by Amber Wyatt
She hated the stupid bell. It was just another small detail that came with the business left to her by her idiot husband, and when she finally got around to it, she would get rid of the damn thing. If you were sat there on a busy weekend eight hours a day, the bell going off constantly was enough to drive you psychotic, if you were not crazy already.
She sighed, took a last big gulp of the strong cocoa and put her mug down. What was left of her drink would be cold by the time she came back to finish it, she thought glumly. Apart from the bell, the worst part about running the store was having to deal with her customers, the vast majority of whom were complete morons, like her husband. He had stocked the tactical and survival store with all the childish gadgets that he had found interesting, and she had discovered that her customers were also irresistibly attracted to them, like overweight, redneck moths to a flame. As the only stockist for some of the more exotic equipment within the quarantine zone, inevitably her daily rotation of customers included a high proportion of armchair commandos who wanted to hang around all day talking about gear and weapons.
After the initial panic over the Lyssavirus ‘outbreak’, and the subsequent worldwide disappointment over the zombie apocalypse that had failed to materialize, the zombie phenomenon had faded into the background, quickly overtaken in the media by the latest celebrity scandals. Yes, occasionally a zombie-related incident made page three of the local paper, but statistically the average American had an alarming eight hundred percent higher chance of choking to death on a hot dog.
Catching the Lyssavirus had just become yet another mundane part of the spectrum of unlikely mishaps that always seemed to happen to ‘other people’. It was like hearing a news report on some couple from Nebraska who caught some larval parasite through their feet, while they were walking on the beach on vacation in Hawaii. Yes, it was awful for poor Greg and Barbara, but nobody watching the news ever dreamt that it would affect them.
Except for Hana’s customers of course. By the very nature of its products, the tactical and survival shop attracted a clientele containing a high proportion of tactically-clad, survival enthusiasts. They were prepared to pay top dollar for the best and latest gadgets available to help them survive the imminent apocalypse. And in return, Hana was more than happy to take their money.
“Good morning, sir,” she smiled brightly at the teenager who had walked through the door and was eyeing up the knife display. “Please feel free to browse, and if there’s anything I can help you with, just ask.” Her English sounded pure American now, very different from when she had first arrived from Japan, and she supposed that she was still beautiful. Pretty enough at least to make this young man’s cheeks redden as he tried not to stare at her.
“Um, yeah,” the kid blushed again as she caught him sneaking a second look at her, and he snapped his eyes back to the display. The bell rang again as a red-faced, heavy-set man with a belly straining at his polo shirt entered the shop. The shirt looked expensive but despite the cool April morning, it still showed two, wet, semi-circular patches of sweat under his man boobs. Probably the father. Hana thought. There was definitely a family resemblance in the eyes and nose.
“Did you find it yet? Do they have it?” The man asked in an annoyed voice. He wiped his face and looked up happily at the air-conditioning vent. Inside her store, Hana liked to keep the ambient temperature as cold as possible. The chilly contrast as people walked in from the street outside seemed to wake them up, and had certainly helped increase the average spend per customer. Being cold seems to encourage their subconscious to buy extra supplies, I guess.
“I was just gonna ask the lady, Dad.”
“Can I help, Sir? Are you looking for anything in particular?”
“Yeah,” the man’s voice changed to being only a little bit whiny, when he saw that it was an attractive woman working there. Hana estimated that at work, her looks boosted her sales by at least 50%, while causing 99% of her aggravation. “We’re looking for those you know, those axes with flashlights on them.”
“Ah an excellent choice!” Hana forced excitement and enthusiasm into her voice. “We have two models, compact and full-size. The Hatchlight and the Axelight.” She walked over to the wall display next to the 20% discounted entrenching tools and the ‘last in stock’ machetes, and pulled an axe down. “I think that a strong man like yourself, sir, would suit the full-size Axelight which is designed for two-handed use.” She waited for him to wipe his sweating forehead before handing him the axe, then handed his son a smaller hatchet with a wink that made the gangling teenager blush cherry red.
She took one of the smaller Hatchlights for herself and with a follow me gesture, walked them over to the dummy target at the back of the shop. The dummy was a rubber bust of a man with the name of the shop, ‘Takumi’ carved into its chest.
“The head is carbon steel with a full-length tang solidly riveted to the handle, which is milled from one piece of anodized aircraft aluminum. In the base of the handle is a shockproof, military grade LED flashlight which delivers over a thousand lumens of blinding light straight into the eyes of your opponent.”
Hana stood in front of the target, cocked the hatchet back over one shoulder ready to strike, and triggered the light at the base of the handle into the dummy’s eyes. Both the man and his son squinted at the impressive glare.
“Your weapon is ready for instant action, while you shine the light into an opponent’s eyes, blinding them, distracting their attack, and giving you the time to identify if they are friend or foe.” She turned off the light and they both leaned in, looking with interest as she showed them where the trigger was on the handle. “Then if it does happen to be an undead attacker, while they are dazzled by the flashlight, you strike.” Her arm snapped forward in a clinical and efficient arc, like a snake striking. The axe sank into the rubber head with a satisfying thump which made them both blink.
Hana got the pair of them to practice for a few minutes, getting them used to cocking the weapons back over their shoulders, aiming the lights at the dummy’s face, and swinging forward an overhead strike into the top of the head. She could tell they were already sold by the smiles and the enthusiastic if inept swipes they were dealing the target.
“You two are naturals at this,” Hana said, secretly amazed that they had not yet managed to seriously injure each other. “How do they feel, gentlemen?” She walked back to her spot next to the counter.
“They’re perfect,” grunted the father without looking at her, a big smile on his face as he flailed away at the dummy. Eventually he stopped to wipe his face, beaming happily and looking around for her. She was nowhere to be seen.
“If you prefer to keep attackers at a distance, the Hatchlight can also be thrown,” Hana said from the other end of the shop. Her arm whipped forward, there was a flash of silver down the center of the store and the dummy magically sprouted the small axe between its eyes with a loud thwack that made both the men jump. “But of course, you will need to practice at home. I don’t want you destroying my little store,” she laughed. The teenager’s mouth hung open and he looked at his Hatchlight up and down as if he had been handed a magic sword. She could already see him imagining how he would impress friends, and possibly even attractive females, with his future axe-throwing prowess.
“In the meantime, for long range use you might be more interested in these.” Hana reached behind with both hands and drew two unusual looking knives from her belt.
“Ooh, I saw those on the website,” the father said gleefully. “Stand aside, Woodrow.”
Who the fuck calls their kid Woodrow? The kid is doomed. Hana managed to keep herself from rolling her eyes and instead smiled and winked at the father. She had noticed the brand of his big, fancy watch. It was worth more than her car. Her face suddenly went flat as she focused and raised her arms up to shoulder level, pointing both knives at the dummy, ten yards away.
There was a single cracking report as she depressed both triggers simultaneou
sly, and two carbon steel stiletto blades sprouted from the dummy’s eyes as if by magic.
The father whooped and Woodrow damn near dropped his Hatchlight on his toes. Hana brought the empty knife handles close to her lips and teasingly blew the faint wisps of smoke from them.
“Farpunch daggers, delivered direct from the manufacturer in Russia, each takes a 12-gram CO2 cartridge in the handle and will penetrate an inch of plywood at forty feet.” She twirled the empty handles in her fingers and resheathed them behind her back with a flourish.
“Nothing beats a good, old-fashioned bullet at putting down a charging zombie,” said the stranger surprising them all, leaning on the front counter and patting the pistol at his belt.
The three of them whirled in surprise. The man had entered the shop completely silently without setting off the little bell. Hana’s mouth was an ‘O’ of genuine shock but the stranger noticed that one of her hands had reflexively snapped behind her back, where it was no doubt gripping another hidden weapon. He made a mental note not to surprise her again in the future.
“Hugh,” Hana rolled her eyes in exasperation. She drew his name out so that it sounded like Ewwww. “Can I help you?”
“Please,” he gestured, “don’t let me interrupt. I’ll wait until you have finished with these two gentlemen.”
Hana had already recovered, and gifted the father and son with a blinding smile.
“But of course, I’m sure you can tell us why we aren’t interested in guns if we are fighting the undead, can’t you, Woodrow?”
“They’re too noisy,” the boy announced proudly, “the shots will just attract other zombies.” It was one of the first things that every kid learned at school in Lyssavirus 1.01, also known as ‘Undead Ed’.
The newcomer watched with admiration as she set about expertly beguiling the man and his son with her slick sales patter. Hugh Willis not only ran an automotive repair garage not too far away, but he was also Hana’s neighbor. He and the Suzukis had become friends almost as soon as they had moved in next door to him all those years ago. Unusually he had found that he had much more in common with Hana rather than her husband, and the two of them had formed a firm friendship.
After the death of his fiancée nearly four years ago Hugh had had no interest in going out dating again. Partly, it was because the pain was still quite raw and he was still grieving her loss. Partly, and much to his horror, he realized that at some stage he had fallen hopelessly in love with his beautiful, married neighbor. Not that he would ever tell her, nor do anything about it. Hugh knew the difference between right and wrong, and as far as he was concerned a happily married woman was strictly off-limits.
But if they were friends and neighbors, his conscience found no moral quandary in enjoying her company in those few moments where they found themselves together. And so, he leaned on the counter, and watched happily as she artfully flicked her hair and reeled off her sales pitch to her two, spellbound customers. It was like watching her shoot fish in a barrel.
Six minutes later Woodrow and his sweaty father left the store with two Hatchlights, one Axelight, three Farpunch daggers, six spare Farpunch blades, two of the deluxe laser aiming modules for the daggers, a rubber target head and four boxes of 12-gram CO2 cartridges.
Hana threw in holsters for everything ‘for free’, even though they came as standard with the weapons from the manufacturers, and told them the CO2 cartridges were a standard size, but that her store sold them for less than half the price of anywhere else. Customers always used up the compressed gas cartridges quickly, and she was happy to take a few dollars’ loss on them. Returning customers almost never just bought another box of gas cartridges without somehow finding that they had picked up at least a hundred dollars’ worth of other gadgets on their way to the checkout counter.
Woodrow thanked her politely, and his father looked her athletic body up and down before saying that it was a great store and they would definitely come back soon. Hana smiled back sweetly, said that the pleasure was all hers and walked him and his expensive watch to the door. The little bell tinkled loudly as the door shut behind her.
“So, Hugh,” Hana finally turned to address the man leaning on her store counter. She grinned cheekily at him. “This is a pleasant surprise. What’s up? I thought you were working today.”
“Broward County Waste Management just called me at the workshop. They said they’ve been trying to call you but couldn’t get an answer. Somebody called in a dead body out the back of your house and they’re going to give us a courtesy period of forty minutes to come see if we can identify it, if we want.”
Hana froze, the smile wiped off her face.
“Who is it,” she finally managed to get out, “I mean who was it?”
“I don’t know. Shall we go find out?” Hugh’s tone was serious, but gentle. Neither of them needed to mention that it might be the body of her husband, Takumi, who had gone missing three months ago.
“Let’s go,” Hana grabbed her handbag, set the alarm and turned off the lights. Then she flipped the sign on the door to ‘Back in 30 Minutes’, undid the latch and swept out of the shop with the bell ringing behind her.
Much to the disappointment of his parents, her husband, Takumi Suzuki, a military enthusiast, had emigrated to the United States immediately after his graduation from Tokyo University with the sole aim of getting a green card so that he could legally own guns. Much to Hana’s own disappointment, as well as her considerable surprise, after six months of living in Miami he had quit his lucrative, well-paid job at the trading desk of a Japanese bank and moved up the coast to Fort Lauderdale to open a tactical gear store, ‘Takumi Taktical’, selling all manner of weapons accessories, military clothing, survival gear and camping supplies.
Hana was horrified. This was not in the original plan. She had followed her mother’s advice and not married for love, but had married what appeared to be an ambitious career banker with a long and successful career in corporate finance ahead of him. Any attempt on her part to initiate a conversation with her husband about this career change was angrily shut down before it even started. This moodiness was primarily due to Takumi’s own private and devastating disappointment of discovering that, due to his extreme myopia and long history of asthma, he was totally unable to even start the application process for his lifelong dream to become a US Navy SEAL.
The store had limped along from week to week. Takumi, eternally optimistic, wasted money on the latest military outfits for himself and newer and newer gadgets which sat gathering dust on their stockroom shelves. Hana worked overtime on marketing and running the online store. Then the Lyssavirus outbreak had arrived and the government had slammed down the quarantine zone around Fort Lauderdale. Fear of an imminent zombie apocalypse had struck deep into the hearts of the good citizens of South Florida, and sales of all tactical, camping and survival goods went through the roof. Overnight, Takumi Taktical became a huge success beyond their wildest dreams.
Hana might have been mollified with this stroke of good fortune, except that her husband then proceeded to pour the bulk of his newfound wealth into the construction of a secret, underground bunker in their backyard, with the entrance hatch disguised to look like part of the floor of their unused shed.
Monthly upgrades to the bunker over the next two years ensured that the couple never fully enjoyed the potential largesse of their very successful business and the bunker was the source of frequent, bitter marital arguments. In fact, after their last argument Hana had actually taken half a day off to drive down the I-95 to Biscayne Boulevard to have an informal chat over lunch with one of Miami’s top divorce lawyers.
While she poured out her woes on to the professionally sympathetic shoulder of the lawyer, who would later bill her at five hundred dollars an hour for the privilege, a trio of schoolboys from her neighborhood bunked off from the unbelievably lame basketball competition at their summer camp and made their way to an unoccupied shopping unit two blocks away from Tak
umi Taktical.
One of the boys had been told by his older brother that an infected was trapped inside the former ice cream parlor. The best friends were thrilled to find out that there was indeed an old, female zombie lying in there with her lower body trapped under a fallen freezer unit. With whispered giggles and shrieks of terror the best friends dared each other to see who would approach closest to the lunging claws of the hissing monster in the flickering light of their one flashlight.
Benjamin won easily and they ran out laughing and terrified, running all the way back to camp to tell everyone about their adventure. Benjamin hung back a little at first, to drag his sock up over the small scratch on his ankle where the infected had nearly bit him, then he caught up with them, laughing and hollering as loudly as the others. Besides, it had barely nicked him and he was too embarrassed to tell his friends.
He started to feel feverish as he waited for the bus home from camp. The basketball team caught a quick burger together, but Benjamin was by now feeling really unwell and could not force himself to eat a single bite. After a miserable evening, at 7:25pm he jumped on the Route 62 bus to go home. Night had fallen, it had been a long day, and Benjamin just wanted to get home. He felt really sick. Like he was dying of the worst food poisoning ever. Benjamin slumped miserably into an empty seat and lapsed almost immediately into a febrile coma.
Seven minutes later he turned and bit the cheek off the woman next to him and tore out her throat. A few shocked seconds later, the remaining passengers started screaming. The driver hollered back at everyone to shut up or God help him he was going to stop the bus and call 911. Then some lunatic behind him started firing a gun and the driver turned just in time to catch sight of two gory, bloody-faced zombies launching themselves at him. At 7:48pm the bus veered off its designated route and hit seven cars as it careered back and forth across the road before ramming into a suburban house next door to where Hana, who had decided not to get divorced that day, and her husband were attending a birthday barbeque for one of his former banking colleagues.