Odd Jobs for the Undead - A Zombie For Hire Story

Chapter 4

The COO of WexlerPharma left and I counted the money. Five grand. More than enough to offset losing Chiquita as a customer. I was supposed to meet Merl at ten and it was getting late, so I finished off my meal and grabbed a few feet of bowel for the road.

I crawled out of the sewer in the Haight, a few blocks away from Foggy's, the head shop that Merl runs. If you haven't been to the Height area, just imagine the Rodeo Drive of alternative lifestyles. Foggy's is nestled in between a vintage clothes store and a Satanic fortune teller. The upside for me is that the residents are so counter culture, if someone gets a look at me they just think I've made poor lifestyle choices and like to follow around jam bands.

A tattoos and pierced couple in trendy ripped clothes walked by as I was replacing the manhole cover. "Nice coat man, very noir," the guy said, referring to the trench I'd put on before I left. The spiky haired woman on his arm snickered at the joke.

If I wanted to, I could have sent the two running off screaming, but I resisted the urge to flash them what I had going on. Maintaining my free roaming privileges means I need to keep a low profile, so I turned my back on the hipsters and just walked away.

I was two doors down from Merl's shop when Weller stepped out of the door to his place and lit up a cigarette. She's quite possibly my least favorite living person, so I turned around and flipped up the collar on my coat, but before I could make it two paces, she called out, "Where you going, Zed? I need a word with you. Now."

I turned back to face her.

"Forgot my wallet," I said. "And my name is Gordon."

Weller shook her head no.

"Don't think so. You'll always just be Zed to me. Now come over here and lets have us a chat."

"What do you want?" I asked, standing in place.

"You really want me spilling your business at the top of my voice, Zed?" she asked.

If I could breathe, I would have sighed.

"No," I said, and walked over to where she was waiting.

"You're looking good," she said. "Don't look a day older than two or three months under the dirt. Staying out of the sun?"

"I'm not a vampire," I said.

"That's right," she said, exaggerating her agreement. "Reminds of a funny police report that landed on my desk this morning. I hadn't even had my first doughnut when some fancy investment banker comes storming into the precinct. Can you guess why he was there?"

"His BMW got towed," I said.

"That's pretty good. Actually happens about twice a week, but no. He was half out of his head, raving about a zombie attacking him in an alley and demanding his wallet. Can you imagine that?"

"I can't," I said. "What was he doing in an alley?"

"Having his morning wood chopped, if I were a betting woman. You see, there's been some other reports about zombies going after Johns in the Tenderloin. You know anything about it?"

"Not a thing. Are you sure it wasn't a homeless guy or something? They like alleys. And they smell almost as bad as a zombie. Plus they need the money. I thought the mayor was going to do something about the homeless problem in San Fran."

Weller and I stood looking at each other, silently. Weller didn't like me, and I didn't like her. I suspected she spent her days dreaming about smashing in my skull, but somehow I'd managed to avoid getting caught doing anything she could use to justify it.