Tansy Undercrypt

Professor Paulsen had left urgent notes on several lockers, basically commanding the underachievers in his class to see him in his office immediately if they wanted to graduate; these were the slackers, the bullies, the screw-ups who made it harder for everyone else to hear and concentrate with their ridiculous antics. Turning into a zombie was not an elegant process; he had been ill for some time and the progressive virus was causing almost unimaginable pain. Now that the end was near, however, Paulsen had devised a plan to “go out in style” as they say … and make the world a better place in the process.

Bedford (the Beagle) was the town howler; one if by land (animal control van), two if by sea (big storm coming in). When Dash and Smudge heard the long short short looooooooong short short, they paused. Three? “Zombie apocalypse,” wuffled Airstream lowly. “Get the others and tell them to bring their rugs or blankets and favorite toys to the warehouse. The retrievers have been dragging bags of food there for months. We’ll be fortified and safe.” A human scream sounded in the distance. “Poor bastards,” Airstream finished, moving into the night.

He recognized Nancy Benfield from fifth period math. She had taken the shambler down with one bullet. “Hey, Troy,” she said with a nod. He stammered his thanks, his teeth still chattering with fear. “I used to sit around wishing I was prettier, cooler, funnier – anything to make you guys like me,” Nancy said, putting her gun away and grabbing the fire escape ladder. “Now, I just sit around wishing I could find an unlimited supply of bullets – anything I can do to keep the right people safe.” She pulled the ladder up after her, not inviting him to climb. “You were a complete dickhead to me, so I’m only going to save you once. Good luck.” And she was gone. She was gone, he had just screamed like a B-movie starlet, and he could hear more shamblers on their way.

9:53am: Christopher is grateful for agility, dodging two zombies outside of the grocery store. 10:17am: He is grateful for exceptional hand/eye coordination, fighting his way to the front door of his house with the groceries and putting the key into the lock. 3:49pm: Chris is grateful for the Survivor Online Network, which runs a community board from a server farm somewhere (it helps with the loneliness, since his parents didn’t make it back). 11:08pm: He’s grateful for David Letterman, who’s living in his Hollywood studio with the show’s broadcast crew and a few folks from the last audience he ever had. There’s no turkey, of course, but the laughter makes it feel a little like Thanksgiving.

They had to stand up at the front and answer facing the rest of the class. When it was her turn, Millie clomped up to the teacher’s desk in her pink high-tops and spun around, her black braid whipping across her shoulder. “What would YOU like to be when you grow up, Millie?” Mrs Foster asked with a smile. “Heavily armed – to fight the zombie horde,” she replied without hesitation. She made the my-eyes-to-your-eyes gesture at Robby Hicks and quickly sat down. Robby froze, choking on a Pop Rock he was not supposed to be eating – feeling that his destiny had just been decided.

They had no television or radio news playing in Santa’s workshop; the children’s letters told them everything they needed to know (e.g., war had broken out, peace had come, there was still no cure for cancer). When the Big Man started receiving wish lists with nothing but “BRAINS” written on them, he knew the zombie apocalypse had begun. Safety was a concern, certainly, but a more pressing issue with the new demand was … well … supply. It was against his nature to leave stockings empty at Christmas.

“What’s going on?” George asked the other residents, pressed against the front two windows of the care facility. “Has there been an accident?” “It’s Mavis Tarsitter,” Ed responded, hushed. “She’s outside practicing.” George went to the door and opened it. Sure enough, Mavis (age 84) was throwing 2 huge Bowie knives into a mannequin’s head from across the lawn, her shock of white hair tamed by a black bandana with skulls printed on it. “It’s for when the zombies come,” Mei Lin whispered as she headed back to her room. George barely heard her; he was in the grip of Love At First Sight.

Herrick entered the reading room flushed from haste. “I apologize for the disruption, Madame, but Lady Ash-Townsend has tripped a zombie trap down by the croquet field.” Mrs. Undercrypt set her book aside. “Was she decapitated?” “No, Ma’am; she was crouching at the time, so it is more that she has been spontaneously caged.” “Crouching, you say?” “Yes, Ma’am.” “Near the croquet fields, where the raspberry bushes are thick with the makings of jams and tarts? Was she, by any chance, carrying a basket?” He nodded. “I believe an afternoon of tea, cakes, and light poetry is in order, Herrick; her ladyship may find the substantial delay … instructive.”

“… my soul to keep,” Sophie said, her eyes tightly shut. “If I should die before I wake,” she continued, “please don’t let me come back as a zombie, because that would be gross.” The girl smiled and climbed into bed. Her grandmother stifled a laugh and pulled the covers up. Outside in the alley, someone moaned.

The Zombie Maker had made the plague himself (being a chemist by trade). He always carried a vial with him to use  on public toilet seats, random door handles, the spines of popular bestsellers at the bookstore and a host of other locations. He traveled frequently for work which gave him adequate global coverage (Mexico and the U.K. would be the first to return a result). To his delight, he was quickly using up the four drums he had in storage. In order to survive the coming apocalypse, the Maker mused, we need to get the party started.