The woman standing before me is Ashley Scott, twenty-eight years of age, married to Leon Scott, thirty-four years of age. Of average height and with short blonde hair, wearing a blazer, blouse and slacks, she enters the office with the familiarly ponderous movement of the recently bereaved. In her arms, crossed over her front, is a brown manila envelope – one of those ones. I glance at the picture of my children in their togas, holding their college degrees, Roy from Stanford, and Georgina from Harvard. Beside them, my wife, dressed all in white and made up in an open coffin.
Give me strength, kids.
“Mrs. Scott.” I extend a hand to offer her one of the two chairs in front of my desk. “Please, have a seat.” I say, rising from my own comfortable office chair, tearing my eyes away from my computer, and offering a handshake. “Coffee?” I ask, indicating a piping hot cup of coffee on the table, set on a little tray with little beakers of sugar and creamer.
“No thanks.” She held up a hand and slid into the chair across from me, sucking in a breath with her shoulders, before looking down at her knees. She doesn’t speak for a few moments, before turning to me.
“Mr. Morgan.” She starts. “When Leon told me he had planned for his death, I waved it off as a joke. But when I went through his papers after his death, I found a will, with your business card and the papers.” She gives a hollow chuckle, putting the envelope down on the table. “I looked it up on the Internet, and I can’t make heads or tails of this.” She says, gingerly pulling out a stack of papers and laying them on the table. She leafs through them before coming to that form.
“I know you can donate your body to the hospital, or to science, but this is different.” She thrusts the piece of paper in my face. “What is this?” She asks, glaring me down.
Before me is a deed of sale, signed between Mr. Leon Scott, age thirty-four, former submarine electrician, and myself – Mr. Morgan, manager of the local branch of Necorpolis Funeral Homes, Inc. Notarized three months ago, June 3rd, 2040, effective until Mr. Scott’s 50th birthday in 2056. Neither I nor he likely thought he’d need it so soon.
Nobody does.
I lower my eyes to meet Mrs. Scott’s gaze. “Mrs. Scott.” I begin. “When we last met, Mr. Scott mentioned to me that you had a mortgage on your home, in both of your names.” I pause, to let it sink in. “The burden of the debt now falls upon you.”
“Don’t dodge the question.” She keeps the contract trained on me. “How is this supposed to help?”
I clear my throat and flare my nostrils, eyes still focused on Mrs. Scott – I’ve seen this before. “In the event of Mr. Scott’s early and untimely demise,” I say, “The company, to be reimbursed by the National Skills Preservation fund, will pay off your mortgage upon-“
“In exchange for his body!?” Mrs. Scott interjects, slamming the contract down on the table. “I want a lawyer! If this is legal-“
“It is.” I say. “It was legalized by the National Security Industrialization Act of 2026 – under the Skills Relevant to National Security clause, Section 180, Paragraph 5. ‘All measures shall be taken to preserve skills of import for national security’.”
“Electricians aren’t-“
“I know that your husband worked at the shipyard on the new submarine, way behind sche-“
I was interrupted by Mrs. Scott taking the coffee cup and flinging it in my face. The cup shattered against my forehead, spilling hot coffee all over my face and my shirt, the steam from the hot liquid wafting before my eyes. She rips up the contract.
“You too!?“
“I know exactly what will happen to Mr. Scott.” I pause only to wipe the coffee from my eyes. “He will continue to serve the nation, as have I-“
“As a fucking zombie!” She spits, throwing the pieces of paper in my face, but the slips of paper flutter down onto the table and begin to dissolve in the coffee standing on the desk. “I’ll have my Leon cremated if I have to, I just won’t let him become one of-“
“Can you afford, Mrs. Scott,” I cut her off, “to carry your mortgage?”
“I’ll work two jobs-“
“And who will care for your children, Chris and Claire, while you are away?”
“I’ll find someone-“
“That costs money. Can you afford-“
She lunges over the desk at me, face contorted in rage, words ripping her mouth wide open as she hollers “I’ll! Make! It! Work!” She roars, punctuating every word with a hand slamming on the table. Her sobs are gone now but her tears return - this time from rage and desperation rather than sadness.
After anger comes bargaining, which means we are almost halfway there.
For the first time in this meeting, I force myself to take a breath and consciously raise my voice – not too much – just enough to match hers and snap her out of it. My vocal chords ache a little at the exertion, and it reminds me that I am out of practice, or perhaps, that I no longer have that habit.
“No, you won’t.” I sigh – remembering what it used to feel like to sigh – and point to the photos before the monitor of my son and daughter. She turns her head to look at them and takes a sharp breath, eyes widening at the realization.
“Your wife-“
“We died early.” I report flatly. “She was one of the unlucky ones – undetected leukemia gave her a second and final death.” I shake my head. “Without both of our incomes, our kids would be on the street.”
Mrs. Scott straightens herself up, retreating across the table and dropping back down into the chair. “How long has it been since-?”
“Fifteen years, ma’am.”
“The first death?” The question hangs in the air for a moment.
“My wife and I died at the same time.” I say, the coffee now dripping down from my forehead approximating the tears that could no longer come. “A drunk driver ran a red light and T-boned us as we crossed an intersection.” I report. “The estate payments saved our kids.” I say, turning the photos to her.”
“How old were they when you… passed?” She asks, turning back towards me.
“Ten and seven.” I say, opening a cabinet in my desk for some paper towels to start patting the coffee away.
“Did she make it to their graduations?“
“Roy’s high school graduation. She didn’t make it to Georgina’s.” I continue to pat myself down while explaining the situation.
“Do you remember what passing… felt like?”
“No, you often don’t.”
With that last question, silence begins to hang in the air, with only the noise of me patting the coffee off my skin. Looking down at my shirt, I see the large, angry coffee stains that require detergent. Were I still alive, I’d feel pretty burned, or sticky, but now all I feel is wet. After I pat myself down, the only sound in the room is Mrs. Scott’s breathing as her eyes bore holes into the floor, probably thinking of her options.
I was like her, once. Now I have to remember to breathe, in order to avoid unsettling others.
Mrs. Scott stays in her chair and thinks, hunching her shoulders and resting her head on her tented fingers, as I go back to my computer and idly check my e-mail. Finding too many e-mails I don’t want to deal with right now, I decide to click off and scroll through X instead.
Old habits don’t die.
After a few minutes of scrolling past destination photos, cat photos, and incendiary political tweets that no longer excite me as they did in life, Mrs. Scott shifts in her seat and turns to me. I, naturally, return the gesture, prying my eyes away from the hypnotizing allure of my screen.
“So, about that contract I ripped up,” Mrs. Scott asks sheepishly, eyes not leaving the floor.
“It’s already been notarized, ma’am.” I reply, standing up. “Can I assume that you agree to it?”
“For now.” She shakes her head. “I want to know what’s going to happen to my Leon.”
“Very well, ma’am. I’ll have some refreshments brought up, and we can begin.” Fishing my phone out from the drawer, I fire off a quick text to my assistant, Milicent, telling her to bring up a tray of refreshments for Mrs. Scott, and to prepare the documentation for the full, government-mandated orientation on the process.
From the desk of:
MR. HENRY MORGAN
Pronouns: Was/Were
BRANCH MANAGER
NECORPOLIS FUNERAL HOMES INC.
Author’s Notes:
Necropolis turned into Necorpolis, which gave birth to this idea.
With how hard it is to afford children, the loss of specialized, blue-collar, technical skills necessary in industry, the fragility created by heavy leverage, and the indispensability of work income, I thought this would be an absolutely perfect solution. If we had necromancy, it would be a pretty quick sell to zombify all the dying Boomers with their factory skills by offering a payoff to their kids. Anyone in trades critical to national security would be zomboed up at partial, even full, government expense!
I borrowed Resident Evil names. Seemed fitting. Except for Mr. Henry Morgan - the name started with Morgan being the “normal” version of
, and Henry because of good old Captain Henry Morgan. As an unabashed Alestorm enjoyer, I felt obligated to do it.
Interesting! Coincidentally, I recently saw a video on the ethics of using necromancy for labour (though, the undead aren't assumed to be sentient)
The part where the undead still retain (a portion) of memories could make it more dystopian for other purposes too (ie: jail for life)
I assume rich people would probably use it to extend their lives instead...maybe as lichs
Unsettlingly good! Might make for an interesting novel.