Morning Coffee

By Kevin J. Phyland

The dead girl sat down across from me and signalled for a coffee from a passing waitress.

The waitress at least was alive. At least as alive as one could look at three o’clock in the morning, but the look she gave the sparky was sadly resigned.

The dead were notoriously bad tippers. There were a few resentful looks from some of the other customers. Resurrecting was not cheap.

I could tell the sparky was an adult female despite the absence of any body hair (a result of the tank-growth fluid) by the way her shroud rose across her chest.

She was staring through me, doing that eye thing. Still getting to grips with the new body. Playing with depth perception.

She finally focused on me.

“My name’s Sandra,” she said, though her voice rose at the end, as though the statement was still open for debate.

Outside in the brightly-lit car park, I could see three more shrouded figures, one seated on the kerb, and two others standing in the walkway, waiting for retrieval. Must have been a bad accident. It was common practice to let the newly minted reborn wander about getting their land legs and calibrating their senses.

The coffee arrived and the woman stared at it for a moment, as if wondering what it was, then picked it up and blew across the steaming surface.

Her hand wasn’t shaking, which surprised me a bit. The newly dead (or was it undead? The terminology always got me) usually had more trouble assimilating their new body systems.

She took a sip and placed the cup down.

“So what happened?” I prompted.

She, who once was Sandra, made what I assumed was a grimace. “Light aircraft,” she said. “Lost power and ploughed straight into a field.” She shook her head. “Jolter sparked me on impact I suppose. Woke up a while ago in the sleeve centre a block from here.”

I nodded towards the three outside. Her gaze went into the car park but she seemed only mildly interested. Perhaps shock. Perhaps real disinterest.

“Aahh,” she said, as though a puzzle had finally been solved. “They would be my husband, my daughter, and my idiot grandson who thinks he can fly.”

Pulling into the car park was an emergency medical vehicle, sent no doubt from the self-same Revival Centre to retrieve the wandering resurrectees.

“Your ride is here,” I said, and she nodded at the growing scene outside.  

She got up and headed for the door. “Nice to meet you…?” she said over her shoulder as she paused.

“Chris,” I said. She thought that over and pushed the door open and left.

The waitress looked suitably pissed when she brought over the check, but I tipped for both then added a bit extra. She smiled gratefully but hurried on her way. The diner was pretty busy now, with medical people and news people, and she looked like her shift had hours left to go.

It was no big deal leaving a tip. With the exorbitant cost of a jolter and a prepared body sleeve, a little common humanity was the least I could provide. Well worth the price of a cup of coffee and a few bucks tip. My new life was barely a year old myself, courtesy of a bullet through the head in a badly thought-out attempt to resist a mugger. My new body was considerably younger and fitter.  

And sterile, as the three latest recipients of new life were about to recall. Even great wealth could not buy a second chance to infect the planet with more people.

And as I surveyed the diner, recognising how many reborn were in attendance, incognito and feeling vaguely guilty, I knew just how little humanity I had left to offer.

About the Author

Old enough to just remember the first manned Moon landing, Kevin was so impressed he made science his life.

Retired now from teaching he amuses himself by reading, writing, following his love of weather and correcting people on the internet.

He’s been writing since his teens and hopes he will one day get it right.

He can be found on twitter <@KevinPhyland> where he goes by the handle of CaptainZero and his work is around the place if you search using google or use the antisf.com.au archive.