Zombies Eat Lawyers

Zombies Eat Lawyers

Kevin Michael & Lacy Maran

Table Of Contents

1. Zombies Eat Lawyers

2. Excerpt: Undead Reckoning

3. Excerpt: Banned: A Booze & Boobs Bonanza

4. Excerpt: Cupid’s Dating Disasters

The Law Offices Of My Foot In Your Ass

Washington, DC

"Someone's getting sued for this." A harried lawyer kept repeating it to himself while curled under his desk in the fetal position. The Zombie Plague had come to the Law Offices Of My Foot In Your Ass, and litigators were turning into lunch. Justice may well be blind, but the undead overran the Attorneys offices with unadultered gore. The conference room turned into a blood-splattered tomb. Cubicles walled the workers in like prison. And the break room became the last refuge of the wounded survivors. It wasn't supposed to be like that. Especially not on Bagel Thursday.

It was a bad time for the apocalypse. Steve Walker's life was finally going places. He'd just gotten engaged. He was ready to trade his sardine-cramped apartment for a new condo, his hunk of junk of a car for one that didn't stall in the middle of intersections, his ramen noodle lifestyle for succulent steak. But on that Thursday morning, survival was the only thing on the menu. The zombies meanwhile were content to gobble Steve as an appetizer.

Steve never thought he'd die sorting issues of Super Litigator magazines in the bowels of a law firm. Then again, being a mailroom bitch was hardly a way to live, apocalypse or not. The fact was, Steve hated lawyers, even before he started working for them. Their smug sensibilities. The shark in suits mentality. They were a rung up from used car salesman on the slime ball ladder. It turned out lawyers actually deserved more bad press than they got.

Not to mention they worked Steve like a goat. But despite an existence filled with legal briefs and deposition transcripts, Steve managed to carve out a little slice of Heaven. Her name was Vanessa Tilden. She was dirty blonde, trim, sarcastic, and way smarter than her title as Congressional Aide gave her credit for.

They met at a bar in Georgetown and instantly hit it off comparing gripes about their fat cat bosses. From there, love took hold in a bond that couldn't even be broken by the End of the World. The apocalypse seemed anxious to test that theory, leaving Steve struggling to survive long enough to ever see the woman of his dreams alive again.

If Steve had known doomsday was coming, the last words out of his mouth to Vanessa surely wouldn't have been "don't forget to pick up more toilet paper on the way home." Then again, Steve hadn't realized there was a chance he'd never see home again. So standing alone in the mailroom, Steve for once actually missed his matchbox sized apartment. He figured it would be a nice light Thursday. That he'd just coast through eight hours of sorting subpoenas, then pick up some Sir Lunch-A-Lot take out on the way to having engagement sex.

Instead Steve found himself listening to Indie Rock through his mp3 earbuds in the mailroom, trying to shake a sleep hangover. He stopped suddenly when he felt a presence behind him. Steve just figured it was one of the partners demanding he go out on a latte run. Maybe even a stop off to pick up some dry cleaning. So imagine Steve's surprise when he found Betty Hunter behind him, leaning in like she wanted to suck his face.

It was a bold move for a sexual harassment lawyer. Someone who made her living forcing others to pay for their unwanted sexual advances caught in the throes of an unwelcome come on of her own.

"Whoa, hands off. Engaged dude here," Steve insisted, as Betty lunged towards him.

But as Steve looked closer, he realized it was not the sweater vest loving, chain-smoking, husky Betty he'd come to resent. Betty's eyes were dead, her mouth drooped open. She groaned with a taste for brains.

"What the f..." Steve muttered, as Betty lunged a second time.

Steve dodged Betty again as she tried to bite him.

"Oh, hell no. I don't even let Vanessa bite me."

Steve didn't know what happened to Betty, or where she lurked from, but he wasn't about to be cannibalized by someone who got winded when she climbed up a flight of stairs.

"Don't make me hurt you," Steve warned, one last time.

But Zombie Betty only had one thing on her mind. She lunged for Steve again. Steve moved to the side, then grabbed hold of the mail cart beside him, and steamrolled Betty with it.

Steve rammed Zombie Betty into the wall, expecting that to do the trick. Betty fell to the ground and lay lifeless. Steve breathed a sigh of relief.

"What the hell is going on here?" he asked himself.

But Steve didn't have long with his thoughts.

Zombie Betty started groaning again. Steve turned around and saw Betty starting to stagger to her feet.

"You've gotta be kidding me."

Steve looked around for a weapon, but found none. He then got an idea. Steve grabbed a box full of Betty's latest harassment case load, and slammed it on her head. With the blow to the cranium, Betty fell back to the ground, lifeless.

"Case closed, bitch."

Steve caught his breath, not fully believing what he just saw. He slid his smart phone out of his pocket and pulled up the internet, hoping the days Breaking News would give him answers. But just as his internet browser was opening, Steve heard a piercing scream.

*********

Dave Johnson's life was circling the drain faster than a goldfish gone belly up. He'd lost three cases in a row. His mistress left him for his life coach. And he'd just caught his wife getting wheel barrowed by an Icelandic pet psychic. It seemed things couldn't go worse.

That was, until he got served court papers. See, Dave made his fortune on frivolous lawsuits. His business card even said "no case too absurd." So when he wasn't able to convince the court it was Sir Lunch-A-Lot's fault for making a client obese, the supposed victim retaliated by filing a lawsuit against Dave for incompetence. That was why Dave had made bourbon his best buddy. And why Rebecca Webster thought nothing of Dave stammering into the offices that morning looking like he'd slept in a gutter.

Rebecca meanwhile held court over her Empire of gossip. She spent her work time complaining online about how much she hated her job. Whiny status updates went out to her thousand closest online friends. The fact was, Rebecca was overqualified to answer phones, but under qualified for anything less demeaning, the fitting result to getting a Liberal Arts degree from the University Of Arm & A Leg.

Rebecca was typing up another status update online when Dave trudged in, groaning.

"Sounds like someone could use a raisin bagel," Rebecca said, with fake cheer.

But Dave had other cravings on his mind. He leaned over the desk with blank eyes and his mouth wide open. Rebecca tore herself away from social networking to offer Dave a bagel, then noticed how close he was to her, and misinterpreted it for a sexual advance.

"Ew, booze breath. Gross," Rebecca uttered, pulling back. But staring deep into Dave's eyes, she realized something was different. That he wasn't just horny and hung over--or even alive anymore for that matter.

Zombie Dave lunged across the desk at Rebecca and ripped into her flesh. She screamed for help, but the damage had been done. An online status update remained on Rebecca's computer. It read "just another boring day at the office."

You'd think a yell like Rebecca's would send the cavalry coming. But the partners sat in their corner offices thinking about who to sue next, and what Caribbean Island to bask on after their multi million dollar payday.

Elaine Boyle meanwhile sat patiently in her cubicle when Rebecca's scream reached fever pitch. Elaine had waited patiently all morning for the soothing dulcet tones of DJ Rick Smooth's cue to call so she could win an iCool tablet.

Leanne Miller meanwhile furiously scoured the internet for a recap of the last episode of "Bitchy Housewives Of Boise." Her boyfriend had forgotten to DVR it before he took her out to the hip new French Asian Fusion joint across town. Sure "Chez Wang" had killer foie grass wonton, but that hardly made up for missing America's favorite tantrum artist having a meltdown over shower curtains on national television.

And then there was Patricia Travers. She checked her lottery ticket, hoping she'd hit the jackpot. Then she could finally afford the singles cruise she'd been saving up for the last six months. Not to mention she'd finally managed to take off five pounds on the Hoboken Beach Diet. That left her a mere thirty-five pounds from her goal weight.

The paralegals were every day women. The kind of cubicle dwellers that packed bag lunches and set Kitten calendars on their desks. But the days of watching funny animal videos were over.

The ladies all sprang to attention with Rebecca's shriek from reception. They scurried to her aid, but stopped in their tracks as they saw their old shark of a colleague Dave making a meal of her. A mailman and firefighter zombie had joined Dave in devouring Rebecca.

The ladies couldn't believe what they were seeing. One of their closest friends torn apart right in front of their eyes. The paralegals stomachs started to turn. They wanted to puke into the nearest trashcan, but instead stood in silence, too petrified of drawing the zombies attention.

The silence didn't last long though. As the paralegals slowly back tracked, the zombies caught wind of fresh meat, and set their sights on a blond buffet.

Shrieks rang out while the paralegals nearly tripped over each other fleeing from the undead masses. Patricia and Elaine started to dash towards the partners corner offices for cover while Leann discovered she'd picked a bad day to wear heels to work.

Leann tripped while trying to make her getaway, and found herself eating carpet.

Elaine was in too much of a terror frenzy to even notice Leann hit the deck, but Patricia turned back to aid her fallen co worker.

The zombies bared down on the paralegals while Patricia helped Leann to her feet.

As Zombie Dave lunged for Leann, Patricia grabbed a letter opener from an adjacent desk and plunged it deep into Dave's eye socket. Zombie Dave was stunned for a second, then kept plowing on, desperate for more brains.

With no more office products to use as weapons, Leann and Patricia retreated, joining Elaine pounding on one of the partners locked doors.

Elaine could see Samantha Stevens through the glass. Hell, she'd fetched a double decaf soy mocha for her just a few hours before. But Samantha wasn't about to unlock the door for her assistant. The irony of a lawyer that made a living out of championing underrepresented women hanging her own assistant out to dry was enough to make Elaine sick. Almost as sick as a criminal defense attorney who would defend Hitler for the right wad of cash holing up under his desk in the fetal position while three defenseless women stood exposed to a growing legion of brain hungry zombies.

The partners were a potpourri of litigation pet peeves. The Big Business Lackey, the Defense Attorney To The Stars, the Cease & Desist Shill, the Six Figure Settlement King. They were all sharks in the courtroom, but guppies in true times of crisis. Their eight hundred dollar custom cufflinks weren't going to save them. Nor were their snakeskin briefcases. More importantly, no one was going to save their souls. Not while they watched their underlings cling to life.

Chaos reigned on the floor. The court reporters and law clerks were rousted from their cubicle coma's by the commotion, only to be thrusted into danger.

Patricia, Elaine, and Leann tried to retreat into the ladies room as the ranks of zombies swelled. Leann opened the door to the restroom expecting refuge, but instead found a pair of their zombiefied co workers waiting for them.

Brock Foster was an personal injury shark that chased one too many ambulances. When he opened the back of a crashed EMT vehicle looking to land his next client, he instead found a paramedic being devoured by a gurney bound sports mascot. Brock tried to flee the scene, but had found himself easy pickings for a local mime with a jonesing for a bite to eat. The beret-wearing clown took a chunk out of Brock's neck before he was able fight the Frenchie off, then Brock staggered back to the office, having become a personal injury case of his own.

When Brock returned to the office that night hoping to quickly gauze up and return to ambulance chasing, he ran into Claire working late at her desk. Desperate to sleep her way up the corporate ladder, the busty bimbo offered to nurse Brock's wound, standing extra close and looking deep into Brock's eyes as she bandaged up his neck in the ladies room.