"You know, it shouldn't be rotting," Savannah said. "Someone went cheap with the embalming, dude."
"Stop calling me that."
"Would you prefer 'decomposing hunk of stinking meat'? Speaking of which, he is damned ripe, Jaime. Can we crack open the door before I hurl?"
I motioned for Savannah to tone it down and made a mental note to give her zombie sensitivity training later. "Again," I said, "how did you—?"
"And again, what the fuck does it matter, you dumb twat."
He did not say "twat." The word he used made Savannah grab him by the suit collar and shake him.
"Show some respect, dickwad. She's trying to help you." A sharper shake. "That right hand looks a little loose. If I smack it off, it ain't growing back."
I motioned for Savannah to release him. Zombies are notoriously unhygienic.
"The reason I'm asking," I said calmly, "isn't to satisfy my curiosity. I don't really care how you got in there. But until I know, I can't get you out." I swept off a dusty berth and perched on the edge. "Why don't I take a guess? You and Chuck—"
"It's Byron," said the ghost.
"You and your cousin. You die in a car accident. You come back as ghosts. You find a necromancer. You demand something and you won't let up, so he teaches you a lesson by shoving you back into your body. Am I close?"
The zombie tried unsuccessfully to cross his arms. "I only wanted him to bring us back to life."
"And he did," Savannah said. "I didn't mean like this"
"That's the only way it can be done," I said. "I'm sure he tried to tell you that. You didn't believe him. So he showed you. Now he'll let you stew for a few days before setting you free." I took my flashlight from the berth. "I'll go talk to him and get this sorted. Where is he?"
"Why?" Chuck said. "Not good enough to do it yourself, Red?"
"No, I'm not 'good enough' to free another necro's zombie. It can't be done."