“Welcome, Mr. O’Connor. Have a seat?” I indicate the recliner next to my desk, as the patient enters my office.
“No thanks,” he says. “I prefer to stay moving. Keeps rigor from setting.”
He moves around the room, examines the degrees on my wall. His fingers bend and flex at his sides, as if he expects to draw a six-gun at any moment.
“What shall we talk about today, Mr. O’Connor?” I ask.
“Please. Liam.” He catches me looking at his fingers. Embarassed, he moves to the bookcase and pulls out a tome. It just happens to be the one I co-wrote with Arthur. He leafs through it, not really reading. Just flipping pages absent-mindedly.
“What’s on your mind, Liam?” I ask again.
He looks up from the book to face me. There are no signs of decay on him. He was either raised within hours of his death, or by a powerful necromancer. Possibly both.
“I really do like the McGees,” he says at last. “Really I do. But I’m not sure I thought it through when I agreed to be a zombie for them…”