The Turning of Dick Condon

by Dane Hatchell

  The Turning of Dick Condon

  Dane Hatchell

  This story is a work of fiction. People, places, events, and situations are the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or historical events, is purely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2014 Dane Hatchell

  Cover Copyright © P.A. Douglas

  All Rights Reserved.

  No part of this story may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

  From Severed Press:

  From Severed Press:

  Other titles by the author:

  Resurrection X: Zombie Evolution

  A Gentleman’s Privilege: Zombies in the Old South

  A Werewolf in our Midst

  Apocalypse³

  Club Dead: Zombie Isle

  Dead Coup d'État

  Dreaming of an Undead Christmas

  It Came from Black Swamp

  Lord of the Flies: A Zombie Story

  Love Prevails: A Zombie Nightmare

  Pheromone and Rotten

  Red Rain

  Soul Mates

  The Garden of Fear

  The Last Savior

  Time and Tide: A Fractured Fairy Tale

  Two Big Foot Tales

  Two Demented Fish Tales

  Zombies of Iwo Jima

  Zombie God of the Jungle

  Zombie’s Honor

  Turning of Dick Condon

  There were many things in life that annoyed Richard Condon. A seemingly endless train of anonymous occurrences worked in partnership to aggravate him throughout the day. Fate certainly hadn’t helped matters as his ancestry passed the surname ‘Condon’ to him. His last name invited opportunities for mispronunciation at a quick reading or inattentive listening.

  ‘Hello, Mr. Condom,’ was very common at an initial greeting. Of which Richard would just usually sigh and repeat his name correctly. Of course, most of his friends and business associates called him by the shortened version of his given name, Dick. Apparently, ‘Richard’ was too great a burden to pronounce, having two syllables instead of one.

  “Remember, it’s your turn to pick up Rhonda from practice this afternoon,” Marge said, his wife of fifteen years, and the greatest pain-in-the-ass in his house of cards life.

  The newspaper crunched under Richard’s tightening fingers. “Of course I remember.” There she goes again, testing me. “I’ll be there at five-thirty.”

  “Five O’clock. Five-thirty is Jimmy’s Karate class,” Marge said.

  There was no questioning Richard was a very intelligent man, but amongst the volumes of information and minutia in his mind, it was the fine details in his personal life he couldn’t keep straight. That damn woman is always right, he thought.

  So, he apologized and went back to reading the newspaper.

  An unusual story on page 16A gave a vague account of an incident where the clerk at a convenience store sustained injuries including bites from an attack by a diseased man. The situation ended when an on duty policeman buying a candy bar shot the ill man in the head. The clerk had been hospitalized and was still under observation. What kind of disease would cause a man to go that crazy? Rabies? Richard wondered. Damn illegal immigrants. Who knows what they’re bringing over here?

  He glanced at his watch and cursed, threw the paper down on the table like it had insulted him, and told Marge it was time for him to leave for work.

  Richard leaned over all puckered up for a kiss on the lips goodbye. Marge parried by turning her head at the last second. Instead of a nice moist kiss, he ended up with a taste of dry, bitter makeup foundation. Richard made a familiar scowl when he pulled away.

  Marge said, “Didn’t want you to smear my lipstick.”

  He grunted, and thought, That damn woman is always right.

  So, he told her he loved her and would call from the office later.

  His daily grind included a fifteen-minute drive to work. As he anticipated, the usual gang of idiots joined him on the highway. Every morning he risked his life driving for others as he avoided their rolling two-ton battering rams of destruction.

  Just ahead a woman yacked on the phone as she drove ten miles under the speed limit. To his right a teenage girl applied mascara. The young man behind him had a magazine spread across his steering wheel. Richard saw the cover when he lifted it to turn the pages.

  Sometimes he would get the attention of the hazardous driver with a honk of his horn and follow with an index finger lashing. The gesture in response usually involved the middle finger of the other driver.

  Richard made it to the office parking lot and pulled in slowly to avoid hitting a jaywalker munching on a jelly donut. He had to pass three empty parking spaces because the adjoining vehicles parked too close to the line.

  He didn’t dare risk scratching the paint on his new SUV. It was times like these when he found himself longing for his 1983 Oldsmobile. It was heavy duty, equipped with real chrome plated steel bumpers, not this plastic covered crap now ‘protecting’ him. He imagined pulling the behemoth next to those selfish bastards so closely that the driver would have to enter their vehicle from the passenger’s side.

  After exiting his vehicle, he considered keying the space hogs while sauntering down the parking lot. Damn security cameras, he thought as he headed straight to his first stop, The Café Coffee, for two hot cappuccinos.

  Inside the Café, he was once again in a slow moving line, waiting on the single employee at the counter to serve the needs of the indecisive patron who had to have the whole menu explained or the office go-fer whose job was getting coffee for the team of thirty.

  Each grueling second passed feeling like an hour of torture. Richard finally stepped up to the counter to take his turn. He found the young, freckly face girl taking his order cute in a trashy sort of way. He surmised from her gum chewing and vocabulary she had spent more time on her back with the soles of her feet pressed against a car’s headliner than in the local library.

  The front door to the coffee shop opened letting road noises mixed with a low gurgling moan inside.

  Richard spun about as a short and grossly obese woman lumbered her way toward him. Her skin was black from rot and her lips drawn away from her mouth, maintaining a perpetual ghastly smile.

  A putrid smell assaulted his nostrils and forced him to gag as bile rose into his throat.

  The front door burst open. Four police officers smashed into the back of the roly-poly walking corpse and sent her crashing straight into Richard.

  Instinctually, he raised his right arm to protect himself, filling the wide gap of her open jaws with his forearm.

  Her teeth clamped shut like a bear trap. Richard screamed to the top of his lungs, feeling bone about to break. He now understood how the wolf mustered the resolve to chew a trapped limb off.

  Richard fell on his back with her on top. The zombie snarled in frustration while trying to get a mouthful of soft flesh. Her teeth were unable to cut through his thick, wool jacket.

  While struggling to breathe, Richard felt each blow of the policemen’s nightsticks resonating through the body of his attacker. Dull thuds sounded over and over, not even ushering a whimper from the undead creature.

  Richard collected enough air to find his voice. “Get her off me! Get her off!”

  The police seemingly oblivious to his plight finally got the message and backed off. One of the officers pulled out a taser and fired.

  The two metal darts carrying the thin metal wire traveled the short distance into the woman’s back. Fifty thousand volts then travel through the wires. The fifteen seconds of electrical discharge gave
Richard time to free his arm from her mouth and roll out from underneath.

  The policemen immediately pinned her to the ground, overpowered her arms, and finally cuffed her hands.

  Richard pulled off his jacket and peeled back his shirt to examine the damage to his forearm as he stood on wobbly legs. Fortune was with him, his jacket and shirt had protected him from major damage by the zombie’s sharp teeth. He detected only the tiniest amount of red seeping through his skin where her teeth left a ‘U’ shaped indention. The bruising of his arm was worse than the actual bite itself. It had already turned a nasty brown-yellow-green and hurt like hell.

  “What is that thing?” he asked.

  The police had the unruly creature on its feet and forced it toward the door, each wary of its thrashing head and gnashing teeth.

  “Hey Bud, you okay?” the last policeman in line stopped to ask.

  “I . . . appear to be so. Do you need a statement from me?” Richard asked.

  The Officer shook his head and returned outside the coffee shop to his comrades.

  Richard and freckle face stared at each other for a while, not knowing what just happened, or what to do next.

  His gaze drifted from her face to her chest. “Well, Judy, was that a regular customer of yours?” Richard asked, trying to make light of the terrifying, surreal event.

  “How’d you know my name?” she asked.

  Richard tapped above his heart. “Name tag.”

  “Oh. You okay, mister?” Judy asked.

  “Sure. I’m okay. I could probably fart Zippity Do Da in French I feel so fine.”

  Judy took a step backward and looked down at the counter.

  Realizing Judy was upset over the event too, he decided to tune down the sarcastic humor. He shifted into salesman mode and forced an animated happy face. “Judy, why don’t you just comp me two cups of you famous cappuccino, and I’ll be on my way.”

  Without saying a word, she mechanically grabbed two to-go cups and filled them with coffee, topping them off with frothy milk. Her eyes darted back and forth from her task to Richard, making him feel like some sort of intruder.

  She put the coffees in a cardboard base and carefully placed them in the bottom of a paper bag, then slid it forward.

  “My boss is going to want to know what happened here,” she said. “Can you leave your name and phone number? You know, for insurance purposes.”

  “Don’t worry. I’m not trying to win the lottery by suing the owner over some deranged vagrant,” Richard said, and pulled his wallet out and handed her his card.

  “Thank you, Mr. Condom. I’ll make sure my boss gets this. He’ll probably call later today.”

  Richard snatched the bag off the counter and headed out. Looking back as he opened the door, he said, “That’s Con-don, with an n,” and left without waiting for an apology.

  The sign on the building read: ‘Brinkly Printing Co.’ Richard had spent the better part of the last ten years working at this location.

  Earning a living as salesman demanded a certain amount of discipline, managing the highs and the lows of cyclical income. Save money when it’s rolling in and pull from the nest egg during the lean times. He fancied himself a studious manger of money, his job, and his life.

  “Hey, sleeping beauty. You’re late,” a man sitting in a chair rolled out from the first cubical, blocking his path as he entered the office.

  “Andy! I feel so guilty. I should have gotten an extra cup of fuck off while I was at the coffee shop,” Richard said.

  “The other salesmen have been here for thirty minutes.”

  “And it can tell time too! My, it’s amazing what modern science can do with dog shit,” Richard said. “Look, your grandfather started this company 60 years ago. He’s gone, and your family sold the business before you were old enough to piss standing up. You’re not my boss. You’re not anybody’s boss. Ass kissing Vice President Jenkins is not an official job position, but it’s what you excel at. Now move before I move you.”

  Andy made a half snarl, turned in his chair, and duck-walked back to his desk.

  Richard made it to the salesmen’s offices without any further harassment. He stopped at Drew Wilson’s door, knocked twice, and let himself in.

  Drew was behind her desk going over paperwork. Her eyes peered up at him over her half-glasses as he closed the door.

  Her long blonde hair hung alluringly hiding her left eye. Her plump red lips glistened, and moved to form a little ‘O.’

  Richard felt things getting a little tight in his shorts. “I’m sorry I’m late, Drew. I had the most unbelievable morning at the coffee shop.” The smell of Drew’s lavender perfume filled the air, bringing a calming effect.

  “What? They made you hand grind the beans,” she teased.

  “Well . . . I . . .”

  “Oh stop, silly. Don’t be bothered,” she smiled, and rose to take a coffee from his hand. Drew flipped the hair away from her eye, removed her glasses, and smiled even bigger. Her bleached white teeth looked like polished ivory.

  The purple sleeveless top fit tightly across her chest, accentuating her perky, small breast. Her black pants hugged her ass perfectly, enticing Richard to grab a hand full.

  “Thanks for the cappuccino. It’s just how I like it. You’d better get back to your office before anyone wonders what you’re doing in here at this time and not at your desk.”

  “I know. I can hardly wait for lunch, though,” Richard grinned.

  “Me too,” she cooed. “I’ll be waiting and ready.”

  Richard grabbed his pants and adjusted himself. It would be very unbecoming of him to leave her office while pitching a tent.

  Looking at the clock multiple times that morning didn’t make it count up any faster. Despite the event at the coffee shop, things were soaring his way. He made three sales on cold calls and had two of his clients call him out of the blue for reorders. Very unusual for this time of year.

  “Brinkly Paper, you’ve got Richard Condon. How may I assist you today,” he said, answering in a chipper voice.

  “Richard, you took the SUV.” It was Marge, the fastest way to rapidly decay a smile.

  “Yes, I took the SUV today. Sooooo . . . .”

  “So you were supposed to take the coupe. I’ve got to go to the school at noon and pick up Jimmy and some of his classmates and drive them to the museum,” she said.

  “I thought the museum was tomorrow?”

  “No, tomorrow I take the coupe. You have to have the SUV to pick up Jimmy and his karate class and take them to the tournament.”

  That damn woman is always right, he thought. So, he apologized and said he would bring the SUV right over.

  The clock read eleven thirty. It was Friday and most everyone in the office would go to Mr. Jalapeno, a local Mexican restaurant, for lunch. A tradition of sorts for years, and no one seemed to tire of it. The free chips were always fresh and paired well with the two dollar margaritas.

  If he were going to be back in time to meet Drew, he had to move now. She would be in the copy room, waiting for him at noon. All alone, with the lights down low, and her panties on the floor.

  Richard pulled his jacket off the back of his chair and hurriedly walked down the hall to the front.

  “Hey Dick, what’s the rush? You’re coming to lunch, right?” Shane, a fellow salesman asked.

  “Sorry, not today. I got some family matters to attend to. Have a good time. Bye.” Richard didn’t break stride while heading out the door.

  *

  Marge had that ‘look’ on her face when he went inside his house and exchanged keys. He made some excuse he was working through lunch and had to get back as soon as possible.

  “You do remember that you have to pick up Rhonda at five o’clock today?” She asked.

  Richard gritted his teeth. “Of course I remember.”

  “I’ll bet you right now that I’ll get a call from Rhonda at five-thirty saying you’re not there. Then, you’ll
show up home at six-thirty saying how it completely slipped you mind because of work,” she said.

  “You’re wrong,” his face turned a nasty shade of red. “I’ve got to go.”

  Richard got another taste of the bitter foundation off her cheek and left out of the driveway like a bat out of hell.

  On the drive back to the office, his heart started beating faster, feeling hollow against his chest. Light perspiration built on his brow. His mouth felt dry, and his tongue thick. So concerned with his own well-being he didn’t notice any of the other drivers’ annoying habits.

  At least the parking was easier this time. Lunch had cleared a number of vehicles. Composing himself after exiting his SUV, Richard sure stepped back to the office, hoping the ill feelings would soon pass.

  Andy remained hovering over his desk like a fly protecting a newly deposited gift in the cow field. His excuse for avoiding the Friday lunch was to be available at the office for that one hour a week in case of fire. Cheap-ass prick, is what Richard thought about that lame excuse as he passed him by. No matter, the copy room had a lock on the door.

  By now, each step felt as if he were walking in lead boots. He tried to cool off by wetting a paper towel at the water cooler and dabbing it across his forehead. There was a bottle of aspirin in his desk. He used his last remaining strength to make it back to his office and plop down on his chair.

  The world around him turned into rainbow taffy. Pictures of his wife and kids on his desk seemed to be saying their heartfelt farewells. Richard closed his eyes, and invited the salvation of darkness.

  Reanimating minutes later, Richard no longer felt the heat from his fever. In fact, there was only one feeling that greatly dominated all others: hunger.

  His body no longer responded gracefully as before when he rose from his chair. His feet moved forward in short, choppy steps, while his gait widen as if he were about to mount a horse.

  A compelling force pushed him out of the office, down the hall, and brought him to a stop at the copy room door. He put his hand on the doorknob and twisted it one way, then the other, and pushed it open.