Death and Taxes

by Galen Surlak-Ramsey

  Ryan jerked his head over his shoulder. “One away from the kitchen sink maybe,” he replied. “Though both you and Mr. Martin have been a little obsessed about... what was that again? Death? Yes... death.” He then motioned to an opposite corner where the dog was sitting, bristle backed and eyes fixated on the tax collector. “And I’m beginning to suspect the dog is involved somehow too.”

  “The dog?” Clarice raised an eyebrow.

  “Yes, the dog. The canine. The supposed best friend of man.” Ryan paused for a couple of moments before continuing. “I think he’s at best, Martin’s friend, but certainly not mine. Do you think he would help me chase down a tax fraud? I think not.”

  “Speaking of, where is Martin?” Clarice asked.

  “Outside on the porch,” Ryan replied. “He went there to finish whittling and to do something or other.”

  Her rumbling stomach prompted the next question. “Did he make breakfast?”

  “He didn’t mention that he had,” he said, thinking back. “Ma would be my guess. But then again, I haven’t seen her at all, so perhaps Martin did. In any case, have some.”

  “I haven’t seen her either,” she commented, glancing over her shoulder. Since their arrival the prior day, the house had been absent of others, aside from themselves and Martin. “I wonder where she is.”

  “Perhaps she’s dead,” Ryan said in a detached manner. “Being buried in the ground would make it hard for someone to see you.” He began picking at the food in front of him. “Worms, though, they find a body easily enough. Do you think it’s by smell? Or do they just know where the juicy bits are?”

  “I don’t know,” Clarice answered in disgust. “But I’d like not to lose my appetite.”

  She took a chair, and Ryan slid one of the empty plates toward her. After helping herself to some eggs and grits, she sat back down and decided to try and reason with her employer once more. “You need to see a doctor.”

  “Nonsense. I feel fine, despite my supposed pallid color. I’m a little stiff from where those maniacs bit me, but I’m not about to let those tax dodgers scare me away.”

  Ryan continued to drone on, and Clarice paid him no heed as she was already tired of listening. She poked at her grits with her spoon in much the same way an orangutan might use a stick to poke for ants. Clarice’s grits even stuck to the spoon in much the same way ants would, though they were a little more buttery. Despite her grits’ lack of energy, she was convinced they were better tasting than the orangutan’s ants.

  Clarice jabbed the grits with her spoon once more and stirred them. She visualized them becoming angry and scurrying up the handle. With a little effort, she forced herself to admit that there was the possibility of the ants being tastier. Perhaps the animal kingdom was on to something. After all, quite a number of animals seemed to like them, and there weren’t any animals called grit-eaters. She turned that thought over a few times in her head. After considering her experience trying to solve the problem of The Pigmy Elephant and the Bathroom, Clarice promptly threw out the Ants or Grits dilemma and pushed her plate away.

  “Gah!” she exclaimed. “This is maddening. We should get going before it’s too late.”

  “My thoughts exactly, Ms. Clarice!” Ryan replied without losing a step in his monologue. “While it is frustrating to try and understand how the local collector could have such a lackadaisical attitude, we must be firm when we contact the judge today and let him know in no uncertain terms that we mean to pursue this to the end. I’ve already arranged with Mr. Martin for us to stay here in the spare rooms until the matter is settled.”

  Clarice looked up from the table. “Come again?” she asked. Her tone darkened, and she was sure to enunciate every syllable of what followed. “How long do you think we’re staying?”

  “I know we can get all of this wrapped up in a few weeks, a month at the most,” he answered, followed by a hacking cough. “You’ve been around long enough to know how fast these seizures can go. Don’t worry about your pay, my dear. You’ll be earning lots of overtime, not to mention a small share in the finder’s fee.”

  Clarice clenched her teeth before deciding to take another approach. “What about our office? Don’t you think that will be a problem?”

  “Don’t be silly, Clarice. No one is seizing our office.”

  Clarice, annoyed employee, in a further attempt to keep her sanity intact, shifted into Clarice, secretary extraordinaire. She stood, took his now empty cup of coffee and refilled it, adding precisely the proper mix of cream and sugar. “Mr. Conner,” she said. “If we stay past today, there are a slew of things that will back up at our office. New foreclosures need to be gone over, meetings have been scheduled, not to mention that this is now day three that you’ve left David in charge of the office.”

  She had no idea if David was a competent employee or not, having only met the man once for two minutes when her new-hire office tour was given, but it was worth a stab.

  “Good God!” Ryan exclaimed. “Have I? The man can barely fill out a dozen forms in under three minutes, and I left him in charge?”

  Clarice slipped into her seat and helped herself to a glass of orange juice, all the while feeling incredibly clever. “Yes, sir.”

  “Did you know, Clarice,” he said in a soft, low, voice, “that David uses inferior stamps?”

  Clarice shook her head. “No, I didn’t. It would explain why his assistant isn’t always pleased with him.”

  Ryan nodded to reemphasize his comment. “He does. And then he comes to me and complains that his notices aren’t as intimidating as mine or that his hands hurt. As if the answer to why on either of those was elusive.”

  “The nerve,” she added. “We’d better get back and set things straight.”

  “What was I thinking?” he lamented.

  “That we’d be back today,” she said with a big grin. “And back to collecting taxes where we should be. I mean, we have things we should do and should have done already. No time like the present to get back on track.”

  For the first time since Clarice had seen her employer this morning, a spark of life illuminated his face. “I must say, I’m glad to see you are still looking after the office, and you’re correct in gently reminding us all that we have responsibilities.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “And apology accepted,” he said with a wink.

  “What?”

  “Nothing to be shy about,” Ryan said, sipping more of his coffee. “I’m always understanding when one admits to one’s mistakes. It’s a sign of good character. Please don’t feel like you need to dress an apology up or dance around the issue because I demand perfection.”

  “I was only saying we should get back to collecting taxes at home and not be stuck on what’s happened here.” Clarice replayed the last few moments of the conversation in her mind, desperately trying to figure out where it had taken this unexpected turn.

  Ryan nodded. “Yes, I know. And I know that’s your way of expressing your regret for running off with our demand notice, thereby slowing down our collection efforts. But fear not, we’ll be back on track today. We’ll notify the judge this morning that our first collection attempt has been met with hostility and then take it from there. With any luck, we’ll be home before you know it.”

  Clarice, caught between a laugh and a cry, turned and left the kitchen without a further word. It was time to call a cab.

  * * *

  The game of Eats has always been by far the longest standing, most popular game among the inhabitants of Colmera Springs. This shouldn’t be surprising to anyone as it has consistently received the required two votes. They had tried other games; a few of them they even liked. But nothing could bond zombies together like a good game of Eats.

  At the most basic level, Eats was merely chasing a good meal, humans being the preferred bit of sustenance. As time passed, the game evolved to take on various forms of scoring, rules, and even names (which depended on where and when the gam
e was being played.). Most games of Eats were played at home, as everyone knows it’s much more time-consuming and expensive to eat out. However, constant games of Eats In tended to be repetitious, the leftovers were never as good, and no one wanted to do the dishes. As such, when the horde of zombies that had wandered down the mountainside approached Martin’s home, they became excited about a fresh game of Eats Out.

  The scoring for this particular game of Eats Out was quickly ratified after a minor dispute. One point would be awarded for all those that showed up, and one point would be awarded for every meal eaten. Whoever received the highest score possible, two, would win.

  With scoring settled and everyone happy, the mob quickened their pace down the mountain. It wasn’t long before they neared the edge of the tree line, and a house came into view.

  * * *

  Oddly enough, the morning fog aided Jack’s search for a new meal. The thick blanket managed to smother the usual distractions that had always kept the inhabitants of Colmera Springs from traveling down the mountain. With no tall trees, fuzzy animals, or bristly bushes to stare at, Jack had but one sensory input to follow, his nose. And it was that nose that had followed the trail of blood that their future meal had left behind.

  On the rare occasion that something did manage to catch Jack’s attention, pen and stick would save the day. Three times on the journey Jack had lost focus, and after a short while he noticed his stick in hand, lazily pointing to the ground. Inevitably his eyes would then gaze upon his pen that was wedged neatly in its shoulder socket, parallel with the ground. Clearly, he reasoned, if things were pointing down and forward, he should find whatever it was they were trying to point out. Using such excellent detective work, Jack would discover the blood trail once again, and he would resume his pursuit with Danita closely following.

  Jack paused after he and Danita broke free of the tree line. Jack took a moment to gaze at the scene before him. A significant number of flat rocks had been erected in rows to his left. Straight ahead and down the hill were a set of buildings, much like those he saw at Colmera Springs, only not quite as bent over. Coming from the largest of these was the distinct smell of breakfast.

  Danita glanced over her shoulder at the sound of the zombie horde’s approach. In all the excitement, she waved her own stick toward the house like a demented cavalry leader and gurgled. More zombies appeared from the fog, one at a time at first, then in groups of twos and threes. A few issued her a welcoming gurgle of their own, and the rabid excitement in their eye sockets told her what she needed to know—the game of Eats Out was in full swing.

  Danita replied with a gleeful sneer and boasted in good sport about the lead she and Jack had on the rest.

  When the horde was within a few dozen lurches of the nearest building, the front door opened and out stepped a somewhat familiar body. It staggered down the few steps from the porch and came to a halt in front of Jack and Danita.

  All three stood facing each other, swaying slightly in the wind. Over the next few minutes, a few grunts and groans were exchanged, as well as a few words that neither Jack nor Danita were familiar with. Before either could decipher this newcomer’s cryptic language, the third party reached up and snatched Jack’s 1941, catalog product number 31A, green metallic shell, ballpoint pen. Jack went from puzzled to irate and lunged at the robber.

  Before Jack could grab him, a loud crack came forth from the house, and Jack fell over dead—again.

  Chapter Ten

  Far from Colmera Springs, hundreds of miles away, sat a small computer. It had been crowded out of the enormous room by racks upon racks of other machines, from servers to backup drives to a pair of vending machines, each wired to the other. Together they would whirr and beep, never sharing their secrets with the wallflower.

  Despite being tucked away in the corner, it had for years faithfully monitored the constant stream of information that came flowing through its sole cable. Phone conversations from across the eastern portion of the United States were processed and discarded, and the fact that years had gone by without one discussion worthy of a red flag was beginning to take its toll on its CPU. But when Ryan Conner’s phone call to the state courthouse was picked up, the little computer, tired and on the brink of a self-format, found sudden and renewed meaning in life.

  It had ignored virtually all of the conversation, not caring about Ryan’s collection attempts and explanation to the judge as to why he had come from another state, or the judge’s less than cordial reply. What it did care about were the statements involving “staggering people” who “looked ghastly” and that “Clarice said they were dead.” Furthermore, it grew even happier when it picked up the phrase, “Colmera Springs is northeast, up the mountain a few miles.”

  The little box looked up the address information for the nearest spy satellite. After making contact with ICU-2 and convincing the satellite that it was allowed to talk to this particular, long-forgotten computer, the little box waited patiently.

  Four minutes later, once ICU-2 had fulfilled the request for a slew of boring pictures, an email was sent out to one Mark Hoffer, Team Specialist.

  * * *

  A small red icon that was accompanied by a warning beep appeared on Mark Hoffer’s screen. It took him a few minutes to trot over and check his mail, for at the time he was adjusting his tie in the mirror and wondering when he would need to get his Armani suit tailored once more. The extra time spent at the gym for the last six months was showing. As Mark went back to his desk, he shut and locked the door to his in-home office, closed the shades to his full-length windows, and took a seat at his desk.

  A quick double click opened his newest morning message.

  “Sweet Jesus riding a unicycle,” he said to himself. A flurry of mouse movements and clicks brought his printer to life, spitting out several full pages of text. Over the next few minutes, he read through the pages carefully, sipping coffee in a West Point mug and making highlights in the phone transcript he was reading. Finally, he reached for the phone, turned the volume down on his radio, and dialed the given number.

  “Good morning,” Mark Hoffer replied as someone answered. The voice on the other end gave him pause. It was slow and raspy. “Is this 233 Sovrano Trail?”

  “I believe so,” came the reply. “To whom am I speaking?”

  “My name is Mark Hoffer,” he said. “I’m working with the state courthouse as an independent contractor. And you are?”

  “Ryan Conner, Tax Collector.”

  “I understand that you’re having trouble collecting some property taxes that are overdue,” Mark said, reading over the phone transcript a third time.

  “Only because at this point in time, I’m not getting a backing from the state,” Ryan replied with disgust. “It’s a wonder you guys can run at all.”

  “I understand your frustration, sir,” Mark said, silently checking off another item on his list to be verified. “I’m here acting as a liaison of sorts. You do have to admit that the scenario of missed property taxes for such an extended period of time is rather unique.”

  “I would,” Ryan conceded. “And I appreciate anything that would help expedite the matter before things get ugly.”

  “I also understand that you’ve delivered a demand notice, is this correct?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you have a signed receipt?”

  “No,” Ryan said with a regretful tone. His voice had become increasingly stilted and his words harder to understand. “Due to to…an error by my new assistant, we do not have a copy of a signed receipt. The townsfolk have proven to be hostile.”

  “Well you are a tax collector,” Mark remarked, checking yet another box. “Could you describe the townsfolk?”

  “I am,” Ryan replied. “But as for them, they’re a bit different.”

  “How so?” Mark’s pen hovered over the last checkbox.

  “My assistant says they’re dead,” he replied. “But I’m not quite sure how she means it. Perhaps she
meant they’ll wish they’re dead, which will be true when we get done with them. But they’re different—and in desperate need of new clothes and decent hygiene.”

  “I see,” Mark said. “I’m going to send a team out to see you at this address. They should be there shortly, and we can take it from there.”

  “Excellent. We’ll be here,” Ryan said.

  Mark leaned back in his oversized executive chair. He rubbed the black leather, noting the way it felt on his fingers. Today was going to be a good day, and by next week, he was confident he could finally clinch a promotion.

  * * *

  “Who was that?” Clarice asked once Ryan hung up the phone.

  “Someone from the state,” he replied. “It would seem that they have finally come to their senses.”

  “Good, we can leave then,” Clarice replied as she stopped digging through her purse. Cab fare was apparently no longer needed. She picked up the remote and flipped channels once more. Just as she settled on some documentary on pirates, a flurry of motion caught her attention outside the window. Martin had jumped out of his rocking chair and was now leaning against the porch rail. He stood a few moments while he looked out toward the mountainside, trying to peer through what fog remained. Then, as quick as he had leaped, he ran inside.

  “Best stay in,” he said emphatically. “Looks like there are a whole lot of them coming.”

  Clarice, who was no longer sitting idly on the couch, had her face pressed against the window. She wondered if this was how chocolate bars felt on the opening day of a candy store. Out in the distance, she spied the unmistakable pair of zombies coming toward the house. “Oh, god,” she said, further horrified at the growing number of forms emerging from the woods.

  “No need to fret,” Martin assured as he loaded his Winchester rifle.

  “No need?” Clarice repeated. “There’s at least fifty of them! Maybe a hundred! It’s not going to take long for them to smash this glass in.”