The Perfect Body

	I was fresh from school when everything happened, just 
certified as a professional mortician.  I was only twenty-four 
years old, but I felt older, somehow.  Maybe it was the constant 
reminder of death, maybe it was all the different faces I had 
seen.  I felt worldly, and wise beyond my years.  People have 
called me morbid, but I always felt a link with dead people and 
the process of dying.  I knew from a very young age that I wanted 
to be a mortician.
	A doctor's duty is to fight death over possession of every 
single life that comes his way.  I thought, 'Why bother?  He 
always wins in the end.  Why not join his side?'  In truth, that 
was how I saw myself.  I was Death's little gremlin, scurrying 
around after my master.  I ended conversations with strangers 
with the ominous 'I'll see you sooner or later,' and I had even 
commissioned a little silver scythe from a jeweler, which I wore 
on a chain around my neck.  
	I was pretty cocky for someone who had only been embalming 
for a year and a half.  I had a sweet deal with the school, too.  
Free tuition, free room and board, quite luxurious by my 
standards, and all the dead people I could play with.  What more 
could you ask for?
	Sadly, all good things must come to an end.  I graduated, 
and the deal that let me intern at the local city morgue ran out.  
It was time to get a job.  
	I didn't want just any old job, either.  The morgue I 
interned at offered me a job, and I must admit I was tempted.  I 
had friends there, friends who appreciated my humor and 
understood me.  It was also very active, with all sorts of people 
coming and going.  We had a famous actress who happened to live 
in the city die of a drug overdose; she committed suicide by 
eating an entire bottle of sleeping pills.  I've got a picture of 
me and two of my buddies standing against a wall with her naked 
body between us, an arm around two of our necks.
	As glamorous as that was, I felt repressed.  I wanted my 
own morgue, nay, my own funeral home.  I wanted a place where I 
could let my flair shine, a place to let my artistic soul 
flourish.  The trouble was, I knew I couldn't start my own 
business and expect it to last.  I had to find an existing 
company and rise to the top, like the chunky bits in the 
abdominal cavity drainage when you pour it into a bucket.
	I found it, too, I think.
	I had searched through our national database of job 
openings, looking for the one that felt right.  A tip from my 
professor lead me to an opening in a small town funeral home.  He 
said I'd be perfect for it, and that Morticia Verdoire, the 
owner, would like me.
	Morticia.  How could I not go for that?
	A week later I found myself standing in the somber, 
comfortable office of the Dearly Departed Funeral Home, the only 
funeral home in the little town of Freemont.  Actually, it was 
the only funeral home within fifty miles, although it was fifty 
miles of open farmland.  It was my first meeting with Morticia 
Verdoire, the owner and currently the sole mortician.
	Morticia the mortician turned out to be a gorgeous blonde 
in her late thirties.  I must admit to being a little shocked 
when I first saw her.  Beautiful women aren't a very common sight 
to young male morticians such as myself, at least not ones that 
are still metabolizing.  Oh, sure, when I got older I was all but 
certain of attracting one with my money, but young morticians are 
a lonely bunch.
	She was blonde, as I have mentioned, but that doesn't 
really do her hair justice.  It was all but platinum, a 
shimmering fall of precious metal that fell to just below her 
shoulder blades.  Her body could never hope to match the  
perfection of her hair, but it came close.  Her face was a pale, 
lovely vision, with just a smidgeon of makeup expertly applied to 
give her cheeks the rosy glow of life, and a vibrant shade of red 
lipstick bringing out her full lips.  Her breasts rode high and 
firm on her slim torso, accentuated by a firm, slender tummy.  
Her legs were long and shapely, encased in flesh-toned pantyhose 
down to her tasteful, strappy black high heels.  Her business 
attire was somber grey, a dark grey skirt topped with a lighter 
suit-jacket with a double row of buttons down the front.  Her 
fingernails were trimmed short and neat, and her hands were bare 
of adornment, not even a bracelet.  However, she had a pair of 
lovely silver earrings, which I actually suspected to be platinum 
the moment I saw them.  They matched her hair.
	I felt acutely self-conscious in my cheap suit, but then 
again, anyone would.
	"Hello, I'm Morticia Verdoire," she greeted in a warm, 
cultured tone as she looked away from a computer screen.  She 
clicked a few times with a mouse before rising from behind her 
antique oak desk and offering her hand.
	I took her hand and bowed over it, forgetting to be 
obsessed with her astonishing beauty as my mind processed the 
glimpse of the computer screen I had before she closed the 
window.  
	What was that thing, anyway?  It looked like the bastard 
child of a glass octopus and an Egyptian temple, complete with 
hieroglyphics.  My mind twisted, attempting to make sense of the 
strange thing.
	"Hey, that was pretty cool," I replied.  "I like H.R. 
Geiger's artwork, too!"
	Maybe she was surprised, but she schooled her expression 
well.  "Excuse me?"
	Ooh, very cultured.  She was definitely upper class, but 
not extremely upper class.  Most people would have said 'Huh?' or 
'What?', and an extremely upper class type person would have said 
'Pardon me?'.  I pay attention to words.
	"The picture on your computer," I explained.
	"Oh!" she exclaimed, taking her hand back and pressing it 
to her breast.  "I see.  I'm sorry, I didn't understand at 
first."
	"That was Geiger, wasn't it?"
	"No, I'm afraid it wasn't.  It was actually created by my 
late husband, Richard.  He, too, was a fan of Geiger."  She 
smiled wanly in remembrance.  "You must be David Felder, I've 
been expecting you."
	I nodded brightly.  "Yes, Ma'am, I am."
	She smiled again.  "Very good.  You came very highly 
recommended, by Doctor Wilder, no less."
	"I'm honored by his confidence," I replied.  "He has always 
set the highest standard in the business, and I try my best to 
live up to it."  Good old Doc Wild.  He really was the best in 
the field, and always had time to help out a beginner.
	"Would you like me to show you around?" she asked suddenly, 
giving me an appraising eye.
	Hey, that sounded good.  "I would be delighted."
	Together, she led me on a tour of the large funeral home.  
It was apparently a converted farm mansion, because it was much, 
much bigger than anything which would be required by a simple 
mortuary in a rural area like this.  We passed by several halls 
that lead to other areas, and some of the doors had large 'Do Not 
Enter' signs hanging on them.  One in particular caught my eye, 
because it was much wider than the average and boasted a keypad 
lock.  We passed it by.
	"My late husband's parents were very wealthy landowners in 
the area, and built this mansion in the late nineteen forties, 
shortly before their deaths.  Richard didn't want to be a farmer, 
so he sold off most of the actual farm land, keeping only this 
house and the plot it sits on.  He went to mortuary school and 
practiced in several places abroad before finally coming back 
here to start the Dearly Departed Funeral Home in one wing of the 
house.  Unfortunately, he died six months ago, leaving the 
business to me."  She shook her head sadly as we turned a corner, 
apparently heading for a set of stairs leading down below.  "Poor 
dear, he had a weak heart.  One minute he's going strong, the 
next..."
	I made sympathetic noises as I looked around.  The floors 
were polished wood, the walls a soothing shade of blue, eau de 
nil I think.  Vases of flowers sat on tables here and there, and 
paintings hung at regular intervals on the walls.  I didn't see 
any Geiger, but there were several Dali reproductions, and a few 
Van Goghs, mostly the ones he did after he started seriously 
going nuts.
	"To your left is the freight elevator, which leads directly 
to cold storage and the rest of the workshop.  It works just 
fine, but I much prefer the stairs.  It is important to take care 
of one's own body as well, don't you agree?" she asked, giving me 
a sideways look.
	I shrugged noncommittally.   Truthfully, I couldn't care 
less about my own body, since I wouldn't be the one embalming it.  
But in her case, I could see where it would be nice to leave a 
good-looking corpse.  
	We walked down the rubber tread stairs and came to the 
spacious underground level of the house.  Here the décor changed 
radically from funeral home elegance to a sterile, utilitarian 
combination of tile, hermetically-sealed glass doors, and white 
plasti-coated walls, all of which smelled faintly of industrial 
ammonia.  
	"We get tornadoes through here every so often," she noted, 
opening a glass door.  "They made a very spacious basement 
beneath the house for both storage and a storm cellar.  Richard 
had the house reinforced in the early seventies, eliminating much 
of the need for a storm cellar, and we converted the basement 
into a funeral home a few years later."
	"How did you and your husband meet?" I asked curiously, 
doing the math in my head.  
	She sighed, a wistful smile on her lovely lips.  "I was a 
young student, just starting my internship at the Philadelphia 
city morgue when he came through and took a short term contract.  
He was older than I was, of course, but the way he handled the 
dead drew me to him like an irresistible force.  We connected in 
a way that made age meaningless."
	I nodded, understanding what she meant perfectly.  "The sex 
was that good, eh?"
	Her step faltered and she paused, half turning to me in 
astonishment, torn between a smile and shock.  "My, you're very 
forward, Mr. Felder."
	"Please, call me David," I replied, then shrugged.  "I 
apologize if that makes you uncomfortable."
	The shock and indignation gave way to a full smile, and she 
resumed leading me into the morgue.  "Actually, it's very 
refreshing.  It is rare to meet an honest man."  
	I inclined my head, accepting that.  
	She gave me another sideways look.  "And yes, you are 
correct.  It was in-credible."
	We reached the cold storage room, which was surprisingly 
large and contained freezer compartments for many more bodies 
than a small town place like this would see.  Seven drains were 
set into the floor at regular intervals, and a spray nozzle on a 
hose dangled from above for ready access.  Everything was clean, 
antiseptic, even.  I wouldn't hesitate to eat off that floor.  
Clearly, Mrs. Verdoire ran a tight ship.
	She waited until I prowled around the room, poking my nose 
into things.  "We don't get very much traffic, after all, this is 
a community of less than three thousand.  Since my husband died, 
I am left to handle all areas of the business, and I have many 
other pressing matters to attend to.  That is why I finally gave 
in and put the job offer on the national list."
	She caught me with her eyes, and one lock of that 
magnificent mane of hair fell forward across her cheek.  She 
artfully brushed it back behind her ear before continuing.  "The 
workload will be light, but I will be available to assist you 
should we suddenly get an influx and have a tight deadline to 
meet."
	I smiled.  I liked the way she said deadline.
	"I'm afraid I can't offer you a competitive salary, as we 
really don't have very many customers, but it will be more than 
fair given the amount of work you will be required to do.  I've 
spoken with a man who rents houses in town, and you will be able 
to choose from three different houses for a place to stay.  I 
live here, in the closed off portions of the house, and I value 
my privacy."
	I nodded easily.  "No prowling, got it."
	She smiled.  "I knew you would understand, that's why I 
like you.  So, will you accept my offer?"
	I smiled warmly in return.  "Mrs. Verdoire, I would be 
delighted to work for you."  We shook hands to seal the deal, and 
the papers would be signed later.
	"Doctor Wilder was right about you.  I'm sure we'll get 
along just fine."
	"Oh, I forgot to ask, how are you familiar with Doctor 
Wilder?" I asked.  "Did you go to school together?"
	She smiled and shook her head.  "No, but we have 
corresponded on many occasions.  We have similar interests, and 
we've participated in joint research on two occasions.  I've 
nothing but the greatest of respect for his work."
	I chuckled.  "Did you ever hear about the first thing he 
teaches students when we start learning to embalm under his 
guidance?"
	Her smile was cautious.  "No," she said hesitantly.
	"Two things," I replied.  "The first thing he said when we 
were standing around one of the subjects on the first day, was 
that we had to be able to control our disgust.  Then he takes his 
finger and jams it up the butt of this corpse, a fifty year old 
white guy, takes it out, and sucks on it."  I chuckled.  "Then he 
makes the rest of us do it.  That was the first lesson."
	Morticia's brow was furrowed in a mix of puzzlement and 
repulsion.  "And the second?" she hazarded.
	I chuckled again.  "He holds up his middle finger and says, 
'Now class, if you'd been watching closely, you would have seen 
that I inserted this finger, but sucked on my index.  Pay 
attention, people!'"
	I think she laughed despite herself.
	

				****************

	I ended up picking one of the three rent houses more or 
less at random.  I wasn't overly concerned with where I slept, 
nor how much it cost.  My salary, while not the best I could have 
received, wasn't too shabby.
	Nothing ever seemed to change in the Verdoire mansion, 
except that once a week a maid, one of the local girls, would 
come through and clean everything, and twice a week she came 
through and replaced flowers.  I saw her several times, a young 
hometown sweetie that should have been in college.  She never 
wanted to stop and chat, so I never got her name.  I resolved to 
ask Morticia about her, but I kept forgetting.
	The actual work itself was a joy.  An old woman, a pillar 
of the community, died of cancer two days after I started work, 
and I had all the time in the world to give her body the respect 
it deserved.  The family was well off, and I talked them into a 
gorgeous white lacquered coffin with gold trim and a satin 
interior.  Anything would have looked good with it, and the 
lady's white church clothes contrasted nicely with the burgundy 
interior.  Even the cross-stitched pillow they insisted she have 
looked good with it.  Everyone said she looked lovely, at peace 
for the first time in years.
	I know, because they told me so at the funeral.  Yes, I was 
invited to the funeral.  The whole town was invited, it seemed 
like, and I spent the whole time admitting that, yes, I was the 
attendant that served her earthly remains.  I had a great time, 
so much so that it was difficult to keep from smiling.  
Fortunately, as a mortician I have perfected a bereaved 
expression that made it seem as if I truly felt sorry for the 
deceased.
	I got to go to the next one, too, an infant that died at 
birth.  That one wasn't as fun.  Babies don't take long to 
embalm.  I did get a new suit made, though, following Mrs. 
Verdoire's advice.  I looked pretty good in it, too, like I was 
ready to lay down for my own eternal rest.
	Weeks passed, and although I had many long hours of idle 
time on my hands, usually wasted in front of the TV or at the 
local café, I was happy.  I knew I couldn't expect to be 
artistically creative all the time, and I was never rushed when I 
did have a corpse.  Even Mrs. Verdoire agreed that I was doing a 
lovely job, and seemed genuinely flattered when I asked her 
advice on some makeup details.  But hey, while I know I have both 
good taste and skill, my own talents fell far short of Mrs. 
Verdoire.  She was elegance personified.
	Other than that, I didn't see a whole lot of Morticia.  
Occasionally a customer would ask to see her personally, but she 
left most of it, even the sales pitch of the coffin, to me.  She 
took care of the books, and I did the rest.  I did occasionally 
wonder what she did all day, but I never asked.  She'd have told 
me if she wanted me to know.
	Then, a month after I started working, she came striding 
into the embalming room, all smiles and sunshine despite the 
white lab coat and soft cloth wrap that kept her long hair in a 
ponytail.  I was working on a male at the time, cleaning and 
massaging the rigor mortis away, but I immediately turned my full 
attention to her when she asked me if I would like to go to a 
celebratory dinner with her that night, a reward to herself for a 
success on a recent endavor.  She wouldn't tell me what the 
success was, specifically, but convinced me to go anyway.  Then 
she breezed right back out, leaving me to finish my work.
	Although she struck me as an old fashioned sort, the kind 
who expected to be picked up by the man, when I pulled up to her 
door at a quarter after six that evening, I found her waiting in 
her big black SUV, which she insisted I get in, rather than 
taking my car.  The local café was the only restaurant in the 
area, so we were making the hour and a half drive to the nearest 
big city and the elegant restaurant there.  She had warned me 
ahead of time, so I was dressed neatly in a black suit, although 
not the best one.  She felt it was too somber.
	Morticia was, of course, stunning.  Her blonde hair looked 
even whiter in the sunshine, held in place by a ruby studded gold 
hairpin, and her low-cut black dress actually sparkled in places.  
Diamond and platinum earrings dangled an inch from her earlobes, 
and a necklace of diamonds adorned her neck.  As lovely as she 
was, her hands still gave her away.  She didn't wear any rings or 
bracelets.  This was a woman who used her hands, which made them 
all the lovelier to me.
	We rode together in companionable silence, with only a few 
instances of idle chitchat.  I told her a few stories about 
strange tattoos, scars, and birthmarks, and she told me about 
morgues in other cities.
	She was a lady at the restaurant, allowing me to open the 
door for her, move her chair, pick the wine, and order for both 
of us.  I managed with surprising grace, but I had been to 
exclusive restaurants before.  Doc Wild had made sure I studied 
up on all the potential aspects of being a mortician.
	"He really thought well of you," she said, toying idly with 
her wine glass in between sips.  Her petite cut of steak oozed 
bloody juices across her plate, half of it having already been 
consumed.  Her salad was untouched.
	I was having duck a la orange, and admiring her steak.  
Next time I'd get the same.	"He was an excellent teacher, and I 
presume an excellent researcher.  I guess he noticed my 
tendencies in those areas as well."
	"Oh, he was," she agreed emphatically, pausing to chew 
slowly on another tiny bit of pink steak.  Kobe beef, the crème 
de la crème of red meat.  "Very methodical, in everything he 
did," she said with strange emphasis.  "I wouldn't say you had 
research potential.  You are an artist, I can tell.  You don't 
have the patience for the hard science of the thing, you're too 
busy being concerned with the aesthetics.  Our customers 
appreciate that."
	I felt a warm glow.  Our customers.
	"If I might ask, what did you and Doctor Wilder research 
together?" I said before taking a bite of glazed duck.
	"Several different things, actually.  New preservative 
fluids, techniques for salvaging donor organs, I even helped with 
his development of the Wilder technique for skin repair."  She 
brushed her hair back over her shoulder with a graceful movement 
of her hand.  Not for the first time, I wished she was dead.  
	With a body that beautiful, that vibrant, I would be able 
to create a work of art, a true masterpiece, to frame within a 
coffin.  She would look so alive lying there on white velvet, so 
natural, like someone had simply paused her between breaths while 
she slept.  Everyone would look at her in astonishment and ask me 
how I had done it.  
	"Wow, that sounds very interesting," I replied, and meant 
it.  "Doc taught us that using some really disfigured corpses.  
That technique has resulted in a lot fewer closed casket 
funerals."
	She nodded.  "Yes, it actually turned out to be relatively 
easy to do radical reconstructive surgery, so long as you're not 
worried about patient survival."  She sighed melodramatically.  
"It's a good thing, too.  I've lost every patient I've ever 
operated on.  It's very discouraging."
	I chuckled appreciatively.  "If we're judged by our patient 
survival rate, we're all batting zero in this field."
	Her eyes twinkled in the soft light from the candelabras on 
our table.  "That's actually about to change, which is why I 
wanted to celebrate.  I've been working on a new technique for 
reconstruction, something which could be useful for surgeons of 
all kinds.  It could save hundreds of lives which would otherwise 
be lost."  She paused, then continued regretfully, "I'd love to 
show it to you, get your opinion on some of it, but I'm afraid 
that at the current stage of patenting I must regard it as 
proprietary information.  I don't honestly believe that you would 
attempt to steal my methods or designs, but my lawyer insists 
that I be the only one with access.  The annals of history are 
littered with inventors who were denied the rights to their own 
inventions."
	Hmm.  "Did Doctor Wilder not give you due credit for your 
contributions to the development of his technique?" I asked, 
suspecting it was true.
	Oddly, she laughed.  "Oh, no!  Nothing like that.  My 
contributions were minimal, and I received a byline as well as a 
noteworthy compensation for my efforts.  No, he was an honorable 
man, in many ways as honest as you.  I'm just being cautious, 
that's all."
	"Oh, okay."  I guess I was wrong.
	We ate in silence for several minutes, neither of us sure 
of exactly what we should say.  Then, a question I had long been 
meaning to bring up sprang to mind.  
	"Say, Mrs. Verdoire, who is your maid?  I've seen her 
around several times, but she won't give me the time of day."
	She arched one elegant eyebrow over the rim of her 
wineglass as she took a sip.  "Why, David, are you interested in 
the young woman?"
	I blinked and shook my head.  "No, I was simply curious.  
Like I said, I've seen her around, but the few times I've tried 
to say hello, she mumbles something about being busy and hurries 
away.  At the very least I'd like to know her name."
	"Polly.  Polly Smith," she answered.  "She's a charming 
girl, very concientious.  She has a great eye for detail, 
something I value in a maid."
	"Oh?" I replied.  "Why is she so shy, then?"
	Morticia smiled.  "She gets terribly tongue-tied at times, 
I'm afraid.  Her mother just didn't teach her the social skills 
she needed.  She's been my maid for years now, since she was 
barely fourteen."  She chuckled softly.  "Polly used to come by 
after school and assist my husband and I.  She didn't mind at 
all, and probably would have done the work for free, but I made 
sure she got a decent wage."  Morticia sighed.  "We tried to 
convince her to go to mortuary school, but she just didn't have 
the ambition."
	"That's a pity," I agreed. 
	We finished our meal with the thinnest of conversational 
gruel, discussions of the weather, the town, and the people.  She 
informed me that she was paying for the meal, and, although I put 
up a token resistance, I allowed her to do so without giving her 
trouble.
	We rode back to her mansion in the darkness.  I like the 
dark on the open plain, it gives an air of mystery to a land as 
boring as a fried egg in the daytime.  I spent most of my time 
staring out the window at the windswept plain, imagining 
misshapen monsters loping along under the stars just outside of 
the range of the headlights.
	She invited me in for coffee when we arrived, but actually 
left me to stew in my own thoughts on the porch while she 
retrieved it.  I took the hint.  This was strictly 
business/friendship, and I wouldn't push it.
	We sat on opposite ends of an old wooden porch swing and 
sipped our coffees, both as black as the sky.  By mutual 
agreement, we gave the swing a gentle motion, just enough to flex 
our knees.
	"Richard loved the plains," she said quietly, still looking 
at the stars.  
	Ah.  She wanted someone around while she waxed in 
remembrance.  I could handle this.  
	"Everywhere he traveled, everywhere we traveled, he always 
talked about coming back here."  She shivered slightly as a gust 
of wind whipped across the porch, bringing scents of earth and 
growing things.  "He wanted to live and fuck forever here in the 
breadbasket of the nation."  She chuckled softly.  "Richard, 
Richard, Richard."
	I gaped in astonishment as she murmured her late husband's 
name to herself.  Hearing Morticia, who had been a perfectly 
refined lady all evening, curse, was like finding out the Queen 
of England liked going to topless bars.  
	She hugged herself, then worked her fingers along her 
shoulders and up the side of her head.  
"Muscle ache?" I asked.
	"Yes, in truth it has been another in a long series of days 
spent looking through stereoscopes and cutting up cadavers."  She 
gave a wry grimace.  "I'm used to it, but my shoulders and neck 
still ache sometimes."
	"Here," I replied, "let me give you a quick massage."  She 
started to protest, but I had quickly moved so that I could reach 
her shoulders.  I firmly worked the muscles with my fingers, 
smoothing out the knots of tension and making them pliable again.  
Though she acted like she wanted me to stop, she couldn't bring 
herself to complain while my hands worked, something I had 
counted on.
	She groaned in appreciation as I straightened out the kinks 
in her neck and shoulders, then relaxed the long muscles in her 
back.  I massaged for over ten minutes before I decided that it 
was enough and I dropped my hands back to my side and scooted 
back to my end of the swing.  
	"There, is that better?" I asked in a neutral tone.
	"Wow..." was all she could say at first.  "That was 
amazing.  I feel like I need a cigarette after that massage!"  
She let her head loll for a few moments, then turned to me.  "You 
give girls massages often?"
	I smiled darkly.  "Truthfully, this is the first massage 
I've given to anyone still upright."
	She chuckled, and I felt better.  This was someone who 
could relate.  "Was it much different on a live girl than a dead 
one?"
	"Oh, it was a change, all right."  I drained the last of my 
coffee and stood up, and she followed suit.  "Well, I've had a 
lovely evening, Mrs. Verdoire.  I will see you again tomorrow."  
I kissed her hand and started to leave.
	"Please, David, call me Morticia."  She hugged me briefly, 
then disappeared into the house as I walked back to my car.
	Hmm.  Morticia.   She's a strange one.

				****************

	Bodies come and bodies go.  Fat ones, skinny ones, young 
and old, but mostly old.  It's amazing how many wrinkles you can 
smooth out of a face by using a safety pin on the inside of the 
cheek.  I took away years on some of those folks, making them 
look younger and more alive than they had in ages.  Too bad none 
of them got to see it.
	I gained quite a reputation, too.  People from well outside 
our usual area were sending us business, and I was soon busier 
than ever.  I even wrote a paper on the use of soft plastic tabs 
to firm up flesh.  It was well received in the mortician 
community, and we got many thank you letters from the bereaved 
for making their loved ones look so peaceful and natural. 
	Truly, I thought, I have arrived.
	

				****************

	"Morticia?" I called into the intercom.  "I need your 
opinion on something when you get a chance."
	"Sure thing, David," she replied almost immediately, 
sounding out of breath.  "I've got a moment now, I'll be there in 
a minute."
	"Great, thanks."
	I had encountered a bit of a puzzle.  Now, I'm no forensics 
expert, but I've seen a lot of dead bodies, and I pride myself on 
my ability to tell how they died.  Each body tells a story, and 
some of them are quite interesting.  Today, however, we had a 
fresh pair of bodies, a young man and woman, both a little 
younger than I am.  They weren't broken up like they'd been in a 
car crash, nor did they have any entry wounds like that caused by 
a knife or a bullet.  The bodies had been carefully cut open, 
then neatly stitched back together, indicating that the police 
forensics team had done an autopsy before they had been sent over 
to us.
	I wanted an opinion on a color scheme for the girl, as 
she'd been a lovely brunette in life but had a strangely pale 
complexion, but I also wanted to show the strange bodies to 
Morticia and see if she could figure out how they died.
	She arrived ten minutes later, looking the most disheveled 
that I had ever seen her.  That wasn't saying much, but her hair 
was slightly mussed.  Usually there wasn't a hair out of place.
	"Yes, David?" she asked, not eagerly, but intently.
	"Yeah, we just got a pair of kids, late teens I'm guessing, 
and I'd like your opinion on a color scheme," I explained.  "The 
parents said the colors were up to me."
	Something passed through her eyes, relief or disappointment 
I'm not sure.  "Of course, David, but I'm sure whatever you pick 
would be fine."
	I frowned.  "I'm not so sure.  They've both got really 
light complexions, the girl more so than the guy.  I'll darken 
them some with cream, but given the clothes the parents wanted 
them dressed in..."  I shook my head sadly.  "Not very tasteful."
	She chuckled then, amused by the problem.  "Ah, David, 
David, David.  Whatever shall I do with you.  Let's have a look 
see together, shall we?"
	Together we entered the warm embalming room and found both 
the corpses lying naked on twin carts, just like I left them.  
	"I've already cleaned and worked the body," I said, 
referring to the process that made them limber again and restored 
something similar to the pink tone of life to the skin.  "I was 
going to start the injections after I finished, but that skin 
color bothers me.  I simply can't imagine how to make that hair, 
that skin, and these," I said, indicating a pile of blue clothes, 
"look good together."
	She clicked her tongue at the unfairness of it all and gave 
me a look I simply could not read.  Expressions usually avoid me, 
although I can recreate any variation of bliss, happiness, and 
peace you want.
	"I could bondo them, but that'd take a long time with two, 
and I promised the parents that they'd be ready for the funeral 
tomorrow."  Bondo was my name for a kind of rubber putty which 
could be used to replace visible flesh.
	"They want the funeral tomorrow?" she asked, surprised.  
	"Yeah, weird, isn't it?  Something about family schedules."  
I poked idly at the boy's strange, translucent skin.  "You know, 
I wonder how they ended up like this.  Surely it isn't natural.  
Do you have any idea, Morticia?" I asked, not looking at her.
	I jumped as I felt a strange hand encounter my shoulder.
	"I'm sure I have no idea," she said throatily, her mouth 
right beside my ear.  I must have given her a very shocked look, 
because she uttered a quiet laugh.  "You must admit, though, he 
looks quite lovely like this, don't you agree?  It gives him a 
bit of a waif look, as slender as he is.  You should work with 
the skin, not against it."
	I nodded mutely, and she slowly slid her hand down my arm 
to the corpse.  Her own wonderful, utilitarian hands trailed 
lightly across the dead flesh, giving me goose bumps.  After 
calling him a waif in that sensuous voice of hers, touching him, 
trailing her fingers along his skin seemed powerfully obscene.
	Her hand moved down his chest, tracing the seam where they 
sewed his once chiseled abdominal muscles back together.  I 
watched in a kind of awe as she reached his waist, then abruptly 
turned away.
	"And look at this pale young thing," she whispered, 
caressing the girl's face and kneading her cheeks between her 
fingers.  "Ah, Emily.  So fragile in death, she must have been a 
doll in life."
	I walked around to the other side, watching as Morticia 
leaned forward and let her wonderful platinum hair dance and play 
over the corpse, which, as I knew from the papers, had once been 
called Emily.
	"She's so beautiful, I bet she left all the boys panting.  
But to die so young, her life cut short before she had a chance 
to really live."  She sighed softly.  "I hope she didn't die a 
virgin.  I know I would have hated to die before I had a chance 
to lose my virginity."  She paused and looked at me with an 
expression I can only imagine was seductive.  "At the very least, 
she deserved one...  more...  kiss..."  Morticia lowered her head 
and gave the girl a lingering kiss on the lips.
	I was appalled.  I was entranced.  I was-
	"What have we here?" she said, interrupting my whirl of 
thoughts.  I watched as she held up one of the giant embalming 
needles we use to break up the internal organs and both drain off 
the abdominal fluid and inject preservative.  It was a stainless 
steel hollow rod a half inch in diameter and two feet long, with 
a rubber hose on one end.  She knew perfectly well what it was.
	"Well, you said you were ready to start embalming," she 
breathed, running her left hand up the needle so she had firm 
control of the tip, holding it the way we were all instructed to 
before we used it.  She carefully placed the point just above the 
groin of the girl, picking a spot just above the pubic bone.  
Morticia gave me an intent look, then slowly slid the needle in.  
She withdrew it with a quiet sound, then quickly jammed it home 
again with a grunt of effort.  "Ah, I think I got the heart, that 
time."
	"Ah."  That was about all I could say.
	"David?" she said, straightening up and slowly walking over 
to me.  
	"Yes?" I answered.
	"Wonderful."
	

				****************

	What followed was one of the strangest things that has ever 
happened to me in my entire life.   They say workplace romances 
never work, and now I'm inclined to agree with them,  but at the 
time I was too caught up in it all to worry.  Morticia and 
cadavers, not necessarily in that order.  It was an intense, if 
brief, affair.  Every day for a solid week, we had sex.  However, 
I never saw the inside of her bedroom, and she never saw mine.  
We never slept together.  But we did do things I'd only dreamed 
about in the Denver's mother's coffin, and once on a cadaver 
cart.  It was an odd time in my life.
	Then, after a week, she practically danced in, took me on 
the floor, chortled something about 'It's finally functional!' 
and left.  I didn't see her again for two weeks solid.  She 
stopped responding to the intercom for all but the most urgent 
details, and even then it was only to tell me to handle it, she 
was busy.  My occasional pleas and demands to know what the hell 
was going on were ignored.
	Dejected and unhappy, I continued on as I had before, 
selling coffins, beautifying corpses, taking the money of the 
bereaved.

				****************

	My workload increased quite a bit.  We were the most 
popular funeral home around, thanks to yours truly, but I didn't 
care anymore.  It got to where I would have to turn people down 
on occasion, my schedule having been booked solid.  If Morticia 
had helped, well, it might have been different, but I was barely 
keeping up as it was, and I had no time to go to funerals.  I 
even started coming in on Saturdays, but it still wasn't enough.  
Then, pushed to my limit, I came in on a Sunday.
	I walked in to the mansion on that day the same as I always 
did.  Nothing ever changed in her mansion.  That day, though, I 
noticed a startling change.  As I walked down the hall, I saw one 
of the doors leading to a forbidden zone was standing wide open.  
I knew that door, it was the one with the numeric lock I had 
noticed the first day I arrived.  I even tried it on at least two 
separate occasions, but it was always closed and locked.
	Now it stood open, inviting my trespass indifferently, like 
Emily's cold body under Morticia's hands.
	Here, here was the opportunity I was waiting for.  I had 
never informed Morticia that I was coming in that Sunday.  Why, 
when she never spoke to me anymore?  Someone, possibly Morticia, 
had gotten sloppy and left the door open.
	There had to be a change.  I wanted some answers from 
Morticia Verdoire, and damnit, I was going to get some.
	Boldly, I stalked through the door into the rest of the 
house.  I received quite a shock, though, when, instead of 
leading to her living quarters, the door lead to a gentle, 
winding ramp going down.  I followed it, going much deeper than 
the simple basement level the funeral home used.
	The décor shifted just like it did going down the other 
stairs, from funeral home standard to sterile scientific 
surfaces.  The smell of ammonia was stronger here, though, as if 
it had been cleaned recently.  I saw the liquid on the floor 
before I even stepped off the last foot of rubberized ramp.
	It wasn't floor cleaner, that I could tell.  If it had been 
the smell would have been overpowering.  This was more of a 
clear, watery fluid, blood plasma, I think.  I tried to step 
around it, but had to give in and walk through the ever expanding 
puddle.  Someone else already had.
	Wet footprints lead deeper into the lab, gradually getting 
fainter and fainter.  I noticed that the shoe was small, like 
that of a woman's, but it was a sneaker, not a lady's pump.  
Curious and curiouser.
	I passed three doors set on the left side of the hall, 
leading to who knows where.  They were all locked, but I wouldn't 
have used them anyway.  The footprints didn't go that way.
	I finally reached a sealed glass door, identical to the one 
in the other morgue.  It wasn't locked, and I cautiously slipped 
in with a soft rush of air.  The inside air pressure was higher 
than the outside, a feature which would tend to blow airborne 
contaminants away.  A door just beyond the seal and to one side 
lead to a shower and I saw surgical scrubs hanging in a doorless 
closet when I looked in.  I had lost the trail of footprints by 
then, but there was only one more door besides that one, a metal 
one.  
	Quietly, I opened it a crack.  I could hear voices, one 
high, shrill and panicky, the other the smooth, cultured tone of 
Morticia Verdoire.  There was a spot of blood on the floor right 
in front of the door, and I saw a scrap of cloth I believed to be 
a torn sleeve.  As stealthily as I could manage, I crouched down 
and sneaked in, shielding myself from the area the people were at 
by hiding behind one of several counters in the room.
	"Oh, quit whining, Polly," ordered Morticia's voice.  "It's 
unbecoming."
	Polly's, whoever she was, reply was shrill and not very 
complimentary.
	"Tsk, tsk, I hope you didn't learn that kind of language 
from me.  That's not very ladylike.  Now hold still, I don't want 
to mess this up."  
	"Mess what up, Morticia?" I wanted to ask aloud, but I held 
my tongue.
	A short scream followed.
	My eyes widened and my heart sped up.  Just what had I 
walked into?  I studied the room I was in.  It was clearly a lab, 
much like any number of laboratories I had been in.  There 
certainly did seem to be a lot more body parts in jars in this 
lab.  Arms, legs, eyes, two penises, a brain; I could teach an 
anatomy class down here using these pickled parts.
	 A jar just over my head had a metal top and a number of 
wires going through it down to a human heart suspended in the 
liquid.  The heart pulsated regularly, circulating nothing but 
what I presume to be its own nutritiative fluid.  Okay, that was 
creepy, even for me.
	"It's time, Polly.  You're about to make the ultimate 
sacrifice in the name of science.  I need that essential spark in 
your brain."
	"No!  Please don't!"
	Throwing caution to the wind, I stood up.  "Hey, Morticia, 
we need to have a talk.  It's about us." I announced.
	The look on her face was pure shock.  I imagine mine looked 
similar.
	Morticia Verdoire was nude, and gloriously so.  Although 
she had her white lab coat on over her shoulders and arms, it had 
been thrown back, leaving that perfect body visible from toes to 
face.  On second glance, though, there were several scratches 
visible, and bruises ran up and down her body.  Her hair was 
tangled wildly, but still shone in the fluorescent light, as did 
the large hypodermic needle filled with opalescent liquid she 
brandished in one hand.
	Another girl, which I immediately recognized as the maid, 
was strapped down to an operating table, a long tray of shiny, 
menacing tools by her side.  She was still clothed, but seemed 
much the worse for wear.  A long, red scrape ran across her 
cheek, and her leg dripped blood from a deep gash in her thigh, 
right below her shorts.
	Though interesting, the rest of the lab was far more 
astonishing.  The next thing I noticed was the glass walled cage 
just beyond them, where three men stood.  At least, I called them 
men.  They looked exactly like extras from The Night of the 
Living Dead, and I had little doubt that that was exactly what 
they were.  
	Then I saw the Thing, that strange machine I had saw on 
Morticia's computer when we first met.  It looked like the 
bastard offspring of a glass octopus and an Egyptian temple, 
although it was actually only about ten feet tall, and scraped 
the bottom of the ceiling.  The main body was slightly pyramidal, 
but with a flat top.  Only the outline was actually there, the 
rest being openwork tubes of plastic and glass, all of which were 
piping liquids of all colors and consistencies to unknown 
devices.  I could glimpse something solid and black in the 
center, where all the tubes came from, but they lead out and 
branched into smaller and smaller tubes, some of which ended in 
large needles.  A clip rack held them in place, ready for access.  
Some of them had already been stuck into Polly's arms and legs.  
	"David, I thought I told you not to come down here," she 
said patiently.
	I shrugged as if it didn't matter, lost in the wonder of 
the things I saw.  I simply could not comprehend how all that 
could be, so I focused on her instead.
	She smiled, and it was not a nice smile.  "Well, now that 
you've seen it...  You should be delighted, Polly.  It looks like 
your soul won't be needed after all."  She lay the needle down on 
the tray beside the terrified young woman. 
	"Oh, thank you, thank you, thank God..." she babbled.  
	I started forward, then stopped in my tracks as Morticia 
picked up a long embalming needle, twin to the one I used in the 
funeral home.  I was too far away to do anything, so I held my 
place.
	Morticia stroked it with her left hand before grabbing it 
by the tip and putting it into position just above Polly's groin, 
angled upward.
	"Morticia, no/Mother, NO!" we both cried in unison, but 
Polly's cry ended in a sighing shriek as Morticia shoved the 
hollow steel rod home.  Polly convulsed on the bed, fighting the 
straps, but quickly lay still.
	"Ah, I do believe I hit the heart, that time," she said 
quirkily.  Blood oozed out around the needle as she withdrew it 
and held it before her like a weapon.  "Would you like to fuck 
her, now?  I understand some people prefer it while it's still 
warm."  She grinned wildly, maniacally.  "Not me, though.  I like 
my meat cold and stiff."
	"Shit, Morticia!" I yelled in shock and disbelief.  "What 
the hell is going on around here?  And why did you just kill 
Polly?"
	She laughed.  "Well, I didn't want to, but I really needed 
a detailed scan of a living human brain, and it is simply murder 
to convince someone to come down here and let me perform painful 
experiments on them as they die.  Polly seemed like the only 
choice.  I would have liked to avoid it if possible, I truly did 
like the girl."  
	  She didn't seem very remorseful to me.
	"Imagine if you will, David, that Doctor Frankenstein had 
needed Igor's heart to make his creation live.  Do you think he 
would have hesitated to kill his loyal assistant?"  She waved her 
hand with a twist.  "So I.  But I then you came in, and you would 
make a much better subject."
	Morticia laid the embalming needle aside and picked up the 
syringe she had before, waving it menacingly.  She shifted 
confidently into what I guessed was a martial arts stance, 
clearly intending to take me out without causing gross damage.  
"Come on, David, donate your soul to science.  It's not like you 
have a choice."
	"Wait, why the walking dead?  Why any of this stuff?" I 
asked.  She started to reply, but I interrupted her.  "No, wait.  
Screw why, I want to know how."
	"How?  Research.  Technology.  Know-how.  Can-do attitude.  
The power of science.  Arcane voodoo magic.  All of the above."  
She smiled at me.  "Did you know that vaudaun priests have been 
killing people and bringing them back to life as the undead for 
hundreds of years?  Turns out it just takes the right recipe, 
which a tribe from deep Africa developed before the first white 
man ever took a slave.
	"In this case, Richard was researching immortality.  He 
never found it, of course, true immortality may well be 
impossible, but he also investigated life after death, and the 
possibilities there.  I agreed with him, and the plan was to 
bring him back to life as the undead."
	"Gee, that's not something I would have thought to put in 
my will and testament," I replied. 
	"It didn't work," she admitted.  "The technique was flawed, 
and his heart was beyond repair.  It took months of work to 
rebuild him to the level you see today.  Many hours of work and 
many donor parts."  She gestured at the glass walled prison.  
"That's him near the door.  He wants out to play."  Morticia 
giggled obscenely.  "Again."
	"Where'd you get the organs?" I asked, looking around for a 
weapon.
	"Some base tissue was from our own cadavers, more came as 
part of legitimate research.  Doctor Wilder helped there, he had 
a vested interest in this as well.  The rest, well, there have 
been more than a few missing people, and a couple of unexplained 
homicides.  Polly helped, drawing blood and mutilating people for 
their bits."  She waved at the jars of human pieces.  "Not 
everything was used, but waste not, want not."
	My eyes fell on a jar about the size of a fish bowl which 
had a brain floating inside.  It was small enough to be thrown, 
with effort, but large enough to really hurt if I put some 
English on it.  "Well, Morticia, I must admit, I've got many, 
many questions for you regarding all this," I said frankly.  "The 
sex I can guess; you're a freak.  The strange device your husband 
built there, yeah, I'd love to know how that works.  How you 
actually got the zombies to work would fascinate me to no end.  
But, judging by the way you seem to want to kill me, I'm guessing 
I'm not going to get a chance to ask any of those.  So, Morticia, 
dear, please.  Humor me and grant me one question."
	She seemed amused by my ramble, and slid forward, holding 
the needle at the ready.  I had little doubt that she could take 
me in hand to hand.  "Ask away, David.  I suppose I could answer 
one question before I turn you into one of my new, smarter-but-
still-dead zombies."
	"You said your maid gathered all these organs, right?  So 
that means Polly picked a peck of pickled peckers?"
	She stopped, half laughing.  "Say what?"
	I grabbed the jar and threw it with all my might, hitting 
her in the right arm and stomach.  She doubled over, gasping on 
the floor as fluid went everywhere, soaking her, and the brain 
itself came out and squished on the tile.  
I was on her in an instant, wrestling for the syringe.  
Despite having the wind knocked out of her, she fought like 
a woman possessed, her hand still clutching the needle.  I 
grabbed a wrist in both hands, intending to pin her, but she was 
too strong, and brought both arms together in a move that broke 
my grip.  Then, inexplicably, she convulsed beneath me, her chest 
spasming as she tried to breathe.
As she sagged on the floor I saw what had happened.  When 
she brought her arms together, she had forgotten about the 
syringe, and had drawn a bloody groove in her forearm with the 
point, accidentally injecting some of the serum. 
She died without a word.

				****************

	A mysterious fire swept the mansion, one of those 
unfortunate accidents.  Embalming fluids are highly flammable, 
you know.  The police asked me about the bodies they found 
within, and I gave them my best patronizing look.  It was a 
funeral home, of course there were bodies within.  It helped that 
they were all in the cold storage lockers, of course, and that 
all the records went up in the flames.
	I did manage to get Morticia out alive, but the poor woman 
had apparently stumbled into a tray of tools and scratched 
herself on a needle, injecting a minute amount of highly toxic 
fluid into her arm as she fled.  Tragic, but, despite the best 
efforts of the police, nothing I could be blamed for.
	They did charge me, of course.  I spent two nights in jail 
before it was deemed that there was insufficient evidence.  I was 
allowed to go, but I knew better than to hang around in that town 
for any longer than I had to.
	Fortunately, I was allowed to follow Morticia's body to the 
morgue, and as a personal favor to me, I got to embalm and 
prepare her myself.  
	Everyone said she looked very natural.