Print Is Dead

Barrett Slater picked up the phone on the second ring: ‘What do you want?’

Joey Baxter swallowed. Of course, Mr Slater was already in the office; Joey didn’t think he ever left. Mr Slater’s favourite phrase was ‘work hard, play hard’, but with ‘play’ replaced with another ‘work’. He’d been half hoping his boss wouldn’t be in because he dreaded making these calls. But if Mr Slater weren’t there, Joey would be anxious. What if the sixty-odd-year-old man became furious when he found out and fired him from his paper route? You couldn’t save up money for the future if you didn’t have a job. The successful people in life started young. ‘Uhh, h-hi, Mr Slater, um, sir,’ he stammered, conscious of his sweating palms and shaking hands. ‘I-It’s Joey here. Joey Baxter?’

‘Joey!’ barked the older man. ‘Where are you? You should be here by now!’

Joey’s route started at 5:30; it was five past now, and it took him fifteen minutes to get there. But Joey said none of these things to Mr Slater. He felt like he’d dried his mouth with Bounty Paper Towels – twice as absorbent than the leading brand. ‘W-Well, um, you see, um, Mr Slater, um, sir, i-it’s about that. With the, ah, recent t-troubles, I-I think that maybe—’

‘What? What are you blathering on about, boy? Speak up!’

‘I don’t think I’ll be able to make it in today, sir.’

A mausoleum’s silence breathed down the phone.

Joey tried to fill in the space. ‘With the, um, state of the roads, and all. It seems quite, ah, dangerous, y’know?’

A displeased growl snaked out of the earpiece. ‘You bloody kids and your bloody generation! You’re exactly what’s wrong with the world today, you know that? You’ve never known a hard day’s work in all your lazy life! I tell you, you wouldn’t have lasted ten seconds back in my day! We were built of tougher stuff back then. Your good-for-nothing layabout generation. Back in my day, I had to walk to school uphill both ways! In the freezing snow! And when the teachers caned us, we said, “Thank you,” because we knew it was making us stronger! And when we got home, we did our chores for no money and had nothing to eat but a bit of rope dipped in water! I’ll tell you. Kids these days don’t know how good they’ve got it. You and your fancy bike, I bet your parents bought that for you; your lot doesn’t even know the value of money. Even with those wheels, you still can’t be bothered to turn up for work. I tell you, employers won’t stand for this when you’re older, boy! You have to put your head down and do some honest work! I knew this would happen. Bring back harsher punishments in schools, is what I say—’

Joey tried to get a word in edgewise. ‘B-But sir – Mr Slater – the dead have risen!’

‘And so what if they have? The roads are still driveable and you’re fit and young. I got here just fine and I’m no spring chicken.’

The retort slipped out before Joey could stop it – he didn’t speak to his betters like this. ‘But you’ve got a car!’

Another growl. ‘Excuses, escuses! That’s all kids these days give is excuses! People are counting on us to deliver the papers, and you’d let them down? You, who took a sacred oath to deliver the news come rain or shine?’

Joey bit down on his tongue. He almost said that Blackbrook now had two groups: zombies and those fighting them off. Everyone knew about the walking dead. What good would a paper telling them the obvious do them? ‘But—’

‘If you want to keep your job, Master Baxter, I’ll see you at Blackbrook Tribune not one minute past your start time.’ He said one more thing before hanging up: ‘Welcome to the real world, sunshine.’

He could lose his job? How would it look on his permanent record – on his CV! – if he got fired from his first-ever job? Nobody would hire him if he couldn’t hold down a job as simple as a paper route. Frantic, feeling the seconds tick-tick-ticking away, Joey scrambled through his wardrobe. He yanked out his skateboarding gear and football clothing like a madman. Joey pulled on his helmet, goalie gloves, wrist, knee, elbow protectors, and shin guards. He opened his window and shimmied down the drainpipe to avoid the zombies at the front door. He ran for his bike, which leaned against the side of the house.

Mr Harris, Joey’s next-door neighbour, staggered out of the bushes. Someone had torn his blazer, and the gaping wound in the side of his neck stained his shirt collar red. He still held onto his briefcase – authentic Italian leather – though. Mr Harris reached for him, briefcase swinging from one hooked hand. ‘Unnnnh.’

Joey ducked and swung his satchel, smacking Mr Harris square on the nose.

Mr Harris growled and stumbled back, hands waving like a marionette with rigor mortis.

Joey jumped on his bike at a run, pedalling as though his life – and future prosperity – depended on it. He whizzed past Mr Harris and burst out onto the main street, avoiding Mrs Francis from down the road.

Mrs Francis was out walking her dog. Or, instead, the unzombified dog was now walking the zombified Mrs Francis. The cheerful French bulldog – Pumpkin – was wagging her tail and panting. Pumpkin seemed unaware of anything wrong, leading her human wherever she wanted. The dead woman on the end of the leash was complying. Only when the boy sped past did Mrs Francis stop her somnambulation. She lurched at Joey, yanking the lead and tugging the yelping dog through the air. ‘Gahhhh!’

Joey kept his head down, squinting. He weaved in and out of the pockets of the undead and threaded through the stalled and crashed cars. He cycled fast, seeking the safest route past his cannibalistic obstacles.

Mr Hammond, the head of the little kids’ school, was fighting off the milkman and the mailman, using a bin lid as a shield. He raised his free hand when he saw the paperboy. ‘Morning, Joey!’

Joey waved back.

Men in ties, women in pantsuits, and people with logos on their polo shirts staggered about. They shuffled, throats torn, faces bitten, limbs missing, guts trailing like kite string. They had blood on their faces, bits of skin under their nails, and scraps of flesh caught between their teeth. Their bovine eyes – clouded blueish white – regarded Joey with hunger and sad longing. But they were so slow.

Joey grinned, feeling a little wild. He’d show Mr Slater. Lazy? Never! He’d prove his worth. With these extra hurdles, the man had to give him some praise. He might even get a raise. He zipped through the hordes, feinting one way and then bolting the other, fooling them every time.

When he got to the office, he was sweating under his armour. He screeched to a halt in the carpark.

Zombies milled about, aimless. The ones who had spotted him shuffled forward like folks in a retirement home at tea time.

Joey frowned.

The front window of the Blackbrook Tribune had folded like a newspaper. Blood splattered the spiderwebbed glass, and a bit of cloth clung to one of the shards. The front door hung off its hinges.

Joey dropped his bike stand and ran inside. ‘Mr Slater?’ he called. ‘Mr Slater, are you all riiiiii—’

Unlike the folks feasting on his former employer, his words died and stayed dead.

A dozen or so zombies were inside. Some were standing, clutching oversized turkey legs like guests at a wedding buffet. Others were kneeling over something that looked like a burlap sack painted red. They were munching, chowing down, shoving fistfuls into their waiting mouths. Gore splattered both the floor and walls. Entrails rolled along on the printing press, the pages beneath wet and tacky with blood. Mr Slater lay in several pieces, a leg over here, an arm there, his torso on the other side.

Joey’s stomach rolled, and he groaned. Oh, Mr Slater. If only he hadn’t sent that double-glazing salesman packing. The single-paned windows, which he insisted were still fine – ‘If it’s not broken, don’t fix it!’ – hadn’t stood a chance. And now he’d died, right here at the office, like Joey’s mum said he would. Well, it looked like Mr Slater wouldn’t fire him after all, but he wouldn’t have a job all the same. Not that it mattered. Making a living wasn’t worth your life. He slung his newsboy satchel into the room and made good his escape.

‘I quit.’

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Wednesday, October 23, 2024

Written for the October 2024 #BlogBattle: ‘Sanctimony’