Rose was just sitting down to her twice-weekly meal of donor meat when the intercom came to life. Her entire apartment had been wired so that no matter where she was, she could speak or be spoken to by her personal concierge without having to move. Usually, it was Rose requesting something be sent something up or scheduling the booking of one of her many treatments, but this time, it was his pleasant chocolate voice interrupting her just as she was laying her napkin across her lap with a practiced flourish.

“Pardon the interruption Madame Babineau, but your granddaughter is here for her appointment with you.” Annelise was early, that wretched child. Always rushing around with no concern for anyone else—or even herself. Visitations were usually arranged for after meals precisely for the protection of the guests. “Would you like me to send her up?” 

Rose’s stomach growled, but she of all people knew that she could keep her composure. She was a Babineau—little things like hunger did not prevent her from her social duties. Once, she had even met with a governor while suffering from a terrible stomach flu. He had been none the wiser. “Send her up please, Gregory,” she said, not without a tinge of resentment that Gregory wisely did not react to.

“Yes ma’am,” Gregory said smoothly, and the intercom clicked off. Rose contemplated the lunch laid out before her and mentally steeled herself for an interaction with her least favourite (and only, following that horrible yachting accident off the coast of Brazil) relative.

She was sitting at her small dining room table for one, a lovely handmade lace tablecloth covering the immaculately polished walnut wood. Before her sat her tray, covered with a metal cloche. Two pieces of paper lay to the left and right of the formally-arranged silverware. The left was a note from the chef in elaborate, curling script on beautiful textured cardstock. It detailed how today’s meal had been tenderly massaged with a blend of truffle and rosemary oil before being garnished by thin slices of foie gras edged in edible gold foil. It was garnished with shaved truffles and parmesan. She would discard the truffles and cheese of course, and see if her body would tolerate the goose liver. She had doubts that she would enjoy it. Much to her chagrin, she had become rather picky during the onset of her current condition.

On the right, the second paper was a simple funeral program, badly folded, with a blurry picture of a young, muscular blonde man with golden curls smiling up at her. His name had been Justin. It was not the usual policy of the Berkham Wellness Spa and Village for the Freshly Deceased to include intimate information about her meals, but even before she had changed she had always liked to know where her food had come from. Free-range, antibiotic free, killed in a stress-free environment—she still held to the same principles as before despite her unique dietary restrictions. Furthermore, she found herself to be particularly enjoying any young men that joined her during her meals, and it was usually considered polite to have a basic understanding of someone before you sat down to dine with them.

With a longing glance backwards, she stood and made her way to the living room area of her quarters. They were quite large; she, in fact, inhabited the penthouse of the estate, courtesy of her family’s extensive holdings in both land and factories, as well as her own smart investments. And, she admitted quietly to herself, her cutthroat business practices. One never got anywhere without a little blood spilled, especially if one was a Babineau.

Her rooms were opulently decorated; she had brought her favourite furnishings from her coastal summer house in Greece to match the tastefully painted walls and marble flooring. It made her feel young again, and like she was on a permanent vacation. She paused before an eighteenth century French dresser, pulling one of the drawers open with ease, revealing sets of elbow-length silk gloves in a variety of colours. She paused for a moment to consider, and ultimately decided to go with white. She had always liked to present an immaculate appearance.

As she pulled them on, she took a minute to inspect her bite mark. She had only been at the spa for a few weeks, and they had yet to find a solution she approved of for the ragged, gaping dry wound on her wrist. Any donor skin or tendons would quickly wither and rot, and the few latex prosthetics that she had looked at had not matched her new skin tone quite to her satisfaction. She had Gregory send out some e-mails to her contact list, and she had high hopes that a practical effects artist that was currently working on a large Hollywood horror franchise would solve that particular problem. In the meantime, it was unseemly to look at or have exposed in the company of guests. Once she slid the gloves on, she walked across the hall, heels clicking and echoing up to the grand ceiling to where a large, elaborated carved door stood. She had had it imported from Sri Lanka, and then had it retrofitted so that it looked as elegant and natural as the rest of her home furnishing. It was much better than the rather plain wooden door that had offended her so when she had first arrived.

The entrance to her penthouse was triple-doored, and as she approached it, the first wooden door unlocked courtesy of Gregory, operating it remotely. The second, a set of double-paned glass, swooshed open after she had opened the wooden door. Finally, the steel blast containment doors swung open to reveal her parlour, where she entertained any guests. It was reminiscent of a Victorian gentleman’s library - not her usual rococo style, but the Spa found that the style worked well with containment protocols, as well as hiding the various things staff would need if something were to go wrong. She remembered when the spa had first opened for the ultra-wealthy and elite that could afford the life-evac helicopter within an hour of the initial exposure, the astronomical rent, and regular “treatments,” they had hand-delivered a beautiful information package to each member of the elite within a flight radius. At the time, she had thought it rather morbid and gauche, but was glad that she had signed up for their list upon a second thought.

“Would you like me to go over the containment protocol with you, Madame Babineau?” Gregory asked.

“No, thank you Gregory, I remember it from last time,” Rose replied as she approached one of the plush oversized armchairs. She sat herself down in one, and unlatched the padded compartments on the top of each armrest, drawing out the gold-plated chains that would attach her to the chair. Within the headrest was a similar chain, with an elegantly wrought collar. She attached the collar first before clasping the manacles around her wrists. She experimentally moved her arms and body so that Gregory could see via the cameras that she was strapped in and had only had a limited circle of movement.

“Excellent, Madame Babineau, I shall send her in.”

There was a hiss as another three doors opened on the other side of the parlour, and Rose carefully schooled her face into a neutral expression as her granddaughter sashayed in.

“Hey Grandmère,” Annelise said, tossing her balayage blond hair over a slender and exposed shoulder. She pursed her pink lips into a critical moue as she took in Rose’s captivity. Rose tensed, wondering if Annelise was going to comment on the waxy texture of her skin (she had undergone a preservation treatment yesterday on top of her weekly formaldehyde-based mineral infusion) or her pallid complexion. She knew her cheeks had become somewhat sunken (she had a consultation with a plastic surgeon next week to look into fillers and implants) and that her eyes had blackened (contacts were too damaging, she had learned, as she didn’t produce tears anymore) and burned with the fire of undeath. But Annelise sat down without a word, one long leg crossing the other. She was wearing black Louboutins. Rose privately thought to herself the heels were too high and the skirt too short, but Annelise had never cared to dress herself appropriately in deference to the Babineau name. It wasn’t an argument worth having again. 

“Hello dearest,” Rose said as she reached for the steaming teapot on the side table that was within reach of her chains. She could feel her throat starting to rasp as she spoke, and the tea made from the herbs used in Egypt’s mummification processes would work wonders in both lubricating the muscle and maintaining the long-term integrity of the tissue. She poured it, explaining what was in it and apologized that she could not offer Annelise any. Annelise wrinkled her nose as the smell of the steam reached her. 

“You know, I’ve heard several sheiks and land barons have decided to undergo the process to become living mummies,” Annelise said. “Which is just gross in my opinion.”

“They are lucky to have the opportunity,” Rose responded patiently, “to become a piece of living history, instead of just incinerated.” She thought for a second of the gardener who had originally bitten her - he had been cut down almost immediately by her bodyguard detail, his remains turned to ash before her ride had even arrived. She didn’t quite remember his name—something Bolivian? Guatemalan? He had been very new and from somewhere very poor. That was the only reason the virus occasionally even turned up in such a civilized country; it was practically unheard of in a developed nation. 

“Whatever,” Annelise said, unzipping her Hermes purse and digging through it in search of something. “Did you know they took Baxter when I got here?” Baxter was a miniature cocker spaniel that joined Annelise everywhere. Rose had always privately thought that Baxter was the best part of Annelise’s presence. Baxter had accompanied Annelise on her visit last week and had joined them in the parlour but he had spent the entire time barking and growling at Rose, who had barely resisted the urge to snap her teeth back at him. He had acted entirely unhinged and had looked utterly delicious.

At the memory of the little dog, Rose’s stomach growled again, and she couldn’t help but grit her teeth a little bit. “To what do I owe the honour of a visit so soon after the first?” Annelise was never one for visiting her grandmother; the feelings of disdain were mutual between them. Rose hoped that this wouldn’t take terribly long. She thought of Justin, waiting for her back in her rooms, and hoped he wouldn’t spoil.

“Oh, yeah, right,” Annelise said, drawing out the tube of lip gloss that she had been looking for. “I’m having you incinerated next week.” Rose gaped at her, manners temporarily forgotten. “I didn’t want to tell you,” she continued as she swiped her lips with shine and smacked them together, “but then when I asked everyone their opinion, they said that you should probably know just so you could enjoy your last week or whatever, that you were my grandmother, and then I felt guilty so here I am.”

“I don’t quite know what you’re thinking dear,” Rose said slowly. “But I am still very much conscious.”

“I mean, yeah, but like, you’re not actually alive, right?” Annelise said with a bit of a smirk, pointing her lip gloss at her grandmother in place of a finger.

“We are sitting, having a conversation right now.” If Rose’s heart could beat, it would be thudding in her chest.

Annelise snorted. “Yeah, in a zombie prison.”

“It’s a spa,” Rose said stiffly. She could feel a red-hot heat spreading through her veins, or what remained of them. “My brain is still perfectly intact.” Granted, she had lost a few things before they could stabilize her, but nobody really needed Arabic, or Spanish, or basic multiplication. For the most part, she had remained her.

“Anyways, I’ve been looking into it, and I talked to Mikey about it,” Annelise continued. Rose sighed and closed her eyes. Michael was one of the lawyers on her legal team, the youngest and the brashest. Youth. “And Mikey said that you were technically, in a medical sense, dead, so we could probably start probate.”

“Again, I am right here, and besides, I have a will.”

“I mean, technically, but like, you didn’t have an undead will. We found your living will and your like, dead-dead will, but you never had an undead will made up, and that’s kind of what is supposed to cover situations like this. And like, this place is expensive. I saw the list of treatments you guys have, and if you’re here foreverrrr there isn’t going to be much left for me outside of my trust fund. I mean, you could go on forever with enough money. But because you don’t have an undead will, it means I become your power of attorney or something. I dunno, it’s all kind of messy still when it comes to zombieism. Mikey knows the details. And since you’re undead and like, a total menace, you become my problem and according to the law I can have you incinerated.”

Rose’s mind raced. What the vapid child was saying did, in a twisted way, make a horrible sense. A loophole. If she had been alive, bile would have risen in her throat. Her teeth and jaw began to ache, and her empty stomach twisted.

“Gregory,” Rose said as calmly as she could, “please call the Babineau Trust Legal Team.” It might not be too late to get an undead will in order, though she would have to see if she still counted as firm in mind. She had a half of mind to eat her legal team anyways. They should have known that she needed an undead will in the event she became infected. Now her fortune was about to be stolen out from over her cold, dead body.

“Right away Madame.”

“Anyways, yeah, so I think we can get you incinerated next week, but I also have this show that I want to go to and during the cremation process they want me there, so it might get pushed to the next week,” Annelise continued. “I dunno, we’ll see. Depends on if you have like, any last requests or something.”

“I can release a significant amount of funds to you,” Rose said quickly, mind churning. “I do not think that we need to resort to incineration. I am your grandmother after all. We are Babineaus. Let us be civilized with one another.”

Annelise looked at her in a way that was both condescending and pitying. “Okay, but the funds are like, practically already mine, and again this place is expensiveeee. I could pay for like, a month’s all-inclusive in Bali for your daily fees. And I think a week or two is generous enough to like, make your peace with everything?” Annelise looked at her grandmother. “Or if you want, you can plan the funeral. I checked your dead-dead will and you did have some instructions there. I could probably have someone carry them out.”

Rose took a deep breath, and massaged her temples. She technically didn’t need to breathe, but she hoped it would calm her down. It didn’t. She could feel the blind, animal rage starting to build. It was frightening in its intensity, but she thought she could manage one more appeal.

“Annelise, we are family. We are Babineaus. We have not gotten this far without sticking together.” Her hand hovered over the emergency button. 

Annelise sighed, irritated. “I mean yeah, we were family. But like, you don’t have any blood anymore so blood family doesn’t really count. As far as I and the banks are concerned, I’m the last Babineau.” Annelise pulled a small compact mirror out of her purse and checked her lip gloss one final time before snapping it shut with a click. “I’m sorry Grandmère, but it’s just business.” 

Something dark and primal rose up in Rose as she imagined the lick of the flames against her withered flesh, her granddaughter looking on impassively as she screamed and turned to ash. How dare she? How dare she do this to her, Rose Babineau? She had helped build the empire this ungrateful brat was now trying to claim as her own. Damn it, and damn her. The last thread of her civility snapped and she stood abruptly.

“Madame Babineau, please be seated,” Gregory’s soothing voice came over the system. “Mademoiselle Babineau, please begin to make your way to the doors.” Rose ignored him and attempted to lunge at Annelise, who shrank away in horror.

“See Grandmère? You aren’t even human anymore. I’ll see you at the crematorium,” Annelise said snidely as she grabbed her purse and made her way further out of Rose’s range. “This is a good thing.” She turned her back and made her way to the doors. The metal door began to beep its countdown to open.

Rose could not hold herself back any longer. She felt a darkness rush through her scrawny limbs, imbuing them with strength she had never had either living or dead. With a howling snarl, she lunged, the chains snapping, the manacles still hanging from her wrists like gold bangles. She could not break the collar holding her head, but with a yank and a lunge, the part of the chair holding the chains splintered and broke, the headrest like an anchor that she dragged behind her.

Annelise shrieked as Rose’s dainty gloved hands grabbed her from behind, yanking her by the hair and pulling her back, exposing her long and graceful neck. Annelise heard a klaxon alarm sound and heard Gregory’s frantic yells over the intercom, and knew that the emergency response team was approaching and that she only had a few precious minutes left. With a yowl, she sunk her teeth into her granddaughter’s neck. Blood spurted down Rose's throat and down her front as Annelise’s manicured fingers scrabbled at Rose’s face weakly. Rose ripped a chunk of flesh from Annelise and swallowed it whole, her throat distending like a boa constrictor. The two of them sank to the ground slowly, Rose’s arms like a vice as she cradled her selfish granddaughter and devoured her.

When the emergency team finally surrounded her in their Kevlar uniforms, cattle prods and catch poles ready, their heavy helmets hid what surely must have been horrified faces. Rose was beginning to come out of her red haze of her own accord. Her stomach was bloated and engorged as if she was heavily pregnant, and she was coated head to toe in red bits of flesh and viscera. Annelise herself was unrecognizable, her face gone, her body shredded, her torso cavernous and empty. 

“There will be no need for that, gentlemen,” Rose said languidly. “I am quite nearly myself again.” She stood up, and peeled off her sodden gloves, dropping them with wet splats onto the ground. Her hands gleamed white against the red of the room. She licked her lips and shuddered, eyes rolling back in her head. “I am finished.” She stood unsteadily, off balance, and she shakily made her way back to her rooms, the doors already opened as the Team had been quite prepared to either herd or drag her back to her palatial prison. She felt satiated for the first time since her arrival.

Before the doors closed behind her, she could hear one of the team radioing for the cleaning crew as another vomited into his helmet. It gave her an idea. 

“Gregory.” she said to the empty hall.

There was silence.

“Gregory.”

“Yes, Madame,” he responded finally, his voice quiet.

“I need you to bring up a video call with my legal team.”

There was a pause. “Right now, Madame?” 

Blood dripped from her, red rivulets running down to soak the carpet. It squished beneath her heels.

“Yes, please,” she said pleasantly. “I have a few things I’d like to discuss with them. And do make sure that video on my end is on.”

“Right away Madame.” There was an audible click as the intercom was turned off.

She moved to the chair that sat in front of the screen where she took her phone calls and leaned back with a satisfied smile. She ran her hands over her dress, smoothing out the worst of the wrinkles before she raised her fingers to her mouth, meticulously licking them clean one by one. She was a Babineau, and it was time to remind people what exactly that meant.