rest I’ll supply.” I hesitated, because some of the color had crept into her face, but she needed to be prepared. “There will be blood at the ceremony.”
“Blood.” Her voice was a breathy whisper.
“Chicken, I’ll bring it. There will also be some ointment to spread over our faces and hands. It glows faintly and smells fairly strange, but not unpleasant.” Her next question would be the usual.
“What do we do with the blood?”
I gave the usual answer. “We sprinkle some on the grave and some on us.”
She swallowed very carefully, looking slightly gray.
“You can back out now but not later. Once you’ve paid your deposit, it can’t be refunded. And once the ceremony begins, to break the circle is very dangerous.”
She looked down, thinking. I liked that. Most who agreed right away were afraid later. The brave ones took time to answer. “Yes.” She sounded very convinced. “To make peace with Arthur, I can do it.”
“Good for you. How is tonight?”
“About midnight,” she added hopefully.
I smiled. Everyone thought midnight was the perfect time for raising the dead. All that was required was darkness. Some people did put a great deal of stock in certain phases of the moon, but I had never found it necessary. “No, how about nine o’clock?”
“Nine?”
“If that will be all right. I have two other appointments tonight, and nine was left open.”
She smiled. “That will be fine.” Her hand shook as she signed the check for half the fee, the other half to be delivered after the raising.
We shook hands, and she said, “Call me Carla.”
“I’m Anita.”
“I’ll see you at nine tonight at Wellington Cemetery.”
I continued for her, “Between two large trees and across from the only hill.”
“Yes, thank you.” She flashed a watery smile and was gone.
I buzzed our receptionist area. “Mary, I’m booked up for this week and won’t be seeing any more clients, until at least next Tuesday.”
“I’ll see to it, Anita.”
I leaned back in my chair and soaked up the silence. Three animations a night was my limit. Tonight they were all routine, or almost. I was bringing back my first research scientist. His three colleagues couldn’t figure out his notes, and their deadline, or rather grant, was running close. So dear Dr. Richard Norris was coming back from the dead to help them out. They were scheduled for midnight.
At three this next morning I would meet the widowed Mrs. Stiener. She wanted her husband to clear up some nasty details with his will.
Being an animator meant very little nightlife, no pun intended. Afternoons were spent interviewing clients and evenings raising the dead. Though we few were very popular at a certain kind of party—the sort where the host likes to brag about how many celebrities he knows, or worse yet, the kind who simply want to stare. I don’t like being on display and refuse to go to parties unless forced. Our boss likes to keep us in the public eye to dispel rumors that we are witches or hobgoblins.
It’s pretty pitiful at parties. All the animators huddled, talking shop like a bunch of doctors. But doctors don’t get called witch, monster, zombie queen. Very few people remember to call us animators. For most, we are a dark joke. “This is Anita. She makes zombies, and I don’t mean the drink.” Then there would be laughter all around, and I would smile politely and know I’d be going home early.
Tonight there was no party to worry over, just work. Work was power, magic, a strange dark impulse to raise more than what you were paid for. Tonight would be cloudless, moonlit, and starred; I could feel it. We were different, drawn to the night, unafraid of death and its many forms, because we had a sympathy for it.
Tonight I would raise the dead.
Wellington Cemetery was new. All the tombstones were nearly the same size, square or rectangle, and set off into the night in near-perfect rows. Young trees and perfectly clipped evergreen shrubs lined the gravel driveway. The moon rode strong and high, bathing the scene clearly, if mysteriously, in silver and black. A handful of huge trees dotted the grounds. They looked out of place among all this newness. As Carla had said, only two of them grew close together.
The drive spilled into the open and encircled the hill. The mound of grass-covered earth was obviously man-made, so round, short, and domed. Three other drives centered on it. A short way down the west drive stood two large trees. As my car crunched over gravel, I could see someone dressed in white. A flare of orange was a match, and the reddish pinpoint of a cigarette sprang to life.
I stopped the car, blocking the drive, but few people on honest business visit cemeteries at night. Carla had beaten me here, very unusual. Most clients want to spend as little time as possible near the grave after dark. I walked over to her before unloading equipment.
There was a litter of burned-out cigarettes like stubby white bugs about her feet. She must have been here in the dark for hours waiting to raise a zombie. She either was punishing herself or enjoyed the idea. There was no way of knowing which.
Her dress, shoes, even hose, were white. Earrings of silver flashed in the moonlight as she turned to me. She was leaning against one of the trees, and its black trunk emphasized her whiteness. She only turned her head as I came up to her.
Her eyes looked silver-gray in the light. I couldn’t decipher the look on her face. It wasn’t grief.
“It’s a beautiful night, isn’t it?”
I agreed that it was. “Carla, are you all right?”
She stared at me terribly calm. “I’m feeling much better than I did this afternoon.”
“I’m very glad to hear that. Did you remember to bring his clothes and a memento?”
She motioned to a dark bundle by the tree.
“Good, I’ll unload the car.” She didn’t offer to help, which was not unusual. Most of the time it was fear that prevented it. I realized my Omega was the only car in sight.
I called softly, but sound carries on summer nights. “How did you get here? I don’t see a car.”
“I hired a cab, it’s waiting at the gate.”
A cab. I would love to have seen the driver’s face when he dropped her off at the cemetery gates. The three black chickens clucked from their cage in the backseat. They didn’t have to be black, but it was the only color I could get for tonight. I was beginning to think our poultry supplier had a sense of humor.
Arthur Fiske was only recently dead, so from the box in the trunk I took only a jar of homemade ointment and a machete. The ointment was pale off-white with flecks of greenish light in it. The glowing flecks were graveyard mold. You wouldn’t find it in this cemetery. It only grew in graveyards that had stood for at least a hundred years. The ointment also contained the obligatory spider webs and other noisome things, plus herbs and spices to hide the smell and aid the magic. If it was magic.
