Free Stalking the Vampire by Mike Resnick

hold her by the wrist.
    â€œThat hurts!” she complained.
    â€œNo it doesn't.”
    â€œWell, it would if I pulled and you twisted.”
    â€œSo don't pull and I won't twist.”
    She smiled. “You think of everything, John Justin.”
    She made a sudden break for the back of the room. “ Ow! ” She glared at him. “I thought you weren't going to twist.”
    â€œI thought you weren't going to pull,” said Mallory.
    â€œWhatever gave you that idea?”
    â€œHey, Mister,” said a goblin, sidling up to them. “You need some help beating up the little lady?”
    â€œNo,” said Mallory.
    â€œYou sure?” said the goblin. “I come equipped with brass knuckles, blackjack, billy club, cattle prod, bullwhip…”
    â€œGo away,” said Mallory.
    â€œWhat kind of talk is that?” said the goblin. “Here I make you an honest business proposition, and you tell me to go away. Where are your manners?”
    â€œI left them in my other suit. Go away.”
    â€œLast chance,” said the goblin.
    â€œNo.”
    â€œOkay, so I admit my equipment is a little out of date. But I have hobnailed boots back at my place. I can run home, get ‘em, and be back in just three days’ time.”
    â€œForget it.”
    â€œThumbscrews!” exclaimed the goblin. “How about thumbscrews?”
    â€œI give up. How about them?”
    â€œThey do wonders on a recalcitrant cat-girl. I consider them a perfect balance to the red-hot pokers. Or (get this!), we tie her to a slab and I read every word of Silas Marner to her without taking so much as a single potty break. Can you think of a more excruciating torture?”
    â€œNot for either of you,” admitted Mallory. “If I do, I'll let you know.”
    â€œYou will?” said the goblin, his face brightening. “Great! Shall we trade business cards?”
    â€œLet's just remember,” said Mallory. He gestured to the room. “You never know who might be watching or listening.”
    â€œOh, right,” said the goblin with a conspiratorial leer. “Catch you later.”
    He headed off at a trot.
    â€œThey let just anyone into a morgue these days,” muttered Mallory.
    â€œYou said it, Mac,” agreed a nearby orderly. “We ought to charge double-time for zombies. They keep coming in, we stick ‘em on slabs and put ‘em in the deep freeze, and an hour later they're pounding on the door to get out.”
    â€œSo use salt,” said a second orderly. “You know the routine.”
    â€œThere's a routine?” asked Mallory, curious.
    â€œSure,” said the second orderly. “Everyone knows that. You get a zombie, you lay him out on a slab, you fill his mouth with salt, then you sew it shut.”
    â€œMust give him one hell of a thirst,” commented Mallory.
    â€œIt glues him to the spot. Only way to make a zombie stay dead.”
    â€œThe mouth , you say?” repeated the first orderly, frowning.
    â€œOf course the mouth.”
    â€œ That's what I've been doing wrong!” exclaimed the first orderly. “I thought it worked like with fawns. You sprinkle some salt on the tail, it nails ‘em to the spot.”
    â€œNah!” said the second orderly. “That's an old wives' tale.”
    â€œThe hell it is!” snapped the first orderly. “I sprinkled some on my old wife. Didn't glue her anywhere. She took after me with an umbrella.” He pointed to a scar on his forehead. “Three stitches to close it up. Old wives' remedy be damned.” Suddenly he frowned again. “You know,” he continued thoughtfully, “my next-door neighbor Amos has a gorgeous twenty-four-year-old wife. I wonder if it works on young wives? Maybe if I'd sprinkle a little salt on her tail when he's off at work…”
    Mallory was about to comment when he had to step out of the way of what seemed a