The Infected (Book 1): Jim's First Day
The Infected: Jim’s First
Day
By Joseph “Zombie” Zuko
This book is a work of fiction. Names and
characters are fictitious, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or
dead, is entirely coincidental.
Text copyright © 2015 Joseph Zuko
All Rights Reserved
Thank you to Josh McCullough, Kim Scheese,
Linda Kim and Pam Anderson for helping me edit my book.
Thank you to my Mom and Dad for always being
so supportive.
Thank you to Sam for the idea to start
writing this book.
Thank you to my wife Katie Zuko. She cheers
me on like I am her local sports team and thank you for not letting me give up
on my dreams.
Dedicated to all three of my zombie loving
children.
How this whole damn thing
started.
A short story about Joe Zuko.
In 1997 I was a freshman in college, had a
full time job and just turned nineteen. I still lived at home with my folks and
they told me that if I wanted to start building credit I should go to Sears and
get a credit card. I was a man now so I needed to have credit in order to
buy things in the future, right? No one wants to marry a man that isn't up to
his eyeballs in soul crushing debt. At least that's what I thought back then. I
ran down to Sears, applied for a card and got approved for about three hundred
dollars. I didn’t need a Kenmore washer and dryer. I didn’t need Craftsman
tools. I owned a TV already and computers cost too much. I did the manliest
thing I could do and bought a Playstation and the game Resident Evil 2.
The game scared the poopoo out of me. I played late at night in my dark room
and jumped at every scare. After that I was hooked. Zombies terrified me and I
loved it. The idea that anyone can get infected and be turned into a lethal
killing machine thrilled me to the bone. Grandma gets bit on the hand and now
she can’t be trusted. She wants to eat your face. That’s really, really scary.
I don’t care who you are. If Grandma wants to tear out your guts and chew on
them, that’s scarier than sharks, chainsaws, dying in your dreams or camping
with a maniac. I hope you enjoy reading my nightmare.
If you want to know what happens next, sign
up. Be the first to get the sequels.
All cover art has been created by Paul
Copeland.
Visit here for Zombie Themed T-shirts.
“Yes!
There it goes,” I roll off of my wife.
“I
told you it would be worth the wait,” she puts her hand up in the air for me to
give it a high-five. It had been a full week since our last physical encounter,
but she is right. It was worth the wait.
“To
date night,” the palm of my hand smacks hers. We try every week to have a date
night. Even if we can’t afford it we figure out some way to go out and be alone
without the kids. You can’t have a wrestling match in bed if you are worried
that your five year old might open the door and ask, “What are you guys doing?”
She
pulls our top of the line Ikea comforter up to her chest “To date night,” she
says as she turns to face me. Her beautiful mane of red hair has gone wild from
our marital acrobatics. I wipe a little sweat from my forehead. I am not
surprised. I sweat super easy. Sexy, I know.
“It
is times like these I wished we smoked,” I mime smoking.
“We’d
look so cool. Like a couple of sexy dragons breathing fire after a night of
getting busy,” she copies me and pretends to smoke. We take one last fake puff
and I mock blowing smoke rings.
“What
time is it?” I search for my phone on the nightstand. “Oh, shit. It’s nine
fifteen. We gotta jet. The baby-sitter is gonna turn into a pumpkin,” I pull
back the covers and get out of bed.
“Five
more minutes, please,” she drops her face down onto her pillow and acts like
she is dead.
“We
gotta go. Your Mom hates staying up this late,” I search for my clothes, but I can’t
find them in the dark. I turn on the closet light. My wife hisses. She acts like
a vampire that has been hit by a sunbeam.
“Too
bright! Too bright,” she tosses and turns under the covers. I find my underwear
and she props herself up in the bed. “A show?” she gets excited.
“You
want some reverse stripping?” I ask as my hips begin to move, back and forth
and side to side. I do a little drumbeat with my mouth. Boom, chi, boom, boom,
chi.
“Mommy
likey,” she claps her hands as I slowly work my clothes back on. “Put it on,”
she does the drumbeat with me as I fight to pull my shirt over my head. Socks
are the hard part. Have you ever tried to put your socks on and make it sexy?
It is not easy, but somehow I do it. I work at getting the second sock on when
I lose my balance and fall to my face.
“I’m
okay,” I give her a thumbs up from the floor.
I
carry my sleeping two year old out the front door of my mother in law’s.
“Thank
you, Penny. We appreciate it,” I say over my shoulder to her as I head for my
wife’s car.
“Thank
you, Mama. I’m sorry it is so late. Say goodnight to Ganny,” my wife, Karen
tells our oldest Valerie.
“Thank
you, Ganny. Love you,” Valerie gives her about three more hugs before we go.
She is a really sweet kid.
“You’re
welcome sweetheart,” Penny’s southern accent is still strong. She has lived
here in the Northwest for twenty years, but she sounds like she just stepped
off the porch of an old Southern plantation. She gives us a tired wave from her
doorway before stepping back inside.
I
hit the button on my key fob and my wife’s PT Cruiser unlocks.
“Did
you have fun?” Karen leads Valerie to her car seat.
“Yeah.
I played computer. I had popsicles. Ganny said I could have two popsicle as
long as I keep it secret,” she realizes what she just said. Her secret is out.
Karen and I make a silly face at her. She does not have the skills to cover up
this blunder.
Karen
helps her out of this mess, “How many Popsicles did you have?”
I
mouth the word “One.” Valerie picks up what we are doing.
“I
had one popsicle. That is all,” she nods her little head at us. Like she really
pulled the wool over our eyes.
We
get both kids into their car seats. Valerie yawns and stretches her arms out,
“I am so tired.”
“Close
your eyes and go to sleepy, baby,” Karen puts her hand over Valerie’s eyes.
Forcing them closed. She fakes being asleep already. Her body goes limp and she
lets out some snores.
I
wrestle our two-year-old, Robin, into her car seat. This is a delicate process.
If she wakes up too much on the drive home or on the lay down into bed then she
will wake all the way up and Karen’s night is ruined. I have to be at work
early so it would be up to Karen to stay awake with this little one. Her eyes
stay closed but she gets a few words out.
“Where,
Ganny?” she asks.
“At
her house,” I tell her softly.
“Where,
Aler?” her little ginger head bobs around. Aler is what she calls Valerie.
“Right
next to you. Go back to sleep,” I click the last safety harness.
“Okay,”
her head drops and she is back asleep. Damn, I wish it were that easy for me. I
gently close her door. We climb quietly into the front seats. I slide the key
into the ignition and turn it. The PT cruiser comes alive and the radio blasts
us with today’s top hits. We/I forgot to turn the radio down before turning off
the car. Robin wakes up with a scream. My wife looks at me like I am a dirty
motherfucker.
“Oops.
Sorry,” I whisper to her.
There
is levity in her voice, but she also means it, “You will be sorry,” she looks
at me with a set of classic Nic Cage crazy eyes. I put the car into reverse and
pull out of Mom’s driveway.
This
is my family. My name is Jim.
“Sales
call. Sales call! Jim, sales call one nine zero.”
I
snap out of my mid workday fog and pick up the phone. “Hello, this is Jim, how
can I help you today?” I say that I want to help them, but I want them to go
away, leave me alone, and stop bugging me. I do not care that your stupid
appliance is dead.
“Oh,
you need a new washer. Don’t want to spend a lot. Yeah, I can help you with
that.” It is just another day of my life talking to people about stuff that I
do not care about.
“What
was that? Yes, I’m listening,” I am not listening. I am thinking about home. A
beer in my hand, good movie on the TV, wife and kids on the couch. That is
heaven for a guy like me. Better than any vacation. Here at work is not hell;
it’s more like purgatory. Purgatory with John Mayer’s greatest hits playing on
the sound system. I have been with this company for over ten years, that is one
third of my life. That is over ten Black Fridays, ten Christmases, ten years of
working every weekend and missing family events. The pay is good, but this line
of work can be hard on the brain. It is a “Brain Drain”. That is what we call
sales. Well, I am the only one that says it and I never say it out loud, but we
all feel it. Tired and drained after a long day.
The
customer chats my ear off. I look across the sales floor. It is a three level
showroom with beautiful kitchen displays. The front of the store is all
windows. They stretch floor to ceiling and look out into a busy intersection.
We are located in an old part of Portland and most of the houses in this area
are anywhere from sixty to a hundred years old. I get to see these large homes
everyday at work. They sit only two hundred feet away from where I stand. Beautiful
million dollar homes with amazing front yards and at the end of every day I go
home to my crummy little apartment. My family, all four of us squeezed tightly
into eight hundred square feet of living space. I have no front yard, no back
yard, and no garage. We feel packed in on top of each other. I am so jealous. I
can’t imagine having space. A space to call my own. A little room only for me
to play in.
“Mmmhmm,”
I mutter into the phone.
Across
the street is a school for the gifted. I don’t mean mutants. A school for
people who either have a fully functioning brain but the body doesn’t work
right or the reverse. They like to eat their packed lunches on the sidewalk
when it is sunny like it is today. So on one side I am wracked with jealousy
wishing I had the money to afford one of those houses I see everyday and on the
other side I feel blessed that I am not disabled or need to be pushed around in
a wheelchair.
“Sale
goes all weekend,” I regurgitate.
Kitty-corner
from the school is a Jiffy Lube. The guys working there are good salt of the
earth types. They are always out there on the sidewalk with a sign, trying to
wave down customers. So, I have that to be thankful for too. I am in an air
conditioned building, never break a sweat and those poor guys are under hot
cars making half as much as I do. Oh, to be a middle aged, mid income white guy
at the greatest time in history. Smart enough to know that there is more out
there than this, but dumb and lazy enough not to do anything about it. I get
the customer’s info, tell them my name a few times so they know to ask for me
and try and get off the phone. It is lunchtime and lunch takes precedence over
all things work related.
I
hit the lunchroom. My coworker and friend, a skinny guy named Sam, sits at the
table and delicately eats his homemade salad. The guy can eat anything he wants
and never gains any weight, but he still eats salad. Motherfucker. He sports
the thickest rimmed glasses you have ever seen. Like he wants to look like a
nerd. Not the cool nerds that work at Apple or some Internet startup company.
He looks like a caricature of a nerd.
“It’s
slow out there today, man,” I drop my lunch bag on the table and take a seat. “Haven’t
sold jack.”
“I
had a laydown on a kitchen package this morning,” Sam gloats. “Over ten thou’ going
out this month.” Sam had a crazy knack for walking into easy sick deals where
the customer is ready to buy and he makes tons of money. He is the number one
guy at our store. I hate him, but he makes me laugh so his lucky ass gets to be
my best friend. He pulls his feet out from under the table. “Check out the new
kicks.” My eyes drop down to look at his very shiny new shoes.
“Fancy,”
I tell him. He is so proud of his footwear. I never make fun. Not ever. No matter
how silly I think it is for a man to buy so many new shoes. I don’t say
anything. “How much did they set you back?” the number will shock me. It always
does.
“I
got them on sale. Four ninety-nine,” he nods his head.
“Wow.
What a deal,” I nod my head too and make sure there is no sarcasm in my voice
at all. They look like something Clark Griswold wore in
National Lampoon’s
European Vacation
. The shoes have sharp angles and useless straps, but he
loves them.
“Yeah,
my guy can totally hook you up if you ever want to dip into the luxury shoe
game,” he bites the last of his low fat salad.
“Okay.
Maybe. I’ll talk with Karen. See if it’s in the budget,” I smile at him, but
there is no way in hell Karen would ever let me have shoes that cost more than
three lap dances.
The
phone on the wall chimes. “Sam, you have a customer waiting down on the sales
floor.”
He
gets up, puts his plate in the dishwasher, “Back to the salt mine.”
“Go
sell another ten you bastard,” we fist bump. I am not a fan of this form of
nonverbal communication. I prefer the high five. I pride myself on giving the
best high fives. The power comes from the elbow and a good one will leave your
palm stinging. He actually walks different when he has a new set of shoes. If
he spent half the amount he does on new shoes he could get eye surgery and not
have to wear those nerd glasses.
I
crack open my lunch bag. The wife was nice enough to pack it for me this
morning. Even with the radio mishap last night she still got up early to make
it for me. I have been trying to lose weight so it is all healthy, organic and
fresh. I hate it, but I am down over twenty pounds. You can’t argue with
results. The food tastes good but I don’t like to admit it. There is something
to be said about eating bad foods; it is very satisfying to finish off three
thousand calories in one really sloppy cheeseburger. I can’t put my finger on
what it is but it most likely has to do with the salt and fat. I am no
scientist. Karen packed me a wonderful chicken salad wrap today. I can truly
say my wife is the best. She is a stay-at-home mom with our two beautiful,
sweet kids.
My
cell says I got a text. “drink water” It’s her. She knows that I forget to
drink water throughout my workday. I text her back “will do, Luv u”.
Two
years ago I got a wake up call. I was topping over two ten. I was brewing my
own beer and drinking six a night. I am a sucker and a chump for Indian Pale
Ale’s. Karen said I needed to stop and I had to go to the doctor for a checkup.
I was in high school when I had my last checkup. I found out I had crazy high
cholesterol. It runs in the family. So that year for Christmas Karen bought me
a month of Krav Maga classes. Here honey, here’s a present, lose weight you chubby
bastard. I go and fall in love with it. Almost two years in now and I have five
colorful belts hanging on the wall.
To
get one of those belts you have to go through hell. It is a four-hour nonstop
physical test. You have to show the instructors everything you learned over the
last three months. Plus you get to do a ton of sparring. You fight people of
different levels. Some are brand new and it is easy. One night I sparred with a
guy that was one level away from black belt. He kicked my ass all over the mat.
When you get to the end of a test you really feel like you earned it. The class
itself is a lot of cardio but you do learn how to kick ass on the street. Now
my weight and cholesterol are finally under control. My shoulder, chest to
belly ratio is at a place where I feel comfortable with my shirt off. I take
one bite of my organic fresh chicken salad wrap and the phone on the wall
chimes.
