Fifty Shades Of Sparkling Vampires With Dragon Tattoos That Play Starvation Games (11 page)

The Zombies closed in on Jonah and
started playing tug of war with his appendages. His arms went
first, then his legs. But the real buffet was his kidneys, and the
undead savored every bite. Then before they knew it, the Zombies
had made a nice appetizer out of the stock jock. But just like a
Wall Street tycoon, the Zombies were greedy for more. And as the
undead lurched off for their next meal, they left Jonah's phone
dangling, broadcasting the live execution.

Madison Avenue

Most people would have been horrified
about what they just heard. Of course to be horrified, you'd have
to actually listen to the conversation. Damon Newson had gotten
sidetracked by the latest investment property he was going to scoop
out of foreclosure, then flip for a cool profit. Damon loved few
things more than making money off others misery. Even in the
dogshit economy, Damon had made a killing. And he sure wasn't
afraid to flaunt it.

So a dip in the Dow wasn't going to
bring down his cocky spirit. Of course, having a thousand dollar an
hour escort fuck his dick off the night before didn't hurt. Nor did
the gram of blow he'd put up his nose hours before. But either way,
the walking douche bag sat back in his cubicle, dining comfortably
on his tofu takeout.

Damon was the kind of dickwad the
ninety-nine percent loved to hate. A guy that invested in
bankruptcy firms to profit off the poor. A guy that flaunted his
expense account. A guy that bought hundred dollar cufflinks. Damon
never paid attention to the Occupy Protestors just out his window.
He was too busy guzzling his triple mocha while checking his
portfolio on his smart phone on the way in.

But the ass chump sure noticed the
protestors occupying his office with blood soaked shirts and rabid
teeth. Of course, with the screams, it was hard to miss the ripping
of flesh from the bone. And to think seconds before Damon was just
thinking how happy he was to have finally scored a reservation at
the hot Euro Asian Fusion Restaurant that had been booked up for
months.

"Get away from me," Damon scolded,
fresh off dumping junk mortgages on day traders. Damon was making a
killing, doubling down on payday lending companies and credit card
companies. It didn't matter how much the working class stiffs 401k
would be crippled. The stock shark was all about lining his own
pockets. That yacht wasn't going to buy itself after
all.

But Zombies don't give a shit about
Damon's custom suits and designer haircuts. Zombies weren't
impressed by the sharks portfolio. And Zombies couldn't be bribed
with payouts from his off shore back account. They just wanted
brains.

Not to mention investment bankers had
especially tasty cerebellums. After years of stretching the limits
of morals and decency, their craniums were mushy jelly. Desert for
the undead. But even though the world seemed devoid of mercy, it
sure as hell had a sense of irony. The same Occupy Protestors that
Damon had ignored month after month coming off the subway had
brought an undead reckoning to his cubicle.

"I'll make a deal with you," Damon
pleaded, as if talking to a coherent human being instead of a flesh
crazy monsters. "I have a great stock tip for you."

But the hordes were going to send Damon
to a bloody grave. And suddenly Damon realized all the years of
stock piling his assets in offshore accounts were little
consolation when his spleen was going to be ripped out. But while
the Zombies dug into their stock broker breakfast, Damon finally
saw the light and realized what was truly important--that he was
never going to get to use his two for one lap dance
coupon.

Damon wasn't the only investment banker
on his floor turned to Zombie mulch, but he was the only one to
squeal like a little bitch.

Despite the screeching. Despite the
chaos. Despite the mayhem just outside his corner office, Brent
Tompkins didn't hear the warnings until it was too late. Brent was
too busy getting sucked off by his latest busty bimbo of a
secretary to notice.

To be fair, it had been a rough week
for the old multi millionaire. He'd been forced to live on his
yacht ever since his third wife kicked him out of their mansion in
the Hamptons and left him without a butler or personal chef. He'd
spent a hooker's ransom lobbying Congress to keep regulators hands
off his immoral trading practices. And he'd been forced to hire a
new slutty secretary after the last one refused to suck him off
without being guaranteed a promotion.

That's what the common folk didn't
understand. When you had enough money to roll around naked in,
everyone wanted a piece of you. Between an ex wanting half of
everything, the Government wanting fair business practices, and
coworkers wanting his job, the stock holders would have his balls
in a jar if he didn't give them ten percent growth every
quarter.

So Brent deserved a bad ass blow job
under his desk. Didn't people realize he would have to fire half
the floor after the Dow plunging like a little bitch? And Brent
hated firing people. It really dampened his morning mocha. Plus it
meant Brent would have to get off his lazy ass and actually do work
for once instead of just delegating. Fuck, everyone knew middle
management was about planning your next trip to St. Tropez while
cashing checks.

Hard work was for schmucks and
construction workers. Investment banking was about gambling with
other peoples money. Most of the time you got rich. But even if you
went belly up, Congress was right there to bail you out. After all,
the investment banks were too big to fail. It was fool proof scam
disguised as a 9-5 job.

No one told the Zombies that though. As
Brent's sales managers bloody body was pressed against the glass in
front of him, Brent realized that unlike Capitol Hill, the undead
could not be bought off. And for once in Brent's life, he actually
turned down a blow job. After all, he needed to use his Busty
Secretary as a human shield. Brent lived in a world where he never
heard "no." A world where his past dirty deeds never caught up with
him. A world where he was allowed to run afoul of logic and the law
without repercussions. So in Brent's mind, an army of Zombies were
just a roadblock on the way back to easy street.

Candy Callahan was not so eager to play
decoy though. She wanted to be more than just a Busty Secretary.
She wanted to be a survivor. Candy tried to move to the back of the
room as the Zombies closed in. But douche that he was, Brent
grabbed Candy and shoved her towards the Zombies, offering her body
up as an appetizer. But Brent soon realized the undead were too
numerous to just plow through. So Brent's mind spun, dizzying
himself trying to come up with an escape while the Zombies tore
Candy up in front of him.

There would be no escape though. Just a
bloody demise for the bastard. But dickhead that he was, Brent
decided he would be a weakling right to the end. Brent made a
beeline for his window, opting for a twenty story plunge instead of
turning into Zombie munchies.

The Universe was not going to let Brent
get off so easy. Brent was destined to become lunch. To be an
unwitting organ donor. And to suffer more than he ever had before.
The Zombies grabbed Brent as he opened his office window, pulling
him back into the fold. Then they swarmed around him with their
cold dead eyes. It was like staring down a pack of
sharks.

Brent started sweating through his
shirt as the Zombies pulled him every which way. The smell of
rotting flesh was overwhelming, stuck between the Zombies teeth.
Brent could feel his shoulder pop out, then his hamstring blow. No
appendage was safe. And Brent had never experienced something so
terrifying. But the torture had just begun. Brent suddenly felt a
pair of teeth rip into his flesh. It was excruciating. But not
nearly as bad as the fingernails clawing his abs, exposing his
intestines to a hungry audience.

Before Brent knew it, he was turned
inside out, writhing in pain, and desperate to die. But karma was a
bitch. Not to mention, Brent had plenty of fresh meat to go around.
It was a just desert after a lifetime of cutting rivals throats,
having his gnawed on by the unwashed masses.

And as the Zombies ate Brent alive, the
only thing that could compete with his screaming were the
commentators on his office tv.

Fifth Avenue

Philip Goodwin wanted to scream at the
top of his lungs. And he hadn't even come face to face with a
Zombie yet. Instead he was the messenger, about to be shot down by
the cold, greedy glares of his Corporations board. Philip was the
one that had to tell the investors that the company hadn't given
their customers enough boners in the last quarter. See, Philip
worked for the biggest drug dealer in the world. A pharmaceutical
juggernaut. And proud restorer of erections to octogenarians
everywhere.

But they didn't just pop woodies on
geriatrics for a living. They also lowered blood pressure, stopped
rectal bleeding, and gave it's patients heart attacks. Wait, you
didn't pay attention to the eight page warning labels? Sure the
prescription will cure restless leg syndrome, but those pills could
give you an ulcer, suicidal thoughts, or a full blown stroke. And
go figure, one guy kicks the bucket after taking the companies
indigestion pill and everyone goes into a panic.

Enter Philip, sitting amongst twelve
angry board members wondering why they'd have to hold off on buying
another private island retreat. And sitting in that conference
room, Philip started to realize how fucked up the stock market
really was. The figures in his hand said his pharmaceutical
employer had made a two million dollar profit in the last three
months. Even a five year old could figure out the stock price
should go up. But Wall Street had no use for logic. The
prognosticators thought the Rx company should have made four
million bucks. So instead the board would have to start popping
pills of their own as their stock took a nose dive.

Anywhere else and a two million dollar
profit would be a wet dream. But instead, welcome to Wall Street,
where no profit was big enough, no job couldn't be outsourced, and
no penny couldn't be pinched all in the name of making
millionaire's into billionaire's. The suits wanted their sports
cars. They wanted their foie gras. They wanted to buy their own
private golf courses. And Philip had come between that.

So when the Zombie Security Guards and
Janitors started pounding on the glass to the conference room, it
was almost a relief to Philip. The math finally added up. Forty
brain hungry Zombies versus twelve overpaid blowhards meant good
eating for the undead. And what a last supper it would
be.

Philip wouldn't be spared from the
carnage, becoming an appetizer himself. But Philip watched his
bosses get eaten with a smile on his face. After all, the
Pharmaceutical Companies stock may not have shot up, but they sure
knew how to make good sleeping pills. So Philip popped a pill and
closed his eyes, before the Zombies ripped them out of their
sockets.

Newport Beach

Carlton Stoddard knew just how good
sleeping pills were. The CEO slept like a baby. Then again, it
didn't hurt that he'd gone to bed in a thousand dollar a night
villa. As the East Coast had been ravaged by suicidal stocks and a
zoo of Zombies, Carlton and his West Coast cohorts were just waking
up to their corporate retreat on the Newport Coast. With the way
those fat cats were living it up, you'd hardly know they were in
the middle of a recession.

Don't tell that to the ten thousand
warehouse workers the company just laid off. Or the Chinese
laborers working in human rights violating conditions so the
company could make obscenely cheap smart phones. The sales managers
for the Wireless Mobile Conglomerate worked damn hard and deserved
corporate spa packages. A Swedish massage with just a little extra
at the end. A room with a complimentary five hundred dollar bottle
of wine. A filet at dinner that cost more per ounce than most
American families weekly food bill. All on the company dime of
course.

And for Carlton, it was just the break
he'd been looking for. It had been tough for him, having been fired
from his last CEO job and forced to settle for a ten million dollar
buyout. He was hoping his severance would be more like fifteen. But
incompetence had never paid so well. Carlton bounced back from his
unemployed days toiling on his yacht, landing the CEO position at
Wireless Mobile Corporation. Although at thirty million a year, he
did feel a bit underpaid. After all, it didn't seem worth getting
out of bed in the morning for less than twenty-five mil.

It was poised to be an exhausting day
of relaxation for Carlton. A light two hour massage. Round of golf
on the coast. And finally an awards banquet where his sales
managers told him how great he was. All in a days work
though.

The last thing Carlton expected was a
toothy surprise at his door. As a matter of fact, when he heard a
tap, Carlton thought the escort he'd ordered had finally arrived to
ride his dick into the sunset. But instead it was housekeeping,
eager to do some Spring Cleaning with his sternum.

Marge the Maid lunged at Carlton as he
opened the door. Carlton was completely blindsided by the Zombie
Maid. And before he knew it, Carlton was on the ground, mounted by
a brain-thirsty servant. It had been a long time since the CEO had
been mounted by a woman he didn't have to pay. Although it wasn't
the first time a woman wanted to tear Carlton to shreds. But it
appeared Marge the Maid would succeed where so many other angry
women had failed.