by D. M. Guay
Monster Burger
24/7 Demon Mart 2
D M Guay
Contents
Hello, my name is Lloyd Wallace, and my coworkers are zombies. What could possibly go wrong?
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Book Sausage
Denise's favorite underrated and overlooked zombie movies
Who the Heck is D.M. Guay?
Books by D.M. Guay
Copyright © 2020 Denise Guay Trowbridge
All rights reserved.
Cover by James at Goonwrite.com
This book is a work of fiction. Any similarity between the characters and situations within its pages and real places or persons, living or dead, is unintentional and coincidental. No parts of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the copyright owner.
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Hello, my name is Lloyd Wallace, and my coworkers are zombies. What could possibly go wrong?
Lying there, trapped underneath a four hundred pound man who'd clamped his teeth around my elbow like an alligator, I made a decision: I was not going to give up. Sure. It seemed hopeless. I had a dozen people chewing on my legs, trying to eat me, and a dozen more waiting behind them to slurp up the scraps, but there was still hope, right? I was going to fight. I had no other choice. I had to save DeeDee—and the world—or die trying.
Chapter 1
It was midnight, and Demon Mart was unusually quiet. No demons. No monsters. No customers. It was quite pleasant, actually. The fluorescent lights flickered a warmer hue, and the magical chanting Muzak charm was set to a disco funk beat. I kind of dug it. It was sexy.
I bumped my hips to the music as I restocked the rubbers in aisle four. I grabbed a handful of small, square condom boxes out of the stock tub. The packages were black with a cartoon logo: A chubby winking white dude with two thumbs up. “Fat Dude Gets Lucky” brand, “Ribbed for the pleasure of anyone who'll touch him.”
Huh. You ever heard of these? Yeah. Me either.
I held up the box and ran it down the line of hangers, trying to figure out where it was supposed to go. Maximum Big Boy? Nope. Ultra Thin Joy Rides? Nope. Bucking Bronco Bare Skins? Nope. Rapture Ridge Pleasure pack? Uh, no. Ecstasy Ultra Ribbed? No again. Triple Velvet Lady Slayer? Geesh. I had no idea there were so many kinds of rubbers.
“Why would you? You don't have enough sex,” angel eight ball said as he settled in on a nearby shelf by knocking bottles of lube out of the way.
“Shut up.”
“Come on. We both know you're a swipe left.”
I scanned the condom display again, then examined the box of “Fat Dude Gets Lucky.” Well, there wasn't a spot for it. The order must be messed up. Maybe we got them by mistake.
“There's no mistake.” DeeDee stood at the end of the aisle. She was radiant tonight, a goddess among women, which meant she pretty much looked exactly the same way she did every night. She'd dyed her hair a sultry deep burgundy. Her black liquid eyeliner curved to a dangerous point at the end of her gray eyes. “I ordered those custom made, just for you. Stud.”
She winked at me.
Gulp. “What?” The word barely squeaked out. Because dude. All my blood had rushed south. There wasn't enough left in my head to think of a word, let alone speak one.
“You heard me.” DeeDee sashayed toward me, hips swinging, eyes locked on mine. “This is long overdue.”
She grabbed the hem of her Siouxsie and The Banshees T-shirt and pulled it up and off as she walked. It fluttered to the floor.
Oh. My. God. Boobs. And not just any boobs. DeeDee's boobs. They were radiant beasts, luscious confections wrapped in a delicate black lace wrapper.
Woah boy. Full on wood.
“Why don't you open that box,” she purred. “And we'll take that bad boy for a spin.”
She grabbed me by the T-shirt, pulled me close to her and kissed me. With tongue. She felt so good. Curvy and warm, her hand sliding down down down. This was better than Christmas. Usually the only hands in my pants were mine.
Her hair tickled my face. I breathed deep. Mmmmm. She smelled like sugar. No maple. Maple sugar? Weird choice, but whatever. I'm into it.
“Wake up, honey,” DeeDee whispered in my ear.
She gave it a little nibble, then licked it. Her tongue felt rough, like sandpaper, but I didn't mind. She just needed a sip of Snapple or something to moisten that up. Her fingers fumbled with the button of my cargo shorts.
Oh yes. This is happening. This is finally happening!
She said, “Rise and shine. It's time to get up.”
Oh, I was up all right.
“Holy cow. Please stop,” Angel eight ball said. “This is a total shit show.”
“Shu uuuuup.” It's hard to enunciate with a hot chick's tongue in your mouth.
DeeDee stopped kissing me and tilted her head back. So naturally, I totally motor-boated her flawless breasts. I mean, I really sunk my face in there. Deep. She moaned in ecstasy. “Uuuuuuuuuuuh. Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaar. Uuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuh.”
That's right, girl. You love it.
She growled—ooh, she must really love it—then she bit the top of my head.
Ow! Holy crap, that hurt.
Weird, right? But I shrugged it off. Because boobs. And, because whatever DeeDee was into, I would be into, too. Guys like me couldn't be picky.
She bit me again, and this time it really hurt. Like next level agony. My hair suddenly felt very wet.
“Ouch! Stop!” I pulled back. When I saw her face, I froze. “Holy shit. Are you all right?”
No, she was not. Definitely not. Nope.
Blood dripped from her mouth. Her skin had turned pale green, and her eyes were milky white. She looked like the cleaning crew. Oh God. They got her. She must have been bitten. She must have turned.
My hand shot to the top of my head. When I pulled my fingers back, they were red. With blood. She bit me!
She spit a chunk of me out of her mouth and smiled, flashing her rotten black teeth. Dear God. What did they do to DeeDee? Why didn't I save her? I should have saved her!
She lunged at me and growled, “Honey? Do you want a doughnut?”
Um, that was a weird thing for a zombie to say, right?
“Wow. Your brain is a mess. I think you might have PTSD.” Angel eight ball said. “But seriously. We're done here.”
He flew off the shelf and smacked into my nuts. Hard.
“Ooooow!” I howled, because dude. Nuts!
I bent in half, holding my aching crotch, and my nose landed directly i
n a box of fresh doughnuts. Doughnuts? “NOOOOOOOO! Get them away from meeeeeee. They're cursed!”
I punched the box. Glazed loops flew up through the air, flipping end over end, sprinkles hanging on for dear life. They splatted onto the floor, icing side down. Cream filling and jelly splurped all over the rug. Wait. The rug?
“Oh my gosh!” My Mom squeaked.
I blinked hard and looked around. Oh. I was in my room, sitting up in bed, holding my nuts. Angel eight ball was in my lap. Dude! Not cool! Do you know how much that hurts?
“No, I don't actually. But you're welcome.” Angel eight ball's triangle slid side to side, like he was shaking his head at me. “Look.”
His triangle flashed a drawing of a finger pointing straight at my cat, Gertrude, spread eagle on my pillow, leg up, licking her butt.
Aw, man. That wasn't DeeDee's sandpaper tongue nibbling my ear, was it? She didn't smell like maple either. That was doughnut frosting. And the dirty talk? Holy hell. That was my Mom, wasn't it? Wow. Immediate chainsaw to the morning wood. Total deforestation.
“Geesh, honey.” My Mom stood next to the bed looking flustered, surveying the sad sprinkly mess on the carpet. “What's gotten into you? Since when do you hate doughnuts?”
She definitely did not want an honest answer to that question.
Oh, wait. Maybe she did. Because she stood there staring at me, waiting.
“What was all that punching about anyway? Bad dream?” Mom's voice curled up extra tight at the end. Her eyebrows squinched together, forming a deep wrinkle eleven between her eyes.
Uh oh. I knew that look. Those were her worried eyebrows.
“Is there something on your mind? Anything you want to talk about?”
And boom. Called it. Here. Let me translate the secret language of Mom for you: “Something on your mind” meant “something on her mind.” Trust me. She didn't tiptoe around my room with doughnuts unless she was luring me into some sort of trap.
Mom knelt down and scooped doughnut shrapnel from the floor into the box. “Good thing all the fancy ones are downstairs. You better hurry. Your Dad's been hovering over the box for an hour. I told him he had to wait until you woke up so we could eat together as a family. I can't hold him off much longer.”
Oh God. Stone cold dread blurbled in my belly. Doughnuts plus something on her mind, plus family meal equaled not good for Lloyd. Not good at all. I was a dead man.
“Yeah. You're totally screwed,” angel eight ball said. “If Jennifer Wallace declares a family meal on a non-holiday, you're in for it. Even angels are quaking in their socks right now. What did you do this time?”
Nothing? My mind buzzed, trying to identify any new screw ups, but for once, I couldn't think of any. We'd already had the big talks:
1: When are you gonna get a job, Lloyd? Adults have jobs, and you're a legal adult.
2. How are you going to pay your student loans? They're coming due. (See 1. Job.)
3. When are you going back to college? Most good jobs require degrees. You want to have a good job, don't you?
Groan. My head hurt just thinking about those conversations. So painful. What could I possibly be in trouble for anyway? I had finished two out of three!
“You're a minimally employed community college dropout. Gee whiz. What could they possibly be concerned about? Any parent would be over the moon.” Angel eight ball rolled his triangle at me. “If they ask about school, you should tell them you've earned an honorary doctorate in Pornhub. Seriously. You surf so much porn. So so soooo much porn. I bet your search history has herpes.”
“Shut up!” I snapped. “Be quiet and let me think!”
“Excuse you, Mister?” Mom dug her fists into her hips and glared at me.
Oops. That was out loud.
“Sorry Mom. Not you.” I plastered on a fake smile and shook eight ball really hard. Really, really hard. You made me look like a jerk!
His triangle seemed impervious to my rage. “Don't blame the messenger. I'm only reading the room here. Now get up. Pull this Mom Band-Aid off already. We've got work to do. Jesus was serious about the cardio.”
I flung my legs over the side of the bed and angel eight ball rolled off my lap, onto the carpet, and right into my Mom's foot. She stopped picking sprinkles out of the shag. “Oh. Is this the same one you had when you were little? I thought you lost it!” Mom picked up the eight ball and shook it. “What is my baby up to these days? Is he being a good boy?”
The triangle turned and said, “Don't count on it.”
Worst guardian angel ever.
“Here. Let me put that away.” I snatched the ball out of her hand and tossed it into the closet. It landed in a box of old video games and dirty socks. Yeah yeah. I was still working on that cleanliness and godliness thing. Don't judge me. It'd only been twenty-four hours since I saved the world. You're welcome.
Mom followed me downstairs. When we stepped into the kitchen, Dad had a ring of white cream around his mouth, and his cheeks were puffed up like a hamster's.
“Really honey? You couldn't wait five more minutes?” Mom huffed.
“Sowwwy.” A wall of doughnut mush churned between his lips.
Dude. I feel ya. If I'd been left alone with a box of fancies at any point in history before this weekend, I woulda cleared it in five minutes flat. But I was a changed man. After what I'd seen, I'd never eat a doughnut ever again.
“Sit down, honey,” Mom said to me.
I could see all traces of hope and joy drain out of my Dad as he spotted the box of ruined doughnuts coated in carpet, dust and lint in her hand. “Wha happun...?”
“Nothing.” Mom sighed, dropped the box into the garbage can, then turned to us. “Now. Let's get to it.”
A green light flashed behind her. It grew into a swirling misty portal, about as big around as a soda can, hanging in midair above the garbage. AHHH! HELL BEAST! ATTACK! ATTACK!
My muscles clenched up so tight, so fast, I could have shit a diamond. I grabbed the closest weapon, which turned out to be a fork. A set of antennae emerged from the vortex, two legs, then two more. A second later, a cockroach swan dived out of the portal and straight into the discarded doughnut box. It locked eyes with me, then winked as it landed on the powdery remains of a raspberry jelly filled.
Kevin. What the hell was he doing here?
“Nice to see you too, kid,” he said. “I need somewhere to hang out until the store reopens. My roommates are the worst. Unbearable. DeeDee didn't have any good snacks. Nothing but vegetables. Blech. Do I look like a rabbit? I see you've got the good stuff.”
He took a bite out of the doughnut and groaned as he chewed. “Mmmmmmm. That's what I'm talking about. Fuck carrots.” He closed his eyes and swayed joyfully. “Hold up. What's that?”
He picked something out of his...teeth? Do roaches have teeth? “These doughnuts are a little linty. Whatevs.”
He shrugged and kept on eating. The tiny green portal zipped up and disappeared behind him.
Mom, oblivious to the wayward roach, brought a gallon of milk and the tray of remaining fancy doughnuts to the table and said, “Uuuuuuuuuuuuuh.”
You heard that, right? No. Mom was not a zombie. (As soon as she made that noise, I double checked.) This was worse. This, my friend, was THE SIGH. The “It's sooooooo hard being your mom” sigh, dipped in disappointment like a strawberry in dark chocolate.
Mom put our doughnuts on actual plates and gave us paper towels for napkins, like we were uppity civilized people. I don't know what you do at your house, but this was weird for us. Our meal times were more like stand around the kitchen island, shoving food in as fast as possible, crumbs flying, sticky fingers wiped on sweatpants like apocalypse survivors. The Wallaces were microwave stalkers, not sit down fancy people. Paper towel napkins and doughnuts on actual plates? I was in deep. Either this is the speech about finishing college or my parents were getting divorced.
“So, Lloyd—” Mom said, words short and clipped.
&n
bsp; Ugh. Brace yourself. Here it comes.
“We need to talk about your job.”
Glug-gurg. That was me nearly choking on a mouthful of milk while trying really hard to keep it from panic-shooting out of my nostrils.
My job?
My heart thumped. I definitely did not want to talk about my job. Nope. Didn't even want to think about it. Not now, not ever. Never again. Nope. Nope. Nope.
“Tell me everything you do there, and I mean everything.” She stared me right in the eyes, squinting, as if using some sort of magic X-Ray vision to scan my thoughts.
“Well, Mom, I guard the border between hell and earth. Yesterday, I saved the earth from an angry demon octopus with plans for world domination. You're welcome. Oh, and zombies are real, so start stockpiling food, guns, and lumber to cover the windows. Just in case. The world could go full Resident Evil any minute. Be prepared.”
Mom stared at me. Waiting. Because I did not say any of that out loud. Sure, I said it in my head (part of it in a British accent, because that makes everything sound better) but come on. I kept my lips zipped. I couldn't tell her that! I wasn't a total moron.
“You sure fooled me.” Kevin stood in my lap, with four arms on his hips—carapace? Whatever.—coated head-to-toe in powdered sugar. “Point me to the liquor cabinet, kid. While we were saving the world, my dickhead roommates drank my stash dry. Every last drop, the bastards. Uncle Kev's thirsty. It's five o'clock somewhere, am I right?”
He held up a hand—well, technically, all he had were feet—expecting a high five.
