Each of the seated figures was as different to the others as they could be. The first figure was huge, and not due to fat but pure muscle. Every inch of him was a bulging mass of rippling muscle with think veins like worms crawling across his exposed skin. His neck was easily the size of a normal man’s waist. He wore tight red vest top and denim shorts, with a red baseball cap sat backwards on his head. A large cigar, twice the size of a mans finger, was gripped between his teeth.

Next to him sat a very thin man, although he wasn’t the thinnest of the group. His cheeks were sunken and were he to lift up the white t-shirt he wore, his ribs would clearly be visible. His bony thin arms rested on the arms of the chair and somehow were able to support the glass of brandy he held in his claw like hand.

Thirdly there was an average sized man. Looking at his face it would at first appear to be covered in mud, until you realised it was not mud but scabs. In fact if it weren’t for the green and yellow shirt he wore it would be easy to see the scabs covered his whole body. Every now and then he would absentmindedly pick at one of them.

Finally sat the fourth figure. He wore black jeans and a black hoody and was considerably thinner than the second figure. In fact he was skeletal thin. In fact he was a skeleton.

He held a remote control and changed the channel on the TV with each press of his bony thumb. The picture changed from a ruined city, to a view of fields, to the endless desert, the only common thing in each image was the seemingly endless tide of zombies. The figure continued to flick the channels, spending no more than a few seconds on each.

“Hold on Death, go back a few.” said War in a voice like thunder. He leaned forward in his chair causing it to groan under his massive bulk.

Death sighed, the sound like ivory dice shaken in a bone china cup, and pressed the channel back button a few times.

“There.” announced War, a grin on his face. “Survivors. I told you Famine. You owe me one week of cleaning out the stables.”

“Well they must be the last few,” grumbled Famine, literally. His voice sounded like a stomach after not receiving food for days.

“Doesn’t matter.” boomed War. “The bet was that there were still people alive, not how many.”

“Don’t gloat, War.” hissed Pestilence, scratching his chin until yellow puss seeped out and flowed down his neck.

“Let him have his moment,” said Death. His voice was like the cold wind blowing through a graveyard at the dead of night. “He will not have any more.”

“What do you mean by that?” asked War.

“Tell me what you see.”

“People waging war against the zombie hoard.” said War happily without actually looking at the screen.

Death sighed again. He did that a lot.

“Take another look and tell me exactly what you see.

War rolled his eyes and turned to study the TV screen. The image showed six men in ragged clothing firing a various range of weapons at the oncoming hoard of the undead. For every one they put down three more took its place. They sheltered behind a hastily constructed defensive wall, made of furniture and bits of things you would find in the average garden shed. Behind them was a boarded up house. The image changed to show the inside of the house, where there were two women, three small children and a baby all huddled together in the back room.

“I see twelve people who will very soon be eaten by a group of zombies,” said War after a few moments

“That is your problem War, you just are not that clever,” said Death. “You never see the big picture.”

“Well please enlighten me then you bag of bones.”

“There are only six, sorry make that five, people fighting the undead. When they die there will be no one left to fight the zombie hoard. With no one left to fight, there will be no war.”

“What are you suggesting? That as soon as the five,”

“Four.” interrupted Death.

“As soon as the four men get eaten I will just cease to be?” finished War

“That is about the crux of it, yes.”

“But what about the woman and children?” asked War, the panic now clearly noticeable in his voice.

“They are too scared to fight. And even if they did, they would not see it as a war, merely an attempt at survival. Two left, by the way.”

“But if you knew this why didn’t you say anything?” asked War, now sounding more hurt than panicked.

“Not my fault if you did not figure it out.” replied Death with a shrug. “I am not your mother.”

“But I don’t want to die. I have so much….”

With a small pop there were only three figures left in the room.

“Good riddance.” growled Famine, although he may have just spoken it and is was his stomach that growled. It was hard to tell with Famine. He moved his foot over the cigar that had been in War’s mouth and ground it under his heel.

“I agree.” agreed Death, obviously.

“He always was my least favourite,” said Famine. “Claimed I needed to put some meat on my frame. How would that look I ask you? Famine turns up and is fat. Do you know he once force-fed me 20 cream cakes? Took me years to get rid of the excess fat!”

“It wasn’t just you he picked on.” said Pestilence. “I once woke up to find he had covered me in antibacterial cream in an attempt to clear up my skin. A practical joke he called it. Very funny, I don’t think. And I had to visit the parents the next day. You try explaining to my dad why I had no scabs on my left cheek. He all but disowned me.”

“Stop moaning Pestilence.” said Death. “You will not be around long enough to enjoy the moment.”

“What?”

“Well with no humans left there will be no illness. Only a matter of time before you go the same way as War.”

“Don’t talk daft Death. The world is full of the undead. Those things are technically walking bags of disease. Plus when they bite you, it spreads infection. I’m here for good.”

Once again death sighed.

“They only spread disease to the living. They themselves cannot catch a cold, or pick up an infection. To be honest I think you are only still here on a possibility.”

“A possibility?”

“Well since the humans left alive will no doubt be fully eaten there is no chance of the disease spreading. So my guess is the baby may catch a cold before it is eaten as it has the weakest immune system, so you are hanging around just in case, but I can not see you being here for long.”

“But, but, but.” stammered Pestilence, trying to think of some argument to the inevitable.

Death turned back to watch the TV. The zombies had stopped feasting on the remains of the 6 men and had started to attack the house. Slowly cracks started to appear in the wooden boards that covered the windows and doors.

“Not long now.” mentioned Death.

“This is ridiculous,” said Pestilence. “We are the four, well three, horsemen of the apocalypse. We can’t just stop being. We will…”

There was another pop and only two beings were left.

“I did not see that coming,” said death. “Killing your own baby to save it from being eaten. What a hard choice to make.”

The two remaining entities sat and watched the TV in silence. Slowly holes began to appear in the boards and the zombies began to stick arms through, waving them around as is the zombie way. One of the children inside waved back, before being slapped by its parent.

Death slowly turned his head to look over at Famine.

“What are you grinning at?” asked Famine.

“I am always grinning.” replied Death, sounding a little hurt.

“You know what I mean. I can always tell when something is amusing you. You get a little twinkle in your eye socket.”

“I find it funny that you do not seem to have realised that soon you will go the way of the other two and I shall be left alone, in peace.”

“I think you have your facts wrong skull face. If anyone is to be left, it will be me.”

Death sighed for a fourth time, making a mental note to try and kick the habit.

“Do you not see Famine, once the five remaining humans are killed, the undead will be all that is left and death, that is I, shall rule the earth.”

“And that’s exactly the reason why I shall be the only one left Death old boy.”

A look of confusion passed over Deaths face. At least it would do if a skull can ever look confused.

“You said it yourself,” explained Famine. “When the humans are killed the undead will be all that is left. They are already dead therefore they have no way to die again. With no one left to die there is no need for death.”

“I AM DEATH.” roared Death, standing suddenly, an outstretched skeletal finger pointed at Famine. “DESTROYER OF WORLDS. I SHALL BE THERE AT THE END.”

“Afraid not bony. I give you no more than two minutes.” Famine pointed to the TV which now showed the zombie hoard had finally gained access to the house are were slowly advancing on the last humans alive.

“They may not have wars or catch diseases and they can’t die again but they are always hungry.” said Famine, a huge smile on his thin lips.

“This is an outrage!” ranted Death. “I shall not let this stand. There will be a reckoning. I shall…”

Pop

After a few seconds Famine got up and walked over to the only door in the room. He opened it and stepped through arriving on the planet he had, until recently, been watching on TV. He stood at the side of a river and looked around.

Zombies wandered aimlessly around him. A few glanced his way, but quickly looked away again. Maybe they didn’t register his presence or maybe they simply didn’t consider his thin frame to be a worthy meal.

Famine walked through the countryside following the course of the river upstream. He thought back over the last few million years and how each of his brothers had attempted to do what he had done and be the last being standing.

Death’s big act had been to throw a huge rock at the earth; all that had succeeded in doing was killing off a few big lizards. After that he had given up and sat back happy let the others do his job for him, arguing no matter what they did he would always be the last one.

War had come close a few times. The second of his carefully planned wars could have been the end, but it had finished before the big weapons had come in play properly. He had tried again a few years later but it never amounted to more than a few empty threats and paranoia.

Pestilence also had a few good shots at it. He had given up for a few years after death stole the limelight on the plague, by renaming it the Black Death. Eventually Pestilence had tried to get a few pandemics going, but unfortunately for him the humans were very good at curing diseases in the modern day.

After a while of walking Famine finally reached the source of the river. A tiny stream that trickled out of the earth, high up in the hills.

The warm sunlight reflected off something in the grass catching Famine’s eye. He bent down and picked up the glass test tube. There was a small message written down the side.

WARNING. ZOMBIE VIRUS. DO NOT OPEN AT ANY COST. VERY CONTAGIOUS!

“So that’s where I left it.” Famine said to the world in general. “Silly me.”

He turned around and walked though the door that had appeared behind him, appearing back in the large room with the TV.

He knew that eventually the zombies would just fall apart as nothing last forever, but hopefully by then something should have evolved and become aware of it’s own existence. Then it wouldn’t be long before death made his comeback. Ohh he wasn’t looking forward to that. When Death was in a mood you did not want to be on his bad side.

Then after Death, Pestilence would come oozing back as someone caught a cold, and finally War would storm in, as one group blamed something on another group.

But until then Famine was alone and able to unwind in peace.

He relaxed in his chair, picked up the remote and flicked through the channels until he came to his favourite station.

“Next up on the diet channel, a none stop run of how to loose those unwanted pounds.” Blurted out the voice on the television.

“You know,” Famine said to himself, “I have never felt this full in all my life.”

It was Jenny Cupcake who found the body. An avalanche had exposed a transparent wall of ice; and behind the ice, an elf hung, suspended in ice, arms akimbo and skin blue. His eyes stared forward blankly, and his mouth had dropped open. He looked flash frozen.

Jenny Cupcake tapped the ice with the butt of her Uzi. “You okay in there?”

The elf made no reply; didn’t blink, didn’t move, made no sign that he had even registered Jenny’s presence.

She peered at him. His uniform was outdated but identified as a worker from Sector 7-G. A ragged stump marked the spot where his left thumb had been savagely removed from his hand, and angry looking red gashes criss-crossed his palm. He had probably been a wood worker.

She shouldered her weapon and tapped the ice in front of the elf’s face. “Hey,” she said again, softer than before. Her voice was higher pitched than anyone else’s in Perimeter Patrol, and she always worried she might cause an avalanche and bury the entire workshop with a careless word or shout.

The elf’s left eyelid twitched.

Jenny jumped back, and cried out. Her heart pounded in her throat. Goodness gracious, she thought. He’s still alive! She smiled, and then started to giggle. She always did when she was nervous.

A hideous squawk erupted from beside her, and she jumped again, looking around wildly. When it sounded again, she chided herself. It was just her walkie-talkie. Trying to bring her giggling under control, she flipped it open. “Prancer Five here.”

A deep voice boomed out of the speaker. It was the Big Guy himself. “Report!”

Jenny cleared her throat. “I think we’ve got a situation here Santa.”

“What kind of situation?” The Big Guy’s voice was terse. He was in a bad mood. It was just a week before Christmas, and production was backlogged, particularly in the Electronics division. The programmers were having a hard time integrating USB expansion ports into the new robot dolls and making them compatible with the newest circuits from YoYoDyne. They kept protesting that it was a hardware issue, not a software issue, but Santa was unsympathetic. Quotas had to be met.

“I think you should come out here and take a look,” Jenny said.

The walkie-talkie vibrated in her hand even though she couldn’t hear anything. Santa was grumbling. “Where are you?”

“Quadrant 2L. South side of Peppermint Mountain.” She relayed her exact coordinates.

“I’ll be there in a few minutes. Santa out.”

Jenny Cupcake released the “talk” button and reattached the walkie talkie to her belt clip. “Well, old buddy,” she told the elf, “we’re going to get you out of there and back to work.” She started to giggle again, completely unaware that within just a few hours she would be giggling even more wildly, and for the very last time in her life.

#

Doctor Evergreen stared at the frozen elf. It did indeed wear an outdated Sector 7G uniform. Seriously outdated. Like, by two hundred years. Doctor Evergreen hadn’t seen that particular pattern and fabric in Santa’s workshop since the 1700’s. “You found him buried on Peppermint Mountain?”

Jenny Cupcake nodded, the bell on her cap jingling merrily. “I found him in Quadrant 2L. I think an avalanche uncovered him.”

“Hm.” Doctor Evergreen peered at the body.

“The point is,” Santa thundered from behind him, “is this elf still alive? Can we put him back to work?”

Doctor Evergreen sighed. It was always work for the Big Guy. “He could be. If he is I’ll have to be very careful in reviving him.”

“Oh, he’s alive!” Jenny blurted out. “I saw his eye move!”

Santa laughed, a cheery “HO! HO! HO!” that reverberated throughout Sick Bay.

Doctor Evergreen made his way over to his instruments. “Then I can definitely revive him. He should be back online in just a few hours.”

“He’ll need reeducation,” Santa said. “We phased out Sector 7-G in 1947. Nobody wants wooden toys anymore.” He yawned and stretched. “Give me a holler when you’re done, will you? I’m gonna take a nap.” He lumbered out of the room, muttering to himself.

“Can I stay and watch?” Jenny Cupcake asked. “I’ve never seen one of your experiments.”

Doctor Evergreen looked at the young elf, and decided she was probably harmless. He shrugged. “Sure. But don’t touch anything.”

“Oh, I won’t!” Jenny bounced to a workbench and jumped up, laying her Uzi down next to her. “I’ll be perfectly good!”

Doctor Evergreen grunted. As long as Jenny stayed out of his way, she would be fine. Of course, the whole thing couldn’t have come at a worse time. He was pretty sure he was on the verge of a major breakthrough in advanced toymaking. If this newest project worked out, then the elves would be able to control toy assembly nanomachines through a special neuro-computer interface. It was exciting research, but none of his test subjects had survived for long after he had put the implants in their brains.

The frozen elf gave no hint that he was alive. Doctor Evergreen wondered how to proceed. He hadn’t been in this lab for long, only eighty-three years. His predecessor, who had vanished under very strange circumstances, had been a sloppy note taker and an even worse house keeper. Doctor Evergreen was still trying to work out the man’s organization system, and it seemed he was always losing tools. He kept stumbling over items labeled “Project Epiphany”, but there was no hint as to what that might have been.

At last he decided the simplest route was the best, and he picked up an ice pick from his medical bag. He wiped the tip clean of his last test subject’s brains, and began picking at the ice.

After he had been at it for an hour, he heard snoring behind him. He turned. Jenny Cupcake was fast asleep on the workbench, cuddled up with her submachine gun the way children worldwide cuddled with their teddy bears. The sight was adorable, and Doctor Evergreen smiled. Someday she’d make someone an excellent specimen.

A sharp crack from the block of ice drew Doctor Evergreen’s attention back to the frozen elf. He blinked, then rubbed his eyes, not sure he was really seeing what he thought he saw. Just a moment before the elf had been lifeless and still; now its eyes rolled wildly in its head and the muscles in its jaws worked. Its mouth was still blocked by ice, so it couldn’t talk. It looked like it was suffocating.

“Oh my goodness!” Doctor Evergreen exclaimed. He had expected that hours of resuscitation efforts lay before him. “Keep calm,” he told the elf. “I’ll have you out of there in a jiffy!”

He took up his ice pick again and tapped away at the ice that trapped the elf, working first on its face so that it could talk and breath.

Finally a chunk of ice fell away from the lower half of the elf’s face. Working carefully with a pair of tongs, Doctor Evergreen removed a chunk of ice from its mouth.

“There you go,” he said. “What do you say to that?”

The elf said nothing coherent, but its mouth dropped open and air rushed out. Doctor Evergreen staggered and nearly fell over when the stench of its exhalation assaulted his nose. Then the elf let out a low, drawn-out groan.

“Huh,” Doctor Evergreen said. He leaned closer to the elf, and its jaws snapped shut with a loud clack. Doctor Evergreen jumped back. The poor thing was disoriented. A couple of centuries trapped in ice would do that to anyone, even one of Santa’s elves, who were bred to handle extreme conditions.

Doctor Evergreen chipped away more ice. It came off in big chunks now. When it was all gone and the elf was completely free, Doctor Evergreen took a step back and looked over his handiwork with pride. Sure, the elf was confused and probably terrified, but it would get better with time; and then it would be re-educated, and back online in no time, probably in a sector that needed less specialized skills.

Then the elf’s mouth dropped open again, and this time a single sound came out. He said a single long, drawn out word as he lifted his left hand and reached out toward Doctor Evergreen. “Braaaaaaaaiinnsss!”

“Holy crumbcakes!” It was the foulest curse Doctor Evergreen knew, and he stepped back as he said it. The elf reached for him.

“Calm down!” Doctor Evergreen shouted. “You’ll be all better soon!”

“Braaaaaaaaaiiinnnsssss!” the elf repeated. It took a shaky step forward.

Doctor Evergreen stumbled backwards and reached out blindly behind him, hoping to grab something to use as a weapon. He bumped into a chair, nearly knocking himself over. He grabbed the chair and sent it hurtling on its casters toward the elf.

The chair bumped into the elf and it fell over on his back. Doctor Evergreen let himself relax for just a moment. How was he going to treat this? This was going to take more than a couple of days in a re-education camp.

“Hey!” a new voice squeaked. Doctor Evergreen turned. Jenny Cupcake had woken up; she sat on the workbench, looking confused.

“Jenny, get out of here,” Doctor Evergreen shouted at her.

The shambling elf thing on the floor raised its eyes to Jenny. “Giiiiiirrrrrrllllll braiiiiiinnnsss!” he hissed. And with a speed that Doctor Evergreen would not have thought possible, the elf was up on its feet and shambling toward Jenny.

“Goodness gracious!” Jenny cried. She reached down, grabbed her Uzi and disengaged the safety.

“Don’t shoot!” Doctor Evergreen yelled. Jenny was good with her guns, he knew, but even a carefully applied spray of bullets would destroy his sensitive equipment and he still didn’t know what half of it did.

“Eat hot lead, you motherfucking zombie!” Jenny shouted. She squeezed the trigger, and her submachine gun spat out bullets and smoke. Shells flew everywhere. Doctor Evergreen was well out of Jenny’s line of fire, but he dropped to the ground anyway, despairing as he watched glassware shatter and computers explode.

Several bullets hit the shambling elf. The elf staggered backwards, but did not fall over.

“Holy crumbcakes,” Doctor Evergreen cursed again.

Jenny’s gun suddenly ceased firing. Doctor Evergreen risked a look up and saw her fussing with the weapon and cursing. And, strangely, she was giggling, a high pitched little laugh that was somehow even more disturbing than the zombie elf’s moans.

“Jenny, look out!” he shouted at her.

Jenny looked up just in time to see the elf — bullet ridden, slimy and still wet from the ice that had so recently entombed it — stumbling toward her. She screamed as it grabbed her and spun her around so that she faced away from him. It bit into the back of her skull and then pulled its mouth, flesh and hair dripping from its mouth. It spat out bone fragments, then took another bite.

Doctor Evergreen watched for a moment, then clambered to his feet. It was too late for Jenny. The elf — no, the creature — chewed, and Jenny screamed that she was blind. Well, no wonder, Doctor Evergreen thought wildly. The thing had eaten her occipital lobe.

But there was no time for analysis. Doctor Evergreen had to take advantage of the creature’s distraction. He ran out of Sick Bay and slammed the door behind him.

This, he thought, was not going to end well. Not end well at all.

He took a moment to catch his breath, then reached down for his cell phone. Damn. He’d left it in the lab.

“Code red!” he shouted. He began to run toward the Big Guy’s office. “Code red! Santa! Help!”

#

Five minutes later, Doctor Evergreen stood in front of Santa’s big desk, wringing his hands as the Big Guy watched the tape of the events in the lab. Santa was a big guy. There was no denying that. Even the huge easy chair that Mrs. Claus had given him last year was too small for him now.

On the screen, in grainy black and white, the elf bit through the back of Jenny Cupcake’s skull and started eating her brain. The tiny speakers conveyed Jenny’s screams — and her odd giggles — in a voice as tinny and small as the electronic chip in a musical Christmas card.

When the tape was done, Santa punched the power button on the monitor. “Huh. Didn’t see that coming.”

“This is horrible.” Doctor Evergreen kept rubbing her hands on he moaned. “All my equipment smashed, all my research gone. Even my predecessor’s research. What am I going to do?”

“Doctor Evergreen, there’s a brain-eating monster in there, and all you can worry about is your research notes?”

Doctor Evergreen looked up at Santa, who looked genuinely annoyed. “Sorry, sir,” he said.

Santa huffed and then looked back at the monitor, though he left it switched off. He leaned back in his chair and templed his fingers before him. “We have to figure out how to kill these things.”

“There’s just the one.”

Santa looked surprised, but recovered his composure quickly. “Of course. Just one. I meant, let’s hope there aren’t any more of those things out there. So we need to figure out how to kill this thing. In case any more show up.”

Doctor Evergreen sat down in sat down in the chair and thought hard. None of his research had prepared him for this. But he remembered some scary movies he had watched late one night back in the 60’s; he’d been so stoned that night it was amazing he remembered anything about it at all, but one piece of information floated up. “I think,” he said slowly, “that if we cut off its head or destroy its brain or something, that might kill it.”

“You think so?” Santa asked.

“Yes. Definitely.”

“Excellent.” He leaned forward and pressed the TALK button on his intercom. “Miss Gingerbread, would you contact Mr. Peartree and have him report to me immediately?”

A tiny voice squeaked through the intercom. “Yes, Mr. Claus.”

Santa turned to Doctor Evergreen. “Peartree’s my finest sniper. He should be able to shoot the thing right in the head.”

The door opened just a minutes later, and an elf stepped through. At just under three feet tall, he was taller than most elves. The clothes he wore were so black they seemed to eat the light. His black curly-toed looked like puddles of oil. The bells on his toes and his cap were muffled, and barely jingled at all when he walked. Large mirror-lensed sunglasses hid his eyes, and a deadly looking rifle hung from a strap over his shoulder. A cigarette dangled from the corner of his mouth, and the smoke encircled his head like a wreath.

Santa stood up slowly from his seat. “Mr. Peartree. “Thank you for coming.”

“Yeah.” The deadly-looking elf’s speech was as terse as his outfit was dark. He dropped his cigarette to the floor and crushed it out under his heel. “What’s the job?”

Santa swung around his monitor around to face Mr. Peartree, and typed a few keystrokes on his computer. The scene of the elf eating Jenny’s brain replayed itself. “We need a good clean shot to the head. Just one should do it. Do you know that room?”

Mr. Peartree lit another cigarette and took a long drag. “Sick Bay. No problem. I know all three entrances to that room.”

“There are only two!” Doctor Evergreen said.

Mr. Peartree smirked. “That you know of.”

“That’s enough,” Santa said. “Mr. Peartree, this needs to be done as soon as possible. You’ll be paid the standard rate. Just be careful. That thing is deadly.”

“No problem.” Mr. Peartree spun on his heel and left the room as liquidly as he had arrived. The door closed behind him.

Santa sat back down on his chair; it creaked ominously. “Let’s watch,” he said. He twisted a dial on the side of the monitor and a new picture appeared: a live streaming image of the medical lab.

The elf’s face, still dripping red and gray, dominated the screen. Its mouth opened and closed, opened and closed, as it looked back and forth.

Doctor Evergreen had been staring at the elf so intensely that when a black shadow passed before it, momentarily blocking the view, he jumped. “What was that?”

“I don’t know.” Santa fiddled with the controls, and the view pulled back, showing the elf’s entire body, and the now-empty workbench that it stood before.

“Doctor Evergreen?”

“Yes, Santa?”

“Where’s Jenny?”

Doctor Evergreen shuddered. Jenny’s body should have still been on the workbench where the elf had dropped it. But it wasn’t. “I don’t –”

Then the shape passed before the camera again. This time, Doctor Evergreen saw it for what it was. “It can’t be,” he breathed.

Santa leaned forward, squinting. Then he reached into his breast pocket and removed a pair of reading glasses and slipped them on to his face. “Son of a bitch,” he muttered.

“It’s Jenny!” Doctor Evergreen exclaimed. “But that’s impossible! I watched the thing eat her brain!” He swallowed past a huge lump that had suddenly appeared in his throat.

“Do you know what this means?”

Santa sighed. “Taking out their brain’s not gonna kill them.”

Doctor’s Evergreen’s stomach lurched as he watched Jenny’s reanimated corpse shamble around in the lab, moaning for brains and giggling. “Holy crumbcakes. We’ve got to stop Mr. Peartree!”

Santa picked up his walkie talkie and adjusted the frequency. “Mr. Peartree, come in! Mr. Peartree, do you read me?”

The walkie talkie clicked and then fell silent. Santa cursed, then punched the “talk” button on the intercom. “Miss Gingerbread, assemble an armed response team at the medical lab on the double!”

“But Santa, I can’t.”

“What? Why not?”

“Because last week you reassigned all security personnel to Toy Production. Don’t you remember?”

Santa swore again, then picked up his walkie talkie once more. “Mr. Peartree, if you can hear me, I want you to abort the mission immediately. Do you read me? Abort!”

He put the walkie talkie down, then stood up again, pulled open one of the drawers of his desk and pulled out a pistol that Doctor Evergreen thought looked as big as he was.

Santa flipped open the chamber and spun it, checking the cartridges. Then he shot Doctor Evergreen an urgent look. “Let’s roll.”

#

Mr. Peartree slid through the corridors of Santa’s complex, unnoticed by the other elves that toiled there. Half of that was stealth; the other half was the overworked and burned out state that every elf went through this time of year. His walkie talkie squawked at him one, and he stabbed the “Off” button reflexively. He had a job to do.

The door to the medical lab was closed but unlocked. He chuckled. The creature, whatever it was, obviously hadn’t worked out the basic principle of the doorknob.

He raised his gun, keeping it up with his left hand, and placed his right hand on the knob, flattening himself against the door itself. He counted to three, slowly, under his breath, then twisted the knob and thrust the door open. He took a step inside and brought the gun’s sights level with his eye.

He had been expecting the monster to be standing right in the middle of the room, but it wasn’t there. He grinned. “The chase is on,” he muttered. It was the most dangerous game. Elf.

He scanned the room slowly, then he heard a low moan to his left, like someone trying to talk through mud. “Brrraaaaaaaiiiinnnnssss!”

Mr. Peartree spun and fired his rifle. It was a perfect shot; a tiny black hole appeared in the elf’s forehead. But instead of falling over and dying, it simply kept shambling forward.

“Oh, so you’re gonna play tough, huh?” Mr. Peartree grinned; he liked a challenge. He took aim again, this time right at the undead elf’s eye.

But before he could fire, another voice welled up behind him, a high pitched squeaky voice.

“Brrraaaaaaiiiinnnssss!”

Mr. Peartree turned. Jenny Cupcake stood right before him. He recognized her; they’d actually been married for some time, but she’d walked out on him, claiming that she could no longer handle what he did for a living. Now, it appeared, she was an undead brain-eating monster from hell.

Some people, it seemed, never change.

Mr. Peartree aimed his rifle again, and a thrill went through him. “See you in hell, bitch!” he cried at her.

He never fired. The back of his head exploded into a raging storm of sharp pain. Everything went red, then black. His head felt oddly cool, like there was a draft in the room.

“Ah, shit,” he muttered. And that was it for Mr. Peartree.

#

“What do we do? What do we do? What do we do?” Doctor Evergreen was panicking. He and Santa had not made it to the lab in time; in fact, Jenny and the first elf had just finished eating Mr. Peartree’s brains when they’d shown up. If Santa hadn’t thought quickly and pulled the lab door shut with a slam, they would have been eaten for sure.

“Where are the other doors?” Santa demanded, interrupted Doctor Evergreen’s frantic mantra.

“There’s only one other door,” Doctor Evergreen replied. “It’s in the back. It’s locked and there are dozens of heavy crates in front of it.”

“What about the third door?”

“There is no third door. Mr. Peartree was just messing with me, I’m sure of it.”

“Are you sure about that?”

Doctor Evergreen nodded. “Of course I’m sure.” He realized he was shouting, and made a deliberate effort to lower his voice. “If there was a third door, I’d know about it by now. I’ve been all over that lab.”

Santa regarded Doctor Evergreen for a long moment. Then he said, “All right. Let’s get back to my office. I can coordinate crisis response better from there. You!” He pointed at one of the harried-looking elves who was scuttling by with a large bundle under her arm.

“Yes, Santa?”

“Stay here and guard this door. As of this moment you are officially relieved from toymaking duties until further notice. If anything happens, you let me know immediately. Do you understand?”

The elf saluted sharply and stood at attention, her bells jingling authoritatively. “Yes, Mr. Claus!”

Santa didn’t even acknowledge her. He simply grabbed Dr. Evergreen’s arm and began to run.

“I was afraid this would happen,” he panted.

Doctor Evergreen pulled himself to a stop, forcing Santa to turn around. They were at the intersection of two corridors. “You knew about this, didn’t you! You knew something like this was going to happen!”

“Not now, Doctor Evergreen. Come on!”

But Doctor Evergreen was adamant. “No, Santa. Tell me what’s happening.”

Santa sighed and rolled his eyes. “Yeah. I guess I did know that something was going to happen.”

“So tell me!”

Santa took a deep breath. “Project Epiphany. It was your predecessor’s idea. We thought we could disable the lower brain functions in elves and injecting them with a reanimation tincture I created and make productivity skyrocket.”

Doctor Evergreen blinked in shock. “What! And you didn’t tell me!”

“It was a failure. The things were unstoppable. We couldn’t kill them. We finally just drove them out into the Arctic waste and hoped that nature would take its course.”

“The Arctic Circle,” Doctor Evergreen muttered. “It’s just like a deep freeze out there. You should have known when you saw that elf encased in the ice!”

Santa shook his head sadly. “I just assumed all the zombies were dead. I had no idea what Jenny had found.”

“You just forgot, didn’t you?” Doctor Evergreen was flabbergasted. “I can’t believe it! You just forgot!”

“Okay, so I’m a bad Santa. Let’s just get back to my office.”

There was a loud scream from the right. It was followed by another scream, and then the familiar moans: “Brrrrraaaaaaaiiiiiinnnnnssss!” This was followed by a ghastly high pitched giggle.

Doctor Evergreen looked back to the lab. The door was still shut. What on earth was happening?

“The third door,” Santa said.

Doctor Evergreen’s heart sank. “I swear I didn’t know!”

“I ought to just leave you here,” Santa snarled. But then he grabbed Doctor Evergreen’s arm and began to run again.

#

Doctor Evergreen stood silently watching the carnage on one of the closed circuit TV screens in the Big Guy’s office. The number of zombies shambling through the corridors of the workshop had already tripled. Even now he could see Jenny and another elf fighting each other for the brains of a young elf in a Programmers’ Union uniform. His stomach turned at the sight. “What are we going to do, Santa?”

Santa said nothing for a long moment. Then he sighed. “We’re going to have to go with emergency plan Omega Z.”

“Omega Z? Nuke the facility from orbit? But you can’t! It’s only a week to Christmas! The toys!”

“We’ve got no choice. Get into the escape hatch, and I’ll initiate the detonation sequence from here.” He punched the intercom button again. “Miss Gingerbread, I want you to make an evacuation announcement. Anyone still able to leave the workshop must do so within ten minutes. We’re going Omega Z.”

“Goodness gracious!” Miss Gingerbread squeaked. “For real?”

“Yes, for real. Now do it! Then get out of the building as quickly as you can.” He turned to Doctor Evergreen. “Move it!” He typed a series of commands into his computer, and a panel on the south wall of his office slid aside, revealing a black tunnel.

Doctor Evergreen ran for the tunnel and ducked inside. He heard Miss Gingerbread’s voice start to blast over the PA system: “Ladies and gentlemen, this is an evacuation alert. All elves who are still alive must evacuate the facility within ten minutes. This is not a drill. Repeat, this is not a drill.”

Doctor Evergreen paused to listen to the voice. This was the worst thing he could imagine. Santa’s workshop invaded by zombies. The entire facility being nuked, and only a week before Christmas! How could this be happening?

“Move it!” Santa’s voice was loud and commanding from behind him. He looked behind him; Santa was crawling into the tunnel behind him, barreling on him like a giant boulder. Doctor Evergreen didn’t have a chance to turn around completely before Santa was on him, shoving him backwards down the tunnel. He scrambled to get himself turned around, but he couldn’t get a grip on the floor or walls. Then high pitched voices screamed out, “Santa braiiinnnssss!!!”, and then Santa screamed.

Heart pounding, Doctor Evergreen ran.

#

When he opened his eyes again, Doctor Evergreen found himself out in the snow. Before him, flames leaped skyward from the ruins of the workshop. Smoke billowed upwards, colored orange and red by the flames. Elves milled about them, looking lost and confused. Doctor Evergreen counted less than a dozen of them; Santa had employed close to five thousand.

“Holy crumbcakes,” he said. Grief welled up in Doctor Evergreen’s chest, and he fell to his knees. “This is all my fault!” he wailed, pounding the sides of his head. “Everyone’s dead! I should never have released that elf from the ice! I should have known where that third door was!”

One of the other elves patted Doctor Evergreen on the shoulder. “There, there,” she said. “You couldn’t have known what would happen.” She paused. “Could you?”

Doctor Evergreen shook his head. “I suppose not. Well, there’s nothing for us to rebuild at this point. We’ll have to find a new Santa and issue some press releases. I think…”

He was interrupted by a sound overhead, something like a jet engine, something like hoofbeats. He looked up, saw a miniature sleigh pulled by eight tiny reindeer.

Santa.

Doctor Evergreen felt his heart sink. Santa had a list, and he would be checking it twice.

And as he drove out of sight, Doctor Evergreen heard him exclaim, “BRAAAAAAAAIIINNNNSSSS!!”

THE END

More on Mr. Crawford at www.mossroot.com

February 28, 2019

Phillip Ross: Good evening listeners and welcome to Late Night Live, I’m your host Phillip Ross. This evening I’m pleased to introduce a leading academic in the field of Zombie research: Roman Weisz, Associate Professor of Life-Challenged Ethics at Harvard’s school of Sociology

Prof. Weisz: Thank you for having me Phillip.

PR: Latest research indicates that we may be on the verge of developing a vaccine that curbs the aggressive tendencies within zombie mice. There are now calls to begin experiments on human zombies. What are your views on this?

Prof. Weisz: If I could firstly correct you on one thing Phillip, the term “zombie” is pejorative, a hangover from old B grade horror movies if you will. We’d prefer to see the term “life-challenged” come into common use. You see, if we continually use derogatory terms when referring to this significant sub-section of our society, we only re-enforce the stereotyping that led to the hysterical mass violence of the early days of the pandemic.

PR:  Well in all fairness Professor Weisz, the fact that the zombies, I mean the life-challenged, were attacking everything that moved led to the mass violence to begin with.

Prof. Weisz: Yes, yes. But we are projecting human rationality upon the life-challenged: They attack for the same reason a shark or a lion attacks, it is pure instinct. And as with wild animals, we must learn to co-exist rather than slaughter them.

PR: And this vaccine would aid in co-existence?

Prof. Weisz: Ah, now this is the crux of the matter Phillip. Do we as living humans have the ethical right to modify the natural behaviour of what is in effect an entirely new species? Let us remember, the life-challenged actually redefine the boundaries between life and death. Take the Gerald experiment for example…

PR: For those listeners who are not familiar, Gerald is a zombie (sorry) kept by the Sociology department at Harvard.

Prof. Weisz: Yes, and we can clearly see behaviour patterns, instincts and maybe even the ability to adapt in Gerald. He may not be the smartest of creatures, but he is still completely alive in every sense, except of course medically.

PR: We’ve seen videos of him eating pigeons…

Prof Weisz: Only the ones that fly into his pen

PR: He also pulled the head off a PhD student…

Prof Weisz: He was only following his instinct. We as intelligent humans should be able to modify our behaviour so as not allow Gerald the opportunity to act upon his baser impulses.

PR: As I remember it, the student was in the library reading the periodicals.

Prof Weisz: Yes, precisely Phillip! A library; a man-made structure, designed by the living for the living. What forethought has been put into the design of this building for the modern era? How can we possibly hope to co-exist with the life-challenged when our entire society continues to be so life-centric?

PR: There were calls for Gerald to be put down after this incident.

Prof Weisz: Again, small minded mob-mentality from what can only be described as the redneck elements amongst the living. Really, what has Gerald done wrong? We only judge him like a human because he has the outward appearance of one. I say let’s accept the life-challenged for what they are and learn to embrace them within the fabric of society. After all, why should we kill them when their only crime is being dead?

PR: One of the key proponents for ending the Gerald experiment was your colleague, Dr Carmen Wheeler.

Prof. Weisz: Ah yes, poor Carmen

PR: Can you tell me about her?

Prof. Weisz: Well Carmen was inspired by the Koko experiments

PR: The Gorilla that was given a pet cat?

Prof. Weisz: That’s right. Carmen sought to replicate it, to see if she could discover a nurturing instinct within Gerald. She started off with plush toy cats, but that wasn’t much good as Gerald ate the first two, and then completely ignored the third one. However, he obviously learned that they were not edible which I think shows a remarkable leap in cognisance.

PR: And then she introduced a real sedated cat, how did that go?

Prof. Weisz: Pretty well, at first. Gerald ignored the cat whilst it slept, showing that he had made the connection that toy cats did not equal food. And when faced with a sleeping live cat, he did not see it as a food source.

PR: And when the cat woke up?

Prof. Weisz: Unfortunately Gerald ate it. Then he went back and ate the last of the toy cats that was in his pen.

PR: Dr Wheeler then called for the experiment to end and for Gerald to be euthanized.

Prof Weisz: Yes. Sadly that very evening she had a nasty accident. Somehow she must have fallen into Gerald’s pen.

PR: If I remember rightly there were all sorts of conspiracy theories about it, she must have got through a guarded security door, a padlocked outer cage and then over an twelve foot wire fence into the pen.

Prof Weisz: Really Phillip, the police investigation found that there was no cover up, just a tragic case of misadventure. This is the sort of question I have to put up with on “Sixty Minutes”, not a highbrow show like yours!

PR: And finally, as it’s almost time for the news, do you have any concluding comments?

Prof Weisz: We living have absolutely nothing to fear from the life-challenged if we can understand their behaviour patterns. By interacting with the life-challenged in a controlled manner I believe we can live along side them or even integrate them into society. For example, I have recently taken to walking Gerald in public in a brace and muzzle, much the same way one would walk a large, aggressive dog. In fact, he’s in the waiting room with his minder Bill. Bill, why don’t you bring Gerald into the studio?

PR: I’m not sure that would be effective, this is a radio broadcast after all

Prof Weisz: Nonsense Phillip, the more we interact with the life-challenged the more the walls of prejudice are broken down. Bill, bring in Gerald. Bill, where’s his muzzle?? Bill, hold him back, hold him back he’s got an arm loose….Bill? BILL!!! GERRRRAAAAAAAAALLLLLLDDDD…………..

Jenny Cupcake tapped the ice with the butt of her Uzi. “You okay in there?”

The elf made no reply; didn’t blink, didn’t move, made no sign that he had even registered Jenny’s presence.

She peered at him. His uniform was outdated but identified as a worker from Sector 7-G. A ragged stump marked the spot where his left thumb had been savagely removed from his hand, and angry looking red gashes criss-crossed his palm. He had probably been a wood worker.

She shouldered her weapon and tapped the ice in front of the elf’s face. “Hey,” she said again, softer than before. Her voice was higher pitched than anyone else’s in Perimeter Patrol, and she always worried she might cause an avalanche and bury the entire workshop with a careless word or shout.

The elf’s left eyelid twitched.

Jenny jumped back, and cried out. Her heart pounded in her throat. Goodness gracious, she thought. He’s still alive! She smiled, and then started to giggle. She always did when she was nervous.

A hideous squawk erupted from beside her, and she jumped again, looking around wildly. When it sounded again, she chided herself. It was just her walkie-talkie. Trying to bring her giggling under control, she flipped it open. “Prancer Five here.”

A deep voice boomed out of the speaker. It was the Big Guy himself. “Report!”

Jenny cleared her throat. “I think we’ve got a situation here Santa.”

“What kind of situation?” The Big Guy’s voice was terse. He was in a bad mood. It was just a week before Christmas, and production was backlogged, particularly in the Electronics division. The programmers were having a hard time integrating USB expansion ports into the new robot dolls and making them compatible with the newest circuits from YoYoDyne. They kept protesting that it was a hardware issue, not a software issue, but Santa was unsympathetic. Quotas had to be met.

“I think you should come out here and take a look,” Jenny said.

The walkie-talkie vibrated in her hand even though she couldn’t hear anything. Santa was grumbling. “Where are you?”

“Quadrant 2L. South side of Peppermint Mountain.” She relayed her exact coordinates.

“I’ll be there in a few minutes. Santa out.”

Jenny Cupcake released the “talk” button and reattached the walkie talkie to her belt clip. “Well, old buddy,” she told the elf, “we’re going to get you out of there and back to work.” She started to giggle again, completely unaware that within just a few hours she would be giggling even more wildly, and for the very last time in her life.

#

Doctor Evergreen stared at the frozen elf. It did indeed wear an outdated Sector 7G uniform. Seriously outdated. Like, by two hundred years. Doctor Evergreen hadn’t seen that particular pattern and fabric in Santa’s workshop since the 1700’s. “You found him buried on Peppermint Mountain?”

Jenny Cupcake nodded, the bell on her cap jingling merrily. “I found him in Quadrant 2L. I think an avalanche uncovered him.”

“Hm.” Doctor Evergreen peered at the body.

“The point is,” Santa thundered from behind him, “is this elf still alive? Can we put him back to work?”

Doctor Evergreen sighed. It was always work for the Big Guy. “He could be. If he is I’ll have to be very careful in reviving him.”

“Oh, he’s alive!” Jenny blurted out. “I saw his eye move!”

Santa laughed, a cheery “HO! HO! HO!” that reverberated throughout Sick Bay.

Doctor Evergreen made his way over to his instruments. “Then I can definitely revive him. He should be back online in just a few hours.”

“He’ll need reeducation,” Santa said. “We phased out Sector 7-G in 1947. Nobody wants wooden toys anymore.” He yawned and stretched. “Give me a holler when you’re done, will you? I’m gonna take a nap.” He lumbered out of the room, muttering to himself.

“Can I stay and watch?” Jenny Cupcake asked. “I’ve never seen one of your experiments.”

Doctor Evergreen looked at the young elf, and decided she was probably harmless. He shrugged. “Sure. But don’t touch anything.”

“Oh, I won’t!” Jenny bounced to a workbench and jumped up, laying her Uzi down next to her. “I’ll be perfectly good!”

Doctor Evergreen grunted. As long as Jenny stayed out of his way, she would be fine. Of course, the whole thing couldn’t have come at a worse time. He was pretty sure he was on the verge of a major breakthrough in advanced toymaking. If this newest project worked out, then the elves would be able to control toy assembly nanomachines through a special neuro-computer interface. It was exciting research, but none of his test subjects had survived for long after he had put the implants in their brains.

The frozen elf gave no hint that he was alive. Doctor Evergreen wondered how to proceed. He hadn’t been in this lab for long, only eighty-three years. His predecessor, who had vanished under very strange circumstances, had been a sloppy note taker and an even worse house keeper. Doctor Evergreen was still trying to work out the man’s organization system, and it seemed he was always losing tools. He kept stumbling over items labeled “Project Epiphany”, but there was no hint as to what that might have been.

At last he decided the simplest route was the best, and he picked up an ice pick from his medical bag. He wiped the tip clean of his last test subject’s brains, and began picking at the ice.

After he had been at it for an hour, he heard snoring behind him. He turned. Jenny Cupcake was fast asleep on the workbench, cuddled up with her submachine gun the way children worldwide cuddled with their teddy bears. The sight was adorable, and Doctor Evergreen smiled. Someday she’d make someone an excellent specimen.

A sharp crack from the block of ice drew Doctor Evergreen’s attention back to the frozen elf. He blinked, then rubbed his eyes, not sure he was really seeing what he thought he saw. Just a moment before the elf had been lifeless and still; now its eyes rolled wildly in its head and the muscles in its jaws worked. Its mouth was still blocked by ice, so it couldn’t talk. It looked like it was suffocating.

“Oh my goodness!” Doctor Evergreen exclaimed. He had expected that hours of resuscitation efforts lay before him. “Keep calm,” he told the elf. “I’ll have you out of there in a jiffy!”

He took up his ice pick again and tapped away at the ice that trapped the elf, working first on its face so that it could talk and breath.

Finally a chunk of ice fell away from the lower half of the elf’s face. Working carefully with a pair of tongs, Doctor Evergreen removed a chunk of ice from its mouth.

“There you go,” he said. “What do you say to that?”

The elf said nothing coherent, but its mouth dropped open and air rushed out. Doctor Evergreen staggered and nearly fell over when the stench of its exhalation assaulted his nose. Then the elf let out a low, drawn-out groan.

“Huh,” Doctor Evergreen said. He leaned closer to the elf, and its jaws snapped shut with a loud clack. Doctor Evergreen jumped back. The poor thing was disoriented. A couple of centuries trapped in ice would do that to anyone, even one of Santa’s elves, who were bred to handle extreme conditions.

Doctor Evergreen chipped away more ice. It came off in big chunks now. When it was all gone and the elf was completely free, Doctor Evergreen took a step back and looked over his handiwork with pride. Sure, the elf was confused and probably terrified, but it would get better with time; and then it would be re-educated, and back online in no time, probably in a sector that needed less specialized skills.

Then the elf’s mouth dropped open again, and this time a single sound came out. He said a single long, drawn out word as he lifted his left hand and reached out toward Doctor Evergreen. “Braaaaaaaaiinnsss!”

“Holy crumbcakes!” It was the foulest curse Doctor Evergreen knew, and he stepped back as he said it. The elf reached for him.

“Calm down!” Doctor Evergreen shouted. “You’ll be all better soon!”

“Braaaaaaaaaiiinnnsssss!” the elf repeated. It took a shaky step forward.

Doctor Evergreen stumbled backwards and reached out blindly behind him, hoping to grab something to use as a weapon. He bumped into a chair, nearly knocking himself over. He grabbed the chair and sent it hurtling on its casters toward the elf.

The chair bumped into the elf and it fell over on his back. Doctor Evergreen let himself relax for just a moment. How was he going to treat this? This was going to take more than a couple of days in a re-education camp.

“Hey!” a new voice squeaked. Doctor Evergreen turned. Jenny Cupcake had woken up; she sat on the workbench, looking confused.

“Jenny, get out of here,” Doctor Evergreen shouted at her.

The shambling elf thing on the floor raised its eyes to Jenny. “Giiiiiirrrrrrllllll braiiiiiinnnsss!” he hissed. And with a speed that Doctor Evergreen would not have thought possible, the elf was up on its feet and shambling toward Jenny.

“Goodness gracious!” Jenny cried. She reached down, grabbed her Uzi and disengaged the safety.

“Don’t shoot!” Doctor Evergreen yelled. Jenny was good with her guns, he knew, but even a carefully applied spray of bullets would destroy his sensitive equipment and he still didn’t know what half of it did.

“Eat hot lead, you motherfucking zombie!” Jenny shouted. She squeezed the trigger, and her submachine gun spat out bullets and smoke. Shells flew everywhere. Doctor Evergreen was well out of Jenny’s line of fire, but he dropped to the ground anyway, despairing as he watched glassware shatter and computers explode.

Several bullets hit the shambling elf. The elf staggered backwards, but did not fall over.

“Holy crumbcakes,” Doctor Evergreen cursed again.

Jenny’s gun suddenly ceased firing. Doctor Evergreen risked a look up and saw her fussing with the weapon and cursing. And, strangely, she was giggling, a high pitched little laugh that was somehow even more disturbing than the zombie elf’s moans.

“Jenny, look out!” he shouted at her.

Jenny looked up just in time to see the elf — bullet ridden, slimy and still wet from the ice that had so recently entombed it — stumbling toward her. She screamed as it grabbed her and spun her around so that she faced away from him. It bit into the back of her skull and then pulled its mouth, flesh and hair dripping from its mouth. It spat out bone fragments, then took another bite.

Doctor Evergreen watched for a moment, then clambered to his feet. It was too late for Jenny. The elf — no, the creature — chewed, and Jenny screamed that she was blind. Well, no wonder, Doctor Evergreen thought wildly. The thing had eaten her occipital lobe.

But there was no time for analysis. Doctor Evergreen had to take advantage of the creature’s distraction. He ran out of Sick Bay and slammed the door behind him.

This, he thought, was not going to end well. Not end well at all.

He took a moment to catch his breath, then reached down for his cell phone. Damn. He’d left it in the lab.

“Code red!” he shouted. He began to run toward the Big Guy’s office. “Code red! Santa! Help!”

#

Five minutes later, Doctor Evergreen stood in front of Santa’s big desk, wringing his hands as the Big Guy watched the tape of the events in the lab. Santa was a big guy. There was no denying that. Even the huge easy chair that Mrs. Claus had given him last year was too small for him now.

On the screen, in grainy black and white, the elf bit through the back of Jenny Cupcake’s skull and started eating her brain. The tiny speakers conveyed Jenny’s screams — and her odd giggles — in a voice as tinny and small as the electronic chip in a musical Christmas card.

When the tape was done, Santa punched the power button on the monitor. “Huh. Didn’t see that coming.”

“This is horrible.” Doctor Evergreen kept rubbing her hands on he moaned. “All my equipment smashed, all my research gone. Even my predecessor’s research. What am I going to do?”

“Doctor Evergreen, there’s a brain-eating monster in there, and all you can worry about is your research notes?”

Doctor Evergreen looked up at Santa, who looked genuinely annoyed. “Sorry, sir,” he said.

Santa huffed and then looked back at the monitor, though he left it switched off. He leaned back in his chair and templed his fingers before him. “We have to figure out how to kill these things.”

“There’s just the one.”

Santa looked surprised, but recovered his composure quickly. “Of course. Just one. I meant, let’s hope there aren’t any more of those things out there. So we need to figure out how to kill this thing. In case any more show up.”

Doctor Evergreen sat down in sat down in the chair and thought hard. None of his research had prepared him for this. But he remembered some scary movies he had watched late one night back in the 60’s; he’d been so stoned that night it was amazing he remembered anything about it at all, but one piece of information floated up. “I think,” he said slowly, “that if we cut off its head or destroy its brain or something, that might kill it.”

“You think so?” Santa asked.

“Yes. Definitely.”

“Excellent.” He leaned forward and pressed the TALK button on his intercom. “Miss Gingerbread, would you contact Mr. Peartree and have him report to me immediately?”

A tiny voice squeaked through the intercom. “Yes, Mr. Claus.”

Santa turned to Doctor Evergreen. “Peartree’s my finest sniper. He should be able to shoot the thing right in the head.”

The door opened just a minutes later, and an elf stepped through. At just under three feet tall, he was taller than most elves. The clothes he wore were so black they seemed to eat the light. His black curly-toed looked like puddles of oil. The bells on his toes and his cap were muffled, and barely jingled at all when he walked. Large mirror-lensed sunglasses hid his eyes, and a deadly looking rifle hung from a strap over his shoulder. A cigarette dangled from the corner of his mouth, and the smoke encircled his head like a wreath.

Santa stood up slowly from his seat. “Mr. Peartree. “Thank you for coming.”

“Yeah.” The deadly-looking elf’s speech was as terse as his outfit was dark. He dropped his cigarette to the floor and crushed it out under his heel. “What’s the job?”

Santa swung around his monitor around to face Mr. Peartree, and typed a few keystrokes on his computer. The scene of the elf eating Jenny’s brain replayed itself. “We need a good clean shot to the head. Just one should do it. Do you know that room?”

Mr. Peartree lit another cigarette and took a long drag. “Sick Bay. No problem. I know all three entrances to that room.”

“There are only two!” Doctor Evergreen said.

Mr. Peartree smirked. “That you know of.”

“That’s enough,” Santa said. “Mr. Peartree, this needs to be done as soon as possible. You’ll be paid the standard rate. Just be careful. That thing is deadly.”

“No problem.” Mr. Peartree spun on his heel and left the room as liquidly as he had arrived. The door closed behind him.

Santa sat back down on his chair; it creaked ominously. “Let’s watch,” he said. He twisted a dial on the side of the monitor and a new picture appeared: a live streaming image of the medical lab.

The elf’s face, still dripping red and gray, dominated the screen. Its mouth opened and closed, opened and closed, as it looked back and forth.

Doctor Evergreen had been staring at the elf so intensely that when a black shadow passed before it, momentarily blocking the view, he jumped. “What was that?”

“I don’t know.” Santa fiddled with the controls, and the view pulled back, showing the elf’s entire body, and the now-empty workbench that it stood before.

“Doctor Evergreen?”

“Yes, Santa?”

“Where’s Jenny?”

Doctor Evergreen shuddered. Jenny’s body should have still been on the workbench where the elf had dropped it. But it wasn’t. “I don’t –”

Then the shape passed before the camera again. This time, Doctor Evergreen saw it for what it was. “It can’t be,” he breathed.

Santa leaned forward, squinting. Then he reached into his breast pocket and removed a pair of reading glasses and slipped them on to his face. “Son of a bitch,” he muttered.

“It’s Jenny!” Doctor Evergreen exclaimed. “But that’s impossible! I watched the thing eat her brain!” He swallowed past a huge lump that had suddenly appeared in his throat.

“Do you know what this means?”

Santa sighed. “Taking out their brain’s not gonna kill them.”

Doctor’s Evergreen’s stomach lurched as he watched Jenny’s reanimated corpse shamble around in the lab, moaning for brains and giggling. “Holy crumbcakes. We’ve got to stop Mr. Peartree!”

Santa picked up his walkie talkie and adjusted the frequency. “Mr. Peartree, come in! Mr. Peartree, do you read me?”

The walkie talkie clicked and then fell silent. Santa cursed, then punched the “talk” button on the intercom. “Miss Gingerbread, assemble an armed response team at the medical lab on the double!”

“But Santa, I can’t.”

“What? Why not?”

“Because last week you reassigned all security personnel to Toy Production. Don’t you remember?”

Santa swore again, then picked up his walkie talkie once more. “Mr. Peartree, if you can hear me, I want you to abort the mission immediately. Do you read me? Abort!”

He put the walkie talkie down, then stood up again, pulled open one of the drawers of his desk and pulled out a pistol that Doctor Evergreen thought looked as big as he was.

Santa flipped open the chamber and spun it, checking the cartridges. Then he shot Doctor Evergreen an urgent look. “Let’s roll.”

#

Mr. Peartree slid through the corridors of Santa’s complex, unnoticed by the other elves that toiled there. Half of that was stealth; the other half was the overworked and burned out state that every elf went through this time of year. His walkie talkie squawked at him one, and he stabbed the “Off” button reflexively. He had a job to do.

The door to the medical lab was closed but unlocked. He chuckled. The creature, whatever it was, obviously hadn’t worked out the basic principle of the doorknob.

He raised his gun, keeping it up with his left hand, and placed his right hand on the knob, flattening himself against the door itself. He counted to three, slowly, under his breath, then twisted the knob and thrust the door open. He took a step inside and brought the gun’s sights level with his eye.

He had been expecting the monster to be standing right in the middle of the room, but it wasn’t there. He grinned. “The chase is on,” he muttered. It was the most dangerous game. Elf.

He scanned the room slowly, then he heard a low moan to his left, like someone trying to talk through mud. “Brrraaaaaaaiiiinnnnssss!”

Mr. Peartree spun and fired his rifle. It was a perfect shot; a tiny black hole appeared in the elf’s forehead. But instead of falling over and dying, it simply kept shambling forward.

“Oh, so you’re gonna play tough, huh?” Mr. Peartree grinned; he liked a challenge. He took aim again, this time right at the undead elf’s eye.

But before he could fire, another voice welled up behind him, a high pitched squeaky voice.

“Brrraaaaaaiiiinnnssss!”

Mr. Peartree turned. Jenny Cupcake stood right before him. He recognized her; they’d actually been married for some time, but she’d walked out on him, claiming that she could no longer handle what he did for a living. Now, it appeared, she was an undead brain-eating monster from hell.

Some people, it seemed, never change.

Mr. Peartree aimed his rifle again, and a thrill went through him. “See you in hell, bitch!” he cried at her.

He never fired. The back of his head exploded into a raging storm of sharp pain. Everything went red, then black. His head felt oddly cool, like there was a draft in the room.

“Ah, shit,” he muttered. And that was it for Mr. Peartree.

#

“What do we do? What do we do? What do we do?” Doctor Evergreen was panicking. He and Santa had not made it to the lab in time; in fact, Jenny and the first elf had just finished eating Mr. Peartree’s brains when they’d shown up. If Santa hadn’t thought quickly and pulled the lab door shut with a slam, they would have been eaten for sure.

“Where are the other doors?” Santa demanded, interrupted Doctor Evergreen’s frantic mantra.

“There’s only one other door,” Doctor Evergreen replied. “It’s in the back. It’s locked and there are dozens of heavy crates in front of it.”

“What about the third door?”

“There is no third door. Mr. Peartree was just messing with me, I’m sure of it.”

“Are you sure about that?”

Doctor Evergreen nodded. “Of course I’m sure.” He realized he was shouting, and made a deliberate effort to lower his voice. “If there was a third door, I’d know about it by now. I’ve been all over that lab.”

Santa regarded Doctor Evergreen for a long moment. Then he said, “All right. Let’s get back to my office. I can coordinate crisis response better from there. You!” He pointed at one of the harried-looking elves who was scuttling by with a large bundle under her arm.

“Yes, Santa?”

“Stay here and guard this door. As of this moment you are officially relieved from toymaking duties until further notice. If anything happens, you let me know immediately. Do you understand?”

The elf saluted sharply and stood at attention, her bells jingling authoritatively. “Yes, Mr. Claus!”

Santa didn’t even acknowledge her. He simply grabbed Dr. Evergreen’s arm and began to run.

“I was afraid this would happen,” he panted.

Doctor Evergreen pulled himself to a stop, forcing Santa to turn around. They were at the intersection of two corridors. “You knew about this, didn’t you! You knew something like this was going to happen!”

“Not now, Doctor Evergreen. Come on!”

But Doctor Evergreen was adamant. “No, Santa. Tell me what’s happening.”

Santa sighed and rolled his eyes. “Yeah. I guess I did know that something was going to happen.”

“So tell me!”

Santa took a deep breath. “Project Epiphany. It was your predecessor’s idea. We thought we could disable the lower brain functions in elves and injecting them with a reanimation tincture I created and make productivity skyrocket.”

Doctor Evergreen blinked in shock. “What! And you didn’t tell me!”

“It was a failure. The things were unstoppable. We couldn’t kill them. We finally just drove them out into the Arctic waste and hoped that nature would take its course.”

“The Arctic Circle,” Doctor Evergreen muttered. “It’s just like a deep freeze out there. You should have known when you saw that elf encased in the ice!”

Santa shook his head sadly. “I just assumed all the zombies were dead. I had no idea what Jenny had found.”

“You just forgot, didn’t you?” Doctor Evergreen was flabbergasted. “I can’t believe it! You just forgot!”

“Okay, so I’m a bad Santa. Let’s just get back to my office.”

There was a loud scream from the right. It was followed by another scream, and then the familiar moans: “Brrrrraaaaaaaiiiiiinnnnnssss!” This was followed by a ghastly high pitched giggle.

Doctor Evergreen looked back to the lab. The door was still shut. What on earth was happening?

“The third door,” Santa said.

Doctor Evergreen’s heart sank. “I swear I didn’t know!”

“I ought to just leave you here,” Santa snarled. But then he grabbed Doctor Evergreen’s arm and began to run again.

#

Doctor Evergreen stood silently watching the carnage on one of the closed circuit TV screens in the Big Guy’s office. The number of zombies shambling through the corridors of the workshop had already tripled. Even now he could see Jenny and another elf fighting each other for the brains of a young elf in a Programmers’ Union uniform. His stomach turned at the sight. “What are we going to do, Santa?”

Santa said nothing for a long moment. Then he sighed. “We’re going to have to go with emergency plan Omega Z.”

“Omega Z? Nuke the facility from orbit? But you can’t! It’s only a week to Christmas! The toys!”

“We’ve got no choice. Get into the escape hatch, and I’ll initiate the detonation sequence from here.” He punched the intercom button again. “Miss Gingerbread, I want you to make an evacuation announcement. Anyone still able to leave the workshop must do so within ten minutes. We’re going Omega Z.”

“Goodness gracious!” Miss Gingerbread squeaked. “For real?”

“Yes, for real. Now do it! Then get out of the building as quickly as you can.” He turned to Doctor Evergreen. “Move it!” He typed a series of commands into his computer, and a panel on the south wall of his office slid aside, revealing a black tunnel.

Doctor Evergreen ran for the tunnel and ducked inside. He heard Miss Gingerbread’s voice start to blast over the PA system: “Ladies and gentlemen, this is an evacuation alert. All elves who are still alive must evacuate the facility within ten minutes. This is not a drill. Repeat, this is not a drill.”

Doctor Evergreen paused to listen to the voice. This was the worst thing he could imagine. Santa’s workshop invaded by zombies. The entire facility being nuked, and only a week before Christmas! How could this be happening?

“Move it!” Santa’s voice was loud and commanding from behind him. He looked behind him; Santa was crawling into the tunnel behind him, barreling on him like a giant boulder. Doctor Evergreen didn’t have a chance to turn around completely before Santa was on him, shoving him backwards down the tunnel. He scrambled to get himself turned around, but he couldn’t get a grip on the floor or walls. Then high pitched voices screamed out, “Santa braiiinnnssss!!!”, and then Santa screamed.

Heart pounding, Doctor Evergreen ran.

#

When he opened his eyes again, Doctor Evergreen found himself out in the snow. Before him, flames leaped skyward from the ruins of the workshop. Smoke billowed upwards, colored orange and red by the flames. Elves milled about them, looking lost and confused. Doctor Evergreen counted less than a dozen of them; Santa had employed close to five thousand.

“Holy crumbcakes,” he said. Grief welled up in Doctor Evergreen’s chest, and he fell to his knees. “This is all my fault!” he wailed, pounding the sides of his head. “Everyone’s dead! I should never have released that elf from the ice! I should have known where that third door was!”

One of the other elves patted Doctor Evergreen on the shoulder. “There, there,” she said. “You couldn’t have known what would happen.” She paused. “Could you?”

Doctor Evergreen shook his head. “I suppose not. Well, there’s nothing for us to rebuild at this point. We’ll have to find a new Santa and issue some press releases. I think…”

He was interrupted by a sound overhead, something like a jet engine, something like hoofbeats. He looked up, saw a miniature sleigh pulled by eight tiny reindeer.

Santa.

Doctor Evergreen felt his heart sink. Santa had a list, and he would be checking it twice.

And as he drove out of sight, Doctor Evergreen heard him exclaim, “BRAAAAAAAAIIINNNNSSSS!!”

THE END

She worked in Rachel’s Café, where big painted letters spelled out the shop’s name in the front window. Each letter included a little scene with lots of flowers, castles, unicorns, and other hippy trash. It was very artsy-fartsy and about as far as possible from the big, sterile corporate coffee house down the street. Mismatched furniture made it look like an second rate antique shop. She hated the job for its snobby customers and equally snobby staff. The manager was overly ‘friendly’ and probably related to an octopus. It seemed he had that many hands. College sucked. The job sucked. The only relief was that Rachel’s sold the best damn coffee in town and Suzy loved it. The odd cuppa taken at break time was sheer joy. She looked forward to putting college behind her and getting out into the world with a real job, one where she could get her hands on some real money. A career in banking or politics might feed her avarice.

Invariably polite and attentive, Suzy short changed customers whenever possible. Guys were the easiest because their attention was riveted on her face or her boobs. She lifted a little cash from the till once in a while, but she was smart enough to avoid doing it regularly. Shoplifting supplemented her wardrobe. She knew which stores had security and which would avoid prosecution.

She wasn’t above stealing cash from a co-worker’s purse left unattended in the break room, and once she found a bag of amphetamines. Suzy hid the drugs in a hollow behind a loose tile in the ladies room. She thought of it as her safe. Double-sided adhesive tape held the tile in place and a dab of toothpaste covered the cracked grout. It was perfect.

She used people, belittling them privately with sarcastic nicknames. Friends, acquaintances, co-workers, professors – all of them were merely stepping stones. For instance, Pretty Boy, a grad student and her soon-to-be-discarded boyfriend, wrote most of her term papers. Guys were so easy to manipulate after she’d slept with them a few times. She had no old friends or long-term boyfriends because people discovered that despite her cheery, warm demeanor, she was inwardly cold and ruthless.

Her customers were the easiest to categorize. The middle-aged bikers on breathtakingly expensive Harleys were the Mild Bunch. Mr. Friendly was smooth and talkative, with perfect hair, teeth, and clothes. He talked loudly on a cellphone and never failed to mention his BMW. The dorky cyclist was Eddy Jerkx, who once had the audacity to steal the tip jar when her back was turned. He was a thief, but a stupid one, which only earned him contempt from Suzy. He did it in front of three other customers and not one of them said a word. Fussy Woman was one of the three. She always ordered a double skinny latte – no foam – and she had a fit if there was a bubble atop the drink. She didn’t tip, either. The pretentious bitch staked out a four-top near the window, spreading books, papers, and the inevitable laptop across it. She stayed most of the morning, frowning at the computer and furiously pounding on the keys.

Businessmen either ignored her or offered her a ‘position’ in their firms. Tips varied according to their illusions about getting into her pants. They were the real reason she worked at Rachel’s. Suzy carefully observed their hands for wedding rings. More importantly, she noted when they chatted her up and the wedding bands disappeared. They offered to ‘interview’ her over drinks. So predictable. The guys were easy marks, but again, she didn’t get greedy. A diamond cuff link here, a Rolex there, and just recently an expensive necklace and earrings when a fool took her to his home while wifey was out of town. All the jewelry was tucked away with the amphetamines in the ladies room safe.

Suzy lived in a small apartment within walking distance of campus. It was an old house that had been divided into student apartments. The elderly owners lived on the first floor. Suzy’s place was on the third floor, up creaking wooden stairs past Cartman and Bob, two gay guys who spent their off hours smoking pot, playing video games, and listening to an endless succession of rock tunes. Cartman was big, fat, and obnoxious just like his cartoon namesake, but Bob was sweet.

She was an indifferent housekeeper, a slob, in fact. Dirty dishes were heaped in the sink. The trash can overflowed and a waist-high pile of laundry in the closet threatened to avalanche onto the floor. Pretty Boy hated her apartment, partly due to the mess and partly because Cartman liked to chat him up.

Mid-terms were coming up and she had to study. There was no way around that. Pretty Boy couldn’t do it for her. She still had to show up and take the tests, so stealing the speeders had been fortuitous. She could take a few from the stash at work and use them to cram. Mid-term week passed in a blur of work, study, and a few hours of blissful sleep.

Then one morning everything changed. She missed most of it, crashed out in her apartment after mid-terms. Suzy woke up to uncharacteristic silence. No pounding music from downstairs. No faint hints of pot smoke. Just quiet. It was shattered by Cartman’s high, wailing scream from the second floor. It choked off abruptly, replaced by grunting and gurgling. Then the stairs creaked as someone began climbing toward her room.

Without thinking, Suzy hid under the pile of clothes in the closet, hardly daring to breathe and hoping that the clothes didn’t move from her trembling. Her door banged open and someone wandered around the apartment, knocking over a lamp. The crash almost made her jump and there was a strong temptation to run. Footsteps approached the closet and stopped. She didn’t breathe until they wandered off, finally clumping downstairs. Hours later, she crept to the window as screams rose from the street. Suzy watched in horror as zombies caught…and ate…a middle-aged woman. They bit off chunks of flesh while the woman still screamed.

She stayed in her room without making a sound, only turning on a radio for news. And that news was universally bad as hordes of the walking dead overran the town. The water and electricity went off on the third day. She was terrified at night and doled out the rest of the speed. Bursts of gunfire added to her anxiety. Her only thought was to stay alert, stay awake, and stay alive. When her body simply had to sleep, she crawled under the reeking pile of laundry. After days without a shower, the smell just didn’t bother her anymore.

The food ran out after five days. Just after dawn, Suzy crept down the stair and thought about raiding Cartman and Bob’s apartment, but the appalling stench kept her from going inside. The door hung open and flies covered the walls.

On the street, she moved like a rat from one hiding place to another. She scurried only a few yards at a time, her senses alert and twitching from fear and the after-effects of the amphetamines. Doorways, trash cans, and hedges all provided concealment. Suzy saw a few zombies far down one cross street. She waited until none were facing her direction and ran across the intersection. The landscaping in a neatly tended front yard offered a safe hide while she watched her back trail. None of the zombies had seen her.

Suzy had a plan. She’d thought about it while in her apartment. She’d take a car and get out of town. There were plenty of them just sitting on the street with their doors open and keys still in the ignition. The owners had been eaten…or worse. But first she needed to recover the diamond necklace, earrings, and other jewelry at Rachel’s Café. It was highly unlikely that the original owners would make any complaints at this point, and besides, she’d need it to make a fresh start. Driving a car to the café would attract unwanted attention, so she crept along on foot.

The businesses she passed probably had plenty of cash in the tills, but without a working government to back it, paper money simply became legal tinder, good for starting campfires but not much else. There was one jewelry store along her route, but it was locked up tight with security screens in place. She passed a gun shop too, and looked inside hoping to find a shotgun, but the store had been picked clean. No guns, no ammunition, not even a bow and arrow remained.

At the café, one plate glass window was smashed and some of the flowery letters were gone. The front door was shattered too, and one hinge was broken. Suzy quietly stepped past it and carefully looked for more shambling zombies. The shop was empty. She walked to the ladies room quickly and popped the tile loose. Stuffing the pills and the jewelry into her bag, she started back toward the door, and stopped abruptly when she saw another person silhouetted in the light from the street. A one-armed walking corpse was in the shop.

Fussy Woman stood at the counter, looking up at the menu and waving her remaining arm. She moaned. Suzy edged behind the counter, hoping to keep it between them. Fussy Woman spotted her, moaned even louder, and waggled her arm more frantically. In desperation, Suzy filled a cup with cold, slimy coffee from the urn. Chunks of mold floated to the surface. It was disgusting. She put it on the countertop, careful to stay out of the zombie’s reach.

After staring at it for a long moment and grunting twice, Fussy Woman picked up the cup and wandered off. She sat at a window table, looking intently at the blank screen of a broken laptop while stabbing clumsy fingers at the keys.

Suzy couldn’t leave. Zombies streamed down the street, heading toward the café. One by one they walked in the doorway.

Mr. Friendly lurched inside as far as the counter where he stood like a post. His lips were gone, leaving a parody of a ghastly smile on his face. Bits of rotting flesh stuck to his perfect teeth. He smelled of decay and Armani. She gave him a cup too, but he didn’t move away until the corpse behind him started pushing. He lifted the cup to his mouth and poured most of the coffee down over his shirt. It formed a puddle on the floor. Mr. Friendly shuffled to rejoin the line.

As each reeking corpse arrived at the counter, Suzy poured another cup of coffee and quickly set it down on the counter, stepping back to stay out of reach. The café was filling up. She glanced toward the street and that’s when it hit her. The broken window left just part of the store name. Now it spelled out “hel’s Café. She was Hell’s own barista, wondering in mounting horror what would happen when the coffee ran out.

The camera comes to life, the attached lights staring brightly ahead. It’s November 2008 and we’re in a school gymnasium that’s been set up as a voting station. There are tables and an American flag and there are ten elderly citizens sitting behind the tables, and stacks of ballots ready to be distributed… what seems a bit unusual are the big pistols and shotguns sitting on the tables and being carried about. The man in the room with the least firepower available, is the uniformed police officer sitting in the corner on a folding chair.

A young newsman steps between the camera and the seated officials; he has an elderly woman by the elbow and he’s guiding her into the middle of the frame.

“Good morning, I’m Todd Preakish with KJOM channel 4 news. I’m standing here today with Marge Hannoway at the 13th precinct poling station, Cobb County, Maine… and I’m wondering… just what is going though your mind at this moment, Miss Hannoway?”

“I’m a bit concerned.” she says.

Todd holds the microphone in her face, waiting for more, but then sees he’s going to have to elicit the information.

“According to precedent and regulations, you’re supposed to open the doors promptly at seven AM; considering what’s been happening in this vicinity, is that still the plan?”

“Unless we hear from the state capitol, yes, we will be opening the doors at seven. According to recently passed legislation, it is a felony to intentionally dis-enfranchise any group of voters, or cause to be unnecessarily burdened any voter or potential voter, whether through action or through in-action, in an attempt to alter the voting process, by reason of race or creed or political affiliation or by ethnic origin or economic status or gender, even if that attempt wouldn’t appreciably alter either the momentum of the voting as it occurs, or the outcome of any local, state wide, or national election.

“Yes. I understand that… Miss Hannoway have you looked outside? I have it from a reliable source that you went upstairs, not more than five minutes ago, and you looked out the big window by the reading room and this reliable source said you saw something terrible.”

“I don’t know what you mean by the phrase, ‘reliable source’. I was the person who told you what I’ve seen. It was me you spoke to. I told you about looking outside. I guess I’m my own reliable source.”

“Would you be willing to tell us what it is you’ve seen?”

“Todd, you know what’s going on. It’s been on all the stations. Even your station has started covering the developments. It’s all people have been talking about for the past two days.”

“In your own words, if you don’t mind.” Todd held the microphone a little closer to Marge’s mouth.

“Well, I went upstairs and I went to the window and I looked down and saw between a hundred, and a hundred and thirty, bloody, murderous, growling zombies. They were milling about, testing the doors and windows, and most of them have blood on their faces and some have blood all over. They were crashing into each other and a lot of buildings in the neighborhood are burning… my car is on fire and so is that news van you came in… in fact, most of the city is on fire… and what’s worse, there is no sense of order, they haven’t lined up, you’re supposed to line up if you want to vote. They aren’t being very orderly. It appears good citizenship has been abandoned.”

Todd nodded, “Did you see anything to indicate these may be potential voters… these people surrounding the building?”

“That’s the problem then. isn’t it..? It’s difficult to tell. I did see a voter card… but the hand holding the card, was just part of a man’s upper torso; the torso being carried around and eaten by those dead people. I’ve tried to see if I can spot any of the regulars, the regular voters. I’ve worked as an election official here for almost 38 years and I’ve gotten so I can expect certain people dropping by early, and some dropping by after they get off work. So far, I haven’t seen anyone I recognize.”

“Being attuned as you are to politics, you know turnout is the key to most elections. It comes down to an issue of energizing the base and perhaps picking up some swing voters during the last few days. But at this time, the fastest growing segment of the electorate seems to be the un-dead… do you have any idea how this might affect the outcome today?”

“That’s going to be hard to guess.” She said, “I’m beginning to think the usual trick of trotting out wedge issues may not be sufficient this year, or for the next few election cycles. I’m not sure the un-dead have an opinion about flag burning, or gay marriage, or emergency contraceptives, although, so far as I know, there hasn’t been any polling, or study, or focus group seminars, not as yet, anyway. I imagine they might be interested in healthcare…. If a cure is possible… they will definitely be interested in increased funding for that. And now that I think about it, they may have strongly held opinions on the estate tax… but if you’ll excuse me, it’s about time to open the doors.”

The camera follows her to the door. She stands with her hand on the latch. She looks at her wristwatch.

“Are you sure you want to do this?” Todd asks.

“I’m not going to have another election decided by the Supreme Court. I’d rather take my chances with the public at large.” She tosses the bolt and then opens the doors. She backs into the voting area making, ‘follow me’ gestures with her hands. A dozen zombies follow her. The torso with the voting card is also following… crabbing along… trailing intestines… leaving a streak of blood on the dark linoleum. The undead eventually arrive at the tables. The poll workers are all pointing guns at them, waiting to see what happens. The cop in the corner has come out of his chair. He’s holding a can of mace in his hand, his arm extended.

One of the poll workers tears off a paper ballot from a pad and offers it to a zombie. The zombie takes it and looks at it… turns it over and looks at it some more. He’s trying to read a proposition, but he’s having trouble. For one thing, half his face has been bitten off, and the other thing is… the proposition has been intentionally written where a vote in the “no” position will result in more exemptions to road-tax encumbrances and short term bond divestitures. The way it’s worded makes him want to bite someone… so he does.

Because he remembered to bring his voter card, only the torso is allowed to vote. Though un-necessary to do so, he also shows his driver’s license. The torso doesn’t have a face; his face was scraped off as he was being dragged behind a speeding car, an hour ago, so he doesn’t have a face. The poll worker dips his finger in a pool of blood and smears it across the photo on the license. He looks at the red smudge and then looks at the ruined face. “Yep, that’s you all right.” he says. Then he hands back the license.

Amid rapid gunfire and slow pandemonium the democratic process moves forward.

* * *

12:30 P.M. Oklahoma City station KJLG TV / The Green Room

Deke Wilson is a declared candidate… a churchgoing Democrat.. a successful businessman and he’s also tied to a chair because he’s recently become a murdering blood-thirsty zombie. A churchgoing Democratic zombie strapped to a chair. He is thrashing and wiggling; straining against the ropes. A woman wearing a smock is trying to put make-up on Deke. It isn’t going very well.

“I’m not going anywhere near his mouth.” she says.

Marvin Paynest is one of Deke Wilson’s handlers. “I’m mainly worried about the eyes.” Marvin says. “Can you make the eyes look honest, for the close-ups, for when he faces the camera?” Marvin asks.

“I’ll try.” say the woman holding the mascara. But then the woman mutters. “Like he’ll look honest while he’s chewing the moderator…”

“I heard you.” Marvin says.

Another one of the candidate’s men pulls Marvin off to one side. “Are you sure we have to do this?” he asks. “I know it’s kind’a late but, can’t we get another candidate?”

“His name is on the ballot. His name is in the ads. And more important than all that, it’s his money we’ve been spending. You said yourself, you thought he was a little too, ‘Michael Dukakis’ and needed to be more combative when he get’s in front of the camera. I just hope nobody asks him that question about someone getting raped and murdered… he’s liable to get angry.” They look at Deke as he snips off three of the makeup woman’s fingers with his teeth.

Amid the woman’s screams, a man with a clipboard in one hand and a stop watch in the other stuck his head in the room. “One minute till the debate.” he says.

* * *

Election Return Headquarters / New York

Big newsman desk. Map of U.S. on the wall. Three people sharing the camera, the one in the middle is Katie Couric.

Katie is speaking, “Another hotly contested race was in Illinois, where during the past few weeks the Republicans have focused a lot of money and energy and no one really thought they were going to gain any dividends for that… until last night when Senator Henry Smith admitted…”

The man on the right interrupts, “If I’m correct… it was a spokesman for the Senator… at first there was a blanket denial.”

The man on her left interjects, “And, if I’m correct, what was denied was a sexual motivation. He never denied biting the interns.”

“Whatever his motivation for that incident…” Katie says, “…what we do have is film of a previous incident involving the Senator. We have film of the Senator trying to gain entry into the dorms where the interns are housed, a full three hours before the biting incident in the Capitol Rotunda late last night. This is taken from a security camera and the film is a little grainy and it’s quite dark (the film starts playing) but it’s clear to see the Senator looks under the influence of something. Look at his expression as he bites the doorman… as he swallows the doorman’s nose. And you can see the trouble the police have in restraining the Senator. And we still don’t have an explanation as to why the Senator wasn’t arrested at that time, or why there were no charges filed. According to papers surrendered to the District of Colombia… the bite was being described as concentual. Although they were under a judges seal, we obtained a copy of those papers, anonymously via e-mail… however… interestingly… it seems those papers came from someone in Senator Smith’s office… so, until we find out the motives of the person sending those papers, we do have to be a little suspicious…. “

Sacrament, California - Newsroom of station HGIM 4:17 A.M.

Sounds of gunfire. In the background we can see people running… some of them are on fire… some of them are trying to build a barricade.

The camera focuses on the man at the newsdesk.

“We now have the final results for the governor’s race here in California and it went to the wire as expected. With 100 percent of the precincts reporting we have projected Schwartzenegger as winning another term… an unprecedented event here in California. Right now it stands at three votes for Schwartzenegger, one vote for Selma Hyack, and one vote for the Constitutional gun meth crack pedophile people’s coalition party. Our analysts tell us that even with high voter recognition… Schwartzenegger had real trouble obtaining the victory. For each vote cast for Schwartzenegger, there was more than eight hundred million dollars spent on advertising. A record for a gubernatorial election. And now we switch you to our affiliate for a reaction.”

The screen dances with black and white dots.

Three minutes later a test pattern fills the screen. An Indian, circles and numbers.

The test pattern is upside down.

The End

—-

Bio:Tom Smith has been published more than 100 times with stories appearing in: “Nightmares” “Lullaby Hearse” and “Scared Naked Magazine”. The story he wrote called, “White Kangaroo” (a story about a contest between balloon animal artists), was nominated as best web fantasy story in ‘03. Tom has three grown children: Jamie, Scott and Rebecca. All are accomplished, talented and sensible, traits they share with their mother, the beautiful, Mary Ann.

Tuesday, September 04, 2007­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­

I never thought it would happen to me. Damn that Tommy Barker. Always grabbing at me. So we stopped over at Allston Park and went down to the beach to you know. Ever since I gave him that blowjob after Laura Murphy’s birthday party a month ago, he’s been determined to get another one. But I was drunk that night and besides he didn’t want to pull out before–

Never mind. The point is this–we went down to the beach and suddenly there was this old guy stumbling out of the dunes like some kind of drunk or maybe perv, and Tommy–that fuck–ran off with his dick hanging out and left me there with my pants halfway down.

Turns out this old guy wasn’t a drunk (though he might have been a perv–at least at some point). He was one of those. You know. Those Deaders that’s been on the internet and in the paper. One of those things my dad is always warning me to stay clear.

But there he was. Dead as home-made shit and stumbling around in his stinky, wet clothes. He was on his knees before I could get my jeans buttoned. Then he clamped his teeth into my calf. He ruined my best jeans–the ones Mother picked up at Hollister. That bastard dumbshit tore a hole right through those jeans and took a piece of my leg with him.

You know, I don’t think I even realized he was a Deader until I kicked him. Right in the side of the head, just like he was a soccer ball, and he let go right away, but only because his lower jaw came loose on that side. I remember standing there a second a0nd watching his rotted black tongue sort of waggle and flap around. Then I ran. It didn’t really even hurt that much. The ER doc (who did not look like George Clooney, BTW) said that was likely because of the adrenaline rush I had. But now I’m just high on the pills he gave me. He gave my mother a little bottle of pills, too. To add to her collection.

Anyway, Tommy had the car running already. Good ol’ Tommy. How manly of him, BTW. Idiot. And then had the nerve to bitch about me getting blood all over the floorboard of his Xterra. He dropped me off in front of the ER entrance and sped away with my purse and my phone. I had to use a greasy payphone to call my dad.

Boy, you should have seen the look on my parents’ faces when they picked me up. You’d thought I was caught screwing the entire Varsity and J.V. football team at a church picnic.

“What are we going to do with you, Audrey?” Mother said. She was crying, but she did that sometime anyway and usually for no real reason. But they seemed to think the whole thing pretty dire.

I sighed, rolled my eyes in the backseat of Dad’s Beemer, and watched as the bloodspot was already growing wide and dark through the bandage.

That sonofabitch ruined my best jeans. Did I mention that?

Posted at 09/04/2007 11:52:34 pm by deadgirl
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Wednesday, September 05, 2007­­­­­­­­­­­­______________________________

It’s not like those stupid movies. The Deaders haven’t ovtaken the world–at least not yet. We still go to school. Our parents still work and go out to the country club and pretend to play golf when they are really there to socialize, impress one another and swill martinis. Us kids? Well, we still go to football games and clubs and to the mall.

The Deaders have become this weird, nagging environmental problem, like global warming or beach erosion. It makes good headlines, but it usually doesn’t touch you personally. That is. As long as you are careful.

I don’t know why I’m telling you all of that. Unless you live under a rock, you’ve heard about it.

Geez. I can’t believe I let this happen. I made Tommy keep condoms in his glovebox , but didn’t think to make him check for Deaders behind the dunes. Obviously, our sex wasn’t all that safe.

I’ve been reading some stuff about what’s supposed to happen to a person once they’ve been infected. It doesn’t sound good.

I’m a little scared.

Monday, I go back to school. I hope big-mouth Tommy hasn’t told anyone.

Posted at 09/05/2007 09:03:59 pm by deadgirl
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Monday, September 10, 2007­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­________________________________

Tommy Barker, that weasel. He told. He told everyone and what’s worse, he told what we were doing before it happened.

Cheryl Lindsey laughed. The slut. “I guess your not gonna be Homecoming Queen this year,” she said.

It never dawned on me; but it’s was true. I’ll probably not be around for Homecoming.

Or graduation. Or college.

Oh, shit.

I’m going to be a Deader. A fucking nasty ol’ Deader.

When I got home this afternoon, Cindy was in my room. I think she was already deciding which of my things she wants to keep and what she plans to throw out. My room is a lot bigger than hers is. She’ll move right in once I’m gone.

Posted at 09/10/2007 04:14:09 pm by deadgirl
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Tuesday, September 11, 2007­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­________________________________

Something weird happened this morning when I was getting ready for school. First, I’ll tell you, I’m looking fairly sallow, like I haven’t been to the tanner in months. My skin is for shit and I’m wearing more makeup than normal. Anyway, the strange thing was, when I put on my lip-gloss, my lips just started cracking. Like chapped lips, but ten times worse. And this icky black stuff came oozing out.

I ran and told Mother and she gave me a tissue and said, “It’s only going to get worse, dear. Now don’t make me late for work.” She’s an anchor for the local news, so she thinks she knows everything about everything because she can read some copy.

Oh well. School was long and I felt tired all day. Chloe and Sarah and the rest of the squad (except for Cheryl, who wants my spot as head cheerleader) pretended sympathy, but I heard them laughing when I got up from the table in the cafeteria and dumped my tray. I’m not sure why I got lunch anyway. I’m certainly not hungry for…pizza. Barf!

You know, the upside of this entire thing is this. I don’t think Tommy Barker will be hassling me for another B.J.

Posted at 09/11/2007 03:35:33 pm by deadgirl
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Friday, September 14, 2007­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­_________________________________

Friday and no calls. God, I ended up going to the mall with Cindy and her dumb friend Kendra, who is this fat little geek–not unlike my sister, BTW–who enjoyed detailing what I might experience next during my–transformation. Never thought I would resort to paling around with my weirdo 14 year-old sis on the weekend. I think I know what it feels like to be ugly now. I mean, I haven’t changed that much, but something is…off. These guys were trailing us in front of the A.E. store and when I turned around, they looked-well, fucking surprised. And not in a good way. I suppose I still check out from behind.

I guess I could blame it on who I was with. That’s what would have done a month ago, anyway.

Geefuckingwhiz, I wish I were dead.

I mean all the way dead.

Posted at 09/14/2007 11:03:19 pm by deadgirl
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September 17, 2007­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­________________________________________

It’s more and more difficult to get myself together for school. This morning when I was brushing my hair, some came out.

Actually, a lot came out.

And some of my scalp.

I called Mother and she came in, smiling this big fake-assed smile and suggested I wear a hat today. I dug my pink Kangaroo golf cap ( that’s not especially cool any more, BTW) , then realized my blouse didn’t match, so I had to change it, also. Plus, my head sort of oozed this stick, yellowish crap from where the scalp had come off, and I had to stick a bandage over it.

I ended up late.

Do you know what its like to walk in late front of a class full of kids when you’re dead?

Somebody giggled. Now I truly know what the losers felt like when I would laugh at them and make those little comments.

For some reason, I haven’t been making so many clever little comments lately. It’s like my brain isn’t working as quickly as it had been.

Gym class was a bitch from hell. For the first time in my life, I could not run. I was slow. Awkward. I felt like a fool. It was like my muscles had forgotten how to function. And in volleyball, too. I lettered in girl’s volleyball last year.

Cheryl, that slut. I heard her say, “Way to move, Lurch. Has rigor mortis already set in?”

Then after lunch, I went to my locker and saw that some wit had written “Audrey Scott has crotch rot” across the front.

Clever. Anyway, I decided then to hell with it and left early. Another “plus,” if you can call it that, to this whole Deader thing is this–you don’t get into trouble for cutting class. But Cindy nearly had an aneurysm and went whining to Dad that I was getting special treatment because I’m turning into a zombie.

She’d better what out. I’ll bite her and take her right down with me.

Actually, I am somewhat peckish.

Posted at 09/17/2007 02:45:11 pm by deadgirl
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September 25, 2007­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­________________________________________

Well, the school thing is over. It’s too difficult to be ridiculed. Teased. Mocked. I’ve never been treated that way. It was as though they hated me. Cindy suggested they might just all be a little afraid. Of me. Of what they might become.

Cindy feels a little sorry for me, so she is just being nice. They hate me.

Nobody calls.

My father switches off the news when I come into the room. I guess he thinks seeing footage of those Deaders will upset me. And those commercials–those bizarre funeral homes where they don’t even put the dead in the ground because the dead are still walking around. Now, your loved ones can be put away. People are so sentimental. They can’t part with anything, even the dead. Like an old pair of pants. You always hope they come back into style. Same way with the Deaders–you hold on to them and hope they come up with some sort of cure.

Those places show rolling green pastures, but they actually show any Deaders. Deaders aren’t very pretty.

Posted at 09/25/2007 05:08:01 pm by deadgirl
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October 22, 2007­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­___________________________________________

Someting is going on with my head. It feels like I have maggots in there. Squirming. I canot always think of the words I want. I can’t rememmber how to spel everything.

Stood for a lomg time and looked at meself in the mirow. So ugly now. Bkack & sticky drool driped off me chin and I didn;t wipe it away, It doesn’t matter.

Mom & Dad did not cume into my ruum today. They hadRosey leave a steak on my dressser when she clened up. she crosses hersef when i lok at her & sayz some prayer in spannish.

The steke was not cooked and it waz soo gode. I felt lik i had not eaten in 1000 years.

I lcked the blood from the plate and my fingers, two.

Posted at 10/22/2007 09:17:56 am by deadgirl
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October 25, 2007­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­___________________________________________

dor is lockt frum te outside.

Hard to tink. harder to rite thsi–i ate the padz off of all me fingerz tips. Starving to fuking deth,

Roeys brot those big ol diapers to me cauz this blak stuf is coommin out of my ass.

Carpets all ruined in hear

I cannoot go to slep anymor. I twitch all the tim. never stop. Like a spaz.

Hungry. Stakes do’t make me full lipz r gon. I ate thme in my sleep, suked on them. & my cheek.

Nobody cals.

Posted at 10/25/2007 11:43:08 am by deadgirl
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Cindy99’s LJ

October 28, 2007­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­___________________________________________

Audrey cannot write anymore.

School has closed now, at least for a while, until they can get the number of Deaders under control.

Audrey bit Rosie’s cheek off last night and made a run for it. Poor Rosie. She’ll be a Deader, too. Dad paid to have her sent back to Ecuador or wherever she came from.

It’s sad. She has grandchildren.

Audrey. I felt odd, outside of myself when I saw her flash by my door. I had not seen her in weeks. It was like seeing a scary movie.

She stood in the front yard, naked save for a pair of Depends. Black stuff ran down her legs. It seemed to be oozing from all her openings–her ears, nose, mouth. Her breasts, once the popular set of boobs at Lincoln High, BTW, hung like small pouches. Her ribs showed through where the skin had decayed or had been picked away. She had lost all of her hair.

She twirled around and round on the lawn, her arms stretched out wide and she screamed.

She looked as though she was smiling at first, and then I realized her lips were gone completely.

I closed my blinds.

I don’t feel as bad for her as I do for myself. I don’t want to become like her.

Mom and Dad managed to get her back inside without being infected. They looked scared and very tired and I think we will all be glad when this is over. Just like when Grandma had Alzheimer’s. At a point, it was just better if she were gone. (I’m still sort of afraid she’ll show up, dead and even more scary than before.) Anyway, Dad has called one of those places in the Upstate. I overheard him telling Mom how expensive it is to keep her there, but they can’t seem to let go just yet. They are going to use Audrey’s college fund to pay for it. Someone is coming to pick her up tomorrow and will take her back there.

I’ve decided I don’t want her room, afterall. I hear her in there now, screaming, cursing. I hear things breaking.

You know, I’ve always been the smart one anyway. I swear, if I’ve learned anything from this whole thing, it’s never fuck at the beach without checking behind the dunes first.

Posted at 10/28/2007 02:20:17 pm by cindy99
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It really got fucked when the only place I could find was a foot locker, about 3 feet square to hide in. I closed it on myself and it somehow stayed that way…

Think about it, the very idea of pizza delivery sprang up once folks decided to barricade themselves in suburban homes to keep dangerous minorities away from their lives and their expensive shit. This is kind of the same situation, except the trend of barricading your entire family extended itself into an actual life and death matter.

How The Drivers took hold I will never know…but they did. At first they spent their time fortifying their own shops, stealing generators, living off of stored ingredients. They had enough to support themselves while they got their shit together.

They swarmed, they always do, at first it was only a few, but eventually I could hear them piling up…

They were on some road warrior shit. Half of them were packing anyway, not the pimply college kids working a summer job. Most of them got chewed up as soon as the shit hit the fan. I’m talking about the lifers, the guys with DUIs on their record, no education, NRA memberships, bad backs and drug problems. Those guys took over.

Think about it, all these people barricaded in their homes, churches, whatever, they needed food. And The Drivers could get it to them.

I’m sure they only delivered a few actual pizzas initially, after their stores ran out, eventually they became more like paid scouts, heading out into the white zones to pick up spare food and deliver it to whoever paid.

They were piled so high on top of the box that parts of it started to dent in. I could hear them, inches away from me, snarling and biting each other. Trying to get to me.

And I will say it again; they were fucking bad-ass. Their uniforms changed from dorky shorts and embroidered polo shirts to heavily reinforced leather and work fabrics. Some of them even worked up some chain mail to cover the weak parts. It helped protect them but made them a little slow, which affected tips. The crazy part is they maintained their corporate identities. They hacked the patches and insignias off of their old uniforms and stitched them onto their new ones.

They also did insane things to their cars. Delivery drivers already know how to change their oil, and do general repairs, but who knew they knew how to weld steel plating, wire insanely bright halogen light sets, throw in new suspension and beefed up engines to handle the extra weight. These things were fucking tanks, with gun ports, spikes everywhere, and yes, even those damn light up pizza siren things.

So there they were, gangs of roving maniacs, out saving the world (for a price). The Drivers. They stayed loyal to their colors too. Dominos was the first to get a foothold in the market, on account of a local general manager, Louie Bruno, being an ex green-beret/martial arts expert/general Brooklyn bad ass. I heard that before the storm once, he was ambushed on his way to make a night drop at the bank. Instead of giving up the money like those corporate training videos told him to do, he beat the shit out of the guy, grabbed his gun and chased him to his car, calling him a pussy the entire time.

I couldn’t move, they were right on top of me. Their spit and blood and fluid was leaking into the box, and I kept puking on myself from their smell… after a few hours I was dry heaving, an hour after that it was blood, and I kept passing out…

Louie trained his Dominos guys. They were the original bad asses. They didn’t fuck with guns very much. They would roll up, three or four of them would jump out of the back of a van/tank with Lobos and machetes and other randomly thrown together melee weapons. 2 would go to work clearing Zack out of the delivery area while the other two would unload the goods onto the customer.

Little Caesar’s was next up, and they were pretty hardcore too. Remember their mascot, the little cartoon dictator or whatever? He had those pizzas on the end of that fucked up pitchfork? Well The Caesars had those things too. Cast iron, two prongs, long as hell, strapped to their back. I received a delivery once, the driver was getting ready to give me the food when a quick one surprised him. Before I could even start bitching that he forgot my Cinna Sticks, he had his fork out and buried straight into the G’s chest.

Fucking thing was stuck there, thrashing around like crazy on the end of that stick. The Driver just held him there, pinned to the pavement like it was nothing. I then realized why they made their weapons so long. Same concept as a dog catchers leash/lasso/pole thing, keep the rabid shits as far away as possible. He didn’t seem to mind. It was damn hard calculating 20 percent with a thrashing zombie 5 feet away from me.

After about 4 hours I came to… gunshots…someone else was in the room…

Loyalty and turf became a huge fucking deal. Delivery zones became sacred, if 2 opposing crews ended up on the same road there wasn’t any kind of discussion. These massive steel hulking bulldozer fucking cars would just slam right into each other until one crew was dead. They really did stick to their own zones though, so collisions were rare, but the roads were so fucked that detours were inevitable.

I heard about a Papa John’s squad coming across a lone Domino’s Driver in their zone. The Domino had gotten separated from his crew on a botched delivery and wandered into the wrong zone.

The Papas were particularly gnarly. A lot folks said it was on account of all the sugar in their sauce and dough. Some said it was their mob-bred roots. Anyway, they took this poor fucker, stripped off his armor, strapped him to the front of their transport, and went about their business making deliveries. The whole time he was there he acted as a kind of lightning rod for Zack. They would all swarm on him and rip him apart, leaving room for The Papas to get paid. Eventually he turned, of course, so they wasted him and left him strapped there. Hood ornament.

The more shots I heard the louder everything around me get, as layers of them fell off of my putrid stronghold.

Eventually, resources ran so low that The Drivers became pretty hardcore about their money, or whatever it was you were giving them in exchange for food. When it got really desperate, the luckiest houses were the ones that had women. Those pornos where the pizza guy stops by to deliver the “extra sausage” pizza and ends up railing two already-naked (she just came over to use the shower) stay-at-home moms… well that shit happened all the time…except in this version the pizza guy is covered in gore and the moms are all malnourished and half-crazy. Nice.

Payment of any kind was serious business too. I heard about a customer who owed them money for like 3 months. After three months The Drivers, a crew from Pizza Hut (pussies by driver standards) came to collect. They knocked down every door in the house, and raided the place. They grabbed everything of any kind of value. Not money but booze, pornos, prescription drugs, medical supplies, clothes, books, magazines, anything they wanted. They took all of this as payment and left. And they didn’t stop to put the doors back up.

Eventually they ran out of bullets…I could tell they had switched to melee weapons now as I could hear the sounds of stabbing, slicing, bones breaking, rotted skulls caving in…

They got close to me, I could hear them killing the last layer, and…”FUCK!” I screamed as 3 feet of rusty pipe came punching through the roof of the box, right through my calf…

“FUCK! FUCK! FUCK! FUCK! YOU FUCKERS ARE NOT GETTING ANY KIND OF TIP FROM ME!! FUCK!!”

To be continued

Saint Mercy Regional is an acute care facility located just outside Springfield. We have a fully staffed ER trauma center and beds for two hundred patients. It was about midnight when we got our first walking dead. He came bursting in the doors and started biting people. Nurse Pamela frowned and then called the man over to her desk. She put a clip board on the counter facing the patient and slapped a pen down on it. He looked down at the form, a puzzled look on his face.

“No one gets admitted without filling this out.” she said.

He picked up the pen and aimed the fine point metal end at his face and plunged the instrument in and then dragged it sideways across his pasty good looks. When he was through his upper lip hung down like a curtain hanging by one hook and blood was squirting onto the phones and the magazines piled on the counter.

Pamela wasn’t new to the health care system, “I’ll also need to Xerox your health insurance card.” she said.

* * *

At about this time I was upstairs in operations co-coordinating air evac and ER. This had nothing to do with the plague of zombies. I didn’t even know anything strange had transpired downstairs. I was busy on the cell phone talking to the medic on Mercy Bird One as he was cleaning up a highway accident. The med-evac crew is supposed to be able to turn to the hospital for guidance in unusual situations. The medic wanted advice. I was getting a little angry.

“What is it you don’t understand about our triage policy?” I said, into the phone.

The voice from far away seemed stressed. “Well, normally the dead don’t run off with the gurneys. A whole bunch of dead people have formed two teams and are having a race down the highway with the gurneys. They aren’t going very fast, but they seem to be very competitive, with members of both groups ripping off their own arms and throwing them at the competition…” he paused. I could hear him take a deep breath. “I’m usually very good about the triage; I’m usually very down with the triage policy. I do like my job, I’ve always thought it a good idea, that part about dealing with the dead only after all the injured are taken care of… just… well, this time… it just seems the dead are so much more insistent on getting in the helicopter than the living. You ever see films about the last days in Saigon? It’s like that, the embassy roof all over again. The injured have all run away, one of them running on broken legs. One of the cops had a guy handcuffed, I think he was the driver who caused all this, but the guy just ate through his hands and got the cuffs off.” His voice wavered. He burst into tears. Sobbing he said, “It’s just a little chaotic and I thought you could give me some advice.”

“Look… all I know is if you follow procedures your ass is covered. They can’t fire you if you go by the manual. Triage.” I said. “Triage. Triage. Triage. That’s been the mainstay at Mercy Regional and there’s no other way for you to be fair to your clients.”

“I’ll try.” He said.

“Good.” I said. “We’ll have two men standing by on the roof to help with transport. When you get settled come see me. We can get some food at the cafe’. I’m buying.”

“Think they have the grill running?”

“Till two A.M.” I said.

* * *

I didn’t know it at the time, but there was a steady stream of zombies drifting into the hospital. After ten all the elevators are controlled; if you get in any of the big elevators you can only get to the basement, the main floor which included the ER, or the ninth floor – elective surgery. At night, the main door stays open out front, but only because it is adjacent to the emergency room. The staff is supposed to intercept people drifting in off the street. That system broke down. They came in. Groups of zombies came in. What they did was cluster outside, a whole pack of them looking a bit like a rugby scrum; then when they noticed the nurse was busy, they would quickly shamble to the elevator and get in. Usually they went down. After an hour the basement was full; and I mean packed like a mosh pit. Blood was all over the floor and walls. The slightest whim had the whole group surging down the corridors like a tidal wave looking for Kurt Russell’s new movie. One found a phone and somehow managed to call the director of facilities.

“Light.” he said, after placing the call. The word was said very clearly, even though blood came out of the zombie and poured onto the handset of the phone.

“Station twenty?” It was a maintenance man trying to verify where the call was coming from.

“Light,” the zombie said spilling more blood. Then, “Kill”. Then, because he just heard someone else say twenty he said, “Twenty.”

The lights in the basement went out.

The zombie made an appreciative grunt.

Thinking it was a request for an adjustment, the lights came back on, about half as strong as before.

During the next three hours the lights would quickly wander from incandescent to non-candescent as the maintenance man tried to respond to some repetitive and gagged, imprecise instructions coming from the phone.

The crowd in the basement noticed the changing lights and were motionless for a few moments, silently savoring their improved circumstances. A few zombies started small fires adding a soft red glow and dense smoke to the hellish basement experience. One of the zombies liked the changes so much he tried to applaud, but found he couldn’t manage a complicated task, so to celebrate he ground his own face into the concrete wall until his neck was an empty stump.

* * *

On the ninth floor, where it was otherwise very quiet, a tiny sound made a tiny announcement; a tiny musical note announced the arrival of an elevator. This time it didn’t contain a rugby scrum. This time it was a lone occupant who stepped from the elevator doors. Many of the patients on the ninth floor would have recognized the arriving passenger. He was a surgeon, Dr. Mark Mywards, a handsome young surgeon who specialized in elective surgery. He was stopping in to check on Mrs. Berkling, she was sleeping at the hospital, waiting for her surgery. She was having something done around her eyes. Something un-important. (Hadn’t her doctor already told her she looked marvelous?) Her room was one of the VIP rooms: a room with a huge plasma screen TV and a real bed and a fake fireplace and decorative end tables; the kind of room most people don’t realize can be located in a hospital.

The doctor opened the door to Mrs. Berling’s room; he stood there with the light framing him. She knew by his outline that it was her doctor. He certainly looked care-free standing in the soft light. Myra Berling tried to learn a new word every day. Earlier she’d consulted a dictionary and had found the word, ‘insouciance’. She tried to use her new word. The doctor sure looks care-free, he looks, ‘insouciant’. She told herself. She guessed she hadn’t been mistaken by the silent messages he’d been sending her. He was here to seduce her, of that she had no doubt. Even though she was twice his age she was still vital and passionate. She sat up. She was wearing a very sheer night gown. The doctor walked past and stood by the big window. He was looking down at the city. From where he was he could see the fires, the burning houses and the broken police cars. He placed his head against the window. Even though the air conditioning was on high and the window very cold, he didn’t leave any fog on the glass when he turned to face the woman on the bed, he left a big chunk of his rotting scalp.

She was looking away; being demure. With her right hand she was patting the bed.

She only looked back in his direction when she felt his hard weight join hers on the soft bed.

Her first thought was, “‘Wow… he really doesn’t look that good when his hair isn’t combed.’ And then she screamed.

* * *

“I’ve always said new challenges call for new procedures.” I was talking to the staff; they were gathered in the multi-purpose room. I was up in the front, standing next to the big chalkboard with an overhead projector close-by in case I needed it. “Until further notice we are only admitting people without vital signs,” I said, “…people with no pulse, folks with fixed pupils, no blood pressure, zero brain waves, no reflexes, limbs kind’a jerking around, you’ll spot them after a little practice.”

Some podiatrist tried to question my authority “You can’t withhold medical treatment from the living.” he said.

“Show them the waiting room, they’ll move on.” I said. “And I’ve received a call from the governor designating this as the central medical facility during this crisis. If you find you have to call an HMO for any surgical permission, don’t you dare mention that the patient is dead. If they ask you’ll have to tell them, but it’s not a question they’re used to asking, at least not yet. Also, about the crash carts. I know how much you guys like to use the crash carts; just so you know, they won’t be any use for the next few days. Speaking for myself, I feel it will be nice to get through an entire day without somebody rubbing paddles and yelling ‘clear’. On another point, the president has called out the National Guard; at first the phone just rang and rang but eventually somebody answered. It turns out the man answering is the last available National Guardsman who isn’t busy at the moment doing terrorists, the border, storm clean-up, or the war. So the good news is help is coming. The bad news is, it’s one guy; a guy named Herbert Millstone. As a civilian he used to sell vacation condos. When he gets here don’t let him show you any pamphlets. I’ve also been informed that, congress has announced temporary medical benefits for the walking dead, to help pay for this emergency. When you have dealings with any of the walking dead try to get them to sign up for coverage. There are seventy-five different plans so there should be one well suited to your particular patient. Make sure you and your patient look at every single plan and then choose the right one. If your department has extra manpower or needs extra help don’t be afraid to let me know.”

In the back of the room a nurse held up her hand. “We can send you some staff from the nursery.” She said. “The damn zombies ate all the babies.”

“Okay let’s get back to work.” I said “And remember, just cause we can’t cure them, that doesn’t mean we can’t bill them for treatment.”

Finis

—-

Bio: Tom Smith has been published more than 100 times with stories appearing in: “Nightmares” “Lullaby Hearse” and “Scared Naked Magazine”