Flesh Feast
Zombie Office Series, Episode 10: "Flesh Feast"
Content Rating 18+
The "Television Show" for Books presents:
"Flesh Feast"
Jimothy Dyck was working overtime at the office, again – because his co-worker, Jerry, most definitely got his face eaten off by zombies.
“Thank God it’s Friday!” Jimothy exclaimed as he poured himself a cup of coffee in the break room. “Doing anything neat this weekend?”
“Taking the kid to Thunderdome,” Ted from Accounting replied.
“Geez! How much did those tickets set you back?”
“An arm and a leg.”
Jimothy checked his bank account balance and immediately considered throwing himself into a zombie horde.
What even is the point of it all?
Everything became so much more expensive after the zombies came. Jimothy’s mortgage was overdue. The razor wire fence around his house was starting to collapse. And the kids were getting hungry.
It was like everything he did was never enough.
“See you Monday,” Ted grinned, slipping on his human skull face mask.
“Have fun at Thunderdome,” Jimothy mumbled as he loaded his shotgun.
The sun set over Harmony Lane as he pulled up in front of his house. His faded brown 1997 Ford Taurus sputtered to a stop under the flickering porch light.
Jimothy pushed up his dark-rimmed glasses, held together with a strip of white tape, and slunk up the front steps.
He grabbed the front door handle and turned.
It came off in his hand.
“Of course.”
He pushed the door open.
Jimothy sighed, loosened his tie, and plopped himself down on the couch.
He reached for the bottle of beer sitting next to him.
The tasty beverage went down smooth – until Jimothy realized he never put it there.
Fuck!
Jimothy froze in wide-eyed terror.
No sudden movement.
His eyes darted around the room.
The TV cast an eerie glow.
He looked into the moving shadows, waiting for his eyes to adjust.
Jimothy focused on the curtains and bookshelf – the coat hanging from a hook, a pile of laundry, and the floor lamp standing in the corner.
His eyes swept back across the room – the floor lamp, laundry, bookshelf, and curtains.
Jimothy set the beer down ever so slowly.
The bottle clinked.
The coat lunged.
“Jennica!”
His zombified daughter came raging over the coffee table.
Jimothy ducked.
Jennica hurtled over the couch, snapping her neck against the wall.
Her stiffened corpse crumpled to the floor.
“Daddy’s had a long day!”
Jennica looked him dead in the eyes and growled.
The demon child cracked her twisted neck back into place.
“C’mon, sweetie.”
Jimothy dragged his deceased daughter back to the basement, kicking and screaming.
She hungers.
Jimothy shuddered as he secured her shackles to the wall.
What scared him most was that she almost got him with the beer.
Jimothy went to check on his wife, Maria.
Maria snarled at Jimothy as soon as he opened the bedroom door. Her chain went taut. She was so ready to eat him alive.
Jimothy sat at the edge of Maria’s bed, just out of her reach.
“I’m trying, Maria.”
Maria moaned, foaming at the mouth.
He carefully brushed Maria’s hair behind her ear with the tip of his finger.
“I’ll bring dinner, my love, I promise.”
Jimothy closed the door and went to see his son, Willy.
Not much had changed with Willy.
He was still playing video games, gnawing on the controller.
They’re getting hungry. How am I supposed to be a good husband and father if I can’t even put food on the table for my family?
Jimothy went back upstairs and opened the refrigerator.
A bottle of ketchup. Half a carton of milk. A slice of processed cheese.
That was it.
Then a horrible screech came from the backyard.
“Oh, for fuck’s sake!”
Jimothy trudged outside to inspect the perimeter.
Old Ms. Mueller was tangled up in his razor wire fence.
The elderly widow next door had complained to the HOA about Jimothy’s sagging fence.
Jimothy rummaged through his garage and returned with a shovel.
“Sucks to be you.”
He struck Mueller dead – again.
“What was that?”
Jimothy’s neighbour poked his head around the corner.
“Ms. Mueller got her face eaten off by zombies.”
“Hmm.”
Jimothy struggled to free her body from the razor wire.
Mueller’s decomposing arm tore off at the shoulder.
Robert came over and gave Jimothy a hand.
“I’ll notify her next of kin,” Robert said.
They buried old Ms. Mueller in a shallow grave behind her house.
“Phew!” Jimothy wiped the sweat from his brow. “You doing anything after this?”
“Watching Thunderdome.”
Jimothy paused.
Thunderdome.
A smile crept across his face.
“Come over. We’ll watch it together.”
“Sounds good.”
Jimothy yoinked a casserole from Ms. Mueller’s fridge.
He returned home and took a quick shower.
The doorbell chimed.
“Come in, buddy.”
Jimothy greeted Robert with a couple of beers.
“This is an emergency announcement,” the TV blared. “Stay home and barricade your windows and doors. Do not leave your house… unless you want 70 percent off your favourite brand-name home furnishings at Ray’s Furniture Warehouse – proud sponsor of THUNDERDOME!”
The TV cut back to Thunderdome.
“Finally!” Jimothy complained. “Pay for a subscription and you still have to sit through thirty minutes of commercials.”
“That never changed, dude.”
DING.
The oven timer went off.
“Dinner’s ready.”
Jimothy excused himself.
The gladiators on TV fought to the death.
He took out the casserole and disappeared downstairs.
The crowd roared.
Jimothy returned a few minutes later.
“Smells like someone died,” Robert said.
“It’s this new Argentinian beef,” Jimothy replied. “Aged to perfection.”
Robert cracked open another brewski.
“How are the little ankle-biters?” Robert asked.
“The kids?” Jimothy replied. “They’re monsters.”
“We’re expecting our third,” Robert beamed.
“Congratulations.”
The battle went to commercial.
Robert got up to use the bathroom.
“Uh – toilet’s out. Use the one downstairs.”
Jimothy opened the basement door.
“After you, good sir.”
Robert took a step down the stairs.
Then another.
“That smell…”
Robert turned.
Jimothy gulped.
“Sorry.”
SHOVE.
Robert tumbled down the stairs.
His head hit the wall.
Robert groaned.
Jimothy stared into the darkness.
A chain scraped across the concrete.
“Jimothy?!”
His hands trembled.
“Help me!”
Jimothy closed the door.
“Round two!” the announcer shouted.
Dinner was served – cold.
Robert’s muffled screams echoed through the vents.
Jimothy ate in front of the TV.
Something crashed into the wall.
Jimothy flinched.
Then it all went quiet.
“He’s DEAD!” the announcer cheered.
Jimothy’s eyes began to well.
Every day was a living death for Jimothy Dyck.
He took out the trash.
Turned off the TV.
And fell asleep on the couch.
Having lived to die another day, unfortunately.
End.
