The Other Job
by Stephanie Scarborough

Zombies. They’ll be the death of me. I live in the radiation-laced cut-rate-Hollywood town of Newfield, which has been plagued with radioactive zombies for the last 60 years, and I’m the only resident with the cajones to deal with them. It’s my lot in life, I suppose—struggling B-movie actress by day, zombie hunter by night.

These thoughts were running through my head as I shampooed my overbleached hair. I always think too much in the shower. Kurt, my man of the moment, was still asleep. He’s really more than just my man of the moment—he’s the man of my dreams—but I try not to get attached. They never stick around long. My other job as a zombie hunter always gets in the way. But if I don’t take care of them, no one else will. I finished washing my hair and commenced with usual preening—rollers, cold cream, vanishing cream—then returned to the bedroom in my rollers and bathrobe. Kurt was gone, but his suit was still draped over the chair. I headed to the kitchen to see if he was making coffee, or, if he was really swell, making breakfast. I poked my head in the kitchen to find the percolator going while Kurt, in his boxers and t-shirt, peered into my sorely understocked refrigerator. Chan’s Take-Out does most of my cooking.

“Hey, sleepyhead.” I leaned against the doorway, taking in the sight of Kurt’s gloriously chiseled body. We met on the set of Forgotten Women—he was the two-timing playboy, and I was the bitter spinster he’d wronged. “You’re not gonna find anything in there.”

Kurt turned around, letting the refrigerator close behind him.

“Beth!” He greeted me with a healthy kiss on the lips. “I was going to scramble some eggs, but then I realized there weren’t any.” My kitchen is pathetic. It’s not that I can’t cook, but between movie shoots and killing zombies, there’s no time.

“Yes, I’m terrible,” I said. “Why don’t we go out?” I ran my fingers through his lovely black hair. God, he’s gorgeous. I’d better not ruin this with my zombie-fighting antics.

We got dressed and headed to Margie’s, the place I stop to eat when I’m not in a hurry. We sat on the patio. It was a perfect day to bask in the warm sun and eat syrup-drenched French toast. I can never truly let myself relax, though. At any second the zombie alarm could sound, and if that happened, my leisurely Sunday was shot to hell.

“There haven’t been many zombie outbreaks lately,” Kurt observed. I shuddered. The last thing I wanted to think about was zombies.

“Please, don’t say that. You’ll curse it.” I lit a cigarette and basked in the gentle morning breeze. When zombies aren’t running amok, Newfield’s a pretty swell place, if you ignore all the B-list wannabes who think they’re hot stuff.

Kurt took my hand as we sat there and gazed into my eyes. Damn, I love him. He’s just perfect. Last night, before we got down to business, he gave me the most amazing massage. In the two years I’ve been fighting zombies, I’ve ripped, sprained and pulled just about every muscle in my body, including many muscles I didn’t even know I had until last night.

“Beth,” he said, “I love you.”

“I love you, too, Kurt,” I said. Would I get in trouble if I ripped Kurt’s clothes off and made love to him right here on the table? Hmmm. I suppose I should restrain myself.

“Beth, I have something I need to ask you.”

I felt my heart flutter as he reached into his jacket pocket. As I stared into his eyes, about to melt, I knew my day was about to go to hell. Down the block, past Kurt, I could see Maxine Atrophy. I only see Maxine when something horrible is about to happen. And at the exact moment I spotted Maxine, the zombie alarm’s shrill screech pierced the air.

“Son of a bitch!” I screamed, not caring how unladylike I sounded. My fist slammed the tabletop, causing our dishes and silverware to rattle. “I’m sorry, Kurt. I have to go. Duty calls.” I got up and grabbed my purse. Kurt stood up and took my hands.

“I understand, Beth.” He kissed me on the cheek. “I’ll see you later. Just be careful.”

I tore myself away from Kurt and sprinted towards Maxine. Maxine’s a domesticated. She was my best friend and costume designer, and I was going to be damned if I was going to let her turn into a mindless shell of a human.

Maxine was riding Rio, my unicorn. Due to mutations caused by the massive radiation around here, we have unicorns, and since we’re walled off from the rest of the world, you’ll only find them in Newfield. As I approached her, she dismounted Rio and readied my supplies: machete; Tommy gun; big, pointy stick. I usually change into my silver stompin’ boots and silver and white jumpsuit before I take off, but it looked like there was no time for that. I’d have to kick ass in my pink dress and white heels. It wouldn’t be the first time.

“Okay, Maxine,” I said, mounting Rio, “what’s the story?” Maxine strapped my arsenal of weapons onto Rio. She pointed to the east side of town, as always. Everything zombie-related happens on the east side of town—that’s where all the cemeteries are. “So, how bad is it?”

Maxine only shrugged and waved me off, and I rode over to the east side.

 

 

 

When I got there, things were strangely calm. Not a zombie in sight. I prayed it was a false alarm, but if Maxine said there were zombies, there were zombies; I just had to find them. Rio scouted the area, and within ten minutes, I’d spotted the problem. A dozen or so zombies were terrorizing La Vache Mutileé, a steakhouse across the street from Norris Cemetery. Rio and I burst through the front door to find zombies sampling not La Vache Mutileé’sjuicy porterhouse steaks, but La Vache Mutileé’s clientele. The teenage hostess crouched behind a podium immediately clung to my side, cowering.

“Miss Hughes,” she said, “you’ve gotta stop them. They’re eating our customers . . .”

This would be a piece of cake. I dismounted Rio, machete in hand, and figured out where to start. How about the frail-looking grandpa zombie who had just sunk his dentures into a waiter’s neck? With a single swipe of my machete, grandpa’s head was on the floor. Another one lurched towards me wielding a salad fork. I backed away and started to chop her head off, until I felt cold hands on the back of my neck—there was one behind me, too. And there was another one to my left. Since the zombie behind me was closest (and because I could feel her warm, sour breath on my neck), I spun around and ran my machete through her, then whipped back around and took care of the other two. Then, a shriek came from the kitchen. I burst through the swinging chrome door to find several zombies and a waitress and a chef fighting for their lives. The waitress was futilely smacking one of the zombies with a rolling pin. I sifted through the kitchen drawers until I came across an assortment of knives. I grabbed a meat cleaver and handed it to her.

“Save yourself some energy and go for the head,” I said. Trembling, she took the meat cleaver and shot me a skeptical glance. But as soon as the zombie started running his hands down her frilly pink uniform, her hesitation evaporated, and she drove the meat cleaver right between his eyes.

“Now keep doing that until they’re all gone.” I handed a carving knife to the chef and gave him the same instructions. It’s nice to have a little help sometimes. Between the three of us, the diner was zombie-free within fifteen minutes.

Or so I thought.

As I started to leave, a zombie bite victim rose up from one of the tables. I wouldn’t have noticed her except I felt a tug on my dress. I turned around, took one look at her, grabbed a broken chair nearby and sent it flying into the side of her head. With that, I sighed and leaned against the doorway, ready to call it a day. The meat-cleaver-wielding waitress thanked me for my help with a coupon for a free dinner when I bought another dinner at regular price. I groaned, feigned gratitude and headed home.

#

Kurt’s blue Cadillac was parked in the driveway when I got home. He was probably here to tell me that things just wouldn’t work out between us or that I was too married to my job. I’d heard it all before.

I stumbled through the front door, feeling ashamed of what a mess I was—blood-splattered dress, ripped stockings, my makeup smeared to hell and back. Kurt was sitting on the couch, reading the newspaper.

“Beth, honey, are you alright?” He dropped the paper and joined me, gently touching my blood-stained forehead. “You’re not hurt, are you?”

“I’m peachy,” I said, “I just need a long, hot shower.” I headed for the bathroom. I’m pretty dense when it comes to interpersonal communication. I undressed, got in the shower and cranked the water up as hot as I could stand, letting the stinging hot water pummel my skin, breathing in the thick steam, wishing I could pass out for a few hours. As I stood there under the stream of water, my eyes closed, I heard the shower curtain rustle. I opened my eyes to see Kurt standing before me. He wrapped his arms around me, his chest pressed against my back. That’s what I needed.

“I’m sorry I left during breakfast,” I said. His hands slid down my waist.

“Don’t be,” he whispered between kisses.

Okay, then, I won’t be sorry. I’ll do anything Kurt says. He turned me around so I was facing him and pressed his lips against mine. If every shower after a zombie-slaying were like this, being a zombie killer wouldn’t be quite so bad.

“I just wish there was something I could do to help,” he said. “I feel awful, you going off alone to fight all those zombies. I feel like I should go with you.”

That wasn’t what I wanted to hear.

“Kurt,” I said, “you don’t need to do a damn thing except support me. None of this, ‘oh, it’s too dangerous’ drivel that most guys give me. When the zombies attack, just stay home, take cover and let me do my job. Okay?”

“Okay,” he said, although he didn’t look entirely okay.

#

After the shower, a massage, and many other things I’ll refrain from mentioning as part of my wilting effort of being a proper lady, we lulled around in bed, me in my fuzzy pink robe, Kurt in his boxers, this time without a shirt to obstruct my view of his beautiful body. My days are rarely this enjoyable—it’s usually photo shoots, shooting movies on location in some abandoned warehouse or skeezy bar, making media appearances, and, of course, killing zombies. I hoped today’s outbreak was the last for a while. While we were lying there, Kurt got up and fished something out of his jacket that was draped ever so poetically over a chair.

 

 

“Beth,” he said as he sat back down, “I wanted to give you something this morning before you left. He handed me a small black box. “I also wanted to ask you something.” He looked right into my eyes and opened the box. “Beth, I love you very much, and I’d like for you to marry me.” Inside the box was a platinum bracelet, studded with sapphires. He clasped it around my wrist. “So, will you?”

“Yes,” I said. Kurt and I kissed, then lulled around a while longer. I brought out the projector, and we watched Forgotten Women. I played the angst-addled spinster, which wasn’t much of a stretch. I’d just been dumped by Roger Von Schinder who insisted my place was in the house, not running around in an unnecessarily skimpy jumpsuit hunting zombies. So, the black hair was very fitting at the time.

After the movie was over, Kurt had to go—he had to be on location at the crack of dawn to shoot a scene for The Truth About Murder. The scene was going to be shot at Wood Cemetery, just down the road from Norris Cemetery. This gave me an uneasy feeling in my gut—zombies had popped out of their graves during movie shoots before. It happened on the set of Blonde Vengeance five years ago. I was the only survivor.

#

When my best friend, Kitty laid her eyes on the bracelet Kurt had given me, her squeal rivaled the shrillness of the zombie alarm.

“That’s amazing, Beth! You deserve a celebratory cocktail.” She headed to the bar in her enormous Moderne kitchen and worked on making a couple of dirty martinis. I’ve always been secretly envious of Kitty and her husband, Eddie and their enormous streamline mansion. They’re everything I want Kurt and I to be.

After a few round of cocktails, I gave Maxine a call and invited her to join us. She didn’t say anything, because she never says anything, but fifteen minutes later, she was at the front door. I could see she rode Rio over.

“Maxine,” I said, reveling in my giddiness. “Look!” I showed her my bracelet. “Kurt proposed to me! We’re getting married! Isn’t that swell?”

Maxine grunted her approval, but she seemed awfully subdued about it, like something was on her mind. Kitty kept the booze flowing, and just as I was about to down my second third one, Maxine snatched the glass out of my hands.

“Maxine! What’s the deal?”

She cocked an eyebrow and crossed her arms over her chest. She had to be kidding.

“There’s no outbreak,” I said. “I haven’t heard a siren all day.” I knew Maxine wouldn’t lie, but there just couldn’t be another outbreak already. Maxine took me by the arm and dragged me out the door. “Dammit, Maxine, if there’s an outbreak, I’d like to know where the hell it is.” Maxine reached into the pocket of her dress and handed me a small scrap of paper. I unfolded it to find that my worst fears had become reality. The words “WOOD CEMETERY” stared up at me from the paper.

#

As I rode, bleary-eyed, to Wood Cemetery, I urged Rio to put a little fire under it. Thank god for Maxine’s foresight—she’d even strapped my weapons to Rio. When we arrived, it was everything I feared—the cemetery had become a zombie playground. Cameras were overturned, the cast and crew running for their lives. Some of the more cavalier cast and crew were defending themselves with whatever they could find. My first concern was finding Kurt. I grabbed my Tommy gun and tore into the zombies, all the while looking for him. Two zombies clawed at my legs. I kicked one in the jaw and steered Rio around so that he trampled the other. Brittle zombie bones crunched beneath his hooves. We tore through the cemetery, taking out all zombies in our wake, still with no sign of Kurt. What few cast and crew members remained were scrambling out of the graveyard. Film and film canisters were strewn all over the ground.

“Kurt!” I screamed. “Kurt, where are you?”

Nothing. I was down to three zombies. I pumped them full of lead and continued searching. I hoped he had escaped—that he was at home or safely tucked away somewhere in town.

Before I could make much progress in my search, a crypt began to rattle. The angel statue on top of it wobbled, then crashed into the ground, breaking into several large pieces. I shot at the crypt, but all that did was weaken the door, which began to crack. A massive, gray fist plunged through the stone. Meanwhile, a cold hand crept up my leg—another zombie was clawing its way out of the ground below me. I kicked at the hand, breaking it clean off the arm it had been attached to. Meanwhile, my friend in the crypt had completely liberated himself, and he was a beast—nearing seven feet tall and easily three hundred pounds.

This would’ve been a good time for me to ride away on Rio and pretend this wasn’t happening. But I decided to be proactive and shot the normal-sized zombie who’d just climbed out of the ground so I could focus on more important issue. Like this monster zombie.

The gigantic zombie stomped towards me, growling, his mouth hanging wide open. I aimed my machine gun at his head and let him have it

Or would have. If I wasn’t out of ammo. The empty click that ensued made my heart sink.

 

 

The monstrous zombie stomped towards me, roaring. I had nothing to defend myself with, so I got Rio running straight towards him. It was a crapshoot, but it was my only chance. I steered him so that his horn would (hopefully) run right through the giant zombie’s head. Rio knew just what to do. I heard the thunk and crunch of Rio’s horn meeting thick, dead flesh. His horn had made it through the neck, but the head was still attached. I shuddered to think I’d have to try again. The zombie bellowed his displeasure.

We took another run, this time tearing the head away. My stomach convulsed with nausea as I heard the flesh rip and the dull thud of the head hitting the ground. I looked around. No more zombies. Now I just had to find Kurt. Rio tore his bloodied horn out of the zombie’s neck, and we searched cemetery. I called out Kurt’s name several times to no avail. I urged Rio along, about to give up until I heard grunting behind a large headstone.

“Come on, Rio,” I said, steering him towards the grave. “Let’s see what other horrors await us.”

There, behind the headstone lay Kurt. He was alive, but he didn’t look right. I dismounted Rio and ran to his side. I knelt down and tried to help him up, but he groaned in protest.

“No, Beth,” he whispered. “I can’t. It hurts too much.” I eased him back down and stroked his hair.

“Kurt,” I said, “we’ve got to get you to the hospital. You’re hurt. What happened?”

He didn’t answer. I took his hand in mine, and it felt so cold. His eyes narrowed to slits. I gently slapped his face to try and bring him back, but he was slipping away. I shook him—anything to bring him back, then I saw the wound in his side and the dam of tears broke. I held him, biting my lower lip, convulsing, while he bled, my hand holding his for dear life. Then, his eyes opened, just barely.

“I think I’m going to be okay,” he murmured. “I feel fine, Beth. I’m fine, right?” His grip on my hand loosened. His body grew limp. I held him tighter, tears pouring down my face.

“I love you, Beth,” Kurt said, his voice barely a whisper now. “I love you.” Those were his last words. I let loose, crying so hard I almost choked, and if I did choke, I wouldn’t care. Kurt sank into my arms. I sat there, all alone, surrounded by the wreckage of the outbreak. I clutched him tighter, wishing it’d bring him back. I held him until he began to stir, then I stood back to see what happened. He rose and shambled towards me. My fears about his wound were about to be confirmed.

“Kurt,” I said, “it’s me, Beth. Do you remember me?”

He only grunted and lurched towards me. His hand touched my shoulder.

“Kurt, say something.”

He leaned towards me, like he was going to bite me. I almost let him, then reason got the best of me. I stepped away, picked up my machete and did the unthinkable.

“Kurt, I love you,” I said, closing my eyes. The sound of my machete tearing through flesh brought fresh tears to my eyes. As I gathered my weapons, I came across a film canister. I picked it up, mounted Rio and headed to Kitty’s. I couldn’t go home to an empty house tonight. I arrived a pink, tear-stained mess. Kitty led me inside, helped me get cleaned up, and loaned me some fresh clothes. I told her about Kurt. After I’d stopped sobbing uncontrollably, I asked Kitty if I could use her projector room. I put the reel from the film can in the projector and watched the takes of Kurt in his costume, giving his closing speech for the film. He’d occasionally flub a line or break out laughing, and they’d start over again. I didn’t know why I was doing this to myself. I watched for a few minutes longer, then I shut the projector off and sat in the darkness and cried myself to sleep.