The Zom Zom Chronicles ( chapter 35 ) The Hostile Takeover (Or: Why HR is the Most Dangerous Department)

The Zom Zom Chronicles

• Post Title: The Hostile Takeover (Or: Why HR is the Most Dangerous Department)
• Date: Friday Morning (Coffee is no longer a want; it is a medical necessity)
• Mood: Exhausted, victorious, and highly bureaucratic.
• Current Status: Conducting a mandatory all-hands meeting in a subterranean bunker.

Vertical Logistics

Getting two unconscious grown men down a vertical maintenance shaft is a logistical nightmare.

Since the freight elevator shaft was currently occupied by the crushed, steaming remains of the CurdTech Abomination, we had to take the service ladder back down to Level -5.

"I am not carrying David," Brenda stated flatly, wiping zombie grease off her blazer. "He has reached his maximum allotted PTO (Paid Time Off) and is currently a dead weight."

Joe, ever the engineer, solved the problem by rigging a winch to the forklift, wrapping Sergeant Miller and a snoring Dave in a tangled web of heavy canvas cargo straps, and lowering them down the shaft like a sack of extremely disappointing potatoes.

Dr. Vance, Arthur, Brenda, and I climbed down after them. Mister Whiskers rode in my backpack, occasionally digging his claws into my spine just to remind me who was actually in charge.

The Town Hall Meeting

We hauled Dave and Miller through the Generator Core and back into the Habitation Zone. The red emergency lights were gone, replaced by the steady, brilliant white glare of the fully powered halogen strips.

The HVAC system was humming beautifully, pumping crisp, filtered air into the room.

The forty-odd refugees in Cot City were huddled in the center of the room, clutching baseball bats, soup cans, and in one case, a very sharp knitting needle. When we kicked the doors open, dragging the unconscious Bunker Commandant behind us, they gasped.

Brenda marched straight to the heavy Plexiglas security desk, dragging Sergeant Miller by his tactical vest. She unceremoniously dumped him into the decontamination trap, locked the glass door, and grabbed the main PA microphone.

The Restructuring

SCREEEEECH. Feedback echoed through the locker room.

"Attention, Level Negative Five," Brenda announced, her voice echoing with chilling corporate authority. "This is a mandatory all-hands update. Please direct your attention to the front."

Arthur the Coupon King, who was currently missing a shoe, immediately sat down on the nearest cot and folded his hands. Conspiracy Chad and Tiffany the Swole Survivor looked on in stunned silence.

"Effective immediately," Brenda continued, adjusting her glasses, "Quartermaster Sergeant Miller has been relieved of his duties due to severe gross negligence and the attempted murder of a colleague. His equity in this bunker has been liquidated. I am assuming the role of Interim Chief Executive Officer of this facility."

A murmur rippled through the crowd. Someone in the back cautiously raised a hand. "Does... does this mean we get more than 45 seconds in the shower?"

"Showers are increased to three minutes," Brenda declared. The crowd erupted into weak, dehydrated cheers. "However, mandatory productivity metrics will be strictly enforced. We are no longer hiding. We are optimizing."

Memo: Bunker Leadership Restructuring

(Posted immediately on the bulletin board by Interim CEO Brenda)

The Real Enemy

While Brenda was answering questions about the new dental plan (there isn't one) and Arthur was trying to negotiate a tax-free trade for his pretzels, Dr. Vance limped behind the security desk. He booted up Miller’s primary command terminal.

Because the generator was running at full capacity, the encrypted military mainframe finally had enough juice to connect to the external satellite network.

"Guys," Dr. Vance whispered, his face glowing pale green in the light of the monitor. "You need to see this."

I left the Town Hall meeting and squeezed behind the desk. On the screen was a topographical map of the state. FOB Echo (our stadium) was blinking green. But just thirty miles north, in a heavily wooded, isolated valley, a massive red circle was pulsing.

"What is that?" I asked. "Is that a safe zone?"

Ground Zero

"No," Dr. Vance said, pulling up a secondary file. The logo on the file was a smiling, cartoon cheese wheel wearing a lab coat. CurdTech Industries.

"That is the CurdTech Regional Research and Distribution Center," Vance said, his voice trembling. "According to Miller's intercepted logistics logs, that's where the infected Jalapeño Cheese Spread was manufactured. It's Ground Zero."

Brenda walked up behind us, her arms crossed. "And why are we looking at it?"

"Because," Vance said, typing furiously, "if they engineered the Z-Pathogen there, they also engineered the Phase 4 Neuro-Inhibitor. The cure."

"I only have enough juice to stay human for maybe three more days. If we don't get to that facility and find the synthesized antidote, I turn. And if I turn inside this bunker..." He didn't need to finish the sentence.

The Next Move

Brenda stared at the pulsing red dot on the screen. She tapped her chin. "A corporate acquisition. We take the cure, we take their assets, and we dismantle their infrastructure."

"It's thirty miles of open road," I pointed out. "Through zombie territory. We don't have a car. We have a broken tour bus and a forklift."

Joe walked up to the desk, wiping his hands on a rag. He looked at the map, then looked at me, a slow, dangerous grin spreading across his face.

"We're in a military staging ground, kid," Joe said. "We don't need a tour bus. We need a tank."