Still Undead
an excerpt

Two years ago, Mikaela Travers, commonly known as Mike, had died. It was the defining moment in her life.
It had not been cancer or AIDS, though few people would have been surprised if it had been. There had been no murderer. Not even a drunk driver, or a house fire. No blaze of glory, no suspicious circumstances. The culprit had been an oatmeal chocolate chip cookie.
This particular cookie had been handed to Mike during her young niece’s birthday party. The parents, Mike’s brother and sister-in-law, had made their house so colorful that Mike had felt like squinting. The ankle-biters had dashed underfoot, tripping up anyone more than four feet tall and speaking in a what became a constant high-pitched buzz, and Mike had been contemplating the possibility of disemboweling herself with a salad fork.
So when one of the more precocious rugrats offered her an only slightly-stale cookie with chunks of beloved chocolate sticking out of it, Mike had chomped it down without hesitation. The hesitation came a second later, when the anaphylaxis kicked in.
Mike never carried an Epipen. What was the chance of her actually being stupid enough to eat something without checking if it had peanuts in it first? Besides, experience had taught her to be able to smell the dreaded ingredient a mile away. But apparently picking out specific smells is more difficult in a house full of muddy, vomiting children with dirty diapers. The last strangled curse she forced out of her lips before she fell was met with reproachful glares by several parents before they realized that she couldn’t breathe.
Later, Mike would say that if she had to choose, death by allergic reaction would not be her preferred mode of demise. However, she would say with a sadistic smile, she might choose for it to happen again at a kid’s party. The expressions on their faces had been priceless. Look closely, you sheltered, pampered, fat children born into lifestyles of capitalist glut: this is what death looks like. Ask your parents about it tonight and watch them squirm and lie.
There had been a struggle at the end. A frantic, animal scrabbling for air and life, like getting your hair stuck in the intake at the bottom of a pool. It’s too late for someone to save you; even if you get your hair free, the surface is too far away. You’re going to breathe water in the end either way, but you fight nontheless. And then you’re gone. And then she was gone.
She had woken up in a doctors’ on-call room at the hospital. Sitting up in the hard cot, she was greeted by the stunned and slightly terrified face of a painfully thin young man in surgical scrubs. He had gaped at her, his shoulders slumped vulnerably, as he muttered again and again, “I did it. I did it. I did it. Oh my God. I did it.”
“Shake your head, kid,” Mike had said loudly, “Your eyes are stuck.” The man had flinched so violently that he ended up stumbling several steps backward. He had held up his hands like he thought Mike might try to rush him.
“I’m sorry,” he had whispered, “I didn’t mean to. I didn’t think it would work.”
“Yeah,” Mike had said, raising an eyebrow, “Sure. Hey, is this the hospital? Wow, I didn’t think they’d get me here in time. Did that count as a near-death experience? Did I flatline?”
The man had gulped visibly. “Death. Near-death. No, totally dead,” he had stammered, “You’re supposed to be dead.”
“Well, I’ll agree that it was a close call,” Mike had said dubiously. She had begun to wonder if this guy was an actual doctor or just a loony. “But if I were ‘supposed to be dead’ in some cosmic sense, I’d probably have stayed dead, right? Now where’s my idiot brother? I have to apologize for traumatizing that kid that almost killed me.”
“No!” the man had said, suddenly forceful, “For God’s sake, you can’t leave. You’re supposed to be dead. It’s not right. It was such a stupid thing to do. I have to fix it. I have to put it back the way it was.” He had taken a deep breath, wound up his shoulders, and pointed all ten fingers dramatically at Mike. Nothing had happened.
Mike had laughed and said, “Well, that answers that question. You’re not a doctor, you’re an escaped psych patient. Where are the real doctors?” The man had stared at his fingers tight-lipped.
“Why, why not?” he had muttered, “Ah, of course. Took too much energy bringing it back. Can’t make it leave. Fuck. Fuck! He’ll kill me when he finds out. I have to put it right. Back the way it was.” He had slowly reached for an empty syringe lying on the desk behind him. “The way it was before.” He had shifted the needle in his hand so he held it like a knife, and swung it at Mike’s temple.
Mike had grabbed his wrist, pulled the syringe out of his hand, and slammed him against the wall. “They let psychos like you run around?” she had panted, “Jesus Christ! Where are the doctors? Hey! Can anyone hear me? I’ve got an escaped nutjob in here who…”
“Quiet! Quiet, please,” he had begged, “They can’t help you.” He had relaxed as he realized something. “Besides,” he had then added, “I locked the door from the inside. You can’t open it without releasing me.” Mike had scooted him along the wall toward the door, keeping him in an armlock.
“Yeah, whatever. You need serious help. Or to be drugged into oblivion. I’ll just open this…” She had reached for the doorknob. In his desperation, the man’s eyes had rolled toward the clock on the wall and he had begun to giggle frantically.
He had said, just as Mike’s hand had touched the knob, “It’s three-seventeen PM. Do you know where your pulse is?”
What a strange thing to say. In spite of herself, Mike had begun to feel the heavy pounding through the man’s back where she was pressing him with her chest, and in his wrist where she restrained his arm. His skin felt hot. Hers felt cold. On a whim, she had removed her hand from the doorknob and placed it under her jaw. The skin had been still. Nothing had moved beneath it.
“You see?” the man had said smugly, “Now will you let me go?” Mike’s anger had outweighed her disbelief.
“You just tried to stab me in the head,” she had said, “What do you think?”
“But you felt it! You’re dead!” Mike had pressed him against the wall harder, just enough so that it was hard for him to breathe.
“I’m not dead,” she had protested, “You did this to me. You did something to me, you fucking batshit insane piece of crap. Fix me! I’ll let you go if you fix me.”
“What did you think I was trying to do with the syringe?” he had grunted.
Mike had pressed on him harder. “Is that a trick question? You were trying to kill me. I don’t want to be dead, I want to be alive! I want to be alive. I wanna be… oh, God. I wanna be alive. I wanna…” She had released him, falling back onto the cot and taking deep, rattling breaths. Siezing on her momentary helplessness, the man had slowly made for the syringe that was still lying on the floor. Mike’s urge to cry had abruptly stopped, and she had smacked the man hard across the face and grabbed the needle for herself.
“Sit down,” she had said, her voice the low growl of a woman with a purpose. She had raised the needle, pointing it at him. The man had sat. “Now,” Mike had said, “You’re going to answer all my questions with the honest truth or so help me God, I will put this thing in your eye.”
The man had nodded emphatically.
“Good,” Mike had said, “What the fuck did you do to me?”
The man had gulped. “You asked for the truth,” he had said slowly, carefully, “And this is the God-honest truth, so please believe me. You died. I reanimated your body and put your soul back in. I can do this because I’m a necromancer.”
Mike had twitched the tip of the needle threateningly. “Right in your eye, you little shit, I swear to God.”
“No! It’s really true!” he had said, waving his hands fearfully, “If I were trying to make up a story, would I choose something that sounded that stupid?”
“Maybe you’re just an idiot.”
“No, seriously,” he had said, “You know the tsunami in Thailand three years ago? Caused by unusual leviathan activity. Some people can track images and voices in white noise. It’s ghosts trying to speak through the machine. Everything you’ve ever thought was just in fairy tales, it’s all true. Just outside the normal range of human experience.” He had looked infuriatingly pleased with himself.
“You’re a complete nutter,” Mike had told him.
“You don’t have a pulse,” he had reminded her. This had made her think quietly for several seconds.
“What about magic spells? Real?” she had asked, testing him.
He had jumped at the chance to prove his knowledge. “Most people who are born with the talent can learn to do them.”
“Talent?” she had wondered.
“Hypersensitivity. It’s a random occurrence. Means you can see ghosts and spirits, and lots of other things normal people can’t see. You can’t learn magic unless you’re one of us.”
“Do dragons exist?” Mike demanded suddenly.
“Common in Asia, getting fewer in Europe.”
Mike had tried to think of something more obscure. “Changelings?”
“Happens surprisingly often.”
“Is there a Ministry of Magic?”
“Only in Harry Potter. In real life, there aren’t enough magicians in the world for it to be worth it. But most of the really powerful ones know each other. And there are a few organizations that recruit the amateurs.”
“Cool. Criss Angel?”
“Who, the street performer? Totally full of it.”
“Thought so,” Mike had said. She had become strangely immune to the shock of the whole thing, and the conversation had become unexpectedly enjoyable. “What about leprechauns?”
“No, actually leprechauns don’t exist.”
“Oh. Well, supposing I believe all this, which isn’t likely,” Mike had said, getting back to business, “How did you get to be a necromancer? Did you sell your soul to the Devil or something? Or are you born that way?”
“Neither, really,” he had said, also visibly calmer, “I was born with a general aptitude for magic. Hypersensitivity is what they call it. I got lucky, and when I was in med school a world-class necromancer invited me to be his apprentice. I wasn’t sure at first, but it was so worth it. Guess how he convinced me.”
“He threatened you with death,” Mike had said.
“Er, no. He made it so I don’t have to sleep anymore. Really gave me an edge at school. Here, too. All the attending surgeons think I’m a genius because I have so much extra time to study. Actually, I probably wouldn’t even have this job if it weren’t for my Master.”
Mike had snorted. “You call him ‘Master’? Sounds like a kinky SM relationship… Oh, what do you think you’re doing? Knock that off!” It had been too late. The man had already begun sobbing.
“I… I definitely wouldn’t have this job if it weren’t for my Master,” he had choked out, “And when he finds out what I did, he’ll kick me out! He’ll never teach me anything again. I’m not that good at anything but magic. When my sleep spell wears off, they’ll probably fire me from here. Then where will I go? I can’t believe I was so stupid. I should never have tried a reanimation spell by myself. If I could just make it like it never happened…” He had peeked up at Mike hopefully.
“Not a chance,” Mike had said, “I like being alive.”
“Technically, you’re not alive,” he had pouted, “You’re undead.”
“Whatever.”