Squish. “Hey, Parker. Remember what you asked me about a month ago?”
Thunk. “Vannawhite, Parker’s been asking you to get naked twenty times a week for the last year. What’s so special about a month ago?”
Crack. “Shut up, Uptown. Parker. You remember?”
Klunk. “Yeah. I remember.”
Pop. “You still wanna?”
Bonk. “I guess so. Yeah.”
Smack. “Let’s do it. Right now.”
Whack. “Now?”
Thud. “Right now. I want to do it right now.”
Tammy Mason, 47. She was a day-shift cashier at the Onondaga Boulevard Wegmans. She’d been married to her second husband Bob for nine years. She was employee of the month in April, 1997 and June, 2004. She enjoyed recreational bowling. She was worried that her daughter Janie, 17, was not going to go to college, even though she’d been saving up for years. She and Bob enjoyed watching 50’s movies and had been going to the Syracuse Nationals since its first year. Bob had been restoring a ’63 Impala for the past four years that he picked up for $4500 just before the Panic hit. They had looked forward to entering it one day.
Vannawhite’s face was a death mask as she walked past Clipboard, staring straight ahead, face covered in her own blood. She didn’t slow down or even acknowledge him.
He watched her go in amazement. When she was ten yards past, he called after her. “Hey V-Dub! Don’t you have anything to say? What happened? Is everyone all right?”
She stopped and turned all the way around. “It was awful out there today. Like nothing I’ve ever seen in my life. I’m going to medical.” She turned and headed toward the terminal.
Clipboard knew something was up as soon as the 18th Squad came trudging down the boulevard. They were moving too slowly. The 18th had been becoming one of the best: they were going out farther and returning with more kills than any other unit. They were cold, efficient, and ruthless—just like everyone else in Corpse Corps. They did not carry guns. They didn’t need to. Their ZEDs—zombie elimination devices—always came back covered in gore.
They were never very loud, but today, they were noticeably quieter. Parker, Uptown, and Vannawhite all piled through the checkpoint and reported their kills. They marched silently on through toward the baggage claim to stow their weapons. Holey came through last.
“How many’d you get, Holey?”
“Sixteen personally. I split a couple with Uptown. Give them to him.”