Free Revenant by Allan Leverone Page B

arteries jiggled slightly with each beat.
    The scene was terrifying and awe-inspiring. Max had fully expected their plan to work; he was a believer in much that was non-traditional. In fact, he had barely batted an eye when Raven—one of his followers back in the Arizona co-op that was really a cult—came to him with the story of a mystical Navajo stone with the power to reanimate the dead. But now, seeing the actual heart of a man he had killed and gutted with his own hands beating serenely inside the box, it was almost too much to comprehend.
    Almost.
    Max feasted his eyes, not wanting to move, wanting to drag this moment out forever. This was what it must feel like to be God. He could hear Raven’s ragged breathing as she peeked around him and into the box, getting her own view of what could fairly be described as a miracle.
    The possibilities were endless. Max’s brain swirled with possibilities. He had always craved power, and in fact was a natural leader. The impressive following he had built up over a very short time in Arizona testified to the truth of that statement. Max was handsome and charismatic and inspired loyalty in his followers. He was Jim Jones minus the suicidal tendencies.
    But this discovery, this stone he had liberated from that idiot Indian back on the reservation, was a game-changer. A world-changer, in fact. Max now had in his grasp the key to the acquisition of more power than even he had ever had the temerity to envision. His own heart, the one beating inside his chest, soared as he allowed himself to visualize all the possibilities.
    But first things first. He had a job to do that must be completed to everyone’s satisfaction before beginning to fulfill his true destiny. The job involved a transaction which would earn Max money, lots of it, money which would give him the freedom to pursue his bold vision.
    Behind them, a crinkling noise coming from the heavy plastic tarp on the floor brought Max back to the present, reminding him of the short-term significance of the miracle he had just wrought. He and Raven turned simultaneously and he gasped at the sight greeting him despite being prepared for it. Raven stumbled backward, beginning to scream and then clapping her tiny hands to her mouth. She took shelter behind Max, squeezing into the space between his body and the table holding the two wooden boxes.
    Atop the heavy tarp, Manning’s dead body began to stir. Already the deathly grey pallor of the corpse was receding, replaced by a more life-like hue. His cheeks couldn’t be described as rosy, not exactly, not even by the most wide-eyed optimist, but the skin-tone appeared slightly more alive.
    It was impossible, of course, all of it; Manning had no heart in his chest with which to pump blood through his body. And he was dead. There was no question about that. Max had done the job himself, making absolutely certain the poor sucker’s heart had stopped beating. Then he had frozen the man for a week and cut his heart out.
    Dead.
    This was impossible.
    But right here on the basement floor was proof of the opposite: Earl Manning, his legs and arms moving in more or less a random manner, before seeming to coordinate themselves and forcing his corpse into a sitting position. His back was to Max and Raven, facing the other end of the basement, and he swiveled his head nearly one hundred eighty degrees—another impossibility, but there it was—and gazed at the two of them with clear, questioning bewilderment in his eyes.
    The milky caul was gone. His eyes were blue and piercing. Lifelike. The corpse opened its mouth as if to speak and then closed it again. Behind Max, Raven was breathing heavily. He thought she might pass out. He didn’t care.
    “Hello, Earl,” he said.
    The corpse blinked once and behind him Raven screamed again, this time long and loud. “Who are you?” the thing that used to be Earl Manning asked. Its voice was low and rough and Max didn’t remember it sounding like that