“You there!” Ryan called out, picking up his pace. “I would like to talk to you!”
His attempt to gain the inhabitants’ attention failed miserably. The two people continued on their way and soon pushed through a rickety door and disappeared from sight.
Ryan stopped in his tracks for a minute. “Hmph,” was his only comment. His skin turned a bright red, and his brow furrowed.
“Not the most hospitable folk, are they?” Clarice said, catching up from behind. “Maybe they’re pissed off they weren’t hired as deckhands,” she teased, turning toward her fiancé.
“Not funny,” Nick replied. “You’ll see I’m right.”
“No, I won’t,” she said quickly. “I’m not coming back to this stupid place.”
“As long as we get everything done that we need to do, yes,” Ryan interjected. “But we might need to return later if Mr. Whittam has decided to stay here. I want my stamps, and I want to know what his involvement is here.” He then paused, looked down at his empty wrist and asked, “What time is it, Ms. Clarice?”
“Three-thirty,” she said, checking her sports watch.
“Mark it down.” Ryan reached into his right pocket for one of his cheap, ballpoint pens and eagerly twirled it in his fingers. His other hand reached into his left pocket, pulled forth a rubber stamp, gave it a squeeze several times, and then returned it. His posture straightened, and his chest moved forward an inch before he started his march to the parlor door. “Let’s get this thing rolling and get out of this blasted heat.”
Clarice wiped her forehead and glanced skyward. The sun had gone from hot to scorching in the last ten minutes. She pulled her hair back into a ponytail, using her favorite Buccaneer’s scrunchie to complete the maneuver. “I can’t believe these buildings are even standing. You’d think the heat would melt them in a day. How can anyone live in such a craptastic place?”
“What do you think Martin meant about them not being too friendly?” Nick asked. His eyes darted from building to building and from shadow to shadow. “I have a feeling I’m going to regret being here.”
Clarice followed her fiancé’s eyes, and the more she looked at the ruined structures, the more she wished she wasn’t there either.
Ryan’s expression was the only one that did not change. “Not many are terribly friendly in this job,” he said. “Does it matter?”
“I don’t want to get shot by some crazed hick,” Nick explained, turning to face Ryan. “I’ve been shot before, and it’s not fun.”
“You got shot by a pellet gun when you were nine,” said Clarice. The ridiculousness of his statement brought welcome, temporary relief to her anxiety. “Let’s not pretend it’s some grand war wound.”
“Oh sure, when you put it like that it’s not nearly as heroic,” Nick replied, showing no signs of offense or embarrassment at getting called out. “And when you’re nine, it might as well have been a shotgun blast. That thing hurt like a bitch.”
Ryan looked over at both of them, his face chiseled with determination. “I can assure you beyond any sort of doubt, you won’t be shot today.”
“How do you know?” Nick asked. He stuffed his hands into his pockets and an eyebrow raised.
“As sure as I am a tax collector, it will not happen,” he said, marking the end of the conversation. Ryan rapped on the half-open door, using enough force to make it swing open. “See?” he said with a crooked smile. “They’ve invited us in.”
Clarice rolled her eyes at the skirting of legalities. “No electricity it would seem,” she said, peering inside at a world of shadows. “You’ll never get any real land value out of this.”
“Doesn’t matter,” her employer said, pushing the door open a few more inches and stepping in. “We collect anywhere and everywhere, Ms. Clarice. With these many years in default, the interest and penalties are the sources of all the monies owed.”
Clarice followed, only to stop and start gagging. “Good god! Don’t they have plumbing?”
Nick brought up the rear, hands over his nose and mouth. “Thanks for the warning.”
The inside of the building looked like it was the home of a family of disgruntled rhinoceroses. The walls, floors, and ceiling all had various holes in various places. A dozen pieces of furniture lay scattered about. Most were broken. A few looked rotted. All, however, were beyond any sort of repair. At the far side of the room, shrouded in darkness, was a body—a human body. It lay on its back and twitched occasionally, but did not seem to take note of its new guests.
“Sir,” Ryan shouted. “Might I have a word with you?”
When the person didn’t answer, Ryan called out to him again and received the same response.
“Give me a flashlight,” said Ryan.
Clarice shrugged, as did Nick.
“Christ,” Ryan swore as he patted his pockets. “I thought you were going to come prepared. What the hell kind of assistant are you if you can’t assist?”
“No one said anything about needing flashlights,” Clarice replied, her defensive edge ringing in her voice. Her gaze shifted from her employer to Jack, who was still motionless on the floor. She tried to ignore the weird that was settling in. “Do you suppose he’s alright?”
“Isn’t he the one we just followed?” Nick interjected. He took a tentative step toward Jack and tried to peer through the darkness. “That has to be him.”
“Doesn’t mean he might not have had a heart attack or something,” she replied. “Or tripped and hit his head.”
“Sir!” Ryan said a third time. He turned back to his companions, motioned for them to follow, and then approached. With a prod of his Timberlands, Ryan addressed Jack a fourth time. “Now, sir, I am done being polite with you!”
The man on the floor opened an eye socket and regarded his visitors. “Urrhhh?” he moaned inquisitively, still in a half sleep.
Ryan turned back toward Clarice. “See? He’s fine.”
Clarice’s hands trembled. Soon, the rest of the muscles in her body joined the mutiny as the light illuminated a rising corpse. “Oh, my god,” she said, backing up. Her brain stalled as it tried to make sense of what her eyes took in. Despite being covered by tattered combat fatigues and smothered in shadow, Clarice could still see well into the creature’s abdominal cavity. And when a curious rat poked its head out from inside, Clarice went into a full panic.
“Get out!” she yelled. “Get out now!”
Both Nick and Ryan stood confused, neither reacting to Clarice’s shouts. They did, however, see another zombie approach from behind the door and lunge at Clarice.
The young woman had already spun around to make a run for the door when a second withered—but very much animated—corpse fell atop her. Clarice stiff-armed her attacker, turned with the momentum generated by the zombie and smacked it with the leather-bound portfolio she was carrying as she dashed out.
Nick had been with Clarice long enough by this point and had learned his lessons well. Consequently, whenever she made her exit for whatever reason, he did the same.
Ryan was slower to leave than the other two, but he stormed outside for different reasons. “Ms. Clarice!” he yelled, pushing past the now off-balance female zombie. “Get back here at once with that demand notice!”
Clarice stopped and spun on her heels. Nick came to a rest at her side, and her eyes widened. She stared as the two corpses lunged from behind her employer and grabbed Ryan firmly by the shoulders. She watched herself pull Nick back when he went to go help as other figures oozed from the buildings, groaning with each step they took. She wasn’t sure what she yelled at her fiancé, but whatever it was, it was enough to keep him with her as she took off down the mountainside.
Chapter Five
Few children when questioned about what they would like to do when they grow up ever answer ballpoint pen salesmen. Nor will they usually answer with something such as ballpoint pen engineer. Certainly some unique individuals have replied with something akin to, “I want to b
e a ballpoint pen.” But the actual designing and marketing of ballpoint pens is utterly dull to the world’s population.
This was the slump that Henry Bollivor was in during World War II. Several companies had enjoyed success when it came to engineering and selling their particular brand of ballpoint pen; one hundred and seven other companies by Henry’s last count. What few ballpoint pen engineers there were to be had were already employed elsewhere, which made designing structurally sound pens difficult for the entrepreneur. As luck would have it, Henry Bollivor did manage to win two in a game of pinochle, and his company’s future brightened.
Henry was a diligent and fair man. He kept his two engineers well paid and happy as he expanded his small company. In a meeting with the company’s nine shareholders, it was decided that sales might improve if they marketed pens that were more than just pens. Everyone could make pens that could write. Some of the pens even wrote well. But to the best of Henry’s knowledge, there wasn’t an established multi-functioning pen market, something like a Swiss Army pen.
The actual design of the pen was a difficult task, at least in terms of keeping the desired product pen-like. It was easy to add things like a magnifying glass, or saw, or knife in addition to the pen, but it always produced at best, a boxy, Swiss Army knife-looking pen, which Henry decided he did not want. One version that remained true to the pen form was the luncheon pen. Sadly, it was found lacking in taste and had the habit of asphyxiating the user.
Everyone agreed that that particular line should be closed until R&D could revamp it, which they never did. But they continued to push the envelope, attempting to go where no pen engineer had gone before.
After a series of failed design attempts, six hundred and thirteen by Henry’s last count, it was settled that perhaps instead of changing the overall design of the pen, the company’s product could be marketed with instructions that included a variety of other handy things the pen was capable of other than writing.
The chief ballpoint pen engineer found this job much easier since he could pass the task off to the marketing department. With his mornings now free, he could spend them working out the plans for a perfect glass, one that would never be half empty.
Of the seven hundred and ninety-nine uses that were spitballed during the final roundtable for the catalog product number 31A, green metallic shell ballpoint pen, not one made mention of “self-defense against the walking dead.” Nor did they come up with a variation of “distraction object for the easily distracted.” The latter Henry’s company would have considered had they, when looking for use eight hundred, not all become completely enthralled with how the reflective surface of number 31A caught the ceiling lights.
Yet despite not knowing any of this, or caring if he had, Jack watched his newest meal pull out a 1941, catalog product number 31A, green metallic shell, ballpoint pen and stab him just below the left collar bone.
Jack snarled, kept his rusty, iron grip on the man, and looked down at the improvised pike. It was shiny. It had a gleam to it. It induced a sensation that shoals of bass and hovers of trout had experienced near the end of their lives, and it made Jack want to look at it more. Play with it perhaps, and possibly even take a bite.
Jack grunted, let go of his meal, and pulled the pen out of his body.
Suddenly, a rarity happened. It wasn’t the sort that some might claim frivolously, such as finding the closest parking space or just that right flavor of blackberry preserves to go with morning toast. This, instead, was a genuine, bona fide rarity that would leave statisticians everywhere checking their numbers for months. And once their labor was finished, a new constant would be born—Jack’s constant.
And the rarity was this: Jack had an epiphany. It was a realization that rammed headlong through numerous, insurmountable barriers and reached Jack’s mind with the subtlety of a charging hippo. It knocked aside all two of Jack’s thoughts (grabbing and chewing) and stepped on them a few times for good measure, just to make sure Jack was paying attention. Through all of the dried blood, spatter, and goop that clung to the catalog product number 31A, green metallic shell ballpoint pen, Jack was sure the writing utensil was his own.
And he was right.
* * *
The human mind has always been a remarkable piece of machinery. At times, however, it has needed maintenance, and that was what Clarice’s left hand was doing that early evening. She sat inside Martin’s small house, leaning forward with her forehead resting on the palm of her hand. Her fingers were methodically massaging her scalp, prodding, pushing, and pulling in an attempt to repair the damage that had been done to her psyche. Her right hand was off to the side, pencil in hand, doodling on the back of an old envelope. Her left hand had no idea what the right was doing, nor did it care.
The room she was in was of ordinary design. It had the standard ceiling, painted off-white, with a little bit of a slope to it for variety. It was held aloft by the tried and true method of placing a set of walls underneath. Two of the walls had been designed by master architects to allow the passage of matter from one side to the other, such a feat being accomplished by including doorways into their construction. The pictures, furniture, television and dog that also occupied the room appeared to be well within the norms of existence. The latter occasionally did dog-like things, such as wag its tail, lick the back of her hand, or blow refreshing bits of dog breath into Clarice’s face. Yet as much as she tried to settle into the fresh-from-the-dryer warm surroundings, her mind insisted that things didn’t make sense.
Clarice repeated the thought a few more times. At least that made sense, and at least that was a start. The math minor in her wondered what the odds of this day happening were. Having no reference point or set of data to work from, the exact number eluded her. Nor could she remember any of her equations for basic statistics, and she was without her trusty calculator even if she could. Indeed, the chances of today were far less than the chances of an elephant in the bathroom. That much was beyond any sort of doubt. How would an elephant squeeze through the doorways to begin with? And why?
The thought troubled her, and she sat up in the chair. It was conceivable that an elephant could have made it into the bathroom, perhaps a pygmy elephant, or a baby, normal one. Or maybe the house had been built around the elephant. After all, elephants did exist and so did houses. Clarice then amended her impromptu statistics. The chances of zombies actually existing are less than an elephant in the bathroom right here and now, playing the harpsichord. She then quickly tacked on, and drinking a nice cup of tea.
Clarice settled back into the chair again and tried to think of something more pleasant, more mundane. Ease did not return to her state of being. The absence of Ryan Conner continued to push to the forefront of her memory. As much as she wanted to deny everything, she still couldn’t, and over a period of a couple of minutes, another thought dawned on her. Clarice looked about to make sure no one was watching, got up, walked down the hall, and stopped at the bathroom door. She hesitated as she reached for the doorknob. Instead of turning it, she held her breath and pressed her ear against the door.
“This is so stupid,” she said. Clarice flung the door open and stepped boldly in the room. Most of her used such a grandiose move to prove that she did not for one minute think there would be an elephant or even a harpsichord. The cup of tea maybe, but there definitely wouldn’t be all three. A small part of her played along so she could catch said elephant in the act before it slipped away. That same small part of her, before she left to go outside, checked for footprints in the soap, just in case.
* * *
Nick’s mind, being of a different make and model than Clarice’s, took a completely different approach to coping. At first, he decided to debug the network communication program he was writing on his laptop. However, it wasn’t long before he abandoned that task in favor of a more mundane one as he found his concentration fleeting. He ended up spending most of his time pacing about the porch, thinking of nothing else but ho
w many steps it took to walk the circumference. The path turned out to be twenty-three steps long, though for some reason it was twenty-one if he started off with his left foot. It was an anomaly that he was now spending considerable time trying to explain and the best he could come up with was that it was a left-footed porch.
Nick stopped his ponderings and changed gears. He wondered what the proper fiancé response should be to near death by hordes of undead. This turned to a self-discussion on what Clarice might be thinking and feeling, and since he couldn’t even fathom a logical explanation for the walking dead, he immediately tossed out all girlfriend subjects in favor of contemplating the porch’s design once more.
* * *
Clarice came out of the house and joined Nick and Martin on the porch. She glanced at her fiancé who was busy pacing and for some reason, was counting his steps aloud. With a deep breath, Clarice composed herself as best as anyone else could have who had recently run down a mountainside after abandoning one’s employer to a pair of hungry corpses. “Okay,” she started. “What the hell is up there?”
“I imagine you’ve got a pretty good idea already,” Martin answered, leaning back in his rocker. His eyes never met with hers, but would occasionally glance toward the tree line while his hands adjusted their grip on the shotgun in his lap. “Not like the little black bears cause such a stir, and I’m sure you’ve seen the picture shows before. Undead seem popular the last few years.”
“Don’t you think that’s something you should have told us?” Clarice snapped back. “Did it slip your mind that your mountain is infested with zombies?”
“Now hang on, there’s a logical reason to all of this,” Nick said, stopping in both his tracks and his counting. “Once we know what we’re dealing with we’ll be better equipped to do something about it.”
“I know what I saw!” she retorted. “There’s no rational explanation to a half-decomposed body eating my boss!”
Death and Taxes Page 4