Hope
Golden Years Consolidated Life Insurance- Yesterday it was a dream come true for owner Walter Murphy. A short, sixty year old man with a rapidly receding hairline but without a care in the world, his business was blooming like a rose in springtime, his kids had a future to look forward to, the Mrs. seemed to love him more, and finally, FINALLY, he had a building with his company's name on it.He often came in early on purpose, just to walk into his office and gaze at his door. With his name printed in a neat Arial font. Dr. Walter Murphy, CEO. Just looking at it made him burst into an uncontrollable giggle. Everything he worked for was now HIS. He didn't have to do anything. He hired a dozen employees to do the work ALL for HIM.
However, arriving at the office at 9 AM yesterday to an unusual silence that dominated the atmosphere, but with a cup of mocha latte in his hand, he shrugged it off as a mass case of the Mondays, he strolled down to the cubicles, was greeted not by the usual "Hello, sir.", "Good morning sir." or the "Sir, may I speak with you privately in your office so that I may suck your dick as per our agreement yesterday in exchange for a raise?" he glanced down to each cubicle; jotting down a mental image in his mind of each unproductive employee, Asleep, asleep, asleep, empty, empty. Not going to punish now. Want sweet twentysomething tang. Spotting his target, he stopped by the fax machine to find the aforementioned cocksucker gazing down at the partially eviscerated body of Brenda Nichols with childlike curiosity, and a strip of intestines lined with shards of a pleather skirt hanging down from her jaws. The cup of mocha latte fell like rain from his hand, shattering with a concussive blow that unfortunately "woke" the occupants of the cubicles.
"Nikki...are you alright?" With each word, his heart skipped a beat. Nikki turned around slowly, sensing food; her soulless black eyes meeting the form of a stocky, good 250 pounds of meat. A moan escaped her lips, and she attempted to grab the food in an attempt to pull him towards her so that she may feast upon him without a struggle. But already food had attracted the attention of her fellow brethren, as the man dodged and weaved his way away from them.
"Shit! Shit!"
The words flew like a hurricane. He ducked into his office, closing the door behind him and sliding a heavy filing cabinet against it as he did. What the fuck is going on? This isn't the life I was promised...I'M SUPPOSED TO BE ON EASY STREET, NOT GET YOUR FLESH EATEN BY FUCKING ZOMBIES. He stroked his gray hair, his hand turning damp from the perspiration that ran down his face, stinging his eyes in the process. His attention turned to the phone that lay on his desk. Gotta call the wife, ask her if she knows what's going on. As he made his way to the window, Walter noticed a helicopter flying in the distance, the words President of the United States emblazoned on it. Peering down, Walter immediately noticed several people moving as his employees did, dragging a foot behind them and arms outstretched, lips peeled back into a malevolent grin.
A loud BANG followed by the smashing of glass interrupted Walter's moment of horror. Pale, bloodied hands protruded from the opposite end of his door, outstretched in search of warm human flesh. Walter picked up a stapler and chucked it at the pair of hands."GO AWAY! LEAVE ME ALONE! WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU?!" The stapler merely bounced off the hands, which still curled it's fingers and reached for Walter. On the verge of tears, Walter sat down and picked up the phone, dialing his wife's cell phone number.
"Hello?"
"Martha, it's me."
"Walt? I can't remember the last time you called me from work. What are those terrible noises in the background?"
"Just turn on the news, honey."
"Oh god, Walt! It's Armageddon!"
"Honey, I just want you to know.i've behaved badly in the past, but...I love you."
A crash.
"Walt...there's something moving in the hall. I'm scared!"
"Close the door. Put something heavy against it."
"I'm too weak for that, Walt. you know that. Oh god, what is it?!
A moaning sound, and the sound of uneven footsteps.
"Walt...I LOVE YOU! I'LL SEE YOU AG-"
A scream, and then a low squirting sound.
He hung up the phone.
"I'll be seeing you real soon, honey."
"How's he doing?" Isaac asked Jenny.
"Holding up pretty well. We got the bullet out, but he's not 100 percent, I think he just needs some rest."
"Will he have use of his arm?"
"What am I, psychic?"
"No, I'm just wondering if one of the last humans alive in the tri-state area is going to be able to fire a gun without searing pain.", Isaac said in a sing-song tone of voice.
"Mr. President, with all due respect, I'm only an RN, not an orthopedist. I'm doing the best I can to help him, and you nagging me isn't helping. You wanna help? Go to the hospital, go get some Vicodin, antibiotics, syringes, and a medical dictionary. But in the meantime, leave me the fuck alone."
With a huff and a swing of her straw-colored hair, she ducked into the makeshift operating room, slamming the door shut behind her. Isaac stared at the door for a second and hung his head down. Maybe I am being too hard on them. I'm tired. They're tired.
With a sigh, Isaac took a stroll down "Camp Frosty", also known as Forward Base #342. The Deputy Secretary Defense had recently been located- He was hiding out on an island off the coast of South Carolina, devising a game plan to take back the Continental United States. The popular school of thought the day after the Apocalypse was the "Scythe Manuever", which goes a little like this:
Use aerial reconnaissance to find large groups of undead.
If the situation permits it, use a MOAB package to clear out the area of hostile creatures.
(optional) Small towns or cities along the Mississippi may be shelled by the U.S. Navy on the captain's discretion.
Send in U.S. Marines to clear the target city of the "zombies."
Brian was sitting on a couch in the employee lounge, watching TV. The local Fox affiliate was running a marathon of The Simpsons. Guess they wanted to keep morale up. But what about the power grid? It's a miracle it's still running. I wonder what kind of rotting filth is milling around in the TV station right now. Brian shuddered and pushed the thought away, instead focusing on America's favorite family's latest adventure.
Isaac sat down at a cubicle. He glanced down at the clutter that covered it. Disgusted, he pushed it away. The receiver of a phone fell off the desk, hanging by the extension cord. Almost instinctively he reached out to put it back on when he heard those words-
We're sorry, but the number you have dialed is out of service. Please check your number and try again.
His eyes shot wide open and he slammed the phone down and picked it up again. A dial tone! On the verge of bursting in hysterics with glee, he put in Carolyn's number and eagerly awaited the sound of his wife's voice.
Ring.
Ring.
Ring.
Ring.
Hello, you've reached the voice-mail box of Carolyn Isaac. I'm not here right now, but leave a message and the date and time that you called and I'll get back to you as soon as I can.
"SHIT!" Isaac felt something snap inside him. Rage clouded his vision and the weight of the world just crashed down on his shoulders.
David was in the bathroom shaving when he heard the CRASH. He dropped the razor and unholstered the P14 at his side. Rushing down the hall to the cubicles, he pushed aside some of the Deltas to take a look at the most powerful man in the free world kicking a computer screen and yelling incomprehensible obscenities. We're fucked now. The Prez has gone psycho, and we don't have a chain o' command. Hey, maybe I can be President! How you like me now, NYPD? A barrio boy's got your federal funding by the balls now!
"Mr. President, calm down." David said with a half-smile, his hand just centimeters away from the grips of P-14.
"Sir, may I suggest a mild sedative?" asked the Delta Force medic.
"Maybe. Stand by for orders, private." replied Nick.
Isaac came back to Earth. His neat brown slacks were matted with dust and his hands were coated with bits of carpet fiber, and he had in his hand strands of cord. Sweat ran down his eye, producing an irritating sting. Isaac slowly sat up and pulled himself into a chair, just in time to see Jenny and Brian rush out of their respective rooms, eager to catch a glimpse of the President of the United States throw a temper tantrum. Everybody just stood there, waiting for him to say something. But what could he say? Saying sorry isn't going to bring the sense of confidence and leadership that his soldiers had in him. But what else could he do? Guess I'll just have to bite the bullet.
"I'm sorry. My wife...she didn't pick up her cell phone."
He cringed a little bit, anticipating the tidal wave of disapproving murmurs and suggestion of mutiny, but instead a sympathetic voice rose out of the crowd.
"Mr. President, just get some sleep. You need it. We know how much you miss your wife. Just get some sleep."
"You can take the couch." said Brian with a grin.
Isaac nodded and lifted himself out of the chair, walking to the employee lounge. As soon as he saw the couch, he just collapsed onto it, closing his eyes and feeling his every muscle relax. Sleep came quickly.