"One foot in front of the other," Tom thought to himself as he watched his breath turn to steam. "One foot in front of the other." He pulled his coat closer about him. It wasn't just the weather that evening that was making Tom cold; he had the distinct impression that somehow, on this dark and lonely street, he was being watched.
Indeed, his instincts were correct. From the shadows of an alley across the street, two watery, yellowed eyes watched his movements intently. That is to say, one of them watched his movements intently. The other eye was rolled back in its socket, looking at something else entirely. A bloated tongue snaked out and licked a row of rotting teeth; the owner of the eyes seemed to feel it was the time for action.
Tom froze. He had caught a whiff of something foul, something not unlike the odor of a frozen chicken that had been left on the kitchen floor for a number of weeks. He listened carefully for a second. Looking around at his surroundings, he noticed an open manhole cover lying nearby. Wrinkling his nose in disgust, he began walking again, quickening his pace ever so slightly.
He hadn't gotten very far, though, when the smell began to intensify. And then he heard it. At first, it sounded like some kind of faint burbling, crunching noise. As it grew louder, however, he was able to make out the unmistakable sound of feet being shuffled and dragged across the pavement. Whoever it was, they were behind him and closing fast.
Tom swallowed, feeling a bead of sweat form on his brow. Steeling himself for the worst, he slowly turned around.
Gradually emerging from the darkness was a hideous apparition. A stooped figure, carrying itself stiffly and not without some difficulty, was shambling slowly toward him, a soft moan emerging from its throat. As it came into the light, Tom could not help but gasp in horror; the creature was human, or had been human once, not too long ago. Its skin was bloated and purple, and much of the skin on what had been its face had rotted away and hung loosely in ribbons. Maggots crawled across the exposed left cheekbone, and the lips were curled back into a permanent sneer.
Narrowing his eyes, Tom slipped his right hand into his jacket. With arms outstretched, the walking corpse lunged at him, the moan in its throat intensifying, forming words...
"SPPPPAAAAAAARRRE CHHHHAAAAAAAANNNNNNGE?" moaned the creature plaintively. One of its outstretched claws slowly turned until it was palm up. The shuddering apparition stopped in front of Tom and wavered slowly back and forth, looking somehow expectant.
Tom grimaced in disgust, slowly withdrawing his hand from beneath his jacket. Clutched in it was a small handful of dimes and nickels, which he carefully dropped into the rotting hand. The corpse curled its fingers around the coins, moaned by way of thanks, and shambled off.
Tom shuddered as he turned and walked away. Fucking zombies. It had been like this ever since the Second Coming. Jesus had showed up and raised all the dead, just like it had always said in the Bible. At first, people were either frightened or overjoyed. Pat Robertson, apparently driven insane by the fact that the neither he nor any of his followers started floating into the air when Christ made His miraculous reappearance, flung himself off a skyscraper, screaming, "It's the Rapture! I can fly! I can flyyyyy!"
Of course, there had been more destructive reactions. Raccoon City's own STARS team (they might have been SWAT, but they weren't sanctioned by any state agency except for the local police department), long known as an assorted group of fascists, thugs, and gun nuts, had gone on a rampage, shooting as many of the newly-risen as they could. The whole thing had ended with a standoff against the National Guard in an old mansion on the outskirts of town. It was ironic, Tom thought while shaking his head and smirking, that the entire STARS team had joined the ranks of the living dead they had tried to eradicate. All except for that wacko Redfield. A dishonorably-discharged airman, Redfield had pleaded with the Guard from the rooftop, attempting to make a speech, shotgun in hand, against the continued existence of zombies. Unfortunately for him, he was picked off with a bazooka at the midpoint of his rambling oration. After that, there hadn't been much to be resurrected.
After that, things settled down for a couple of weeks. It wasn't long, though, before tensions between the living and the dead began to reach a boiling point.
The trouble was, the Messiah had never given a thought to the economic impact this mass resurrection would have on a world that was already strapped for resources. When someone had pointed out to Christ that the horrible, rotting corpses - "newly risen," Tom reminded himself, was the politically correct term had no jobs, homes, or any visible means of support, the Messiah had just shrugged. "Hey, what do you want?" He had said, "I'm the son of God, not fucking Mother Teresa!" And with that, He turned the poor man into a newt. Nobody mentioned the zombies to Him after that.
The day before, when Tom arrived at work, his boss had called him into the corner office. His boss was a small, thin, balding man in his mid-40s, with thick glasses that nearly dwarfed his head. Everyone referred to him as Mr. Retina, and while Mr. Retina thought it was a sign of respect, it was, in fact, simply because nobody could remember his first name.
"How are you today, Tom?" Mr. Retina asked. "Please, please, have a seat."
Tom looked around the tiny, white-walled office, noting that there were no chairs aside from the one Mr. Retina was sitting in. He glanced back up at Mr. Retina, who was still motioning for him to be seated.
Tom shrugged and sat down on the floor in front of Mr. Retina's desk.
"I'm doing okay, Mr. Retina," Tom said noncommittally. "What's this about, if you don't mind my asking?"
"Oh, well, you know, Tom... every once in awhile, a company has to re-evaluate its structure, and.. um..." Mr. Retina trailed off at this point, muttering something incomprehensible.
"Pardon?" asked Tom.
"Oh, well, you know... gee, can you remember a day when the weather was this nice?"
"They, uh, they say it's the worst blizzard Raccoon City's seen since 1903, sir." Tom replied slowly, becoming slightly worried at his boss's dodginess.
Mr. Retina shifted in his chair, then let out a deep breath. "Well, Tom, I may as well get to the point. The fact is, Tom... what I'm trying to say... well, you know how it is..."
"Uh, no, actually," said Tom. He shook his head slowly for emphasis, keeping his eyes carefully trained on Mr. Retina.
"Well, Tom... you're right-sized."
"Excuse me?" asked Tom, not liking the sound of that. "The right size... for what, exactly?"
"No, no, Tom. You don't understand," said Mr. Retina. He paused for a moment. "The company has decided to let you go."
"What!?" shrieked Tom. "You mean I'm fired?"
"SHHHHH!" shhed Mr. Retina loudly, holding a finger to his lips. "Don't use that word! It's right
sized! Right-sized!"
"You mean, like down-sized?"
At this point, Mr. Retina's face grew noticeably red, and a large vein began twitching on his forehead. He didn't like Tom's penetrating questions; it didn't put him at all at ease. Grimacing, he opened a desk drawer and felt for the revolver he kept inside. The feeling of the cool metal as he wrapped his fingers around it comforted him. A quivering smile returned to his lips.
"I don't see why you insist on being so negative about this, Tom," said Mr. Retina slowly. "It's for the good of the company, after all."
"But I don't understand, Mr. Retina," exclaimed Tom, struggling to keep his own composure. "Why me? Why now? What's the meaning of all this?"
As if to answer his question, a hideous pile of rotting flesh dressed in a neatly pressed white shirt and blue tie picked that moment to stick its head into the office.
"Glluuuuuggghhh?" it asked, somewhat impatiently.
"Not now, Juan!" snapped Mr. Retina. "Oh... well, shit. I guess there's no avoiding this. Tom, meet Juan. He's your replacement."
Tom's jaw dropped as he turned to face the newcomer. He couldn't help but notice that the zombie was carrying a box full of its belongings files, office toys, and a mug with the words "You don't have to be a spongiform mound of necroplasmic goo to work here, but it helps" printed on it.
Tom recovered his wits enough to turn around and demand a "Wha...?" from Mr. Retina.
Mr. Retina sighed, stroking the gun in his desk drawer lovingly. "It's very simple, Tom. Juan here is willing to do the same amount of work as you for roughly half the money. Which I think is perfectly reasonable, seeing as he, ah... doesn't have to buy food. And we here at Penik-Cufecin, Inc. are strong believers in equal-opportunity employment, particularly in this brave new economy of ours. And particularly now, when so many are in need of gainful employment."
"But..." said Tom, dumbstruck. "But... he's undead!"
"The preferred term is 'newly risen,' Tom."
"But he's... I've been working here for 15 years! There's no way some walking pile of rot could do my job!"
"Tom!" exclaimed Mr. Retina, with just a hint of disgust in his voice. "I realize you're upset, but I hardly think that's called for!"
"But how will he negotiate with clients?" demanded Tom, fighting back tears. "All he can do is moan!"
"Tom!"
"But he's..."
"That's enough, Tom!" roared Mr. Retina, who had suddenly pulled a gun out of his desk and began waving it in the air. "Clean out your desk, and make it quick! I'm having security escort you out of the building at noon, you... you... anti-Deadite!"
As he passed the zombie on the way out of the office, Tom couldn't help but get a feeling of apprehension, fear, and even hurt feelings from the thing.
Or maybe it was just the toxic methane fumes that emanated from its decomposing digestive tract. Tom couldn't be sure.
Tom paused for a second to look it in the eye or at least what he thought was its eye before shaking his head and skulking dejectedly back to his desk.
As Tom drove home that afternoon, he was still in shock. What had happened to his world? Ever since the stupid Second Coming, everything he knew had been turned on its head. Zombies used to be the enemy; he still remembered all those horror films he had watched growing up. Films by directors like George Romero and Lucio Fulci, that depicted zombies as bloodthirsty, shambling horrors that detested the living and would tear apart and devour anyone unfortunate enough to cross their paths. He remembered that at the time, Romero's movies were also considered parables of society's fears and human greed; that the heroes were always quicker, smarter and better-armed than the armies of the undead, but always fell victim to their own selfishness. Had they worked together, they might have survived.
Perhaps there had been a valuable message in that, one that could benefit society in its current predicament, but it didn't matter anymore. Nobody would watch the films, as they were now viewed in the same light as racist cartoons from the 1940s; simply a shameful reminder of a less-enlightened time.
Tom's reverie broke as he pulled into his driveway. He glanced over at the box in the seat next to him, the box that was filled with the last 15 years of his life. How would he explain this to his wife, Emily? It's not like they had a lot of money in savings, and she'd been trying so hard to make ends meet lately. A social worker, Emily had been pulling extra hours at the re-acclimation center, doing her part to help the newly risen make the transition to rejoin the world of the living. Tom smirked. Where did Mr. Retina get off, calling him an anti-Deadite? If he had any idea how much time Tom's little trouper of a wife had spent trying to help those gamey bastards, Retina's head would probably explode from the shame.
Still smirking with the thought, Tom grabbed the box and kicked open the driver's-side door. As he walked toward the house, however, his smile fell. Something wasn't right here. The door was ajar! And from behind it, he could hear something faint... something like... moaning?
"Sweet Baby Jesus!" yelled Tom. "Emily!"
The contents of the box scattered across the front yard as Tom dashed toward the door. From the entry hall, Tom could hear the moans wafting down from upstairs. They were very distinctive, like something that had been in agony for years. The stench of death hung in the air.
"Good God," thought Tom. "It's just like one of the movies. They've finally turned on us, and one of them's in my house!"
Tom opened the closet and grabbed a golf club before running upstairs. The goriest images from the old movies started flashing through his mind. Was he too late? Would the zombies have already started eating Emily? Had they bitten her? If they'd bitten her, it was already too late. She'd turn into... one of them. It would be only a matter of time...
Tom tried to banish the thought. It was too horrible to even contemplate.
He paused outside the bedroom door. Yes, the noises were definitely coming from behind it. He took a deep breath and steeled himself before kicking the door open.
The scene that he saw horrified him. His wife lay on the bed, her clothes torn and mostly removed. On top of her was a man with purplish skin, in a similar state of undress. His back, which was arching lasciviously over Emily's prone form, had worn away in places, revealing his ribcage. It appeared Tom had found the source of the moaning and the stench.
"Fucking zombie!" Tom yelled as he swiped at the creature with the golf club. The swing went wild and clipped the walking corpse in the shoulder. It groaned loudly and rolled off of Emily, dazed.
"Tom!" screamed Emily.
"Emily!" screamed Tom.
"What the holy fucking FUCK do you think you're doing!?" demanded Emily.
"Wha'... I... huh?" said Tom, still maintaining a death grip on the golf club.
Emily quickly drew up a blanket to cover herself before crouching by the zombie's crumpled form and placing a hand on its shoulder. The thing emitted a quiet, sobbing groan.
"Jesus, Tom," said Emily, sounding annoyed. "You could have really hurt him! Where do you get off, coming in here and swiping at someone with a golf club!? What the hell do you think this is, Texas circa 1890?"
"Uh?" said Tom, utterly confused. After a moment's pause, he dropped the golf club. "So you're... he wasn't trying to eat you? Emily, what the fuck is going on?"
Emily sighed. "Well, Tom, I can understand how you'd be angry..."
Understanding slowly began to dawn on Tom. "Emily, you... you're not... tell me you're not having an affair!"
Emily looked up at him with tears in her eyes. "I'm sorry, Tom." Her voice was choked. "We were going to tell you... Brian and I... we've... we've been seeing each other for the past month."
Tom closed his eyes and exhaled slowly.
"I'm so sorry," continued Emily. "But with money so tight, we were both turning into workaholics, and it seemed like you never had time for me anymore. But Brian... he listened to me. He was INTERESTED in me. He listened to my problems..."
Tom shook his head. "Now I've seen everything," he muttered.
"What's that supposed to mean?" Emily snapped, her tears flowing in earnest.
"Well, Jee-zus fucking Christ, Emily. Maybe I wouldn't be quite so surprised if it weren't for the fact that you've been sleeping with a member of the walking dead!"
"Hey!" yelled Emily.
"I mean, wasn't the STENCH a bit of a turnoff? How about those missing patches on his fucking BACK!? Have I been married to a fucking necrophiliac all these years? Are you a necrophiliac, Emily? Are you?"
"Tom!" screamed Emily. "That's enough! He's just as human as you or me!"
The zombie-sob-groaned again, rubbing its shoulder. It looked up at Tom, its expression a mix of fear and resentment.
"Yeah, sure," said Tom. "Whatever." He then turned around and left the scene.
"Tom!" shrieked Emily. "Where are you going?"
"Out," said Tom.
Later that night, Tom found himself slumped dejectedly on a barstool, staring blankly into a glass of cheap, American beer. The attempt to drink away his sorrows wasn't working; he had forgotten that he hated the taste of Coors, and he was still able to think clearly despite the fog that had settled over his senses. Besides that, he was still sober enough to realize that he was just pissing away what little pocket money he had left. The other patrons at the bar that night looked cold and unsympathetic to Tom, all either having their own conversations or crouching protectively over their own drinks.
Tom took another long gulp of his beer, draining the glass before slamming it back on to the bar. He grimaced at the bitter taste. The Coors was beginning to work its magic on his thought processes. The bartender stopped in front of him.
"Hey there, buddy. Want a refill?" asked the barkeep, a wiry, balding man who appeared to be somewhere in his late 30s.
"Sure thing, Tony," said Tom, reading the bartender's nametag. "Actually," he said, digging through his pockets, "get me a shot of Jim Beam, would you?"
"You sure about that, chief?" asked Tony. "You know the old saying about mixing beer and liquor."
"Positive," said Tom. He lifted his empty glass, swirling what was left of its contents. "I'm sick of this crap. Leave the bottle."
"Sure, boss. Whatever you say," said Tony. Ducking behind the bar, he returned with a bottle of Jim Beam and a shotglass. Tom forked over the necessary cash.
Tony put his elbow on the bar. "Say there, buddy. You don't seem like the alcoholic type. Is there, ah, some reason you're indulging so heavily?"
"Oh, it's a long story," said Tom. He poured himself a glass of whiskey and drained it before pouring himself another one. "It's just... today, I lost everything those filthy, stinking bastards. You know. The 'new arrivals.' They took my job, and then they took my wife. Bastards."
Tony let out a low whistle. "That's rough, man, but I know what you mean. I hate those fucking Mexicans, too."
"No, no, not..." said Tom, but Tony had already flitted off to refill another customer's glass. "Racist fuck," he murmured into his drink.
Before long, Tony turned his attention to the TV. Flipping through channels, he finally settled on Fox News.
"Ah," said Tony. "The only unbiased media in the country!"
The stories were unsurprising and par for the course. President Bush visiting an orphanage. Clinton investigated on allegations of unpaid parking tickets. Democrats denouncing the reign of Jesus Christ as "unconstitutional." After reading this last item, the newscaster rolled his eyes and muttered, "wankers," under his breath.
Finally, the newscast concluded. Next up was one of those "opinion" shows, where they would stick two guests with radically differing viewpoints into the same room and see which one cracked first.
Tonight's guests were Pat Buchanan and some guy named Arthur Reynaldo. Reynaldo, as it turned out, was a spokesman for the National Association for the Advancement of the Newly Risen (NAANR). He was also quite dead.
The host, a smug bastard of a man named Thad Green, introduced his guests. He then turned to Buchanan. "Mr. Buchanan, you've been roundly criticized by the liberal media for your outspoken stance on the newly risen Now, I understand that you advocate petitioning Jesus Christ to simply stop resurrecting the dead. Many of your critics have said that if you had your way, you'd implement some sort of extermination program to destroy anyone who has already, ah, passed on. How do you respond to this?"
"Well, Thad," said Buchanan, "first off, let me say that I do not advocate the killing of the undead." He leveled this last phrase across the table at Reynaldo. Reynaldo looked peeved, but remained silent. "Although I will say that back in my younger days, we would not have hesitated to put a bullet through the head of anything that managed to claw its way up through the soil no offense to my distinguished colleague, of course."
The zombie sneered.
Buchanan ignored this and continued. "But Thad, we as a people have simply got to realize that enough is enough. Our economy can no longer sustain the influx of resurrected persons. We're already reaching a breaking point. Thousands of qualified, living individuals are being denied jobs, apartments, even firearms, because these... 'newly risen' have overloaded our society. We need to face facts, Thad; America can no longer afford to solve the employment problems of the afterlife. If nothing else, we should stop creating them before we reach critical mass."
The host smiled and nodded before turning to the zombie. "Your response, Mr. Reynaldo?"
Reynaldo opened his mouth for a moment, but was silent. Buchanan and Green waited politely, watching him expectantly. Finally, Reynaldo belched, which was followed by a long wheeze. Buchanan and Green wrinkled their noses in disgust.
"Auuuuuurrrrrrrrgggggggggggh," moaned Reynaldo. He then paused, raised an eyebrow at Buchanan, and leaned forward. "Auuuuurgggh. Ugggggggghhh. Hgluuuuuggghhh!"
As Reynaldo continued, Tom shook his head. "Fucking zombies," he said, not realizing how loud he was being. "Why can't they fucking speak English!?"
A hush fell over the bar. All eyes were on Tom.
Tony muted the TV set before walking over to Tom. "What did you just say?"
"I said, 'Why can't they fucking speak fucking English?'" said Tom. "Why do they have to groan all the damn time? I can't understand a single damn thing."
"Ooo-kay," said Tony. "Look, buddy, I think you've had enough. Why don't you hit the road, huh?"
"But... but..." stammered Tom. "You don't understand! You don't know what they're like!"
Tony cracked his knuckles. "Hey, fuckface, my WIFE is one of those 'fucking zombies.' So unless you want me to throw you out, I suggest you leave now."
Tom blinked. "You... you're a necrophiliac, too?"
"That fucking does it!" yelled Tony. Tom only felt the first punch Tony landed before blacking out. When he awoke the next morning, he found himself crawling weakly out of a dumpster.
Back in the present, Tom kept walking down the street. He'd given the last of his money to that zombie. Now, he thought, he genuinely had nothing but the clothes on his back.
He kept walking. As he was reflecting on previous events, it had begun to rain. He turned up the collar of his jacket and did his best to ignore the downpour. The streets were deserted, and there didn't even seem to be much life in the buildings. Ducking down a side street, he passed a small house, not unlike the one he had left the day before. The light was still on, and the living-room curtain was open. From his vantage point on the street, he could see that inside was a family of three zombies. The mother and father rocked back and forth on the couch like idiot children, waving proudly at their young son as he walked repeatedly into the same patch of wall.
Tom stood on the street awhile longer, watching them. Before long, he could feel hot, salty tears blending with the cold raindrops on his cheeks. It wasn't fair. These creatures, these undead husks, were enjoying the life he had always wanted, and they weren't even alive. It just wasn't fair.
Tom gritted his teeth and sighed before turning away and continuing on his way. Dimly, he recalled his destination: the Umbrella building. Raccoon City's only skyscraper, it towered above the flat Midwestern landscape in the distance. Tom quickened his pace.
After what seemed like hours, Tom had arrived, cold and drenched, on the marble front steps of the Umbrella building. He looked up at the towering structure, all but deserted except for the lobby and a few still-illuminated offices on the upper levels. He looked at his watch. It was after midnight, but there was still a chance of getting in. Trying the front door, he found it unlocked, and slipped inside.
Stepping in out of the rain was a bit of a shock. He shivered and wiped the water off his face with one hand, adjusting to the climate-controlled building. Taking a look around at his surroundings, he saw that the night security guard had fallen asleep at his desk. Clucking his tongue in gentle disapproval, Tom shook the water out of his hair and headed for the elevator.
On the ride up, Tom reflected on what he was about to do. He no longer had anything to lose. His wife, his job, and everything else he had cared about for the past 15 years was gone. Years before, he might have tried to pick up the pieces and start anew, but now that seemed impossible. This was no longer the world that he had been born into; it had gone mad. He chuckled at the irony of his predicament. He had always been a fairly liberal person, always willing to accept new facts and opinions. But this... this was too much. It was too crowded, now. The beauty had ebbed out of life as he knew it, replaced by horrible rot. The stench of death hung everywhere in this new, modern America. He no longer belonged to this world, and this world no longer belonged to him.
"40th floor," intoned the elevator's robotic voice. "Enjoy your visit to Umbrella headquarters." Tom nodded weakly, stepped out of the elevator and climbed the stairs to the roof.
Back in the pouring rain, Tom took a deep breath, smelling the chill night air as if for the first time. The wind was very strong at this altitude, and it drowned out all other sound as it whipped past his ears. He started to draw his jacket closer around him, then shrugged and threw it into the air. The wind picked it up, and it sailed a few feet before dropping to the ground and being dragged across to the guardrails, where it stayed.
Tom watched it, then shrugged again. "Whatever," he said, and walked over to where his jacket lay. He picked it up, threw it over the side and watched it fall. After a few stories, a gust of wind picked it up and carried it off into the night sky.
Tom sighed, shook his head, and climbed over the guardrail. He took a long, hard look at the street below.
Then he fell forward into the emptiness.
"Well, Tom," said Mr. Retina, adjusting his glasses, "this is highly irregular. I didn't expect you back here so soon."
He swiveled his chair around to face away from Tom and out his office window. He blinked at the sunlight filtering in through the blinds like a mole.
"However, it so happens that we've had a few openings as of late. Although I must consider that you were, at best, a less-than-stellar salesman during your prior stint at Penik-Cufecin."
Tom nodded, a little nervously.
"However, it's come to my attention that you've been making improvements elsewhere in your life congratulations on patching things up with Emily, by the way so expect that you'll be making similar improvements as a professional."
Mr. Retina turned back around to face Tom. "So bearing this in mind, along with your recent... difficulties... I'm prepared to offer you your old job back, albeit at a much lower salary. It'd be good to have you around the office again, Tom. What do you say?"
Tom nodded, more enthusiastically.
"Excellent," said Mr. Retina, the sunlight glancing off his massive spectacles. "I'll have Maureen bring in the paperwork. It'll be good to have you back, Tom. I mean, if nothing else, you'll help us fulfill our quotas, right?" At this, Mr. Retina leaned across the desk and slapped Tom playfully on the shoulder before breaking into laughter. "I'm kidding, of course, Tom. That wasn't even a factor in my decision to re-hire you."
"Aaauuuuuuuurrrrrrrgrggghh," said Tom.
It was on a chill October night that Tom found himself walking the streets of Raccoon City alone. Certainly, he had nothing to fear; Raccoon was a small town with an overbudgeted police department and one of the country's lowest crime rates. He didn't entirely know why he had decided to go out for a walk that night; he needed to clear his head, and this simply seemed to be a step in the right direction. So many things had happened over the past 48 hours, it was hard to adjust.