Your Sixteenth Literary Gift of 25 Gifts to Christmas. My campaign to give you 25 literary gifts by Christmas continues. I’m Andy Zach, author of two scifi series. This blog will give you a short story from my collection, Oops! Stories from the Zombie Turkey Apocalypse.
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My past gifts to you are here:
- 25 Days to Christmas – 25 Literary Gifts for You
- Your Second Literary Gift! – 24 Gifts to Christmas.
- Your Third Literary Gift! – 22 Gifts Until Christmas
- Your Fourth Literary Gift! – 21 Gifts Until Christmas
- Your Fifth Literary Gift! – 20 Gifts Until Christmas
- Your Sixth Literary Gift! – 19 Gifts Until Christmas
- Your Seventh Literary Gift! – 18 Gifts Until Christmas
- Your Eighth Literary Gift! – 17 Gifts Until Christmas
- Your Ninth Literary Gift – A New Book! – Is it Christmas?
- Your Tenth Literary Gift – More from My New Book!
- Your Eleventh Literary Gift – My Non-fiction Book
- Your Twelfth Literary Gift of My 25 Gifts to You
- Your Thirteenth Literary Gift of My 25 Gifts to You
- Your Fourteenth Literary Gift of 25 Gifts
- Your Fifteenth Literary Gift of 25 Gifts
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Your Sixteenth Gift: From Oops!
A Dying Business
He was dead. At least, his business was. And without his business, his wife would leave him and take their new baby. Then he might as well be dead.
His dad had run the Elysium Fields Mortuary for thirty years and had made a killing at it. The first and only mortuary in their small town of Hillvale, everyone got buried there. He charged normal prices, he was friendly, and he helped their community. His dad said to him when he was a teen, “Irving, after you get your college degree, go to mortuary school, and when you come out, I’ll hire you and then turn the business over to you. You’ll be set for life.”
Irv had no other plans. He liked this cute blonde Shelley in high school, and she liked him. So he learned the business, got his degree in psychological counseling, and came back and married her. Just as he promised, his dad turned Elysium Fields over to him after a few years and retired to Florida with his mom.
Irv Runs His Mortuary – Your Sixteenth Literary Gift
The first years had been great. People were dying to be his customers. He and Shelley remodeled his parents’ old house, went on vacations around the world, had his and her luxury cars. Shelley had their son, Nathan. Then the bottom dropped out of his business.
Rather than dying normally, people were taking zombie blood. Lung cancer? Gone. Heart disease? Cleared up. Severe accidents? Limbs grew back. Most people then took the vaccine to remove the zombie disease, because who wants to be a zombie with glowing red eyes? But they were still alive and healthy.
Irv researched the zombie disease during his many idle moments waiting for customers. No one knew how long people with zombiism lived. Zombie turkeys, squirrels, and corgis lived past their normal life span. Humans near death came back as zombies and started living like twenty-year-olds.
All that Irv had left was a trickle of people who died suddenly or who refused the zombie treatment. Irv rejoiced that the prejudice against zombies was so strong, or he’d be bankrupt.
To make matters worse, the zombies had organized themselves. Their leader, Diane Newby, also known as “the undead mother-in-law” started the Society Promoting Equality with Zombies, or SPEwZ. They fought for zombie rights and to make zombies normal and accepted. SPEwZ also collected zombie blood donations and repackaged it in one-dose injectors, Zom-B Pens. These they sold worldwide, making tons of money.
Irv seethed. He called the SPEwZ helpline to give them a piece of his mind, 1-800-ZOMBIES.
Diane Talks to Irv
“Hello, SPEwZ Inc. How can I help you?” said a pleasant-voiced woman.
“Let me talk to your boss,” Irv growled.
“One moment. I’ll transfer you to Diane Newby.”
Good. He would get right to the top.
“How may I help you, Mr.…” came a strong alto voice.
“Isling. Irving Isling. Mrs. Newby, let me give you—”
“Interesting initials,” Mrs. Newby interrupted. “Sorry. You were saying?”
“Mrs. Newby—”
“Call me Diane. There’s no need to be formal with me.”
“I’m the owner of Elysium Fields Mortuary, and your organization is killing me!”
“I’m sorry, but isn’t it better to have people alive than dead?”
“Not for me! My father built this business over thirty years ago, and it’s about ready to go under—all because of you zombies.”
“Hey, we didn’t ask to become zombies. We just want to be treated like any other American.”
“That’s fine, but don’t go around selling your zombie blood and keeping people alive unnaturally.”
“How bloodthirsty! If you were near death, wouldn’t you want a new lease on life?”
“Well, yeah. But still, you’re driving me out of business.”
“That’s the great American way. One business dies, and another rises to take its place. Adapt. Don’t be an old fuddy-duddy.”
Irv Gets With the Times – Your Sixteenth Literary Gift
“Fuddy-duddy? I don’t even know what that means. I’m only twenty-six.”
“It means you’re a stick-in-the-mud. Inflexible. Stubborn. Now I’m forty-nine and leading the zombie “craze”…”
“I have been called stubborn. Mostly by my wife.”
“Hop on board the zombie train. We’re leaving the station. We can barely meet the demand for zombie blood. There are new zombie businesses popping up daily.”
“Like what?”
“Just today, here in SPEwZ headquarters in Gary, Indiana, we put out a job offer for a zombie counselor. People need time to adjust to the new zombie lifestyle and reassurance they’re as normal as anyone else.”
“Hmmph. How is anyone with glowing red eyes normal?”
“Eyes can always be covered with contact lenses.”
“I do have a degree in consoling. Do I just replace my mortuary with a consoling business?”
Business Opportunity – Your Sixteenth Literary Gift
“Why not both? People will always need to be buried and deal with grief. Even zombies can die.”
“So I do have hope. Do I just add a zombie-consoling shingle to my mortuary?”
“Of course. I’ll even route zombies we know to you.”
“We’re pretty sparsely populated here in Hillvale. The town population is just five hundred.”
“Let me do a query on our zombie database. Okay, there are one hundred and seventy-five within a radius of twenty miles.”
“That’s way more than I thought!”
“I can’t send you their contact information without violating their privacy, but I can tell them about your consoling business. What will you call it?”
“Um, Elysium Fields Consoling?”
“Got it. I’ll send out the email today to everyone within a hundred miles. That’s over a thousand zombies.”
“Thanks, Diane. I called to read you the riot act, and you helped me.”
“That’s what we do here at SPEwZ: help zombies and help people who help zombies.”
Irv asked the town printer to make some Elysium Fields Consoling signs. He set up a small conference room in their mortuary as an office and mounted a sign on the door, under the foyer sign, and on the outside sign.
Irv’s Business Comes to Life
The next day he had five emails asking for help adjusting to zombie life. He called each person and scheduled them to come in. One could come that afternoon, a Mrs. Persimmon.
A large luxury car pulled up into his otherwise empty parking lot. A wizened little old lady came out of the huge car, barely able to see over the open door. Then she flipped the door closed with a solid THUNK Irv could hear through the window of his air-conditioned office.
Holding her large black handbag in one hand, her eyes hidden behind huge dark glasses, she skipped—skipped—from her car to the front door of Elysium Fields.
Irv closed his mouth and hurried to greet her. The door flew open before he reached it.
“Mrs. Persimmon?”
“Right as rain, sonny.” She cackled, looking up at him with a wide grin.
“Pleased to meet you. I’m Irv Isling, director and counselor.”
“So you’re not a zombie? How will you be able to help me?” She took off her dark glasses and put them in her purse. Her red eyes glowed at Irv with skepticism.
Helping Mrs. Persimmon
“Um, no, but I do have training in helping people adjust to trauma in their lives.”
“Well, being a zombie’s a picnic. It’s other people that give me grief.”
“Come into my office and we can talk about it.”
“I don’t know about that. Why should I pay you if you don’t know what I’m going through?”
“If I can’t help you, I’ll say so and there’ll be no charge.”
“Okay then. I can’t beat that.”
When they were seated, Irv said, “Tell me your story from the beginning. Take as long as you’d like.” This was an approach Irv took with grief counseling, getting people to talk about their loved ones.
“When I got my stroke, I couldn’t walk or take care of myself anymore. My kids wanted to put me in a nursing home. I thought I’d try this zombie blood thing instead. When my shot came in the mail, I got my home nursing assistant to give it to me. That was the start.”
“What happened after that?”
“I popped right out of bed and straightened up the house. With plenty of energy left, I mowed the lawn and finished up by playing hopscotch on my driveway. I haven’t done that for seventy-eight years. I felt like a young girl again. But that was the start of my problems.
“My neighbors called my kids, and they came over and fussed over me. I was glad they were concerned, and I thanked them. Then we had a fight. They still wanted me to go into a nursing home, and I refused. In fact, I revoked their power of attorney. That really ticked them off. My son tried to drag me off.” Mrs. Persimmon chuckled. “That didn’t turn out well for him.”
Mrs. Persimmon’s Problem
“What do you mean?”
“I turned him over my knee and spanked him. I hadn’t done that for over sixty years. But now my kids aren’t talking to me, and they’re threatening legal action. Dumb kids. I’ve got way better lawyers than they do and more money.”
“What can I do for you?”
“I’d like to be reconciled to my kids, but they’re in a huff and not listening. I don’t think they like zombies either. They want me to take the vaccine. There’s no way that’ll happen. I like roller-skating around my neighborhood like I did as a girl. Did you know these new-fangled inline skates are lots better than the clip-ons I had as a kid?”
“No, I didn’t. Let me think a minute. You need to meet at a neutral place. Is there a nice restaurant where you can meet as a family and have a meal and discussion?”
“Yes. We can go to Pierre’s. We were just there celebrating their thirty-fifth wedding anniversary and my ninetieth birthday, before my stroke. Everyone loves it. I can get a private room again.”
Irv’s Plan
“Good. See if you can just tell them what you’ve told me. Tell them how much you love feeling like a young girl again. Tell them how much you love them and want to spend time with them, not in a nursing home. Don’t argue or yell or fight.”
“Sonny, you talk sense. I don’t know why I didn’t think of that. Probably because they stirred up my dander and I wasn’t thinking straight. I’ll do that. But I want you to come, in case a fight breaks out. Then you can mediate.”
“Uh, okay, if it fits my schedule.”
“Let’s see what we can work out,” Mrs. Persimmon reached into her purse and pulled out a golden tablet. She rapidly punched buttons, and then a face appeared.
“Hi Amanda, it’s your granny.”
“Hi, Grandma. You’re looking great!”
“Thanks, honey. Can you and Trevor make it to Pierre’s for supper this Friday? It’s my treat.”
“We’d love to!”
“Great. Now see if you can get your mom and dad to come too. I’d invite them, but they’re not talking to me. Tell them it’s my treat and there’ll be no fighting. I’ve even hired a counselor to reconcile us.”
“I’ll try, Grandma, but they’re pretty sore at you.”
“Tell them I’m dropping my legal action if they stop theirs.”
“I’ll do the best I can.”
“Don’t worry, honey. You’re the apple of your dad’s eye, and he’ll do whatever you want.”
“Don’t I wish!”
“Trust me on this. That’s why I called you.”
“I will, Grandma.”
“Thanks, honey. I’ve gotta go. Toodles!”
“Bye.”
Irv’s Date
Turning to Irv, Mrs. Persimmon said, “Now I made it for Friday evening. Can you come?”
“Usually I spend Fridays with my wife and son eating out.”
“Great! Bring them along.”
“My son’s only a year and a half. He might be disruptive.”
“That’s a good disruption. My son William and his wife, Wendy, love kids. We’re all very experienced.”
“What about Pierre’s? I don’t know if a luxury restaurant is the right place for an eighteen-month-old baby.”
“No problem. We have a private room, and they’ll do whatever I say.”
“If you’re game, then I’m game.”
“Good. Now, how much do I owe you?”
“This first session was free, like I told you.”
“You’ve been a big help, and I want to pay you.”
“My normal rate is thirty-five dollars an hour, but you don’t have to pay, Mrs. Persimmon.”
“Nonsense. A man is worth his hire.” She told out a thick wallet from her purse and riffled through the bills. “Hmmm. Nothing smaller than a hundred.”
“I’ve got change.”
“Don’t bother. Keep the change.” She handed him a Franklin.
“I feel I ought to pay for my meal now at Pierre’s.”
“Nah. I eat there every week and get way better discounts than anyone else. It’s been nice talking with you, Irv.” She bounced up and vigorously shook his hand.
“See you Friday!” she called as she skipped out the door.
(Too long for this blog. The story continues here.)
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