"Simmons,.Wm.Mark.-.3.-.Habeas.Corpses.v1.1" - читать интересную книгу автора (Simmons William Mark)

I turned and looked.
Residential Evil. Or maybe The Killing Fields under glass.
A half-dozen fidgety corpses had their faces pressed to the great pane of the den's picture window.
Ghastly. And smeary! It was going to take a whole lot of ammonia and elbow grease to get the glass clean again.
"So, like, The Bride of FrankensteinЧ" The Kid was saying, "Чis this one more of a chick flick?"
"Depends on the chick," I said, getting up off the sofa. "Some critics think BOF is the greatest horror movie ever made. Forget state-of-the-art effects, there are delicious subtexts on multiple levels."
He nodded. "Ya can't beat the classics, Daddy-o."
"Maybe next week you should rent Dracula."
He shook his head. "Nah. I want documentaries, I'll watch PBS. Movie night's for escapism."
Okay.
I stretched. "Go ahead and start the next movie, I've got to go put some things away."
Deirdre started to challenge me. "I don't think that's such a good idea."
"The security staff is out and about and on high alert," I argued. "I'll be carrying and the Neighborhood Watch is all around. I'm not spending the rest of my life indoors like some hothouse flower!"
"I'll tag along," Lupщ volunteered, "while he plays sheepherder of the damned."
Deirdre grumbled, I retrieved my Glock from the desk, and Lupщ followed, grabbing a sack of consecrated salt as we headed for the back of the house.
I checked the extension cord as we went out the back door. Everything looked secure; the plug was still in the outlet. I saw a knot of corpses gathered in the flickering glow of the spare television down by the cemetery wall. Walking around to the side of the house, I moved toward the clump of cadavers who were bunched up outside the big window. "Boys? What seems to be the problem here?"
They turned at my voice and managed to look a little sheepish. Only a little, mind you: when one thinks of sheep, one envisions them with skin and body parts intact.
"TV broken," one of them mumbled.
I put my hands on my hips and gave him the Serious Parent look. "Now, Roger, the TV is onЧI can see it from here. And everyone else is down by the wall, watching intently, so it can't be broken. The only reason to be up here, peeking in the window is to see what we're watching. Are you all Frankenstein fans?"
"Noooo," hissed another voice. "Ally McBeallll!"
That one caught me off guard. "You're Ally McBeal fans?"
A loud chorus of "No!"s and more than a few growls cleared the issue up immediately.
"I see. Okay. Well. Let's go back and I'll tell the girls that it's your turn after their show is over."
They shuffled their feet but no one moved forward. "FX all ni' marat'on," someone lisped.
Oh.
How was I supposed to rule a major enclave of vampires when I couldn't arbitrate the viewing habits of the dead in my own backyard?
"You know, I read about this in TV Guide," Lupщ said. "The zombie episode is supposed to be on pretty soon."
The growling died down. The deceased and dissenting looked thoughtful. "Wort' a looh, Uh spose," one said through decaying lips.
"Golla be beher than Fankenstein," opined another who had lost his some time back.
"Too boring?" I asked, backing toward the cemetery.
They began to follow. "Too icky . . . gross . . . disgusting . . . scary . . ." were the various responses.
Norman summed it up: "Digging up dead bodies to cut up and use for spare partsЧI almost spewed my maggots!"
"Um," I said, "yeah."
"Ali MahBeel's gola be beher'n tha!"
"Ya know, if you squinch your eye sockets jus' right, she even looks a little dead . . . emaciated . . . you know . . . cadaverlike . . ."
We got them back through the gate and Lupщ resealed the gaps in the salt lines. "I didn't know Ally McBeal had a zombie show," I murmured, as she finished up.
"I doubt that it does," she whispered back. "But a couple of episodes should be enough to either get them hooked or fleeing back into their graves."
I stepped back and stared at her. "No wonder I love you: beauty and brains!"
The closest corpse turned and flailed against the wall. "Brains! Want brains! Must have brains!"
"Shut up, Kenneth."
* * *
"Why do they do that?" Lupщ asked as we walked back toward the house.
"Do what?"
"Want brains."
Zombies . . . George Romero called them blue collar monsters. I wondered what sort of stand-up routine Jeff Foxworthy would develop if he moved next door. You might be a Revenant if . . .
I shrugged. "They sort of remind me of the Scarecrow from The Wizard of Oz."
"But they don't want to have brains, they want to eat them."
"Only the ones that are really far gone. Kenneth was just joking, dear."
Her lips twitched but she didn't quite manage a smile.
"Look, I suspect it's kind of like the planaria . . ."