Monday of the Dead - Serial 1

Monday of the Dead 

Jeff Wallace

Chapter 1 

Monday of the Dead 

Sometimes I misspell my name and get embarrassed by that. Sometimes a lot of things happen that I never intended to occur. Then again... sometimes things... What the fuck is that noise? 

I reach for the window near my desk and split the blinds open to peak outside. The street is still, like it is every morning at 5:00 am. I turn back to my computer and pick up typing again. Whatever the sound was, it stopped. Sounding like a moan. A really loud, roaring kind of moan. Kind of strange. Either way it has stopped so why worry about it now. 

I'm looking forward to work this morning. I haven't had this job for all that long. Which is why I probably still like it and get excited to go into work and have over time offered to me and get patted on the head like a good boy for being so eager to please. This is my life. 

Again the moaning roar sounds. A long, drawn and wavering wail from off in the distance. My brow furrows in curiosity and I rise from my seat and grab my cigarettes and mug of coffee and head to the front door. 

The good thing about having this new job that I do still enjoy is I get up extra early in preparation. So this affords me opportunities such as this to get up and go outside and have a cigarette and investigate strange and unusual sounds. Plus, there is something empowering about being so in control of one's life. When I see someone driving by in a hurry, late for something or other, I think of how amazing I am for being so self-aware and prepared and how envious they must be to see me calmly standing in my front lawn with a warm, steaming mug of coffee in hand and a delicious cigarette dangling from my lips. How superior I am to the average man. Here in my yard with my Christmas mug in the middle of October and these expensive cigarettes, strolling about in my slacks and penny loafers which I just oiled 30 minutes ago. After I am done with this cigarette and return inside I will pluck off these shoes and deliberately and slowly remove every tiny dead blade of grass that stuck to them. I will find Zen and peace in the simplicity of these menial tasks. 

Outside the streets are still as they always are at this time of the morning. The cool air somehow manages to make the coffee and cigarette taste better. I walk across the lawn and notice every tiny blade that clings to my loafers. I relish the opportunity to remove them later. The moan continues, sounding plaintive and pained. 

Upon reaching the sidewalk I look down the street to the north where the sound seems to be from.  

Far down the street on the corner where the street turns to the west a woman is standing on the corner in a nightgown. She is bent at the waist somewhat, obviously elderly. At first I felt a little cheated. What on earth does this woman think she is doing being up and about right now? Perhaps I am not a unique and precious snowflake after all. And then a thought settled over me like a fever-induced chill, causing my skin to clam up, perhaps she gets up even earlier than me and her responsibility vastly outweighs my own? I immediately hate this woman, until I realize she is the source of the plaintive howling. 

Her tiny, semi-emaciated frame straightens then bends forward once more in an attempt to project the sound.  

What the fuck is she doing? Obviously she is demented. This is the perfect opportunity for me to display how much more responsible I am than the rest of humanity. Obviously her caretakers are neglectful and irresponsible allowing this poor elderly woman to wander the streets at such an hour. I will do the right thing and assist her back into her residence where I'm sure I will be rewarded with the inevitable ingratitude of her white-trash family members who lost track of her.