"Hello? Hello?"
He paused, just long enough for his heart to beat twice. He had just woken from a beautiful dream of summer, his cheek pressed against cool, soft green grass while a hot breeze blew over him. With bleary memory his heart slugged out a slow, lobbing movement that told of long afternoons and greasy hotdogs.
He coughed over his indigestion.
"Hello? Ma'am? You in some kind of trouble?"
He tensed at the silence that greeted him, wondering if it was a live human being on the other end of the line or simply another rogue. It wasn't unheard of for them to play around with the telephone while the remainder of their victims lay partially consumed and bloodily twitching on the floor. Chuck narrowed his already small eyes as he detected the faintest catch of breath, a sign that whoever was on the other end was still breathing and thus wasn't one of the random undead.
"If you're reporting an incident, you have to follow the proper procedures." He didn't feel helpful, and instead hoped he conveyed a certain level of accusation in his voice that wasn't unfounded. Rogues didn't just randomly show up on their own, there was always some kind of family intervention that brought them into creation. Black market Osmosis 37 enzymes were becoming a real problem, and he was tired of cleaning up the mess they created. He could just imagine what was in store for him at the other end of this line, and he impatiently checked his watch. Seven o'clock in the evening. Just past his dinner hour, which he'd been foolish enough to sleep through. He'd have to spend the rest of the midnight onward shift hungry.
"Board up your windows, put the heavy furniture near the entrances. Get into your basement along with any remaining family members--that's right, remaining--and break the glass on your section #41 issued flame thrower. I'm sure if you're like the rest of us you've got a couple of automatic rifles underneath your bed. Do you have drywall in your basement? If you do, that's good, but don't go firing bullets if it's all concrete or stone and especially not if it's those steel drum panic room types. The bullets will ping around all over the place and it's unlikely they'll find their target."
There was a pensive silence at this and before Chuck could offer up any more of his invaluable service and advice, the phone clicked softly. A dial tone droned in his ear.
"Shit," he muttered, and put down the receiver.
The silence always bothered him most. Ever since he'd been appointed Sheriff Inspector of Rogues (that's S.I.R. to civilians) and hauled out of his cozy, very enjoyable retirement, his days had been one long fest after another. Gone were those dreams of lazy, late mornings and weekdays spent fishing, a big bass tugging on his line. The odd poker game with his cronies swapping stories from when they were on the beat solving murders and putting away bad guys over felt part of a past he never got to properly experience. No sir, now life for S.I.R. Chuck Dickerson was one long shift that never ended, never got properly paid and never gave him a vacation.
The phone rang. Sighing, Chuck answered it, the receiver held away from his ear to protect himself from the ear splitting screams. Awful though it was, it was a hell of a lot better than silence. At least he knew whoever was freaking out on the other end was still alive and maybe had a beating heart, even if that fact wasn't for long. "If he's at your front door, Ma'am, all you got to do is barricade it with the couch and turn on the porch light. They aren't rocket scientists, the light will confuse them plenty. I don't care if he is your grandfather, just do what I'm telling you. Gather up what's left of your family and get into your basement. Get your section #41 issued flame thrower and...Well, it's regulation, Ma'am. If you don't have one it's a seven hundred and sixty-seven dollar fine. It doesn't matter if you have a ten year old boy who is unnaturally fascinated with it, those firearms are required to be at the ready for a reason."
He sighed and slipped on his jacket, one constructed with chain-mail and extra padding to hinder bites. It was a homemade barricade and not all that effective, but it managed to keep him safe enough to continue being employed. There were holes in the shoulders, where a particularly aggressive rogue managed to get a tooth or two through the tightly woven metal. "I'll be there as soon as I can."
He hung up on the woman's hysterical screaming, sending his office into an eerie quiet. He took a quick bite of a stale doughnut that had been sitting on a pile of papers on his desk since yesterday morning. Another busy start to the night, and no doubt a sign of what was to come by morning. It was a twenty-four hour business, full of beings that existed in perpetual hunger and insomnia. So much for the whole eternal rest crap. Who knew the dead would become so damned fidgety?
***
Frankie hung up the phone and glanced over at her husband, George, who was sitting on the couch in the living room, watching the news. His expression was one of bored contentment, as per usual. She felt a pang of guilt over what she had nearly done, but she wouldn't dare tell George what was troubling her. Lord knew, the poor man obviously had enough troubles of his own.
"It's going to be another hot one today," she observed, the happy face of a bright sun lighting up the weather report. "That was Shirley, calling me to let me know I'll need to start an hour earlier tomorrow. I wanted to say no, but, you know how things are, any amount we can scrounge up is worth is." She fiddled with a dial on the wall leading into the kitchen. "I'll have to put the air conditioner up full blast again."
Her hands felt sweaty in the pink rubber cleaning gloves she wore, the water hot as she dipped her covered hands into the soapy, bubbling concoction of bleach and antibacterial soap in the bucket, her hand searching out a cleaning rag. She slapped the cloth onto the kitchen counter-top, her tired arms going over the sink and the kitchen cabinets yet again. The four hepa air filters in the living room scrubbed the air while Frankie took it upon herself to make sure every physical surface around them had her own antiseptic stamp upon it. She'd been up and scrubbing since five am and she had only half an hour left to get the floors properly bleached and the windows streaked clean with ammonia. George was quiet, as he always was, never a bother at all. She glanced over at him with kind affection, and finally pulled off her pink rubber gloves, tossing them in the sink as she headed to the refrigerator to make him a proper breakfast.
"I got the good bacon, the kind in maple syrup," she announced to him. "Cost me a fortune, and I had to put it on our charge account, but I imagine it's worth it." With a quick, but thorough, swipe of her dishcloth she spread a thin layer of bleach over the sink and along the underside of the cupboards. The raw bacon she had taken out was placed carefully onto a spotlessly clean, steaming plate taken fresh from the dishwasher.
It was imperative that her home remain free of impurities, she knew, but even though she had been scouring since before the sun had crawled out of its bed in sleepy cheerfulness there was still the sense that those invisible microbes were making their way in. Beneath the scent of bleach and ammonia, a mixture of caustic chemicals that burned her throat as she made a cup of coffee, there was that unmistakable sour smell she had long associated with her workplace. It felt like it was following her home, like a demon attached to a host, one so diabolical in its clinging that no known exorcism rite could shake it off. Disturbed by this, she emptied the rest of the raw bacon onto the plate and placed it at George's usual spot at the dinner table.
An anxious glance at the clock above her refrigerator told her she had fifteen minutes to spare before she had to head out of the house for her shift at work.
She was so tired. Everyone was these days. In the land of the dead, drudgery reigned. No retirement for her and George, not for any of their unlucky generation. They had a wonderful three years of happy, restful quiet before she had to go back to work, a fact that had made George bitter and angry most of the time. He didn't fly into indignant rages now, which was maybe a good thing, but she missed his passion. There was nothing of that left now, and instead she moved through each day like a person only half alive, her tired, worn body aching with the strain of the unfair burdens placed upon it.
She hung her apron on the hook next to the fridge. After a quick check to make sure all the doors were properly locked, she carefully walked up to her husband, knowing well that sharp, abrupt movements could be dangerous. She gave him a tentative, partially disgusted kiss on the top of his forehead and waited for the response. There was none. So far, George remained his usual self, staring at the TV, getting sound-bytes of news and pretty much ignoring the universe that had grown so ugly around him. He wasn't showing any of the symptoms of being dangerous that she herself witnessed daily at work. Perhaps the experts were wrong. Or lying. It wouldn't be the first time.
"I'll try to be home by five," she assured him, though she wasn't confident that time had any meaning for George any more. "I won't take on extra hours, no matter how much Shirley pleads."
George scratched at his ear.
Half of it fell off against the back of the couch.
She picked it up carefully with a clean paper towel and discarded it in the kitchen wastebasket. She'd done all she could, but no human being can keep up with what nature intends. Regardless of how much she kept the bacteria at bay, they were still there, whittling away at her George. With tears in her eyes, Frankie made sure to bolt the side door three times, checking with her hip to see that it couldn't be bodychecked open. He was locked in good and proper by the look of it. She needn't worry about a thing.