Muscle Memory

The thing that used to be Charles Weisman III took his position by the rain-streaked window, the same as every morning since his death. Through the glass, he could see his withered roses drowning in the constant rain. The garden outside had gone feral months ago, but these windowsill plants — his last bastion of civilization — he could still tend. Routine brings comfort. Even to the dead.

(Order. There must be order.)

Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap.

Raindrops traced paths down the glass. Behind him, a brass lamp still cast its glow against the gray daylight, thanks to one of the few luxuries still powered by the building’s failing solar system. The panels on the roof were his last living purchase. “A gentleman,” he’d told the installer, “must never risk taking his tea in darkness.” Now the lamp burned on as the sole relic from more civilized times to keep the shadows at bay just as he fought against his own decay.

(Counterclockwise, always counterclockwise. Never widdershins. Grandfather would have had opinions about that.)

His skeletal fingers, one still sporting the family signet ring, now green-crusted against graying flesh, wrapped around the plain white cup with mechanical precision. That outstretched pinky, bare bone now, maintained its aristocratic angle. The signet ring had fused to calcified tissue long ago; it wouldn’t come off now, not without taking what remained of the finger with it. Family traditions die harder than flesh.

The red geraniums and green ferns on the windowsill thrived despite their decaying caretaker; perhaps because of him. Each morning, he’d arrange their leaves just so, carefully picking up any that yellowed and fell. Nature adapts, even to apocalyptic fertilizers. The plants were his last students in proper deportment, and they learned their lessons well.

(Everything in its place. Everyone in their place.)

A rank odor drifted through gaps in the wood paneling: decay mixed with rain-soaked earth. He wouldn’t have noticed. His olfactory system had long since surrendered to decomposition, as have most other systems. Still, the muscles remembered.

Shuffle-thump. Shuffle-thump.

Through the glass, the world beyond descended further into chaos. Other zombies moved like gray sketches half-erased, pawing at windows, dragging their forms through overgrown gardens. They’d press their faces against his window occasionally with their eyes milky with confusion at this display of propriety. Charles’s clouded eyes would narrow. A sound like “harrumph” would escape through his half-attached mandible.

(Maintain standards, even in death.)

Barbaric, really. In his day, no one would dream of consuming brains before proper morning tea. He’d seen them out there. Those feeding in packs like animals. Once, last week, he’d caught his reflection doing the same during hours lost to mindless hunger, but he’d straightened his tie afterward and returned to his post. There were still lines he refused to cross, consciousness or no consciousness.

(Milk first? Or last? That question gnawed constantly at his dead neurons like maggots.)

Still, the reading nook remained immaculate: cushions squared, books alphabetized, wooden surfaces dusted, and stood as his own museum of what was lost. Only he deteriorated. Bits of his tattered suit occasionally dropped to the hardwood floor, leaving a breadcrumb trail of his gradual disintegration. Oh, he’d tidy that up later, of course. A gentleman must maintain standards, even when maintaining a pulse becomes optional.

Daily rituals anchor us, the living and the dead. So Charles stood, holding his cup of something definitely-not-tea, watching the rain trace decay-patterns down the windowpane. The lamp hummed on borrowed sunshine. The rain fell. The plants grew. And somewhere lost in the fog, civilization crumbled.

Last week, in fact, a living child had peered through his window and pressed a small hand against the glass. In that moment, something stirred in Charle’s dead brain. Hunger, yes, but also a sort of memory of why manners mattered in the first place. He’d drawn the curtains until the child moved on. Some habits protect more than just propriety.

But in this corner and in this moment, proper tea service continued. Everything else might have gone to hell, but by God, they’d do it with proper etiquette. He lifted the cup to what remained of his mouth, pinky extended, back straight as a butler’s.

(Counterclockwise. Always counterclockwise.)

Outside, the rain fell on both the civilized and savage.