“Jimmy Doyle jumped from the roof and killed himself. He is not responsible enough to be on a dangerous building site.” John waved an arm about at the tools, drills and hacksaws as if to emphasize his point.
“Mr Quinn, as you may or may well not know, is that Mr Doyle is dead and therefore is a member of a protected minority and disadvantaged group who without these laws would otherwise suffer unfair discrimination. As a medium sized employer in the construction industry, you are covered by Executive Order 11246 and cannot therefore discriminate on grounds of mort status.”
The sniveling little rat had spoken so quick, thrown so much jargon and numbers at John that he just couldn’t think. John didn’t need any of this crap right now with a rebellious daughter and the Department of Labor breathing hard all the way up his asshole. John exhaled and ran a hand through his hair. “Ok, so what do you want me to do?” Surely Dankworth wouldn’t make him rehire Jimmy Doyle, a member of the dead who could barely even walk – It was truly insane.
“Mr Quinn, you need to bring Mr Doyle back into the protective bosom of your organization.” He said it straight faced, which was the scary thing. “There must be some sort of role you can assign him?”
“We’re a construction company, Dankworth, and we operate on the ninth floor.”
“You’re in receipt of federal contracts are you not?” Dankworth sniffed.
“We have on the occasion yes.”
“Well then, you must comply with Executive Order 11246.” Dankworth looked around the building site, turning his nose up once again at the blue collar workers and sniffing. “Twenty men I count, Mr Quinn, and there’s not a single member from the dead community on your staff. Let me remind you, Mr Quinn, that under Executive Order 11246, at least five percent of your workforce must consist of members from the dead community. Now, you could either send Mr Doyle on his way, in which case you’ll only be required by law to hire some other member from the dead community, or you could simply take Mr Doyle here back into the protective bos…”
“…I get it!” John cut him off, not wishing to hear Dankworth’s nasally voice anymore.
This was bad. The company couldn’t afford to take on another construction worker, and he used the term ‘worker’ loosely when referring to Jimmy Doyle’s probable capabilities. He scanned across the ninth floor and his eyes settled on Roarke O’Flynn; large, hardworking and capable. Damn it, but the man had a family. But given that Roarke was the last to be taken onboard, it was only right that he should be made sacrificial lamb in order to get the latest batch of government parasites off his back. “Fine.” John conceded, scowling at Jimmy Doyle. “You can start back right away.”
Jimmy’s mouth opened, an audible crack giving way to visual green tinted goo which dribbled down his brand new Armani shirt. He turned to Dankworth and uttered something John had no hope of comprehending. Best keep the freak hidden away from potential new investors.
Dankworth straightened and turned back to John. “Ah yes, that reminds me. We’ve also received an allegation that you called Mr Doyle a ‘fucking zombie.’”
John’s jaw dropped wide open. “I most certainly did not!” How could Jimmy Doyle make such untrue allegations?
Dankworth shook his head and made tutting sounds. Whether or not the sniveling rat believed John over the dead guy with the crushed skull was open to interpretation. “Mr Quinn, let me remind you that although the z word may not yet be illegal to use in this country, at this point in time, society in general does not look too kindly upon such behavior.”
John stepped toward Dankworth who took an even larger step back in an automatic response, eyes widening like a frightened child being cornered by the school bully. “I did not say the fucking z word, Dankworth.”
Dankworth straightened his tie. “Good, Mr Quinn. Because I don’t want to see you one day in the not too distant future having to attend one of my Mort Assimilation Awareness courses.” Taxpayer funded no doubt. He turned to face his client, “Mr Doyle, I wish you luck and let me know if there are any further problems.” He chose not to shake the dead man’s hand, instead heading straight for the elevator.
It took several seconds for John to feel his arms shaking as the anger bubbled inside. His employees resumed work as John beheld the specimen of Jimmy Doyle before him. Maybe there was a long stand he could send him to the warehouse for. Come to think of it, they were also in need of some spirit level bubbles, elbow grease, tartan paint, a hard punch and a long drop – On second thoughts, better scratch that last one. “Hey, Jimmy?” John asked with a raised eyebrow.
But Jimmy Doyle was already shuffling toward the couch. “Me on break now.”
From Behind The Curtain 2
At the Glen Cove Mansion Hotel & Conference Center, they watched CCTV footage taken from one of the zombie ghettos as a human was grabbed from the street, dragged into an alley and eaten. Two zombies tore through her flesh, devouring the woman as she underwent the last agonizing moments of life. Levi Goldstein led the laughter as they witnessed the human finally stop moving. He brought the brandy to his lips and took a large gulp. The footage would never be made public, the Goyim would be forever kept in the dark. “And even if they did find out…” he cackled.
“…There’s not a thing they’d do anyway.” Evilyn de Redshield finished, as though they all thought as one. “Where are we?”
Goldstein glared through the cigar smoke toward his fellow tribe members as one corner of his mouth curled upwards. “The zombie population is increasing nicely.”
“Are we really at five percent?” Shalom Schweiber asked, interlinking his bony fingers.
“We are rapidly approaching five percent.” Goldstein assured him. “But just as importantly, we are winning over the gullible, guilt ridden half of the Goyim.” He knocked back the brandy and nodded to the servant to refill the glass.
“The weak minded fools.” Sumter Rothstein hacked. “So easily influenced, even celebrating their own extinction.”
The two percent that’d originally been in favor of unleashing zombies onto the public, mainly fellow tribe members, had now increased to twenty percent, thus encompassing many of the truly stupid Goyim. That number would only grow the more they showed zombies in a favorable light in the news, TV, movies and other forms of media. A divided nation was so much easier to control. Though of course, the restriction of certain CCTV images would be essential. The truth could not be leaked under any circumstances.
“Phase one can be considered a great success.” Redshield croaked. “Now on with phase two.”
Goldstein stood and placed his hands on the table. “It’s time for zombies to break into the entertainment industry.” He directed his words at Sumter Rothstein, owner of vast numbers of TV stations, music channels, production companies, advertising agencies and other media organizations. “We need some reasonably photogenic zombies.”
“And then make them famous.” Rothstein blew out a large plume of dirty smoke. “You ever seen a photogenic zombie?” He asked with sarcasm.
Cackling broke out around the table until Redshield held up a warning hand. “This could be a problem.”
Goldstein came in, “it won’t matter in the long run of things. Just pay some Goyim trash enough shekels to go along with it – There’s always some young wannabe pop starlet out there who’d betray her people if the price was right and millions more Goyim willing to follow her blindly. From then on it’s all airbrushing.”
“It’ll be done. What else?” Redshield asked.
Goldstein ran a sticky finger down a sheet of paper. “Reports of small acts of civil disobedience are beginning to trickle through to us.” He tapped a button on the computer and an image of a zombie appeared on screen. “Again, we have a problem though.”
“She’s fucking disgusting!” Redshield spat.
“Yes.” Goldstein agreed. “She refused to step off the sidewalk when a group of humans passed by. We could use her, but as you say, she’s fucking disgust
ing.” Her jaw was dislocated, one side of her face collapsed inwards. “Probably got panel beat to death, but the Goyim sheep will never get behind her.” Goldstein tapped the button again and he watched for Redshield’s reaction as a new image flashed on screen.
Redshield blanched, “what the fuck happened to that?”
“This zombie sat on a bench in Central Park designated for human use.”
“We can’t use him.” Redshield nodded to the screen, most likely indicating the zombie’s ninety percent burns.
Goldstein shrugged, “you knew this would be a problem.”
“Is there nothing remotely photogenic?” Shweiber interjected.
Goldstein held down a button on the table and spoke to somebody through the door. “Bring them in.”
Nothing at first. Then the wait prolonged even further. Finally, two black suited men in sunglasses threw the doors open, bringing in the rotten stench through the opening.
Rothstein stifled a hacking cough, his chest struggling to contain the pressure as several zombies stumbled into the room. The manacles about their feet clanged off the chains which held them together as a black suit jabbed them further inside with a cattle prod.
Ehud Axelrod and Moshe Lieberman, two banking moguls and agents for Redshield, jumped from their seats and slithered toward the windows, forcing each open.
The zombies, although erect in stature were limp in demeanor as they lined up against the far wall. Twelve in total, only two of them were fresh enough to be of any use.
Redshield pointed to the taller, stronger one at the far end. It had a remarkably upright posture for a zombie. “How’d that die?” For sure, it could have died peacefully in its sleep.
One of the suits sprang into action, jabbing the cattle prod into the zombie’s ribs causing it to shudder, taking one zombie either side backwards with it. “Speak up freak, you were asked a question.”
“Me dead, heroin overdose.” Several wiry strands of green hair detached from its scalp and floated to the floor.
Redshield span around in his chair to face the table. “It’ll have to do. What’s its name?”
The suit struck the zombie over the side of the head, “arg, me Grover Starks.”
“Pick a town and get everything in place. I want this moving as fast as…”
“…Me promised braaaiiiinnnss.” Grover Starks cut Redshield off.
Redshield span back to face the disgusting rotting carcass, just another useful idiot, a foot soldier so easily bought in their war against the Goyim. He looked to the suit, “get him some brains then find a Goyim neighborhood to dump the rest.”
The Cut
The mort kids had shown a huge interest in trying out for the football team. Not that Finn worried about them taking his much desired spot.
Indeed, their builds were feeble compared to the human kids who on average were at least ten pounds heavier. Besides that, the dead nearly all carried what should have been, in a sane world, career ending injuries. Mortimer Jones probably faired the best of all of them, his electrocution having caused eighty percent burns to his body, would not otherwise affect his performance. Morton Baines however, with his one leg and Mortinez Smith having suffered severe head damage and as a consequence couldn’t walk or run in a straight line, would no doubt struggle against human opposition.
In total there were eight morts who stayed behind for after school practice and Finn wasn’t surprised when they were all chosen last to be on a team; each being stuck with four morts each. The odds were good. Sixteen humans trying out for eleven spots. Naturally the morts could be dismissed as irrelevant. Even Declan was doubtful with his shoulder injury. It was now or never for Finn.
He felt the snap as he drove his shoulder into one of the mort’s ribcage, unrecognizable from the others – They all looked so similar. The mort landed in a heap on the floor – Broken rib? Finn hadn’t really hit him that hard but he definitely felt something shatter. To his amazement the mort clawed his way up and continued.
“Finn, watch this.” Declan said with a grin, throwing the ball to Mortimer who coordinated the catch all wrong, the ball slamming into his teeth. Declan doubled over and clutched his belly in laughter, setting off several other players. “This is too funny, man.”
A few minutes later Declan held the ball out in one hand, inviting Morton to take possession. Morton hopped toward Declan and after several minutes made the final leap with outstretched arms just as Declan withdrew the ball, sending the mort crashing to the floor.
The training session turned out to be an interesting and comedic experience as the dead were pounded, thrashed and whipped within an inch of their, um, lives.
Finally Coach blew the whistle. “We’re gonna practice tries.”
Finn clapped his hands together and whooped. He’d spent extra hours training his kicks over the summer. He placed the ball down, sighted the uprights and ran at the ball, connecting with the level of perfection only practice brings and the ball arced sweetly between the beautiful posts.
Each human kid took his turn, only a few failing to convert. It was looking good for Finn’s selection prospects since there were only the morts who’d yet to impress the coach with their goal scoring capabilities, or lack of.
Mortimer volunteered to go first, stumbling toward the ball and ultimately tripping over it, sending a ripple of painful belly laughter from the humans. Next Morton stepped, or rather hopped forward but the coach mercifully excused him from the indignity. Finally, it was the turn of Mortinez who, instead of running toward the ball, ran away from it – If only it could be called running.
Coach gathered everybody together. “Great session guys.” He unfolded a sheet of paper. “I’ve made my decision for this weekend’s game.”
Finn rubbed his hands together. This was it. The hours of hard work, training, high-protein diets and sacrifice were about to pay off. He glanced over to Declan who busied himself holding an ice pack to his shoulder.
Coach reeled off the names, “Declan, Stan, Todd, Karl, John, Mason, Chip, Butch, Mikey, Mortimer and Morton.” Coach folded up the paper and stuffed it in his back pocket. “As for the rest of you – Better luck next time.”
“Coach, what the hell?” Finn yelped, staring open mouthed at the one-legged dead kid who’d been selected ahead of himself – It was madness.
“Sorry kid, I guess it’s just not your day.”
Lunch
Finn moved down the line, placing the tray on the serving rack, the smell of mac and cheese initiating the build-up of saliva in his mouth. He pointed at the delicious all-American food and the lunch lady filled his plate.
“If you ask me, it’s a fuckin’ disgrace.” Declan said, grabbing a plate of apple pie then sliding his tray down the rack.
“Yeah, I’m a little disappointed but I guess I’ll just have to try harder.” Finn conceded. It still didn’t seem fair – Finn was more match fit than anybody else there. “Maybe it’s my lack of stature that counted against me.”
“Or maybe it’s your lack of being dead that counted against you.”
“What do you mean?” Finn asked with a raised eyebrow.
Declan checked both ways and leaned in closer. “My dad says the school is using some kind of a dumbass quota for picking the team, man.” Declan whispered.
“What? No way, it makes no sense.” Finn reached forward, taking a plate of the delicious all-American apple pie. “I mean, Coach wants to pick the best team right?”
Declan raised his hands in a gesture of surrender, “hey, I’m just tellin’ ya what I heard, is all.”
The very thought of having a dead quota for the football team sounded kind of stupid. What if the other team had no such quota – It’d be a bloodbath at the weekend.
But as Finn thought a little harder about it, it kind of made sense. For thousands of years, humans had mistreated the dead, so it probably was time for them to atone for the many evils of the past. The bottom line was – Humans owed at least someth
ing to the dead and allowing them a few places on the football team wasn’t all that bad, even if it was himself who missed out – It was all for the greater good. Finn watched as his friend took a carton of milk. He hoped Declan wasn’t some sort of closet mortist.
Declan leaned in again. “My dad says that one day they’ll all outnumber us and then we’re fucked. You see how they already treat humans who walk into zombie neighborhoods?” He slid his tray toward the cash register. “I’m tellin’ you man. They’re gonna start making more and more, bigger and bigger demands on us and the fuckin’ sell-out politicians’ll bend over and take it.”
Finn took a step back. “Whoa, I’m not too sure I’m comfortable discussing this. The TV says we’re all the same, you know, the living and the dead.”
“Whatever, man. I’m just giving you something to think about. It’s you who didn’t make the team remember.” Was Declan a mortist? He did use the z word. In which case Finn would have to reconsider his whole friendship with the guy; he didn’t want to be considered a pariah after all.
Finn slid his tray toward the cash register and waited for the old human lunch lady to deal with the queue in front.
Then the rattle of a tray being slammed down against the rail distracted Finn, who whipped round to see a mort a couple of places behind in the queue.
“This all human food.” The mort spat, “Me not human, me want brains or human flesh.” The male mort ogled the elderly cafeteria lady, becoming more irate. “You provide food fit for mort.”
The cafeteria lady folded her arms. “Young mort, if you don’t like human food then you’re free to bring your own lunch in a brown paper bag.”
The mort twitched and gaped into the crack between her neck and shoulder. “Brown bag cost food stamp, school lunch free, you give mort food.”
Zombie Society - They Live Among Us Page 4
