"He's gone." Veronica's voice on the other end of the line sounded uncharacteristically panicked.
"Who?"
"Who do you think? Stanley!"
Brant sat up straight. "How long has he been missing?"
"I don't know. He's supposed to be on the morning show in an hour, but when I got here to pick him up, he was gone. His bodyguards don't know where he went. I called Martin but he didn't answer his home phone or his cell. I'm scared that something happened to him."
"I'm sure he's fine," said Brant, wiping some perspiration from his forehead. He could see Stanley pulling a vanishing act just to make him sweat.
"How do you know that? He never goes anywhere without his bodyguards!"
"Have you called the police?"
"Not yet. I wanted to call you first."
"Stanley wouldn't miss a public appearance. He's probably on his way to the studio right now. Let the producers know that there may be a problem so that they can find an emergency replacement, but don't call the police yet."
"Okay."
"Keep me informed."
"I will."
Brant hung up. It was just a prank. It had to be. Or else Stanley was going on his own little journey of self-exploration, which would come to a halt when he ran out of injections. Brant had been against the idea of providing him with a week's supply in the first place, but he'd caved in to pressure from Veronica and Dr. Arnzin. He should have known better. Should have kept Stanley on that tighter leash.
Of course, he also shouldn't have told him the truth about his origin. Well, most of the truth. But he couldn't stand for that rampaging ego-maniac zombie to think that he was the one in charge. And if Brant had put the whole cash cow at risk because of his own power trip…well, everybody had their own little quirks.
"Our Savior did not appear."
Charlie looked up from his laptop, where he was busy typing some last minute revisions to today's sermon. "I beg your pardon?"
"He was scheduled to appear on Channel 8, but he didn't show up at the studio and he was replaced by a comedian whose jokes were stale and poorly delivered." William, Charlie's sixteen-year-old volunteer assistant, fidgeted nervously.
Charlie stood up. "Did they say what the problem was?"
"No."
"Does the rest of the congregation know?"
"Not yet."
"Then we'll hold off until we have more information. Our Savior may just have been caught in traffic. Start passing around the collection plates."
"Yes, Reverend."
Charlie sat back down, made a few more minor corrections, and then printed out his sermon. It wasn't very good, but he always ended up departing from the script anyway. It was as if something deep inside of him took over, making the words flow easily, spreading the gospel of The Corpse as if The Corpse himself were controlling Charlie's body.
Who was to say that The Corpse didn't have the power to possess Charlie's body and tongue?
Charlie gathered his pages and walked out into the main hall of the church. It was a small, wooden, abandoned Catholic church that had been falling apart when Charlie found it. But with the help of a group of volunteers, he'd cleaned it up, replaced Jesus with Stanley Dabernath where appropriate, and now held weekly services. The benches seated about sixty people, but he was pleased to see that several others stood against the back wall.
He walked up behind the podium as William began to play haunting chords on his electronic keyboard. Charlie gazed lovingly at his flock, adoring each of them, wishing only that his wife was there to see him in action. Sadly, she'd left him shortly after he formed the church, taking his son with her.
The music stopped. Charlie cleared his throat.
"Friends, sons and daughters, we are here to give worship to our Savior, Stanley Dabernath, The Corpse. For He returned to life to spread His gospel, to share His message of love and understanding! What is that message?"
"Life is precious!" chanted the attendees.
"And life is indeed precious! I did not always know this. No, I thought life was worthless! In fact, I thought my own life held such little value that I was ready to end it!"
Though they'd heard this story before, several people in the front rows gasped.
"That's right, and I was ready to kill our Savior! Because I didn't believe. I didn't have faith. I thought He was a charlatan. A trickster. And I took my gun, and lo, I did walk into His hotel, and lo, I did wait for our Savior to emerge. And lo, He did emerge."
William emphasized this point with a musical sting.
"And I spoke to our Savior, and He did try to show me the way. But I was blinded by madness, and I did not listen to His message. My ears were clouded. I could think only of my cancer, of my own mortality, and in an act of shame I did shoot our Savior in the chest!"
A young woman in the front row crossed herself.
"Dammit, Tammy, I asked you not to do that in here," said Charlie, annoyed.
"Sorry. Just a habit."
"Knock it off. The Corpse did not die upon any cross, and to confuse Him with other saviors is blasphemy!"
Tammy's husband, Fred, raised his hand.
"What?" Charlie asked.
"I was thinkin', our Savior died from chokin' on milk, right?"
"Indeed He did. You can read all about it in the Book of the Corpse!" Charlie picked up one of the pamphlets he'd created and held it up to the crowd.
"Maybe instead of crossin' ourselves, we could do a chokin' thing. Like this." Fred placed both hands on his neck, closed his eyes, and let his tongue loll out of his mouth.
"Are you ridiculing our Savior?" Charlie demanded, furious.
"Naw, I just thought-"
"When the time of Rebirth is upon us and the Resurrections begin, I will make sure that your festering body remains lying bloated on the dirty ground swarmed by flies! Leave this house of worship immediately!"
"Aw, c'mon-"
"Begone, infidel!"
Fred got up and sheepishly headed for the church exit, followed by Tammy. Charlie wanted to throw something at them, but all he had was the brochure and he figured that it would flutter harmlessly to the ground.
"I will not tolerate ridicule of our Savior!" Charlie announced. "I have seen Him take a bullet fired by my own gun and stand back up to live another day. And He forgave my sin! I ask, how many of you seated in this house of worship would forgive one who struck you down with a bullet? If a deer hunter mistook you for his prey and pumped a shotgun shell into your chest, would you forgive him? You would not! But my actions were no mistake, and I did indeed intend harm upon our Savior, and He forgave me, and He helped me, and He saved me! All praise The Corpse!"
"Life is precious!" shouted the congregation.
"Again!"
"Life is precious!"
"Who's our Savior?"
"The Corpse!"
"Sing with me, people!"
Three days later, Stanley still had not returned, and Veronica was getting frantic. This definitely wasn't the kind of PR she wanted, but more importantly, she cared about him. Yeah, he was obnoxious and crude and needed a good slap every six seconds, yet underneath his obnoxious/crude/slap-needing exterior was a…well, definitely not a sweetheart, but sort of a nice guy.
She prayed that nothing had happened to him, but feared the worst. She couldn't imagine that Stanley would just take off without making some sort of effort to let her know that he was okay. And even if he did, Martin was the responsible one of the pair, and he hadn't turned up either. It wasn't like Stanley could just pop on a wig and a pair of sunglasses and fade into anonymity, and yet there had been no credible sightings.
A lot of people thought that Stanley was an abomination, and if he'd been foolish enough to wander the city unprotected…
Of course, it was all over the newspapers, radio, television, and Internet. Lots of opinions were shared; few of them were optimistic about Stanley's safe return. Brant insisted that Stanley had probably just taken some time off to think. Veronica desperately hoped that was the case, even though she'd have to kick his butt six feet into the ground when he returned if it was. But since Brant had the uncharacteristic appearance of wanting nothing more than to vomit, it was hard for Veronica to put credence in his theory.
"Where are you, Stanley?" she asked his photograph.
The photograph did not respond.
She sighed. She'd slept less than four hours in the past three days and she knew she must look like total crap. She needed to go home, pass out, and go back to being stressed out in the morning.
The phone rang, scaring the hell out of her.
"Hello? Oh, hi, honey. No, no update. Yes, I'm coming home soon. Now. That'd be great. Love you. Bye."
She hung up, gathered up her things, and left the office.
Our Savior is missing.
Oh where could have He gone?
Our Savior is missing.
Let Him be back by dawn.
The lyrics for this new hymn sucked, but Charlie had never claimed to be a songwriter. Forming a new religion wasn't as easy as it looked. Anyway, it was a catchy tune, thanks to William.
Our Savior is missing.
Please let Him come back.
Our Savior is missing.
Our lives are now off track.
One of his flock had suggested "Now let's go get a snack" as the final line of the second verse. The heretic had been banished from the church for all eternity.
"Thank you for coming to this special service," Charlie told his congregation, pleased to note that the church was so packed with people that it was a major safety hazard. He'd been featured as part of a news story in relation to Mr. Corpse's disappearance, and though he knew that most of the new folks were probably curiosity seekers rather than believers, he'd show them the path before too long.
"As you know, our Savior has gone missing. He could be hurt, He could be kidnapped, or He could be on a journey of spiritual exploration. Either way, we will find Him. We will search the streets. We will call out His name. We will not rest until our Savior, The Corpse, has returned home safely to teach us again!"
"Amen!" shouted a man near the back. There was a tittering of laughter from the people around him, but Charlie chose to ignore this.
"We will bring Him home! Let's hear it!"
"We will bring Him home!"
"So wander the streets, my friends! We will do what the police can't do! We will find The Corpse!"
"We will bring Him home!"