Heist of the Living Dead (2 page)

As
if they’d been watching us somehow, waiting for the note to be picked up, a
chorus of howls sprang up around the building. I stood there and listened to
their taunts and looked at the note for who knows how long.

Werewolves.
We were beaten by dogs. We’d never live it down.

Sarah
ripped the paper off the canister and crumpled it one-handed. There was
something on the back.

“Wait,”
I said. “Let me see that.” I snatched the crumpled wad of paper, crouched down,
and smoothed it out on the floor.

In
the dead center of the page was a cherry-red kiss mark.

“Aaar
arr agh?” asked Freddy, over my shoulder.

The
tour guide was a werewolf, that’s Aaar arr agh. Her lipstick had been that
exact shade of cherry-red.

“Let’s
go home,” I said, grabbing Sarah’s proffered hand and pulling myself up.

As
we shambled off to the loading bay empty-handed, werewolf howls sounded distant
through the warehouse walls. I untucked my shirt and tore a couple holes in it.
“Sarah,” I said, “I think we need to go back to the gate and get that arm after
all.” If the werewolves hadn’t dragged it off out of spite.

Stupid
werewolves.

Suddenly,
there was a third explosion, bigger than all the rest. Then a fourth, a fifth,
a sixth, all in such quick succession that you could hardly tell where one
ended and the next began. The building groaned. The floor shook. We were
bounced into each other like bowling pins. There were explosions all around the
building, and as each explosion went off, the howls of the werewolves turned
into yelps.

When
they stopped, the stillness was heavy. That’s when Ned shuffled into the
warehouse. His shirt was hanging by a single thread, and his entire right side
was charred and smoking, but his slack eyebrow-less face molded itself into a
grin. “Sorry, Boss,” he said. “Explosions got a little out of control. Might
have killed some local wildlife. You know me and explosions.”

“Well,
we better get out of here before the SPCA comes to give us a citation,” I said
with a smile of my own.

“I
reckon we do, Boss,” said Ned. 

We
piled into the cab of the refrigerated truck, and Ned drove us out over hairy,
smoldering bodies. I was already planning my next score. The werewolves had to
have a storage facility somewhere. A facility that was now decidedly un-manned.
Or un-wolfed. Whatever.

Freddy
broke the silence that had descended on the cab.

“Ar
ga Ar ga Warda-aargh?” asked Freddy.

“Sure,
Freddy,” I said. “We can stop by Wendy’s.”

THE END

About
the Author

Clarence Walker
is an undead individual currently residing in the suburbs of our great nation’s
capitol. In addition to writing, he is also an advocate for Zombish language
and culture, as well as Undead rights. He is currently pursuing a class-action
lawsuit against the AMC television network for defamation of character and hate
speech propagated by the program “The Walking Dead.”

He
has a rational fear of chainsaws.

About the Translator

Jared Oliver
Adams met Clarence while attending the short-lived Million Zombie March in
solidarity of Undead rights. He remains a steadfast supporter of Zombie-kind to
this day, and is currently working on a PhD in Zombie-Human relations from a
well-reputed online university that shall not be named. When not organizing his
popular “Shamble Ins” at local malls, Jared writes fiction of his own.

 He can be found at
www.jaredoliveradams.com
.