Zombies Don’t Read: 25 YA Short Stories

by Rusty Fischer

  I’m the front loader, getting kids gently on Santa’s knee, watching closely on my wristwatch that no child gets more than five minutes (preferably three) and then when I give the signal – a very original finger along one side of my nose – Hub swoops in, lifts them off Santa’s lap, deposits a candy cane in their confused little paws and it’s right back to the next kid.

  Fortunately, the three of us work really well together.

  Santa is actually pretty cool, listening to the kids no matter how long a day he’s put in at the Stereo Shack, and is good about reminding me if my mind is wandering – like it is right now, imagining how great those juicy brains are going to taste when I finally get off shift – when it’s time for a kid to exit his knee.

  And boring as he is, Hub is really gentle with the kids, asking them what they asked for, patting them on the heads, shooing them out the other side of the fence gently and giving them their coupon for 50% off the kids’ picture with Santa, which has been snapped by Mr. Dickens at some point between the hectic on-loading and off-loading.

  Actually, once the first half-hour or so has passed and we’re all in a rhythm, when the line’s not so long, when Hub’s busy making goofy faces at me between kids, when Mr. Dickens’ camera flash isn’t going off in my eyes every five seconds, it’s actually kinda… nice.

  Christmas-y, you know?

  I know Santa’s Helpers are supposed to hate their jobs, and kids, and cheesy carols and giant hanging ornaments and fake snow and Christmas but… I really don’t.

  I take a pause now, with Santa’s knee empty and the next kid still halfway across the food court, and look out at the shoppers, loaded down with presents, families slurping on frozen gingerbread cappuccinos with whip cream and nutmeg on top, kids from school hanging out by the skateboard shop, the pretty college girls home on break working in the jewelry shop in their tight sweaters and sexy Santa hats.

  “Winter Wonderland” is playing through the loudspeakers now, but not too loud and not too fast, like somebody’s slow, smooth jazzy rendition that my Dad – or Hub – would probably like.

  Even Hub, lit up by the 20-foot artificial Christmas tree with the Babes of Toyland themed Gigantor ornaments, looks half-as-boring as usual.

  He catches me eyeing his long green legs and winks.

  I’d blush, if I could. Instead I just reach for the next kid and put my nose to the old holiday grindstone.

  And I swear, halfway through my shift, it’s like Hub’s lunchbox is calling to me, like I can seriously smell those brains, and it’s all I can do to make it to break time.

  By the time 7 o’clock rolls around and Mr. Dickens puts the “Santa has to go feed the reindeers, kids. He’ll be back at 7:30” sign up on my side of the Winter Wonderland fence, I’m literally starving; starving for… brains.

  Hub says, as he does every night, “Can I buy you a pretzel?”

  Meaning, of course, “Can I buy you a pretzel… and force you to sit across from me at a cozy table for two in the Food Court while I talk your ear off with repetitive details that no one else noticed from last night’s episode of Battlestar Galactica while your eyes glaze over and you threaten to shove wads of baked pretzel dough in your pointy ears?”

  I lie, like I do almost every night, and say, “Ooh, Hub, that’s so sweet but… I need to go shop for my Dad’s present. Maybe… next time?”

  He doesn’t point out that I’ve already told him the lunch bag was to hide Dad’s “present,” or that I’ve been “shopping” for Dad’s “present” every night since we both got hired for this gig, but that’s Hub for you; too boring to stand up for himself.

  I grab the lunch bag after he’s turned to take his sandwich and buy a fresh lemonade from the cute girl he likes at the lemonade stand in the food court, and I reach for the marinated brains, figuring Grady will much prefer the pate version.

  And so here is what happens next: I search high and low for an empty seat in the employee break room, and can’t find one.

  I even walk through the labyrinth of halls that exist just behind the stores, but they’re filled with people using the back entrances to the stores and signing for last-minute FedEx packages or hauling out trash or some other equally annoying thing.

  It’s dark now, and my break is nearly over, so finally I just sit in my car, open the box and literally cram the brains in my mouth.

  Yup; just like that.

  Brains… meet mouth.

  No plastic fork, no garnish, no napkin, no foreplay just… open mouth, insert brains.

  And, I gotta tell ya… they aren’t half-bad.

  Scratch that; they aren’t just “not bad,” they are flippin’ awesome.

  With a capital “rad” and two sparkly exclamation points after!!

  So awesome I lick my fingers and crinkle the white butcher paper Rocco used to wrap them in just so I can squeeze the last bit of brain juice from the corners, then lick the bag to catch every stinkin’ drop that didn’t drip into my open mouth already.

  Then I just kind of sit back and let the experience wash over me.

  Suddenly It’s like I’ve just eaten five candy bars in a row; there is a huge rush that rocks me straight back in my bucket seat, closing my eyes, coursing through my system, like I’m jacked into some giant electrical outlet and pure juice is running through my veins.

  By the time I get back to work – a fresh coat of lipstick and plenty of rouge to cover up my pale, undead face – I am jacked up and into it like I have never been before.

  There I am joking with the kids, making goofy faces for the camera, wiggling my pointy rubber ears, dancing to the cheesy Christmas music, ringing my jingle bell sash seductively at all the cute Dads, asking Mr. Waverly what he’s getting “Mrs. Santa” this year; it’s insane.