*****
If you ignored the barricades in the streets, boards over most of the doors and windows, small fires, bullet holes, dozens of abandoned buildings, and the corpses all over the place, Lucas Falls was a pretty nice town.
Very cozy, especially in the light of the newly rising sun. Very nice.
Dark Lord Expendable and I drove past the line of zombies waiting patiently outside the town. I had duct-taped his mouth shut, tied his wrists with wire (Yes it hurt him badly and no I did not care), and doused him with saltwater again about halfway through the trip, just to make sure His Low-Tier Evillness didn't try anything skull-and-doom related at me. Once we were close enough to the town that I suspected people could hear me, I parked the van, hauled... I never had bothered to learn his real name, but meh, it wasn't important. I hauled the bad guy out of the back, and shouted, “Hey! People of yon zombie-chewed town! Anyone here named Ben Hawthorn? Anyone here know Ben Hawthorn? Little guy, kinda nerdy, filled to the depths of his soul with justifiable horror?”
There was silence for a few long minutes. Jeez, I hoped everybody wasn't already dead, that would suck. I hadn't been paid yet!
… Um. Also, there were several hundred inhabitants, every life is precious, what a terrible waste it would be, etc.
After a bit, though, some movement could be seen in one of the buildings. I heard the sound of a hammer working, as boards were taken off a door, and after a few minutes of that, a man stepped out. He was a tall guy, probably an inch or two above me, and built like someone who had done physical labor on a regular basis for most of his life. He carried a hunting rifle of a make I didn't recognize, and he looked like he knew how to use it. “Dave Hawthorn. You know my son?”
… so apparently Ben took after his mom, then. I kept this thought to myself.
“Just met him yesterday, in fact, up at... ugh... Ron's. He hired me to help with your zombie problems,” I said. “I have done so, and come to give the after-action report and fee summary.”
Dave seemed to deflate just a little bit, as if he was finally letting himself exhale after holding his breath for days. “He made it out of town. He volunteered to make the run, try to get help, but we had no way of getting in touch, and... oh, thank God. Thank God.”
“Yeah, anyway, long story short, you'll be getting an invoice as soon as I can find a printer, but it's all set up on my laptop if you wanna look at it,” I said. I pulled the Dark Weasel to his feet by the collar of his shirt, and ripped the duct tape from his mouth. “This gentleman here is the source of your problems. Ain't ya, Sparky?”
“OW!” he said. Jeez, he said that a lot.
“Tell your zombies to sit down.” I said.
He gave the command, timidly, and the horde obeyed.
“Tell them to stand up,” I said, smiling at Dave as I did. He was a smart guy, and I could see understanding, followed by sheer homicidal fury, blooming in his eyes as he realized the implications of the creatures obeying my little friend here.
“Tell them,” I said, once the whole creaky army was on their feet again, “to eat each other, right now. And the last one standing should walk into the desert until it finds a cliff, and jump off.”
“But... but all my work...” Darth Failure had the gall to say.
“What part of 'shoot you in the face' are you having trouble with, pal?” I asked, pressing a gun to his temple. “Give the order, or I pull the trigger. Simple as that.”
He closed his eyes, and whispered something.
Have you ever seen zombies go really, wildly homicidal on other zombies? It isn't pretty. Try stuffing roadkill into a blender sometime, if you want a small scale demonstration.
“Um. Ew,” I said. Then, putting on my best 'let's do business' smile, I turned back to Dave and said, “Well, that was fun! Anyway, Dave, I already went over this with your kid, but it's gonna be... oh... I was on the clock for eighteen hours, so basic fee is $3,600 for the whole removal op, plus let's say a 20% tip for good service? Installment plans are on my website. Here's my card.”
He took the card, but he looked more confused than happy with my quality customer service. Man, why couldn't Ben have been here? Ben was always cool. “You... you charge money?”
“Well, duh. Your kid hired me to do a job, and I did it. You think I do this for fun?” I asked. “Because it is fun, but lots of other things are fun too and don't involve me driving out to Middle-Of-Nowhere, Texas to enjoy the pervading smell of rot and watch... whatever the Hell that is,” I gestured to the zombies, who were still having a grand old time chowing down on each other's faces.
“... Point.” Dave said. “Still not sure about the tip.”
“Customer Service,” I said primly. Gesturing to the... nasty, nasty thing happening amongst the horde. “When most authority figures refused to even believe your son's claims, I not only halted the zombie incursion, I very thoughtfully removed each and every one of the creatures themselves! That is above and beyond the call of duty.”
“Worth about 10%, I would say,” Dave agreed.
Oh, I liked this guy. He was willing to haggle with someone who had saved his family and livelihood, and that spoke wonders about his general ruthlessness. But I had an ace in the hole.
“Also,” I said, gesturing toward my prisoner, “I try to provide new clients with a tasteful gift-with-purchase.”
David blinked a few times.
His eyes widened in comprehension.
He smiled, a cold, predatory smile that contained no joy whatsoever, and raised his rifle in the necromancer's direction.
“15%,” he said in a low growl, taking careful aim at the very suddenly whimpering young murderer.
I smiled back, taking a few steps away from the necromancer so as to avoid getting any of him on my shirt. “Well... I guess I can live with that.”
After all, you really can't put a price tag on job satisfaction.
###
Afterword
Two down! It's almost like I can keep doing this.
The purpose of this story was very simple: I made a universe. I want to have some fun in it. This was a short story, but a darn amusing one to write and I don't regret even one single word of it. Hopefully my bizarre amusement will also transfer over to you.
Besides, this is Eric's job. He wouldn't get much money from it if he almost died every time he went into the field, you know. Sometimes, it's just a day at work... with zombies. And necromancers, and a lot of gunfire and decapitation, and... it's an interesting job, if nothing else.
As always, thanks to all who supported me; the best girlfriend of all time, for one. And once again, Jen, who takes my horrible grammar and makes it less horrible.
And to you, the readers, because a story that doesn't get read is just silly.
About the Author
Andrew E. Moczulski is almost kind of a writer, now. He has a Masters degree in business that he has never really used for anything, and which has nothing to do with anything seen here. He is a dog person.
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