The Closer

January 11, 2008

“Come Human, why’re you scared.”

Jack cocked the shotgun.

“You don’t understand the relampago…the transformation.  It’s not an evil act.”

Jack aimed the shotgun at the middle part of the wall.

“Human?  Why do you cling to your lesser existence?”


“Fucking Zombie!”  Said Jack.

It was supposed to have been just a simple sales call to another piece of crap town.  Camry from the airport, meet and greet, exchange business cards, close the deal, rinse and repeat. 

That’s not how it turned out.

Jack giggled then shouted,  “SHOTGUNS ‘ER FER CLOSERS YOU FUCKING ZOMBIE!”  He was going a bit mad.


~ 2 days earlier

He was on automatic.  This was the third piece of crap town he’d gone to this week.

[I hate this goddamn job!]

The heat inside the concourse was only slightly less than the midwest-beat-down going on outside the terminal doors.  He stood in the only line in the whole place waiting for his car.

One teller, four customers.

[Piece of crap town…fuck.]

He surveyed the rest of the small waiting area, counting the people; 17.  Seventeen people in the whole damn airport. 

[Airport?! One room warehouse with a paint job and a rental desk.]

He shuffled up to the front of the line finally and assumed his plastic smile.  It was so easy, he was a professional and he was good at it.

“Yes.”  “Midsize”  “No extra insurance.”  “Yes”  “Thank you”

And he was walking outside and across the road to the rental parking lot.  Got in his rented Camry and drove away; at least now he had AC.

Still a 100 miles to go.


He pulled up to the dealership a bit after lunch.  Got out and straightened up: re-buttoned the top button, slipped the tie up a bit tighter, two breath mints popped in his mouth to hide the coffee breath and slipped into his sport coat like a second skin.

He grabbed his oversized briefcase with all the brochures and headed into the parts and service department.

He was on automatic.

He pushed the door open and headed in.  His practiced eye surveyed the room…empty.

A fan was running in the front.

“Hello?”  Jack walked further into the parts department, past some poorly merchandised shelves.  The lights were on, but the parts department appeared to be empty.  Only the hum of the fan answered his question.


Jack froze, ancient caveman wolf- fear arose in his gut.

He was no longer on automatic.


Jack limped down Main Street.  The fight with the dog had been brief but bloody, his arm and leg were chewed, but the dog was dead, crushed finally by a fire extinguisher blow to the head.  Jack tried to remember the last time he’d killed anything, besides fish; he drew a blank.

Limping, bleeding he surveyed the street.  It was a ghost town.  Most of the cars were parked placidly on the side of the road.  But there was one old Cadillac crashed into a lamp post, looking out of place, waiting for a tow that wasn’t going to come.

Jack limped up to it.

The smell hit him before he saw anything.   It made him gag and stop his limping walk.  He pulled his shirt up over his nose and walked up a bit closer.  From six feet away he could see the corpse, its head bashed in from the accident.  It looked several weeks old.

Nobody was around to take care of it.

Nobody was around.

“ooooooooeeeeeeeeeee”  He heard a distant eerie call.  He whipped his head in the direction of the sound, but it was over a block or three behind some buildings.

Nobody was around.

“aaaaaaaiiiiiiiiii” There was an answering call from the other side of town, behind him.

Nobody was around.

He limped out to the middle of the street.


“eeeeeeeoooooooo”  from a third direction, he was boxed in.

He frantically looked around and spotted a sporting goods store that advertised hunting gear in the window.  He shuffle-ran over to the door, it was wide open.

The lights were off inside.  He stumbled through the store to the back wall where the shotguns were stacked.  The locked display case had been smashed, guns were strewn all over the floor.  Jack had the sinking feeling he wasn’t the first person to go through this exercise.

He picked up a nasty looking gun and looked around for shells.  A pile of boxes were ripped open in the corner and shotgun shells lay forgotten on the floor.

He filled his pockets.  Loaded the gun.  Filled his pockets some more.

They were coming.


~ Now again

His sport coat was long gone by now.  His tie was a bandage over his injured arm.  He’d lost count of zombies he’d blasted at 23. 

[How many of them were there?]

By now thoughts of escape were long gone.  He knew there was no way out of this town.  But it was ok.  He had found something that he liked to do, and he was good at it.  Blasting zombies that is.

“It takes brass balls to sell…” he giggled to himself.

He was going a bit mad.

[I’d always hated that goddammed job]



  1. I just want to leave a reference note to a great zombie story from the other point of view: the zombie’s.


    heh. good read that.

  2. Another good one, Greg, a fun read – thanks!

    You’ve reminded me that writing a story can still be fairly quick and fun without turning it into a huge project that keeps me from getting started.

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