The Nekropolis Archives by Tim Waggoner Page B

organs. The machines breathe, gurgle, and moan – especially when doing difficult tasks – and have even been known to burst blood vessels if asked to perform too many functions at the same time. The damned things literally get sick when they catch a virus and become all mopey and lazy, refusing to do any work until they get better. The spoiled things are worse than pampered cats.
      My computer made a soft humming sound to catch my attention, and I grudgingly went over and scratched the top of its casing. In response, it let out a moist, phlegmy purr.
      "You use your bedroom as your office too?" Devona asked.
      "I don't have an office because I don't have a business ," I said. "I mostly use the computer to play DVDs – it works better for me than the Mind's Eye – and to hop on the Aethernet from time to time." The Aethernet is Nekropolis's answer to the Internet back on Earth. Information is swiftly transported through the system by data-ghosts: the spirits of executed criminals sentenced to spend their afterlives ferrying bytes back and forth for the rest of us.
      "So you can check out zombie porn?" Devona asked with a wry grin.
      "You ever see one of those sites? No? Well, if you get curious, take my advice and don't eat for a week or two before logging on."
      I removed the soul jar from my pocket, and placed it on the desk next to my computer. I then walked over to the closet and removed my torn jacket, tie, and shirt. I opened the closet door, dropped my ruined garments on the floor next to my footlocker, and scanned my pitifully small collection of clothes for replacements. If Devona felt any disgust upon seeing so much of my bare zombie skin with its slight grayish cast revealed, she showed no sign.
      "You said you don't think vampires experience fear," Devona said, picking up the thread of our earlier conversation. "But they do. They just don't like to show it. But you were right about me; I'm only half Bloodborn. My mother was human."
      From my closet's meager offerings, I chose a brown shirt, yellow paisley tie, and a brown jacket. I could wear whatever I want, I suppose. I'm not a cop anymore, and besides, I'm dead. Who cares how I dress? But old habits – and old cops like me – die hard, I guess. And besides, wearing the sort of clothes I wore in life makes me feel more… well, human.
      I dressed and stood before the cracked mirror hanging on the wall and adjusted my tie. Thanks to Papa Chatha's latest round of spells, I didn't look too much different than I had in life, grayish skin aside. Black hair, brown eyes, features on the ordinary side of handsome (or so I'd been told by my ex-wife; I'm no judge of such things). Face a bit thinner than when I'd been alive. Death is a great diet plan.
      I put the soul jar in the pocket of my new jacket. I'm not really sure why; it just didn't seem like the sort of thing a person should leave lying around, and then I turned to face my guest. "And who's your father?"
      She hesitated a moment before answering. "Lord Galm."
      If my heart had been functional, it would've skipped a beat or two right then.
      "I think you'd better leave now," I said.
      Confusion spread across her face. "Why?"
      "It's nothing personal; I just make it a policy never to get involved with Darklords if I can avoid it. And that includes getting involved with their relatives."
      Lord Galm is an ancient, powerful vampire, ruler of the Bloodborn, and of Gothtown, the Dominion where the vampires live, or rather, exist. And like any Darklord, he's dangerous as hell. I'd rather run up to a Mafia don in his favorite restaurant, dump his spaghetti marinara in his lap, and accuse him of diddling his grandchildren than I would mess with a Darklord.
      "Please, at least let me–"
      I held up a hand to cut her off. "I'm sorry. Really, I am. But getting involved with a Darklord is what got me killed and resurrected as a zombie. I hate to think what might