Martin Whitmore

(Today is “Blog Like It’s the End of the World” day. The theme? ….zombies.)

Warning: This post contains graphic violence. Reader discretion is advised.

It’s a busy Wednesday at Kinko’s. The afternoon rush is mostly past, but there are still a handful of people making copies at the self-serve machines, and a couple customers at the counter. While I’m making enlargements of a retired couple’s vacation photos, I catch something funny out of the corner of my eye. What looks to be a homeless man is standing in front of the automatic door, mesmerized by it. He watches it slide back and forth for a minute or so while I finish up printing pictures of wrinkly scuba divers. I turn to Dave, and nod in the direction of the door.

“A little early in the afternoon to be hittin’ the sauce, isn’t it?”
“Hell, I’d be drunk right now if I could!”

We get a good laugh, but then he starts to stagger in. He’s got one hell of a limp, but he’s making good time over to our greeter. Before Jeff can ask this guy how he can help, he’s already been knocked over. With a lurching dive, the derelict is on top of him. I think it’s goddamn hilarious, right up until the point where he comes up for air with a large chunk of our greeter’s throat in his teeth. My reptile brain reacts before I have time to actually process what’s going on here, and I rush to the entryway and kick the hobo off of Jeff with enough force to roll him to the wall, between the rows of computer terminals.

Unfortunately for Jeff, no amount of Band-Aids can save him now. Our already ugly carpet has soaked up a few pints of blood, and he seems to be petering out. Gasping like a fish, clutching his throat, he’s already in shock and there’s nothing I can do for him. My heart is racing, adrenaline pumping, and my brain still hasn’t caught up with Mr. Fight or Flight when the hobo stands back up and shuffles in my direction.

I take a few backward steps, almost slipping in the blood pooling in the rug. He catches up to me in front of a copier being used by a small, older Indian man who looks like he’s making about 500 copies of a takeout menu. Well, I’m not ready to be taken home in a doggie bag, so I grab whatever I can get my hands on and start to fight him. I get a big handful of hair and a wrist, and start pushing. This bastard is pushing forward so hard that I can feel his skull start to peel away from his scalp. I feel him getting closer, so I use his momentum to drive him face first into the Canon ImageReady. I get a better grip on the matted hair on the back of his head, pull it back, swing open the copier, and slam his face down into the control panel and the copy glass repeatedly to the tune of “Rock the Casbah” playing through tinny overhead speakers. The scanner’s green light makes several passes over the struggling corpse, spitting out morbid black and white snapshots of a George Romero wet dream. I keep smashing until I feel something give… that something being his skull, and I smash his head through the copy glass and slam the lid down a few times while screaming something incomprehensible for good measure. Still screaming, I kick the lifeless body hanging out of the copier, and then realize that everyone in the store is watching me in silent horror.

I wipe my hands off on a handful of Indian takeout menus as I realize what’s actually happening. Zombies. Well, shit.

Making my way out to my car, opening the trunk, and retrieving the pair of machetes I keep there “just in case,” I take a look around. Everything looks strangely normal. …maybe a few more ambulances than usual (wouldn’t want that job right now), but business as usual. As I walk back in through the automatic door, Jeff is slowly getting back on his feet. He growls at me, and an inky spurt shoots out of his gaping neck wound. I raise a machete and bring it down hard and fast into his skull.

“Huh,” seems to be all I can manage as the blade rips through most of the head, but gets caught on the jaw. Human heads are a little more resilient than horror movies would have you believe. Either way, it does the trick. The now lifeless (again) body slumps to the ground, and I retrieve my weapon.

“You killed him!,” screams Scuba Granny.
“That killed him,” I say, pointing to the corpse on the copier. “…I just killed what was left.”

This entry was posted in Incoherent Babbling on Thursday, June 14th, 2007 at 3:07 am.
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