Zombies Don't Cry by Brian Stableford Page A

some of them made a point of saying hello, or at least nodding. I was grateful for that.
    Once I’d turned the corner, though, it was different. I’d been sent to Coventry. I almost regretted the fact that no one even made a sign of the cross with his index-fingers, let alone hurled holy water at me and shouted in Latin, or do whatever Muslims do when they’re attempting to repel evil djinn.
    It wasn’t all bad, though. I started to make new friends even before I reached the double-doors of the old Salvation Army Hall, catching up and falling into step with two members of the afterliving—one a middle-aged female and one an old man—who were headed in the same direction, coming from the direction of the old Bail Hostel in South Street. It was obvious, even from behind, what they were, because of the broad-brimmed hats.
    “Hi,” I said. “I’m Nick Rosewell.”
    They paused, and peered at me through their dark glasses.
    “But your friends call you Nicky,” the woman said. “Pearl told us to expect you. I’m Marjorie, and this is Martin—but his friends call him Methuselah.”
    I could see why. Marjorie looked as if she’d died in her late forties, but Martin-alias-Methuselah must have been at least seventy when he’d passed over. Poor old sod, I thought . Condemned to look seventy-five forever. It’s like that old saw about your features getting stuck if the wind happens to change while you’re pulling a face.
    “ Everybody calls me Methuselah,” the old man added. “I don’t mind in the least—it gives me something to aim for.”
    “Aim for?” I queried, although I really shouldn’t have been caught on the hop.
    “ And Methuselah lived an hundred and eighty and seven years ,” he quoted, sententiously, “ and begat Lamech …except that I’m not so sure about begetting Lamech. I’ll settle for the years.”
    “Right,” I said. “I can see that I’m going to feel at home at the Center. Are you members of what Dr. Hazelhurst referred to as the lunatic fringe? ”
    “Not me,” said Methuselah. “Marjorie is—although it’s slightly cheeky of you to ask.”
    “I can see that you’re going to be a veritable treasure,” Marjorie assured me. “We don’t have many young people, and it’s no bad thing to be cheekier than Jim. He’s a nice chap, but I must admit that I find his constant pessimism annoying. We’ll all love you.” She didn’t specify exactly who she meant by all .
    “That’s nice,” I said, “but I’ve already got a girl-friend.” I just slipped out. It wasn’t exactly a lie. After all, I was still in love.
    “Well then, I’ll have my work cut out, won’t I?” Marjorie said. “I’ve never minded a bit of competition, though. And I always get my man.” She smiled—and the smile, although it was a trifle hollow, made her look rather attractive. She might have been slightly intimidating in life, but the paleness of afterlife had softened her strong features a little, and she had a good figure, robust but shapely.
    “She’s teasing,” Methuselah supplied, helpfully. “She means the bit about not being intimidated by competition, though—that’s why Andy makes patronizing remarks about the lunatic fringe. She was famous you know, in life, and she’s gradually fighting her way back to the top.”
    Marjorie seemed a trifle ambivalent about that revelation, but she took it in good part. “You won’t have heard of me,” she said. “Marjorie Claridge. I was….”
    “A mouthpiece for Greenpeace,” I put, swiftly. “My sister’s a keen member. She’ll be tickled pink to know that I’ve met you—I don’t think she has any idea that you’re in Reading.”
    “I post anonymously these days,” Marjorie said, “and keep my address secret. Not that I like lying low…it’s just that my old friends, grateful as they are for my continued support…well, it’s complicated.”
    I nodded sympathetically. “I understand,” I said, thinking, in my