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Zombie Tax Service

Nightwriters

By Martha Raymond

I live near the university so when I read the ad: Zombie Tax Service, I expected to find exhausted accounting majors earning extra money.

Grumbling, I left my apartment, took my little car across the tracks to the proper address, (a rather dilapidated building) and was completely jarred when, standing at the counter, was greeted by an ugly female zombie. Her jaw hung loose at the joint, and she groaned in a husky voice that she was eager to “Get. Me. In.”

I’ve never worked out my nervous issues with people, let alone females, so when she flirtatiously toyed with her hair (a dirty blonde mess resembling the shape of Florida) I could only mumble, “Yes, I need my taxes done. Thank you.”

My mouth hung open as I tried to process this. The cold room smelt of ammonia. My God, how did this happen?

I sat down with “Fred”, which I read from a dangling name-tag. Another “specialist” sat opposite him, both behind ancient computers. Both “specialists” were groaning, living-corpses dressed in shredded business formal wear.

Fred made a queer panting sound at me for his opening remarks. I nervously produced my documents from under my perspiring armpit. Then without warning and to my utter astonishment, Fred said, “April is the cruelest month … HA! HA! HA!” His jaw moved in a vulgar, circular motion.

“T.S. Elliott. Wonderful,” I said with a bit of frantic laughter. I loved the British poet.

Fred ignored me to adjust the bandage around his nose, from which a disgusting yellow puss dribbled and burbled nonstop. One eye was missing completely, leaving an empty socket where brain bits were visible. His good eye, sea-glass blue, floated around, and then fixed me in a stare.

About myself. I am a senior citizen, well-read, a recluse I admit. My wife is long dead. It’s just me and the cat, Nips. I don’t know much about zombies except for what I read in the TV Guide.

Fred took my documents and went to work on my taxes, pecking the keyboard, all the while his jaw worked in a vulgar circular motion. I wondered, when had these terrible creatures taken over? Was I that out of touch? I couldn’t remember the last time I’d enjoyed the company of another.

From my reverie, I noticed the lady zombie drag herself to the front door, close and lock it forcefully.

Too late, I said to myself. Bollocks! Life had come to an end.

“What are you claiming?” Fred asked with a jeer.

I stared at him, insulted. The old computer flickered a sickly green on his bandage. I didn’t want to die. Who would look after Nips?

The third zombie stood up, scraping his chair on the floor. He was moaning, a sound which I interpreted, (thanks to Nips) as a distinctly hungry moan.

The female zombie was moaning too but with murder in her eyes. Fred was leering and joined in the chorus of hungry moans. My panicky gaze caught the computer screen: pure gibberish.

“April IS the cruelest month,” I spat back at Fred. No joking now. It can’t be the end. “BREEDING LILACS OUT OF THE DEAD LAND!” I hollered out the famous lines, clinging to life as the stench of death approached. “Mixing memory with sweet desire—” I stood now, facing it down. The computer toppled, the screen black and cracked. I closed my eyes, calmer, remembering the poem perfectly. “We went on in sunlight, into the Hofgarten, and drank coffee, delicious coffee, and talked! for an hour!”

Martha Raymond earned a BA in Literature from Cal Poly. She is currently looking for a literary agent. Martha is a member of SLO NightWriters, for writers at all levels in all genres; find them online at slonightwriters.org.

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