The figures were clear now. Struldbrug. Max, a long coat thrown around his shoulders, teeth gritted in pain.

And then Armitage, his hat on his head and that damned pipe in his mouth, his hair a fluorescent white, his eyes golden.

She uttered a bleat of astonishment and ran to him. Her hands drifted over the craggy surface of his face. He gave her a wry frown. "A funny thing happened on the way to the morgue."

She threw herself into his arms.

Maggie slipped into the grave next to Donner.

There was a piece of paper clasped in his hand.

She was about to tell him they'd get him out of there, he'd be okay, they'd radio for paramedics, but before the first syllable had passed her lips, he said, "Shh."

She clamped her mouth shut, eyes brimming with tears. She leaned forward and he whispered into her ear.

She nodded. "The scientists are dead. I'll make sure their research disappears, too. I'll make sure it ends."

He smiled that crooked smile at her. The one only he could make work.

He tried to say something else, but death took him first.

She knew what he'd been trying to say, so it was alright. Three little words, words that transformed a cold cosmos into a place of hope.

She climbed out and opened the paper. She read what he'd written. Max and Struldbrug walked over to her.

"My daughter?" said the immortal.

She shook her head. He wavered, but then nodded. It was as though he'd always known, despite his best efforts, the inevitability of this outcome.

"I've flooded the Conch with the news," he said. "The origins of the Shift, and its inevitable end now that Nicole is gone. There will be some revivals for a while, but Shift will fade of its own accord. The reborns alive now will be the last. There will be a generation, not very long from now, that will read about them like creatures from a fairy tale."

Armitage looked like he couldn't quite believe it.

Max eyed the paper. "What's that?" he asked Maggie.

"A newspaper clipping Donner pulled off the Conch." She cleared her throat. "From the Long Island Democrat, September 30, 1890: 'Frule Eklund, a Frenchman, aged 52 years, who has been engaged as grave digger and general assistant in the Maple Grove Cemetery, dug a grave in one of the rear plots last Thursday, unbeknown to his keeper. It was not discovered until Saturday morning, and not until after Eklund had been found sick with fever in his bed in the barn. He died on Saturday night, but just before he breathed his last told of the grave which he opened for the receptacle of his own body, in which he was buried yesterday, as desired.'"

Max chewed it over for few seconds. "What's it mean?"

"Donner's telling us he dug his own grave. He doesn't want us to bring him back," said Struldbrug.

Manhattan's aeries were glowing red with the rising sun. The day would be its own color now, not enhanced by the Blister. It would be cold but clear.

Maggie was staring at Armitage's fedora. She snatched it from his head put it on her own. "Hey," he said, surprised.

She fished the cigarette-the one she'd snatched out of Nicole's hands in the parlor-out of her pocket.

"Damn shame," said Max solemnly, looking at the grave. "I was starting to like the guy."

"Not to worry," Maggie said. They looked at her in a triple take of surprise.

She pulled the brim down aslant over one eye and grinned. They were all gaping now. She lit the cigarette with a burst of plasma from her fingertip. She drew in the smoke and held it in her holographic lungs, relishing its feel. She released it into the rain-fresh air and treated them to a perfectly arched eyebrow.

"After all-"

She raised the syringe that had fallen from Nicole, and twirled it.

"-You can't keep a good man dead."

THE END.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS.

First and foremost, thanks to my friend Scott Fishkind, who had a seriously cool idea that started me down the long road to this book. I am deeply indebted to him.

To my agent, Sandy Lu of L. Perkins Agency, for rescuing me from the slush pile.

To Dina Waters, Eric Kibler, Craig Snay, Mark Frost, Hilda Speicher and Xavier Amador for their active support and insightful comments on this manuscript. To Scott Sutton, who read this book on his tiny Blackberry screen at least ten times (and counting), and always managed to find a new typo.

Thanks also to fellow Youngstown natives Greg Smith and Chris Barzak (a talented novelist-check him out!); and especially TV writer/producer Jack LoGiudice, who took me under his wing in the wilds of LA and helped me become a professional TV writer. To my former TV agents Nancy Jones and Sue Naegle, to Peter Tolan, and to comedy titan Chuck Lorre, for taking a chance on a green NY playwright.

To Tracee Patterson, for her love and support. You too, Nathan and Lindsay!

Special heartfelt thanks to my brother, John, for the countless hours we spent in the basement creating worlds out of teddy bears, cardboard and imagination, setting us both on the path to writing careers. And for his support and advice, in good times and bad. We may not share the same genes, but you could not be more my brother, John.

To the fifth-grade teacher (I wish I could remember her name) who was my first publisher. She took my short story, typed and bound it, and put it in the class library next to all the other books. That was all it took to make me writer. Teachers are more precious than gold. It's a shame we don't treat them that way.

And finally, to the memory of Michael Bennahum, my first manager and agent, who never gave up on me, even when I screwed up. I still miss you, Michael.

About the Author.

Michael Dempsey is a novelist, actor, playwright and theatre director. Michael wrote for network television in the mid-'90s. Necropolis is his first novel and the result of a lifetime's passion for crime and speculative fiction. He lives in northeastern Ohio with his family, where he is working on his next novel.

end.