His weight proved to be too much for his poor scalp. With a sharp thump, the woman was left with a handful of short, brunette locks as Herman fell to the floor, free of her grip. The dead woman grunted a half-choked growl as she thrashed about, searching for the meal she’d held moments ago. As she swayed from her tether, filling the room with the eerie creak of weighted rope, Herman rubbed at the now bald spot atop his crown. This sudden stroke of painful luck re-energized the lad. With every ounce of bravery he possessed, Herman scooted across the shed, under the reach of the wild clawing beast. He grabbed the gas can, then retreated to the relative safety of the door. Once again he was faced with a choice; remain here, cornered with this corpse-on-a-rope, or try to escape and face the possibility of what lay outside. He said a little prayer under his breath and flung the door open wide.
Another stroke of luck awaited him outside the shed as five or so of the zombies were clumped against one wall, pounding and moaning. They didn’t seem to notice him standing in the doorway, perhaps blinded by their hunger or distracted by their grunting sister inside. Herman slipped from the confines of the shed carting the almost full gas can close to him as if it were a child. There were at least two gallons in the can, more than enough to fill his tiny tank and get Quicksilver and him home. As soon as he was free of the doorway and around the other side of the shed, Herman broke into a jog toward the east end of the camp where he had left his precious scooter parked near the huge archway that proclaimed this as Camp Wickataka.
There was no telling how many of the campers were dead, how many were undead, or where they were hiding. At first, Herman could smell them, but now the entire camp smelt of nothing but death and rot and decay, so that advantage was long lost. Instead, Herman darted from bush to bush, cabin to cabin, careful to avoid the sounds of the shambling corpses that stirred all about him. With calm and calculated movements, he made it back to Quicksilver with all of his tender parts still intact and, more importantly, with the prized gas can.
Just as he reached the scooter, a throaty growl signaled that he had been spotted.
Herman tore the cap off of Quicksilver’s tank, then popped the lid on the can. Joining the two by the can’s convenient plastic nozzle, he squatted behind the scooter and waited. Sure enough, three zombies stumbled from the tree line, drawn to him by some invisible thread. He didn’t know if they could smell the very life in his veins, or maybe just his soaked pants, but he couldn’t wait to get on the road and shake them for good. As the tank bubbled and gulped at the contents of the can, four more dead girls tumbled into the pathway, heading straight for him. They moved in a slow orchestra of lurches and jolts, all the while groaning and growling as if calling out to him.
Another six fell in line behind them, bringing the total to twelve. Twelve hungry mouths snapping at the air. Twelve pairs of empty eyes searching for him. Twelve became twenty, as eight more of the things joined their sisters. Herman couldn’t wait any longer. He sprang from his hiding place, pulled the gas can free, recapped the tank, and ignored his safety gear as he mounted Quicksilver. His mother would kill him if she saw the boy without his helmet or kneepads or elbow pads or shin guards or that little tooth guard thing she thought he wore—though he had spat it into Manson Creek the same day she bought the awful thing. Herman supposed, maybe, just this once, his mother would understand. So, without the safety of his gear, he fired up the machine, almost shuddering in delight at the sound of the revving engine. With what had to be at least forty of the zombies within embracing distance, Herman opened Quicksilver as wide as it would go and laid heavy on the throttle, pulling away from the undead campers in a puff of dirt.
In his boyish fantasies, Quicksilver was so named because the thing was fast, super fast, like a bolt of lightning or a speeding bullet. In reality, the hand-me-down scooter was painfully slow. Granted, it was a little faster than Herman could ever hope to be on foot, but not quite as fast as the lad’s imagination had led him to believe.
And only just a little quicker than a shambling horde of zombies.
Herman didn’t look back. He couldn’t. The poor kid had seen enough death and devastation to last ten lifetimes, and he didn’t want to see any more. Yet, if he had looked back, he would have seen them, the rotting objects of his lewd fancy still hot on his trail. If he had turned, just once, he would have noticed that the women had picked up their pace to a light trot in an effort to keep up with their escaping living quarry. If he had chanced a single glance behind him, he would have seen that he was leading the entire shambling mob back to civilization.
Herman Jackson rode all the way home, trailed by a long line of undead beauties.
Chantal Boudreau is an accountant by day and an author/illustrator during evenings and weekends. She lives by the ocean in beautiful Nova Scotia, Canada with her husband and two children. In addition to being a CMA-MBA, she has a BA with a major in English from Dalhousie University. A member of the Horror Writers Association, she writes and illustrates predominantly horror, dark fantasy and fantasy and has had several of her short stories published, including her tales Palliative, Just Another Day, both zombie stories, and Dry Heat, all appearing in horror anthologies, her paranormal fable, The Ghost in the Mirror, and her novelette Shear Terror. Fervor, her debut novel, a dystopian science fantasy tale, was released in March of 2011 by May December Publications. Other releases contracted for this year include her novel, Magic University, the first in her fantasy series, Masters & Renegades, to be released in September.
There’s a reason local and national coffee shops have littered the landscape for so many years: close to 150 million people drink over 3 cups a day. And at Cowboy Joe’s Coffee Cabin, there’s growing trepidation of the new chains moving in and stealing business. Cowboy Joe and the manager understand the ins and outs of profit making; and they know the dirty hippies with their organically grown fair trade diatribes aren’t going to get their little shop where it needs to be. So the manager does what any good manager would do, he does a cost benefit analysis, finds a product that would set them apart from the competition, and insures Cowboy Joe’s Coffee Cabin huge profits. Hawaiian Kona, Columbian Supremo, Italian Sumatra Black Satin are all great coffees, but none compare to the Jamaican Rouge Cowboy Joe’s serves up. Unfortunately, the young barista, Alec, who just wants some money for more body ink and a little pocket cash, finds himself in the middle of a capitalist’s nightmare. Let’s just say, the coffee is to die for.
Waking the Dead
By Chantal Boudreau
“Geez! It’s too damn early for me to be dragging my sorry ass out of bed,” Alec groaned as he stepped up to the door of Cowboy Joe’s Coffee Cabin. His spiky brown hair stuck out at odd angles and his hazel eyes were still sleep-glazed.
He expressed this opinion every morning he had to help open, there by six a.m. for the seven o’clock early birds. It was on days like this that he had to ask himself if being a coffee wrangler was really worth the minimum wage plus minimal tips. It was a job, though, one where they did not complain about his multiple tattoos and piercings, and he desperately needed something to supplement the pittance supplied by his student loan. Besides, he wanted a new tattoo, and there was almost enough now in his tip jar, but not quite.
Sometimes Alec did wonder how he ended up working at the Coffee Cabin. He wanted to believe that Clyde, the son of the aforementioned “Cowboy Joe,” was particular about his employees, but truthfully, all he wanted was a warm body behind the counter who could pour coffee and count. At least, that was how it worked with the male employees. He was a little more particular with the female ones. Alec grinned at that notion, thinking of Crystal.
Alec ducked in through the door, being careful to lock it again behind him. He had made the mistake of leaving it unlocked one day, and people began to stream in several minutes before the coffee wranglers were scheduled or ready to open. It did not matter at all to the early birds that the sign still said “closed.” All they cared about was getting
their cup of java as quickly as they could. He always found it amusing, in a pathetic sort of way, how they would stumble in, all bleary-eyed and desperate for their fix. It was not as if Alec did not understand where they were coming from, especially since he could barely function without his morning coffee either.
Shoving his keys into his pocket, and shucking his studded leather coat off of his back, Alec glanced over his shoulder. Two of the three others scheduled for the morning crew had arrived before him. Jeremy, the assistant manager, was grinding away happily, occasionally pausing to pour more beans into the industrial-grade grinder. He was a tall and lanky fellow with black, shaggy hair who worshipped the java more than the early birds, and had the constant nervous energy to show for it. He walked around wearing a perpetual smirk, one that matched the spring in his step and the gleam in those dark eyes that peered out through heavy bangs.
The other person present was Nora, the more experienced of the two females on the team. She was the stereotypical tree- hugging bookworm, with straight and oily dirty-blonde hair, glasses and dull-gray eyes. Her natural fibre blouse and skirt hung limply on her unappealingly thin figure.
Nora was checking over the equipment used for making lattes and espressos. If Alec could have chosen one wrangler he would have preferred to not work with in the morning, it would have been her. Being the Cabin know-it-all, she was just too annoying to have to tolerate before noon.
Beyond her reproachful attitude due to her claim of superior intellect, she was also preachy with regards to her environmental concerns and her quest for equality regardless of gender, social status, sexual preference, race or physical capability.
Nora was a poli-sci student at the same university where Alec was studying journalism, and she had declared her intentions to someday be a civil rights lawyer to anyone at the Coffee Cabin who would listen—not that attempting to not listen would necessarily stop Nora from talking.
Approaching the counter, Alec noted that someone had erected a new sign. They were offering a special promotion—a free muffin with any purchase of their introductory Haitian blend. Alec approached the display, brow furrowed.
“Haitian blend?” he asked, directing the question at Jeremy. “What Haitian blend? I didn’t know we had a Haitian blend. We already carry a dozen varieties of coffee…why this one?”
One side of the assistant manager’s face curled up in a smile. “I’m grinding the beans as we speak. It was Clyde’s idea. He asked me to come up with something to attract a higher class crowd. We have our share of doddering seniors, bookish old maids, and older, blue-collar workers, but they tend to stick with the house blend and avoid the more profitable specialty coffees. He wanted something to appeal to the younger crowd, and your typical, trendy metro-sexuals. I did my research and this is the new in thing.”
“I didn’t even know Haiti grew coffee,” Alec remarked, and then realized with dismay that he had just opened the door to Nora.
“They’ve been growing coffee for a long time,” the slender girl lectured. “And part of the reason it’s trendy around here is because it can help Haiti’s economy recover after being devastated by civil unrest and natural disaster. Of course, they’ve had their issues, like problems with the coffee rust fungus and a lack of consistency. They commonly grow a fairly standard Arabica bean, and a more current type called Haitian Bleu. Jeremy hasn’t told me which type that they’ve used in the new blend.”
“That’s because we haven’t used either,” he teased, holding out the bag that he was loading into the grinder. He thrust his fingers in and drew out a few beans, which he allowed to trickle slowly back into the bag. They were a dark, rich red in colour, a sanguine shade.
“Red coffee beans?” Alec observed. “Well, that’s odd.”
Nora was frowning, perturbed that Jeremy had presented them with something that she knew nothing about.
“They’re only red on the surface. The insides are a nice deep-roasted brown,” Jeremy said. “They’re called Haitian Rouge, a variant of Haitian Bleu bred to resist the coffee rust, and they are supposed to be super potent. They have enough of a caffeine jolt that this coffee will be liable to give some of these old biddies a heart attack. They’ll probably try it because of the special offer, but I expect they’ll go back to their usual after one taste. Their old gray tongues won’t be able to handle it. Haitian Rouge is supposed to pack such a punch that my supplier nicknames this variety ‘Waking the Dead.’ They weren’t kidding either. I’ve been drinking it since I got here at five, and I’m wired to the max.”
Nora wrinkled her nose in disdain.
“You’re actually drinking that stuff? Is it organically grown? And you said bred to resist the coffee rust. Who wants to bet that it’s been genetically modified?”
“Well...” Jeremy began, but Nora did not let him finish.
“And what’s this about ‘your supplier’? Didn’t you go through our regular wholesaler. This is fair trade, isn’t it?” she sputtered, her gray eyes flashing with ire.
“I couldn’t get a sample order of the standard Haitian beans through our regular supplier, and Clyde wouldn’t let me start with a full order,” he explained. “So I went looking online and found a local woman in the import business with ties to Haiti, Madame Morticia. She’s the one who got me the Haitian Rouge.”
Alec’s eyebrows rose and he chuckled, running his fingers through his spiky hair. “Morticia? Like The Addams Family?”
Jeremy shrugged. “She was an odd bird, but she delivered the goods, and this stuff is scrumptious.” He leaned over and grabbed the cowboy boot mug that he had been drinking out of, taking another hearty swig. He swallowed and exhaled noisly.
“Opulent,” he said in an exaggerated manner, extending his pinkie. He drank again, and, this time, smacked his lips. “And velvety...”
The door opened and closed again as the final member of the morning crew made her appearance. Alec glanced over at the curvaceous girl who had just entered, shot her a brief smile, and then looked away again. She was stunning to look at, with bright blue eyes and wavy, auburn hair. He’d had a crush on her since her first day there.
“Hey, Crystal. Jeremy was just telling us about our newest promotion. We’re going to be selling a different blend.”
“Some trashy gm bean,” Nora scoffed with arms crossed. “Jeremy suckered Clyde into buying it because it’s heavy on the caffeine.”
Alec knew that it would not make any difference to Crystal. She was not a coffee drinker and worked at the Cabin for many of the same reasons that Alec did. She was doing her lab technician certificate at the technical college in town. Alec had been surprised to find out that she was not attending one of the universities—he was convinced that she was smarter than Nora, even though he rarely spoke with her, on account of shyness.
He had been equally surprised on the day that she was hired, when he had accidentally overheard the discussion between Clyde and Jeremy about taking Crystal on to replace another employee who had left because he had landed a better job elsewhere. Actually, surprised was an understatement. Alec had been shocked.
“I’m not hiring another gal without getting a good look at her,” Clyde had insisted. They had been talking in his office and Clyde had thought it was private conversation, but there was a vent that opened out by the espresso machine that carried sound quite effectively from the small side room. “I need someone with some nice tits. If we’re gonna get the business-type men to start comin’ to the Cabin, we need somethin’ to draw them in. That last gal you talked me into hirin’ sight unseen is too scrawny. She has a nice ass, but no tits. We need tits.”
Jeremy had assured the manager that she could offer just that, and Crystal had not disappointed. Alec found it painfully distracting to just glance at her in passing, and to stare at her for any length of time risked a rather embarrassing and involuntary biological response. Clyde had been quick to hire her once introduced, despite the fact that she had no experience with retail wh
atsoever, and despite the fact that she knew absolutely nothing about coffee. What bothered Alec even more was the fact that the crotchety letch’s tactics were already proving to be effective, and they were seeing a noticeable increase in the numbers of younger male clientele that they were attracting.
Alec decided it was best not to put much more thought into Crystal. She had gone into the closet that masqueraded as their staff room.
“Is Clyde in today?” Alec asked Jeremy, setting about his usual prep work by the cream and sugar counter. The manager tended to make an appearance at the Cabin only if there was paperwork that needed his attention, or if he were expecting a visit from someone official. “Cowboy Joe” was retired, leaving control of his three locations in the city in the hands of his three supposedly capable sons, but he still put in an occasional appearance, just to keep an eye on things. Clyde was not the most successful manager, but at least he had not run his Cabin into the ground. Under his direction, it had not exactly flourished, but it had not completely floundered either—so far.
Jeremy nodded, straightening the few tables at the Cabin. They had limited seating space, wanting to discourage those who would come to chat and milk a single cup of house blend for an hour. Those were not the type of customers who helped their profit margin.
“Yeah. He came around front long enough to grab a thermos pitcher of the new stuff, and then disappeared into his office. It would seem that Daddy will be dropping in later to discuss strategy for dealing with the potential train wreck opening across the street.”
Alec knew that Jeremy meant the new location for one of the multinational franchise coffee shops, stiff competition that would be hitting them smack dab in the face.
Hell Hath No Fury... Page 3
