The Morning Shift

There was only a 5% chance the bite would turn me, according to Google. I readjusted the ice pack on my forearm and continued to scroll through the WCC website on my phone. The Walker Control Commission’s official guidelines stated that, though the chances of “conversion” were small, bite victims were nonetheless urged to isolate themselves for twenty-four hours after the walker attack and to contact their local WCC unit immediately if they began exhibiting symptoms of fever, dehydration or tremors.

“Well, that’s entirely unhelpful,” I said to myself, tossing my cell phone onto the coffee table and standing up. A walker had taken me by surprise last night while I was on an emergency run to CVS for tampons, so I still had a good twelve hours left before I could declare myself in the clear. Much as I wanted to spend that time barricaded in my room, my shift at Ishmael’s Coffee Hut started – I checked the clock over the microwave – five minutes ago. Oops.

I returned the ice pack to the freezer and hurried to my room where I slipped out of my pajamas and into my black work slacks and, after a moment’s thought, a long sleeve shirt. Judging by the rays of light poking out from around my boarded window, today would be hot and sunny, but what other choice did I have? I couldn’t very well hand customers lattes and croissants with a visibly swollen, bandaged arm, now could I? I rushed back down the stairs, grabbed my car keys and unlocked each of the ten deadbolts my housemate had installed on our door.

The morning heat was as intense as I’d feared, and I resisted the urge to roll up my sleeves as I climbed into my hand-me-down Volkswagen. The Totoro bobblehead that my mother had stuck on the dashboard jiggled and swayed as I reversed out of the driveway and with a sudden pang, I reached for the heart shaped locket around my neck, as I always did when I thought of my parents. They had gifted me the necklace before I left for Massachusetts, and as the global situation had steadily worsened over the past year, I had taken to wearing it all the time.

As I drove through my neighborhood of overgrown lawns, decuple-locked doors and boarded up windows, I wondered yet again if I shouldn’t just abandon everything and travel the seven hundred or so miles home to North Carolina. What reward was there, after all, for waiting out the apocalypse far from the people I loved? But was this even an apocalypse? I pondered the question as I zigzagged to avoid hitting a walker shuffling across the street. It certainly looked like an apocalypse, but it didn’t quite feel like one. The Governor had declared a state of emergency months ago and yet the world had continued to turn. Food and rent and utilities and car insurance and gasoline had not stopped costing money. The public had not lost their taste for overpriced artisan coffee.

The reflection of flashing lights in my rearview mirror startled me from my thoughts and with a groan I realized a police car was signaling for me to pull over. I obliged, rolled down the windows, turned off the car and immediately felt sweat break out under my shirt without the AC.

The police officer sidled up to my window. “Ma’am are you aware that you ran a stop sign back there?” he asked.

“Um, no, I wasn’t aware of that, officer. I’m sorry,” I replied. A bead of sweat streaked down my temple. “There’s a walker behind you, sir.”

The officer glanced over his shoulder at the corpse on the other side of the street limping across a lawn towards us. He gave it a dismissive wave and asked for my license and registration. By the time the officer had handed me my ticket and sent me on my way, the walker had only made it halfway across the street. Was that funny? I couldn’t decide and, anyway, I wasn’t in much of a laughing mood by that point. Not only was I now even later for work than I had been before, the Volkswagen had heated up into a sauna while the engine was off.

“Lord, I hate summer,” I muttered and tried to turn up the air, but it was already at full blast. I licked my suddenly chapped lips and wished that Ishmael’s served beverages that were actually hydrating.

At long, long last, I pulled into the parking lot of the coffee hut and wiped the perspiration from my forehead. I walked up to the side door that employees now entered through and knocked. From within I heard the unlocking of several deadbolts before the door creaked opened, revealing my very cranky shift supervisor standing in the doorway.

“Sorry, Derek,” I said, following him inside.

“Just go on register,” he muttered.

I grabbed an apron off the hook and noticed only then that my hands had started shaking. I tied the strings behind my back with difficulty and stepped up to the register where a woman stood waiting with her arms crossed and an eyebrow raised. I clasped my trembling hands together to steady them and peeled my lips back over my teeth in a smile.

“What can I get for you today?”