The postmortal

Brian Davenport sat in a toilet cubicle staring intently at a small pocket mirror, yanking at the skin of his cheeks. He had been assured by his postmortal rehabilitation officer that his body would not deteriorate anymore after his diagnosis. This didn’t stop him from poking and prodding his skin or from constantly checking any reflective surfaces for signs of rot. His eyes looked a little cloudy today, although that may be due to his lack of sleep. He had been woken in the early hours by his usual nightmare, chatting with his coworkers when a wet slop of meat detached itself from his face, landing with a blunt thud on the floor. His co-workers screamed and ran. He touched his face and felt only bone.

He breathed a small sigh of relief, the makeup he used to hide his pale skin was all still in place, though he would have to remember to reapply this afternoon. He had gotten pretty good at it over the last few months.

He heard his co-workers pour into the cramped breakroom. The fridge door rattled open, and the microwave began its usual rotating hum. He knew the T.V would come on, the T.V meant the news and the news would mean another “debate” about the “zombie” question. He didn’t care for anyone’s opinion on postmortal rights, all his focus went into not being exposed. He left the bathroom just as Randy over in quality control was yelling at the T.V.

“We just need ‘em to identify themselves, that’s all so we know what they are.”

“Identify ‘em?” Kelly laughed, “Most of ‘em look like roadkill anyway!”

The news flashed footage of a lurching corpse, its skin putrid and hanging. A police officer led it away using a catchpole whilst it thrashed and made a grab for him. Brian felt his insides twist.

“What you think Bri?” Randy asked.

“Pretty gruesome Randy, is there nothing else on?”

“You can’t shy away from it mate. You know the ones that pass, they don’t even ‘ave to disclose their deceased status.” Randy air quoted the word pass. “Dead’s dead if you ask me.”

Brian took his lunch to his cubicle. He opened it up and tore off a chunk of his sandwich. Waiting for him was an email from his postmortal rehabilitation officer.

Hi Brian,

It’s Emma, I know you must be feeling low after yesterday’s session, but I think I’ve found something that may help you. I know how you feel but understanding different viewpoints can be very beneficial. It’s all very discreet.

Attached was a flyer for a postmortal support group, meeting every Wednesday, 7 o’clock at the local leisure centre. He quickly deleted the email. The rest of the day went by as Brian debated on whether to go. Randy only came by twice to loudly voice his opinion.

“Soon it will be special privileges for ‘em I tell yer. Zombie tax breaks!”

When it came to 5pm, Brian was first out the door although he didn’t know what he was rushing home for. There was nothing there, the only person he spoke to outside of work was Emma, she was always so procedural about his treatment. He got the feeling she didn’t like him.

It was past 6:45 by the time Brian had convinced himself to go. Just one session, he told himself. If it’s not for me I can just leave anytime I want. On the drive to the leisure centre, he spotted a mob of people outside of the hospital. Some had their faces covered and others held up placards.

“No brain eaters near our kids!” One sign read.

A few days ago, the council had announced that a wing of the hospital was to provide services exclusively to post-mortal syndrome sufferers. Every night since the crowd had gathered in protest. It had also attracted some counter protestors, but their numbers were less than one tenth and journalists didn’t find them worth interviewing. Brian sped on past still thinking about turning round. It was now 7 meaning he would be late.

He pulled into the local supermarket and left his car there, preferring to walk the extra ten minutes to the leisure centre. Outside there were no more than six cars and the whole place seemed empty, he couldn’t decide if that was good or not. He speedily walked to the entrance, a note on the door outside read “P.M meeting upstairs.”

The session looked to be in full swing, from just outside the door Brian could hear various introductions. When he sensed a break, he popped his head round the corner.

“Great, Another passer.” An attendee who was missing his right cheek muttered when he spotted him. No point being shy now Brian supposed. He entered giving a few nods before taking a seat outside the circle.

Four of the attendees had obvious signs of postmortal syndrome. One had their face covered by a scarf the only part of them on display were a pair of milky eyes, devoid of any colour or pupils. Another was missing one arm and the skin on his face hung so loose he looked like some kind of grotesque bloodhound. A young woman who could have been attractive had she any life in her skin wore an eyepatch. In her arms was a large dolls head.

“Hannah, you were telling us about yesterday.” The man with the missing arm said, in a soft tone that mismatched his appearance. He seemed to be leading the group.

“Err yeah,” the girl with the eyepatch continued. “Like I said, I was told that there would be no more decay. The doctors said my body is in a suspended animation but yesterday morning I looked in the mirror and my eyelid had turned completely black. I’m just so worried I’m…”

Hannah trailed off, Brian breathed deep and gripped the sides of his chair.

“Why don’t you come a little closer.” The man made a gesture toward Brian with his one good arm whilst the group waited for him to join. Reluctantly Brian carried his chair within the circle and sat down.

“And how do you feel about what happened?” He continued, turning back to Hannah.

“Maybe a bit exposed.” Hannah admitted.

“A black eyebrow doesn’t mean you’re in a state of decay. Have you spoken with you rehabilitation officer?”

Hannah thought for a moment then shook her head.

“I’m wondering what it would be like if you spoke with him about these concerns?”

Hannah’s brow creased, she raised a finger and began to scratch under her eye. Brian caught himself doing the same, tucking his hands into his pockets.

“Who cares about an eyelid?” The man missing his cheek said. “Look at the state of me!” Without a right cheek his tongue hung loose causing his words to come out clotted. Flecks of spittle flew; he clamped his hand over his missing cheek and let out a sigh.

“Jacob, you’ll have you turn to talk but for now Hannah’s got the head.”

Hannah stared down at the dolls head; she opened her mouth to speak then decided against it, passing it along to the person sat to her right. The group member with the milky eyes took the dolls head and cleared their throat.

“I’m Jordan,” came a pained rasp. The circle leaned in, “this is my third time here. My second life started four months ago.” There were a few murmurs of greeting before the room fell silent again.

“I suppose I’m here because I find it really helps. I died young, a few days after by twentieth birthday. It was a hit and run, one minute I was rolling over the bonnet of a car next, I woke up in a coffin underground. As you might be able to tell I rose late, so I don’t pass. I’ve made the decision to keep my condition a secret from my colleagues. I’m lucky I can work from home.”

Jacob let out a frustrated shout, more spittle flew.

“Jacob, please respect the other members.” The group leader told him a second time.

“We didn’t ask to come back like this. Why should we hide?” Jacob said.

“It’s everyone’s personal decision whether they choose to let the people around them know of their medical status.”

“Mark be real, medical status? We’re dead! Just take a look at us. I’ve had someone try to burn my house down. The wife and kids have gone to stay at her mothers. Even they can’t stand to be around me.”

Brian thoughts strayed to his own parents. They had been notified of his condition at the hospital. Less than two hours after his death he had risen again, the only sign aside from his ashen skin was a single scar just under his sternum, where his killer had stabbed him.

“We all understand your suffering Jacob, but this group is here to support one another.” Mark said, some of the softness gone from his voice.

“Black eyelid.” Jacob said under his breath.

Brian turned to look at the exit behind him, deeply regretting attending the meeting. His fear of decay had now turned into abject dread. He rubbed at his chest.

“Hello?”

Brian turned back.

“Hi, my names Mark. I believe it’s your first time here. What we like to do is make sure everyone has a turn to talk so we pass around the head and whoever’s holding it takes their turn. Would you like to introduce yourself?”

To Brian’s left Jordan had gotten up out of his seat, the creepy dolls head in his outstretched hand. Brian snatched it off him, avoiding skin contact and gave Jordan a small nod. He fidgeted with the head as the group awaited his introduction.

“I’m Brian.”

“Hello Brian.” Came a small chorus.

“I suppose I’m not really like you.” He said to the dolls head, “I mean I am, like I’m back but I’m ok you know. People, they don’t know of my err.”

Mark smiled encouragingly, “your condition.”

“Yeah.” Brian admitted.

“And what brings you here tonight, Brian?”

Brian’s words caught in his throat. He looked to Jacob, he had been itching to talk before Brian even got here, maybe he could pass the head over to him and sit this one out.

“Well mostly I’ve been feeling like. To be honest I’m not sure I really belong here at all, I think I made a mistake coming.”

“Hey! What are you doing?” Jacob piped up, pointing across the room.

Hannah looked like a deer caught in the headlights.

“Look at her side, she’s recording!”

Hannah slipped her phone into her bag.

“I wasn’t,” she said, “just checking for news on that hospital protest.”

Jacob shot her a scornful look and shook his head.

“Hannah, I would ask you not to not use your phone until after the meeting.” Mark said.

“The bitch was recording I’m telling you.”

“I wasn’t!”

Brian quickly stood up, he needed some air. The bickering group was still audible as he headed down the stairs through the corridor. He pushed open the leisure centre doors, almost bumping into a squash player on a phone call, his racket tucked under his arm. He nodded at him and continued with his conversation. Despite it being late the air was still hot. Ever since he had received his diagnosis Brian had hated hot weather, he felt like his body was decaying under the sun and people nearby could smell the fetid rot of his skin. He leant into his shoulder and sniffed.

“Yeah, I’m pretty sure there’s one here!” The squash player said over the phone. “A bloody zombie meeting! There’s some sign on the door. I think I’ve seen one online before.”

Brian leant forward as his vision became bright, his chest constricted.

“Hey mate, heads up,” the squash player was looking at him, his phone tucked into his neck. “There are zombies upstairs, a load of them.”

“Oh shit.” Brian said.

The player returned to his phone as Brian desperately thought of what to do, his car was at least ten minutes away, maybe six if he sprinted.

“I can see you now, hey!” The player said flapping his arms.

From across the car park a stream of people marched their way toward the entrance. They waved signs and on their t-shirts were pictures of zombies with large red X’s through them. The squash player started laughing.

“What are they all doing here?” Brian asked.

“Told my buddy. He was at the hospital protest. Looks like he brought half them down here!”

His friend came striding up with a small crowd behind him. They shook hands and the squash player pointed to the sign on the window.

“P.M – postmortal!”

His friend looked up, surveying the windows. The crowd, agitated from the protest shouted and jeered. A bottle smashed against the floor a foot from Brian.

“Who’s this?” The guy’s friend asked, pointing at Brian. His bald head red and flaking from sunburn. The squash player shrugged his shoulders.

“I’m just on my way home.” Brian said.

The bald man studied his face, a lump caught in Brian’s throat.

“Bri?”

In the crowd was his coworker Randy, who pulled down the t-shirt he’d used to cover his face.

“Mate there’s zombies inside. What are you doing?”

“I didn’t know,” Brian insisted. “I’m going home.”

A small rock went sailing from the crowd, it struck the glass of the front door leaving a spider web of cracks. Brian jumped, his hands shot to his chest.

“There look!”

Randy pointed upward. Barely visible through the leisure centre windows were the terrified faces of the group. Realising they had been spotted they drew away as stones flew. From behind him Brian heard the front door open.

He looked round in horror to see the group leader Mark. For a moment the crowd went silent, taking in Mark’s frightening appearance. Mark shuffled back slightly, his body half covered by the door.

“Please, we have vulnerable people in here. We don’t want to have to call the police.”

“Fuck off zombie!” Randy yelled. A round of cheers followed his outburst. Randy and Brian locked eyes, the elation on his face morphed into something else.

“What are you doing here Brian?” Randy asked.

“Same… Same as you.”

Brian struggled to get the words out, he needed Randy to know he wasn’t like them before the mob turned their attention on him. He felt an ice-cold hand on his shoulder; he spun round shooting a look of revulsion at Mark, backing away toward the crowd. His arm still outstretched, Mark’s decaying face made it near impossible to read his emotions but through the sagging brow Brian could see a deep hurt in his eyes. For a moment they stared at each other until Mark gave the subtlest hint of a nod and addressed the crowd.

“We’re meeting here peacefully. Please, all we want is the same treatment you enjoy.”

This was the wrong thing to say. The crowd swelled, shouts and jeers rose up as Mark backed behind the door. His experience leading a group had woefully underprepared him for dealing with an angry mob. Brian willed him to just go back inside and call the police, when he felt something cold and hard push its way into his hand. His fingers instinctively tightened, it was a rock. He turned to Randy who had a cold look of determination.

“If you’re not one of them you’ll do it.” He heard Randy whisper in his ear.

Mark was still trying to reason with the crowd, his strained voice was a single tear in a tidal wave of abuse being thrown his way. He held up his one arm, his t shirt did nothing to conceal the dead flesh underneath, yet he persisted. Brain couldn’t help but admire the man who had accepted his circumstances and had chosen to face the mob.

“Do it!” Randy screamed.

Every muscle in Brian tensed, his grip on the rock was solid, he wished he could crush it to dust. He drew back his arm, closed his eyes and let the rock fly. Mark spotted it sailing through the air and put his arm up. A split second too late the rock collided with the puffy pale skin of his head. Flesh tore loose. Mark screamed as he sank to his knees. The assault inflamed the crowd, they blazed in righteous fury, the roaring obscenities intensifying. Randy clapped Brian on the back.

“I knew it! You just couldn’t be!”

Mark clutching the side of his face stared at him. Brian looked at his hands the makeup had smeared. He willed them to stop shaking, noticing the tip of his fingernail had turned black.