There’s nothing to celebrate on...

He glanced around the room, pulling at his collar. On the wall, a calendar featured fat, naked liveys, posing, surrounded by a few animal carcasses and sitting on piles of worms. The liveys were smiling. They always smiled. Looking delicious had its advantages. You got more money and food that way. 

Francis squirmed a little more. He felt conspicuously mortal. Alive. Human. A soft, squiggly thing.  

Then, in a cavernous voice that echoed throughout the room , Mrs Zardog dismissed his request for better ventilation: "Let's get one thing straight. Your pathetic sensitivity is not the result of our production methods. It's a livey thing. Get it fixed." 

Francis felt his fear turn into anger. Careful now, he chided himself. Stick to the facts. You know what happens to liveys who get upset. They use it against you. See, humans are nothing but weaklings. Why let them work for wages? Why not simply herd them into compounds? 

He took a controlled breath, trying not to look nauseated, and set forth his arguments. Logically. "Mrs Zardog, ma'am. Many, many studies have shown that liveys are better, more productive workers when they have access to fresh air. Nasal operations are painful and they take liveys out o f the workforce for some time. They're also cruel. Smell is important to us." 

Mrs Zardog clicked her few remaining teeth impatiently. Her eyeless face scowled at him: "Those are livey studies, no doubt. Other underlings have not complained," she rumbled out. "They get operations when they need them. We have other priorities. This is a clothing factory, not a livey pampering station." 

Maggot-breath, thought Francis, looking across the desk. Good thing zombies don't read minds. Not that it makes any difference now. He heard his voice rise by half an octave, awash with defeat. You idiot, why are you bothering. Because it's too late to back down, that's all. 

"All it takes is separate ventilation. There are plenty of ways to do it cheaply. It's a small investment to boost overall production." 

The answering snarl was stern and dismissive. "Need I remind you that, to boost production, we can simply replace you. It's not that difficult. There are plenty of desperate liveys who would love to be in your place. Have all the fresh air you want. You're fired. Don't come crying to me when you're homeless and someone bites your arm off for a little snack." 

Francis blanched. He backed away shaking and stunned, staggered out of the office and ran out of the airless building. 

Finally, out of breath, he staggered to a broken, rotting bench. After a few gulps of air, he stood and continued.  

All around the city strewn with bones of stray animals, banners hung across the street from lampposts. Day after tomorrow was Oomblaug Day. Oh, great. Commemorating conquest. As if we needed reminding, thought Francis.  

He froze as a careening truck ran into a car full of liveys. The truck driver and passenger laughed at the shrieks of pain and the scream of metal shattering glass. Another day, another "accident." The recent dead were fair game. No license required. 

A crowd swarmed around the twisted wreckage of the car. The dead were pulled out, arms and legs ripped off. Hair, brain, blood and gristle flew in all directions as the feast began. 

Francis stumbled forward. Ahead was a café. Its wooden facade was grey, the denuded clapboards faded by years of rain and sun. A few tables and chairs spilled out onto the sidewalk. Two of the occupants were debating loudly, oblivious to the carnage just a few blocks away. 

A bombastic voice boomed above the rest: "... If we didn't have plenty of people selling their arms and legs or whatever, you know the zombies would just get worse. They'd go after the rest of us. And those pictures are just pictures. Besides, those liveys get paid enough. They make millions!"  

Another voice piped in, slightly tremulous. "A friend of my cousin's dated someone who had a bite taken out of his shoulder after he posed like that". 

Mr. Bombastic snorted with contempt: "Well, if you jiggle in front of the zombies, of course they're going to bite. But then you want the money, you take your chances... Anyway, it's their choice, not mine. You won't see me ending up between zombie teeth. I've got friends. Zombie friends, " he added significantly. "We have a deal. I get them body parts and when my time comes, they'll initiate me." 

Mr. Tremulous sounded skeptical. "They don't exactly initiate a lot of liveys. We get butchered faster than we can replace each other. The zombies want all the fresh bodies they can get their teeth into." 

Mr. Bombastic was unfazed. "Maybe. But I'm different. I'm tough. They like that. I can drink blood with the best of them. And a deal is a deal..." 

The voices trailed off as Francis walked on. His stomach churned. He hated ex-liveys more than he hated the originals who'd come out of their graveyards half a century ago. But the bosses needed a food supply, so, of course, they didn't kill everybody. They just moved into the big plush offices where hotshot liveys used to be. 

On a decrepit nearby wall, a billboard advertised an upcoming conference ; "LIVEYS. ENFORCING POACHING PROHIBITIONS." 

How considerate, thought Francis. Zombies could technically only hunt and kill vagrants, dissidents or Outsiders. If they could find any. Then again, maybe the Outsiders were just a myth. Everybody's sister had a story about them. Francis thought of Ernestine, the janitor, and her hatred of the "worm-butts." One day she just left, and never came back. Like a few others he knew. 

Francis continued toward his garrisoned dwelling. Much as he tried, he couldn't get used to the carnage. Sure, the world wasn't fair. But it was just depressing to see people ripped to pieces like that. 

Suddenly, an unpleasant, pseudo-cavernous voice called out behind him: 

"Hey, blood-bag! Move your little warm soft ass or it'll be dessert!" 

Francis trembled. Despite himself, he whirled around to face his interlocutor. Bad move. If you were smart, you ran.  

The creature facing him was in the earlier stages of putrefaction. A recent, cocky swaggering recruit: face bloated, skin green and purple, almost fresh. What it had done for initiation was anyone's guess. Francis could sense a wave of self-hatred and insecurity washing over its body as it stood in front of him, testing its new-found power like an aphrodisiac. Of course, zombies didn't have sex. Sex was a livey thing, good for expanding the food supply, and another perfect illustration of how liveys were pathetic weaklings, with their mortal needs. 

The thing smiled with malice. "You really want to feed me, don't you?" 

It lumbered closer. Francis ran for his life. Away from the threat. He ran until his lungs screamed in pain and his legs felt like dropping off.  

At last, the garrison was only a few dozen metres away. He could see its barbed wire and high steel bars beckoning to him like a womb of certainty. 

Panting with exhaustion, he inserted his compukey into the door slot, making sure no one was lurking behind, or in the shadows within. He slowly climbed the stairs, checking the mirrors installed, many of which were cracked, to see if any intruders could advance upon him. 

The coast was clear. His garrison was relatively secure, compared to some of the older buildings where less-skilled, lower-paid liveys had to live. 

Individual zombies couldn't resist trying to get a snack. Sometimes you were lucky, and they just ate your leg or something. 

Francis shuffled into the apartment he shared with his wife. Linda greeted him with the arm she had left. Her right shoulder tump was neatly bandaged. Standard procedure. The limb would be auctioned off, and disappear into a zombie mouth. 

Francis sank against the wall. "You lost your case," he stated in a monotone.  Her face was set in grim determination, steeled by bitterness and disappointment. "Yes, I lost. The old mummy was really out to get me. After all, I did hack an arm and a leg off of it." 

Francis stammered out in indignation: "But it was in self-defence! He attacked you in the stairwell you were in!" 

Linda shook her head. "I know, I know. Look, I'm not the first. I'm still alive. Bad things can happen to good people. We can't just give up hope, Francis. Besides, I can still work at the emergency desk. Others do it all the time. My uncle Fred had the same thing happen to him. They took off his left leg." 

Linda sighed, walked up to Francis and kissed him on the lips, warmly and firmly. "What's done is done. We have to keep living." 

Her eyes hardened. "Some day, we'll get even. Or we'll get away." 

She turned to steady herself against the counter. "So how was your day? Did you get anywhere with your boss?" 

Francis hung his head and felt the stinging tears of despair run down his cheeks. Linda threw her head back and took a deep breath. Calm, controlled. She never panicked. Besides, she'd encouraged him to stand up for his livey rights. Great thinking. Now what would they do? He couldn't even take care of her now that she needed him the most. They would have to move out of the garrison.