The Dead Won't Die

by Glass, J. B.

  And, just beyond those lines, obviously attracted by the sound of the engines, and the sight of the people coming out of the van, a crowd of milling, shrieking zombies was gathering.

  For the moment, they were still too afraid of the flares to come any closer...

  ix.

  Franklin M. Morabito found himself on his ass.

  In the back room of his OWN STORE.

  His own store that had been abandoned by all the other staff, despite his imprecations. Despite his repeated advisements that he would have no choice but to write people up. To issue disciplinary actions, up to and possibly including termination. Things that would go on their PERMANENT RECORDS.

  The customers had all left, too, when things had started to really get chaotic and crazy outside. THAT was just as well. They might have questioned his authority, when things started to get really hinky.

  But he could not forgive his staff. They had all left. Like rats, deserting a sinking... store.

  But not Franklin M. Morabito. Franklin M. Morabito was on duty, by God. He had secured the store, and then he had waited, cell phone ready, listening to the satellite radio. Unfortunately, all the satellite radio played was an endless loop of pop music from the 80s and 90s (all songs carefully chosen from the most exhaustively calculated demographic data to be inoffensive and unobtrusive to the Walgreen customer's shopping experience) interspersed with cheerful announcements about this week's specials and sales. There was doubtless a way to tune it to another station, but Franklin didn't have that specialized knowledge. He had frequently had to discipline some of the late night counter people for re-tuning the radio, so he knew how to reset the radio to its correct settings... but not how to pull in another station.

  Not that it mattered. He had secured the store and remained on duty, and would, until this crisis was alleviated. (And if that gave him sole access to a very safe building full of useful supplies, well, such was the will of God. Franklin was simply doing his duty as he saw it.)

  But now, as he sprawled there, ON HIS ASS, staring in appalled disbelief at the sheer effrontery of a recalcitrant universe, a dozen people -- strangers! LOOTERS!!! -- were rushing through the door he had been tricked -- conned -- LIED TO AND DECEIVED -- into opening!!!

  And these invaders weren't just Negroes, either. Had they all been Negroes, well, in his heart of hearts Franklin would not at all have been surprised. Because despite the mainstream liberal media's obvious bias, he knew what happened in any urban area when law and order broke down, just look at those riots in Los Angeles, or what had happened in New Orleans -- it was a simple truth, if not a politically correct one, that all Negroes were barely one step away from utter savagery.

  But these were WHITE PEOPLE, TOO!!!

  He had to assert his authority. He had to get this situation under control. He had to establish his dominance, his MASTERY over his DOMAIN.

  This store was IN HIS CHARGE. It was HIS responsibility!!!

  He opened his mouth, and righteously bellowed "STOP! YOU HAVE NO RIGHT!!!! STOP, YOU LOOTERS!!!"

  The woman who had first pointed a pistol at his head -- dark blondish brown hair, not bad looking, maybe a little thicker bodied than the girls in the magazines Franklin covertly enjoyed when he had some alone time at home (although he had to hide them from his mother, who was a relentless snoop into things that were none of her business) now pointed her gun at him AGAIN. "Shut the fuck up," she said.

  DISRESPECT!!! And VULGARITY!!!! He didn't have to tolerate this!

  She was obviously keeping one eye on him while she yelled orders to the rest of her group. What was wrong with these people, taking orders from a WOMAN? Franklin had had to place a few women in management jobs here at the store, but it was only because of quotas. He was well aware that typical female emotionalism and lack of any real capacity for intelligent or logical problem solving made nearly all women completely incapable of really handling management level decision-making responsibilities... but what could you do? The world had really gone to hell over the course of Franklin's life; now you HAD to promote at least a few of them or you got in trouble. It was RIDICULOUS!!!

  And this woman with the gun... typical . Obviously overwrought and unable to think clearly. But... dangerous. He'd need to humor her.

  Oh, Lord Jesus. Now, there were crying CHILDREN in his store!

  If there was anything Franklin M. Morabito hated in this world (and there were actually many many many things Franklin M. Morabito hated in this world) it was SCREAMING CHILDREN.

  And now, one last person was coming in -- a short, stocky, burly looking fellow, in mirrored sun glasses and some kind of billed cap with a TV station logo on it. Very tanned. They were calling him 'Skip' . Skip!!! Who had a name like that these days?

  Now they were slamming the door closed behind 'Skip'. Resecuring it from this side. Like they BELONGED in here!!!!

  His store had been INVADED!!! By LOOTERS!!!!

  The one woman with the gun was talking to the black girl with the screaming kids. Something about getting them something to eat. He was going to have to get in front of this now, he saw it as clear as day.

  "All purchases will have to be paid for," Franklin M. Morabito declared, pushing himself stiffly to his feet. "And this is not a restaurant. You will need to take your purchases outside if you wish to consume them. There is no food consumption on the premises."

  All the adults looked at him with varying degrees of incredulity. Then the man who wasn't 'Skip'... the good looking white woman had called him 'honey'... said "Hey, listen up, Major Burns. Civilization is gone outside. This is not a Walgreen's anymore and you're not in charge of anything. This is an emergency shelter and we've got kids to take care of."

  Franklin felt himself growing angry. Well, he'd been angry before, but his anger had been diluted by shock and disbelief. Now, though, his surging fury had flushed all of that out. His wrath was pure, and righteous, like that of Charlton Heston's Moses or Clint Eastwood's Dirty Harry. "You people have NO RIGHT..." he started to declare.

  The white woman handed the pistol to 'honey' and said "If you have to shoot him, get him outside fast." 'Honey' took the gun, nodding. 'Skip' said, in a ridiculous and obviously affected drawl "Might be a good idea to put him outside now and save us the work later. He obviously ain't gonna be much help."

  Franklin felt his eyes go wide. SHOOT him? Or... put him outside? They couldn't... they wouldn't DARE... "Now, look, you people," Franklin said. "I am in charge of this store, and you can't just..."

  'Honey' just stared at him, pointing the pistol at him with one hand. He glanced at his watch. "Jesus," he said to 'Skip', "can you believe it's not even noon yet?"

  'Skip' shook his head. "Adrenaline, buddy," he said. "Messes up your whole perception of the passage of time. I remember it from the Gulf."

  Then 'Skip' looked directly at Franklin. "Look, sir. We surely do apologize for breaking in on you like this, but callin' it a matter o' life and death is an understatement borderin' on an absurdity. It's crazy out there an' deadly dangerous. I musta seen a hundred people or more die today from my chopper and couldn't help 'em one little bit. Now, like it or not, you got guests. You want to show us around this place? And I'd especially appreciate it if you could show me where the insulin is stored."

  Franklin raised his eyebrows. For a moment, he nearly forgot that he was In Charge and needed to Assert Dominance. "Is someone diabetic?" he asked.

  'Skip' nodded. "That would be me. That's why I'm tagging along with this party instead of trying to refuel that chopper over at Bowman Field."

  Franklin folded his arms over his chest. "Well," he said, his confidence returning, "if you want my help, you will need to treat me with considerably more respect. First, I will need you to turn that gun over to me, as the lawful authority within this store. And then..."

  'Honey' looked at 'Skip'. "You have any idea how fast they turn? Or if they even do turn, if they don't die of a bite?"

  'Skip' looked
thoughtful. "The first reports came from hospitals and such," he said. "They weren't real complete, but my guess is, that's where it started... recently deceased gettin' back up. I doubt they were bit. So... my guess is, anyone dies of anything, they're gettin' back up. And when they get back up, the only thing that hurts 'em is fire."

  'Honey' looked around. "Yeah," he said. "Fire's not a good way to kill something when you're inside a building. Okay. So... shoot him in the knee, you think?"

  "Better do it now while those flares are still burning," 'Skip' agreed. "We can grab him and hustle him out that back door right quick."

  Franklin M. Morabito realized that they were serious. In fact, 'Honey' was visibly aiming down the barrel of the gun right now...

  "WAIT!" Franklin screamed. "YOU NEED ME!!! I have the keys and the combinations to all the locked doors AND the drug vaults! I know where everything is!!! DON'T SHOOT ME!!!! PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE...!"

  'Honey' seemed to consider it.

  Then he waggled the gun towards the interior of the store. "Okay, then," he said. "Let's see how useful you can be. Give us a tour."

  x.

  "I don't know why some people got to be obstacles," Vivian sighed as she led her brother's two children out onto the store's main floor. Jameel looked around, wide eyed, at the fully stocked Walgreen's shelves, perhaps wondering where all the people were. Shymala kept her face pressed into Vivian's blouse, peeking out with one eye.

  "There's always assholes," Sheila said, one arm around her own daughter's shoulders. "All right, look. We can probably find a microwave or two on the housewares aisle. As long as the power lasts, we can have hot food. And we should eat up the perishables from the refrigerated cases fir..."

  Her voice trailed off without finishing the sentence.

  Vicki looked up at her mother. "Mom, are you..."

  For a moment... Sheila never knew how long it lasted, but for just a moment... the store seemed to darken, recede, and spin around her at the same time. Her mind had been racing ahead, trying to figure out where they were going to sleep, if there was anything like mattresses or blankets in the store, and abruptly, a sense of utterly disconnected unreality swept over her. Where was she? What was she doing here? What was going on?

  Were they really hiding in a Walgreen's -- her neighborhood Walgreen's, at that -- while civilization crashed and burned all around them? Were they really going to stay here? Sleep here? Live here? For how long? Days? Weeks? Months?

  Years?

  Was her daughter going to grow up here?

  "-- okay?"

  She heard Vicki's voice, and grabbed onto it like a lifeline. Opened her eyes.

  "Sorry, luv," she said, stroking Vicki's hair. "Okay. Yeah. It's lunchtime. Who's hungry?"

  Keep it together, Sheila. She had to keep her shit together, for Dan. And Vicki.

  Although, to be fair, Dan and Vicki had done pretty well on their own. Sheila was a little surprised at that. Not that Dan wasn't practical or competent... you couldn't make a living as an auto mechanic for 12 years if you weren't both. But she would not have expected him to be as adaptable to something like... well, like the motherfucking zombie apocalypse, actually... as he'd proven.

  But then, she wouldn't have expected it of herself, either.

  "Lemme take the kids over to the perishables and we'll pick out some lunch, Sheila," Vivian said.

  "Yeah, good," Sheila replied. "I'm going to check out housewares, see what they've got. If there's a microwave, we could have TV dinners, or frozen chicken..."

  Sheila moved off, walking down Aisle 3B between Foot Care on her left and Cold/Allergy on her right. She got to the central aisle that ran the length of the floor from right to left, turned right, and went down to 6B, Housewares/Appliances.

  Meanwhile, Vivian had taken the kids over to the far right wall, where the refrigerated perishables were. From where she was, Sheila could hear a good-natured discussion breaking out; naturally, the kids were trying to have ice cream for lunch, and Vivian was being firm with them.

  Sheila was pleased to discover that they were in luck; one shelf had four boxed up microwaves. She hefted one in both hands, and decided to wait until one of the menfolk could get it down for her... she might manage it, but she might also drop it on the floor and break it. No point to that...

  "Hey, there, you leave that where it is!" a shrill, hectoring voice commanded from behind her. Sheila rolled her eyes. And here was a menfolk himself... if you wanted to call him that. "That's store propert oooW ow OW!!!"

  Sheila turned around, and saw the annoying store manage, yowling as Dan shook his head back and forth using a handful of thinning hair as a handle.

  "Okay, Franklin," Dan said, his normally all but unnoticeable Tennessee drawl much thicker under stress, "Ah think y'all need to go outside for a spell. C'mawn."

  "No no nononono NOOOOO," 'Franklin'... if that was his name... moaned, obviously terrified. "I'm sorry I'm sorry I forgot I just forgot! Please, please ma'am, take the microwave, help yourself!"

  Over 'Franklin's shoulder, Sheila could see Skip, the helicopter pilot, shake his head slightly from side to side. Not, she thought, in sympathy for this guy Franklin, but just, generally, in disgust.

  "Franklin," Sheila said, feeling very tired, "please help me with this microwave. I want to give the kids hot meals while the power stays on."

  The balding fellow's eyes got wide. "Power stays on?" he yawped. "Why... why wouldn't the power stay on? Our bills are paid timely here!"

  Sheila shook her head, not trusting herself to speak without screaming. After a second, she took a deep breath, and said, "Well, hopefully it will. But if you could take this over to Vivian and the kids and help them set it up? And... where's your modem? Maybe I can get you back online."

  "Ah..." Franklin pointed towards the back. "It's back there, in the manager's office. I can show you... if one of these gentlemen would take this microwave over, I could show you right now..."

  Sheila just looked at him. "No, Franklin," she said, patiently. "I want YOU to take the microwave over there and set it up. Please. Then we'll see about getting your services up and running."

  Skip exchanged a look with Dan, behind Franklin's back. An admiring look? Sheila almost thought so.

  "Very well," Franklin said. "As a gesture of good faith, then... but these matters will need to be rectified when civil order is restored."

  Skip and Dan both rolled their eyes as one. Dan let go of Franklin's hair, though, and after Franklin pulled the microwave off the shelf, the group all went over and joined Vivian and the kids. Franklin puffed along, obviously having some trouble with the cardboard box in his arms, but not asking for help, either. Finally, Skip, with an exasperated sigh, took the box from Franklin and carried it the rest of the way.

  Set up wasn't as easy as anyone would have hoped; eventually, an extension cord had to be found and run from behind the Photo counter, where the closest wall socket was, out into the middle of the aisle nearest the coolers, so the microwave could be plugged in. Franklin proved to be of some worth there -- the store room where the cords were kept had a combination lock on it. The other adults made sure they knew the combination after Franklin keyed it in once.

  Eventually, everyone had a hot meal to eat.

  Won't be too long, Skip thought, chowing down heartily on a Banquet chicken drumstick, this kind of meal will be a dimly remembered luxury. And 'too long' ain't too far down the road, chill'un.

  But if he lived to see that, he most likely wouldn't live much longer. A quick tour of the drug locker with Franklin had showed that the store was near tapped out on insulin. Assuming the refrigeration stayed on, he was looking at maybe another 30 days or so before his blood sugar started to spike. After that...well, non-refrigerated insulin was supposed to last a while, but you were playing Russian roulette every time you took a shot...

  Well, you never knew. Maybe the Feds would come through shooting flamethrowers from their silent black helicopters or s
ome goddam thing. Where there was life there was hope, right?

  After a lunch of microwaved frozen chicken, canned beans also heated up in the microwave, and buttered bread, served on paper plates with plastic cutlery from the Picnic Items aisle, Franklin led Sheila and a watchful, pistol wielding Dan back to the rear of the store. Across the mini-lobby where people waited outside the druggist's area for their prescriptions, there was a door marked PRIVATE, and beyond that door, a small cluttered office.

  Franklin indicated a box with several blinking red and green lights that had cords snaking into and out of it. He had a computer on his desk whose screen was showing an 'Internet Explorer Cannot Display the Webpage' error message, and a TV on top of a filing cabinet showing 'Error SOE3 Please Call Your Service Provider For Assistance'.

  "It's been like that all morning," Franklin sniffed. "And it went out twice last week. I swear. We never had this much trouble when we had AT and T."

  Sheila sighed. She heard the same thing forty times a day at work... and when she'd worked for AT and T's call center, three years before this, she heard the same thing there, too, only there it was always 'We never had this problem when we were with Galaxy'.

  To think, even at the end of the world, she was still hearing this shit.

  She dropped to one knee and started poking around in the cables. After a minute, she sighed. "This ethernet cord?" she said, indicating a blue cord that was plugged into the box with the green and red lights on it. "It's plugged into the wrong port. It needs to go into one of the numbered ports. Any of them will work."

  Franklin blinked. "Well, I don't know how that got plugged in incorrectly, I haven't touched anything," he said.

  "Naturally," Sheila said. "It must have been elves. Where's the cable box?"

  Franklin pointed to the top drawer of the file cabinet, under the TV. Sheila pulled out the drawer, fiddled inside for a second, then closed the drawer, found the TV remote, turned the TV off, then on.