I hate this job. What’s not to hate? It’s less a career path than a monochrome catalog of the boring, soul-crisping problems of modern life. It’s flat, it’s repetitive and my in-box is always full of more pointless, redundant tasks. I’ve been at it for twenty-seven years.
I hate it here. Recycled air, cleaned and scrubbed to dull desiccation that seems to suck the last clinging drops of moisture from my lungs. I can imagine them collapsing and crumpling in my ribs like empty lunch bags. I’m stuck at the office after hours again, alone in the dark with the whirring, clicking machines. They sound like huge plastic bugs.
I hate bugs.
There’s a sound, a different one. A boom, then a sort of distant, sharp-edged crash. Is that glass breaking? A window? I pop my head up over the bland-beige (I think that’s what they call it in the catalog) cubicle wall. A shadow lurches at the end of the row, hunched and unnatural.
I hate zombies.
The undead monster turns its half-head my way. I grab the shotgun from its sleeve under my desk and dash out into the hall.
Not again. God, this job is boring.
