Victor’s do-it-yourself bride

Victor’s do-it-yourself bride

”Quite the rack on this one, eh Igor?”
“Yes master, as you sayink.”
“Load these up in the wagon, will you? I’ll pick some extra shinbone and we’ll be off.”
“Yes, master.”
The man known as Igor hauled the torso over his shoulder, his back almost doubling over under the weight, and with his limping, halting walk set out of the morgue. Victor remained behind, checking the legs. He liked long legs. You needed a little extra to give a woman that pizzazz, that swagger and sway in the hips. Hips, hm. The torso they’d picked today had a fine rack, there was no doubt whatsoever about that, but the hips?
It was getting late. He took the spare bits he’d come for and stuffed them in his coat pockets to leave his hands free, so he could properly close and lock the door. The mortuary people would find no evidence of a break-in, and neither would the police. Well, maybe some evidence. There was dirt and mud on the floor, long strands of it, from where Igor’s other leg had dragged.
Victor snapped his fingers and before he could take a breath, his maidservant was there, a broom in hand, giving little curtsy, her lifting skirt revealing the bird talons on her feet.
“Clean up, will you Olga dear?” he asked, and with a happy smile and a swaying tail the Kikimora began to dispose of their footprints.
Outside it was starting to drizzle. Igor had thrown a raincoat over himself and was sitting on the driver’s seat of their wagon, looking the very picture of misery. Victor threw the legs into the wagon haphazardly and dug a flask from his breast pocket.
“Warm you up?” he asked the other man, and Igor accepted the flask gratefully. He gulped down a mouthful and placed the flask inside his own coat without second thought. Victor sighed, that was to be expected.
“No sense standing outside in the rain, master,” spoke up Olga from behind him, in her voice the tone of gentle rebuke.
“Right,” Victor agreed and rose up into the wagon. After a quick flutter to her husband, most likely for a peck on his cheek to comfort the man in his rain soaked misery, she followed him into the wagon and they set out.
Victor drummed his fingers on his knee and stared out into the dark night. Olga sat knitting something, humming a lullaby under her breath. It made no difference to her what they were up to or at what hour of day or night, so long as they endeavoured to keep their feet dry and ate three hot meals a day.
“Tea, master?” Olga asked.
“What, here?”
“But of course! Do not underestimate the power of the motherland’s technological advancements! Behold master, the thermos!”
The Kikimora pulled from her apron’s many hidden pockets a shiny metal cylinder, and from another a mug. Victor’s mug, the one that advertised Miskatonic University. He’d never been, but the mug had been for sale in a flea market and his mother had thought it would make him feel better for failing the entry exams to medical school for the 5th time.
Olga poured him steaming hot tea and handed him the mug. Before he could take a single sip, she’d opened the window and wormed her way out of it, crawling up to where her husband sat to hand him a cup as well. And the rat had kept his brandy!
Hot. Nice and hot. Very nice. Olga wormed back inside and shook water from her hair.
“Cats and dogs out there, master.”
“Hm, at least there’s no thunder.”
“No master, not until tomorrow afternoon.”
“How do you know?”
“Oh, master you silly thing! There are many ways of knowing the weather in advance. Why, in the motherland, the elderly would foretell the coming of rain by the aching of their bones and joints, and…”
“You’re not old enough for that, Olga.”
“Oh master is too kind!”
“You’re skirting around the issue.”
“The talking box said so, master.”
“The talking box.”
“Mm. The one that sometimes plays the music and advertises Crazy Vaclav’s carriage sales.”
“The radio, Olga. It’s called a radio.”
The Kikimora’s face took on the threat of an oncoming pout.
“Master is underestimating the power of the technological advancements of the motherland, like as not.”
“Not at all. We maybe just call things by different names here.”
“But of course.”
They rode on in silence, Victor sipping his tea and wondering if he really knew what he was doing. He had the rods and the coils and even the green stuff and the machine that goes ping, whatever the hell that was for, and he had enough books on the subject to make a lesser man faint. He hadn’t exactly READ all those books, of course. Boring stuff, lots of foreign languages, big words. The diagrams and other pictures he’d paid attention to, and he had a pretty good idea how to make everything work.
Of course the books were of secondary importance. It was the pamphlet he’d found in the library that meant everything. Self-published by a Lich some six years prior, it explained the utility of the common Zombie and the relative simplicity of producing and maintaining the same.
“Procuring a fresh body can be tricky, depending on the laws of the land,” she had written, “so for legal purposes it is best to only take parts of people rather than the whole body.”
This Victor had done. Building your own made all the difference in the world. You could really say it was yours. He felt nervous. He didn’t know what to say when they first properly met. Him and the Zombie. Him and…  yes.
They arrived at the house. Igor saw to the wagon and the horses, they were just on loan from the Zhivagos. Victor and Olga carried their hoard into the basement, where the work was to be done. All pieces were laid out on the tables. It was late, yes, but he was eager to get started, and the first thing to be done was pick out the pieces that would actually go into the finished work and which would be kept as spares. He put on protective clothing, it would get messy. The slick, shiny apron and gloves were easy to wash.
Once Igor and Olga had both gotten themselves ready, it was time to begin. He picked, he chose, he measured, he cut, he picked, he discarded, and anything he discarded went into the freezer. After a good long while he was finally left with the parts of a full person. Olga had at some point managed to sneak a pot of coffee to them, and drinking it, they felt rejuvenated enough to begin the truly difficult part.
Bone was attached to bone with a paste. What the past actually was, Victor did not know. It was sold in jars with pictures of Holstaurs on them, so it must’ve been rich in calcium. Maybe that’s why it was so good for mending bone. They completed the skeletal structure with no trouble at all. Muscles had to be attached to muscles, tendons and nerves needed tending to, and tubes with the green stuff had to be poked into veins so the circulatory system could be pumped full of it, whatever it was.
The green stuff glowed in the dark but once it got inside the body, that glow began to die out. Electrodes were attached and a small current was run through them to test whether the nervous system had been properly attuned. Movement was stiff, but satisfactory.
At some point Olga served little white cakes. They took a break and admired the patchwork woman on their table. Long legs and curves were plentiful. The face was still slack and expressionless, but if the mouth gaped open and the ample chest rose and fell, Victor felt he wouldn’t mind staying up at night to stare at her sleep.
The inner workings of the body had been restored and the skin was fully sowed up. They began to apply a different paste over the stitches and surgical scars to hide them. An ointment was massaged all over to soften the skin and improve complexion, though that complexion was to be the healthy bluish green of a Zombie.
“I am thinkink we are done, master,” Igor said.
“I concur,” Olga said.
“Yes”, Victor agreed. He licked his lips. They felt dry.
“Waitink for the thunder storm or do we throwink the switch now?” Igor asked.
“I, uhh, let’s, uhh…”
“Perhaps the master wishes to be alone?” Olga asked.
“That would be fine, yes.”
Olga ushered her husband out of the basement and winked at Victor, whose heart was starting to race. When the door closed up top, he began to fiddle with the equipment. First the bellows, for the breathing, to oxygenate the blood. It if really was blood; she was full of the green stuff. The electrodes started up the heart, to get whatever flowed in her veins to flow. Then the switch. The big one. The resurrection switch, the one that would jumpstart her brain. Ze brain! He hadn’t let Igor or Olga anywhere near the making of it. The one part of the Zombie that was completely artificial, the one thing that no relation to any of the body parts. She wouldn’t haves someone else’s memories. She’d be a tabula rasa.
He hesitated. She was indecent, he realized. We are all born naked, aren’t we? But she was an adult. Physically speaking anyway. The brain was really just a sort of memory bank, and all the memories in it were programmed with that thing he’d bought from a Gremlin for peanuts. A basic vocabulary and things. No personality though. Who she would be would be up to herself.
He flicked the switch. If she asked for clothes, she’d get them, but if she didn’t, that would be fine too.
Hooraah and up she rises. Her hair is a mess, as you’d expect from someone woken up by an electric shock. He cuts the juice from the machines; she can maintain her undead state by herself without them from now on, provided proper nourishment is provided.
The Zombie scratches her head. She yawns. Her tits rise and fall with the yawn. He’d been handling every part of her without shame, but now that she’s moving under her own volition, it’s different. A flush starts to rise up the back of his neck, to his cheeks, to his ears.
The Zombie smacks her lips and wiggles her nose. Her gaze falls on her own toes and she wiggles those too. Then she looks at her hands, front and back, drops them and turns to him. She tilts her head, like a dog.
“Ahem,” Victor clears his throat. “How’d you do?”
What an idiotic thing to say.
“vvm,” replies the Zombie.
“Beg your pardon?”
“Wrm!”
“W-?”
“Warm!”
The Zombie jumps off of the table, wrapping her arms around him. Her long legs make her tall, she stands on as tall as he and plants her cool cheek against his flushed, burning face.
“Warm,” she repeats, and clings tighter.
“Yes,” Victor admits. “Quite so.”
From up on the stairs, Olga and Igor are observing the new couple, having closed the door leading upstairs but not having walked through it. They clink their wineglasses together.