Odd Jobs for the Undead - A Zombie For Hire Story

Chapter 1

"Waaaah-leeeeeet!" I groaned, inching closer.

The John grabbed onto Chiquita, pulling her away from the wall and holding her in front of him like a human shield.

"Dios mio! Un zombie!" Chiquita screamed on cue.

The John, still holding Chiquita in front of him, worked his way farther into the alley, his movement slowed down by the pants at his feet.

"Waaaaah-leeeeeet! I groaned again.

"They're real! Jesus Christ!" the John said again. "Take her!"

He pushed Chiquita at me. She'd been ready for that, though, and nimbly stepped around behind the John, using him as a human shield now.

The two were still backing into the alley, and I kept up my own slow shuffle.

"WAAAAH-LEEEEET!"

"Help! Help!" The John yelled out, holding his hands out in front of him to ward me off.

"He wants your wallet! Give him your wallet!" Chiquita urged him.

The John nodded and quickly bent over to grab at his pants. He managed to fish out his wallet, then stood up, holding it out to me in a trembling hand.

"Waaaaahlet!" I groaned again, reaching toward it.

Chiquita grabbed the wallet out of the John's hand and tossed it to the side of the alley.

I pointed my feet where it had landed and shambled over.

"Waaahlet!" I said in my happiest zombie patois.

"Corré! Run!" Chiquita yelled at the John, then took off down the alley herself, trying not to stumble on her high heels. The John pulled his trousers up to his thighs and followed after, whimpering.

As soon as I was sure the two of them were gone, I dropped my arms back down to my sides and walked the last two steps over to where the wallet lay waiting. I squatted down and picked it up, popping a few gas pockets in my thigh muscles and adding to the general stench in the alley.

It was a nice bill fold. Gucci. Inside was a large wad of twenties, four credit cards, a picture of John, a baby, and a chubby, bovine looking blonde, a gym membership and driver's license. Turns out John's name actually was John. Johnathan Shaw. Just lives a few blocks away.

Probably won't be walking back this way on his way to work any time soon, I thought.

"Took you long enough," Chiquita said from behind me, without the Mexicana accent.

I turned around and tossed her the wallet.

"You're too good at your job," I said.

Chiquita opened it and took the cash out. Her cute, turned up nose flared and she stepped away from me, sniffing and holding her hand up to her face, palm out, trying to create a barrier between her and whatever she smelled.

"Oh, man Gordon. You stink even worse than usual," she told me as she started counting off the bills.

"Sorry. Its not me though, its the clothes," I said, covering.

I held open the lapels of the jacket I was wearing and waived them back and forth.

"I thought they made me look more recently risen from the grave than my regular duds," I told her.

"Euwww!" Chiquita said, stepping back further.

The offending garment was a light green leisure suit from the 70's that Bing, one of the daytime residents of Bump and Grind Lane, had literally been wearing since the 70's. It had holes in it, was dirty as hell, and stank to high heaven. Bing had been more than happy to part with it for the low low price of a bottle of Mad Dog 20/20.

Chiquita stuffed half of the bills back into the wallet and handed it to me, stretching out her arm to keep her nose as far away from me as possible.

"I hate to break it to you Gordon, but even when you think you don't stick, you stink," she said. "No offense. I mean, you are a zombie."

I hated to admit it, but she was probably right.

My sense of smell isn't all that great. In fact, except for my hearing and sight, all my my senses are pretty dulled. Probably for the best though. Zombies, as I'm sure you could guess, are always rotting. If I could actually taste the taste in my mouth and smell all the gasses and fumes coming off of my body, I doubt I could live with myself.

"None taken," I told Chiquita, accepting the wallet.

Chiquita looked at her watch.

"Morning commute is still going strong," she said. "Got time for one more trick?"

"Not today, I've got a date," I told her, stuffing the wallet into my pants pocket.

Chiquita raised an eyebrow. She didn't believe me.

"You're not upset about what I said, are you?"

"I'm really not."

"'Cause we made a lot of money today. I like this arrangement."

"Don't worry, I like easy money," I told her and smiled.

Chiquita's face paled and her cocky, street wise attitude disappeared the way her accent had. She took a few halting steps backward and held out her half of the cash we'd lifted off of Johnathan Shaw.

"Take it! I don't want any trouble!"

Zombies shouldn't smile around casual acquaintances. Sometimes I forget we're scary. After all, most zombies are shuffling, groaning automatons with the IQ of a stick of wood, hell bent on ripping you to pieces to satisfy their undead compulsion to gnaw on living flesh.

I'm not like that. Although sometimes I think it might be easier to be a groaner than a thinking man's zombie.

I relaxed the muscles around my face and spoke in the most soothing tone I could pull off with my damaged vocal cords.

"Keep the money, Chiquita. I just meant I like our arrangement too."

Chiquita nodded and stuffed the twenties into her bra, but she didn't look completely convinced I wouldn't try to take a bite out of her.

"Same time tomorrow?" I asked.

"I'm going to take tomorrow off," Chiquita lied. The woman was a workaholic. Probably pulled in more cash in a week than a Silicon Valley CEO. "I'll give Merl a call when I'm going to work again. Okay?"

Merl is my agent, for lack of a better word. He helps set me up with gigs unfit for the living. Toxic waste clean up? Living crash test dummy? Pressure testing deep ocean submersibles? I'm your zombie. He'd set up my mornings with Chiquita a week ago.

And now I'm getting a "Don't call me, I'll call you," from a hooker.

"Sure," I said flatly.

I buttoned my dirty jacket in a stab at establishing a bit of dignity, not easy to do in 40 year old clothes permeated in years of vomit, and walked out of the alley, head held high, arms swinging loosely at my side. I might look like a vagrant, but no one would mistake my gait for the shambling walk of the undead.

And I really did have a date to get to.