“Annnd,” Romero said. “Now the other one.”
It was like a gunshot going off next to his head. The bang of the blasting cap was so loud, it immediately deafened his eardrums. He snapped backward, spinning on his heel. His shoulder slammed into something just behind him, he didn’t see what. He caught a blurred glimpse of the square pillar next to the mattress, and in that instant was seized with a jolt of inspiration. He smashed his forehead into it on his way down, and as he reeled away, saw he had left a crimson flower on the white plaster.
He hit the mattress, the cushion springy enough to provide a little bounce. He blinked. His eyes were watering, creating a visual distortion, a subtle warping of things. The air above him was filled with blue smoke. The center of his head stung. His face was splattered with cool, sticky fluid. As the ringing in his ears faded, he simultaneously became aware of two things. The first was the sound, a low, subterranean bellow, a distant, steady rumble of applause. The sound filled him like breath. George Romero was moving toward them, also clapping, smiling in that way that made dimples in his beard. The second thing he noticed was Harriet curled against him, her hand on his chest.
“Did I knock you down?” he asked.
“’Fraid so,” she said.
“I knew it was only a matter of time before I got you in bed with me,” he said.
Harried smiled, an easy contented smile like he hadn’t seen at any other time, the whole day. Her blood-drenched bosom rose and fell against his side.
Little Bob ran to the edge of the mattress and leaped onto it with them. Harriet got an arm underneath him, scooped him up, and rolled him into the narrow space between her and Bobby. Little Bob grinned and put his thumb in his mouth. His face was close to the boy’s head, and suddenly he was aware of the smell of little Bob’s shampoo, a melon-flavored scent.
Harriet watched him steadily across her son, still with that same smile on her face. His gaze drifted toward the ceiling, the banks of skylights, the crisp, blue sky beyond. Nothing in him wanted to get up, wanted to move past the next few moments. He wondered what Harriet did with herself when Dean was at work and little Bobby was at school. Tomorrow was a Monday; he didn’t know if he would be teaching or free. He hoped free. The work week stretched ahead of him, empty of responsibilities or concerns, limitless in its possibilities. The three of them, Bobby, and the boy, and Harriet, lay on the mattress, their bodies pressed close together and there was no movement but for their breathing.
George Romero turned back to them, shaking his head. “That was great, when you hit the pillar, and you left that big streak of gore. We should do it again, just the same way. This time you could leave some brains behind. What do you two kids say? Either one of you feel like a do-over?”
“Me,” Bobby said.
“Me,” said Harriet. “Me.”
“Yes please,” said little Bobby, around the thumb in his mouth.
“I guess it’s unanimous,” Bobby said. “Everyone wants a do-over.”
THOSE WHO SEEK FORGIVENESS
by Laurell K. Hamilton
Laurell K. Hamilton is the best-selling author of the Anita Blake: Vampire Hunter series, which began with Guilty Pleasures and was continued most recently with Blood Noir. Another popular series of Hamilton’s is the Meredith Gentry series, which began with A Kiss of Shadows and will continue with Swallowing Darkness later this year. Hamilton has written a number of other novels as well, such as her first, Nightseer, an epic fantasy, as well as the media tie-in novels Ravenloft: Death of a Darklord and Star Trek: The Next Generation: Nightshade. Her short work has appeared in magazines such as Dragon and Marion Zimmer Bradley’s Fantasy Magazine, and in the Sword and Sorceress series of anthologies.
“Those Who Seek Forgiveness” is the first story Hamilton wrote about her iconic character Anita Blake. In her collection, Strange Candy, Hamilton says that the cemetery in this story is based on the cemetery where her mother is buried. “It was a place I knew very well, because my grandmother, who raised me, took me often,” she says. “I guess it was inevitable that I would write about the dead; my childhood was haunted by death. Not real ghosts, but the ghosts of memory and loss.”
“Death is a very serious matter, Mrs. Fiske. People who go through it are never the same.”
The woman leaned forward, cradling her face in her hands. Her slim shoulders shook quietly for a few minutes. I passed another box of tissues her way. She groped for them blindly and then looked up. “I know you can’t bring him back, exactly.”
She wiped at two tears, which escaped and rolled down flawless cheekbones. The purse she clutched so tightly was reptile, at least two hundred dollars. Her accessories—lapel pin, high heels, hat, and gloves—were all black as her purse. Her suit was gray. Neither color suited her, but they emphasized her pale skin and hollow eyes. She was the sort of woman that made me feel too short, too dark, and gave me the strange desire to lose ten more pounds. If she hadn’t been so genuinely grief-stricken, I could have disliked her.
“I have to talk to Arthur. That’s my husband… was my husband.” She took a deep breath and tried again. “Arthur died suddenly. A massive coronary.” She blew delicately into a tissue. “His family did have a history of heart disease, but he always took such good care of himself.” She finished with a watery hiccup. “I want to say good-bye to him, Miss Blake.”
I smiled reassuringly. “We all have things left unsaid when death comes suddenly. But it isn’t always best to raise the dead and say it.”
Her blue eyes stared intently through a film of tears. I was going to discourage her as I discourage every one of my clients, but this one would do it. There was a certain set to the eyes that said serious.
“There are certain limitations to the process.” My boss didn’t allow us to show slides or pictures or give graphic descriptions, but we were supposed to tell the truth. One good picture of a decaying zombie would have sent most of my clients screaming.
“Limitations?”
“Yes, we can bring him back. You came to us promptly. That helps. He’s been buried only three days. But as a zombie your husband will only have limited use of his body and mind. And as the days go by, that will grow worse, not better.”
She stood up very straight, tears drying on her face. “I was hoping you could bring him back as a vampire.”
I kept my face carefully blank. “Vampires are illegal, Mrs. Fiske.”
“A friend told me that…you could get that done here.” She finished in a rush, searching my face.
I smiled my best professional smile. “We do not do vampires. And even if we did, you can’t make an ordinary corpse into a vampire.”
“Ordinary?”
Very few people who came to us had even a remote idea of how rare vampires were, or why. “The deceased would have to have been bitten by a werewolf, vampire, or other supernatural creature, while alive. Being buried in unconsecrated ground would help. Your husband, Arthur, was never bitten by a vampire while alive, was he?”
“No,” she half laughed, “he was bitten by my Yorkshire terrier once.”
I smiled, encouraging her turn of spirits. “That won’t quite do it. Your husband can come back as a zombie or not at all.”
“I’ll take it,” she said quietly, all serious and very still.