Circus of the Damned   ::   Гамильтон Лорел

"The zombie had broken free of your control, Larry. If I hadn't come along and fed it blood, it would have found blood on its own. Do you understand?"

"I don't think so."

I sighed. "The zombie would have attacked someone. Taken a bite out of someone."

"Zombies attacking humans is just superstition, ghost stories."

"Is that what they're teaching in college now?" I asked.

"Yes."

"I'll loan you some back copies of The Animator. Trust me, Larry, zombies do attack people. I've seen people killed by them."

"You're just trying to scare me," he said.

"Scared would be better than stupid."

"I raised it. What do you want from me?" He looked completely baffled.

"I want you to understand what nearly happened here tonight. I want you to understand that what we do isn't a game. It's not parlor tricks. It's real, and it can be dangerous."

"All right," he said. He'd given in too easily. He didn't really believe. He was humoring me. But there are some things you can't tell someone. He, or she, has to learn some things in person. I wished I could wrap Larry up in cellophane and keep him on a shelf, all safe and secure and untouched, but life didn't work that way. If he stayed in this business long enough, the new would wear off. But you can't tell someone who's reached twenty and never been touched by death. They don't believe in the boogeyman.

At twenty I'd believed in everything. I suddenly felt old.

Larry pulled a pack of cigarettes out of his coat pocket.

"Please tell me you don't smoke," I said.

He looked up at me, eyes sort of wide and startled. "You don't smoke?"

"No."

"You don't like people to smoke around you?" He made it a question.

"No," I said.

"Look, I feel pretty awful right now. I need the cigarette, okay?"

"Need it?"

"Yeah, need it." He had one slender white cigarette between two fingers of his right hand. The pack had disappeared back into his pocket. A disposable lighter had appeared. He looked at me very steadily. His hands were shaking just a bit.

Shit. He'd raised three zombies on his first night out, and I was going to be talking to Bert about the wisdom of sending Larry out on his own.

Besides, we were outside. "Go ahead."

"Thanks."

He lit the cigarette and drew a deep breath of nicotine and tar. Smoke curled out of his mouth and nose, like pale ghosts. "Feel better already," he said.

I shrugged. "Just so you don't smoke in the car with me.