Dead Boys Read Free

in skin.”
    “Hell, I know what I look like,” muttered Ma Kicks, keeping an eye on Remington while she reached absentmindedly into her womb.
    “So what was the theory?” said Remington.
    “Since the corpses who were only skin and bone seemed to move just as well as the fleshy ones,” said Jacob, testing the flexibility of one reattached wing with his fingers, “I came to believe that bones are the engine driving the motion of the dead.”
    “Bones are the engine,” whispered Remington, as if he might be quizzed on this point.
    “To prove this theory, I experimented on little Japheth, who didn’t object. With the pocket-knife I’d brought with me from the Lands Above—”
    “The what?”
    “That’s what we call the world of the living, where all corpses come from. In any case: with my pocket-knife, I skinned the little fellow, keeping his pelt on a nearby ledge to cure. Gently, I pulled all the muscles from all his bones, then sat for weeks whittling what’s called a body-mold from a piece of driftwood.”
    “That’s gross,” said Remington with approval. “What’s a body-mold?”
    “A carving that replicates the musculature. A fake body, if you will, that fits inside the skin. A tall order, since I wanted to fit his tiny bones inside the wood just as they’d have sat in the muscles. If bones were indeed the engine that drove Japheth’s motion, I’d have to leave them in place if I wanted him to be able to move.
    “While I carved, Japheth’s skeleton waited patiently, holding together all the while, even scuttling around at a surprisingly rapid clip. When I finished, I snapped the body mold into place and sewed up his skin, which by then was as dry as a little rug, enabling him to walk proudly, looking as hearty as a sewer-rat in its prime. After that, I was able to swap him for three years’ credit, with which I purchased my first set of tools. And that,” said Jacob, snipping the thread on the crow’s second wing, “is how I developed the Jacob Campbell Preservative Treatment.”
    “Preservative Treatment,” Remington pronounced, jabbing a finger perilously close to Jacob’s cheek. “Is that what’s wrong with your face?”
    “What’s— wrong ? Whatever do you mean?” Grasping the crow in one hand, Jacob dipped the other into his knapsack, retrieving a cracked compact mirror and rapidly inspecting himself. All was well, he found to his relief: his yellowed teeth still shone through grimacing lips; his milky eyes remained firmly ensconced in their sockets; his kinky hair yet clung to his scalp; and, most importantly, his skin let no bone show through. To achieve this effect at his level of decay, he’d had to patch himself with a dark brown leather that matched his natural hue, then buff the new hide with shoe polish. “My dear boy, this is intentional . More, this is the best that any corpse could hope for!”
    Remington nodded. “It’s freaky.”
    Jacob stowed his mirror, considering that Ma Kicks’ pronounced decomposition was the boy’s only basis for comparison. He tried to calm himself. “I can assure you, Remington, that this is a top-notch preservation. Not quite the Campbell Treatment, I admit, as I’ve made notable progress in the industry since I first worked, with hand-mirror and scalpel, on my own fresh body. But it’s still stylish, effective, and envied by all but the wealthiest of my clients. At any rate!” he chirped, handing over the crow. “Your feathered friend should come around in awhile, and we’ll see if his wings have recovered.”
    “Thanks, Jake!” cried Remington, nuzzling its beak with his button nose, an act of intimacy that caused both Jacob and Ma Kicks to turn away in disgust.
    Jacob stood, slipping the knapsack over his arms. Ma Kicks crooked a finger at him, starting down the path. As they departed, Remington began humming tunelessly to his pet, stroking its wings against its body as if he hoped to cuddle it back to health.
    “I see