Death is Not an Excuse

Entry for Writer’s Cramp – Prompt: Write a story or poem about missing a deadline.

Word Count: 707

One would think that death would be an excuse for missing a deadline, however, at Spinkman’s & Snott’s that was not the case.

It was the day before my project was due. I was nowhere near completing it. There was a knock at the door. I was half relieved and half annoyed that I was pulled away from my project.

When I got to the door, I was shocked to see a young woman in a low cut, knee length red dress, heaving bosom and all, standing on my porch. She pushed her way inside and slammed the door.

“You’ve got to help me,” she said. “Do you have any boards?”

“Boards?” I asked. I was still shocked that this beautiful woman was in my house.

“Yes, boards!” She screeched. “Two by fours, eight by tens, boards! You know? Wood?”

“No,” I said with a raised eyebrow. I lived in a town house, it wasn’t like I kept lumber lying around.

She made an exasperated noise and brushed her hair out of her face. I saw she had some blood on her forehead.

“What’s going on?” I asked. “Are you in some sort of trouble?”

At this she laughs. “Am I in trouble?” She asks in a mocking tone. “The whole town’s in trouble! Haven’t you seen the news?”

She looked around and grabbed the television remote off of the coffee table and turned on my TV. Channel 4 had a frazzled looking couple who were shouting to get inside, bar the doors and windows if you could, do anything to stay safe and indoors.

“What’s going on?” I asked.

Before she could answer, there was a bang at the door. I turned to answer it, but she grabbed my wrist.

“Listen to me,” she said her eyes wide. “Don’t open that door. If you value your life, don’t open it!”

“What? What’s wrong with you?” I stepped backward toward the door.

“Please,” she begged. “There’s, oh you idiot! You’ll never believe me!” She fell to her knees by the couch and hugged the arm, waiting for me to open the door.

When I reached the door, I listened. Outside there were sounds of movement and moaning. Perhaps someone outside was injured?

“Please,” the girl whimpered. “Just stay inside,” she was crying.

I grabbed the door knob, jerked the door open and gasped at the spectacle before me.

There on my lawn, milling around like cattle, were about fifty people, only they weren’t normal people. Their skin was grayish. Some of them looked the worse for wear with tattered clothes. Their eyes were what caught my attention the most. All of them had light blue eyes, almost as if they were blind. The were all moving around each other, unaware, moaning.

“Zombies!” I screamed. I slammed the door, but it was too late. They knew we were inside. They started to bang on the door. I heard a window in the kitchen break and their terrible moans ensued. The kitchen door was closed. I ran to it and locked it as quick as I could.

“Boards!” The girl cried. “You don’t have any boards!”

“We’re as good as dead,” I said. I crumbled to the floor beside her and held her. A perfect stranger.

We waited. Listening to them scrape at the kitchen door. The squeak of their fingers and faces against the glass of the windows by the door.

Finally, they broke through the barriers of door and window and they were upon us. Biting and gnashing.

I woke up with an immense hunger for brains, but I’m a vegetarian. I’ve never eaten meat, so I dismissed my craving and went back to work on my project. My brain felt mushy and the words on the screen and on my documents didn’t make any sense.

I tried to say something, but it came out a low, wheezing moan.

“Wha?”

I ran to the bathroom and looked in the mirror.

Gray skin. Tattered clothes. Dishevelled hair. Blue eyes.

The phone rang.

I answered it. There was a series of moans and groans that, oddly, I understood.

“You’re late! Where is your project?”

It was my boss, Mr. Spinkman, and indeed, I was late. I missed my deadline.