As has been said, George is a particular man, one who appreciates neatness and tidiness, virtues which followed him well into his undeath. His shower had been an adventure, the cold water shocking him awake and bringing his inert veins into a blue relief on the surface of his grey skin. The thought of warm water cascading over him actually made him nauseous, which was strange since he'd always enjoyed a good old-fashioned scorching scrub. It had been one of those tiny pleasures in life, emerging from a shower that left him as stung and red as a cooked lobster, a feeling of sanitized cleanliness hovering about him along with flower scented soap.
It was a small point to brood upon, and he shook the ill feeling off, remembering there were far more important things at hand. Such as, which tie went best with this new, waxy grey hue of his skin? Not the purple, that felt too festive and the red gave off a certain sense of lack of refinement, not to mention highlighting the sallow undertones of his cheeks. He eventually settled on the grey, black and silver tie Frankie's sister had bought him for Christmas seven years ago. He blew a layer of dust off of the box it came in and took it out, still pristine and perfect, and tied it expertly around his collar.
He felt the image of a man suited up and ready for business, one who wasn't about to take any crap from some conniving suit across from him. He had to forget about the socks and shoes, since the dog's attack had left his feet too damaged for any kind of footwear, but as long as someone didn't inspect him for too long he figured the clean, well ironed trousers and white, starched shirt gave him enough of an air of suburban respectability.
The vague understanding that Frankie was supposed to be a part of this nagged at George, but he refused to dwell too long on it. The damn bank closed in the afternoon, no doubt so its manager could while the rest of his working hours on liquid lunches at the only bar still in operation. There was the understanding that Frankie had gone to work, though for what purpose he couldn't properly understand. They'd worked hard for others all their lives.
Surely by now they were ready to retire and enjoy each other's company for a change?
He paused midway into tying his tie.
That awful ache was back again. He pinched the perfectly formed knot into place at his neck, grimacing into the mirror as he thought about how best to approach their monetary problem. He smoothed the tie over his chest then slid his stiff, jerky arms into a clean, dark blue suit jacket. The memory of what Jack had told him was still fresh enough, and he had clearly implicated the bank as being the source of all their woes. It was the bank's fault Frankie had to keep working, and it was their fault their beautiful neighbourhood was set to be destroyed. He'd show them the damned official paperwork that proved without a doubt that they owned this house and the land it sat on. He'd wave it under the incompetent bank manager's face and tell him if they tried to take his property they'd have to deal with George and the barrel of a rifle, and George had no intention of being on the receiving end.
He searched for the keys to the house, but they weren't in the usual spot near the side door, and there wasn't a spare on the nail hanging above the stove. He'd have to leave the door unlocked. The omission of shoes and socks didn't bother him, not even as he walked barefoot over the black asphalt on his driveway, the soles of his bare feet sizzling on the hot surface. Dolores was right, it was a beautiful summer day. Flies buzzed around him in a busy, decaying halo. With a deep intake of breath that sucked a few of them into his lungs, he journeyed on foot into the heart of downtown, to the bank, where George was damned well going to set things straight.
Monarch Banking was the only structure on the street that still retained all of its windows. The surrounding stores and the post office had an eerie ghost town quality to them, with windows smashed in and dusty, blood flecked products blowing aimlessly out into the street. The trash pooled in a windy eddy near the central clock tower, which was missing its long hand. The short hand pointed aimlessly between the fifth and sixth roman numerals, as though time itself had run out of breath and was too tired to go on.
There wasn't a soul on the main street, despite it being such a lovely day. As he took in the state of the dilapidated buildings and the broken bottles lining the sidewalks, George was sure he could see furtive faces in the stores' shadows. Fear crept along every crevice as consumers and owners alike hid like mice in their places of business. Well, to hell with that. George was no mouse, and that bank manager might have cowed these people but he wasn't about to deter this mission.
An Osmosis poster flapped in the breeze as he approached the bank, one corner curled over its warning message.
As George passed it the corner flapped up, revealing a hungry member of the undead, the eyes bloodshot, the hands gory with a fresh kill. "Housing the undead is a criminal offence! Keep our streets clean and safe and free of human detritus! Only YOU can prevent accidental contamination!"
He opened the door to the bank and stepped in, the sense of abandonment as pervasive here as on the main street. A bleached blonde teller was the only other occupant in the room, and she eyed his entrance critically. She was unable to see he was barefoot from her place behind the counter and since he was clean and tidy, if a little pale, she felt nothing was amiss. "Can I help you, sir?"
George cleared his throat, which oddly came out like a sort of growl. He gestured to the bank manager's office, looking more bored than dead. She gave him a polite nod and made her way into the office, closing the door behind her. There was a mumbled argument behind the closed door, a drunken slurring voice over the teller's more high pitched reprimand. George distinctly heard: "Come on! Give us a tickle!" then a furious "Stop it!" followed by a hard slap. When the door opened, the teller looked considerably frazzled. "He'll see you now."
"I told you, no one in my office. Cancel all my appointments."
The teller turned and glared at the closed door. "He'll see you NOW."
"Slave driving cow..."
George was quickly ushered into the office, but though he was offered a seat, he didn't take it. He couldn't be sure how easy it would be to get out of it again, what with the pain in his stomach and the stiffness of his joints. He stood before the bank manager who held both his and Frankie's life at his whim, this rumpled, drunken lout of a creature who looked as though he hadn't shaved or showered for days. George had a hard time hiding his displeasure. He'd spent all this time getting ready, making sure he was presentable and this guy couldn't even be arsed to make sure his buttons weren't missing. Damned disrespectful.
Without warning Mr. Parker, bank manager, grabbed George's hand and shook it eagerly. "Nice to meet you. Real nice." His words were laced with hard edged whiskey. "Real nice. Those are cold hands. Real refreshing on a hot day like today." He sat back in his chair in a partially conscious slouch and looked up at George as if he was the most interesting person he had met in his life. "People don't go to banks anymore. What do you want?"
George didn't waste any time. He produced the paper proving his and Frankie's ownership of their house. He felt smug as Mr. Parker, bank manager, read the contents over. Let him chew on the facts so he can drown his sorrows from them later.
Mr. Parker laughed.
He waved the piece of paper before him as though it were a discarded hankie. "Do you seriously think the words printed on this still matter? Are you honestly that dim?" Mr. Parker let out a long, cruel guffaw at George's expense. "Wait 'till I tell the boys down at the Lost Head Bar about this one! They aren't going to believe me!"
Angry with the lack of respect he'd been counting on, George snatched the mortgage agreement out of Mr. Parker's damp grip. The bank manager howled in mirth at George's fury.
"Nothing on that scrap of paper is going to save you," he assured George. He spread his arms wide, begging George to get a good look at his surroundings. The office was rife with wrinkled, discarded legal documents, broken laptops and dead, brown plants in mouldy pots. His desk was scuffed, the drawers were falling out. An empty bottle of rum rolled with depressing agreement across the floor, meeting a partner underneath the windowsill.
"There is nothing left to own. Osmosis got it all. You can't fight the big boys, not when they're that big. If they want holding facilities here instead of a town, that's what they're going to get. They pretend they're going to give you some money, sure, they're good at that. But they are crafty sonsofbitches. They don't tell you they already have your town declared an emergency location just because the living population is only about fifteen hundred."
He tore open a drawer and pulled out a very large bottle of dark rum, which was mostly empty. "I understand your frustration. It ain't fair. I promised them I'd seize those properties—That's right, your house—and they promised me a house in the Caribbean. All that bother, all that paper and now I'm just as screwed as you." He drank a deep swig from the bottle, nearly toppling from his chair as his neck craned to angle out that very last drop.
His gaze was unevenly focused on George, in much the same way Dolores had looked on him. "Your wife, she's working at that Happy place now, isn't she?" He let out a booze soaked laugh. "She's still forwarding me her paycheques thinking she's paying for the penalties on her house. It doesn't matter, not anymore. This whole place is going to be one big, stinking pile of undead manure and she's going to be stuck standing knee deep in it until she's lucky enough to drop dead herself!"
Mention of Frankie put George over the tipping point. He grabbed the bank manager, hoping to shake some sense into him, make him see reason.
Oh. Crap.
Damn.
He didn't mean it. It just kind of happened. George let out a frustrated sigh. Two decapitations—Accidental decapitations—in one day. Mr. Parker's eyes were rolled unnaturally towards the back of his head. He looked about ready to open up another bottle of booze.
George checked his watch. 1:00 p.m.
Might as well break for lunch.