Zerbrowski grinned at me, and then at the agents. “Just trying to lighten the mood. That’s part of my charm.”

“It is actually,” I said, smiling back at him.

“The sergeant is here because he’s your partner when you work with the Regional Preternatural Investigation Squad. Everybody calls it the Regional Preternatural Investigation Team, but officially it’s not,” Manning said.

“It’s the nickname,” I said. “They call us RIPIT, both for the Rest in Peace, and because most of the crimes are violent, things get ripped apart. Other cops and even the media have used RIPIT for so long that people want the T in the actual name of the squad.”

“Are we letting ourselves get sidetracked on purpose?” Brent asked.

Manning nodded and sipped her coffee. “I think we are, so back on target. One of the reasons that we’re talking to you is that you have more official complaints turned in to the police than any other animator about illegal or morally questionable zombie-raising requests. Once you had a badge of your own and were officially an officer, too, the complaints went down. I’m assuming that people didn’t want to bring their illegal activities to a U.S. Marshal.”

“You’d be surprised how many people think that just because I raise the dead I have to be evil, with a capital E, but yeah, the requests for zombie one-nighters and zombie sex slaves went down once I could do my own arresting.”

“Disturbance of a corpse was a misdemeanor for years,” Manning said.

“That’s one of the reasons that there are tapes of this shit out there, because even if they were caught it was a slap on the wrist. The money they could make from the tape, because it was a tape back when it started, was worth the risk even if they were caught,” I said.

“The penalties are stiffer now, but still not the same as if a real human was involved,” she said.

I shrugged. “I don’t make the laws, just help enforce them.”

“You have done your best to enforce the laws as written, and suggested changes in the laws based on your experience, which is one of the reasons we picked you to bring into our little problem,” Manning said.

“We all know it’s out there, Agent, so what’s the big secret? All the other zombie porn has been either people in good makeup, with no real zombies involved, or one of the zombies that’s been raised for fieldwork in California or in other countries. The zombies in those films are little better than actual corpses.”

“These are different,” Manning said.

“Show us,” I said, and tacked on, “please.” I added the “please” because what I really wanted to say was either You’re being all wimpy for FBI, or something more sarcastic. I’d been a little grumpy lately, even for me, so I was trying to monitor myself and only aim the grumpiness at bad guys.

Brent hit the screen again and the shaky camerawork continued to be shaky so that you could see it was a cemetery at night, but that was about it. It was like the opening to an amateur horror flick where someone had gotten a new camera for Christmas, and then it steadied. I wondered if someone new was holding the camera, or if the holder had just gotten a handle on it. The answer to that question was the difference between one bad guy or two.

There was a very abrupt jump in the film from empty cemetery to a blond-haired woman clawing her way out of the grave. At first I thought it was an actress who had been buried in soft earth up to about her armpits, but then the camera got a close-up of the eyes, and I knew dead when I saw it. The zombie crawled out of the grave the way I’d seen thousands do before. It had some issues with the skirt of the dress it had been buried in, and the clinging grave dirt, which happened sometimes, and then it stumbled free, standing crooked because one high heel had apparently gotten left in the grave.

The body was tall, statuesque, with blond hair to her shoulders. Cleavage showed at the plunging neckline of the white dress, which meant the breasts had probably been implants; real breast tissue wasn’t going to be that perky without a woman fluffing them back in place, and the zombie didn’t know enough to do that. The small spotlight or whatever was attached to the handheld camera showed us the hair was blond, the eyes a pale gray that might have been bluer when she was alive. Blue mingled with any color from gray to green or even hazel tended to shift with a person’s moods more than most eye colors. Alive, she’d probably been beautiful, but there wasn’t enough home for that now. So much of a person’s attractiveness is their spirit, their personality. Zombies didn’t have much of that.

The next scene, if that’s what you wanted to call it, was of the zombie in a standard bedroom except there were no visible windows in the room, and there was just something off about it. I wasn’t sure why I didn’t like the room, but I didn’t. The zombie was wearing the same clothes as in the cemetery; they hadn’t cleaned her up at all, so that she looked horror-movie wrong in the bedroom with its flowered bedspread and tile floor. That was part of the wrong; no one put tile in their bedroom. They did another zooming close-up of the zombie’s eyes, and this time they weren’t empty. This time they were terrified.

“Fuck,” I said softly, but with real feeling.

“You see it, too, then,” Manning said.

“Yeah, I see it.”

Zerbrowski said, “Why do the eyes look scared? Zombies don’t feel fear, right?”

“Normally, no,” I said.

Zerbrowski got up from his chair and moved over closer to where the rest of us were sitting. “Why do the eyes look like that, then?”

“We don’t know,” Manning said. “What you’re about to see is impossible, according to our own experts.”

My skin was already running cold, my stomach tight, because I was very afraid that I knew exactly what the “impossible” was going to be.

A man in one of those all-leather masks where only the eyes and mouth showed walked into sight. The zombie’s eyes followed the movement, but the rest of her stood immobile, probably because she’d been told to stand there, and until told otherwise she had to stand just there, but they hadn’t told her not to move her eyes, so she followed the man’s movements like a human victim who had been tied up. She was tied up, tighter than any rope or chain could ever make her. Fuck, I did not want this little film to go where it was headed. I prayed silently, please, God, don’t let them be able to do this to her. God answers all prayers, but sometimes the answer is no.

The man slipped his hand inside her dress and began to fondle her breast. The camera caught the flinching in her eyes—she so didn’t want him to do it, but nothing except her eyes was able to say no.

“Did they give her a sedative that keeps her immobile?” Zerbrowski asked.

“They didn’t need to,” Manning said. “There’s no doubt that she’s a zombie, so she follows their orders. Notice she never breathes. A live human being needs to breathe, and she never does in this one.”

“Does she breathe in later films?” I asked.

“She talks, and you have to take air in to do that, but other than that, no.”

The man was wearing a pair of silk boxers with hearts on them, like a parody of dressing up for a romantic evening, except for the mask, which didn’t match the almost silly-looking shorts. Yes, I was concentrating on details that might help me find any clue to finding out who or where this was, but I was already trying to concentrate on the details that wouldn’t haunt me as much. The silly heart shorts were almost a kindness, a break in the horror, like whoever was picking out the costumes had goofed.