Evangelists: A Reader's Request (Pt. 3)

A red sun rose to my left as I surveyed the parking lot from atop Vallenmarkt's trademark concrete box. The sheer numbers I was considering were dizzying. I recalled a Black Friday four years previous, when two thousand customers had crowded around the front of the store. Comparing that mental image to what lay before me, I reckoned seven thousand between my post and the far end of the parking lot.

I shifted the Louisville slugger around in my hand. The smooth wooden handle was still foreign to me after using my machete almost invariably for upwards of a year. So much had changed since we'd found the dead body of a strange girl laying in our vestibule. So much was going to change if my small team made it past the end of the parking lot, eight blocks east and two blocks north, to that other cement fortress.

I said another quiet prayer, and contemplated the rope dangling down the wall before me. I pressed a button in my pocket; and the opening notes to Coheed and Cambria's "Welcome Home" played in my ears. I smirked.

"Lost my muchness, have I?" I murmured. I grabbed hold of the rope and, one-handed, swung myself over the edge.

Day 475.

"Ready! Aim! Fire!" Liz's voice rang out with a volume and authority that somehow made whatever she was saying seem of mortal import. Twenty arrows pierced twenty targets with impressive accuracy. What she was teaching was, indeed, of mortal import.

From my perch atop the dead freezers that bordered the store's former produce section, I surveyed the many activities taking place in this old Vallenmarkt building.

From where our seasonal items were once kept, I could hear a worship service going on with instruments both salvaged and crafted. Overhead, a group of gardeners tended vegetable plants, berry bushes and edible flowers. Behind me, a crew was cleaning up the area that'd been assigned to them in our weekly rotation. Somewhere in the back room, I could hear my second-in command, Manuel, cursing at a generator he was trying to repair.

Among the registers, a game of Monopoly was being played with real money. For some reason, I thought of Emma Stone.

Our motley crew of thirteen had grown considerably since Liz joined our ranks. Her knowledge of archery had made an entire pallet of abandoned sporting goods material suddenly useful. With Liz's new form of defense, we'd been able to perform short outdoor missions: rescuing survivors in neighboring buildings, getting further building and defense supplies from a hardware store across the street. We'd even made it to a gas station a number of blocks away and emptied their propane supply to meet our growing need for cooking gas. At a lumber mill behind our building, we'd fetched some supplies to make our own bows and arrows to use when the need arose.

Our most successful mission was the rescue and relocation of a college-age youth group that had been living in the church less than a block away. Not a single person suffered so much as a scratch in that effort; and our group had doubled that day. Since then, the community living in the Vallenmarkt building had reached over a hundred. I no longer slept alone on my freezer, but shared my end of the store with ten of the college kids.

I grabbed my Bible out of the freezer, climbed back up to my post and turned to Numbers 6. I took my time reading, savoring the chance I had to be alone and quiet with God. I'd often dreamt of leading people, of serving together and doing what I could to help others reach the fullest of their potentials. When the world fell to pieces and I was thrust into my dream job, it was a much busier task than I'd imagined it could be.

I was mulling over verses 24-26 when the musicians and singers arrived, dragging folding chairs and ready for Bible study.

I slid down a rope from my "bed" and pulled a folding chair of my own out of a freezer. The college kids I shared my sleeping area with were very impressed by my freezer/locker setup. Taking a seat, I smiled at the folks gathered around me and suggested we open with prayer

We talked about evangelism that day. Many people shared about how easy it once was, Back When, to stay hidden in church culture and church buildings. There was no pressure to go out to offer God's love to a broken world. After the infection hit, the world seemed too broken to bother helping; but folks were finding in their store-mates a desire for that internal peace that comes with knowing the King of the Universe is looking out for you. The freedom we had to openly and calmly discuss faith with our unbelieving friends seemed to make these believers wonder why they'd been so scared in the first place.

I encouraged them with this:

"In the first century, people were willing to face horrific, painful deaths if it meant they could share the truth about Christ with those around them. It's saddening to think we, Back When, got sheepish over an awkward conversation or a rude rejection. Let's decide now that, if things ever go back to how they were before, we'll remember the lessons we've learned here. We won't play it safe; we'll play it right."

Behind me, Manuel hummed in agreement as we closed with another prayer and dispersed for archery practice. I returned my chair to its place in the freezer and addressed Manuel with my normal raised eyebrow.

"Food's missing again. Still no clues. I even spread sand on the floor. Not a single footprint. It's like we're feeding a ghost."

The thefts could have been happening the whole time; but it wasn't until we started rationing food to keep up with our growing crew that we noticed food missing. One or two servings would vanish each day; the culprit never left a clue behind. More disturbing were the occasional footsteps in the middle of the night and jingling of keys.

I pondered the situation and told Manuel, "We may need to post a guard."

Manuel gave me a look.

"I know, I'm reluctant, too. I'll ask the group and see if anyone has any objections."

Manuel gave me another look.

"I know he will."

Everyone in the store gathered in our cafeteria, where I addressed them from a dairy carton turned upside-down. It was the closest thing to a real soapbox I was ever able to find. I explained once more the situation and the difficulties we were having in finding the thief. I brought the idea of posting the guard to the table and asked if anyone had thoughts on the matter before we voted. As Manuel had silently predicted, a man stood up. I gave him the floor.

"I don't know about everyone else; but this smells like the start of a police state to me. I don't like being guarded all the time; and I definitely don't like having to beg for food. I wonder how long it's going to be before your concern for our well-being has us in chains."

Every one of my twelve original crew members sighed in chorus. I could almost feel Manuel smirking behind me. Pastor Brett gave them a glare.

"Sir," I could barely keep my exasperation contained, "if this was a police state, I'd already have a guard posted. I am not forcing anyone to be guarded; I am offering it as a suggestion. As far as begging for food, rationing is really the only option we have right now if we want our resources to last. You'll recall we voted on that as well. If no one else has anything to add, we'll go to vote in this issue."

A few moments of silence passed.

"Very well, all in favour of posting a guard to protect the food rations, raise your hand."

All of my crew, all of the survivors from outlying shelters and a few of Brett's youth raised their hands. Brett coughed loudly; and those from his church retracted their vote.

"All against?"

Despite the overwhelming majority in favour, Brett stood and raised his hand with gusto. His whole group raised their hands reluctantly.

I appointed a man we'd pulled out of a bomb shelter as guard, a choice at which Brett balked. I invited Brett to help guard the post if he could be civil about it; and we dismissed the meeting.

"When are you going to step in?" Manuel asked.

"When someone asks me to." I replied.

"Isaac, it's clear he's not leading his team; he's manipulating them. Those kids need some help.  Our crew could have him dethroned and locked in a cage without a sweat, if you'd give them a chance.

"No!" I nearly yelled, "No, we will not start their revolution for them. If they want to cut loose, we'll help them; but they have to say so. They have to make the first move. My leadership is based on a trust that I refuse to betray - that includes meddling in affairs that I'm not invited into.You guys are not to meddle, either. Do nothing until someone from their team asks."

Manuel sighed, but assented. Thinking again of how many of our conversations had consisted of me venting about that one man, I added, "Please tell me the moment those kids ask for their revolution."

My friend laughed.

For the rest of the day,  I cleaned and rearranged the hygiene products corner we'd established in the deli. I included what we'd been able to pilfer from neighboring shops. As I tossed boxes back and forth and dumped smaller items into bins, an anger burned through me.

I'd heard that Brett was once a kind, gentle leader in his church. He wasn't the sort to pick fights or even start arguments. When the infection hit, his college kids said he changed. 

Suddenly, he started running drills and barking commands. He used intimidation tactics to keep his kids in line and threatened violence at the first sign of subversion. I could tell he liked to cast himself as some sort of military leader. His youth were soldiers in his personal army; and he believed he was their fearless, beloved commander.

In truth, he struck me as a walking bundle of insecurities, someone who considered this apocalypse permission to live the adventurous life his former position had not afforded him.

In practice, he was little more than a schoolyard bully.

I heard Brett's voice shouting through the store; probably another kid who missed the bulls-eye in archery. I felt bad for Liz.

Day 476.

It was about two in the morning when the shouting started. I could hear Brett's voice again; and I wondered where he got the energy to be so worked up about everything. Then I heard shrieks.and the clatter of shelving. I sat up, suddenly very awake. Grabbing my machete, I leapt off the freezer, rolling as I hit the floor.

Even in the dark, I could make out shadows of zombies breaking though our barricade at the home and garden entrance, flooding into the store. It was like watching the Titanic sink, but without the bad acting.

 I gave a shout and started hacking. 

It wasn't long before I heard more slicing, grunting, bashing and yelling. This was a legitimate battle; and we were good at this. Another minute later, floodlights came on; and the "zing" of arrows from our trained archers, and the sounds of impact (Bodies sound much wetter than range targets) told me that our kill count was growing. 

In my periphery, I could see Manuel arranging men to knock our barricades back in place with one unified move.

When you fight one zombie, there's a lot of maneuvering and technique involved. When there's a large horde gathering around you, I find it best to swing a blade toward whatever touches you first. Whatever you do, swing to decapitate. Poking or trying to hack through a skull will only get your machete stuck in something. Take its head off.

I shouted again, letting my friends know that victory was close. The fight intensified for a moment, pushing the swarm back outside. Manuel gave the order and, with more clattering and crashing, the barricade was back in place. The whole ordeal took about a half hour.

Cleanup was a routine as rehearsed and planned out as fighting. Archers put arrows into anything that moved on the ground. Sometimes, this meant putting down our own who'd been infected or injured beyond recovery. Life in a zompocalypse is never easy. 

(I know that sounds like common sense; but I remember romanticising the apocalyptic life Back When. Somehow, I thought it'd all fall into place and I'd be living on canned ravioli and Arizona iced tea until society re-established itself.)

We melee fighters went through and bagged the bodies to be carried to the roof. Manuel's team - people who provided tactical support - took the bodies up and tossed them into our garbage pit. Once a week, we threw some kind of accelerant at the pit and set the whole thing ablaze.

We lost eleven people to that battle. 

We killed seventy-one zombies in the fight and another six in the cleanup. 

Eleven fighters, seventy-seven zombies and one girl nobody recognised.

Underneath some of the barricade we'd replaced, one of the men noticed a shoe. When he pulled on it, a twenty-something girl was found to be attached. When I arrived to investigate, everyone else had already taken a close look at her. I instantly placed her.

"That's Linda."

"Who?" Liz asked.

"One of my cashiers. I haven't seen her since the night everything started. She's skinnier than she was then; but that's definitely her."

Her effects had been placed to the side. Among them was an envelope and a hypodermic needle. The envelope was unaddressed; so I opened it. Inside was a long note. All the Latin-based words took a moment to dissect and make sense of; but, reading the note again, I knew that, though she was to blame for opening the door and moving the barricade, Linda was also to thank for all that would happen afterward. I shouted for Manuel.

Before he even stopped running toward me, I was talking, "We need to find out where this girl was hiding. I think we've probably solved the mystery of the missing food. Obviously, Linda had a key and dusted off her tracks when you spread that sand out. So, let's get Brett and the bomb-shelter guy off guard duty and have everyone scour the building for hidey holes."

I picked up the hypodermic needle and held it up to the light. As Manuel ran off to organise the search, I said a quiet prayer of thanks.

To be continued...

Evangelists: A Reader's Request (Pt 2)

It'd been three months or so since this all began, three months since I'd used the railing from a handicapped stall in the men's room at work to beat one of my subordinates to death. Even now, I can hear her angry shrieks. I can still feel her hands grabbing at my shirt and her blood splattering my face. In that season of my life, I had nightmares every time I slept; and those that replayed her death were the mild ones.

Day 100.

I awoke with a start, as I had every morning since Beth's passing; and, as I had every morning for those three months, I fought back the tears - the unstoppable heaviness - that came with realising that, at best, everyone I once loved was dead. At worst, they were zombies.

In sharing this tale, I hesitate to use the word, "zombies" because I fear it gives the wrong impression. You might imagine shuffling hordes of reanimated corpses, moaning as they decompose in motion. You might see George Romero's imagination take form - the quiet dead returning to attack the living. I wish our apocalypse had been so peaceful.

From what little television was still airing during the first week of the attacks, what communication we'd been able to establish with people outside and what we saw in those of us who became infected, we deduced that this illness didn't kill and revive its host. The zombie disease was more like mental trauma than magic. 

The host lost most of his human functions, the whole of his mind relegated to the reptile brain, where base instinct took over. A horrendous fever coursed through the body, taking up most of the host's energy and causing considerable pain. This combination of mental degradation and physical illness caused a heightened paranoia to the animal mind within. Everything looked edible; everyone looked dangerous. To further complicate things, the body seemed to react to the constant pain by shutting down certain nervous functions, lending the infected a physical numbness that rendered all but mortal wounds ineffective.
 
The assailants didn't necessarily prefer human flesh to other things; they'd eat anything to replace the energy lost to their fever. Hospital patients, back when hospitals were the place to take a zombie, were often found eating the contents of their bedpans. It wasn't until someone tried to interrupt their meal that a paranoid man-beast would attack the staff. 

Once, an electronics associate who'd been infected at my store was so engrossed in some sauerkraut he'd found that I was able to walk up and shoot him from the side without incident.

I hate how nonchalantly I can say that.

Having successfully pushed down an ocean of tears cresting at the dam I'd spent fourteen weeks building, I climbed down from the freezer I slept on. While much of my crew preferred to sleep in the back room, where we'd emptied out some large shelves to serve as elevated beds, I preferred sleeping out where I could hear most things. When a majority of the shelving on a sales floor has been moved to barricade the front glass entryways of your store, you can easily hear someone whispering in sporting goods from a perch on the edge of the produce department. This is important if that whisperer in sporting goods happens to turn in the dead of night.

If you find yourself in a zompocalypse and you can make it to a supermarket, do so. I worked  for a dutch retail giant called Vallenmarkt, off and on, for four years. I was in the midst of an overnight shift supervising four cashiers when the horrors that now define my existence came to bear. The thing that keeps me mindful of God's providence is that, though my heart is in shreds, my body is well-cared for. Food, water, shelter,  weapons, clothing and even entertainment are all non-issues in this brick and mortar behemoth.

I opened one of the freezer doors and set the climb-up-to-my-perch rope inside of it. I hadn't seen any infected ascend a knotted rope yet; but I took no chances when it came to my bed. From the inactive freezer, I pulled out a clean set of clothes and my toiletry bag. Remembering that I had run out of deodorant the previous day, I made my way to the deli counter, where we kept bins of hygiene products. I pulled a new stick of Mitchum gel out of the bin marked "Deodorant" and headed for the men's room. 

Using water from one of our rain-collection buckets, I bathed. In the mirror, I inspected my complexion, looking for any signs of illness. I seemed okay. I had the bags under my eyes and pale skin that marked a man who'd done little sleeping and even less peaceful sleeping. I tried smiling; but that only resulted in the haunted sort of grin you see in bad movies about insane asylums.

Brushing my teeth, I noticed a little bit of pink in the foam I spat out. I said a quiet prayer. The most terrifying thing about this virus/illness/infection/whatever-you-want-to-call-it is that, though a bite will always get you, sometimes a bite isn't needed. So far, no one had been able to divine what caused these sudden turns; but it was  horrifying. Somehow, un-bitten individuals would change, though we hadn't seen a zombie in days or weeks. To give things an even more jarring effect, our infected didn't take hours or even minutes to turn. It was a matter of seconds. Looking into the mirror again, I imagined myself suddenly snarling and attacking the man before me. I wondered how long it would take for my reptile brain to realise I'd never taste the mirror-man's flesh.

Suddenly, from the far end of the store, I heard a shuddering explosion and the piercing screech of metal tearing. My dim eyes went wide and I ran toward the sound. From a sheath on my belt I pulled a heavy machete. This was not one of the flimsy, grass cutting affairs we used to have hanging with our camping supplies. This was a gift from one of my dear friends, crafted from a lawn-mower blade and given an electric-tape handle. I had to fight and creep my way across Longview to fetch it from what was left of my old home. There, I had buried my sisters' bodies and found within me just enough rage and heartache to keep on moving in this crazy world.

Bursting through the double-doors that separated the back room from the sales floor, I found that a blue Volvo had torn through the rolling door once used for small delivery vans and parked itself among our pallets of home-canned fruits and vegetables. In the driver's seat, I could see a blonde head of hair set against the steering wheel. The driver was either laughing or crying. Meanwhile, a few hundred broken mason jars leaked their contents across the floor; and we now had a hole in our back wall.  Those who had been sleeping on the steel racks  were climbing down and gathering around the intruding vehicle. One or two were slamming their fists on the hood of the car, as though to intimidate the driver.

"Guys! Guys, calm down. Back up; back up." The small crowd receded. Machete still in-hand, I approached the driver's window.

I tapped the glass with a knuckle, half-wondering if the girl had turned while driving. The face that looked up at me had tears streaming down her face and something deeply familiar to its features. No rage, no hunger and no red, feverish skin. Just a sort of relieved fear, as if she had escaped something terrible by going into something scary.

"Miss, are you okay?" I called through the closed glass. She nodded and then began rolling down the window by hand.

"Yeah, I'm okay." her voice faltered for a moment. 

One of the men in our group cursed loudly, complaining about the mess she'd made. I told him to stow it for a minute. Looking back at the girl, something clicked in the back of my head; and a name rushed to the front of my mind.

"Liz Holsinger?" I asked, incredulous.

Fear turned to suspicion, "Yes. Who are you?" she demanded.

"Isaac. Isaac Stiltz! I wrote that blog! You were, like, my only fan!" 

Suddenly, I wasn't in the middle of an apocalypse, but slipping back into a life before I had to build a dam against tears, before I had to pray against death as I brushed my teeth. I could tell, by the way she suddenly laughed, that the Volvo-crashing blonde had gone back in her mind as well, to a time when Facebook seemed to matter, food that grew naturally was expensive and friends of friends could become your friends with a click of the mouse.

As we greeted each other, my coworkers began to complain again about the mess. I returned to the present for a moment and began delegating. The maintenance team was charged with cleaning up the canned goods and repacking what could be salvaged for immediate use. I put another team to the task of bending the sliding door back into place and reinforcing it with old shelving materials.

Once everyone knew their job, I re-sheathed my machete, beckoned Liz from her car and began helping her unload the supplies she'd filled it with. We took a full cart up to the front to be sorted. As we passed by the electronics area, she admired the large screen we'd hooked up to generators. There were usually  movies or video games going around the clock. I asked her how she -an Olympia resident- had ended up in Longview during a zompocalypse.

Apparently, she'd been in our town selling a king-sized mattress to a friend when the infection hit. Since then, she'd had to move from house to house, staying quiet and running off when things got too hairy.  She'd found a working car and some dried goods near the highway and had been en route to I-5 north when she saw the Vallenmarkt sign. Realising that she could either hole up in a big place with lots of food or drive north to who-knows-what-fate, she decided to try the store first. She encountered a horde in the front lot and so drove around-

I cut her off "Wait, there was a horde out front? Did they see where you went?"

"I'm...not sure." she admitted. I sprinted again to the back room.

"Guys!" I shouted before I was even through the door, "BOOK!"

Through the plastic window, I could see the workers look up and run to fetch their weapons. I pulled my machete out again and slammed my body, shoulder first, through the plastic doors.  The greyish dark outside lent enough light to silhouette the enraged zombies that were running around in the back lot. I knew, with the lights inside, it would be only a moment before they began flooding in. One of the maintenance crew, a tall gentleman named Manuel, returned with a hatchet and a heavy-duty trash can lid. As the first infected came through, he employed the lid like a shield and buried his hatchet in the attacker's skull. I stepped forward, toward the bent door. Two more zombies came into view, and I decapitated both. I could see more workers coming with their weapons and more shadows outside coming to meet them.

Suddenly, I was lifted off my feet as a football-team's worth of assailants hit the door at once. I flew a number of feet and landed on my back; my machete fell from my hand and skidded across the floor. Looking up, I saw one of the infected running toward me with the same full sprint and unfathomable rage I'd seen so many times before. As the heavy, bloody man approached, I kicked at his forward foot with my left, causing him to stumble. My right foot caught him in the chest as he fell; and swift push sent him backward about a yard an a half. 

I scrambled to my feet as quickly as possible and made a run for my machete. The heavy man was faster than I'd guessed; and he slammed into me just as I bent down to pick up my blade.  I rolled and used the momentum to get back up.  Because my boots are less bite-sensitive than my fists, I prefer kicking to punching. 

I swept the man's feet out from under him and stomped on his head a few times, until I heard a crunch that told me he'd stay down. Hearing footsteps to my right I sent out a push-kick that caught a tall woman in the gut and knocked her down with a snarl. I grabbed my machete and swung around to meet her second attack, but slipped on some of the leaked strawberry preserves. When I regained my footing, I turned to find the woman dead, an arrow sticking out of her left eye. I chopped a few more heads off and looked to thank my resucer.

Taking a hurried survey of the scene, I saw that only two or three stragglers remained outside and we had lost at least two men to this battle. There was not a single bow nor crossbow in sight; and my tall woman was the only zombie with an arrow sticking out of her.  I turned around to look down the hallway that led from the back room to the offices. I found myself facing Liz, who was holding a compound bow.

"You should be more aware of your surroundings, Isaac. " she warned, motioning to the fruit that I'd stepped on

I raised an eyebrow, "All things considered, I could say the same thing to you. Losing that fight would have killed me; but your mistake cost two men you've never met their lives and could have cost a lot  more."

Liz shifted her gaze downward. "I'm sorry." she said softly, "It was a mistake."

"We can't get away with mistakes," I retorted, "not even small ones. Not in this world. If you're staying here, I need to know you'll be vigilant."

I walked away feeling like a bit of a jerk. 

Gathering with the guys, we surveyed the damage. With so much infected blood splattering around, the broken jars and their contents had to be counted as loss. The two dead left our crew at a dozen, thirteen with Liz. The remaining men were divided between those who wanted to throw our newcomer back out the door she came in through and those who wanted to forgo the roundabout route and kill her themselves. I ended the debate swiftly.

"What's our motto, guys?"

An uncomfortable silence followed.

"Come on." I prompted, "It goes 'Deadly in battle...'"

One of the guys murmured something.

"What's that?" I asked.

"...lively in good deeds." he finished the saying.

"Gents, we live in a world full of men who've become beasts. There's no sense in fighting to survive this mess if we're only going to become beasts ourselves. The girl stays; and anyone who harms her or allows harm to come to her will answer to me. Is that clear?"

The crew mumbled in reluctant agreement. We worked together, patching the metal door, moving the car out to the sales floor and cleaning up the mess my friend had left in her wake. By the time we finished, the sun was well on its way across the sky, illuminating the main area  of the store through a series of skylights that had been Vallenmarkt's token energy conservation effort.

I started cooking breakfast in a makeshift cafeteria we'd built  in what used to be the ladies' department. Because the clothing racks were so easy to move, we'd had no problem clearing a large space out for tables and chairs. This morning, I made pancakes with fruit preserves mixed in. I also included a small bowl of mixed vegetables with each plate.

The guys often told me I'd make a great mom someday.

When Liz appeared, the excited chatter of men enjoying a well-earned meal became a quiet murmur of  men eying an intruder. The tension was thick; and it did not pass the girl's notice. She took a seat at an empty table on the far side of our dining area , a large, restaurant-sized affair we'd found in the training room,without a plate of food.

As I handed a plate to Manuel, I said, "Sir, would you mind sitting with me when I get my plate?"

He looked to Liz and then at me, skepticism plain in his eyes.

"Are you sure about this, boss?" he asked, "I mean, are you sure you're bein' objective about her?"

Suddenly, I was seeing myself through my crew's eyes; and I felt embarrassed.

"No, no it's not that." I assured him, "When this started, we all agreed that we'd help anyone who needed us. 'Deadly in battle, lively in good deeds', remember?"

Manuel gave a quick smile; and I could tell he was trying his best to believe me.

"Yes," I admitted, "I kind of knew her on Facebook, Back When; but the reason she stays is that we still have that responsibility to help. If you join me over at that table, I know the other guys will feel more comfortable about this arrangement. I could use that kind of solidarity right now."

Manuel sighed, leaning his head from side to side as though weighing mental options with actual weight. Then he nodded.

"Sure, I'll sit with you."

I filled two plates and two bowls, turned off the stove and made my way to Liz's table. As Manuel and I passed the crew, I gave them a quick nod and grabbed one of the pots of coffee from their table; they seemed unsure of what to think right then. 

As we approached Liz, a deep insecurity was evident in her face. I set a plate and a bowl in front of her, taking my seat directly across the table. Manuel gave an unsure glance over his shoulder, toward the other guys and then took his seat. I offered Liz a warm smile; then, remembering what I'd seen in the mirror that morning, I quickly reverted to my normal expression. No one spoke for a number of minutes.

"So...." Manuel was the first to break the silence. Unfortunately, one word was as far as he got. Another silence, more painful than the previous, settled over us.

As we ate, the quiet grew until it covered the other tables as well.

Finally, Liz stood up. She cleared her throat and addressed the crew as a whole.

"Look, I'm sorry about your friends. If I had known that there were people in here, or that the zombies were following me, I would've been more careful. I know you're angry with me; and I don't blame you." Her voice quavered, "I'd be angry with me, too."

There was a short pause that felt like ages; nobody so much as moved in his seat. Liz took another deep breath.

"If you let me, I'd like to make it up to you. I can work hard. I can be vigilant. I will do whatever I have to, to pay back the debt I owe you all for taking me in after the trouble I've caused."

With that, she sat down and continued eating her vegetables. I just stared.

"That was awesome." I don't remember deciding to say anything; rather the words felt like they fell, slowly and unintentionally, from my mouth. Manuel nodded in agreement.

"Thanks." Liz said quietly without looking up.

I heard shuffling feet behind me and the voice of one of the men asking, "Miss? Would it be alright if we joined you for breakfast?"

As the whole crew gathered around one table, there was neither silence nor rowdy jocularity. Instead, a quiet, friendly discourse pervaded the table - one that bespoke new friendships forming and the welcoming of a new sister into our brotherhood.

 

Had I known then what course our story was to take, I may have done more to make that breakfast last a bit longer.

To be continued...

-isaac

Evangelists: A Reader's Request (Pt 1)

Day One.

"Isaac!"

I cringed. The earpiece I had been issued only two weeks before all this happened was on the verge of melting. So many loud, high-frequency sounds had been pouring through the speaker that my ears threatened to go on strike. I raised the hanging mic piece to my mouth.

"Yes?" I replied tentatively.

"Did you sign into your task?" Sophie's voice was a high pitched whine that she sent forth with impressive volume in order, I think, to make up for her diminutive stature. I sighed, replied to the negative effect and made my way to the front office. On a desktop, I typed in my password and selected an item on the screen. A timer started, allotting me fifteen minutes to complete a task I'd finished hours ago. I sighed again.

This was my third stint at Vallenmarkt, a Dutch retailer that had all but taken over the world at that time. The first time, I'd left to venture into the far reaches of Africa. I somehow thought that, upon my return, my life would "take off". I'd find work that I loved doing and never darken the doorway of  the place again. When that didn't happen, when I ended up there as a temporary bike builder for the Christmas rush, I felt as though I must not have learned much in Africa. When I had to apply a third time, I was bitter. 

I suppose, in a life as unmarred by tragedy as mine was then, a person has to look for things to be unhappy about.

Stepping out of the office, I made my way to the front aisle, where my cashiers were unloading a pallet of candy and knick-knacks into carts for distribution among the registers. These four girls had proven the easiest part of my transfer to the graveyard shift. Though the daytime Customer Care Supervisors had warned me against befriending the nighttime cashiers, it was the overnight managers and stocking crew I'd had problems with. A culture of mutual inconsideration seemed to pervade the place after the sun had set.

As the supervisor over these cashiers, I was able to create my own culture at the front end of the store, one separate and antithetical to that of the sales floor. I referred to each of them as "Miss" and made a point of using phrases obscure to the night shift, like "Please", "Thank you" and "Excellent work". These efforts seemed to have an immediate effect. The reports I heard from my predecessor were nothing like what I experienced among my workers.

One of the girls, a twenty-something named Linda, approached me with her phone in hand. During the day, rules against using a cell phone while at work were strictly enforced. Overnight, most supervisors let it slide unless there were customers nearby or it started affecting work. Laughing to herself, Linda showed me a picture she had found on the internet. Two puppies were at play; one of them had the other's snout in his mouth. A caption read "Bath salts". I chuckled, remembering the recent news frenzy surrounding an attack in Miami.  

A man, naked and in a fit, had attacked a transient, biting at his face. When police gave the man a warning shot, he didn't even pause in his attack. The crazed cannibal had to be shot more than six times - to death - in order to save the victim's life. Officers familiar with cases like that one had blamed an amphetamine-based drug that bore the street handle "bath salts". Those of the zombie-apocalypse persuasion took the event as a sign to stock up on shotgun ammo and canned ravioli.

"You know what's crazy about that?" I mentioned, "The toxicology report came back; and the guy didn't have  any bath salts in him."

Linda's amused expression dimmed.

"Really?" she asked.

"Yeah. I read an article that said that the only drug in him was marijuana. I guess there's no knowing what happened to make him attack like that."

Linda looked troubled for a moment; then her face brightened again. This time, the brightness didn't reach her eyes. I began to ask her if she was okay; but my ear nearly exploded with Sophie's voice.

"Isaac! Call me at one-nine-oh!"

Heading back into the office, I picked up the phone and dialed. Before the first ring had ended, I found myself receiving a verbal lashing for forgetting to sign into my tasks on time, a nightly ritual which I had yet to see the point of. I apologised nonetheless and spent a few minutes reading my work email while I licked my wounds.

I checked on each of the cashiers, seeing how the work was progressing; then I started rotating through their breaks. It was just past midnight.

Day Two.

"Zoning" is Vallenmarkt's name for what every other retailer I'd ever encountered called "facing". This was the process of lining up and straightening all the products in an area to face forward and sit on the edge of the shelf. With candy and impulse-buy products, this task felt especially tedious. Every night, after the day's merchandise had been distributed among the registers, we went back to the beginning and zoned the whole mess.

Thinking back to then, to before the world fell to pieces and what I called my prison became my fortress, I guess zoning wasn't such a taxing job. The life I lived afterward could've handle a dose of something so simple and monotonous, something so neat and together as a well-arranged aisle of candy bars.

It was half past one; and I'd seen no sign of Linda- the last cashier I'd sent to break. Because I found it best to lead by example, I tried to let my cashiers go to break before I do. Sometimes, the clock just didn't allow for that; but they seemed to appreciate the effort and emulate the attitude. 

It was getting uncomfortably close to the time to start rotating lunch breaks; and I needed Linda around to help me finish zoning, distribute shopping bags and serve customers. I paged for her, using the PA system at the fitting room. Another five minutes passed; and I decided to start lunches anyway. 

"Miss Beth," I called, "why don't you head to lunch?"

Beth, an older lady with a bit of a smart-alec streak to her, loudly declined and threatened violence if I tried to make her.

"Fine." I adopted an east-coast accent, "Turn in your badge and your weapon! I don't want to see you anywhere near this investigation! Go home; I'll call you when I wanna' see you again!"

We all laughed as she set a box in her cart and made her way toward the lunch room.

The clock had just passed 2am when the sirens started. One by one, the howling sounds built on  each other until the whole air seemed full of the noise. I don't know if there had been sirens going around before then that had escaped our notice, or if these were the first sign of what was coming. I do know that there was no ignoring these. The three of us along the registers paused in our work to listen.

I turned to Kristy, who was manning register 16, where we keep our tobacco. She had pulled out her phone; and whatever she saw on its screen alarmed her. I opened my mouth to ask her what was going on when I heard an angry shriek from the rear end of the store.  Katie looked in the direction of the sound and her face turned pale. Footsteps echoed at the pace of a full-on sprint. I wondered if we were about to encounter a shoplifter. I took a few steps toward the sound. 

Looking back toward Kristy, I found the register empty. Surveying the aisle along the front wall of the store, I could see her running hard and fast for the door. "What is going on tonight?" I asked myself.

The footsteps from the back got closer. I turned to face the sprinter and found myself face-to-face with Beth, who lunged at me with a ferocity I've only ever encountered in sports fans.

I never told you this; but I once worked for an organisation that provided full-time care to people with disabilities. One of the things I learned during the training course was a technique called "redirection". This used the energy of an attack to move the attacker away without injuring either party. I redirected Beth.

She seemed disoriented for a moment, as though wondering where I'd gone off to. Taking my cue from Kristy's hurried escape, I made a break for the men's room.

Locking myself in a stall, I sat on the toilet and lifted my legs to keep my presence unknown. Feeling a buzz in my pocket. I remembered that I had a phone of my own and that it might reveal to me whatever Kristy had seen. I pulled my phone out and found a number of messages and missed calls.

From the best man I know:

 

Within five minutes of entering that stall, I found that I was what was left of my family and friends. I learned that most of the country - if not the world -  was full of assailants like Mister Bath Salts from Miami. I found that no one in my contacts list could be reached. I learned that things had taken a very ill turn since I'd started my shift. I learned that Beth was not feeling much like herself at all; and that there was no helping her without dying.

In the men's room at Vallenmarkt, a certain handle on the wall, meant to be used by handicapped customers or those too heavy to lift themselves off the toilet without help, had been loose for years. For some reason, none of our maintenance personnel had gotten around to to repairing it. I had often thought of tearing the thing out of the wall, but feared I'd be accused of vandalism. On this night, vandalism was the least of my concerns.

When I emerged from the restroom, Beth was gnawing on a lifeless body, likely that of  Shelby, the last of my cashiers, at the register directly ahead of me. When she saw me approaching, her eyes filled up with that unspeakable rage all over again; and I imagine the expression in my eyes was about the same.

To be continued....

-isaac