Bring Out Your Dead

Bring Out Your Dead

A Dark Ones Novella

Katie MacAlister

Copyright 2006, 2011 by Katie MacAlister

Bring Out Your Dead was originally published in the Just One Sip and My Zombie Valentine anthologies by Leisure Books in 2006 and 2010, respectively.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

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Table of Contents

Author’s Note

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

About Katie

Books By Katie

Author’s Note

This novella was originally written and published in 2006, part of the Just One Sip anthology. For those readers who are trying to place the events contained within this novella in context to my other Dark Ones books, it falls after Sex, Lies, and Vampires, but before Even Vampires Get the Blues. So if you’re confused why Salvaticus is being mentioned in this story, but is long past by my more current vampire books, that’s why.

Chapter One

Braiiinssss.

Yes, I know.

Braaaaaainnnsss!

Ysabelle? The front door thumped shut with an audible grunt from Noelle, one of my two flatmates. One of these days we’re going to get Mr. Sinclair to fix that door…Ysabelle?

"Elle est right here avec le sitting chambre du femmes," Sally, my other flatmate, called out as she drifted through the room. Sally had issues.

Braaaains!

"Vous said a mouthful." Sally beamed at my client as she wafted past him, through the wall, and into the room beyond.

Oh. The door to the sitting room opened and Noelle stuck her head in, a worried frown puckering her brow. Did you know there’s a small herd of zombies in the hall?

I sighed, giving my client what I hoped was a reassuringly cheerful smile. Yes, I know, and please, Noelle—zombie is so politically incorrect. The preferred term is revenant, or functionally deceased.

"Well, there’s a group of fuctionally deceased in the hall playing strip poker, and if Mr. Sinclair sees them, he’s going to have a fit. You know how he is about using the flat for business."

Ahem! Brains! Tim, a new revenant in need of counseling, glared at me.

I apologize for the interruption, I said in a calm, reassuring voice as I waved Noelle away. She rolled her eyes and closed the door, leaving me with my client. You were telling me about the taunting you experienced recently?

"Yes, brains. Or rather, braiiiiiiiins. Spoken in a slurred, repugnant voice that was accompanied by a fine spray of spittle. That’s all they said, over and over again, as if I were supposed to stagger toward them with a fork and knife, and start hacking away at their heads. I am more than a little offended by the stereotype portrayed in modern films, and which people such as those at the bus stop wholeheartedly embrace. Isn’t there something we can do about it? Must we endure such things without speaking up? Is there no way to educate the public about the true nature of revenants?"

We’re working very hard to do that, but as you know, public acceptance is a hard-fought battle, and frankly, I don’t see an end in sight any time in the near future.

"Qu’est que le hell?" Sally, who had drifted back into the room on Noelle’s heels, paused to look out the window.

Sally, language, please!

"Pardonnez. But holy merde! Voici est a whole boatload du zombies in the rue. I’ll go get le cricket bat in case they try breaking dans le flat."

There, you see? Tim pointed at Sally. She gave us a cheerful smile and flitted past to the next room. Your…whatever she is. That’s just the sort of negative stereotypical reaction I object to!

Sally is my spirit guide, I answered. "I apologize for her, as well. Some time ago she decided she wanted to be French, so she changed her name to Fleur and began speaking in that atrocious Franglais. We’re hoping it’s a phase that will pass. Soon."

Tim’s eyes, which reminded me of a particularly obnoxious form of boiled sweet, bugged out at me in the manner of an elderly pug. "Spirit guide? You have a spirit guide? I thought you worked for the Society for the Protection of Revenants?"

I do, but counseling is only a part-time position, I explained. I also occasionally tutor English and history, and sometimes I act as a medium for persons wishing to contact the deceased. I’d probably have more of the latter work if I had a spirit guide who wasn’t quite so…well, you saw Sally. Her attempt at being French puts off a great many people. But my personal problems are neither here nor there. We were discussing your successful reentry into a meaningful and productive life filled with satisfaction.

It’s neither successful, productive, nor meaningful thus far, he said in a rather petulent tone. Surely there must be something we can do about the prejudice I’ve been forced to face?

I gave a helpless shrug. What would you suggest?

Well…I’m a pacifist, so I won’t go the route of violence, despite what the public seems to believe of us. Perhaps a picket, or a boycott of nonrevenant companies, or oh! I know! An Internet letter-writing campaign! That worked wonders with the Save the Hedgehog folk! You should suggest that to the Society.

I opened my mouth to explain that the SPR had spent decades working to educate the public as to the true nature of their members with little success to date, but I bit back the inevitable lecture. It would do no good. Tim was newly reborn, as were many in this time of upheaval. He’d learn with time how to hide his present state. My job was not to teach him to pass as mortal—it was to get him past the first hurdles of rebirth. I’ll be sure to pass along your suggestions, but you know, something like that really needs someone with excellent organizational skills to head it up. Perhaps you’d like to start a grassroots campaign yourself? Your resume says you were very active with a human rights organization.

Hmmm. That’s an idea, Tim said with a thoughtful pause. I suppose I could do something along those lines. Perhaps if we started small, say, a sit-in consisting of new revenants like myself to show the public that we aren’t the mindless, brain-eating zombies popular movies paint us as.

Excellent idea, I said, relieved that he was channeling his energies into something worthwhile. Most new revenants spent several months at a loss as to how to restart their lives.

Somewhere popular, obviously. Leicester Square?

I frowned. There are a great many restaurants there…

Is that bad? He looked puzzled for a moment, then nodded. Ah, I see what you mean. You believe the proximity of fast food and other restaurants will be a temptation for us to leave the vegetarian lifestyle behind.

It’s been shown that revenants function much better in society if they severely limit their intake of animal flesh, I said gently. It seems those who turn feral tend to indulge in feeding orgies at local fast-food restaurants. That’s why the Society insists all members adhere to a strictly vegetarian diet. Most members have no problem, but for new people, it can be difficult to avoid the lure of a quarter-pounder with cheese. We recommend you avoid temptation for the first two months.

Surely a hamburger now and again couldn’t hurt?

You wouldn’t think so, would you? But we’ve found that animal flesh is like a drug to revenants—it leaves them addicted, needing greater and greater quantities to satisfy the craving. Thus, the no-flesh diet.

For a moment, a red light lit the depths of his eyes, but it faded quickly. Er…yes, point taken, he said solemly. Perhaps we can do the sit-in somewhere less likely to lead to a fall. A park? Hyde Park?

That sounds perfect.

Yes. I will do that. Thank you, Ysabelle—that was an excellent suggestion. You will help with the sit-in, naturally?

I smiled. "I’ll do my best.