The Dead Series (Book 1): Tell Me When I'm Dead by Steven Ramirez

and fixed me right up. No big deal.”
    This was typical Fred. Downplaying the whole thing so as not to worry the rest of us. What a martyr. But what if whoever that guy was who broke the glass was infected and his blood had spilled onto the door? Fred would be infected. No one knew how the undead were being created, but I had to assume that whatever the cause, it was transmittable through bodily fluids. That’s what Isaac thought. And as with other deadly diseases, blood and saliva were suspect.
    “Fred, do you feel okay?” I said.
    “I’m fine. Just a little tired. Guess I lost more blood than I thought.” He turned to go over to a cash register. I noticed that he was already walking stiffly. The jimmies. Not good.
    “Take it easy,” I said, and went to work.
    Twenty minutes later, Fred announced that he was going to the break room to lie down, saying he felt funny.
    “It feels like a fever, but there’s this buzzing in my brain. I can’t shake it.”
    He headed for the restroom. Having to pee myself, I followed him in. Without speaking, he went into one of the stalls and threw up.
    “Shit!” he said.
    I swung the door out as he straightened up and wiped his mouth. Whatever it was that he’d upchucked, the water in the toilet bowl was black.
    “Fred, you need a doctor,” I said.
    “Naw. Going to lie down awhile. I’ll be fine. Let me know if anything comes up.”
    An hour later, Stacey came running, scared shitless. “There’s something wrong with Fred! He—he doesn’t look like he’s breathing!”
    I followed Stacey into the break room and found Fred lying motionless on the brown Naugahyde sofa. His skin was greyish in the fluorescent lights. I ran and got a pair of the plastic gloves we use to change the toner in the laser printers. I checked Fred’s eyes and listened for any kind of breathing.
    “Call 911,” I said.
    Fred sat up and blinked like we weren’t there.
    “Fred, you okay? You gave us a scare.”
    He ignored Stacey and me as she waited on hold for the 911 dispatcher. When he tried to speak but couldn’t, I knew. He kept moving his mouth in an unnatural way, like he had awakened and found that he now had jaws. I recognized the symptom.
    “Fred, we’re calling the paramedics. You’re going to be—”
    He took a weak, angry swipe at my head, and I jumped back. “Stacey, get out!” I said. But she was frozen, unable to comprehend what was happening. “Stacey! Get out!” She snapped out of it and ran from the room.
    Fred made another feeble attempt to claw me, then stopped and looked around the room and up at the ceiling lights. The brightness seemed to bother him. He tried again to say something, but instead ground his teeth so hard I heard the scraping of bone against bone. One of this teeth broke, and he spit the bloody pieces onto the floor.
    Dear God, I knew what was coming. The urge to run away was overpowering. I didn’t want to die. What kept me going was the thought that I might be able to help Stacey and the others. I scanned the room, looking for a weapon. There was nothing. A coffee maker, a water cooler, several five-gallon plastic bottles of water lined up on the floor, a refrigerator and a push broom.
    The broom was it. All the time looking at Fred, I backed away and grabbed it. Then I unscrewed the handle and held it in both hands as Fred watched me, unaware of any threat, like he was seeing an actor in a play.
    Outside I heard Stacey scream, then someone grabbed me from behind. I tried to get away, but they had a firm lock on my head. I smelled sick, fetid breath but heard no breathing. Then I saw a hand. Bone was sticking out through ripped fingertips.
    I dropped to my knees and rolled hard to one side. As I turned, I saw Missy staring at me. How did she get into the store without anyone seeing her? As I scrambled to my feet, holding the broom handle out in front of me like a lightsaber, something strange happened.
    She turned and called to Fred in a series of