Fic: Five Ways the World Won't End
May. 4th, 2005 10:58 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
trinityofoneI'm a compulsive writer. I started this on Saturday because I was bored and couldn't concentrate on my reading; yesterday I finished it and I thought, "Hey, maybe my friends list'll get a kick out of this." So here it is.
FIVE WAYS THE WORLD WON'T END
Being Five Apocalyptic Scenarios starring Five Sets of Original Characters and featuring: a heavy debt to Shaun of the Dead, a lesser debt to Ray Bradbury, one obscure song lyric quote, two non-obscure song lyric quotes, multiple T.S. Eliot misquotes, Spielberg aliens vs. Emmerich aliens, funny L.A. jokes, a bad Lost joke, an extended U2 joke that no one will get but me, and a cameo by![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
youwerefabulous.
I. Plague
James’ parents were dead.
“My parents are dead,” he told her. “I thought you’d like to know.”
“Oh, James!” said Emily. “I’m so sorry!”
“Please.” He flopped down next to her on the dune. “Like I care.”
“You must care a little,” said Emily.
“Like you cared when your grandma popped it?” he asked, and ignoring her whispered, “I cared,” continued, “It’s not like it came as much of a surprise, anyway.”
“It’s always a surprise. No matter how prepared you are.”
James snorted and looked out to sea. “Well, I’m pretty damn prepared.”
Emily stared at him. “I want to show you something,” she said.
“Yeah, all right.”
They got to their feet. Emily started off down the sand, walking carefully. The beach was actually pretty empty, pretty clean. Emily was surprised. To her it seemed like the perfect place to go to die.
“Most people are probably choosing to do it in their homes,” she mused.
“Do what?” asked James, trudging behind her. “Fuck?”
“Die.”
“Oh. Yeah. Probably.”
He wanted to say something else. Something, anything. He’d always been adept at gallows humor.
I bet there’s almost no traffic on the 405...
Wanna take a trip to Rodeo Drive? I’ll loot you a dress.
For the first time ever, there won’t be a line at Pink’s...
He said nothing.
Then he said, “How much longer? I’m getting tired.”
Emily whirled around, her eyes wide with terror. James realized what he had done. “Not that kind of tired,” he said quickly. “Just I’ve-been-on-my-feet-too-long tired.”
“Oh.” Emily released a gust of air. “Okay. Soon.”
“Sorry,” said James a moment later. “I’m an idiot.”
Emily didn’t deny it.
After about a hundred more yards, she turned right, leading them up off the sand and onto the pavement. The Venice boardwalk was quiet and eerie, like an Old West ghost town—which, James supposed, it would soon become. The area where vendors used to set up their stalls was still hung with waving white sheets. One was serving as a shroud for an unfortunate, and probably early, victim, who had dropped right there on the sidewalk. The trio of red marks on the back of his neck was visible even through the sheet, but James didn’t look at that, had trained himself not to look. Instead his eyes slid across the merchandise littering the ground: cracked sunglasses, rolling glass beads, t-shirts with the words MY GRANDMA WENT TO VENICE BEACH AND ALL I GOT WAS THIS LOUSY T-SHIRT inscribed in orange bubble letters across the front. “I want an I SURVIVED AN APOCALYPTIC PLAGUE AND ALL I GOT WAS THIS LOUSY T-SHIRT t-shirt,” said James.
Emily was kind enough not to take issue with the word “survived.”
“Look,” she said instead. “Just look at that!”
James looked. “It’s a wall,” he said. “A blank wall.”
“Exactly,” said Emily.
James was pleased to note that some things never changed.
“I think we should paint it,” Emily continued, pacing up and down in front of her empty canvas. “Something about what it was like here, before all this happened. Something about us. Something that’ll last.”
James rubbed his temple with the pads of his fingers. “Yeah, okay. If you want. Though I don’t really see the point.”
She raised her hand. It hovered inches away from his shoulder, then dropped back to her side. “We can’t give up,” she said. “Even—”
“Who’s giving up?” said James. “I just think it’s depressing to make a mural of our last will and testament, all right? ‘Cause I’m still not convinced we’ll need it.”
Emily smiled faintly. “Help me anyway?”
He looked at her pleading face. Ran a hand through his hair. Sighed.
“All right, fine. Do you want some paint? There’s some paint at my house. In the garage.”
“Are you sure you want to go back there?”
He shrugged. “Like I said. What do I care?”
They walked back to the canals. At the corner of Venice and Pacific, a man was sitting on the curb, his knees drawn up around his ears. He looked up when they passed. There was a long gash across his forehead, but otherwise he seemed okay; the back of his neck was clean and white and bare. They exchanged a nod, all three: the only acknowledgement necessary. Then James and Emily continued on their way.
James’ gate was standing open. In the back garden, a potted plant had been knocked over, spilling dirt across the path. James side-stepped it; then he side-stepped the body of a dead dog. “Huh,” he said. “That wasn’t here when I left.” He opened the door to the garage.
It looked like a hurricane had hit it. But then, it had looked like a hurricane had hit it for as long as James could remember. He kicked aside a stack of his father’s old Playboys and started rooting around under what looked like piles of yellowing tax returns. Emily took a step back and surveyed the space around her. There were shelves lining the east end of the garage; on the top shelf, two cans of paint, one canary yellow, one brick red. Locating a stepladder, she dragged it over to the shelves and extended her fingers. “Hey,” said James, looking up. “Careful.”
“No, I’ve got it,” said Emily. Her long hair rippled down her back. Funny, thought James. She’s been wearing it down a lot lately.
Emily snagged the paint cans and brought them, banging together like metallic coconuts, down to the ground. “Do you have any brushes?” she asked. All of her art supplies were back at her grandma’s house, and she had made it very clear that she wasn’t going back there.
“Just this crappy one,” said James, holding out his big find. The bristles were stuck together with what looked like SuperGlue, but was probably varnish. “We can get some from the art store on Ocean.”
“You know I’m not doing that,” said Emily.
James sighed. “All right, we can fingerpaint.”
Emily brightened. “That’s actually a really good idea!”
“Yay me.”
The walked back to the wall. The man who had been sitting by the side of the road was gone. At Center Street, James ducked into a 7-Eleven and got a soda while Emily waited outside. He drank it in two gulps, then tossed the can over his shoulder. Emily opened her mouth, then closed it. Everything about James’ expression was a dare.
When they reached the empty expanse of cement, Emily set the paint cans down on the ground and knelt beside them. She worked them open with James’ Swiss Army Knife, which wasn’t too difficult as they had both been opened before. Then she dipped her fist into the yellow paint.
“Yuck,” said James.
“No, it’s nice,” said Emily, and pressed her palm to the wall.
“Want to try?” she asked, removing the sticky digits and watching a vibrant yellow shadow hold the place they once had been. She shook off the excess paint, then dipped the first two fingers of her clean hand into the red. Swirls and convoluted arabesques appeared around the handprint. “No,” said James, “I’ll just watch.”
He watched her paint the wall as the sun dipped down over the Pacific Ocean. It began to grow chill, the wind picking up. Emily reached paint-stained fingers into her pocket and pulled out her orange knit cap. As she moved to shove it down on her head, a particularly strong gust of wind swept down the street, blowing pages of abandoned newspapers, tin cans, crumpled dollar bills. Emily’s hat was nearly jerked out of her fingers, her hair rising up above her head like a cloud. “Stupid wind,” she said.
James said nothing.
And then he said, “Oh, Emily.”
She turned to look at him. Their eyes met. Then there was nothing more that needed to be said.
Still; “Let me help you with that,” said James, and watched as his fingers turned red.
II. Zombies
“Okay, everybody stay calm,” said Susan, wobbling in her Jimmy Choos as she climbed atop the desk. “We’re six stories up and the elevators are on lock down, so...”
“What about the stairs?” asked Jennifer Copy.
“Yeah, what about the stairs?” Lydia Copy echoed.
“There’s always some back door that nobody thinks of,” said Lindsay Copy, “and that’s how they get in.”
“It’s an office building,” said Susan. “There’s no ‘back door.’”
“Did you really just make air quotes?” asked Jennifer Copy.
“I thought we had a strict no air quotes policy,” Lydia Copy said.
“What about the fire escape?” pointed out Lindsay Copy. “Has anybody checked that?”
“Guys!” said Jason. “You’re all missing the point here.” He, too, hopped up on a desk and began ticking off points on his fingers. “We’re being attacked by zombies. We’re pretty safe for now, but the Copies are right, our outer defences probably will get penetrated at some point. Thus, our main focus ought to be securing weaponry. Blunt objects are probably the way to go, since I doubt any of you have firearms stashed in your desks.”
One of the guys from the mailroom raised an embarrassed hand. “Um, about that...”
“I have an umbrella!” said Liz, producing a large, leopard-print item.
“Perfect! You should all be a lot more like Liz,” said Jason, with perhaps a tad too much enthusiasm.
“All right,” said Susan, attempting to regain authority. “All of you, split up and go find weapons!”
“Hello,” said Jennifer Copy. “Splitting up is the last thing we should do.”
“Haven’t you ever seen a zombie movie?” asked Lydia Copy.
Lindsay Copy: “Or a monster movie?”
Jennifer Copy: “Or a serial killer movie?”
Lydia Copy: “Or a—”
“Don’t make me use this,” said Susan, pulling a switchblade from her Kate Spade bag.
“Actually,” said Jason, making use of Liz’s outstretched hand to get down off the desk, “short-range weapons aren’t much use.”
Susan’s eyes narrowed. “I can always throw it.”
“Right,” said Jason, backing away. “Good luck with that.”
People were breaking off into groups, scrounging for weapons. File Room Steve proudly produced the floor’s fire axe: “It said break glass in case of emergency. I’ve always wanted to do that!”
“I’ll go back for the fire extinguisher!” said File Room Scott.
Jason took Liz by the arm and led her over to a corner. “Hey,” he said, “have you seen Kit and Kat? They came in this morning, right?”
Liz nodded. “Yeah. Kat brought me this.” It was a copy of that morning’s Los Angeles Times with the headline, ‘GRAVE-ROBBING STINT CONTINUES.’ “I wonder what headline we’ll be running tomorrow?”
“‘ZOMBIES!’?” suggested Jason.
“With or without an exclamation mark?” asked Liz.
“Oh, with, definitely.” He shook his head. “But that’s not the point! We’ve got to find the wonder twins. They’re helpless on their own.”
“I wouldn’t say helpless...”
Jason folded his arms across his chest. “Remember the Christmas party? Kat knocked over the tree and Kit got drunk and sang karaoke. Despite the fact that we didn’t have a karaoke machine.”
Liz shuddered. “Don’t remind me.”
“They’re probably hiding under their desks. We should go look. Oh, but first—” He swept the notebooks, pens, paperclips, folders, stapler, and laptop off the desk nearest to him and turned it on its side; then he unscrewed one of the table legs. “There,” he said, hefting it. “Now we’re all set. Let’s go.”
“You first,” said Lydia Copy.
“No, you.”
“No, you.”
“I have seniority,” said Jennifer Copy. “I say Lindsay goes first.”
“Fine.” Lindsay Copy produced the object from behind her back. “Not bad, huh?”
It was a dictionary. An Oxford Condensed, Volume 2, N-Z. And it was attached with duct tape to the handle of a broom.
“He said a blunt object,” said Lindsay Copy, shrugging her shoulders. Then in a softer tone: “And I’ve always wanted to bash someone’s head in with this thing.”
Jennifer Copy nodded her approval. Then she inclined her head in Lydia Copy’s direction, signifying that it was her turn.
Lydia Copy had a piece of copper piping, about the length of her forearm. “Where did you get that?” asked Lindsay Copy.
“The bathroom,” said Lydia Copy, defensively. “It was loose.”
“Fine,” said Jennifer Copy. Then she produced the pièce de résistance.
“Oooh,” said Lydia and Lindsay Copies.
It was a bowling trophy. Specifically, the Editor-in-Chief’s bowling trophy. “Does Eric know you have that?” asked Lydia Copy.
“Sadly, Eric did not come in today,” Jennifer Copy said. “And if he somehow does manage to turn up later...” Her teeth glinted wickedly. “I’ll be sure to give it back to him.”
Kit and Kat were not under Kit’s desk. They were not under Kat’s desk. They were not in the kitchen, the break room, the file room, or the room with the rapidly-being-salvaged-for-parts photocopiers. Eventually, Liz came up with the brilliant idea of checking the bathrooms. Weaving their way through co-workers wielding tennis rackets, golf clubs, baseball bats, and dismembered coffee machines, they made their way to the back of the office. Liz nudged the door of the ladies’ open and peeked inside. It was empty. Then Jason raised the table leg above his head and threw his shoulder against the men’s room door.
It reverberated against the wall with a crash. It also caused the two people who were sitting on the floor, intently studying the tile, to stop what they were doing and stare, wide-eyed, up at the intruders.
“Oh,” said Kit. “Hi, guys.”
“Hi,” said Liz. Then: “Are you drawing strange, ritualistic patterns on the floor of the men’s bathroom? In lipstick?”
“It’s not my lipstick,” said Kit.
“Thanks for clarifying that,” said Jason.
Kat got to her feet. “We’re not surrounded yet, are we?”
Liz walked over to the window and peered through the blinds. “Yep. ‘Fraid so.”
Kat quickly sat back down. “We better hurry.”
Jason’s eyes bulged, his face a study in bafflement. “Hurry at sitting? What, are you playing musical chairs?”
A loud scream sounded from the office proper. It soon had company. Then a series of heavy, wet thumps, more screaming, and over the din, Lindsay Copy’s shout: “The fire escape! I told you!”
“Dammit,” said Kit. He swiveled around. “Jason, Liz—do either of you have a pen?”
“A pen?” Jason was oozing incredulity. “This isn’t Grosse Pointe Blank! You need blunt weapons, and we need to make fortifications, maybe trap all the undead in one area and then set them on fire...”
“That’s actually a really good idea.”
“The fire thing? Yeah, I thought so. Now if only I can get to my computer, I have a recipe for napalm...”
“No, the other one,” said Kit. “Fortifications.” He got up and locked the door, then pushed the metal garbage can against it. “Can you guys see what else you can find to brace the door with?”
“It’s a bathroom,” Liz pointed out. “But I want to fight the zombies,” whined Jason.
“Neither of you has a pen?” asked Kat.
“NO.”
She turned to Kit. “You know what this means.”
“Yes,” he said.
“Liz,” said Kat, “can I borrow one of your earrings?”
“One of my earrings?” repeated Liz, mirroring Jason’s expression. But she removed the large gold loop from her left ear and handed it over.
Without a word, Kat passed the earring over to Kit. Kit examined the sharp tip. Then he jammed it forcefully into his thumb.
“Ack,” said Jason.
“No, you can keep it,” Liz said when Kit tried to give it back.
Kit shrugged and set the earring aside. He leaned over the lipstick diagram he and Kat had made, at the center of which was a white piece of printer paper. He dribbled blood onto it, messaging his finger like a farmer milking a cow.
“That,” said Jason, “is really gross.”
“Yet you wanted to bash zombies’ heads in,” said Liz.
“Shh,” said Kat. Then she too leaned forward.
Together, Kit and Kat dipped their fingers into the blood. Together, they formed characters, letters, words. Jason tilted his head to the side. “Is it just me, or is that—?”
“Shh,” hissed Kat.
From outside: “That...thing has my shoe! Kill it! Kill it!”
“Eat diction, you zombie piece of offal!”
Kit and Kat stopped writing. They exchanged a look. “Ready?” asked Kit.
“Ready,” said Kat.
“Ready for what?” demanded Jason. “What the hell are you guys doing?”
“And then,” said Kit and Kat, in a low voice, in unison, “the zombies all went away.”
Jason scratched his head. “Yee-aaaahh, saying it isn’t going to make it happen, you know.”
The office was suddenly deadly quiet.
“Ooops,” said Kat, “we forgot to add a memory clause.”
“We were under a lot of pressure,” said Kit. “We can always do one later.”
“You’re right. There’ll probably be widespread denial, anyway.”
“Why is it so quiet?” said Jason. “It’s too quiet!”
Liz walked over to the window again. “Jason,” she said. “The zombies are gone.”
“Are you sure? Maybe they’re hiding.”
“Stealth zombies? I don’t think so. But come see for yourself.”
Jason looked outside. The street below them was indeed empty of the evil, cannibalistic undead. A man in a torn Marilyn Manson t-shirt who’d climbed a telephone pole was looking at the deserted pavement below him. He began vigorously crossing himself.
Jason spun around. “I’m confused!”
Kit looked at Kat. Kat looked at Kit. “About that...”
There was a loud pounding at the door. “Hey!” said a voice. “No hogging it! I have zombie brains all over my best shirt!”
Liz unlocked the door. “Thanks,” said File Room Steve, setting his bloody axe down in the corner. Liz eyed his shirt with distaste. It didn’t look like it was going to make it.
“Were you guys hiding in here the whole time?” asked File Room Steve, liberally applying yellow handsoap.
“You could say that,” said Kit.
“Boy, did you miss out! You know that pimply kid from Subway who always overcharges? Bamn! Right between the eyes!”
Liz winced.
“Were there any casualties?” asked Kat nervously.
“You mean from our people? Dunno.” File Room Steve regarded himself in the mirror, sighed, and stripped off his shirt. Jason groaned and averted his eyes; the other three swiftly followed suit. “Man, I can’t believe you guys missed it! This has totally been the best day ever!”
“We should go check things out,” Kat told Kit.
“Yeah.” They got to their feet.
“I am not letting either of you out of my sight until you tell me what’s going on,” said Jason.
Liz nodded. “Me, neither.”
“Just...give us a sec,” said Kit. Then they walked out of the bathroom and into chaos.
People were milling around, holding blood-spattered sports equipment, metal rulers caked in brain matter, and heavy-duty three-hole punches dipped in gore. Larry Accounts was holding a dripping telephone several inches away from his ear. “No, really, Ma! Seriously! I swear!”
In one corner, the Copies were saying a prayer over their fallen comrade.
“You served us well for many years,” said Jennifer Copy.
“Many years,” Lydia Copy echoed.
Lindsay Copy nodded. “And though your entry on ‘zombie’—”
“Noun,” chimed in the other two, “from the Bantu jumby: a soulless corpse said to have been revived by witchcraft.”
“—was woefully inadequate, in the end you redeemed yourself.”
“Amen,” said Jennifer Copy, solemnly.
“Amen.”
“Amen.”
Susan was sitting behind her desk, sobbing quietly to herself. She looked up when she heard them approach. “They—” she said. “They took—”
“Oh no,” said Kat. “Who? Who did they get?”
Susan blinked. “Well, now that you mention it, they may have gotten Stanley from Human Resources. But that...” She sniffed. “That’s not the real tragedy. My Jimmy—!”
“Jimmy? Who’s Jimmy?”
Susan pointed to bare feet, stretched out limply on the rug. “My Jimmy Choos...!”
Kat threw her hands up in the air. “Why do I still work here? Honestly? Why?”
“Well, the hours are pretty good,” said Kit.
“There’s always tons of free coffee,” suggested Liz. “And those nice little iced buns.”
“Not to mention the pay’s not bad,” Jason said. “And besides, you get to enjoy the pleasure of our delightful company.”
“True,” said Kat.
“Very true,” said Kit.
“Speaking of,” said Jason, placing a guiding hand on each of their backs, “howzabout we retire to The Vault? Liz and I’ll buy the first couple rounds, and you wiz kids can explain how you made the zombies go poof. Before I got to kill any of them.”
“We saved your life, you know,” said Kat.
“That still doesn’t mean I’m going to forgive you.”
Liz’s mouth twitched as she pressed the ‘down’ button. She couldn’t help herself. “Just another day at the office,” she said.
Parts III-V
FIVE WAYS THE WORLD WON'T END
Being Five Apocalyptic Scenarios starring Five Sets of Original Characters and featuring: a heavy debt to Shaun of the Dead, a lesser debt to Ray Bradbury, one obscure song lyric quote, two non-obscure song lyric quotes, multiple T.S. Eliot misquotes, Spielberg aliens vs. Emmerich aliens, funny L.A. jokes, a bad Lost joke, an extended U2 joke that no one will get but me, and a cameo by
youwerefabulous.I. Plague
James’ parents were dead.
“My parents are dead,” he told her. “I thought you’d like to know.”
“Oh, James!” said Emily. “I’m so sorry!”
“Please.” He flopped down next to her on the dune. “Like I care.”
“You must care a little,” said Emily.
“Like you cared when your grandma popped it?” he asked, and ignoring her whispered, “I cared,” continued, “It’s not like it came as much of a surprise, anyway.”
“It’s always a surprise. No matter how prepared you are.”
James snorted and looked out to sea. “Well, I’m pretty damn prepared.”
Emily stared at him. “I want to show you something,” she said.
“Yeah, all right.”
They got to their feet. Emily started off down the sand, walking carefully. The beach was actually pretty empty, pretty clean. Emily was surprised. To her it seemed like the perfect place to go to die.
“Most people are probably choosing to do it in their homes,” she mused.
“Do what?” asked James, trudging behind her. “Fuck?”
“Die.”
“Oh. Yeah. Probably.”
He wanted to say something else. Something, anything. He’d always been adept at gallows humor.
I bet there’s almost no traffic on the 405...
Wanna take a trip to Rodeo Drive? I’ll loot you a dress.
For the first time ever, there won’t be a line at Pink’s...
He said nothing.
Then he said, “How much longer? I’m getting tired.”
Emily whirled around, her eyes wide with terror. James realized what he had done. “Not that kind of tired,” he said quickly. “Just I’ve-been-on-my-feet-too-long tired.”
“Oh.” Emily released a gust of air. “Okay. Soon.”
“Sorry,” said James a moment later. “I’m an idiot.”
Emily didn’t deny it.
After about a hundred more yards, she turned right, leading them up off the sand and onto the pavement. The Venice boardwalk was quiet and eerie, like an Old West ghost town—which, James supposed, it would soon become. The area where vendors used to set up their stalls was still hung with waving white sheets. One was serving as a shroud for an unfortunate, and probably early, victim, who had dropped right there on the sidewalk. The trio of red marks on the back of his neck was visible even through the sheet, but James didn’t look at that, had trained himself not to look. Instead his eyes slid across the merchandise littering the ground: cracked sunglasses, rolling glass beads, t-shirts with the words MY GRANDMA WENT TO VENICE BEACH AND ALL I GOT WAS THIS LOUSY T-SHIRT inscribed in orange bubble letters across the front. “I want an I SURVIVED AN APOCALYPTIC PLAGUE AND ALL I GOT WAS THIS LOUSY T-SHIRT t-shirt,” said James.
Emily was kind enough not to take issue with the word “survived.”
“Look,” she said instead. “Just look at that!”
James looked. “It’s a wall,” he said. “A blank wall.”
“Exactly,” said Emily.
James was pleased to note that some things never changed.
“I think we should paint it,” Emily continued, pacing up and down in front of her empty canvas. “Something about what it was like here, before all this happened. Something about us. Something that’ll last.”
James rubbed his temple with the pads of his fingers. “Yeah, okay. If you want. Though I don’t really see the point.”
She raised her hand. It hovered inches away from his shoulder, then dropped back to her side. “We can’t give up,” she said. “Even—”
“Who’s giving up?” said James. “I just think it’s depressing to make a mural of our last will and testament, all right? ‘Cause I’m still not convinced we’ll need it.”
Emily smiled faintly. “Help me anyway?”
He looked at her pleading face. Ran a hand through his hair. Sighed.
“All right, fine. Do you want some paint? There’s some paint at my house. In the garage.”
“Are you sure you want to go back there?”
He shrugged. “Like I said. What do I care?”
They walked back to the canals. At the corner of Venice and Pacific, a man was sitting on the curb, his knees drawn up around his ears. He looked up when they passed. There was a long gash across his forehead, but otherwise he seemed okay; the back of his neck was clean and white and bare. They exchanged a nod, all three: the only acknowledgement necessary. Then James and Emily continued on their way.
James’ gate was standing open. In the back garden, a potted plant had been knocked over, spilling dirt across the path. James side-stepped it; then he side-stepped the body of a dead dog. “Huh,” he said. “That wasn’t here when I left.” He opened the door to the garage.
It looked like a hurricane had hit it. But then, it had looked like a hurricane had hit it for as long as James could remember. He kicked aside a stack of his father’s old Playboys and started rooting around under what looked like piles of yellowing tax returns. Emily took a step back and surveyed the space around her. There were shelves lining the east end of the garage; on the top shelf, two cans of paint, one canary yellow, one brick red. Locating a stepladder, she dragged it over to the shelves and extended her fingers. “Hey,” said James, looking up. “Careful.”
“No, I’ve got it,” said Emily. Her long hair rippled down her back. Funny, thought James. She’s been wearing it down a lot lately.
Emily snagged the paint cans and brought them, banging together like metallic coconuts, down to the ground. “Do you have any brushes?” she asked. All of her art supplies were back at her grandma’s house, and she had made it very clear that she wasn’t going back there.
“Just this crappy one,” said James, holding out his big find. The bristles were stuck together with what looked like SuperGlue, but was probably varnish. “We can get some from the art store on Ocean.”
“You know I’m not doing that,” said Emily.
James sighed. “All right, we can fingerpaint.”
Emily brightened. “That’s actually a really good idea!”
“Yay me.”
The walked back to the wall. The man who had been sitting by the side of the road was gone. At Center Street, James ducked into a 7-Eleven and got a soda while Emily waited outside. He drank it in two gulps, then tossed the can over his shoulder. Emily opened her mouth, then closed it. Everything about James’ expression was a dare.
When they reached the empty expanse of cement, Emily set the paint cans down on the ground and knelt beside them. She worked them open with James’ Swiss Army Knife, which wasn’t too difficult as they had both been opened before. Then she dipped her fist into the yellow paint.
“Yuck,” said James.
“No, it’s nice,” said Emily, and pressed her palm to the wall.
“Want to try?” she asked, removing the sticky digits and watching a vibrant yellow shadow hold the place they once had been. She shook off the excess paint, then dipped the first two fingers of her clean hand into the red. Swirls and convoluted arabesques appeared around the handprint. “No,” said James, “I’ll just watch.”
He watched her paint the wall as the sun dipped down over the Pacific Ocean. It began to grow chill, the wind picking up. Emily reached paint-stained fingers into her pocket and pulled out her orange knit cap. As she moved to shove it down on her head, a particularly strong gust of wind swept down the street, blowing pages of abandoned newspapers, tin cans, crumpled dollar bills. Emily’s hat was nearly jerked out of her fingers, her hair rising up above her head like a cloud. “Stupid wind,” she said.
James said nothing.
And then he said, “Oh, Emily.”
She turned to look at him. Their eyes met. Then there was nothing more that needed to be said.
Still; “Let me help you with that,” said James, and watched as his fingers turned red.
II. Zombies
“Okay, everybody stay calm,” said Susan, wobbling in her Jimmy Choos as she climbed atop the desk. “We’re six stories up and the elevators are on lock down, so...”
“What about the stairs?” asked Jennifer Copy.
“Yeah, what about the stairs?” Lydia Copy echoed.
“There’s always some back door that nobody thinks of,” said Lindsay Copy, “and that’s how they get in.”
“It’s an office building,” said Susan. “There’s no ‘back door.’”
“Did you really just make air quotes?” asked Jennifer Copy.
“I thought we had a strict no air quotes policy,” Lydia Copy said.
“What about the fire escape?” pointed out Lindsay Copy. “Has anybody checked that?”
“Guys!” said Jason. “You’re all missing the point here.” He, too, hopped up on a desk and began ticking off points on his fingers. “We’re being attacked by zombies. We’re pretty safe for now, but the Copies are right, our outer defences probably will get penetrated at some point. Thus, our main focus ought to be securing weaponry. Blunt objects are probably the way to go, since I doubt any of you have firearms stashed in your desks.”
One of the guys from the mailroom raised an embarrassed hand. “Um, about that...”
“I have an umbrella!” said Liz, producing a large, leopard-print item.
“Perfect! You should all be a lot more like Liz,” said Jason, with perhaps a tad too much enthusiasm.
“All right,” said Susan, attempting to regain authority. “All of you, split up and go find weapons!”
“Hello,” said Jennifer Copy. “Splitting up is the last thing we should do.”
“Haven’t you ever seen a zombie movie?” asked Lydia Copy.
Lindsay Copy: “Or a monster movie?”
Jennifer Copy: “Or a serial killer movie?”
Lydia Copy: “Or a—”
“Don’t make me use this,” said Susan, pulling a switchblade from her Kate Spade bag.
“Actually,” said Jason, making use of Liz’s outstretched hand to get down off the desk, “short-range weapons aren’t much use.”
Susan’s eyes narrowed. “I can always throw it.”
“Right,” said Jason, backing away. “Good luck with that.”
People were breaking off into groups, scrounging for weapons. File Room Steve proudly produced the floor’s fire axe: “It said break glass in case of emergency. I’ve always wanted to do that!”
“I’ll go back for the fire extinguisher!” said File Room Scott.
Jason took Liz by the arm and led her over to a corner. “Hey,” he said, “have you seen Kit and Kat? They came in this morning, right?”
Liz nodded. “Yeah. Kat brought me this.” It was a copy of that morning’s Los Angeles Times with the headline, ‘GRAVE-ROBBING STINT CONTINUES.’ “I wonder what headline we’ll be running tomorrow?”
“‘ZOMBIES!’?” suggested Jason.
“With or without an exclamation mark?” asked Liz.
“Oh, with, definitely.” He shook his head. “But that’s not the point! We’ve got to find the wonder twins. They’re helpless on their own.”
“I wouldn’t say helpless...”
Jason folded his arms across his chest. “Remember the Christmas party? Kat knocked over the tree and Kit got drunk and sang karaoke. Despite the fact that we didn’t have a karaoke machine.”
Liz shuddered. “Don’t remind me.”
“They’re probably hiding under their desks. We should go look. Oh, but first—” He swept the notebooks, pens, paperclips, folders, stapler, and laptop off the desk nearest to him and turned it on its side; then he unscrewed one of the table legs. “There,” he said, hefting it. “Now we’re all set. Let’s go.”
“You first,” said Lydia Copy.
“No, you.”
“No, you.”
“I have seniority,” said Jennifer Copy. “I say Lindsay goes first.”
“Fine.” Lindsay Copy produced the object from behind her back. “Not bad, huh?”
It was a dictionary. An Oxford Condensed, Volume 2, N-Z. And it was attached with duct tape to the handle of a broom.
“He said a blunt object,” said Lindsay Copy, shrugging her shoulders. Then in a softer tone: “And I’ve always wanted to bash someone’s head in with this thing.”
Jennifer Copy nodded her approval. Then she inclined her head in Lydia Copy’s direction, signifying that it was her turn.
Lydia Copy had a piece of copper piping, about the length of her forearm. “Where did you get that?” asked Lindsay Copy.
“The bathroom,” said Lydia Copy, defensively. “It was loose.”
“Fine,” said Jennifer Copy. Then she produced the pièce de résistance.
“Oooh,” said Lydia and Lindsay Copies.
It was a bowling trophy. Specifically, the Editor-in-Chief’s bowling trophy. “Does Eric know you have that?” asked Lydia Copy.
“Sadly, Eric did not come in today,” Jennifer Copy said. “And if he somehow does manage to turn up later...” Her teeth glinted wickedly. “I’ll be sure to give it back to him.”
Kit and Kat were not under Kit’s desk. They were not under Kat’s desk. They were not in the kitchen, the break room, the file room, or the room with the rapidly-being-salvaged-for-parts photocopiers. Eventually, Liz came up with the brilliant idea of checking the bathrooms. Weaving their way through co-workers wielding tennis rackets, golf clubs, baseball bats, and dismembered coffee machines, they made their way to the back of the office. Liz nudged the door of the ladies’ open and peeked inside. It was empty. Then Jason raised the table leg above his head and threw his shoulder against the men’s room door.
It reverberated against the wall with a crash. It also caused the two people who were sitting on the floor, intently studying the tile, to stop what they were doing and stare, wide-eyed, up at the intruders.
“Oh,” said Kit. “Hi, guys.”
“Hi,” said Liz. Then: “Are you drawing strange, ritualistic patterns on the floor of the men’s bathroom? In lipstick?”
“It’s not my lipstick,” said Kit.
“Thanks for clarifying that,” said Jason.
Kat got to her feet. “We’re not surrounded yet, are we?”
Liz walked over to the window and peered through the blinds. “Yep. ‘Fraid so.”
Kat quickly sat back down. “We better hurry.”
Jason’s eyes bulged, his face a study in bafflement. “Hurry at sitting? What, are you playing musical chairs?”
A loud scream sounded from the office proper. It soon had company. Then a series of heavy, wet thumps, more screaming, and over the din, Lindsay Copy’s shout: “The fire escape! I told you!”
“Dammit,” said Kit. He swiveled around. “Jason, Liz—do either of you have a pen?”
“A pen?” Jason was oozing incredulity. “This isn’t Grosse Pointe Blank! You need blunt weapons, and we need to make fortifications, maybe trap all the undead in one area and then set them on fire...”
“That’s actually a really good idea.”
“The fire thing? Yeah, I thought so. Now if only I can get to my computer, I have a recipe for napalm...”
“No, the other one,” said Kit. “Fortifications.” He got up and locked the door, then pushed the metal garbage can against it. “Can you guys see what else you can find to brace the door with?”
“It’s a bathroom,” Liz pointed out. “But I want to fight the zombies,” whined Jason.
“Neither of you has a pen?” asked Kat.
“NO.”
She turned to Kit. “You know what this means.”
“Yes,” he said.
“Liz,” said Kat, “can I borrow one of your earrings?”
“One of my earrings?” repeated Liz, mirroring Jason’s expression. But she removed the large gold loop from her left ear and handed it over.
Without a word, Kat passed the earring over to Kit. Kit examined the sharp tip. Then he jammed it forcefully into his thumb.
“Ack,” said Jason.
“No, you can keep it,” Liz said when Kit tried to give it back.
Kit shrugged and set the earring aside. He leaned over the lipstick diagram he and Kat had made, at the center of which was a white piece of printer paper. He dribbled blood onto it, messaging his finger like a farmer milking a cow.
“That,” said Jason, “is really gross.”
“Yet you wanted to bash zombies’ heads in,” said Liz.
“Shh,” said Kat. Then she too leaned forward.
Together, Kit and Kat dipped their fingers into the blood. Together, they formed characters, letters, words. Jason tilted his head to the side. “Is it just me, or is that—?”
“Shh,” hissed Kat.
From outside: “That...thing has my shoe! Kill it! Kill it!”
“Eat diction, you zombie piece of offal!”
Kit and Kat stopped writing. They exchanged a look. “Ready?” asked Kit.
“Ready,” said Kat.
“Ready for what?” demanded Jason. “What the hell are you guys doing?”
“And then,” said Kit and Kat, in a low voice, in unison, “the zombies all went away.”
Jason scratched his head. “Yee-aaaahh, saying it isn’t going to make it happen, you know.”
The office was suddenly deadly quiet.
“Ooops,” said Kat, “we forgot to add a memory clause.”
“We were under a lot of pressure,” said Kit. “We can always do one later.”
“You’re right. There’ll probably be widespread denial, anyway.”
“Why is it so quiet?” said Jason. “It’s too quiet!”
Liz walked over to the window again. “Jason,” she said. “The zombies are gone.”
“Are you sure? Maybe they’re hiding.”
“Stealth zombies? I don’t think so. But come see for yourself.”
Jason looked outside. The street below them was indeed empty of the evil, cannibalistic undead. A man in a torn Marilyn Manson t-shirt who’d climbed a telephone pole was looking at the deserted pavement below him. He began vigorously crossing himself.
Jason spun around. “I’m confused!”
Kit looked at Kat. Kat looked at Kit. “About that...”
There was a loud pounding at the door. “Hey!” said a voice. “No hogging it! I have zombie brains all over my best shirt!”
Liz unlocked the door. “Thanks,” said File Room Steve, setting his bloody axe down in the corner. Liz eyed his shirt with distaste. It didn’t look like it was going to make it.
“Were you guys hiding in here the whole time?” asked File Room Steve, liberally applying yellow handsoap.
“You could say that,” said Kit.
“Boy, did you miss out! You know that pimply kid from Subway who always overcharges? Bamn! Right between the eyes!”
Liz winced.
“Were there any casualties?” asked Kat nervously.
“You mean from our people? Dunno.” File Room Steve regarded himself in the mirror, sighed, and stripped off his shirt. Jason groaned and averted his eyes; the other three swiftly followed suit. “Man, I can’t believe you guys missed it! This has totally been the best day ever!”
“We should go check things out,” Kat told Kit.
“Yeah.” They got to their feet.
“I am not letting either of you out of my sight until you tell me what’s going on,” said Jason.
Liz nodded. “Me, neither.”
“Just...give us a sec,” said Kit. Then they walked out of the bathroom and into chaos.
People were milling around, holding blood-spattered sports equipment, metal rulers caked in brain matter, and heavy-duty three-hole punches dipped in gore. Larry Accounts was holding a dripping telephone several inches away from his ear. “No, really, Ma! Seriously! I swear!”
In one corner, the Copies were saying a prayer over their fallen comrade.
“You served us well for many years,” said Jennifer Copy.
“Many years,” Lydia Copy echoed.
Lindsay Copy nodded. “And though your entry on ‘zombie’—”
“Noun,” chimed in the other two, “from the Bantu jumby: a soulless corpse said to have been revived by witchcraft.”
“—was woefully inadequate, in the end you redeemed yourself.”
“Amen,” said Jennifer Copy, solemnly.
“Amen.”
“Amen.”
Susan was sitting behind her desk, sobbing quietly to herself. She looked up when she heard them approach. “They—” she said. “They took—”
“Oh no,” said Kat. “Who? Who did they get?”
Susan blinked. “Well, now that you mention it, they may have gotten Stanley from Human Resources. But that...” She sniffed. “That’s not the real tragedy. My Jimmy—!”
“Jimmy? Who’s Jimmy?”
Susan pointed to bare feet, stretched out limply on the rug. “My Jimmy Choos...!”
Kat threw her hands up in the air. “Why do I still work here? Honestly? Why?”
“Well, the hours are pretty good,” said Kit.
“There’s always tons of free coffee,” suggested Liz. “And those nice little iced buns.”
“Not to mention the pay’s not bad,” Jason said. “And besides, you get to enjoy the pleasure of our delightful company.”
“True,” said Kat.
“Very true,” said Kit.
“Speaking of,” said Jason, placing a guiding hand on each of their backs, “howzabout we retire to The Vault? Liz and I’ll buy the first couple rounds, and you wiz kids can explain how you made the zombies go poof. Before I got to kill any of them.”
“We saved your life, you know,” said Kat.
“That still doesn’t mean I’m going to forgive you.”
Liz’s mouth twitched as she pressed the ‘down’ button. She couldn’t help herself. “Just another day at the office,” she said.
Parts III-V
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
This could be a series!
Date: 2005-05-16 12:03 am (UTC)I enjoyed the stories that I read. Keep up the good work!
-Matt