Zombies Eat Lawyers by Kevin Michael, Lacy Maran

 
     
    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