by Lori Perkins
“Can you answer the phone?” he asked. His voice was just as hard to understand as the blonde with the ooze running out of her nose.
“Yes,”
I
said.
“Say Sibboleth Insurance,” he challenged. It sounded like his tongue was either missing or not working properly. It seemed he couldn’t press it against his front teeth to make the shhhh sound.
“Shibboleth,” I replied with a particular emphasis on the sh. My mother told me they were really picky about the pronunciation of the agency’s name.
Most of my job interviewers checked my references, ensured I had a high school diploma and enough stamina for the work. Nobody quizzed me on pronunciation. If this was office work, I didn’t like it. As soon as I got my paperwork in order, I planned to reapply to the police department.
On my third day at Shibboleth Insurance a man around my age came through the double doors. My co-workers had gone to lunch and not invited me. Well, what did I care? The best way to describe those two was pathetic. Besides the coughing and wheezing, they both had carpal tunnel syndrome, bad backs, and red eyes. Mr. Nil was now wearing a neck brace and wrist bands like Eliza’s.
“How can I help you?” I asked the man with a mop of black curly hair and three different cell phones attached to his belt. He wore his jeans a little short and his eyes were hidden behind thick black glasses. He shifted from heel to heel. “Is Mr. Nil here?”
he demanded.
“No, he is not,” I said, trying to sound like a receptive receptionist. My mother told me I needed to be bright and cheery to hold onto my job.
“What about Eliza?” he challenged.
I couldn’t understand why anyone would want to see my drooling co-worker.
Instead of questioning his intent, I shook my head and leaned over the desk. “They’re out to lunch and nobody invited me,” I added as I let my lower lip fold down. “I’m sure you know what it’s like to not be invited to lunch.”
Since this stranger was nerdy looking to the max, I figured he could recognize the feeling. Not that I cared much about lunch. I was just trying to bond with the customer.
After I said that he looked at me more carefully. I couldn’t blame him for getting on his high horse. After all, I’d just insulted him. “You’re not pale,” he said stiffly.
“And you’ve got a sharp tongue.” He didn’t sound offended by my words—more interested.
“I do not,” I defended myself. Well, maybe I did but this was the first time I’d wagged it since joining the Shibboleth Agency. Plus what I said to this stranger wasn’t that bad. Exclusion was a universal feeling. At least to me.
Then he reached over and touched my thumb. “Firm skin,” he said mostly to himself as I pulled my hands away and folded them in my lap.
“I’m twenty-one,” I clarified, slightly offended. Not that a nerd could get under my skin.
“Okay,” he said mostly to himself as he took a step back. “They’ve hired a human.”
Then he took another step back and seemed to realize he needed to explain all this to me. But he didn’t. Instead he said in a cryptic way, “I’ll be back.”
He turned and pushed at the door. It was actually a pull door so it took him a minute. As his head bounced against the glass, I couldn’t help but notice his butt. It was firm and those black jeans he wore accented him in an athletic way. Not what I expected on a guy who pushed his glasses up his nose at least fifteen times while he stood in front of my desk.
After the nerd left, Mr. Nil came back. “Could you come into my office?” he requested politely. Then he moaned, which was a little weird but I was getting used to it.
If I spent my entire adult life at Shibboleth Insurance, I think I’d moan a few times too.
“Have a seaaaa,” he said unable to emphasize the sound of the t. I wondered what had happened to his tongue. Maybe he bit it or someone cut it. I couldn’t imagine and decided not to ask because now he had a Band-Aid on his chin.
“Did you get into a fight during lunch?” I asked as I curled my fingers around my palm.
“What?” he replied, trying to lift his eyebrows.
I explained quickly. “The bandage on your chin.” I pointed at him. “Did someone hit you?”
“No.” He shook his head. “It’s shingles.” It took a lot for him to get his mouth around the word.
“Oh,” I replied. My mother would have wanted me to say something like “I’m sorry” or “too bad” but I didn’t. It sounded disgusting and I couldn’t muster the sympathy. After he asked me a few questions about the phone messages, he told me to go to lunch. He didn’t inquire about my visitor and I didn’t volunteer the information.
Later, when I was in the café, a familiar voice said, “Hey.”
I looked up from my ham sandwich. It was nerd boy.
“Hey,” I responded, wondering why he was still hanging around.
“How long have you worked for Shibboleth?” he asked as he sat down across from me and planted his elbow on the table.
Hadn’t nerd boy’s mother taught him any manners? “Get your elbow off my table.”
“Sorry,” he replied. The left corner of his mouth lifted as he folded his hands neatly in front of his chest and squared his shoulders.
“Three days.” I frowned. Then I took another bite of my sandwich. “You followed me.” I accused.
He nodded. “I think you’re in danger,” he said in a low voice.
Since it was nice being around someone who could pronounce his vowels, I decided to hear him out. Plus I was still feeling a little freaked out by that thing on Mr.
Nil’s jaw. I leaned forward. “What kind of danger?”
“Do you know anything about the undead?”
As he spoke the door opened and a cool breeze flooded the cafe. My hair blew across my face. I pushed a few wisps off my nose and shook my head. When I first sat down that little bell above the door sounded quaint; now it was creepy.
“What do you mean, the undead?” I asked warily.
“Corpses that rise from the grave?” His blue eyes never left mine. Then he shook his head. “But that’s not the case with these two. I think they were bitten because they still have human qualities.” He had the tone of someone who knew what he was talking about. “They could be paper pushers counting their days until retirement or flesh-eating monsters looking for their next meal.”
This was ridiculous. Besides being a geek with bad hair, this guy was missing a few screws. I rewrapped my sandwich and threw it in the bag. “If they’re hungry,” I said dryly. “I’ll bring them the leftovers.”
“Okay,” he replied as he stood. He was trying to act casual but he was too much of a type A person to pull it off. “Sounds like you know what you’re doing.” Then he awkwardly dug into his pocket and threw his business card on the table. His momentum was off and it skidded to the floor. “Call me if anything happens,” he suggested, picking it up and putting it under the salt shaker. Then he headed for the door. Again he couldn’t figure out it was a push. After a few pulls he finally got himself outside.
The card said, “Rafe Thayer, Zombie Hunter.” Included was his e-mail address, Facebook page, Twitter account, and cell phone number.
That night I looked him up on Facebook. His wall discussed the best way to kill a zombie. One-Eyed William recommended a head shot. Clever Carrie liked a clean cut with a machete, and Dainty Dan used acid. The fight continued until Rafe posted. He agreed with Dan that in the right situation acid could work, but William’s and Carrie’s weapons were the most effective in disposing Satan’s army quickly. His opinion seemed to be final and the thread moved on to determining the difference between a zombie and an office worker.
The group established pale skin, rounded shoulders, and red eyes were common symptoms of a typical office worker, plus coughing and sneezing due to poor air quality.
The difference between those punching the clock and the undead was the skin. If it wa
s peeling or falling off in chunks, most definitely a zombie. Plus they moaned more often than office workers and Carrie posted a chart to aid the zombie hunter in determining the difference.
I thought of Mr. Nil and Eliza. No, it couldn’t be. I told myself Rafe was a crazy person who found others like him on the Web. I couldn’t associate with these people.
Even though my fingers were itching to get on the keyboard and offer an opinion, I knew it wasn’t possible. If I wanted any future with the police force, I had to keep my thoughts to myself. This was much worse than dressing up like Princess Leia.
I decided to call Rafe instead. Not surprisingly, he picked up after the first ring.
“Hello, Claire,” he said, all smug.
“There’s a big difference between zombies and overworked insurance agents,” I said without even bothering to engage in any formal greeting.
He knew exactly whom I was talking about. “I’ll give them the hunched shoulders and wheezing as typical for paper pushers,” he said. “But do they have red eyes?”
I couldn’t believe how superior he was acting. Didn’t anyone tell him that sort of behavior wasn’t very attractive?
“Yes,” I conceded. “That’s because they are on the computer all day.” I wasn’t ready to let him win the point. Plus zombies weren’t real. The only place they existed was in bad horror films and the imaginations of people like Rafe.
“They are turning into zombies,” he said.
“Do you have proof?” I asked.
“No, I don’t—”
“Well,” I interrupted. “I guess this ends our conversation.” Then I hung up.
Maybe I was rude, but he was a weirdo. Did he even have a job?
The next morning when I pulled into the parking lot at work, Rafe was waiting for me. If I didn’t think he was harmless, I would have been concerned. This was the second time he stalked me in two days. If my mother knew about this, she’d make me call the police.
I scratched my head after I got out of my car. Rafe was leaning against a rusty VW Rabbit. His arms were folded over his chest and his legs crossed at the ankle. He looked just as smug as he’d sounded last night. I reminded myself he was a loser.
Without a glance his way, I marched across the parking lot.
“Would you like protection?” he asked the side of my face. He still hadn’t peeled himself off his car.
I rolled my eyes and turned towards him. “What kind of protection?” I demanded.
He held something up. A travel bottle in a Ziploc sandwich bag.
“What’s that?”
The left corner of his mouth lifted. He looked kind of cute when he did that. But remember, I said kind of. Also, he wasn’t my type. I liked outdoorsy guys.
When he didn’t answer, I reached for the baggie. He pulled it away. He was taller than me and held it over his head. I wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction of watching me jump. Instead I took a step back. “Look,” I warned, “I’m tired of your dorky games and I’m late for work.” I turned towards the building.
“It’s acid,” he said as he scurried up behind me.
“Acid.” I started to walk faster. I should have listened to my first instinct and called the police. This guy was a threat. On second thought, if I wanted to join the police force, I probably needed to handle this situation myself.
“I can’t send you in there with a shotgun or a machete,” he explained quickly.
“The acid is in a compact and will disable them so you have time to escape.”
I screwed my face up and gave him a funny look.
He shrugged his shoulders. “Listen.” He smiled at me. His teeth weren’t exactly straight but there was an attractiveness to his lopsided grin that I liked. “Just pretend you’ve got to mist your face, then turn it on the good folks at Shibboleth Insurance.”
He actually seemed to be enjoying this. I didn’t feel the same way. “That thing won’t leak in my purse?” I asked suspiciously. “I don’t want to permanently disfigure myself.” It wasn’t like I was picture-perfect beautiful, but I did have a cute dimple on my chin and a nice smile.
“No.” He shook his head. “It’s sealed.” He pressed the bottle into my hand.
Just to humor him, I took it. At the end of the day, I planned to bring it back along with the name of a good therapist. A Google search should help me find someone in the area who specialized in delusion.
When I arrived at my desk Eliza moaned at me. Her wrists were still covered with bandages and that neck brace was wrapped even tighter around her chin. Plus she had a new problem. Sores were oozing along her jaw line. Maybe if she loosened the brace it would give her chafed skin a chance to heal.
Around noon, Mr. Nil invited Eliza and me into the conference room for a lunch meeting. It was nice to be included and after grabbing my brown bag, I eyed the Ziploc baggie. What the heck, I thought as I stuffed it into my sweater pocket and looked over my shoulder to ensure Eliza hadn’t seen me.
Mr. Nil motioned for me to sit at the head of the table. He and Eliza took their places on my left and right. I put my work folder down and pulled out the turkey sandwich my mother made for me. She also packed in three Oreo cookies. I could tell she was happy I had a job.
Deciding the polite thing to do was wait for my co-workers, I folded my hands on top of the table and smiled at them. With a moan of triumph, they grabbed my thumbs and started pulling my fingers towards their mouths. “Hey,” I yelled, trying to jerk loose while my Oreos spilled to the floor. With a shake, I was finally able to get Eliza to give up. With my free hand, I reached for my pocket and pulled out the acid. Unfortunately it was still in the Ziploc bag.
“Stop,” I demanded as Mr. Nil pressed my index finger against his chapped lips.
He was pretty strong and I put my foot on his knee to hold him back. “Damn,” I said as I felt Mr. Nil’s teeth against my skin. Eliza didn’t seem to notice my curses because she was trying to grab at my other hand again. As I worked at opening the bag, I dodged her attempts.
Finally I had my fingers wrapped around the spray bottle. Just as she reached for my pinkie, I pumped a few squirts her way. The acid soaked into the back of her hand and she cried out in agony. In the blink of an eye, I could see her tendons and brown bones.
I realized Rafe was right. They were zombies. Satan’s Army of the undead.
Without hesitation I turned on Mr. Nil. He cried out “acid,” and let go of my hand.
“Don’t come near me.” I held the spray bottle in front of him. “You belong in your grave,” I told my boss while I grabbed my purse and backed slowly towards the door.
“Please,” he groaned. “Help us.” He pulled off the bandages covering his chin.
“We need food,” he cried while chucks of bloody flesh fell to the table.
My stomach rolled and instead of barfing I turned and ran. I could hear them behind me. “Get her,” Mr. Nil told Eliza as I ran through the reception area and towards the double doors.
Rafe was outside, sitting on the hood of his car, and I immediately felt bad for every insult I had lobbed his way. “Start the car,” I yelled, deciding I would apologize later. “Start the car,” I said again when he didn’t react. I glanced behind me and could see the zombies piling up at the glass door. When Rafe saw them he jumped into the driver’s seat and turned the Rabbit over.
A moment later I opened the passenger-side door. “They are zombies,” I cried out. Like he didn’t know. He peeled out of the parking lot as I closed the door. “They tried to eat me,” I said, pulling my seat belt on and waving my hands around.
“Did they bite you?” He took his eyes off the road and studied me carefully.
“Oh no,” I cried thinking of the gnawing Mr. Nil did on my knuckles. I held my hand up. There were teeth marks and it was red. “Am I going to turn into a zombie?,” I moaned.
“Did he break the skin?”
“I don’t know,” I cried.
After glancing on
e last time in the rear view mirror, Rafe pulled over. “Let me see,” he demanded. We had stopped next to the river. I could hear the water running as he turned towards me.
“Will they come this far?” I asked.
“No,” he said. “They don’t like water.” He held my finger in the palm of his hand. “Did you acid them?”
“Just Eliza and it was only a little on her hands,” I explained. “I threatened Mr.
Nil and that was enough to get him to let go of me.”
“His teeth are soft. He couldn’t break the skin,” Rafe said. “So you’re not infected.”
“I won’t turn into a zombie,” I clarified.
“No.” He hesitated. “But now that he’s tasted you, he’s not going to give up.” He pulled his eyebrows together. “He’s going to want to finish his meal.”
“You mean.” I breathed heavily. “He’ll come after me?”
“And if he gets you,” Rath said, grimly putting the car in gear and stepping on the gas, “you’ll spend the rest of your days pushing papers at Shibboleth Insurance Agency.”
That sounded worse than death. After absorbing that thought for a minute or so, I asked, “What are we going to do?”
“Go to my house,” was the answer without explanation.
Rafe lived on the water. It was a big house with a wide front porch and a rolling lawn. There were three or four fancy cars in the driveway. It seemed Rafe was doing well killing the undead. Maybe I could forget about the police force and join him.
We stepped into a marble entryway after he opened the front door and threw his keys in the silver bowl on the credenza. “Ronnie!” a voice called from the living room.
“Mom, I’m busy,” Rafe replied.
“Come say hello to my friends.”
Rafe turned to me with a pained expression on his face. I decided to not comment on his pseudonym because I could commiserate with the meddling-mother problem. “My mother doesn’t know about my zombie work,” he explained through clenched teeth. “To keep her out of my business, I have to perform a few social niceties every once in a while.”
