Amateur Hour

The zombie was walking down the block in my direction. He swayed left, then right, dragging his legs and moaning. He looked sick, his stomach distended, and drool oozing out of his mouth. It was 2am and I walked with determination, knowing not to make eye contact and hoping my presence wouldn’t cause him alarm. I tried to tell which direction he’d sway in, but his movements were all over the place. Much of New York was being swallowed by the hoard. I had to keep a tight look out for any sudden attacks. I was a target in my tight outfit, my young face made-up with make-up. As we passed each other he shuffled and stopped, his nose twitching. I kept walking, the hair on my arms raised and my muscles preparing for a counter-attack. I knew I needed to save my strength for other, more important, battles. The zombie moaned.

“Maybe you shouldn’t have drank too much, asshole.” I muttered. Glancing behind me as I continued.

The zombie grabbed his head and shook it, as if the movement would clear his thoughts before shuffling onward to god-knows-where.

Amateur Hour in New York City: a time when the stupid turn paranormal.

The veterans, such as myself and cab drivers, need to know when to be on alert. The whole town becomes infested and the later it gets, the more there are. Most of the time the zombies are self destructive. The female ones wear high heels and fall over, smashing the life out of themselves. The males are the dangerous ones, they can be violent and brutal, suddenly slipping into a black-out and becoming belligerent. Avoid, avoid, avoid! My goal was to get home. Once home, I’d be safe from the vomit, the snarls, the stink… I thought of all the soldiers out there in the night. The countless people whose job it was to clean up after the zombie hoards have their fill.

In the distance a siren went off. Ambulance. I thought. Another zombie is now hurt or, even worse, a human. There’s no stopping the rampage, and I felt guilty as I’m one of the humans associated with profiting off of it.

“Disgusting.” I muttered, continuing on, the bright, but distant, glow of the subway lamps pulling me forward. How can there be so many stupid people? Don’t they know? Don’t they understand their limits? I know. And I also knew, because of the paranormal, there would be no cabs tonight. There are never cabs on Amateur Hour. New Years, St. Patrick’s Day, July 4th, Saturday Nights… all of these days when the living have to be extra careful of the Stupid and put them in cabs as quickly as possible. Those poor cab drivers. I thought. They have to make a living off of these mush-for-brains zombies who probably can’t even tell where to get themselves at the end. 

I entered the subway, avoiding a pile of vomit. I kept  my head down and folded my arms, sure to keep any attention from the swaying undead on the subway platform off of me. Thankfully most of them fall asleep on the train. Home will come in a matter of a few short minutes. Until then, I must remain vigilant.

Stupid… Stupid people… 



October 31, 2013 at 6:38 pm by Natalie Allen