Zombies Don't Cry by Brian Stableford Page B

naivety, that I did.
    We had reached the steps of the Hall already. The words SALVATION ARMY were still engraved in the sandstone lintel above the sturdy double door. There wasn’t even a piece of paper pinned to the batten to inform passers-by or new members that it was now an Afterlife Center.
    “Have you met Stan yet?” Methuselah asked, as climbed the four steps leading up to the doors.
    “No,” I said. “Pearl mentioned him, though. He runs the place, right?”
    “He thinks he does” Marjorie murmured, as we opened one of the battens of the double door and slipped through. “And we humor him, poor lamb.”
    She was joking, of course. Stan came to meet me as soon as he realized that he had a newcomer to add to his flock. A lamb he was not, and not just because he must have been at least sixty when he died. He was an alpha ram from top to toe. He wasn’t that much taller than me—no more than five-eleven, I estimated—but he was very solidly build and looked very tough indeed, in spite of his albinism. He had a shaven head and a nose that looked as if it had been broken more than once. He was wearing track-suit bottoms and a black T-shirt, which exposed numerous tattoos on both upper arms. Dragons two, roses three, I though, quoting it to myself like a football score.
    Aloud, all I said was: “Pleased to meet you—I’m Nick Rosewell.”
    “And your friends call you Nicky,” he said, putting the seal on my fate. “Pearl told us to expect you. I’m Stanley Blake—Stan to my friends. We’ll be starting rockmobility in a quarter of an hour or so, but there’s time for Methuselah to show you round first, if he doesn’t mind.”
    “I don’t mind,” Methuselah said. “I don’t have to do retraining programs, like the younger folk, so I have more free time,” he added, by way of explanation. “Not that I still get my pension, of course—I’m on minimal dole, just like everyone else.”
    “There’s not much to see, I’m afraid,” Stan resumed, “except for the workstations…you can use them for your retraining courses, if you want…although I gather that you’ve got a home to go to.”
    “I’m staying with my parents for now,” I confirmed, although I really wanted to ask him what “rockmobility” might be. “I’ve got a workstation there—it used to be in my flat but…well, you understand.”
    “Sure,” said Stan. “Don’t worry—you’ll be at home here too. You look pretty fit, for a newreborn—sportsman?”
    “Just Sunday Morning football in Palmer Park—soccer, that is. I hear you’ve got a rugby player.”
    “Jim Peel,” Stan confirmed, looking round but obviously not spotting the prop forward in question. “Did some weights myself, a long time ago, a little boxing—no good with my feet though…not for kicking, anyway.”
    “Much better at tripping the light fantastic, no doubt?” I quipped.
    He grinned wryly. “You’ve been talking to Pearl,” he said, seemingly jumping to an erroneous conclusion. “Don’t take her sarcasm too seriously. She can be sharp, but her heart’s in absolutely the right place.”
    “Never doubted it,” I assured him, with perfect candor.
    Stan excused himself then, handing me back to Methuselah. Marjorie Claridge had already slipped away, apparently having spotted a vacant workstation.
    As Stan had said, there wasn’t a lot to see. The Hall itself was moderately large—about thirty meters by twenty-five, but it was a trifle bare, apart from the mezzanine where the workstations had been installed. There was a small kitchenette, with a serving-hatch, but it didn’t have much in it except for a sink, a couple of cupboards, a coffee-maker and a microwave oven. There was also a store-room, off the corridor that led to the back door, but we didn’t go in to inspect it.
    “Stan sleeps in there, although he isn’t supposed to, according to the Council regs,” Methuselah explained. “There’s a second bunk, in case of