REPOING THE DEAD

Repoing the Dead By Bryan Higby     “Just because the dead have returned doesn’t mean a man stops punching the clock.” Anonymous Repo Man.   The characters and events in this story are fictional and not based on real people or events. Copyright 2017 Bryan Higby.   DEDICATION For Ralph, Lisa, and Maddi. The Zombie Squad.   Chapter One Mel and me were drinking our dinner in my ancient Chevy Malibu one Saturday night when we got the call that’d change our lives forever. I’m not sure how far down the time-line you are from when this s**t went down but right then we were up to our eye balls in dead-heads, and I’m not talking Grateful Dead fans, I’m talking the walking dead. That’s right. If you’re reading this in a time after the dead have all gone the way of Barny then you might not believe the story I’m about to tell you, but trust me, (I know we just met), but I got an honest face – s**t went down quick. Me and Mel worked for Snyder Brothers Repoing Services before this whole undead stuff blew up. Once the world’s population of corpses started to rise from their graves we changed from repoing cars to repoing the undead. Collecting cars from deadbeats was bad enough, but when we started collecting those peoples undead loved ones things got even worse. See, cars are inanimate objects with little personal attachments, at least for the suckers we stole them from. People, corpses, on the other hand were different. They had whole histories - Polaroids, homes, belongings and s**t that most people didn’t like to leave behind. The toughest undead repose were the kind where the family had moved away with no forwarding address. There were plenty of those cases. No one spoke for those undead. The military or the freelance contractors simply put them down and buried them in mass graves. This night, the night I mentioned, was the absolute worst. See, the undead in real-life wasn’t like the undead you see in those Romero films, or on television. No! These undead, the ones that walked the Earth when Mel and me were working the job were clever, shrewd fuckers that usually retained some of the memories of their former lives, but something about being dead really pissed them off. When corpses came back something else came back with them, something evil. That’s what made repoing the dead so dangerous. It also was what should have allowed us a higher wage. Call it hazard pay. Of course Frank, our boss, wasn’t a kind fella. He was prick. Frank was the jerk that sent us the call from Hell. Like I said me and Mel, Mel’s a black fella I worked with back then, anyway, we were drinking a case of tall boys in the front seat of my decade old Chevy Malibu when the call come over the shortwave C.B. under the dashboard of the car. Mel was on his sixth beer and second pack of Pall Mall’s when Frank’s gnarly voice came over the C.B. “Car ten you there? Pick up car ten.” I looked from Mel to the speaker. Mel just grinned in his pitted face. He had suffered from a raging case of acne in his youth and now his cheeks were craters. It never affected him with the ladies though.  “You gonna answer it, or should I?” I asked. His watery bloodshot eyes spoke of his drunken evening woes. I motioned for Mel to take the honors. He snarled crushing his beer can tossing it out the window and then snagged the C.B. mic. “Car ten, what the f**k?” Mel slurred into the mic. “Mel you been drinking again? Damn it man what did I tell you guys? When your shift starts the drinking and drugs stop,” Frank’s prickly voice echoed over the Chevy’s speakers. Frank’s jerky voice always made me sick. I closed my eyes then feeling the world spin. Too many beers. I wasn’t even standing and that night’s roadside taco was threatening to Evac from either end of my precious carcass. Burping, I tasted the greasy taco immediately regretting my dinner choice. Mel never ate tacos, or dogs from street wagons. He said that they put s**t in those things that would eat out your stomach lining. Probably was the reason we had so many walking dead back on our streets. I was more of an optimist than old Mel, but he was correct about those tacos, they had turned. “Oh s**t,” I said. “Don’t you f*****g puke in here asshole,” Mel said. True, it was my decade old Chevy Malibu that we were sitting in, but Mel always carpooled with me. My partner had permanently lost his license after his fifth DUI. Mel was good at covering gas cost though so I never messed with him when he shouted at me about the condition of the car. Besides I didn’t like the idea of driving all night in vomit covered canvas seats. Mel had the C.B. mic against his burly chest as he dragged off his Pall Malls. His tall boy sat between his legs, its mouth gapping open like cheap hooker. Frank’s voice came back on the line but I wasn’t listening. “220 Elm, the Woodlawn Motel. Yeah we got the address. We be there,” Mel said slamming the mic down on the C.B. jack. A second later I hit the door handle and fell out onto the cracked grimy concrete parking lot. The tacos and the rest of the beer came up in a flood like Noah in his barge. Bits of lettuce and undigested ground hamburger flew from my mouth and nostrils. A second later I felt my butt-cheeks loosen up. “Oh no, oh no,” I cried working my belt buckle in a stupid drunken daze. I caught Mel looking through the passenger window with a huge s**t-eating grin. If I didn’t get the belt open and my jeans down around my ankles in another second I would have a pair of BVD’s filled with s**t for him to eat. The good lord musta been looking out for me then because just as I felt the first wet bit of poop evacuate my butt-cheeks the loops came free, my jeans hit my ankles, and I leaned back letting go. SPLAT! “Good God boy didn’t old Mel tell ya about those taco wagons, sheet!” Mel grumbled but the edge of humor in his voice was really what pissed me off. I hated being warned about something and then being proved wrong. It was a character flaw that Mel pointed out to me every chance he got. When I was finished embarrassing the s**t out of myself in front of my partner I snagged some old papers from a spilled trash bag and wiped my ass clean. The jeans came up, the belt was buckled, and I wiped off my chin. “You ready white boy?” “Yeah,” I said sliding into the car. Mel tapped the side of the Malibu. “Let’s move it, we got walkers to put back in the ground, woo, woo!” I floored the Malibu and we sped off into the night. # Ralph’s Railroad Diner sat on the edge of...well, I won’t mention the city we worked in back then. Better to be safe than sorry. Anyway, me and Mel rolled up to the front of that happy crappy grease pit a few minutes after midnight. “What we doing here? Frank said the pick up’s at 220 Elm,” Mel said. “It’s after midnight and you know what happens after midnight.” “Damn boy you are a glutton fer punishment. That rot gut s**t they serve here’ll…” “Put hair on my balls I know. I need a shot of good old Railroad Ralph’s black tar. Want a cup?” I was sliding out of the Malibu before Mel responded. “s**t no. It’s your funeral.” He lit up another Pall Mall and cracked another tall boy. I just shook my head laughing at the irony of it. Mel was good for two things, repoing the dead and…well let me think about the other. Before I made it through the diner’s front door I noticed the sleek red, white, and blue repo van sitting idling around the corner. I knew the colors without having to read their crummy sign – Repo Reapers. “f**k me,” I said deciding to forget Ralph’s mud for a minute when I heard a whistle followed by a horsy laugh – Barns. Glancing left I saw a pudgy grease ball dressed in a stupid red, white, and blue jumpsuit zipping up his fly. Donald “Trump” Barns, asshole extraordinaire and owner of the Repo Reapers grab and bag service was standing over a puddle of his own urine. “Barns you asshole. What’s a prick like you doing out on a night like this?” Barns looked down at the puddle of piss he just created and laughed at my wit. “Nice Spencer. Prick,” Barns laughed again shaking the crotch of his jumpsuit. “Well? This is the Snyder Brothers part of the city. Our operation owns these suburbs.” “Not no more you don’t. Things are expanding Spencer unless you ain’t get the memo. Undead be everywhere and some of them loved ones don’t care about neighborhood lines. They call Repo Reapers ‘cause they want the best. We the best. Snyder Brothers? You guys barely held together by Duct Tape and a prayer,” Barns said. He was so f*****g smug I wanted to clobber him. “What’s taking so damned long?” It was Mel. I smelled the booze and cigarettes on his breath as he rounded the corner. “Reapers,” I said motioning to the bloated pig in the patriotic colored jumpsuit.  Mel didn’t smile. He didn’t move. His eyes shifted from me to Barns and then the Repo Reaper’s patriotic painted van. They had a bad history, Mel and Barns. My partner never actually went into the details, but whatever it was made Mel despise the man he simply called, The Trump. Not saying a word Mel stepped up to Barns, moving faster than I had ever seen my partner move, he snagged the pot-bellied owner of the Repo Reapers around the crummy collar of his jumpsuit and lifted him off the ground glaring into his face. “Now you listen to me you fat f**k. This is our neighborhood. These undead stiffs are ours. You get yer red, white, and blue ass back to sleazeville downtown and don’t let me catch…” Mel stopped talking as we heard several doors to the Repo Reapers van open. A team of pro basketball sized Reapers playing for the opposite team exited the van holding all manner of weapons. Our eyes went HUGE. I snagged Mel’s elbow and pulled him back toward the Malibu as Barns with his piggy s**t-eating grin stepped toward us after Mel dropped him. “Why Melvin, how dare you speak to me in that tone of voice. I’m just a respectable business owner. I got same rights as anyone to reap where I want,” Barns said in mocking school principle tones wagging his chubby finger. He was loving this because he had the support of six mega-sized stooges all ready to rip our heads off. Looking around I wondered where the hell were all of the walking dead. Herds usually roamed this part of the city around midnight. Herds being a group of a dozen or so of the undead. Our luck, the fuckers were probably chowing down on some asshole drunk found himself out too late with no cover. See, the undead existed among us back then. It was just a way of life. They roamed, they fed, and there were curfews for non-repo men, or other freelancers. If you were caught out after eleven P.M. on a week night - weekends were pushed back to midnight - without a repo license you were fined or busted. Luckily Mel and me always kept our badges clipped on our front pockets. I still had my hand around Mel’s elbow pulling him back to the Malibu when I heard the first grumbles of approaching undead. Somewhere down the dark street where all the street lights were either blown out or busted came a small horde of the undead. I smiled. Thank God for the predictability of the walking dead. Seems strange now to say that considering how things have changed, but back then walkers weren’t considered abnormally dangerous unless you were out after curfew. At least no more dangerous than a pack of roaming dogs. You knew to avoid them if they came your way. We repo men knew how to sedate them, package, and deliver them. Up until that night, the night that changed my life, no one knew the full extent of evil that came back with the undead. I glanced over my shoulder at the approaching horde grinning. “Mel, lets hit it,” I whispered. He glanced over his shoulder and saw the approaching herd. Removing his cigarette he smiled at Donald Barns and his cronies. “Be seein’ ya butt-plug.” He tossed his cigarette butt at Barns’s ugly face. “Ah!” Barns waved the cigarette away as the ash sparked in his chubby porky pig face. We sprinted back to the Malibu hearing Frank’s voice coming over the C.B. wondering where the hell we were and why we weren’t at 220 Elm fetching the undead dude that we were hired to fetch. “We on it. We gone,” Mel said slamming the mic back down on the dashboard clip laughing like an i***t. I cranked over my rusty Chevy. The Malibu coughed to life as I heard Barns yelling at his crew to take down the herd that was attacking them. “That’s right! Leave the herd fer the suckers. We got bigger fish ta fry,” Mel said lighting another Pall Mall as I floored it. Chapter Two The Woodlawn Motel was a flea bag flop joint relic from the 1960’s on the outskirts of the city. When Danny and Dave Roach arrived, called by the manager Eddie Miles, the rain had just started but it was coming fast and hard. The Roach Brother’s exterminator van with the catch phrase – ‘Exterminators At Large’- stenciled across the side, pulled into the pot-hole ridden parking lot and saddled up in front of the manager’s office. Danny, the older brother, looked up at the flickering squiggle neon motel sign frowning. “It likes you,” Dave said. “What?” “It’s winking at you.” Danny looked back at the flickering neon sign. It wasn’t so much winking as blinking from a short in the wiring. The entire motel was a fire hazard just waiting to be torched. Danny was never sure why the authorities still allowed this place to be open. That wasn’t his concern, not tonight anyway.  “Okay let’s make some time,” Danny said reaching for the door. “s**t I hate working stiffs in the rain. They get all slippery and stuff. Makes catching them a b***h,” Dave said grimacing at the sheets of rain pelting the van. “It’s a living.” “Not a good one. We oughta do what some of those repo guys do. Advertise on-line and on the boob tube,” Dave grumbled. “Don’t even compare what we do to what those idiots do. We take care of business they just prolong the inevitable. f*****g families wanting to preserve their dead. That’s why we have all these walking stiffs. Dead is dead. Worm food is worm food. Personally they should pass a law to cremate everyone.” Danny was out the door now. Dave just grumbled knowing that this conversation would put his older brother in a foul mood. Danny seemed to hate his life more and more. Dave couldn’t blame him. It wasn’t like either of them had any real life anymore anyway. “f**k it,” Dave whispered exiting the van. They met around the back of the vehicle. Danny opened the double doors and tossed Dave one of the shotguns. He racked in a load checking to make sure all six rounds were ready. Danny strapped on a leather holster with his Glock and extra magazines. Dave took the bandolier of shotgun shells, hanging it across his sagging chest like Poncho Villa. With his thick mustache and bald head Dave looked almost just like the old outlaw. All he was missing was the sombrero and cigar. “What do the feds say?” Dave asked. “You mean that asshole Karris? They must be busy as hell to call us again after last time. Agent Karris says this is a live one. I mean an undead one, but vicious as hell. The bounty sheet said the guy was a serial killer before he bit the big one. Named Edward Gains. The motel manager, Eddie Miles, was calling the fed’s hot-line screaming for us to get over here and take care of business. So let’s do it.” “Eddie, what an asshole. He’s always screaming about the undead. One stiff’s the same as any another. So he was a serial killer big deal. What makes this undead any different?” “Remember how those undead human rights groups say that the corpses still retain some of their former selves?” Danny bit his lip as his eyes shifted to his brother. Dave nodded. He was well aware of the demented preservation of the human soul that existed inside the walkers. Unlike the films and television shows the real undead held a sadistic, twisted hybrid of their living selves. The kinder the person was in life the worse they were when they came back. This was the toughest thing that families had to deal with on the initial returns of their loved ones. When the dead first came back there were thousands of fatal causalities because husbands or wives embraced their spouses only to be eaten alive by them. Parents faced the same fate with their returning children. Blind to the evil pulsing inside the corpses, family members across the world were devoured. Danny stopped for a minute and looked at his brother again. He saw the memories race through Dave’s eyes. He should have kept his mouth shut. Dave’s wife…ah s**t. Marlene, god, poor Marlene. Dave had loved her so much. Danny understood his brothers love for Marlene. He pushed back his own memories of Dave’s wife and looked at his brother for a minute. “Sorry,” Danny said. “Just fill me in on this dead-head.” The hardness in Dave’s expression chilled his brother. The s**t that went down between Dave and his wife Marlene when she returned was unreal. Marlene died from cancer. That was tough enough, but then to see what was left of her when she returned was life wrenching. It didn’t help that his younger brother had already been considered 4F, or section Eight, by the military, but with the death and return of Dave’s wife, that pushed him even further over the edge. Now Dave was little more than a bitter shell of his former self.    “Karris said that the feds sent us because their Undead Special Task Force was up to their eye balls in collecting the undead. Also, I’m sure that this undead dude is pretty dangerous. I’d say we were expendable except that our exterminating record is so f*****g good there’s no way the feds think Gains is getting away from us. Kind of strange though.” “What?” “He said bag and tag but do not destroy the walker. They needed him. I guess this Gains really is a prize. Maybe we are expendable.” “He say that?” “No, he didn’t have to. Edward Gains has been linked to a dozen random home attacks since the giants return. Stealthful. Smart. Keep your eyes open. This is a kill or be killed to the ump-teenth degree job, I don’t care what Agent Karris and his undead task force say,” Danny said slamming the back doors, locking them. “Are the locals locked in?” Dave motioned to the motel rooms. Some lights were burning behind the grimy windows, others were dark. It was always good to know that the surroundings were locked down before they moved. That way undead couldn’t easily escape. It also kept the living out of the joint since curfew was in effect after eleven P.M.. “Should be if they’re smart.” Dave snickered at that comment. They wouldn’t be living in The Woodlawn if they were smart. That meant this job just got a whole lot tougher. Danny noticed his brother’s smirk and nodded his agreement as they headed for the manager’s office. The open sign was switched off and the office looked abandoned, but Danny suspected it was a safety con to keep away the undead serial killer. “Open up Eddie,” Danny said rapping on the door. “Who that?” A muffled voice came through the door. Dave and Danny exchanged an irritated look. “The Roach’s. Come on God damn it. We’re getting soaked out here Eddie. It’s Dave and me. Open the door.” Dave beat his leather gloved fist against the cheap plasterboard excuse for an office door. A minute later after a dozen locks sounded a small head peaked out from the crack in the door. It was Eddie Miles all right. His ugly mug was recognizable in any line-up. Danny always thought of the character actor Clint Howard whenever he saw Eddie Miles. The guys croaked front teeth had a gap the size of the grand canyon. Eddies frizzy tufts of red hair lining his scabby scalp with his alki’s bright red bulbous nose made the motel manager look a little like a demented Bozo the clown. Eddie stared out into the rain soaked night. The chain lock was still on the door as he shot a flashlight beam up into the Roach Brother’s faces. “Jesus Eddie,” Danny said shielding his eyes from the flashlight beam. “Dan…Dave?” “Yeah,” Dave said. “Thank God.” The door slammed shut. A second later it opened and the brothers entered. “s**t, where’s the damned light switch?” Dave moaned as he struck his knee on something in the dark. “Keep the lights off. That crazy walkers just outside. I seen him. A big bastard. Scary as hell. Not sure how c*m back,” Eddie whispered. “Same as all the rest,” Dave said. “Nah, no way. This fucker was put to death by the state. He shoulda never c*m back. Things at work ain’t no good.” Eddie was standing crouched by a small curtained window. They saw the small block of light in the wall where the one active street light outside illuminated the window. Danny walked to the window and pushed back the curtain. Eddie grabbed his arm. “You crazy? Its right outside there. Gotta knife,” Eddie whispered grinding his miss-shaped teeth. Danny glowered at the stunted manager and then removed his Glock. They had been dealing with walkers for almost a decade. Bag and tag them was the Roach Brother’s approach. He didn’t care what the fed Karris said. Danny always hated seeing some whining loser like Eddie Miles cringing away in fear from one of these walkers. Just walking meat slabs was all they were. This one was no different. He looked to his brother. Dave was peering through a crack in the front door. “You see anything?” “Nah,” Dave said. The tension lessened. “Wait. Oh shit.” “What?” Danny walked quickly to the front door. “Have a look.” Dave pointed to an approaching rusted Chevy Malibu pulling into the Woodlawn Motel’s parking lot. “What are those idiots doing here?” “Frank sent them no doubt,” Dave said licking his thick mustache. Dave did that when he was tense. Danny pulled open the door and Dave followed him out to the parking lot. They seemed to drop all cautious pretense as they raced over to the Malibu. Danny was beating on the hood of the Chevy shouting at the repo men inside when a crack of lightening illuminated the parking lot. “Look,” Dave shouted as Danny turned and saw a huge walking dude carrying a long carving knife in one hand. The walker’s long black strands of hair hung in its face soaked with rain water. The managers door slammed shut. They heard the series of deadbolt locks and chain locks sealing them outside. “Eddie you asshole,” Dave said. The Malibu doors flew open as Spencer and Mel exited carrying their walking dead repoing equipment - dog collars and Tasers. “What the hell are you guys doing here? This is our repo?” Spencer shouted. “Not according to the feds asshole. We get first dibs,” Dave said striding toward Spencer with the twelve gauge in hand. He never pulled his punches in cases like this. Swinging the shotgun at Spencer’s face they all heard the impact – CRACK! Two teeth flew from Spencer’s mouth. Blood followed, flowing down his chin. He hit the concrete parking lot with a bang. A second later another sound exploded. The sound of a fifty-thousand volt electrodes as Dave’s body jerked violently when Mel hit him with his trusty Taser. Dave went down screaming in pain. Spencer was out for the count. Blood and teeth rained over the parking lot next to him. Dave had dropped the shotgun after Mel Tasered him. As Mel reached down to retrieve the twelve gauge Danny fired off three rounds at the repo man’s feet. Mel glared up at Danny who stood over him breathing heavy with death glowing in his eyes. “No one Tasers the Roach Brothers,” Danny said. The muzzle of the Glock steamed in the night rain. Danny and Mel stared each other down. Mel didn’t normally carry a handgun on most repos because it was against their code. You never hurt another living human being while on a job. A man carries a gun makes it a habit to use it. “Your brother drew first blood not us,” Mel said. He was snarling now spitting a large gooey goober on the ground next to the quaking Dave. “You no good repo man. I oughta plug you just for getting in our way. I’d get off scot-free being as the feds called us in on this one,” Danny said. “Yeah, us too,” Mel spat back. He wasn’t entirely sure about that. All he and Spencer knew was that Frank radioed them in to bag and tag a stiff at the motel. Danny looked over at Mel, a middle aged black dude with a perpetual cigarette hanging from the corner of his grimy mouth, a baseball cap rested crooked on his head, and almost laughed. “Ha! Repo men, no way the man called you guys in on this deal.” “Exterminators? You boys is always cleaning up after the rest of us. Them whack job militia fellas down South are even higher on the undead collecting food chain than you roach boys. s**t, still surprises me that the Prez even allows you in the trade,” Mel laughed. “Why you…” “Look!” Eddie Miles shouted. He was still inside the manager’s office but they heard him through the grimy glass window. Mel and Danny both looked around and saw the giant undead dude, Edward Gains, with a large carving knife. Everything about the undead serial killer was supersized. He had moved to within striking distance of the both of them. His reach was wide and he struck out with the long razor sharp blade. The steel clipped Mel along the shoulder cutting deep through his coveralls piercing the flesh. The pain was excruciating. He dropped his Taser, screaming. Danny unloaded the rest of his magazine on the undead giant. The slugs just nudged him back but did not stop him. Gains dropped the knife though and took a second to look for it. That second was enough time for Danny to release the spent mag and pop in a fresh load. He didn’t hesitate. Danny unloaded the second magazine into the big bastards back. The impact of the bullets pushing Gains down onto the ground. Danny stepped up to the moving corpse, dropped the second spent mag and popped in a third magazine and aimed at the things head. “Night, night,” he was about to fire when Danny flew backwards off his feet.