THE ZOM ZOM CHRONICLES CHAPTER 3 ( The Most Terrifying Sound on Earth ( It’s Not What You Think )
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Here is Chapter 3, the strategizing floor plan, and the narrator's morbidly funny Last Will and Testament.
THE ZOM ZOM CHRONICLES
Post Title: The Most Terrifying Sound on Earth (It’s Not What You Think)
Date: Tuesday, Twilight? Is it Tuesday still?
Mood: Confused and strangely intimidated.
Current Status: No longer alone. Unfortunately.
They say in space, no one can hear you scream.
In an office building during the apocalypse, everyone can hear you whistling the "Kars4Kids" jingle.
That’s what it was. 1-877-Kars4Kids...
I gripped The Ex-Calibur. My knuckles were white. The whistling stopped right outside the closet door. I held my breath, smelling bleach and lemon floor wax.
A shadow fell across the crack under the door.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
It wasn't the frantic pounding of a survivor. It wasn't the wet slapping sound of Gary trying to open a door with his face. It was a polite, assertive, "I need to speak to the manager" knock.
I don't know why I opened it. Maybe I thought a Zom Zom wouldn't knock. Maybe I just wanted it to be over. I unlocked the door, threw it open, and thrust my scissors-mop-stapler spear forward with a battle cry that sounded more like a strangled squeak.
The point of the scissors stopped exactly one inch from the nose of Brenda from Human Resources.
Enter Brenda
Brenda was wearing a sensible beige pantsuit. Her hair was in an immobile bun. She was holding a clipboard. She looked at the rusty scissors hovering in front of her face, then down at the stapler taped to the other end, and finally, up at me.
She didn't blink.
"That is not regulation equipment," Brenda said. Her voice was flat. It was the voice she used when denying vacation requests.
"Brenda?" I lowered the spear. "Are you... okay? Did you see Gary?"
"Gary is currently violating several conduct codes in the lobby," she replied, making a note on her clipboard. "We are dealing with a severe productivity bottleneck. Also, you’ve spilled wax everywhere. That’s a slip-and-fall hazard. I’m documenting this."
I stared at her. The world had ended. People were eating people. And Brenda was documenting slip hazards.
"Brenda, they are zombies! Zom Zoms! They're eating faces!"
She sighed, the sound of a dying air conditioner. "The company prefers the term 'Aggressive Personnel Non-Compliance.' Look, I don’t have time for your hysterics. The network is down. I need to get to the server room on the 4th floor to secure the Q3 projections before the backup battery fails."
She stepped over the wax puddle, completely unfazed.
"Are you coming? You seem to have... initiative." She eyed The Ex-Calibur with disdain. "We can use the stairs by the east wing. The lobby is currently unacceptable."
I have a choice. Stay in the closet and wait for Gary to figure out doorknobs, or follow Brenda, a woman so deeply embedded in corporate culture that she doesn't realize the civilization that created it has collapsed.
I grabbed my backpack. I’m following Brenda. Honestly? I think the Zom Zoms might be scared of her.
THE ESCAPE PLAN (A.K.A. Brenda's Death March)
Brenda made me draw this on the back of an overdue invoice while she lectured me about proper footwear for emergencies.
THE GOAL: Get from Ground Zero (Closet) to the 4th Floor Server Room without becoming an appetizer.
[IMAGE ALT TEXT: A hastily drawn floor plan on crumpled paper, sketched in black marker with frantic red annotations.]
THE MAP:
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[YOU ARE HERE (THE CLOSET)] -> Smells like bleach and fear.
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[THE LOBBY] -> (RED ZONE - DO NOT ENTER). Contains: Gary, The Daily Grind kiosk (RIP Barista), and approximately 15 "Aggressive Personnel."
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[EAST STAIRWELL] -> (OUR ROUTE). Brenda says it should be clear because "Sales never uses the stairs." Hope she's right.
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[ELEVATORS] -> (DEATH TRAPS). Drawing shows a skull and crossbones over the elevator doors. If the power dies, you're canned food.
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[2ND & 3RD FLOORS] -> Unknown territory. Probably full of Marketing zombies. (How will we tell the difference? Zing.)
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[4TH FLOOR - SERVER ROOM] -> The Holy Land. Has heavy, locking doors and climate control. Brenda thinks we'll be safe there. I think we'll just starve to death comfortably chilled.
LAST WILL AND TESTAMENT OF [BLOGGER NAME REDACTED]
In the likely event that The Ex-Calibur snaps in half or Brenda sacrifices me to a horde of undead accountants to save the Q3 projections, I, being of unsound mind and terrified body, hereby declare this my last will.
Article I: The Cat
To my neighbor, Mrs. Higgins (if she isn't already a Zom Zom): I leave my cat, Mister Whiskers.
WARNING: He requires premium salmon pate at 5:00 PM sharp. If you are late, he will stare at you until you question your own existence. Also, I’m 80% sure he caused the apocalypse. Good luck.
Article II: Finances
To Sallie Mae and the Department of Education: You can have my $45,000 in student loan debt. You’ll have to collect it from my reanimated corpse. Come and get it.
Article III: Digital Legacy
To whoever finds my phone:
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Please clear my browser history. Don't look at it. Just wipe it. It’s not weird, it’s just... embarrassing research for novels I never wrote.
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Post one final tweet from my account that just says: "Told you so." (It doesn't matter that I never actually predicted zombies; it will make me look smart post-mortem).