I’m horrifyingly behind on my word count (*sighs*), but I’m also way ahead of where I’ve been the last few years. So, you know, some good, some bad. Hopefully I can catch up some on my days off. This is probably the most I’ve written in ten years, so I shouldn’t bitch.
     

     The main warehouse was cavernous. There was a car in the back, and metal stairs leading up to a loft-full of offices on the right side. Alice’s painted circle stood in roughly the middle of the cement floor, along with a couple of dusty work benches and a few shelves full of books and boxes and assorted bits. Off to the left was a stone circle built up from the floor, about two feet deep. Water could be heard softly lapping within. “Come on up.” Alice ascended the stairs, the her clanging steps echoing through the room. The loft was a wide walk-way with six separate offices. She flicked another switch at the top of the stairs, and softer ceiling lights came on, lighting up the glass windows into the offices. Blinds were drawn down over a couple of the office windows, but the rest stood open, showing one renovated into a little kitchen, one into a kind of living room, one into a library, and one remaining actual office. “Makes yourselves at home. I have to get cleaned up.” Alice went into one off the offices with the blinds drawn, and a moment later, running water could be heard.
     Vincent and Irish glanced at each other. “D’you smell something funny?”
     Vincent nodded. “It smells of death.” He glanced around. The lights had come on full in the warehouse, with glaring brilliance. The place was dusty and cobwebbed and smelled stale, like old air, dry boxes, and oil. Beneath that smell was a whiff of corruption. Vincent shaded his eyes, looking around.
     Irish peeked into the kitchen. It had plain beige walls and flat, industrial carpet, also beige, and stained in a few places. The cupboards and counters were cheap and plain. There was a small table with bread crumbs on it, and a few dishes in the sink, and a ceiling fan with light fixtures turned lazily. To the right was a closed door, to the apparent bathroom, and to the left was an archway into the living room. The living room had some Salvation Army furniture and a small TV, an empty pizza box and a few beer cans and coffee cups, and two over-flowing ashtrays. From there was an archway into a library, filled floor to ceiling with books on miss-matched shelves and boasting a very comfortable-looking recliner. The final archway led into the office, with still more books, and a huge desk with a computer and all the necessary accompanying bits, as well as several goofy knickknacks and action figures. There was a ratty brown teddy bear sitting in the computer chair, shiny black eyes staring at Irish. The wall under the window was full of squat filing cabinets. Alice’s little home was not exactly filthy, but neither could any of it be called clean or organized.
     â€œIrish?”
     Irish stepped back out on the walkway to find Vincent leaning over the rail of the walkway, staring down at something with wide eyes. Vincent glanced over at Irish and pointed to something in the warehouse. Irish leaned over and looked.
     Shambling across the floor with an armload of books was a slow zombie. As Irish watched, open-mouthed, the zombie shuffled under the loft. There were a few soft thumps, and a moment later, the zombie lurched back into view, empty-handed. It stood in the light, arms hanging limp. Slowly, it turned, looking up at Irish and Vincent.
     It – he – had once been a man of fair size. His skin was pale and ashen, his mouth sewn shut, and his hair was stringy, dry, and gray. His face was expressionless, and his eyes filmed white and blank. Still, he seemed to be able to see Vincent and Irish well enough. He wore black slacks and a white button down shirt with a very nice, colorful tie and good dress shoes. His clothes were somewhat dusty, but in good repair. As Vincent and Irish stared down at the zombie, he slowly lifted one hand and waved, giving a muffled moaning noise. Then he turned and shuffled to a cluttered table, picking up more books and taking them back under the loft.
     Irish turned to Vincent. “Is that . . . ?”
     Vincent nodded, face drawn in astonishment. “I think it is.”
     Alice came out of the bathroom, hair wrapped up in a towel, wearing a fluffy green robe. She glanced at the two of them, brows drawn. “What?” She stepped over to the railing and looked down, seeing the zombie. “Oh, don’t worry about that. That’s just the house zombie, Sam.”
     â€œHe waved at me!” Irish said, flabbergasted.
     â€œOh, yeah, he’s real friendly. Hi Sam! Who’s a good zombie?”
     Sam turned, waved, made the moaning noise.
     â€œThat’s right! Sam’s a good zombie! Good boy!”
     The zombie made a snorting, huffing noise.
     Alice grinned. “That’s him laughing.”
     â€œYou have a pet zombie?” Irish’s eyes were wide, outraged.
     â€œWell, yeah. Who else is going to keep the place clean? Although he doesn’t get up the stairs very well, so I have to clean up here. Pretty good, huh? That’s my first one. Came out great. He’s three years old, and look what good shape he’s in! Hardly rotting at all! You’d think I’d just made him.” She smiled with pride. “Lot of work and upkeep goes into one of those.”
     Vincent looked back over the railing. He had to admit, it was a pretty good zombie.
     â€œThat’s an abomination!” Irish roared, throwing one hand out and down to point at the thing.
     â€œAbomination?!” Alice jammed her hands on her hips, glaring. “Hell, no, that’s justice, is what that is! He was a total asshole, man. Never did anything but work, didn’t do a damn thing around the house, wasn’t worth a damn in bed, always forgot our anniversaries, bitched about my cooking, and I’m pretty sure he was doing his secretary, too!” She crossed her arms. “Besides, he’s much happier that way.”
     â€œYou slept with him?” Irish’s mouth gaped open, horrified.
     â€œSlept with him? That’s my husband. Samuel Frye. Where the hell do you think the money for all this came from?” She flung her hands out at the warehouse. “Life insurance!” She rubbed her chin, staring thoughtfully down at the oblivious zombie. “Although he was better looking when he was alive.”

     Copyright, 2006, JavaElemental

This entry was posted on Sunday, November 12th, 2006 at 2:05 pm and is filed under Original Fiction. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.