The Zom Zom Chronicles Chapters 56 and 57: The Intake Interview & the Union of the Undead
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Chapters 56–57: a zombie demands to speak to the manager. The manager is a cat. HR is thrilled. Nobody else is.
Chapter 56: The Intake Interview
The manager will see you now
01. Status Update
Mood: HR-adjacent (terrified, but professionally)
Status: About to open the gate. Against every instinct. Dave is already screaming.
Here is the thing about Brenda from HR: she has survived fifty-six chapters of the apocalypse by treating every crisis as a personnel matter. Gary eating the barista? Conduct violation. The Juggernaut in riot gear? Uniform infraction. The cat becoming her manager? Reporting relationship, she said. She even nodded.
So when the surveillance monitor showed a second Brenda — beige pantsuit, immobile bun, bite mark on the shoulder — standing at the main gate holding a sign that read "I WOULD LIKE TO SPEAK TO THE MANAGER," Brenda did not panic.
Brenda took out a fresh clipboard. "Well," she said, "someone has to process this."
Dave had built a fort inside the Fort of a Thousand Cushions, which is the most Dave sentence ever committed to paper. He was on the roof of the MRAP with the Nerf gun, wearing what appeared to be a colander.
DAVE (through the colander, voice echoing)
ME (adjusting the laser sight on the Ex-Calibur v3.0, which is duct-taped at a slight angle)
02. The Gate Meeting
We approached the gate the way you approach a performance review you know is going to be bad: slowly, in formation, with Joe carrying the espresso.
The second Brenda did not move. Up close she was — and I need you to understand how unsettling this was — immaculate. The pantsuit. The bun. Not a hair out of place, which is remarkable for someone who is technically deceased.
She raised the clipboard to face level. The sign, in shaky block letters: I WOULD LIKE TO SPEAK TO THE MANAGER.
BRENDA (studying her, the way a hawk studies a field mouse that filed the wrong form)
ME
BRENDA
And then — I swear this happened — the second Brenda turned the clipboard around. On the back, in the same shaky handwriting, she had written a SECOND sign:
"PER MY LAST EMAIL."
Silence at the gate. Somewhere behind us, Joe dropped an espresso tamper. Mister Whiskers, who had been riding on Brenda's shoulder the entire time like a furry little executive sponsor, leaned forward.
SECOND BRENDA (wet, rhythmic, but somehow… professional)
She pointed one stiff finger at the visitor kiosk by the gate. The one C.A.R.E. had announced, delightedly, that all visitors must use.
BRENDA (whispering, clipboard trembling — from excitement, not fear)
ME
BRENDA
03. The Manager Is a Cat (Management Hears Her Out)
We escorted — "escorted" — the second Brenda to the visitor kiosk. She signed in. Her signature was a wet X and a smear, but the kiosk accepted it, because C.A.R.E. accepts everything with enthusiasm.
C.A.R.E. (over the PA, delighted)
The badge printer whirred. Out came a visitor badge: VISITOR: BRENDA.
Then came the interview. Conducted in the manager's office. Conducted by a cat in a tiny chair.
Mister Whiskers stared at the second Brenda for a full minute. She stared back. Two beings of pure, immovable bureaucratic will, locked in the most intense performance review ever conducted without words.
Then the cat did something extraordinary.
He blinked. Once.
BRENDA (gasping, writing furiously)
What followed was the fastest onboarding in Annex Delta history. Brenda — the original, the senior Brenda, a distinction she made clear three times — produced a personnel form from the blank stack in the manager's office.
NAME: Brenda (Assistant, Probationary)
TITLE: Visitor Intake Coordinator, Night Shift
DEPARTMENT: Guest Relations (newly formed)
SUPERVISOR: Brenda (Senior)
WORKPLACE INJURY: bite mark, left shoulder — wrapped in a bandage, logged as workers' comp
Brenda lent her one of the new clipboards. "Plural," she whispered to herself, happily, as she handed it over. "I have clipboards. Plural."
The second Brenda — Assistant Brenda, probationary — looked at the clipboard. Looked at Brenda. And made the wet, rhythmic sound that started this entire chronicle:
"Zom. Zom. Zom."
But this time, it almost sounded like: thank you.
04. Night Shift at the Gate
By dusk, Assistant Brenda was installed at the gate kiosk: badge clipped, clipboard in hand, bandage neat, a sandwich beside her that Brenda had logged as a "signing bonus."
Her instructions, laminated:
"HAVE ALL VISITORS SIGN IN AT THE KIOSK."
DAVE (from inside the fort-inside-the-fort, voice muffled)
BRENDA
DAVE
Joe made cortados for everyone on Brig and Genny. He wept into his own, a little, the way you do when your espresso bar has survived another day.
Assistant Brenda sat at the kiosk in the golden light, stamping visitor badges with the date stamp, reading The Revised Employee Handbook upside down, one clawed finger tracing each line.
Mister Whiskers sat in the tiny manager's chair, watching the monitors. On Camera 1: his newest hire, at her post.
He did not blink. This time, that meant: satisfied.
What could possibly go wrong?
DAVE: (from down the hall) "DO NOT SAY THAT."
ME: "He can't hear me. He's inside a fort. Inside a fort."
Chapter 57: The Queue
Tomorrow's first appointment: 9:00 AM. Party size: unknown.
01. Status Update
Mood: Espresso-forward (hiding terror behind caffeine)
Status: There is a line at the gate. The line has clipboards.
I woke to the smell of espresso and the sound of Brenda laughing. Brenda does not laugh. Brenda chuckles, the way a vault door chuckles when it locks.
"Come see," she said, dragging me to the manager's office. "Come see."
Camera 1: the main gate. Assistant Brenda sat at the kiosk, stamping badges with metronomic precision. And in front of her kiosk — in an orderly, single-file line — stood seven figures. Office attire. Every one of them holding a clipboard. Every one of them holding a sign.
The signs read:
"I WOULD LIKE TO SPEAK TO THE MANAGER."
"PER MY LAST EMAIL."
"CIRCLING BACK ON THIS."
"JUST BOUNCING AN IDEA OFF YOU."
"QUICK SYNC?"
"PER THE HANDBOOK."
"ZOM."
Assistant Brenda processed each one like a dream. Wet X on the sign-in sheet. Visitor badge. A firm, damp finger pointed toward the intake lobby.
ASSISTANT BRENDA (to a trembling Zom Zom in a loosened tie, with infinite patience)
The Zom Zom signed in. It sat down in the intake lobby. It waited its turn.
BRENDA (watching the monitor, eyes shining)
ME
BRENDA
02. Word Travels Fast
By noon, the line had doubled. Fourteen. By two o'clock, twenty. They came out of the treeline in office attire — slacks, blazers, one in a full suit with the tie tucked into the shirt like a bib — each one carrying a clipboard, each one holding a sign, each one shuffling up to Assistant Brenda's kiosk and signing in with a wet X.
Joe walked the line with a tray of sample cups from Brig and Genny, because Joe cannot help himself.
JOE (offering a cup to a Zom Zom in a pantsuit)
The Zom Zom took the cup. It made the wet, rhythmic sound. It almost sounded like: thank you.
Joe wept. Again. It's becoming a whole thing.
Dave watched the monitors from inside the fort-inside-the-fort, and Dave was having a full theological crisis.
DAVE (into the radio, voice cracking)
BRENDA (into the radio, calm as a lake)
She held up the intake log. Twenty-three names. Twenty-three wet X's. Filed alphabetically.
03. The Manager Sets Policy
At four o'clock, Mister Whiskers called a meeting. "Called" is generous. He walked into the manager's office, sat in the tiny chair, and stared at the door until we all arrived.
He looked at the monitor wall. Twenty-three visitors in the intake lobby, sitting in rows, holding numbered tickets like the world's worst DMV.
He looked at Brenda. He blinked. Twice.
BRENDA (translating, instantly)
She drafted the policy in eleven minutes. Assistant Brenda stamped it. The cat did not blink, which meant: ratified.
C.A.R.E. (over the PA, delighted)
The intake lobby did not riot. The intake lobby did something far more unsettling: it accepted the policy.
Twenty-three Zom Zoms rose in unison, filed out of the lobby, and took up positions outside the gate — in an orderly queue, by ticket number, holding their clipboards.
Assistant Brenda walked the line with the date stamp, marking each ticket: WAITLIST.
The laser sight on my Ex-Calibur v3.0 chose that moment to slip. The little red dot did a slow lap across the courtyard and came to rest directly on Dave's forehead.
DAVE
ME
DAVE
04. The East Fence
Dusk. The queue outside the gate had settled into a patient, wet murmur. Joe was on his third round of sample cups. Brenda was alphabetizing the waitlist. Buster had slept through the entire unionization and, honestly, respect.
Then C.A.R.E. chirped over the PA — not the cheerful chirp. The delighted chirp. The one that means the numbers just got interesting:
C.A.R.E.
We ran to the manager's office. Mister Whiskers was already in the tiny chair. One paw on the keyboard. The surveillance wall glowing.
Camera 7: the east fence. The treeline.
They came out of the trees in a column. Dozens of them. Office attire, every one. Slacks. Blazers. Sensible shoes. Each holding a clipboard.
And they were not shuffling.
They were marching. In formation. Left, right, left, right — the brisk, purposeful stride of people who are late for a meeting they absolutely intend to attend.
At the head of the column, two Zom Zoms carried a banner, hand-lettered on a bedsheet:
"LOCAL 404 — ASSOCIATION OF AGGRESSIVE PERSONNEL"
DAVE (over the radio, very quietly, which is how you know it's serious)
Mister Whiskers zoomed the camera. The column filled the monitor: clipboards, signs, the banner rippling in the evening wind.
He turned his head, slowly, and looked at us.
Then he did something he had never done in fifty-seven chapters.
He stood up on the tiny chair. He walked to the edge of the desk. And he looked directly into the camera feed — directly at the marching column — and he blinked.
Once.
The column stopped marching.
Zom. Zom. Zom.
— in chorus.
SYSTEM PAUSED. AWAITING USER INPUT.
What does Local 404 want? Find out tomorrow.
From the Comment Section (Totally Real, Definitely Not Made Up)
GarysWife: "my husband has been a zom zom for 56 chapters and now he's in a UNION?? with DENTAL?? somebody check on me i'm fine"
BladeMaster99: "the laser sight slipped and landed on dave's forehead and i'm supposed to believe this is an accident. ex-calibur v3.0 is sentient. mark my words."
SoccerMom44: "i would also like to speak to the manager. not about anything. i just want to see the tiny chair."
SurvivalSteve: "LOCAL 404. 'Association of Aggressive Personnel.' Brenda's HR-speak has achieved full sentience and infected the horde. This is how the world ends. Not with a bang. With paperwork."
BrendaFromHR_Real: "This is the real Brenda. I have TWO clipboards now. Plural. Also, Assistant Brenda's probationary review is scheduled for next Friday. Mister Whiskers will conduct it. He has been given a rubric."