Don of the Living Dead

By Robert Decoteau

Do you like dark humor and flesh eating zombies? Then this is the book for you.
Don Carver is an unlikely hero who must brave the savage streets after a zombie outbreak, escape downtown Seattle,and save his six-year-old son and his cruelly vindictive ex-wife, but first, he must figure out how to outwit the zombie blocking the door of his bathroom stall.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Robert Decoteau
• Release date: Sep 2, 2011
• ISBN: 9781465930323

Robert Decoteau

I was born in 1974 in Bremerton, Washington. I moved to Bellingham, Washington at the age of four and have been here ever since. I love living in the Pacific Northwest about two months out of the year. The other ten months it rains. Constant rain gives me plenty of time to read and write. While I'm hooked on writing horror right now, I enjoy many other genres. My favorite author is Robin Hobb, who also lives in the northwest. She is the award winning Fantasy author of Assassin's Apprentice and several sequels. I have one son. I named him Chance. He is currently six going on fifteen. We are both currently enrolled in school, but I am a few grades ahead of him.

Book preview

I can’t claim to have seen every zombie movie known to man, but I have seen most of the good ones, from the old black and white George A. Romero flicks to the modern day Resident Evil flicks. Many of them begin with the damage already done. We meet the characters sometime after their survival skills have kicked in. On occasion, we see how those characters encountered their first zombie. Sometimes it's in a graveyard, in their home, or in a secret underground laboratory.

My first encounter was nothing like in the movies. I was sitting on the toilet.

Don't laugh.

I am one of those rare few that are so regular you could set your watch by my bowel movements, no fiber added.

It all started on a Wednesday afternoon in May. My allotted half-hour lunch break was over and I was taking my mid-afternoon constitutional.

After nine years crunching numbers for the same company, I had conditioned my body. I drank my morning coffee at my desk in my little cubical, ran numbers and cost analysis until twelve thirty, took my lunch until one o’clock, and then spent fifteen relaxing minutes on the pot.

Who can blame me for taking my fifteen minutes on the clock? I'm sure everyone had the same mentality about their employers; everyone had been forced to suffer with fewer benefits, less pay, and less time off. The recession had put most companies, from the giants like Walmart to the lowly mom and pop stores, in the same predicament. But even with all its drawbacks there are benefits to businesses during a recession. One of the benefits is that for every employee on staff there are two or three equally qualified individuals out there just waiting for the opportunity to take the job, often for less money.

My job was definitely not secure. Even with all my time working for Comdex Pharmaceuticals I was just as expendable as the next guy, maybe more so. I was one of the highest paid accountants in the company. They could hire one of the young fresh graduates off the street for nearly half of what they paid me.

I work hard, but I see no reason to waste any part of my lunch break in the john. Other than a pen or two and maybe a few sheets of copy paper, those fifteen minutes were my only extra compensation for the wonderful job I did at Comdex. But I suppose I should quit rambling and just start at the beginning.

Lunch had been a frantic race to find Rebecca, the sandwich girl. She made her rounds in our building every day, but ultimately she seemed to forget me three times a week. It wasn’t by accident, of course. I don't know what her problem was. I mean, sure I asked her out once, but when she said no I didn't push. I don't know why everything got awkward after that. I'm an adult and she's an adult, just because she didn't want to be an adult with me doesn't mean I don't still like sandwiches.

That day, by the time I caught up to her on the third floor all she had left was turkey on rye. I can't stand rye bread. Why would anyone fuck up a perfectly good loaf of bread like that? I bought it anyway because I hate spending the afternoon with an empty stomach more than I hate rye.

She sold the sandwich to me but was very flippant about it, like just because I chased her down to purchase something for lunch she had grounds for a sexual harassment suit.

As if, I thought. Plenty of other girls out there refused to date me, why would she think she was so special. I mean, sure Rebecca was attractive and had eyes that flirted from across the room whether she knew it or not, but I don't see how selling sandwiches out of a basket puts you anywhere close to the top of the most eligible single woman list.

Anyway, I had to eat my sandwich on the move. By the time I caught up to her, purchased the sandwich, and got my change, I had ten minutes left to get back to my office.

The elevator ride back up to the fourth floor was not at all noteworthy. I got a few strange looks from the other passengers because I was wolfing down my turkey on rye, but fuck them. There is no law that says you're supposed to stand all rigid staring at the numbers above the door waiting for your floor. I was hungry and I wasted precious time chasing down that bitch that didn't have time to date me.

I got off the elevator on my floor, humming the tune to some bluesy number that had been playing in there. I tried to remember the words but quickly gave it up. Words were not my thing; numbers were my thing.

I made my way back to my cubical, eating my entire sandwich except the bottom crust. I tossed that into my wastepaper basket. Booting up my computer, I made sure the spreadsheet on my screen looked like I had been working hard. My screensaver was set for twenty minutes, more than enough time for me to hit the restroom but still have proof that I had returned from lunch and started crunching the sales figures again.

I gave Marcy a little wave as I passed the reception area. She looked right at me but pretended she didn't see, putting her hand up to the headset she was wearing and turning in her plush leather office chair, pretending to be on the phone.

Bitch.

I had been there for her. When she and Julio from the mailroom broke up, I was her shoulder to cry on. I bolstered her self-esteem. I helped her understand that Julio's need to screw other people had nothing to do with her. And what did I get for all my trouble?

Nothing, that's what.

I didn't force myself on her. I mean, that's what you're thinking, right? That I tried to make a move on her while she was crying in my arms. Well, that's not how it happened at all. I was a perfect gentleman. After she had somewhat recovered from her falling out with ‘Don Juan’ Julio, she started badmouthing me all over the office, said I tried to take advantage of her. There is no doubt in my mind that it was because she had seen my crappy apartment and had second thoughts about me. Primrose Court was all I could afford after my divorce.

She played it off like I was relentless in my pursuit of her to the point of bordering on harassment. Like I got nothing better to do than beg dumb chicks for sex. So much for being the nice guy.

So that day was much like any other. I entered the men's room at the end of the hall to do my business with my copy of USA Today under my arm. Well, truth be told, it wasn't my copy; I didn't actually have a subscription. I routinely stole the copy from the waiting area, but who cares? Who really expects to have up-to-date reading material when they’re sitting in a waiting area anyway?

My usual stall was empty, thank God. This restroom only had three stalls, two the size of my linen closet and one fit for a king. It was the handicapped stall of course, set aside by society for those less fortunate. But since there were no employees on our floor confined to a wheelchair, what was the harm in me staking claim?

I settled in. I'll spare you all the embarrassing details, but suffice it to say, I had visited my local Mexican restaurant the previous night. I didn't eat there, mind you. I can't stand the ethnic music they play, and watching all the white patrons attempt to apply what they remember from high school Spanish class is enough to turn my stomach. I ordered to go and went home to watch Jersey Shore.

I know, I know, what kind of single young professional would waste a Tuesday evening watching Jersey Shore. I watch it like some might watch a disaster movie. The people portrayed on that show are shining examples of everything I find wrong with America today.

It was just another bunch of self centered shallow kids cashing in on their fifteen minutes of fame. Not one of them took the time to learn about their heritage.

And fuck their heritage anyway. Mussolini sided with Hitler in World War Two, didn’t he? How the fuck did Italy get off so easy on that one? As far as I'm concerned, Italian Americans in the 21st century are a joke. They think they can embrace the word 'Guido' like the blacks embraced the word 'Nigga' and everything is going to be alright. Why shouldn’t those kids have to go find jobs and work for a living? America's fixation on the blacks pretty much ended when Bill Cosby retired, but this new fixation on Italians made me question what this country is all about. Don't even get me started on the Kardashians.

I dropped trou and parked my behind on the elongated toilet with the horseshoe shaped seat to do my business. I really don't understand why the commercial toilet industry thinks that cutting six inches out of the front of the seat is going to work. Anyone willing to piss on a toilet seat isn't going to limit themselves to that small space missing from the front and the few shlubs that would have lifted the seat think they don't have to because the seat has that gap. So they do their best to stand directly in front of the gap to do their business. Of course, more often than not they defile some part of the seat, whether it’s due to inattention or a lack of respect for future users.

When was the last time you dribbled a few drops on a public toilet seat and took the time to clean up after yourself with a few squares of toilet paper? Not fuckin' likely. That's why I bring an individually wrapped Lysol wipe with me every day. Then I lay down the recycled paper seat cover. Recycled from what? I don't even want to know.

The article I'm stuck reading is a fluff piece, just more Obama propaganda about how the Democrats could pull us out of the recession if the Republican Party would just work with them. I figured at some point the shock of being the first African American in the White House would wear off and Obama would get down to business. How wrong I was. He talks a good game, he wouldn't have been elected otherwise, but I feel like I wasted my vote. Maybe Hilary was a chump for staying with Bill, but in hindsight, she probably could have brought more to the Presidency. With Bill as the First Husband, it would have been like two Presidents for the price of one.

The outer door squeaked open and slammed shut. I listened to the shuffling of feet echo in the way that only the tiled walls of a public toilet can. I'm not the type to get nervous about using the public restroom, but I am the type to sit and try to picture what the other occupants are doing.

The new occupant seemed to be an old man as far as I could tell. He shuffled a few steps then stopped, a few more steps then stopped. With my luck, the poor sucker was using a walker or one of those canes with the pronged base. The kind that should have good sturdy rubber tips that would outlast the aluminum frame, but seemed to end up with tennis balls instead. Bastard probably thought he was going to stroll right into the handicapped stall. Well, the old codger would just have to wait.

He shuffled right up to the door of my stall and I could hear the thump of something on the painted steel door.

There's someone in here, I said, pissed that he wouldn't even try the smaller stalls. I knew the doors were wide open. How hard could it be to sink your ass down on one of those? It should be easier considering that there were two good handrails on either side well within reach.

I stared at his shoes under the door. They weren't old man shoes. Not that there was a type of shoe that old men had to wear, but these were DCs. Who the hell wore skateboard shoes to the office? His jeans were faded and bunched up heavily at the cuff. The denim was frayed and stained along the back where it had dragged on the ground. I shook my head. Whoever this guy was, he definitely didn’t work here on the fourth floor.

There was another thump on the door.

Hey, I'll be out in a minute, I said.

There's nothing worse than being rushed when you're trying to do your business. The asshole didn't even have the common courtesy to take a few steps back and wait like a normal human being.

If he hadn't been moving like a decrepit old man, I would have given him a piece of my mind, but chewing out some ‘handicapable’ kid dressed like a skater seemed in poor taste. It wouldn’t bode well for my standing in the company to chew this inconsiderate prick a new asshole only to find out later that he was the grandson of the CEO or the son of some outside consultant hired to minimize the company's cost base.

In any case, my fifteen minute respite was ruined. How can you expect a man to do his business while you’re standing right on the other side of a one inch thick hollow metal door? I folded up my newspaper and reached for the toilet tissue. Just my luck, there were only about three squares left on the industrial-sized roll in the plastic dispenser.

While I might trust three squares of the heavily quilted, double ply toilet paper in the comfort of my own bathroom at my apartment, three squares of the semi-transparent scratchy stuff common to public restrooms just wasn't going to cut it.

Hey, Mister, could you do me a favor and hand me some TP under the door? I asked as politely as I could. I was at his mercy after all. I watched his feet shuffle and there was another thunk on the door, but that was the only response I got.

I waited for a good sixty seconds, then started to become annoyed.

Look buddy, if you want the stall you're going to have to help me out here.

Still no response.

I searched the stall for any help, and finding none weighed my options. I stared at the newspaper in my hand and thought it fitting that the Obama propaganda be used in such a manner, but couldn't bring myself to tear up the newsprint and do the deed. Knowing my luck, the high pressure toilet would get backed up and I would soon become the laughing stock of the fourth floor.

I thought about using the toilet seat covers from the dispenser behind me, but they were thin and rough with no absorbency whatsoever. I could just imagine how they would spread my mess around without aiding in cleaning. I decided that would be my last resort.

Just as I was about to give Mr. DC Shoes a piece of my mind, I heard the door open and slam shut again.

Hey…Mathew, isn’t it? How’s it going? I heard a voice say.

No answer.

Excuse me, came the voice again. "Hey... Hey! What the fuck, man..."

There was a thump and then I heard the door to the next stall slam shut and the lock slide into place.

You mother fucker… fuckin' bite me, what the fuck, man? It was Colby from Accounts Payable.

CHAPTER TWO

The DCs had changed positions. I could only see the left shoe, but it was pointed towards the now occupied stall next to mine.

You mother fuckin' piece of shit. Why the hell would you bite me? My arm is fuckin’ bleeding now, bastard, Colby said to his assailant.

There was a thump as Mr. DC Shoes banged against Colby's door.

Hey, somebody help! Colby yelled then waited a moment for a response. Hey... somebody... anybody...

Nothing.

Hey, Colby, is that you? I asked.

It took a moment for him to answer. I think he was trying to place my voice.

Don? he finally asked.

Yeah, it's Don.

Hey, Don, that mother fucker out there just bit me, he said, as if I hadn't heard. That sweaty piece of shit grabbed my arm and took a big chunk out of it. I'm bleeding pretty bad.

He seemed shook up; I really felt for the guy. Colby was one of those poor suckers who lost his hair in his early twenties and developed a weight problem just after high school. I gave him a moment to collect himself before I spoke.

Hey Colby, you got any toilet paper over there?

There was a few seconds of silence before I heard him go to work on the dispenser next to him. He seemed to be struggling and I felt guilty for a moment. It was hard enough trying to get more than a few squares from the dispenser without it breaking, let alone enough to do a thorough job. Luckily, Colby was a like-minded man and when he handed me the paper it was a wad big enough to stuff a pillow.

I don't know why businesses insisted on using the cheapest single-ply bathroom tissue possible. It's not like anybody is going to think, well, I only use about ten squares of the good stuff at home so I'll do the same here. Fuck that, you use more than enough to get the job done, after all, you ain't paying for it, right?

I took the huge wad of paper Colby was offering under our dividing wall. I quickly pulled off the pieces soaked in his blood and let them fall to the floor.

Thanks, I mumbled uncomfortably as I did my wiping, grateful that my newspaper and toilet seat cover were now safe from the abuse.

There was another -thump-thump- on Colby's stall door.

Fuck off, man, Colby yelled, then, Help, somebody help!

He was starting to sound a little hysterical. I didn't know Colby swore so much, but he didn't sound like he was practiced at it, so I guess it was the situation.

What gives, Colby? I asked as I fastened the button on my slacks and buckled my belt. Did that guy really bite you?

Yeah, he fuckin' bit me. Colby's voice echoed in the tiled confines of the restroom. Sweaty bastard sunk his teeth right into my arm.

Why?

Now that seems like a dumb question, but back then, it was the only sane one; people don't just go around biting strangers in the john.

What do you mean, why? I don't fucking know why. He just bit me, Colby sounded like he was close to tears. Fuckin' punk kid named Mathew. I just cut him a check ten minutes ago.

He works here? I asked, a bit surprised.

No, he doesn't work here. The little shit participated in a one day drug trial down in the labs.

Colby was calming down a little now, but I could tell he was still clenching his teeth in pain.

When the drug trials are over the researchers send the test subjects up here to Accounts Payable and we cut them a check. That little bastard out there's name is Mathew Stubs.

I climbed up on the edge of my toilet and looked over the wall separating us. Colby was sitting on the toilet holding his injured arm. Blood was flowing freely down his wrist and pooling on the floor beneath his hand. I watched as the blood crept along the grout between the tiles on the floor, wondering how good of a job the janitor would do in cleaning.

That's a pretty bad wound. You better watch out that it doesn't get infected, especially in a place like this, I offered in the way of advice.

He looked up at me, shaking his head.

Help! he called out again.

I tried to look over the wall at the man standing in front of Colby's door, but it was too far for me to see.

Do you think he's crazy? I asked Colby.

How the fuck should I know?

I tried again to get a look at Colby's attacker.

Maybe he has rabies or something, I said.

Look, Don, none of this is helping, why don't you hop down off that toilet and go get Security?

Fuck that. I didn't have the knack for swearing either. Having a six-year-old will do that to you.

Help! we both yelled. We waited in silence hoping our combined voices would attract someone's attention.

After a few more minutes of silence, I spoke again. Hey, Colby, do you got your cell phone on you?

He didn't answer but I could tell he was fumbling around in his pocket.

I heard him pushing buttons and then he sighed, No signal.

I looked at my watch. 1:28 p.m., my screensaver would be displayed in all its glory by now. A sure sign that I should be replaced by a young go-getter for less money.