The Delilah Complex

Sixty

The dosage of Thorazine had been easy to administer. Pills crushed in water. Water taken greedily. Zombies willing to lie down and sleep. Everything about them subdued. The walking dead. The sleeping dead. The dead. Nothing woke them. That was right. Nothing could wake the dead. But the dead would strike fear in the hearts of those who knew about them. The dead would warn the living to stay away. To be better than these men had been. To behave.

Behave.

Such an easy word. Such a luscious concept.

Easy, the photographer thought, everything had been easy. Blessed. The whole plan had been blessed. The men did not see a stranger waiting for them. You do not fear someone whom you know. They came willingly. Too willingly, in fact. They were actually accommodating.

There was nothing to worry about. The monitor was on. If anything went wrong, the photographer would hear it.

But what could go wrong with the sleeping dead?

Each man had been a study in color, shape and form. To light each of them, to capture the image, to get the angles right, to develop the film carefully had taken talent.

The result had been professional, even though the photographer was only an amateur.

Arrrrg.

A sound?

Arrrg.

A moan?

Arrrrrrrg.

What was wrong?

Work tools, dropped without thought. A splatter of red spilled on the floor. It didn’t matter. Not now.

Arrrg.

Run, faster. It was so many steps from the studio, through the hall, down the steps, through the cool bricklined room, past the thick steel door built to withstand invasions and hold a family of six for days or weeks.

Arrrrrrrrrrg.

Getting closer. Closer. Closer.

The man writhed on the stretcher. Beat against the restraints. His face was pale, sweat dripped from his forehead into his eyes. He was screaming into the gag.

It had been important to memorize the side effects of Thorazine in case of emergency. Few were serious. Only one was deadly: a heart attack. And the photographer knew what a man having a heart attack looked like. He looked like the man strapped to the gurney.

Fingers fumbled to unbuckle the restraints.

It had been hours since their last cocktails. His drugs would just be wearing off. Why would the attack come now? It didn’t matter.

“Can you get up? Let me help you up.”

Arrg.

He was moving, sitting up. In pain and slow, but thank God he was standing.

“I’m going to take you to the hospital. You’ll be fine. Hold on to my arm. Let me help you.”

Prayers? Yes, prayers said silently that the man would be able to traverse the distance from here to the car. He was walking. Doubled over in pain. Slow. But putting one foot in front of the other. Lifting his legs. Step. Up. Step. Up. Prayers said silently that the man would be okay during the ride to the hospital. Because the man couldn’t die. That would be murder.