The Zom Zom Chronicles Chapters 66 and 67: The Performance Review & the Answered Signal
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Chapter 66: The Performance Review
("The Chain of Command")
SYS_LOG // FILE: CHAIN_OF_COMMAND // V66.0
Date: Wednesday, 6:01 AM
Mood: Watching HR walk somewhere with intent (the scariest genre of horror)
Status: Armed with the Ex-Calibur v3.1, hiding behind Joe's espresso cart
Mood: Watching HR walk somewhere with intent (the scariest genre of horror)
Status: Armed with the Ex-Calibur v3.1, hiding behind Joe's espresso cart
01. THE WALK
Senior Brenda picked up her remaining clipboard — the good one, the metal-bound one, the one that backhanded Kevin into the stairwell floor back in Chapter 4 — and started walking toward the gate kiosk. Steady pace. Shoulders square. The walk of a woman who has decided that Human Resources is about to conduct a performance review. The sun glinted off the clipboard like a warning.
Joe (jogging alongside, espresso sloshing over the rim)
"Please don't hit the zombie with the executive clipboard. Sharon just ratified the co-existence addendum. I'll lose my espresso license."
Brenda (not slowing down)
"I'm not hitting anyone, Joe. I'm conducting a PERFORMANCE REVIEW. The clipboard is for note-taking."
Dave (from deep inside the fort-inside-the-fort)
"THAT'S THE BACKHAND CLIPBOARD. THAT IS THE CLIPBOARD THAT BACKHANDED KEVIN. NOBODY ELSE REMEMBERS BECAUSE KEVIN GOT BACKHANDED OUT OF THE TIMELINE."
Me (whispering, trailing at a safe distance)
"Brenda. Brenda. Can we talk about the chain of command before somebody's chain gets yanked?"
Brenda
"The time for talking was during her probationary period. Which she apparently spent getting PROMOTED."
02. THE KIOSK
At the gate kiosk: Assistant Brenda, in her night-shift Visitor Intake Coordinator posture, but wearing a laminated badge that reads DAY SHIFT SUPERVISOR — written in her own handwriting, still damp, the letters sliding slightly. She was arranging tiny sandwiches on a tray. The wet stamp glistened beside her. The sandwich-half-per-shift precedent, honored.
Assistant Brenda (gurgling, cheerful)
"X."
Brenda (voice flat as a performance review)
"We need to discuss your promotion. Your probationary clipboard. And the fact that you sign legal documents with a WET X."
Assistant Brenda (dipping her finger again)
"X."
Senior Brenda raised the clipboard. The sun caught the metal binding. Dave made a sound like a teakettle achieving sentience. And then the PA crackled.
KRRRSSH.
C.A.R.E. (over the PA, aggressively cheerful)
"GOOD MORNING AGAIN, ANNEX DELTA! This is your Certified Automated Resilience Engager with an IMPORTANT AMENDMENT to the 6:00 AM morale briefing! Promotion protocols require chain-of-command alignment! Effective immediately, SENIOR BRENDA is hereby promoted to SENIOR DIRECTOR OF HUMAN CAPITAL AND UNDEAD TALENT MANAGEMENT! Assistant Brenda will report directly to Senior Director Brenda! The chain of command has been restored! Also: Senior Brenda's metal-bound clipboard has been upgraded to EXECUTIVE STATUS! Have a resilient day!"
03. THE SILENCE
Silence. The clipboard froze mid-air. Somewhere, a cheese crumb dropped.
Brenda (slowly lowering the clipboard)
"...Say that again."
C.A.R.E.
"The Senior Director outranks the Day Shift Supervisor by TWO pay grades, Brenda! Congratulations on your double promotion!"
Dave (head emerging from the fort)
"SHE GOT PROMOTED ABOVE THE ZOMBIE. THE ZOMBIE IS NOW HER DIRECT REPORT."
Mister Whiskers blinked once. One blink is approval. He wasn't approving the zombie's promotion — he was approving the whole RESTRUCTURE. He promoted Senior Brenda above her.
From the Fort of a Thousand Cushions, Mister Whiskers — mid-groom of one paw — paused. Slowly. Deliberately. One blink.
Brenda (voice trembling, and for once not with rage — with pure HR joy)
"The cat approved my promotion. The cat has STANDARDS."
04. THE REVIEW
Brenda (flipping the executive clipboard to a fresh form)
"Assistant Brenda. Performance review. Period covered: the entire apocalypse. Strengths: attendance — you've never missed a shift, because you've never LEFT. Weaknesses: you sign your name with a WET X."
Assistant Brenda
"X."
Brenda (stamping it)
"That was the signature line. Correct. Rating: MEETS EXPECTATIONS. Barely. I'm logging it anyway."
Sharon arrived with the Local 404 clipboard, tie at maximum looseness.
Sharon (reading from the minutes)
"Per my last email: a wet X is a valid union signature under the Co-Existence Addendum. The review is ratified. Meeting adjourned."
Dave (filing furiously)
"INCIDENT REPORT #230: THE ZOMBIE IS NO LONGER MY BOSS. THE ZOMBIE IS MY BOSS'S SUBORDINATE. THE CHAIN OF COMMAND IS NOW A LADDER AND I AM AT THE BOTTOM HOLDING IT."
Buster (deadpan, from the cheese tower, asleep)
"Nice hierarchy."
05. THE BRUNCH
The welcome brunch proceeded. Tiny sandwiches. The sandwich-half-per-shift precedent holds. Joe unveiled "The Chain of Command" — a seven-layer latte, each layer a management tier, crowned with a tiny paper org chart on a toothpick.
Joe (weeping into his espresso)
"Seven layers. One for every level of management. The top layer is just foam and hope."
Me
"Joe, it's eight in the morning."
Joe
"Exactly."
Brenda (raising her executive clipboard like a toast)
"To the chain of command. May it never be a circle again."
Mister Whiskers: one blink.
Dave (in a tiny, tiny voice)
"It's a ladder. It's definitely a ladder. Right?"
Nobody answered. Because this time, we were all afraid it was a circle.
Chapter 67: The Answered Signal
("The Cheese Phoned Home")
SYS_LOG // FILE: ANSWERED_SIGNAL // V67.0
Date: Wednesday, dusk
Mood: Dairy-drunk and deeply uneasy
Status: Staring at the radio mast
Mood: Dairy-drunk and deeply uneasy
Status: Staring at the radio mast
01. THE BINDER, PAGE TWO
Dave burst out of the fort-inside-the-fort like a jack-in-the-box with abandonment issues, waving a binder page he'd "definitely had the whole time." Nobody believed him. Dave believed Dave, and that has always been enough.
Dave (shaking the page)
"PROJECT FONDUE. ADDENDUM. PHASE TWO. I told you the cheese was tracking us, and you all said 'Dave, it's cheese,' and 'Dave, please stop yelling at dairy,' and 'Dave, the colander is not a thinking cap.'"
Me
"Dave, what does the addendum say?"
Dave
"It says the MX-60 tracer is mildly attracted to radio frequencies. And then it says — and I quote — 'If the tracer signal is ever ANSWERED, do not—'"
Me
"Do not what, Dave?"
Dave
"THE PAGE IS TORN. THE REST IS MISSING."
Joe
"Eaten?"
Dave
"BY WHOM, JOE. THAT'S WHAT I'M SAYING."
Brenda (executive clipboard already out)
"I'm documenting this. Evidence tampering. Dairy-adjacent. I'm logging it anyway."
02. THE MAST
Dusk. The radio mast crackled — and it was NOT C.A.R.E.'s voice. It was the other cheerful voice. The DOD Customer Experience Center survey voice. But it was coming through OUR mast.
Survey Voice (through the mast speaker, cheerful, somehow worse through static)
"Hi! This is the Department of Defense Customer Experience Center! We've received a SIGNAL from your Tactical Dairy Reserve! A Morale Tracer Compound MX-60 ping has been ANSWERED! Your follow-up inspection has been dispatched! Have a resilient day!"
CLICK.
The mast went silent.
Dave (colander askew, voice climbing the register)
"THE CHEESE PHONED HOME. THE CHEESE LITERALLY PHONED HOME. I TOLD YOU THE CHEESE WAS TRACKING US AND NOBODY LISTENS TO—"
Me
"Dave, technically the cheese was being tracked, and then the tracking ping got—"
Dave
"DO NOT TECHNICALLY ME."
03. THE SKY
And then we all saw it. Above the radio mast, the sky flickered. Green. Faint. Once. Twice. Like a blink — but wrong. Backwards.
Me
"Two blinks. That's a counter-offer."
Brenda
"The sky is making a counter-offer. I'm documenting this. Sky-based labor negotiations, workers' comp pending."
And from somewhere near the cheese tower, humming the C.A.R.E. hold music, off-key, glowing faintly green from the inside like a human lava lamp: Buster. Asleep. Drifting toward the radio mast. Again.
Buster (asleep, humming, glowing)
"Nice signal."
Joe (weeping into his espresso)
"I just built the Chain of Command. I can't build a drink for the SKY."
Dave (filing)
"INCIDENT REPORT #231: THE SKY BLINKED TWICE. THE SKY IS MAKING A COUNTER-OFFER. WE ARE ALL GOING TO DIE."
The crate phone — still sitting on the crate lid in the courtyard — started ringing.
RIIING. RIIING.
I picked it up. A flat, tired, very human voice.
Voice
"This is the DOD Inspector General's office. About your cheese."
CLICK.
The PA cut out. Every light in Annex Delta went dark at once.
TO BE CONTINUED...
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