the odor clinging to my nostrils.
With surprising speed, the zombie snatched the bar of soap from me. She bit off a chunk, wrapper and all. When she realized that it wasn’t Hershey’s, she moaned, dropped it in the trashcan, and walked away.
Marge was the third to be infected on that fateful day six months ago. As always, she was sitting behind the concierge’s desk when a young man staggered into the lobby and vomited on a Front Desk Agent.
If you’ve ever worked behind the desk, you’ve probably heard a million stories about customers behaving badly and experienced quite a few yourself. My coworker Brad told me about a cranky European lady who spit on him when he handed her the bill, and a gay guy who tried to lure him into his room with a bottle of Heineken and a coupon for free Petroleum Jelly. Customers had cursed him out, flung boogers at him, farted, and thrown popcorn in his face all during the same shift. But all of that paled in comparison to the infected drone that plastered him with the contents of his stomach.
Oh, my good friend Brad. How I miss all of you…
Brad was the first victim and very first to bite me. His death and reanimation triggered a series of disturbing events, compromising the hotel once and for all. After regurgitating on the staff, the customer jumped the counter and bit the manager. Although Brad initially hadn’t been bitten, he was already starting to turn, making me realize that the first strain of the virus was transmitted exclusively by blood. Of course, that was one of many diseases that soon visited us.
Before I understood what was going on, Marge was out of her chair and sprinting towards the disturbance. I had to hand it to that crusty, old bitch. She had rockets in those stiletto heels. While I contemplated what to do, she pushed me aside and jumped behind the desk. She peeled the customer off, blood flying in a crimson wave. Intrigued by Brad’s convulsing body, the infected slipped away from her and turned his attention on the easy kill.
He started with the face, chewing off Brad’s eyes and nose. Damn it, why did it have to be him? Why couldn’t it be Darcy, that flakey whore who was less than discreet at hiding her affair with her older, married boss? She wasn’t even on hand when it all went down, the result of a last minute favor that Darcy promised to make up to Brad. I could only imagine...
“I should have done more!” I pounded my fist on the desk.
“Mohrr…” Marge echoed the sentiment.
I jumped behind the counter and snapped the customer’s neck in one violent thrust. Damn. Where did that come from? The zombie slumped over and then rose again awkwardly, making a meal of Brad’s leg. I stomped on his face over and over again, but it did little to curtail his voracious appetite. Desperate to stop him, I grabbed a pen and stabbed him in the head. No dice. Like most guests, his skull was just too thick.
Suddenly something spun me around, shattering my arm like a pane of glass. “Are you out of your fucking mind?” I grabbed my shoulder, but it wasn’t Neal’s fault. The security guard couldn’t see anything behind the counter, just some crazy bitch who was stabbing someone over and over again. Amidst the chaos, he’d mistaken me for the perpetrator and missed a second zombie that stumbled into the lobby and latched onto his neck.
Before I could assess my wound, Brad grabbed my other arm and bit into it. “Fuck!” I shook him off. Shot in one arm and bitten in the other, the night was quickly going to hell.
Brad was far worse for wear, though. His quirky smile had been ripped off; the rest of his face now hamburger meat. Instantly he realized his mistake and spit out the missing chunk of my forearm. It was the first time that I realized that zombies took exception to me. Besides, why bother with a slice of venison when you had a room full of prime rib? I was too tough anyways, and would certainly to give them an afterlife of gas. No
With surprising speed, the zombie snatched the bar of soap from me. She bit off a chunk, wrapper and all. When she realized that it wasn’t Hershey’s, she moaned, dropped it in the trashcan, and walked away.
Marge was the third to be infected on that fateful day six months ago. As always, she was sitting behind the concierge’s desk when a young man staggered into the lobby and vomited on a Front Desk Agent.
If you’ve ever worked behind the desk, you’ve probably heard a million stories about customers behaving badly and experienced quite a few yourself. My coworker Brad told me about a cranky European lady who spit on him when he handed her the bill, and a gay guy who tried to lure him into his room with a bottle of Heineken and a coupon for free Petroleum Jelly. Customers had cursed him out, flung boogers at him, farted, and thrown popcorn in his face all during the same shift. But all of that paled in comparison to the infected drone that plastered him with the contents of his stomach.
Oh, my good friend Brad. How I miss all of you…
Brad was the first victim and very first to bite me. His death and reanimation triggered a series of disturbing events, compromising the hotel once and for all. After regurgitating on the staff, the customer jumped the counter and bit the manager. Although Brad initially hadn’t been bitten, he was already starting to turn, making me realize that the first strain of the virus was transmitted exclusively by blood. Of course, that was one of many diseases that soon visited us.
Before I understood what was going on, Marge was out of her chair and sprinting towards the disturbance. I had to hand it to that crusty, old bitch. She had rockets in those stiletto heels. While I contemplated what to do, she pushed me aside and jumped behind the desk. She peeled the customer off, blood flying in a crimson wave. Intrigued by Brad’s convulsing body, the infected slipped away from her and turned his attention on the easy kill.
He started with the face, chewing off Brad’s eyes and nose. Damn it, why did it have to be him? Why couldn’t it be Darcy, that flakey whore who was less than discreet at hiding her affair with her older, married boss? She wasn’t even on hand when it all went down, the result of a last minute favor that Darcy promised to make up to Brad. I could only imagine...
“I should have done more!” I pounded my fist on the desk.
“Mohrr…” Marge echoed the sentiment.
I jumped behind the counter and snapped the customer’s neck in one violent thrust. Damn. Where did that come from? The zombie slumped over and then rose again awkwardly, making a meal of Brad’s leg. I stomped on his face over and over again, but it did little to curtail his voracious appetite. Desperate to stop him, I grabbed a pen and stabbed him in the head. No dice. Like most guests, his skull was just too thick.
Suddenly something spun me around, shattering my arm like a pane of glass. “Are you out of your fucking mind?” I grabbed my shoulder, but it wasn’t Neal’s fault. The security guard couldn’t see anything behind the counter, just some crazy bitch who was stabbing someone over and over again. Amidst the chaos, he’d mistaken me for the perpetrator and missed a second zombie that stumbled into the lobby and latched onto his neck.
Before I could assess my wound, Brad grabbed my other arm and bit into it. “Fuck!” I shook him off. Shot in one arm and bitten in the other, the night was quickly going to hell.
Brad was far worse for wear, though. His quirky smile had been ripped off; the rest of his face now hamburger meat. Instantly he realized his mistake and spit out the missing chunk of my forearm. It was the first time that I realized that zombies took exception to me. Besides, why bother with a slice of venison when you had a room full of prime rib? I was too tough anyways, and would certainly to give them an afterlife of gas. No
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