Zombies Don't Cry Read Online Free

diplomatically. “The afterliving aren’t all alike, any more than the living are. One zombie’s meat is another man’s brain, as they say, inaccurately and in really bad taste.”
    I didn’t laugh at the appalling joke, but that was because it was so appalling, not because I’d lost my sense of humor.
    She hastened to add: “On which subject, you might find that your appetites are a trifle peculiar. I’m assured that the cravings are no odder, and no worse, than the ones living women routinely get when they’re pregnant, but I wouldn’t know. Our dietary requirements are supposedly slightly different, although the physiologists haven’t worked out exactly how yet, let alone why. Don’t worry about it is the only real advice I can give you on that score. You’ll work out your likes and dislikes in time.”
    “Okay,” I said. “What else? Be careful of direct sunlight, of course—I know that one.”
    “Right. Most indoor light won’t hurt your eyes or skin, but you might have to be careful if we get a sunny day tomorrow—daylight can be fierce, even though window-glass. When you get out, you’ll have to be very careful, even if you only have go out in order to get back and forth from the Center. It’s June, unfortunately, and the sun is higher in the sky than at any other time of the year. It might not feel hot, but the danger of burning is very real. You’ll be given factor-32 sun cream when you’re discharged, and a repeat prescription for more. Use it religiously.”
    “Right,” I said, hoping that I’d remember.
    “When the sedation wears off, you’ll almost certainly get restless leg syndrome and various prickling sensations—but all that will fade once you start on physiotherapy at the Center. To be perfectly honest, calling it physiotherapy is distinctly overgenerous, but it is exercise, and it will get you fit. Stan runs the Center, so we have to put up with his little idiosyncrasies. You’ll find out what I mean soon enough. Apart from that…you might as well take things as they come, because there’s really not much I can do to prepare you for it.”
    “I’ll still be able to play football, won’t I? I mean…obviously, I’ll still be able …but I won’t have lost my skills?”
    “Probably not,” she said, with what seemed to be undue wariness. “But that doesn’t mean that you’ll be able to get a game. What kind of football did you play?” Past tense again.
    “Real football—soccer. Does it make a difference?”
    “Not in practical terms—I only asked because we have an ex-rugby player at the Center. Bad tackle caused a cerebral haemorrhage. I thought you might have something useful in common. He’s the next youngest, in terms of death date, after you and me, at least until….” She changed the subject abruptly: “I’ll bring you a laptop once the consultant gives me the thumbs up—then you can do your own research—but you’d be wise not to believe all you read. And if you’re hoping to catch up with your email, forget it. Your account will have been cancelled. You password won’t work.”
    That hadn’t occurred to me. It was the first practical reminder that feeling like myself wasn’t sufficient to being myself. No matter how similar to the old me the new me turned out to be, the old me was still legally dead. All my socioeconomic contracts would have to be remade…if possible.
    I still had the mirror that Pearl had given me earlier. I’d been looking into it at intervals for hours. I took yet another peep. “Can’t complain, I suppose,” I said. “I was no oil painting before. My facial hair will still grow, won’t it?” I wasn’t absolutely certain about that, because my face looked uncannily smooth from where I was propped up on my pillows.
    “Yes,” she confirmed, “your hair will grow, on your chin as well as your head. It will probably be markedly different in texture, though—softer and silkier. I gave you a depilatory this morning,