Life Among The Dead (30 page)

Since she is out of Hilda’s reach she kicks the wooden crates over. She has to know what’s inside of them. She removes the flashlight from her mouth and spits. She wishes she hadn’t put it in there. You really don’t want to put anything in this place in your mouth.

She shines the light down on the toppled boxes and sees they have spilled their contents all over the floor.
Cardboard?
The crates are filled with used cardboard.

“
Those don’t go here!” She screams at nobody who cares anymore. Cynthia clings to the steel bin.
Five of me couldn’t knock this stack over,
she calculates. She climbs to the top using the bins like a ladder that’s rungs are spread too far apart.

At the summit she lays on a pile of jagged, oddly shaped steel parts, fresh from the foundry. She picks one up and illuminates it with her flashlight. She has no idea what the hell it is. If you asked her what she made all she could tell you is the part number and what they call the things. She never bothered to learn what they are used for except that they go into tractors. She never intended on working here this long.

She drops the thirty pound piece back among its brothers. Cynthia sits on top of a cityscape made of boxes, the stacks serving as skyscrapers. The machinist crosses the streets and alleys carefully, trying to only step on the heftier towers. She travels to the edge of her model city and looks over the side.

The dimming pools of illumination cast by the emergency lights above are a sickly yellow. It makes the faces below look jaundiced. She had heard from a co-worker once that the lights are only meant to last a day or so, if there is a power failure they’re supposed to go home if not back on in an hour. Why would a company pay people to stand around pass that point? They give just enough time for the workers to clean up as best as they can and get out.

The lights have gone out only one other time since she started working here, during a heavy snowstorm. Everyone cheered after the world went dark. They booed fifteen minutes later when the power came back on. Employment here is like a jail sentence. You count the hours like a convict counting the years. A power outage is a reprieve, a call from the governor. It’s like time off for good behavior. You don’t get paid, but you get to go home. Today, nobody cheered when the lights died.

Cynthia sits on top of a wooden box that is filled with the parts she runs. They look like green ashtrays with no bottoms to them. Each weighs only fifteen pounds and are the lightest thing you can run in the plant. Almost every other part requires a hoist. She has to make sixty of the things a day, every day. She hates these things. She hates her machines. She hates all of the people below her who stare up at her like gawkers at a suicide attempt.

Below in the sickly light she sees the guy who whistles whenever she bends over. The guy who always asks her out. The one who had the audacity to grab her ass and tell her she should be a stripper. And, then there are the lazy ones who get paid more than she does.
Those fuckers run only one machine to my three. They only need to pull five parts to my sixty.
She looks at the piece of steel she holds in her hand.

“
You.” She singles one crazed factory drone out of the dozen below her. “You are always late and nobody says shit.”

The green disk falls. It bounces off the man’s head leaving behind a deep red groove. He falters on his feet, but doesn’t fall down.

“
This is for touching me.” The green missile hits another co-worker, who falls to the ground upon impact. The weight had fractured his skull, indenting the bone into his gray matter.

Cynthia continues to hurl steel, insults and complaints down upon the people below. She has no idea they are dead, but believes it to be self-defense considering the circumstance.
They have to be crazy, or on something.

“
You are always on your cell phone.”

“
You never fix what’s broken on my machines.”

“
No, I wouldn’t go out with you if you were the last man on earth.”

She spots a balding head beneath her that she recognizes, a gray horseshoe of hair encircling an extremely high forehead. It’s Dean, a nice old man, she hates him anyway. He’s the hyper-religious person everyone knows who defends the catholic priests that are being accused of molesting children, and hands out pamphlets about abortion at lunchtime.
Who the fuck wants to see a picture of a dead fetus at lunch?
Cynthia wants to know.

She hurls a part at the bull’s eye that used to be Dean and wonders if there is anyone else out there surrounded by people they hate. Some of the berserk workers are getting to their feet.
How?
She asks herself.
They don’t even look like they can feel it. What are they zombies?
If she wasn’t seeing what she now saw, she would think the notion crazy.

The minimal lights flicker and go out. The factory is completely black. She can hear them moaning below her. Cynthia is scared. She lays her face into the palms of her hands and cries. Her skin feels gross. It’s slick and gritty. She isn’t sure which part of her is originating the grittiness, her hands, or her face. If she had a mirror and adequate light she would see her face glisten with the residues of her job.

She hates this place and wants out. Her flashlight beam searches the ceiling until it locates a big hoist. The factory employs many hoists and lifting devices, this one is the biggest of them all. It takes parts from the storage area all the way to the shipping department and vise versa.

She steps from box to box on her way to the crane. She is happily surprised that the last one to use it had actually put it away properly. The large hook had been raised to the top of the stacks to prevent people from hitting their heads on it. The lone machinist grabs a hold of the steel cable and pulls the unit closer. She can hear the winch rolling along the tracks above her. It’s odd that the machines aren't running in the plant. It feels eerie, and much too quiet. Ordinarily, the whining lathes and mills would drown the sound of the device. The only other sound now is the moaning of her co-workers.

Cynthia peers out into the darkness. Across the shop she can see a shaft of light. Somebody had left the door open on the loading dock.
You can do this, girl.
She convinces herself.

The steel cable is slightly frayed, wires poke into her palms. Fearing she won’t be able to hold on until the end of the ride, she removes a rag from her back pocket. The industrial rags the factory uses are pink in color; one co-worker told her they are the exact hue of a Tijuana prostitute’s labia. His terminology differed, but now every time she uses one of the things that is the image she gets in her head.

Her foot slides into the hook and she grips the cable with the rag wrapped around her hand. Before departing she shines her light down on her co-workers again. The LED light brings out the vivid details of her barrage with the castings. The scene looks like the safety videos they make all the new hires watch. The short films show re-enactments of industrial accidents. She had trouble watching them, she had to stare at the VCR under the screen at the really gory parts as not to seem weak to the other viewers.

Cynthia rolls the unit over her head away from the edge. She wants to take a running start. She pushes along with her right foot like a skateboarder; her left is tightly squeezed into the hook. At the edge she shoves off and zips through the open air.

The winch slowly releases line since the plant has no power to run the air compressor. There isn’t enough air pressure to hold her modest weight. She flies through the darkness at a gradual descent.

“
OSHA would just about shit themselves.” She says. The crane jolts to a stop on the other side. She finds herself swinging as the thick twisted cable eases her down. She is trying to pull her boot out of the hook, but the bulbous steel toe of her shoe is caught. She is only a few feet from the concrete now.

Solid ground under her feet she is still unable to free herself. She has to sit on the ground and use her other foot and both hands to pry the hook loose. Soles of heavy work boots slide across the floor coming towards her. She can hear the moaning closing in again. She knows she must hurry.

Cynthia runs to the open door. Her heart drops inside of her chest when she notices the gate is closed. She can see the crisscrossed diamonds of the metal bars.

“
Fuck.” She can’t believe it. The gates are so they can leave the large rolling doors open, and not worry about people wandering in.

All around her she can see movement in the shadows. She can’t run deeper into the factory. She doubts she can find an exit with only her flashlight. Her only option is this gate.
Who the fuck are they worried about wandering in here?
She questions.

The light coming in from the door shines on something useful, a beat up, yellow fork truck. She always avoided using the damn things having crashed a few in the past.
No avoiding it now.
She is desperate.

Cynthia turns the key and the propane-powered machine comes to life. She backs it away from the wall it is parked against. The survivor lines up the front of her vehicle with the metal barrier and floors the accelerator. She reaches its top speed of 15 miles per hour and rams the gate.

The steel obstruction releases from the wall as she plows through. The small forklift plummets over the side of the loading zone, nose first into the asphalt, five feet below. The desperate woman had forgotten to buckle the safety belt and is tossed forward. She flies out through the glassless windshield and rolls on the pavement. The yellow machine somersaults down on top of her, its black roof pins her shin to the hard ground.

Tools and trash left behind by the other operators are strewn about the scene. Cynthia’s eyes water from the pain in her left leg, she is frantically trying to pull herself free. Her heart stops when she hears more of them, all around her.

Drones from the neighboring factories are walking her way. Each wears the uniform of their respective plant. Panic and fear give her a much-needed jolt of adrenaline. She is able to rend her leg out from under the accursed forklift. She leaves behind her boot and some skin that the edge of the roof had scraped off.

Among the debris she puts her hand on a large “Dead Blow” hammer. She picks up the plastic mallet. It is day glow orange like a hunter’s vest, and comically big like something from a cartoon.
It’ll have to do.

Limping now, Cynthia aims her battered body towards a gap in the closing circle of people. She still isn’t sure if they are zombies or not, it doesn’t really matter to her now.

She is within striking distance of one of the alleged zombies. She swings the meaty hammer, knocking him hard enough in the head that he falls. The mallet is designed not to bounce when it hits something. She hardly feels the resistance of her next attack. Another possible zombie is struck in his forehead.

The man falls to the ground, but grabs on to her good leg, taking her to the black top as well. It is climbing along her body so it can get a good mouthful. Cynthia swings the cartoon hammer destroying his jaw. His limp mandible hangs open, held only by skin. His maw is horrifying as it gapes at her, widely. The possibly dead man is still trying to bite her, working mouth or not.

Another blow from the hammer and she is free from his grasp. The machinist scrambles out from under him and is able to leave the constricting circle of the damned. She is heading towards Industrial Road on her injured leg, dozens of her fellow blue collar workers follow in slow pursuit.

61

The nurse is flying down Emergency Way. She banks a hard right onto Industrial Road, causing her passengers to be thrown to the left of the vehicle.

“
You can slow down a little.” Dan assures the driver. “The dead can’t run, and we’re screwed if we wreck.”

She takes his advice and slows her speed a bit as they progress towards the bridge. Dan looks out the right side window. Up ahead he can see his factory. The parking lot that services his and many other plants is full of the dead. He never really associated with the people he worked with, but hardly wished them harm. He wonders if any of them are alive inside. A thump catches his attention.

“
What was that?” He asks.

“
Zombie.” The nurse replies calmly. “She just limped out in front of us.”

They pass the parking lot. The passengers all watch as the dead continue towards the road.

62

Cynthia lies in the street looking up at the sky. She is in terrible pain from the waist up. She can’t feel her lower extremities. A gaze down towards her feet shows her the ghastly site of her limbs that bend at odd angles. She is glad she cannot feel them, that is where they start to eat her.

She concludes they are in fact zombies as she watches two of the dead take her fractured legs in their hands. She just doesn’t know how it is possible. She isn’t sure if she is in shock or not, but she actually finds the horrible experience rather fascinating.

The two zombies are in a tug of war over her leg. As one tries to take a bite, the other pulls it away to do the same. It goes back and forth, each taking the meal from the other one’s mouth. They aren’t fighting; there is no sense of possession, or territory. Unlike the hyenas she has watched on TV, fighting over a carcass, there is no malice in this.
These things just want to eat.