introducing
If you enjoyed MARRIED WITH ZOMBIES,
look out for
FLIP THIS ZOMBIE
Book 2 of Living with the Dead
by Jesse Petersen
When the zombie plague struck, I was just an office schlub. You know the type. I was a coffee-fetching, doing-the-work-and-getting-no-credit, screamed-at-by-suits kind of girl who hated every damn second of her dead-end job. Well, I still have a dead-end job… undead end, I guess is more accurate. And instead of working for the man, I work for myself. So I guess the lesson is that if you find work that’s meaningful, that you love, you can start your own business and make it successful.
Zombiebusters Extermination, Inc. at your service. My husband David suggested we add the “Inc.” to make it seem more professional. I guess in the old days we would have had a website and all that, too, but now none of that exists anymore, at least not in the badlands where the zombies still roam free.
I have to say, I liked being in business for myself and I liked working with my husband as my partner. The zombie apocalypse had been great for our marriage, and since we’d escaped Seattle a few months before, we’d been doing great.
But that isn’t to say the whole “not working for the man” thing didn’t have its disadvantages. Which is something we were discussing as we drove down a lonely stretch of dusty highway in Arizona. Why Arizona? Well, it was November and fucking freezing anywhere else. So we did what old people did and snowbirded our asses down south. I figured when the weather got better up North, we’d figure out what to do next.
“Why did we take another job from Jimmy?” Dave asked with annoyance lacing his voice.
I looked up from the business book I was reading. We’d looted it and about twenty more from a bookstore a few weeks back. I was all about making this work, you see. Someday, I would be the Donald Trump or Bill Gates of zombie killing.
“Um, we took a job from Jimmy because he pays,” I said.
Dave shot me a side glance that was filled with incredulity. “Not well. Last time I think he gave us a six-pack, and we killed three zombies for his chicken-ass.”
I laughed. “Hey, that’s two brews per zombie.”
Dave didn’t even smile. “He has a lot of stockpile in his basement, I know he does. This time before we start, we should tell that asshole we want payment up front. Medical supplies and some canned goods.”
I tossed my book in the back of the van. Oh, didn’t I mention it? We drive a van. Dave likes to call it the Mystery Machine because it’s totally circa 1975, but it runs like a gem and is heavy enough to do some push work when needed. Plus, I had way too much fun painting “Zombiebusters Exterminators, Inc.” on the side and “Who Ya Gonna Call?” on the back.
That one always gets a chuckle since there’s no way to call anyone anymore. If people want us, they have to post notes in the survivor camps and we go looking for them. Trust me, sometimes by the time we’ve gotten to a job, there hasn’t been anyone left to pay us. I always feel kind of badly about that, but seriously, if you haven’t figured out how to protect yourself after three months of zombie hell… well, you sort of deserve what you get.
“Look, you’re the muscle in this operation,” I said as I settled back in my seat and slung my booted feet onto the dash. As I flicked a little piece of brains left over from our last job from the toe, I continued, “If you want to strong-arm the guy up front, be my guest.”
We were approaching our destination now and Dave slowly maneuvered the vehicle off the highway into the area of what was once southern Phoenix. There were signs of zombie activity everywhere here, both from the initial outbreak in the city and recently. Black sludge pooled in the gutters and blood streaked the walls of buildings. It was all so commonplace to us, we didn’t really see it anymore. Nor did we flinch when a single zombie stepped into a crosswalk ahead of us.
He lurched forward, his right hand missing and his arm on the same side waving in a disconnected way as he moved. He had fresh blood on his chin and he grunted and groaned loudly enough that we could hear him even with the windows partly up.
We watched him make his slow cross for a bit, both of us staring with bored disinterest. Then Dave gunned the engine.
The sound made the zombie turn and he stared at us with blank, dead, red eyes that never quite focused. Still, he recognized the potential for food and he let out a roar.
Dave floored the van at the same time the zombie started a half-assed jog toward us. We collided mid-intersection and the zombie, gooey and rotting, took the brunt of the impact. His skin split, sending gore and guts flying from the seams of his torn clothing. He lay half-wrapped around our bumper, staring up at us as he squealed and clawed, even though his lower body was probably gone.
“Want me to take care of that?” I asked as I reached in the back for an axe.
“Naw,” Dave said. He changed gears and rolled back in reverse. The zombie fell backward and disappeared from view until my husband got far enough away. Sure enough, his lower half was gone, split off from the initial impact.
Dave lined up the wheel of the van and rolled forward again. He didn’t stop until we felt the satisfying rock of hitting the zombie skull and popping it like a melon.
Once that was done, Dave put the van in neutral and looked at me. “So if I’m the muscle of the operation,” he said, returning to our earlier conversation, “what does that make you?”
“Silly,” I laughed. “I’m the brains, of course. And the beauty.”
I fluffed my hair and he laughed as he threw the van in gear and we roared toward our first job of the week.