Harold walked down the nearly deserted sidewalk on his way to work. The morning was still a little chilly, but it was bright and a few fluffy clouds wandered lazily across the blueness overhead. The cool breeze that travelled through the downtown core was a little stronger than he was used to, but it carried the scent of spring on its currents. He smiled. Harold loved the spring time. It was never too hot. He hated to sweat, just as much as he hated freezing. He was glad that he didn’t live in the neighbouring province, where winters were known to hit minus forty for weeks on end.

Shaking his head to clear his morning musings, Harold paused at the crosswalk and waited until the light changed green. Although the sidewalks were all but deserted, the streets were filled with the usual morning rush hour traffic. He really hated the rush hour traffic in the morning, and to find the sidewalks so strangely quiet was a pleasant change for him. Harold couldn’t understand why the C-train was equally quiet. He knew that it wasn’t a holiday; the next long weekend was still quite some time away.

Even his usual brisk walk to the office building a few blocks from the station was un-usually quiet. Oh, he had passed a few people, and much to his chagrin they had given him wide berth. He paused and thought back, stopping to check his pocket for a few loose coins. After all, he wanted his morning coffee.  Harold realized that he wasn’t really bothered when the people he passed on the street avoided him. It wasn’t like he knew them, and quite honestly, he didn’t really want to get to know them.

Shaking his head, he fished out a handful of coins. Several quarters were mixed in with a smattering of loonies and toonies. Oh, he had enough for his coffee. Harold could almost taste it!

Harold Smith was a fairly small, unassuming man in his mid thirties, clad in black dress pants, a white dress shirt and a black tie, underneath a light brown tweed jacket. A pair of horn-rimmed glasses was perched on top of his small nose, which he pushed up with his free hand.

                A sudden gust of wind, whistling through the concrete and steel canyons of the downtown core almost tore away his brown fedora. The wind grabbed at his fedora, and he lashed out with his hand just as it was about to fly off his thinning brown hair. He placed the hat back on his head, never once breaking stride as he made his way along the sidewalk.

                Harold Smith carried a black leather brief case in his left hand, which he swung merrily back and forth. As he approached his usual coffee shop, he paused and looked at the faux Rolex that rested on his right wrist. Smiling to himself, he dropped his arm and stepped up to the entrance to the coffee shop.

                The smile disappeared as he tried the door. It was locked. Harold stood there, looking more than a little confused. He wanted his morning coffee, with its teaspoon of honey and single cream. He wouldn’t be able to function without it! Trying the door again, his frown deepened. He stepped closer and peered through the window, noticing much to his consternation that the coffee shop was deserted. Not a single light shone inside the place.

                Harold glanced at his watch again. It should have been open for nearly three hours. Maybe the owners decided to take the day off. He couldn’t blame them. Sometimes he felt like taking the day off. What irked him though were the number of times he was perfectly happy showing up for work and having his boss, Mr. Sheppard come in and send him home for the day. It never failed; Mr. Sheppard would always send him home on the days that he wanted to be at work, never on the days he wanted to stay home and play.

                He gave the door one last shake before turning forlornly away. Only a few doors down were the entrance to his office building. He took several disappointment filled breaths before he made his way to the revolving doors. As much as he hated it, Harold would just have to put up with the coffee that was made on a daily basis in the lunch room.

                Coffee is coffee after all, he thought to himself. Maybe if I pour a cup for Debbie, she’ll feel inclined to talk to me this time.

                Harold smiled as he passed a shambling figure that had just emerged from the alley between the coffee shop and the office building. The figure smelled like stale urine and he held out his hands as Harold stepped passed. Harold wrinkled his nose as he gazed at the man. He was filthy, dressed in layers upon layers of clothing. Even though March was relatively warm during the days, it still could get brutally cold during the night.

                Pausing briefly, Harold pulled a tooney from his pocket and tossed it at the figure. “Don’t bother with the coffee shop, its closed.” He added as he reached the revolving door and pushed his way into the building. Harold didn’t like bums, but the few that hung around his building generally used the money they got for a bite to eat, so he didn’t mind giving them the occasional bit of pocket change. Especially at this time of year. A hot cup of coffee or a mug of hot chocolate did wonders for the soul.

                The homeless man glanced at Harold as the coin bounced off his filthy jacket. The front was covered in thick, dark stains and Harold recoiled. “Sir, were you sick? You should head to the Mustard seed and get yourself cleaned up.”

                The man ignored him and bent over slowly and grabbed at the coin.  Harold decided that he had better things to do than start a discussion with a derelict so he turned on his heels and made his way to the entrance of his building.

                It was noticeably warmer inside the front foray of the office building. He pushed on the handle to get the revolving door moving, and much to his dismay, it wouldn’t budge. He rattled the handle for a couple of seconds before finally catching the attention of the morning security guard, an aging gent named Jack, who was seated at the desk. The old mans eyes glued to the monitors before him. At the sound of the door, he jumped slightly and looked up. Seeing Harold standing there, he hit the buzzer and the revolving door’s locks disengaged.

He watched as Harold approached. “What are you doing here today, Mr. Smith?” He asked.

                Harold shrugged. “I have quite a bit of work to do; I’m falling behind on my files. Why are the doors locked?”

                Jack frowned, his bushy eyebrows coming dangerously close together. “Uh, haven’t you been watching the news recently? The dead are walking the streets. I can’t take the chance of even one of those things getting into the building.” He said in a low voice, as if he was speaking to a child. Jack then ran his hand over his tired features before speaking again: “Didn’t you get Mr. Sheppard’s memo?”

                “Yes, but he didn’t say that it was mandatory.” Harold recalled the memo that he had gotten just the day before. With all the rumours of the dead walking and civil unrest not only in the city, but across the globe, his boss, Mr. Sheppard had given everyone the remainder of the week off, with pay. And it was true, nothing in the memo stated that they had to take the time off. Walking dead? Harold snickered. The things people imagined these days…

                Harold knew that the vast majority of the office staff would take advantage of the time off. He, on the other hand, would be able to catch up on his work, undisturbed. As much as he enjoyed spending time with his fellow co-workers, sometimes having most of the office to himself was a blessing in disguise. He would be able to finish off his data entry and then, if he wanted to, he could lose himself in a game of Call of Duty four before heading home.

                He cleared his throat and smiled. “Hey, did you know that the coffee shop down the block is closed?”

                The security guard raised on eyebrow. “I’m not surprised, I –“ he stopped speaking, his mouth agape as he looked over Harold’s shoulder, his eyes glued on the revolving door. “Shit, it’s one of them!”

                Harold looked over his shoulder and saw the derelict he had given the tooney too a few moments before. He laughed. “That guy, he probably wants to try and get more money!” Still snickering, Harold walked passed the security guard and made his way to the small bank of elevators. He ignored the pounding coming from the revolving door as the homeless man tried to gain his attention. That was one thing he hated about giving in on occasion to those unfortunate people who were stuck living on the streets. Sometimes giving them money turned them aggressive, and they wanted more.

                A tinny ping announced the arrival of the elevator and Harold stepped inside. He paused only for a moment and waved at Jack, who was still staring at the homeless man. The man was still at the revolving doors, slowly pounding on the glass with his dirty gloved hands.  Smiling, Harold stepped back into the elevator and hit the button for the third floor. The doors slid smoothly shut before him.

                The music coming through the speakers was an old classic. Harold felt his spirits lifted and he began to sing along to the wordless tune. “At the Copa, Copacabana – “

                Seconds flew by and the elevator slowed to a stop. A second tinny bell rang and the doors slid open. The first thing Harold noticed as he exited the elevator was the distinct lack of sound coming from the offices around him. Normally at this time of the day, there were people talking, speaking over the phone-lines, moving back and forth around him. His smile widened. Ah, to have the whole floor to himself…

                Still humming the tune, he walked down the deserted corridor. It was brightly lit, and he found it to be cheerful. For Harold, the day simply couldn’t get any better.

He reached his small cubicle and placed his briefcase on the floor beside his desk. As he powered up his computer, he removed his fedora with one hand and placed it on top of the old fashioned wooden coat rack. He stared at it for a second, his chin cradled by his right hand, his head tilted to the side slightly. Carefully, he reached out and adjusted by mere millimetres until he was satisfied with how it sat. He then removed his jacket, gave it a brisk shake, and hung it on the opposite side of the rack.

   Sunlight was streaming in from the east windows and his small but tidy cubicle was bathed in golden light. Still humming the tune, Harold waited for a few moments while his work station powered up. He glanced up at the small CD player he had sitting on the shelf over his head before returning his attention to the flat monitor before him.

The screen flashed his user ID and password. He laced his fingers before him and pushed them palm outwards, cracking the knuckles loudly. He knew that his neighbouring co-workers hated that, so he rarely had a chance to do it. But since he had his office all to himself today, he didn’t care!

Giving his hands a vigorous shake, he typed DEBBIE into the password box and the computer brought up his desktop icons.

It took several more minutes for him to start up his various spreadsheet programs, and for the hell of it, he checked his Email. There were far fewer messages than he had expected there to be, so he opened his spam filter to see if any important messages might have been tagged. For the first time since he entered the office, a frown appeared on his face. Even the spam was down. How odd, Harold thought to himself. He was looking forward to seeing the new Stocks that kept appearing in his spam filter. He had gotten lucky on the 649 game the other day and had a cool twenty dollars in his pocket that he felt like investing.

As he glanced down the list, he saw a message advertising paintball supplies - cheap. “Ohh…” he said in a half whisper. “I wonder what the price on paintballs is from these guys.” He opened the mail and read through the list. Instantly, he opened the link to the site and continued to read for a minute before pulling out his credit card.

“Mr. Smith,” A voice broke through his delighted reverie.

Harold gave a little jump as he clumsily closed his browser. “Oh, Mr. Sheppard, I’m surprised to see you here!”

Sheppard was a tall, lanky man with a thick shock of dark brown hair. He had wide, brown eyes and a handlebar moustache over generous lips. “Not half as surprised as I am to see you, Mr. Smith. I gave everyone the next few days off, with pay! You should be home with your – “ He paused for a second. Harold looked up at him expectantly.

“With what, sir?”

Mr. Sheppard shook his shaggy head. “Never mind, Smith. I’m still surprised to see you here.”

Harold swallowed visibly. Had Mr. Sheppard seen him surfing the net on company time? He hoped not, it was against the rules. Harold was always careful to clean out the history cache after each and every site he visited.

An uneasy silence rested between the two men for several heartbeats before Harold cleared his throat. “Um, can I get back to work?”

Sheppard eyed him, one brow higher than the other. “Sure, sure… and feel free to surf the net all you want today, Mr. Smith. Since you’re the only one who decided to come in today, I don’t think we have any pressing issues that need to be dealt with right now.”

Harold nodded vigorously. “Thank, you, Mr. Sheppard. I will do as you suggested, but I won’t be wasting all my time doing that.” He waved his left hand at the in-tray seated near the entrance to his cubical. It had, at best, half a dozen files in it. “I’ll get started on those files right away sir.”

Sheppard nodded warily. “Alright then, Mr. Smith, carry on.” He turned on his heel and walked hurriedly down the corridor, heading towards the elevators.

Reaching over to the in-box, Harold pulled off the first file and placed it on the desk next to his monitor. He opened the folder and glanced at the documents inside. He snorted and smiled. It would take him only a matter of minutes to update the information there. Carefully, he leaned back in his chair and peered into the corridor between the cubicles. Mr. Sheppard stood at the elevator, staring up at the floor indicator above the door. Easing his seat forward, Harold tossed the file back onto the in-tray and opened his browser once again.

Within minutes, he had placed his order with the online paintball company and had closed the browser. He then grabbed the files sitting in his in-tray and got down to work.

Forty five minutes later, he dropped the last file in his out-tray and smiled. Unless Mr. Sheppard gave him more files to work on, he was officially done for the day. He stood up and reached for the tiled ceiling above him, languishing in the stretch of his muscles. He gave his body a quick shake and then stepped into the deserted corridor and made his way over to the lunch room.

The small kitchenette was deserted when he entered, but he was pleased to see that there was a pot of coffee still simmering on the coffee maker. He grabbed a plain white mug from the cupboard and filled it to the brim with the black liquid. Harold rummaged through the cabinets and then opened the fridge and grabbed a half filled bottle of honey. Squeezing out a couple of drops into a tablespoon, he mixed it into his mug and sat down on the nearest chair and grabbed a three day old newspaper from the top of the table. “Huh,” he said out loud. “It looks like the Flames are going to make it to the finals after all. I wonder if they’re going to get shafted in the first round?”

His brown eyes scanned the other headlines that were plastered on the page. It seemed that civil violence was taking a nasty turn for the worse, and there were still those silly stories about the dead coming back to life.

“Stupid gang bangers…” He mumbled as he opened the paper and turned to the sports section to find the daily girl. “Oh my – “ He said, when his eyes caught the image of the scantily clad, brown haired beauty. “Debbie, why did you have to go and get your picture taken like that?” Standing up, he stepped to the door and took a quick look into the corridor. It was still deserted, so he quickly tore the sheet with the daily girl out of the paper and carefully folded it up and placed it inside his shirt pocket. “I’ll just have to add you to my collection.” He said with a faint grin.

A few minutes later he was back at his cubicle, a fresh cup of honey laced coffee in his hand. When he had seated himself before his desk, he grabbed his brief case from the floor and opened it. He sat staring at the contents for a moment before pulling out ding dong. Crouching low, he carefully unwrapped the sweet chocolate treat and ate it.  He then gently folded up the wrapper and put it in the trash bin located beneath his desk, carefully hiding it in amongst several sheets of paper.

“Should I?” He whispered. “Yeah, I should.”

Sneaking a peek into the corridor, he checked to see if anyone had come into the office since he had left to go to the kitchen. He stood there, listening hard, trying to pick up even the slightest sound of life on the floor around him. The only sound he could make out was the steady hiss of the buildings ventilation.

A grin split his face as he reached into his briefcase and reverently removed his most prized possession. In his hand he lovingly gazed at a RAP4 Walther P99 paintball pistol. It looked like the real thing, and even felt like a real handgun. He already had it loaded with a full magazine of 10 .43 calibre paintballs, and the air cartridge was fully charged.

Harold slipped the extra magazines into his pants pocket and the crouched down next to the entrance to his cubicle. He held the RAP4 in both hands next to his head and peeked around the corner. He then dropped into a roll and came to a stop in the middle of the corridor, his paintball gun held directly out in front of him.

He pretended to squeeze the trigger at an imaginary foe and yelled out; “Boom! Head shot!” Harold then stood in a crouch and crab-walked towards the elevator banks, stopping at the each cubicle. Leading with his gun, he imagined foes waiting for him around every corner. In his minds eye, in each cubicle, an imaginary foe fell, shot cleanly though the head.

“Take that, you commie terrorist!” He bellowed as he imagined a squad of black-clad men in body armour snake around the nearest corner. He dropped into a roll and used the partition nearest him to protect him from the phantom gunfire. He could almost hear the loud cracks from the handguns, almost feel the splinters and debris scattering around him as the enemy shots tore ineffectually at the nigh impenetrable barrier between himself and his foes.

“Ha!” He roared and stabbed his arm around the partition. His finger worked rapidly against the trigger, taking down his faux foes with every pull of the trigger. Harold stood up and glanced down the corridor, his minds eye seeing nothing but death and destruction. Another wave of terrorists having breathed their last. Smiling hugely, he could hardly wait for the weekend to come so he could hop into his old battered Toyota and head west to Bragg Creek. It had one of the best outdoor paintball clubs within a hundred kilometres and he was known as a legend there. Few could match his skill with the weapons they provided.

The numbers above the nearest elevator shaft changed. Harold grinned and took aim at the door. He waited until the number changed to two and then he pretended that it opened and Mr. Sheppard stepped out. The man, looking smug as he so often did, had only a moment to realize that death was about to welcome him with open arms as Harold squeezed the trigger.

Much to his surprise, the paintball gun went off and a large red splotch suddenly appeared on the elevator doors. “Oh, fudge!” he cried out in horror. He must have accidentally switched off the safety while he was playing make believe.

He stood there, torn between running back to his cubicle and running up to the elevator to try and clean the paint off the door. If Mr. Sheppard found out about it, he’d be in so much trouble! The better part of self preservation won out and he jumped back and tore down the corridor towards his cubicle. He skidded to a stop and dropped into his chair, grabbed his briefcase and thrust the gun into it. Snapping it shut, he ran his fingers over the combination lock and then placed it on the floor next to his computer case. Just as he straightened back up in his desk, he heard the tinny ping of the elevator door opening. As casually as he could, he took the last file from the top of the Out-tray and opened it, placing it down on his desk next to the monitor.

Footsteps reached his ears as he pretended to finish up typing in the last bit of data from the file. He didn’t look over his shoulder as he felt a presence behind him.

“Working?”

Harold nodded. “I’m just finishing up now, Mr. Sheppard.” Harold put his most innocent smile on his face as he glanced over his right shoulder. The smile melted like snow on a hot summer afternoon.

Mr. Sheppard’s face was a mass of ripped flesh and blood. His neck had been torn savagely, the jugular still leaking vermillion weakly as the man stared down at him. His once immaculate suit was filthy, covered in dirt, dust, blood and other fluids that Harold couldn’t readily identify. He felt the cold fingers of dread caress his spine. “Mr. Sheppard, are you alright? Do you need a doctor?”

Sheppard looked down at Harold, then at the computer screen. He lifted his hand, which Harold then noticed was missing both the thumb and the index finger. Sheppard pointed at the screen and said in a normal conversational voice; “Working?”

“Y… yes sir.” Harold pushed his chair off to the side so that Sheppard could get a good look at the screen. “I… I’ve… I’ve finished off all the files that were in my tray.”

As he pushed away from his boss, the former Mr. Sheppard slowly turned his ravaged head to follow his movements. “Working?”

Harold pushed himself out of his chair, his legs shaking in fear. “I’m all… all done sir!”

Mr. Sheppard’s lips peeled back from his blood flecked teeth and he reached out for Harold. The hand missing the two fingers snagged at Harold’s white shirt, but the zombie wasn’t capable of grabbing hold.

“Mr. Sheppard, please don’t touch me!” Harold stammered as he finally managed to back away from his boss. “If you do, I’ll have to have you charged with assault and battery!”

“Working” The zombie formerly known as Sheppard said and as he reached towards Harold with both hands.

Harold grabbed his chair and held it between Sheppard and himself. “Why are you doing this to me?” He whined. He couldn’t understand why Sheppard was trying to grab him. “Look… Look, Mr. Sheppard, I’m flattered, I really am;” He swallowed, his mouth suddenly drier than the Sahara desert. “But I’m straight!”

“Working?”

With all his might, Harold shoved the chair into Mr. Sheppard’s legs. The zombie lurched forward, both arms straight out before him as the chair slammed into him. He fell forward, his arms still reaching for Harold as he landed chest first into the chair’s seat, then slid down and hit the floor with a resounding crack as his chin hit the carpet.

“Mr. Sheppard?” Harold said his face a mask of horror.

The zombie lay there for the better part of a minute, unmoving.

Harold weighed his options. He figured he should call the police, and report the incident, and at the same time call for an ambulance. It was clear that Mr. Sheppard was injured, and that he wasn’t thinking clearly. He was more than likely in a state of shock.

He was about to reach for his phone when suddenly Mr. Sheppard tried to push himself up off the floor. All he succeeded in doing was rolling the chair backwards into the desk. His legs flayeled comically in the air and Harold heard a muffled “Working?”

Panic fuelled his legs as he stepped out into the corridor. He looked around, his head swinging from left to right, his breath coming in short gasps, just short of hyperventilation. Not fully aware of what he was doing, Harold raced down the hall and went to the office situated right on the corner. He dove in, slammed the door behind him and hunkered down behind the desk.

He sat there, his arms crossed over his head, his chin firmly planted on his knees. He rocked slowly back and forth, shaking his head. Tears of fear and confusion running down his cheeks. “Mr. Sheppard, I’m a good worker, I’m a loyal worker. What do you want from me?”

Minutes passed and his breathing gradually returned to normal. He stopped rocking back and forth and let his arms fall to his knees, and then he leaned up against the wall. Tilting his head back, he blew out, feeling some of the fear and tension leave his body.

Shaking his head, Harold rubbed his eyes and stood up. Much to his surprise, he discovered he had taken refuge in Mr. Sheppard’s own office! He looked around in horror, and then at the door. The glass was opaque, but he could see a figure standing outside it. A hand touched the glass, and he could see it slide down, leaving a trail of darkness as it went.

Through the door, he heard a muffled “working?”

In near total panic, Harold scanned the desk, looking for something to defend himself with. He didn’t understand what was happening; it made no sense to him. On the desk his eyes caught sight of a small round object, sitting reverently on a small pedestal. It was an autographed baseball, and from what Harold remembered, one of Mr. Sheppard’s most prized possessions. He had caught a home run ball several years ago at a Toronto Blue Jay’s game.

As he pondered the ball, the glass on the door exploded in a shower of sharp fragments. Sheppard stood at the door, his arms reaching through. Jagged chunks of glass protruded from his hands and arms. His face was a mask of hunger as he reached for Harold. “Working?”

“Yes,” Harold cried, his voice several octaves higher than normal. “I’m working, Mr, Sheppard, you bully!” He hefted the ball and drew back his arm to throw it.

Sheppard stopped trying to reach for him and his eyes locked on the ball. One arm slumped against the door and he reached out imploringly to the ball. “Working?” He rasped, his eyes never leaving the ball.

“Oh, you want the ball, do you?” Henry called out, tossing the ball in the air and catching it with his hand. “You want your ball?” Experimentally, he tossed the ball again, several times. He watched Sheppard’s eyes closely. The man’s eyes followed the movement of the ball, never once allowing it out of his sight.

“Fine, Mr. Sheppard, if you want it so bad, you can have it!” Harold turned and cocked his arm, and then in a very un-manly like throw, he drilled it at the large window, overlooking the street. The small round projectile hit the window and smashed through it, disappearing into the mid morning sun. A second later, the entire pane of glass collapsed in on itself, folding like paper and sliding down into the street below.

”Working!?” Sheppard cried as he fought against the door barring his entrance to the office. His weight tore the office door off its hinges and he half ran, half stumbled towards the now shattered window.

                Harold, paralyzed by fear, was unable to move out of the way. Sheppard placed one hand against his chest and shoved him out of his way as he stumbled towards the window. Harold’s feet slipped out and he fell hard on his rear. As he watched, Sheppard stumbled right up to the window and before he knew it, his former boss leaned over the ledge and disappeared from view.

                “Oh no!” Harold cried his voice even higher pitched than before. He struggled to his feet and leaned over the ledge to look down at the street below. He saw Mr. Sheppard, lying in a spreading pool of blood, his torso twisted at an un-natural angle. He could see several people running away from the scene, and there were a number of cars which had pulled over to the side. As he watched, he saw Sheppard move both of his arms until they were directly below his torso and he pushed up.

                Mr. Sheppard tried valiantly to stand, but his broken body wouldn’t allow it. He collapsed on his stomach again, and his head lolled to the side. When the drivers of the car saw what was happening, they immediately pulled away, nearly getting into a three car pileup as they put as much distance as they could between themselves and the undead creature that had fallen from the shattered window.

                Incapable of getting up, the zombie flailed around, and then it stopped. With great care, it took its head in its hands and twisted it around so that Sheppard could look back up at the shattered window. His head was now resting at an impossible position, one that would have easily killed a living person.  A feeble sound escaped the zombie’s throat. “Working?”

                The sight of his former boss, the neck clearly broken, looking back up at him from the street below was more than Harold Smith could take. Something in his mind finally gave with a cold, painful snap and he collapsed to the floor of the office.

                Harold lost all concept of time.

                The next thing he knew, Harold was back at his cubicle. He reached down and grabbed his paintball gun and made sure the hopper was filled to capacity. Taking off his tie, he cinched the knot and then placed it around his forehead, letting the longest part of the tie dangle freely at the back of his head. “So, zombies is it?” He said in his best Jack Nicholson voice. “Well, wait until they get a load of me!” He grabbed the holster for his Paintball gun and strapped it to his hip, and then he removed a single round from his box of ammunition and squeezed it between his thumb and forefinger until it split open.

                Using his index finger, he ran the cold paint across it, smearing it on thickly and then he lifted his hand and ran his paint coated finger under each eye, and then across his forehead and down his right cheek.

                Moving quickly and purposefully, he returned to Mr. Sheppard’s office and leaned out the window. The zombie was still struggling to move, albeit feebly.

                “Mr. Sheppard!” Harold called out as he drew the paintball gun from the holster. “I just wanted to inform you that I am officially resigning my position with the company!” He lifted the weapon and took careful aim, sighting down the barrel of the paintball gun, Sheppard’s mouth dead center. He squeezed the trigger and the gun coughed lightly. The round flew through the air and impacted Mr. Sheppard squarely in the mouth. The paintball blew immediately, spewing blue paint everywhere, soaking Sheppard’s face and cheeks in bright cobalt blue.

                The zombie stared at him, his mouth wide open, dripping with blue paint, and then it blinked and shook its head as if incapable of believing what had just happened.

                Feeling a wave of euphoria wash over his mind, Harold Smith proceeded to fire at the cars that were swerving away from the sidewalk, doing their best to put as much distance as possible between themselves and the undead creature. In a matter of seconds, he emptied the gun’s clip. He snorted through his nose and nodded his head defiantly once, and then turned around. Lifting his gun hand, he rested it against his right shoulder as he strode boldly out of the office and into the hall.

                “Oh, Debbie would be so proud of me!” He stage whispered as he walked down the corridor. He was about to walk past his cubicle when he stopped, looked into it. He stared at the small desk and computer terminal that had been his home away from home for so many years.

                Reluctantly, he moved into the cubicle and grabbed his jacket and his fedora. He placed the fedora on his thinning hair and then grabbed his briefcase. Finally, he slid his jacket over his left arm, and got a good solid grip on the case with his left hand.

                It was time for him to go and get the gear he needed to save the world, and win Debbie’s love once and for all.

                Humming tunelessly as he ventured back into the corridor, he quickly made his way to the elevator. The door was still covered with bright blue paint, which was just beginning to dry. He pushed the button and looked up at the indicator panel right above the doors.

                The numbers changed, the elevator coming down slowly from the 15^th floor. As he waited, he tapped his foot in time with the beat as he quietly sang; “Tall and tan and young and lovely, the girl from Ipanema goes walking, and when she passes, each one she passes goes – ah”

                Finally, the doors opened and just as he was about to step in, a bloodied hand shot out from the side. Almost casually, Harold sidestepped the appendage and slapped it aside. “Hey, watch it!”

                The hand withdrew into the elevator car and the ruined face of Jack the security guard came into view. It was covered in lacerations and blood ran freely from the numerous wounds. Part of his cheek had been torn away so that the teeth and gum were wetly visible.

                “Eww!” Harold exclaimed as he backed away from the door. “Jack, you really need to learn to brush more!”  Even as he spoke, he lifted his gun and calmly shot Jack in the face. From such close range, the paintball didn’t have far to travel. It smashed into Jack’s face, blowing out the right eye.

                The former security guard staggered backwards, banged his head into the door frame, and then staggered forward. Harold grabbed him by the sleeve of his gore splattered jacket and propelled him into the hall. The zombie fell forward and landed hard on his stomach. Harold casually stepped into the awaiting car and hit the ground floor button. As the door closed, he peered out into the corridor and smiled. “Sorry Jack, but I need this elevator. You can catch the next one.”

                He checked his watch and grinned. “Well, guess I should stop at the coffee shop and grab some lunch.”

                A hollow ding announced the car’s arrival at the ground level. He stood back and raised his paintball gun. Where there was one zombie, there were sure to be more. The doors slid open and he jerked the gun from the right to the left.

                His field of vision was clear. Nothing stirred. Quietly, he stepped out of the elevator car and entered the lobby. The first thing he noticed was the cool breeze as it wafted passed him. He shivered, as it was quite cold compared to the nice warm office he had just left. He turned around to look to his right when his foot hit a slick puddle on the floor.

                Before he knew it, his right leg shot out from beneath him and he landed on his back with a resounding crash. His breath flew from his lungs in a pain laced blast. Dazed, he laid there for several seconds as he tried in vain to force oxygen back into his lungs. Harold blinked several times and he shook his head as he propped himself up on his right elbow. “Ouch.”

                With another final shake of his addled head, he blinked and saw that he had stepped into a puddle of slowly congealing blood. “Maintenance is slacking off again…” Harold muttered under his breath.

                It took Harold three more attempts before he finally was able to stand. “Ok, that’s it,” he grumbled. “I’m going to ask that the building supervisor ask for the head of maintenance’s resignation! This is uncalled for!”

                Still grumbling  crossly under his breath, he carefully stepped around the pool of blood and walked towards the revovling door. As he approached it, he noticed that the glass pane on the left side of the door had been shattered. The noise of the traffic on the street in front of the building grew in volume the closer he got.

                “Resignation my hiney!” He grumped. “They should just fire him!”  Gingerly, he stepped over the pile of shattered glass and entered the street. He glanced from side to side, seeing that for the most part the sidewalk was clear. People passing in their cars stared at him in open amazement, shocked at what they saw.

                “To heck with this,” He muttered and he turned down the street and with a purposeful stride, he made his way to the coffee shop.

                Much to his disappointment, it was still locked. He peered through the window, his mind working over the possibilities. Harold wondered if maybe he should just go to a different restaurant for his lunch, or maybe he should just head home and make some tuna on rye bread.

                Harold quickly dismissed that idea. He was really tired of tuna on rye. What he really wanted was an authentic Montreal Smoked meat sandwich. Leaning away from the window, he gave the door another quick shake. Still firmly locked.

                Sighing, he started to turn away when he caught movement inside the store out of the corner of his eye. He returned to the window and leaned in closer. As he watched, he saw a figure peering from the doorway leading into the small shops back rooms.

                “Hey,” Harold shouted as he banged his right hand on the glass, hard enough to attract attention, but not hard enough to break the glass. “Hey, would you mind opening up? I want some of your coffee and a sandwich!”

                The figure didn’t move as he continued to pound on the glass door.

                “Well, if that’s the way you’re going to be, I’ll just take my buisness elsewhere from here on in!” Harold yelled at the door in anger. “You should realize that you’re losing a lot of money! Think of all the times I buy my lunch here, not to mention the morning coffee!”

                Finally the figure moved out of the doorway and came towards the door. Harold watched, a smile slowly crossing his face as he recognized the figure of Tina Trahn, the owners wife. She was an aged woman, easily in her sixties, dressed in a shapeless dress and apron, and neat little black shoes that always seemed to be polished to a brilliant sheen, no matter what time of day it was. She was holding a large butcher knife in one hand as she warily approached the door. She peered out at Harold, her scowl deepening.

                “Go away!” She hollered from behind the glass door. “We closed!”

                “Come on, Mrs. Trahn, I just want one of your famous coffee’s and sandwiches, I’m really hungry!”

                She stared at him in disbelief. “Do you know what happening? Zombies everywhere! We closed! Go home!”

                Harold snorted. “Zombies, schmobies, nothing I can’t handle.” He held up his prized paint gun in one hand, showing it to the old woman.

                “Go home, crazy man!” She yelled. Suddenly her eyes widened in fright and she screamed, her left hand raising the butcher knife in a vain attempt to ward off something horrible.

                “Crazy? I’m not the one holding a butcher knife!” Harold yelled back, throwing his hands up in hurt exasperation. And that’s when he heard the blaring of a car horn and felt something smash into his back.

                Yelping in pain, he stumbled forward, smashing face first into the door, eleciting another scream of fright from the old Vietamnies woman, who promptly turned and fled back into the door at the back of the room, slamming it behind her.

                “Hey, watch it!” Harold barked out in anger as he managed to keep from falling to the street. He turned around and saw the homeless man he had given the toonie to several hours before. The man was in even worse shape than he thought possible, congealed blood covering his face, a strip of flesh  hanging from the right corner of his mouth. “Look my friend, I gave you all the money I plan on giving you. Now go away and bug someone else!”

                The homeless man lurched forward and grabbed Harolds left arm, his mouth opening wide in a hiss as he lunged towards Harold’s unprotected neck.

                Harold squeaked in fright and nearly gagged on the charnel odor eminating from the zombies mouth. Blindly, he struck out with his right hand, smashing the homeless zombie square in the mouth with his RAP 4. The blow knocked the zombies head back and bits of teeth flew off in all directions. The zombie staggered back and finally lost his footing as he hit the curb and fell backwards into the street.

                The blaring of a horn sounded a mircosecond before a resonding thump echoed all around the street as a cube van slammed into the homeless zombie, slamming it forward where it promptly smashed into the back of a late model SUV. The zombie lost complete control of its legs and it collapsed to the street. It laid there for less than a second before the cube van ran over it, crushing the zombies chest. Even a dozen feet away, Harold could hear the sickening snap and cracking of the homeless zombies rib cage and pelvis.

                The cube van didn’t even slow down. It just kept moving with the flow of traffic, the vehicles behind it swerving out of the way of the feebly moving zombie.

                Harold stood there, his mouth agape. His addled mind couldn’t quite grasp what had just happened. Somewhere, deep inside his brain, he knew what he had just witnessed was something truly horrible, and that he should by rights be getting the plate number of the van and recording the information so he could give it to the police. At the same time, he was elated at the near destruction of the undead man.

                “Ha!” He shouted. “Ha!” Harold scrambled forward, his gun held out in front of him. “Serves you right, you… you…. Undead jerk!”

                The zombie looked up at him and tried to reach out with one arm. The limb only feebly flopped around, the bones clearly shattered and the nerve connections severed somewhere. It moaned in a voice that could almost be mistaken for pain.

                “Oh, trying to get some sympathy, are we?” Harold sneered. “Well, you won’t get any from me!” He raised his RAP 4 and squeezed the trigger until the gun was empty. He nodded curtly as he looked down at his handy work. He had put a round in each eye, one in the center of the forehead, two through the open mouth, and the rest in a neat grouping around the heart.

                He turned away and looked down both directions of the street. “Ah well, might as well head home and get some lunch. The whole world’s gone crazy!” He laughed as he put his now empty gun in his belt.  Looking up into the sky, he couldn’t help but notice just how beautiful the day was. The sky was still a bright, cloudless blue and he felt his spirits soar as he started walking towards seventh avenue, from where he would catch the C-train and head home.

                “Don’t worry, be happy…” He sang as he walked along the sidewalk.