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A Zombie Story for the all of you's:
I'm sure you all know I couldn't really miss Blog Like it's the End of the World Day.
For serious.
So here's a short story one or two of you might have read before, but I'm sure most of you have not. It recalls both my love of zombies and my hatred of fast food jobs, and was written for an anthology called Fast Food, Slow Death which did not accept it.
The Growlers
By:
Wednesday Lee Friday
"I hate this job…I hate this job…I hate hate hate," Judy rocked back and forth on her aching feet and debated walking out and going home. The new tile under her feet was sunny yellow and actually quite pretty. They had taken away her foot padding to show it off, and now she was in pain from toe to shoulder. She wanted to go home.
No one deserved to work in such an oppressive environment. The petit brunette wiped her brow with the back of her hand and proceeded to wipe that on her flour covered apron, leaving a pale streak on her forearm. It was nearly 95 degrees in the kitchen; and she was confined to a three by three foot square next to it with nothing but a cash register and a speaker box to share her pain.
"Burgers and More how can I help you?" Judy spoke mechanically into the tinny talking device. She'd given up being cheerful months ago; there was no point.
"Uh yeah, are you guys open?" No you moron, I answered the speaker because we're fucking closed.
"Yes we are, go ahead when you're ready." She waited to turn the speaker off before letting out a clear but exasperated sigh. The maintenance man walked by, giving her what he undoubtedly thought was a playful slap on the ass. Judy thought it was a profound insult and told him so, ignoring his rebutting suggestion that she 'relax'.
"I'm not ready yet," came the voice from the car. Pause. "Miss? MISS?"
"Go head."
"I'm not ready yet." She would never understand why people felt the need to get her attention before telling her they didn't need her attention yet. That was merely one of the hundreds of things these people did to annoy her. Asking her prices when they're parked in front of a menu, wanting vegetarian food from a burger place, buying one small soda with a fifty-dollar bill, no one even tried to look at this procedure from her point of view. Complete jerk-asses, every last one of them.
Finally the jerk-ass at the window gave his order with the usual smattering of um's, ah's, and other assorted stupidities, before paying with a handful of rolled coins.
"You don’t have to check those, they're fine." He told her in a way that screamed she should check every roll. She did and found to her mild annoyance that it was one dollar and seventy-five cents short.
"Actually sir, this is almost two dollars short. I'm going to need—"
"You're going to need to shut your mouth before I tell your boss that you stole my money." Of course, the oppressed employees sarcasm was dying to get out, I'm running away to Mexico with your dollar and three quarters. Judy called Billiam over herself even though she got a little sick of the shift manager constantly staring at her ass. He peeked his head around the corner, leering at her.
"What can I do for you Jude?" His salivating glare made her feel like she needed a shower. Judy closed the drive-thru window and turned toward the shift manager, cringing slightly as his eyes moved pointedly from her face to her chest. She felt like reminding him that she was still underage, but somehow she didn't think it would make any difference. Besides, she'd be seventeen in a week.
"This guy's coin rolls are short and he says I stole his money." She looked defiantly at Billiam, daring him to question her integrity. He didn't.
"How short is he?" Judy told him, and Billiam produced exactly one dollar seventy five cents from his front pocket and tossed it at his employee. "Just get him the hell out of here."
"What? He called me a thief, and I'm supposed to—" Billiam pushed her bodily aside and told the jerk in the car he was all set and could pull ahead. The jerk gave Judy the finger on his way to the next window, and the disgusted teen found herself hoping someone had spit in his food. Nobody really did that though, not in real life. Where were all the funny fast food situations from movies where she was? No madcap employees being hilarious and sarcastic. No bosses that were secretly in on the boozing and pot smoking that, according to films, took place in every fast food restaurant in the world.
Before Judy could further lament her lack of cinematic excitement, a terrified looking boy of about fourteen ran past her window and into the front of the store, smacking the logo-covered window with a sickening thud. His head hit so hard Judy half expected a halo of stars to appear spinning around it. Not bothering to shake it off, the boy turned, opened the door this time, and ran breathlessly to the front counter.
After a second, it became clear why the boy had been running and frightened. Two much larger youths in blue camouflage fatigues ran in the boy's path. It appeared that they were fast runners both slowed by some sort of hobbling injury. The one with a cap seemed to have injured his knee while the other was visibly bleeding from both ankles and let out a sound between a moan and a growl as he ran past Judy's window.
"Billiam!" Judy yelled at her boss, who was standing in shock amid several other drones in hideous, matching uniforms. "Call the police, and an ambulance. That boy! He's hurt."
The first boy, sporting a large number "8" on his T-shirt asked for water between gasps. When Chuck the Counter Guy turned to get it, Number 8 produced a revolver from his waistband and began loading it with bullets he pulled from his front pocket. Now it was Chuck's turn for fear as he stared at the boy with the gun, no longer wondering how his day could get any worse.
"Hold it right there," cried out Patty, one of the two terminal housewives in the front of drive-thru. She was just the type who would be working every morning at Burgers and More until she died in her sleep from some kind of cholesterol blockage. "We do NOT allow guns in here, young man." Patty walked over like an authoritative parent and snatched up the weapon. Just then, the growling, moaning boys caught up with their objective and entered the building.
"Oh god," Number 8 said under his breath, jumping behind the counter and looking around frantically. "Gimme back my gun, lady!" He picked up the metal grate under the soda machine and swung it around and around, inserting an arc of swooping metal between himself and the growlers. Neither of Number 8's pursuers looked quite right to Judy, who had finally taken it on herself to call the police. The 911 operator assured her they'd be on their way 'presently'.
Once inside, the growling men seemed to forget whom they were after. The one with bleeding Ankles descended upon a mother and small child who were just walking out of a colorful play area full of germ-infested plastic 'fun balls.' Ankles pushed the pair back into the room and appeared to be kissing the screaming mother on her neck. When he pulled back though, Judy gasped to see tendons pulling and flesh ripping away. She wasn't sure whether to run or vomit.
"SHOOT! SHOOT HIM!!" Judy heard Number 8 cry from behind the swinging soda grate. The boy was frantic and terrified now. The old matron he screamed at stood rooted and shaking in her drive-thru fortress as the boy belted the second growler in the face again and again until he fell back wards and flailed like a turtle on its back. The honking cars waiting to order food seemed to come from a distant dimension. Nothing in the world was happening except this.
For a mere millisecond, every drone and customer in the store, even the shaking Billiam stood silent and sick at the sound of the small girl child in the ball room. Her frightened sobs turned to choking, horrible screams…and then silence.
"You better go check that out," Billiam turned to Chuck the Counter Guy, who gave him the finger.
"No, don't check anything out. Nobody move." The boy's pubescent voice turned authoritative now. He wiped his hands on his number 8 shirt and plucked his gun from the hands of the old woman who had stolen it. Without a word, Number 8 leveled the revolver at the growler on the floor and pulled the trigger with a thunderous pop that made the remaining customers run screaming out the side doors.
Stel, the other drive thru matron said something about the girl…the girl and pushed her comrade out of the way. Nobody took notice even when she opened the door to the ballroom and two bloody people emerged.
What had, moments earlier, been a vital young mother growled like an animal as it ran past the old woman to the counter. Without stopping, she leapt over the silver barrier, launching herself at Chuck the Counter Guy who had just enough time to turn his view screen in the direction of the female growler as she sunk her teeth into him. Judy could see that the woman was now missing an arm at the shoulder. Had Ankles torn her whole damn arm off? It was grotesque, flailing shards of tendon or sinew hung limply from the reddened shoulder. Judy wanted to vomit at the sight of it.
Number 8 cocked his gun and shot the former mother in the face. She collapsed onto the counter under a stream of profanities and complaints from Chuck, who was bleeding worse than Judy had ever seen, anywhere.
Judy ran for the first aid kit, yelling for Chuck to come over to the sink. He sprinted over the fry vats, knocking several baskets over and splashing lava-like fry grease on Patty, who didn't even flinch. Before Chuck could cross over into the grill area, Number 8 shot him twice in the back of the head, spraying himself and Billiam with blood. Once again, the boy looked like he might faint. Judy thought she could stand to join him.
"I'm sorry," the boy said as he spun around and headed back into the lobby muttering something about locking doors as he went. Judy slapped her own head to shake the shock out of herself. Everyone was falling apart; what the hell was going on? Why was a young teenage boy in here shooting everyone, and what the hell were those 'people' growling like dogs?
She made every effort to survey the situation even as she stepped over the poor, dead, bloody, body of Chuck. He was a good guy, that Chuck.
Stella screamed as the previously inanimate girl child in her arms had begun thrashing, whining, and growling. Stel patted her back for consolation before the toddler sunk her teeth unto Stel's forearm, eliciting an ungodly shriek of shock and pain. Almost immediately, Stella convulsed and fell motionless on the floor. Judy couldn't help but think what a waste it had been to put in new tile. All this blood would never come out of it.
Number 8 walked calmly into the dining room and shot Stel and the girl child, wiping a tear as he did so.
"Poor little girl." Judy heard him say. Inwardly, she nodded.
Thinking the danger had finally passed, Judy went upfront to check on Patty and Billiam, the only two remaining employees. Patty stood frozen, statuesque, in her place, while Billiam mumbled like a mental patient. Judy suppressed a giggle seeing that her perpetually leering boss had peed himself. That was probably some kind of health code violation.
All appeared normal until a loud banging exploded from the ball room as the first horrible growler uprooted himself and began pounding and screaming for his release.
"What is that? What's going on?" It was terrifying, whatever it was. If what she had seen was the truth and not some horrible hallucination, they wanted to eat people. A hideous, growling, contagious thing like an animal that wanted to eat people. It was contagious, wasn't it? That mother and child didn't start biting people of their own accord?
Number 8 pointed the gun at the ball room window, firing several shots that should have gone right into the growler. Instead, they stopped with smallish cracks in the glass.
"It's bulletproof. I don’t know why." Judy told him, feeling helpless and stupid at the ridiculousness of the situation.
"Okay, I need you to help me." He looked at her in a way that utterly precluded refusal. "Just open the door, and I'll shoot it." She didn't see any alternative. On the count of three, she opened the door and held it in front of her, letting the much younger boy risk his life yet again.
Number 8's expression turned from concentration to horror as the gun appeared to jam. The growler ran straight toward the terrified boy and they both tumbled backward onto the new yellow tile, smearing it with blood and filth.
Judy looked around for something to hit it with. She picked up one of the few unattached chairs and swung it high over her head with a grunt. It came down hard on the growlers back, making a loud thud and a cry of ouch, dammit! from the boy below. Throwing the chair aside she wrenched the growler away from the boy by its shoulder. In a few seconds, the boy had seen to the gun, and shot the lone growler in the head, rendering it still and motionless.
"What was that? What the hell—" Judy launched into a million questions even as she tore off the boy's Number 8 T-shirt and ripped it into a suitable tourniquet.
"No. Don't bother." He held up his hand, which was bleeding heavily. Several half moon sets of blocky tooth prints were visible on the boy's skinny arm. He looked at her purposefully, and then closed his eyes, aiming the gun at his own head.
"Wait, no. What are you—" Judy let out a startled yelp as the gun went off, spraying her with blood and what must have been brain matter. She was crying nearly hysterically when the police arrived, not quite as presently as promised.
Judy didn't know how long she'd been in the hospital for when the she finally saw the newspaper. She buzzed for the nurse and requested pen and paper immediately to clear up what was obviously a gross misunderstanding of the situation. She could not believe her own eyes when she read the front-page story about her ordeal.
Three survive shooting rampage at local restaurant.
Three employees are all that survived a bloody daytime shooting spree perpetrated by what appears to be a disgruntled youth. Witnesses testified that Johnny Fulci, 13, ran into the establishment around 5 pm on June 6th and opened fire on customers and employees. A mother and her young daughter, three employees, and two others were killed, along with the shooter, who took his own life just as police arrived on the scene. The motive for the shooting spree is unknown.
In other news, my presentation went well. My supervisor said I did a "great job" so I guess that means the job I did was great. Whoo Hoo! That is a big deal for someone who is decidedly sub-par at their job. I think they just like having me around...
For serious.
So here's a short story one or two of you might have read before, but I'm sure most of you have not. It recalls both my love of zombies and my hatred of fast food jobs, and was written for an anthology called Fast Food, Slow Death which did not accept it.
The Growlers
By:
Wednesday Lee Friday
"I hate this job…I hate this job…I hate hate hate," Judy rocked back and forth on her aching feet and debated walking out and going home. The new tile under her feet was sunny yellow and actually quite pretty. They had taken away her foot padding to show it off, and now she was in pain from toe to shoulder. She wanted to go home.
No one deserved to work in such an oppressive environment. The petit brunette wiped her brow with the back of her hand and proceeded to wipe that on her flour covered apron, leaving a pale streak on her forearm. It was nearly 95 degrees in the kitchen; and she was confined to a three by three foot square next to it with nothing but a cash register and a speaker box to share her pain.
"Burgers and More how can I help you?" Judy spoke mechanically into the tinny talking device. She'd given up being cheerful months ago; there was no point.
"Uh yeah, are you guys open?" No you moron, I answered the speaker because we're fucking closed.
"Yes we are, go ahead when you're ready." She waited to turn the speaker off before letting out a clear but exasperated sigh. The maintenance man walked by, giving her what he undoubtedly thought was a playful slap on the ass. Judy thought it was a profound insult and told him so, ignoring his rebutting suggestion that she 'relax'.
"I'm not ready yet," came the voice from the car. Pause. "Miss? MISS?"
"Go head."
"I'm not ready yet." She would never understand why people felt the need to get her attention before telling her they didn't need her attention yet. That was merely one of the hundreds of things these people did to annoy her. Asking her prices when they're parked in front of a menu, wanting vegetarian food from a burger place, buying one small soda with a fifty-dollar bill, no one even tried to look at this procedure from her point of view. Complete jerk-asses, every last one of them.
Finally the jerk-ass at the window gave his order with the usual smattering of um's, ah's, and other assorted stupidities, before paying with a handful of rolled coins.
"You don’t have to check those, they're fine." He told her in a way that screamed she should check every roll. She did and found to her mild annoyance that it was one dollar and seventy-five cents short.
"Actually sir, this is almost two dollars short. I'm going to need—"
"You're going to need to shut your mouth before I tell your boss that you stole my money." Of course, the oppressed employees sarcasm was dying to get out, I'm running away to Mexico with your dollar and three quarters. Judy called Billiam over herself even though she got a little sick of the shift manager constantly staring at her ass. He peeked his head around the corner, leering at her.
"What can I do for you Jude?" His salivating glare made her feel like she needed a shower. Judy closed the drive-thru window and turned toward the shift manager, cringing slightly as his eyes moved pointedly from her face to her chest. She felt like reminding him that she was still underage, but somehow she didn't think it would make any difference. Besides, she'd be seventeen in a week.
"This guy's coin rolls are short and he says I stole his money." She looked defiantly at Billiam, daring him to question her integrity. He didn't.
"How short is he?" Judy told him, and Billiam produced exactly one dollar seventy five cents from his front pocket and tossed it at his employee. "Just get him the hell out of here."
"What? He called me a thief, and I'm supposed to—" Billiam pushed her bodily aside and told the jerk in the car he was all set and could pull ahead. The jerk gave Judy the finger on his way to the next window, and the disgusted teen found herself hoping someone had spit in his food. Nobody really did that though, not in real life. Where were all the funny fast food situations from movies where she was? No madcap employees being hilarious and sarcastic. No bosses that were secretly in on the boozing and pot smoking that, according to films, took place in every fast food restaurant in the world.
Before Judy could further lament her lack of cinematic excitement, a terrified looking boy of about fourteen ran past her window and into the front of the store, smacking the logo-covered window with a sickening thud. His head hit so hard Judy half expected a halo of stars to appear spinning around it. Not bothering to shake it off, the boy turned, opened the door this time, and ran breathlessly to the front counter.
After a second, it became clear why the boy had been running and frightened. Two much larger youths in blue camouflage fatigues ran in the boy's path. It appeared that they were fast runners both slowed by some sort of hobbling injury. The one with a cap seemed to have injured his knee while the other was visibly bleeding from both ankles and let out a sound between a moan and a growl as he ran past Judy's window.
"Billiam!" Judy yelled at her boss, who was standing in shock amid several other drones in hideous, matching uniforms. "Call the police, and an ambulance. That boy! He's hurt."
The first boy, sporting a large number "8" on his T-shirt asked for water between gasps. When Chuck the Counter Guy turned to get it, Number 8 produced a revolver from his waistband and began loading it with bullets he pulled from his front pocket. Now it was Chuck's turn for fear as he stared at the boy with the gun, no longer wondering how his day could get any worse.
"Hold it right there," cried out Patty, one of the two terminal housewives in the front of drive-thru. She was just the type who would be working every morning at Burgers and More until she died in her sleep from some kind of cholesterol blockage. "We do NOT allow guns in here, young man." Patty walked over like an authoritative parent and snatched up the weapon. Just then, the growling, moaning boys caught up with their objective and entered the building.
"Oh god," Number 8 said under his breath, jumping behind the counter and looking around frantically. "Gimme back my gun, lady!" He picked up the metal grate under the soda machine and swung it around and around, inserting an arc of swooping metal between himself and the growlers. Neither of Number 8's pursuers looked quite right to Judy, who had finally taken it on herself to call the police. The 911 operator assured her they'd be on their way 'presently'.
Once inside, the growling men seemed to forget whom they were after. The one with bleeding Ankles descended upon a mother and small child who were just walking out of a colorful play area full of germ-infested plastic 'fun balls.' Ankles pushed the pair back into the room and appeared to be kissing the screaming mother on her neck. When he pulled back though, Judy gasped to see tendons pulling and flesh ripping away. She wasn't sure whether to run or vomit.
"SHOOT! SHOOT HIM!!" Judy heard Number 8 cry from behind the swinging soda grate. The boy was frantic and terrified now. The old matron he screamed at stood rooted and shaking in her drive-thru fortress as the boy belted the second growler in the face again and again until he fell back wards and flailed like a turtle on its back. The honking cars waiting to order food seemed to come from a distant dimension. Nothing in the world was happening except this.
For a mere millisecond, every drone and customer in the store, even the shaking Billiam stood silent and sick at the sound of the small girl child in the ball room. Her frightened sobs turned to choking, horrible screams…and then silence.
"You better go check that out," Billiam turned to Chuck the Counter Guy, who gave him the finger.
"No, don't check anything out. Nobody move." The boy's pubescent voice turned authoritative now. He wiped his hands on his number 8 shirt and plucked his gun from the hands of the old woman who had stolen it. Without a word, Number 8 leveled the revolver at the growler on the floor and pulled the trigger with a thunderous pop that made the remaining customers run screaming out the side doors.
Stel, the other drive thru matron said something about the girl…the girl and pushed her comrade out of the way. Nobody took notice even when she opened the door to the ballroom and two bloody people emerged.
What had, moments earlier, been a vital young mother growled like an animal as it ran past the old woman to the counter. Without stopping, she leapt over the silver barrier, launching herself at Chuck the Counter Guy who had just enough time to turn his view screen in the direction of the female growler as she sunk her teeth into him. Judy could see that the woman was now missing an arm at the shoulder. Had Ankles torn her whole damn arm off? It was grotesque, flailing shards of tendon or sinew hung limply from the reddened shoulder. Judy wanted to vomit at the sight of it.
Number 8 cocked his gun and shot the former mother in the face. She collapsed onto the counter under a stream of profanities and complaints from Chuck, who was bleeding worse than Judy had ever seen, anywhere.
Judy ran for the first aid kit, yelling for Chuck to come over to the sink. He sprinted over the fry vats, knocking several baskets over and splashing lava-like fry grease on Patty, who didn't even flinch. Before Chuck could cross over into the grill area, Number 8 shot him twice in the back of the head, spraying himself and Billiam with blood. Once again, the boy looked like he might faint. Judy thought she could stand to join him.
"I'm sorry," the boy said as he spun around and headed back into the lobby muttering something about locking doors as he went. Judy slapped her own head to shake the shock out of herself. Everyone was falling apart; what the hell was going on? Why was a young teenage boy in here shooting everyone, and what the hell were those 'people' growling like dogs?
She made every effort to survey the situation even as she stepped over the poor, dead, bloody, body of Chuck. He was a good guy, that Chuck.
Stella screamed as the previously inanimate girl child in her arms had begun thrashing, whining, and growling. Stel patted her back for consolation before the toddler sunk her teeth unto Stel's forearm, eliciting an ungodly shriek of shock and pain. Almost immediately, Stella convulsed and fell motionless on the floor. Judy couldn't help but think what a waste it had been to put in new tile. All this blood would never come out of it.
Number 8 walked calmly into the dining room and shot Stel and the girl child, wiping a tear as he did so.
"Poor little girl." Judy heard him say. Inwardly, she nodded.
Thinking the danger had finally passed, Judy went upfront to check on Patty and Billiam, the only two remaining employees. Patty stood frozen, statuesque, in her place, while Billiam mumbled like a mental patient. Judy suppressed a giggle seeing that her perpetually leering boss had peed himself. That was probably some kind of health code violation.
All appeared normal until a loud banging exploded from the ball room as the first horrible growler uprooted himself and began pounding and screaming for his release.
"What is that? What's going on?" It was terrifying, whatever it was. If what she had seen was the truth and not some horrible hallucination, they wanted to eat people. A hideous, growling, contagious thing like an animal that wanted to eat people. It was contagious, wasn't it? That mother and child didn't start biting people of their own accord?
Number 8 pointed the gun at the ball room window, firing several shots that should have gone right into the growler. Instead, they stopped with smallish cracks in the glass.
"It's bulletproof. I don’t know why." Judy told him, feeling helpless and stupid at the ridiculousness of the situation.
"Okay, I need you to help me." He looked at her in a way that utterly precluded refusal. "Just open the door, and I'll shoot it." She didn't see any alternative. On the count of three, she opened the door and held it in front of her, letting the much younger boy risk his life yet again.
Number 8's expression turned from concentration to horror as the gun appeared to jam. The growler ran straight toward the terrified boy and they both tumbled backward onto the new yellow tile, smearing it with blood and filth.
Judy looked around for something to hit it with. She picked up one of the few unattached chairs and swung it high over her head with a grunt. It came down hard on the growlers back, making a loud thud and a cry of ouch, dammit! from the boy below. Throwing the chair aside she wrenched the growler away from the boy by its shoulder. In a few seconds, the boy had seen to the gun, and shot the lone growler in the head, rendering it still and motionless.
"What was that? What the hell—" Judy launched into a million questions even as she tore off the boy's Number 8 T-shirt and ripped it into a suitable tourniquet.
"No. Don't bother." He held up his hand, which was bleeding heavily. Several half moon sets of blocky tooth prints were visible on the boy's skinny arm. He looked at her purposefully, and then closed his eyes, aiming the gun at his own head.
"Wait, no. What are you—" Judy let out a startled yelp as the gun went off, spraying her with blood and what must have been brain matter. She was crying nearly hysterically when the police arrived, not quite as presently as promised.
Judy didn't know how long she'd been in the hospital for when the she finally saw the newspaper. She buzzed for the nurse and requested pen and paper immediately to clear up what was obviously a gross misunderstanding of the situation. She could not believe her own eyes when she read the front-page story about her ordeal.
Three survive shooting rampage at local restaurant.
Three employees are all that survived a bloody daytime shooting spree perpetrated by what appears to be a disgruntled youth. Witnesses testified that Johnny Fulci, 13, ran into the establishment around 5 pm on June 6th and opened fire on customers and employees. A mother and her young daughter, three employees, and two others were killed, along with the shooter, who took his own life just as police arrived on the scene. The motive for the shooting spree is unknown.
In other news, my presentation went well. My supervisor said I did a "great job" so I guess that means the job I did was great. Whoo Hoo! That is a big deal for someone who is decidedly sub-par at their job. I think they just like having me around...
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It's a fave of mine as well.
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That's quite a tale!
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Yeah...I love AB.
Zombie Love Bites...
Re: Zombie Love Bites...
Good story...
Re: Good story...
Me too!
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