The Nekropolis Archives by Tim Waggoner Page A

breaking a major story this week."
      I glanced at the headline: WATCHERS FROM OUTSIDE PLOT CITY'S DESTRUCTION.
      "Sounds ominous, Carl. I'll be sure to read it."
      I quickly opened the door and gestured for Devona to go in; she did and I hurried after her.
      Carl scowled. "Don't you humor me now, Matt. It's true! None of the other media will have anything to do with the story. It's too hot for the Tome , and even that rag the Daily Atrocity won't touch it. If we don't do something about it soon, we'll all be–"
      I closed the door in Carl's rapidly reddening face, cutting him off.
      "Just you wait!" came his muffled voice from the other side of the door. "You'll be singing a different tune when the Watchers come!"
      He shouted a bit more before finally moving off, grumbling to himself about idiot zombie cops.
      "Who was that?" Devona asked.
      "Just some nut who lives upstairs. Used to be some sort of tabloid reporter back on Earth, but he can't find work on any of the papers in the city. The stories he comes up with are too crazy even for Nekropolis. Don't worry; he won't bother us anymore. He'll no doubt head out into the street to harangue the festivalgoers with his latest paranoid expose." I crumpled Carl's so-called "paper" into a wad and tossed it into an empty corner while Devona surveyed the room.
      "It's better than a tomb, even if it does have about as much personality," I said, feeling only a little self-conscious. A threadbare couch, a single wooden chair – with one leg shorter than the others – and a Mind's Eye set sitting atop a wooden stand comprised the sole contents of the living room. No pictures, no rugs, not even curtains. No toilet facilities, either, but then I don't need them. One of the perks of being dead.
      Nekropolis doesn't have television. Instead we have Mind's Eye Theatre. Mind's Eye is exactly what it sounds like: psychic transmissions are received by your set and then relayed straight into your brain. The process is kind of hit and miss for me, probably because my zombie brain doesn't get good reception, so I tend not to watch too often. I read instead, hence the reason for the piles of books stacked in the corners of the room. Right now the set was off, the large eye closed, its lashes crusted with yellowish crud, probably because it had been so long since I'd turned it on. I wondered if the set had some kind of infection, and I told myself to remember to call a repairman.
      "Do you have a bed?" Devona asked.
      "I told you: I don't do those kinds of favors."
      She gave me a look which said I was being less than amusing. "I'm just curious. Do zombies sleep? I've never thought about it before. But then, I've never been to a zombie's apartment, either."
      "I have a bed." Though it was just a lumpy mattress sitting on the floor, no sheets, no covers. "I don't sleep, exactly, but sometimes I feel a need to… rest. To relax."
      "And so you just lie there and stare at the ceiling?"
      "Sometimes. Sometimes I close my eyes. So tell me, what's it like to sleep in a coffin? Ever feel like a sardine?"
      "Bloodborn don't sleep in coffins," she said disdainfully.
      "Even when they're half human?"
      Her eyes widened in surprise. "How did you know?"
      I shrugged, the gesture a bit lopsided thanks to the bite Honani had taken out of my shoulder, which Papa hadn't been able to repair completely. "Little things. You don't move as gracefully as other vampires. Your pallor isn't as white. And whatever your problem is, it's got you tied up in knots inside. I've never seen a full-blooded vampire afraid. It doesn't seem to be an emotion they're capable of."
      I went into the bedroom, and she followed. Aside from my mattress, the only other items in the room were my laptop computer, the desk it sat on, and the chair I sat on when I used it. In Nekropolis, the computers are organic, fashioned from bone, cartilage, muscle, sinew, and specialized