John Carthage

John Carthage and the Manhattan Zombies

First published by Pen Name Publishing, LLC 2023

Copyright © 2023 by John Carthage

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning, or otherwise without written permission from the publisher. It is illegal to copy this book, post it to a website, or distribute it by any other means without permission.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction written by a human being. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely and completely coincidental.

John Carthage and Pen Name Publishing LLC assert the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

Designations used by companies to distinguish their products are often claimed as trademarks. All brand names and product names used in this book and on its cover are trade names, service marks, trademarks and registered trademarks of their respective owners. The publishers and the book are not associated with any product or vendor mentioned in this book. None of the companies referenced within the book have endorsed the book.

This novel is a parody and a work of satirical fiction. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental. Zombies are probably not real.

Cover design by James, GoOnWrite.com

First edition

ISBN: 9798867035419

This book was professionally typeset on Reedsy
Find out more at reedsy.com

To my darling wife, whose patience with chaos and my relentless pursuit of success is the backbone of this operation. You are the calm in the storm, the sharpest mind I know, and the reason I believe in something greater than power, money, and ultra-yachts.

To my family, who taught me that blood runs thicker than profit, and to my friends, whose tolerance for my rambling never ceases to amaze.

Contents

Foreword

1. Friends, Family, and Fools

2. The Light Bulb Flickers On

3. First Contact

4. Executive Suite

5. Gathering Intel

6. Getting A Grip

7. Follow Me

8. Mustering the Troops

9. Rookie Season

10. Ride of the Valkyries

11. That Lazarus Moment

12. Top of the World

13. Susie

14. Numbers Don’t Lie

15. Managing Chaos

16. When in Rome

17. Live Bait

18. Hang in There

19. Never Break the Golden Rule

20. The Future is Now

21. Great Idea

22. This Call May Be Monitored

23. Where Do We Go From Here?

24. Deep in Thought

25. Hitting the Trifecta

26. Battle of the Basement

27. Climbing the Power Curve

28. Battle of the Food Court

29. Injury Time-out

30. Fast Food is Bad for Your Health

31. Doughnuts in the Dark

32. Lizzie and Veronica

33. Susie

34. Crisis Counseling

35. Little People

36. Edward

37. Killing Edward

38. Eat the Chef

39. The Council of Carthage

40. Loose Ends

41. Last Supper

42. Crossing the Rubicon

43. Welcome to Hell

44. Stairwell Skirmishes

45. Zora and Shannon

46. The Last Battle

47. The Sack of Wegmans

48. Unknown Unknowns

49. Leverage

50. Keep This Under Your Hat

51. Rikki Don’t Lose That Number

52. Money Talks

53. We’ll Always Have New Orleans

54. Last Man to Leave the Field

55. Consequences

About the Author

Also by John Carthage

Foreword

I’ve lived a dark, lonely life and done many shameful things. But thanks to the Manhattan Zombie Apocalypse, I found light, love, and true happiness while making a massive fortune in the Big Casino.

—John Carthage, Republic of Miami

One

Friends, Family, and Fools

ANYBODY WITH A BRAIN knew we were doomed. The city streets ran hot with screaming death. The NYPD melted away. Governor Yogi Berra tried to gaslight the public with a quick spin through the Sunday morning political talk shows. The other guests wouldn’t stop yelling at the poor bastard.

The governor bowed to reality on Sunday afternoon. He ordered a complete Manhattan quarantine for Monday at 8:01 a.m. It was a last, desperate attempt to stop the “flu virus” from spiraling out of control. Mayor Roger Maris started eating one of the governor’s bodyguards during the press conference. The whole thing was carried live on Bloomberg Business. The video screen went blank, but you could still hear the ragged, dying howls.

Flu virus? Sure.

State troopers scrambled to block Manhattan’s roads, rails, bridges and docks. National Guard units in five neighboring states sent mechanized infantry and laser tanks. President Joe Pepitone gave a stirring prime-time address from the Oval Office on Sunday evening. He pounded the Resolute desk and ranted about “the needs of the many” versus “the needs of a few rich Wall Street assholes.”

He sold us out. Right there on national TV.

Everybody knew it was a zombie virus. They bugged out or hunkered down against the coming shit storm.

But “everybody” did not include my M&A team at Dewey, Cheatham, and Howe, Inc., the notorious investment bank known as DCH or “the Douche.” DCH employees were proudly and universally known as “douchebags,” of course.

We had been living for weeks on the 45th floor of DCH Tower, our luxurious Manhattan headquarters. The team was finishing a friendly buyout of Heckler & Koch, the renowned German gunmaker. That meant arriving early, staying late, burning gigawatts of electrons, and grinding out mountains of paper. No distractions. No televisions. No social media. It was our own little Manhattan bubble.

Only a few of us could claim close family or friends. We worked those legendary investment banking hours that kill personal relationships and lead to sad lives filled with hookers and blow.

So, when Susie Golden stuck her elegant blonde head into my office at noon on Monday and said, “The fucking bosses have disappeared,” I had no clue what she was talking about.

Two

The Light Bulb Flickers On

SUSIE WAS ONE OF MY HOTTEST financial analysts, an iron-ass grinder who could dive deep into an Excel spreadsheet for weeks on end. I hired her straight out of Wharton, and she had been working with my M&A team for almost three years. The fact that she surfaced long enough to interrupt me was troubling.

I slammed shut my laptop, kicked back in my plush executive desk chair, and graciously replied in kind, “What the fuck?”

She adjusted her tightly tailored Lanvin pencil skirt and plopped down on my leather sofa. The long legs, La Perla silk stockings, and blood-red Givenchy stilettos were extremely distracting. I shook my head to refocus, and Susie got right to the point.

“I’m expecting a package. We’ve had no FedEx or UPS deliveries all morning, so I checked the mail room. Nobody’s home. I checked the exec suite to see if it was misdelivered. The place is deserted, except for Veronica Scarlett. She arrived early and says everything is quiet as a graveyard up there. Nobody’s heard from the CEO or anyone else since yesterday afternoon.”

I raised a quizzical eyebrow. Our beastly CEO dumped work on his executive secretary regardless of time or day. He was a role model for every senior executive on the planet. Where could he be?

His secretary was the voluptuous Veronica Scarlett, an elegant redhead in her early forties who spent 20 years climbing to the top by taking crap from no man. She doubled as the CEO’s surrogate and was widely recognized as the linchpin of his inner circle. I was ten rungs above her on the official corporate ladder, yet Veronica terrified me. She should have been the actual CEO, but glass ceilings in the investment banking industry are a real thing.

I took a deep breath and punched speed dial. Veronica picked up.

“Hey, Veronica. It’s John Carthage and Susie Golden. Where the hell did everybody go?”

“No fucking clue. I’ve been calling around the building all morning. My girls in the big law firms are missing, except for one. She said the partners didn’t show up this morning. There’s nothing but interns and associates. Her line went dead, and nobody else is answering.”

This troubled me. Lawyers live on billable hours. They have to show up for work so they can suck blood from their clients, rain or shine. Otherwise, they don’t get paid. They’re exactly like gig workers, but with fat bonuses, real healthcare, and a fully-matched 401K.

“It’s the governor’s state of emergency,” I said. “People couldn’t drive into the city or use the subway. And I bet a lot of them caught the flu virus and stayed home.”

“Flu virus?” snapped Veronica. “You god-damned idiot. Haven’t you been watching the news? Flu makes you sneeze. This virus makes you insane. Fuckers are eating each other. Even the cops are gone.”

I shrugged. “Most of my team spent the night here. I jogged the twenty blocks from my condo around 5:00 a.m. and didn’t see anything weird, just the usual drunken frat boys looking for their mommies. Everything was operating normally.”

Susie nodded her agreement. “Same for me. Maybe a few more street crazies than normal, but I steered clear and walked a little faster.”

I could sense Veronica rolling her eyes at our stupidity.

“Get your asses up here right now and take a look at CNN. Don’t tell me it’s the fucking flu.” She added a few cruel comments about my deviant sexual preferences and hung up. Loudly.

I stared at Susie for a long moment. She stared straight back at me and warned, “Veronica is Veronica. We better go.”

“Okay,” I grumbled, “but I’m gonna steal coffee and bear claws from the executive breakfast room as my reward. They’ll go to waste if nobody shows up to eat them.”

“Scrounger,” sniffed Susie. “Will you ever outgrow your starving orphan mindset? Panera sells that stuff downstairs.”

“Sure,” I winked. “But everything tastes better when it’s free. And talking to Veronica is hard work.”

I straightened my tie and grabbed my jacket. We headed for the elevator lobby, striding briskly through the half-acre of Herman Miller work pods occupied by my hardworking acquisitions crew. Almost nobody looked up. Those who did blinked like owls for a New York minute and dove right back into their spreadsheets. I beamed with pride. To the grinders go the spoils, I always say.

The express elevator arrived immediately, which was very unusual. The superconductor mag lifts serving the top of our fifty-story skyscraper should have been very busy on a normal Monday.

I smiled at Susie, “How’s that for good luck?” and motioned toward the elevator doors in the universal male gesture that says, “Ladies first, so I can check out your ass.”

Susie growled “douchebag” under her breath and stepped forward as the doors slid open. She stopped short and did a double take, nose-to-nose with the only passenger.

Three

First Contact

HE WAS A BIG GUY, dressed in khaki maintenance overalls with an oval name badge over his left front pocket. Ted.

Buzz-cut gray hair, bloodshot eyes, a chunk of flesh missing from his neck. He emitted a sharp chittering sound, almost like a cicada, punctuated by a deep growl rumbling from his chest.

Susie recoiled instinctively as Ted lunged forward, grabbing for her arms, neck, shoulders, hair, anything. She backpedaled across the elevator lobby, screaming bloody murder and slapping his hands away. He growled and chittered constantly, driving her against the wall.

Unarmed and trapped in a tight space is not a recipe for financial success. The lobby contained a small wooden table and a brass vase full of Van Gogh’s sunflowers. Nothing else. Ted’s back was turned to me. His radar was locked on Susie. I needed to separate them. Fast. Before he could take her down.

I knelt behind him, grabbed his ankles, and abruptly stood up, yanking his feet as hard as I could. He went face down with a solid thud, flattening his nose and splattering a little black blood when he hit the carpet. I gripped his work boots and held him like a wheelbarrow, using his spread legs as handles. Given such a perfect opening, I couldn’t resist snapping three hard kicks to his groin, figuring the pain would knock him out. Snap. Boom. Bam.

It’s a devastating ambush move called the Bojack. I saw it once during a bar fight in the Theater District. Those literati can be vicious.

But this guy did not curl up in agony. He scuttled forward and snatched at Susie’s legs, shredding her silk stockings and pulling off those sexy heels. When I dragged him backwards so she could escape, Ted wiggled loose and flipped over. He lunged at me from a sitting position and scrambled to his feet. Now it was my turn to scream bloody murder and slap-fight with the guy. We were third-graders in a playground squabble, except one of us didn’t know the rule against biting our classmates.

Luckily for me, Susie was not one of those useless movie girls paralyzed by fear when the bad guys show up. She seized the brass vase and swung for the back of Ted’s head like Babe Ruth trying to reach the upper deck. The vase connected with a mighty clang, throwing fresh flowers and water everywhere. Ted collapsed. There was a large dent where his skull caved in.

We gasped for breath and stared at him, our bodies screaming with adrenaline. Susie looked at me with a shocked expression.

“Wha…what the fuck was that?”

I glanced toward the glass doors at the end of the elevator lobby. Several of our colleagues were gathered there, attracted by Susie’s screams, and frozen in terror.

“Houston, we have a problem,” I muttered.

Four

Executive Suite

I TOOK TIME to calm everyone down and assure them nobody was hurt. Well, nobody except Ted. We left Ronnie Numero to deal with his battered body and get the team back to work.

Ronnie was a portly young man with shaggy brown hair who lived in navy blazers by Alexander McQueen, crisp khakis, and Dunhill regimental ties. He had the bland, serious manner of a typical CPA, the perfect guy to stop any hint of spreading panic.

Susie borrowed a pink cardigan to cover her ruined blouse. She peeled off the LaPerlas and grabbed running shoes to replace the Givenchy stilettos. There was nothing to be done about her pencil skirt, which split straight up the back vent when she squared her batter’s stance to swing at Ted. Tragic waste of classic Lanvin styling, and very distracting. I shook my head to refocus.

“Okay, let’s go,” she said. “Veronica is still waiting. That’s never a good thing. Straighten your fucking tie.”

I was wearing Fendi haute couture, but Veronica would spot the smallest flaw. I straightened my tie.

We took the stairs this time, not wanting a repeat of the elevator experience. DCH Tower had twelve big stairwells. The nearest one opened beside Veronica’s desk outside the CEO’s executive suite.

It was creepy. The stairwell was empty but we could hear faint clangs and crashes echoing from floors below. A couple of times, I heard shots followed by desperate, panting screams.

By the time we reached Veronica’s level, the hair was standing up on the back of my neck. I yanked the stairwell door as hard as I could. It was locked. Susie pounded with the flat of her hand, calling Veronica’s name and adding a few choice expletives for emphasis.

Veronica responded quickly, pushing the door open and shooing us inside like a pair of toddlers escaping the rain. She peered down the stairwell, then closed the door with a soft click and locked it again.

“Christ,” she hissed. “What took you so long, and why are you making all that fucking noise? Susie, who the fuck ripped your blouse? Did John get out of line?”

Veronica cast an evil eye at me as she unconsciously smoothed her luminous Thai silk top over those very robust curves. I shook my head to refocus.

“Not him. We ran into a problem at the elevator,” Susie snorted. “I had to kill a guy trying to eat John’s face.”

Veronica was pissed. “Damn, if those fuckers have reached our floors, we’re in big trouble.”

Despite everything, I was eager to get back to my crew. The Heckler & Koch deal needed me. The genetic urge to make money overwhelmed my primeval fear of Veronica and my growing uneasiness about the spooky stairwell.

“Stop whining, and tell us what’s going on,” I demanded.

Big mistake. Veronica narrowed her brow and glared, making me feel like a plump Thanksgiving turkey ready for carving. The feeling became all the more compelling when I realized Veronica was brandishing a monster kitchen knife from the Julia Child professional chef collection. My primeval fear returned.

Veronica shook her head in disgust. “Let’s catch you up with the rest of the world, genius.” She marched us straight into the CEO’s palatial executive office suite.

Our CEO was a rich, wicked bastard with extravagant taste and a love for antique technology. His office featured intricate Persian carpets hand-tied by child slaves and tropical hardwood paneling made from endangered trees. The Brazilian mahogany conference table could accommodate at least twenty people. The insider dealing room was furnished with massive elephant leather couches, a 500-bottle wine fridge, a walk-in cigar humidor, and a colossal 99-inch Samsung Quantum OLED television.

Veronica picked up an iPad-sized TV remote. She tapped a few controls to open multi-view, so we could watch all the cable news and broadcast networks at the same time. ABC was covering a national prayer meeting led by President Joe Pepitone and Pastor Steve Wheat, the world famous televangelist. NPR’s top investigative reporter, Phil Blueberry, was grilling CIA Director John Belushi on CBS. All the other channels featured screaming TV news crews running and dying in the zombie apocalypse.

Much to my surprise, Susie slipped her hand into mine. Together, we stared at the screen for a long time.

Five

Gathering Intel

VERONICA BROKE THE SPELL by impatiently tapping her giant knife against the giant TV.

“Have you figured it out yet, meathead? It’s the same everywhere. Manhattan is swarming with these freaks. All the bridges are closed. Not that it matters, since there’s no way to reach them. Manhattan is fucked, and we are deep in the shit.”

I shrugged. “It’s just a virus. Can’t they isolate the infected people and develop a cure?”

My natural optimism is irrepressible.

“Idiot. It’s moving too fast. All it takes is one bite. Believe me, the fucking end-times are here.”

Veronica tapped her knife on the screen again, giving me that Thanksgiving turkey glare in case I missed the point. Her growl sounded a lot like Ted’s.

Susie coughed delicately. “Mmm…so, Veronica, if the streets are full of zombies, we’ll have to stay here, but they’ll send soldiers to help us escape, right?”

Veronica’s murderous demeanor morphed instantly into a bright, loving smile. She replied to Susie in that honey-sweet tone Southern mothers always reserve for their favorite child.

“That’s a great question, princess. But I’m afraid the army is worried about saving its own ass, not ours. There are too many zombies and not enough troops. We’re on our own, sweetie.”

She looked up as Anjali Khan rushed in, rocking an audacious ruby-red dress by Christian Dior with black fishnets and killer pumps by Tom Ford. I shook my head to refocus.

We had never been introduced, but I recognized Anjali immediately: a twenty-something smoke show with flashing dark eyes and shoulder-length hair the color of midnight. Veronica hired her straight outta Caltech to handle security for the C-suite computer network. They were thick as thieves.

Anjali was loaded with three laptops, a tangle of cables, and several mysterious black metal boxes. She opened a hidden panel on the TV cabinet and plugged in. A dozen gold bangles jingled on her well-toned arms as she worked. Moments later, she tapped the remote, and our multiverse of screaming field reporters was replaced by six rows of high-resolution color camera feeds from all over the building.

“You hacked into the security system!” I gushed with surprise. “That’s awesome!”

Anjali and Veronica glanced at each other for a millisecond and rolled their eyes. Veronica waved vaguely in my direction.

“Have you met Captain Obvious yet?”

“Only by reputation.” Anjali flashed me a fake smile, the one reserved for Viagra-braced senior executives flirting with her at DCH Manhattan’s annual Christmas orgy.

I decided silence was the best response and turned my attention to the screen. Anjali cycled through the feeds. The street cameras showed our building surrounded by violent mobs in full riot.

She switched to the rooftop cameras. It was typical Manhattan skyscraper chic. Better equipped than most buildings, of course. DCH deserves the best. Top shelf amenities included the CEO’s helicopter pad, an infinity pool, and a glass-enclosed restaurant. We could also see utility sheds, HVAC equipment, a cell tower, and an aircraft warning beacon. No people.

Anjali moved down floor by floor, checking all the cameras on each level before cycling to the next. I was surprised by the extensive surveillance system. Stairwells, elevator lobbies, offices, corridors. Everywhere but the bathrooms. There was even a camera in the central security office, pointed at two control consoles facing a giant wall of TV monitors linked to cameras all over the building. Who was watching the watchers? Did they watch themselves? Did they watch me? It was positively Orwellian.

There were only two other floors above our 48th floor C-suites. The 50th floor was reserved for a sprawling restaurant with three Michelin stars, a ballroom, and fabulous all-around views of New York City. It was deserted, except for wandering bus boys. The 49th floor was occupied by a lavish executive spa with an NFL-caliber weight room, squash and tennis courts, an indoor driving range, hot tubs, saunas, and an Olympic-sized swimming pool.

As Anjali moved her scan around the DCH office floors, we could see other douchebags, especially in my M&A department. The rest of DCH was sparsely populated.

“Something to remember at bonus time,” I muttered. The global financial markets open at 9:30 a.m. Manhattan Standard Time, come hell or high water.

We saw Ronnie huddled with a small group getting ready to move Ted’s body. Everything else looked normal, except for the missing executives and lousy attendance. Anjali finished scanning our offices and turned her attention to other floors. Veronica gasped when she saw what was happening. She ordered Anjali to pull up cameras for one of the 30th-floor law firms.

There were lots more people. We could see them shuffling aimlessly around the work pods and conference rooms, bumping into obstacles like shiny steel balls in a bizarre pachinko game. One guy bounced close to a security camera. His nose was missing, and his blue shirt was splattered with dark blood.

The door of a corner office popped open. A handsome gray-haired lawyer and a well-dressed young secretary bolted straight for the nearest stairwell, bowling over any zombies who got in their way. The man wielded what appeared to be a chrome steel table leg.

Veronica moaned in recognition, “Oh my god, that’s Edward and his executive assistant, Beth.”

Their co-workers moved toward them, not exactly running, but shuffling with purpose and closing fast. Edward reached the stairwell and brained the last guy in his path. Beth pushed the door, and they slipped out. It closed before anyone could follow.

Anjali tapped the pad and switched to a stairwell camera, just in time to see Edward and Beth vanish under a soundless cloud of Technicolor zombies on the landing. A bloody arm waving the table leg emerged and disappeared, sucked under by the swarm.

Anjali turned off the security cameras and left us staring at another Pastor Steve Wheat prayer meeting, this time with Douglas Blick, President of the American Bankers Association, and Charles Pulton, Chairman of the FDIC.

A prayer meeting of bankers?

We were doomed.

Six

Getting A Grip

VERONICA STUMBLED to the ceiling-height windows and buried her face in her hands. The bright afternoon sun picked up golden highlights in her red hair. Her silhouette glowed like a buxom angel. She was sobbing. Tears streamed down her cheeks. Totally out of character. Susie raced over and wrapped both arms around Veronica, whispering in full consolation mode.

“What the hell?” I muttered in amazement. “I didn’t know Veronica had any friends.”

“Clueless bastard,” snapped Anjali. “Edward was her boyfriend. They’ve been together for ages.”

This was stunning news. I’ve always been a firm believer in the “every man is an island” philosophy of life. I’m the strong silent type. The John Wayne of investment bankers. A manly man.

My numerous relationships with an endless parade of hot babes reflected this credo. Lots of fun, to be sure, but not enough commitment to meet the parents. That’s why I was still young, rich, and unmarried. I had always assumed Veronica adhered to this same school of thought. She was a womanly woman. The revelation that she enjoyed a stable romantic liaison was a severe jolt to my personal space-time continuum.

More importantly, with the CEO missing in action and Veronica suffering an emotional breakdown, someone had to step up and take charge. That would be me. The ability to handle chaos is my superpower. Veronica’s impact on space and time would have to wait. I pulled out my phone and dialed Ronnie Numero. He picked up immediately. The connection was bad, but I could tell he was upset.

“John, you have to come back. People are freaking out. I can’t calm them down. It’s getting out of control.”

“I’m on my way. Assemble the team leaders in my conference room. Find Sylvia and send two of her interns up here right now. Tell them to use stairwell 4 and move fast. Knock on the door and do whatever Anjali says. Got it?”

Ronnie repeated my instructions and hung up.

Anjali looked at me with obvious skepticism. “What are you doing?”

“We need to know how far this shit stain has spread. When the interns get here, use the security cams to map the whole building, including the roof, basement and parking garage. Which floors are empty? Which floors are swamped? Are the zombies moving through the stairwells? Find anything that helps us navigate. Do it fast. We could lose power at any moment, and then we’ll be blind.”

Anjali sputtered something in protest, but I just left her standing there. I ran to the executive breakfast room, grabbed every pastry tray, and staggered down the stairs to the 45th floor.

Seven

Follow Me

THE TEAM LEADERS were waiting at my conference table, deep into a loud, vulgar argument over what was happening and what to do about it. Everyone was impeccably tailored and armed with a DCH-issued MacBook, known internally as the DoucheBook Pro. Most of them were streaming gruesome TikToks from Manhattan tourist landmarks. Times Square, Grand Central Station, DCH Plaza.

My gorgeous assistant, Sylvia Sakura, guarded the door in a blue spaghetti strap Valentino cocktail dress and her signature 4-strand pearl choker. Hands on slender hips, tossing her long black hair, and impatiently tapping her spike-heeled foot, Sylvia did not like chaos. That made us a perfect office couple. I love chaos.

I handed over my giant armful of baked goods and told her to share everything. Always feed the troops before the officers. She nodded and wobbled off under the load, shouting for her interns.

My ten team leaders were highly educated, high-achieving grinders. They were smart and dedicated, which goes with the territory when you’re in the investment banking business.

But I didn’t choose my people for their brains and determination. I picked them for their loyalty and ability to follow my orders without question. If you think that makes me a pinstriped Mussolini, you’re not far from the truth. Leaders gotta lead. It’s a hard lesson I learned during a brief and not entirely successful tour of duty in the army.

That means tackling the biggest issue first. The elephant in the room. No messing around. I marched in and took my place at the head of the table. The noise stopped instantly.

“All right, so here it is. The news you’ve all been fearing.” I paused for melodramatic effect.

“The Heckler & Koch acquisition is officially on hold.”

Utter silence greeted my announcement. I could hear someone’s large, bejeweled mechanical watch ticking away the long seconds. I waited patiently, letting the bombshell penetrate.

After an endless minute, the ravishing Christine LaCroix raised her perfectly manicured hand and asked in an innocent little schoolgirl voice, “Will this affect our annual bonuses?”

The room exploded with laughter. Christine was an infamous and highly successful bonus chaser, a honey-blonde shark feeding on other sharks. Only an investment banker would worry about their annual bonus during the zombie apocalypse.

To be honest, it was my first thought, too.

Christine’s question triggered an avalanche of crude jokes about the correlation between bonuses and the size of certain male or female body parts. The average male investment banker is so nasty he can make a truck driver blush. Female investment bankers are worse.

When the laughter finally died down, I started talking again, giving them straight facts with no comedy coating. Our little world was being conquered by zombies. I saw it on CNN. Manhattan was dying. The streets around our skyscraper were impassable. Zombies were popping up along the East Coast as far south as Rehoboth Beach, where J. Philpott Raullin, the local mayor, crushed an outbreak with help from an army of retirees wielding canes and walkers. Casualties were heavy on both sides.

The zombie horde in Manhattan was winning on and off the field. We were isolated. Our offices on the upper floors were safe, for the moment. So far, only Ted the Janitor had managed to reach our level, where he met golden-haired Susie and her home run swing.

The streets were suicide, so I figured our best chance to escape Manhattan would be helicopters landing on the roof. I welcomed better ideas. Nobody had any. The government was hard-pressed, so those helicopters might be a long time coming. We had to survive until then. Survival required us to fight off a hostile takeover by flesh-eating monsters. Other investment bankers, in effect.

That last line earned a soft chuckle from a few of them, but most sat silently and stared at their laptops.

“I’m sorry this is happening to us,” I concluded. “It’s simple. The end of our world is here. We kept our noses to the grindstone and almost screwed ourselves. But that’s ancient history now. The next few hours and days will be crucial. If we’re going to survive, I need your complete obedience.”

I paused and let that statement sink in. During a crisis, there is always one guy with better instincts than the others. He makes the plans and calls the shots. In our little monetary cult, I was that guy. My team followed without question because I delivered the cash. I needed to test this group dynamic. Would they still follow, or would everyone go their separate ways?

We sat together for a long time, talking about what we knew, what we didn’t know, and how everything could fall apart so fast. I was proud to see them embrace this new reality without whining about how unfair it all was. One day you’re on top of the world. The next day you’re fighting bloodthirsty zombie hordes. Nobody asked how the apocalypse started, who benefited, when it might end, or what might be the long term outcome. This was a black swan moment. It was time to adapt or die.

Andrew Jarrod, a tall slim Massachusetts native with sandy blonde hair and ancestors on the Mayflower, spoke up in his always annoying John F. Kennedy drawl.

“Carthage, I say…uh, you’re the biggest jackass I know, but you get things done. So…uh, stop bloviating and…uh, let’s get started.”

His pronouncement was greeted by loud cheers, table thumping, and another round of crude vulgarity at my expense. They were scared, hiding their fear behind humor and false bravado.

I breathed a quiet sigh of relief. Andrew’s great talent as a deal lawyer came with a hefty side order of oppositional defiant disorder, also known as ODD. I feared he would be my hardest sell. Turns out I had nothing to worry about. For now, at least.

With perfect timing, Sylvia Sakura swept into the room, followed by her interns carrying trays of cinnamon bear claws, sugar-dusted almond pastries, and a giant silver punch bowl full of ice and Monster energy drinks. Sylvia had a very dry sense of humor.

As the calories and caffeine made their way around the table, I fired off my instructions.

“Our first priority right now is to secure this floor and all the floors up to the roof. Go back to your people. Send me anyone who ever played a serious competitive sport that involves swinging a big stick. Bring weapons, anything that will crack heads. We’ll clear the upper floors one by one. Meet me in the elevator lobby.”

I told them about Edward’s steel table leg so they would get the picture. I didn’t mention what the Technicolor zombies did to him.

“Second, we need to block the stairwells and lock the elevators. I don’t want any more strays like Ted wandering into our secure area. Christine, you and Ronnie take the lead on that. Grab four people from each team so you’ll have enough hands on deck to get it done fast. Use filing cabinets, chairs, whatever it takes. Do it quietly, and do it quickly.”

Christine and Ronnie looked at each other and nodded.

“Third, we’re going to lose the fucking power sooner or later. Send anyone with an electrical engineering background to Anjali in the executive offices. Figure out how we can operate on battery power and recharge those batteries without access to the grid. We’ll need our technological edge to stay alive.”

The meeting closed with a general task order to make sure the whole team stayed busy. We couldn’t afford to have people sitting around, worrying about the apocalypse. That would be bad for morale, and morale would be critical to our survival. So I ordered everyone else to download information from the internet before it died. YouTube, Discord, Reddit, TikTok, Animal Planet. Anything about zombies, and anything that might help us survive. It was tedious work, but the data would be invaluable.

In case anybody harbored lingering doubts about our mission, I made it crystal clear.

“We don’t have the luxury of hiding in the wilderness with a shitload of canned food and a fully stocked weapons cache. Your crazy prepper uncle was right, but we didn’t listen to him. We’re just a bunch of bankers in downtown Manhattan in the middle of the zombie fucking apocalypse. The cavalry is not coming to the rescue. We’ve got to own that, and make it work.”

The meeting ended at 3:00 p.m.

It was time to save our world.

Eight

Mustering the Troops

I WAS SURPRISED by the crowd of sporty grinders who enlisted in my nascent anti-zombie army. Instead of just a few jocks, I found fifteen hardy souls: five men and ten girls. They were armed with a dog’s breakfast of table legs, pipes, and miscellaneous parts ripped loose from the building and furniture. Everybody was young and athletic, almost mandatory characteristics at DCH.

The men shed their suit jackets and rolled up their sleeves. They were wearing hand-tooled Italian dress shoes with shiny leather soles that gave them zero traction on our deep, luxurious pile carpeting. Not the ideal wardrobe choice, but I didn’t have time to send them back for better footwear.

The girls rolled up their sleeves and slashed the side seams of their tight skirts. This afforded them more freedom of movement than a simple back vent, but created a very distracting loincloth look reminiscent of an old Raquel Welch cavegirl movie. They tied their salon-fresh hair in ponytails and donned running shoes from the extensive footwear collection that all girls keep under their desks.

I engaged with each grinder, checking weapons, skill sets, and mental state. A few had played NCAA baseball, softball, or field hockey. Others boasted decent high school credentials or intra-mural experience at a Big 20 college. Their common denominator was an ability to swing hard and connect with a moving target. The internet provided plenty of live video about the gruesome threat.

Even Andrew Jarrod showed up, the beanpole Yankee from Team ODD. He was armed with a four-foot piece of sturdy mop handle. Andrew said he played varsity tennis for an Ivy League university, a resumé that did not fit my bohemian vision of hairy club-swinging cavemen. He could see I was about to send him away, so he casually mentioned his serve had been clocked at 130 mph.

I welcomed him to the team.

The plan was vanilla basic. Form pairs, tiptoe up the stairwell, and clear one floor at a time until we reached the roof. Stay far enough apart to swing, but close enough to support each other. Our only data point on zombie combat suggested a simple tactic: to stop a zombie, you had to crush its skull, like Susie did for Ted. Focus on headshots. Big ones. Anything else was speculation.

Everyone found a partner and took half a dozen warm-up swings. I teamed with Andrew, figuring I was best able to handle his particular social challenges. Anjali managed to call me with an update, and I put her on speaker, praying she had followed my instructions.

Anjali and the interns came through for me.

“Good news, John. There’s nobody on 46 and just a few people on 47. They all look infected. Your problems are the gym on 49 and the restaurant on 50. I spotted three cleaning ladies wandering around the spa. We can’t see into the bathrooms, locker rooms, or showers. No telling what you’ll find there. The bus boys in the restaurant are infected, and they’ve trapped a couple of cooks in the admin office. Upper-level stairwells are still clear.”

I pocketed the phone and looked around. My combat grinders were ready, a few with fire in their eyes, all with fear on their faces.

Everyone lined up, and I gave them a terse briefing. Anjali spotted only a few zombies. This was a chance to gather some low-hanging fruit. Andrew and I would go first and stay to the left. The next set of battle buddies would move to the right. Alternate pairs after that. Aim for a straight headshot before they got close enough to grapple and bite. If the first strike fails, your partner will circle around and attack from behind, just like Susie did to Ted. Fast and furious. Heads nodded in agreement all around.

As we moved to the stairs, Christine and Ronnie opened the glass doors from our offices, leading a small army of grinders dragging heavy filing cabinets and furniture.

They gave me a thumbs-up as I disappeared into the stairwell. Andrew and the team were right on my heels.

Nine

Rookie Season

WE PAUSED at the 46th-floor stairwell door. Anjali reported no zombies on that level, but I wanted to sweep the whole area as tactical practice. A video game tutorial, in effect.

Andrew opened the door for me and followed close behind as I led the way. My weapon of choice was a heavy brass table lamp, locked and loaded over my shoulder. Bright afternoon sunshine streamed through the tall windows along the closest wall. It was so quiet I could hear the gentle whisper of filtered air from the ceiling vents.

The 46th floor housed our social media and accounting teams, also known as bloggers and bean counters. They were classified as corporate overhead, so the furnishing were pedestrian. It was a typical Manhattan pod farm of ultra-modern Herman Miller workstations stretching as far as the eye could see. The pastel gray color scheme could not have been more peaceful, soothing, or dull.

There were two central avenues about 30 feet apart. Workstation cul-de-sacs opened to both sides. Cross-cutting aisles reconnected along the external walls. It was a labyrinth. People often joked about finding the bones of lost interns, bleached white by the bright LED lighting. Now we had to check it for zombies. Great.

I advanced down the left avenue with Andrew, peeking carefully into each pod. The next pair of sluggers moved to the other avenue, led by a beautiful little brunette analyst named Jane Austen wearing a sequined minidress by Karl Lagerfeld, her favorite designer.

Jane came to us straight out of The Juilliard School, where she majored in vocal arts and played Tosca for three seasons in the New York City Opera. Now she was a media buyout queen who excelled at cutthroat summer softball in Central Park. A sweetheart with a mega-dose of stone cold bitch if you were stupid enough to get in her way. One of my best hires. Smart, energetic, and smoking hot.

Andrew and I realized almost immediately that it was too dangerous to peek around the edge of each pod. We might meet a snack-hungry zombie peeking back, eye-to-eye.

Instead, he moved to one side of the avenue, and I stayed on the other, so we could survey the opposite workstation but leave plenty of space between us and any potential threat. If a zombie popped out, one of us would have a free shot from behind as it charged across to eat the other guy down to the bone.

Our team cleared the cul-de-sacs while we handled the main thoroughfare. We searched for half an hour before Andrew spotted the first one. He was curled under a desk. That’s why Anjali didn’t see him on the security cams. Judging from his gelled hair and the silk pocket square, he was part of our giant DCH marketing team, probably on-camera talent for interviews with the financial news channels.

I saw a small bite wound on his hand and felt a twinge of pity. He arrived early in the morning, suffered a nip, and died alone in the pod. The poor bastard had chewed off his lips, tongue, and the ends of his fingers. My eyes teared up a little. There’s nothing sadder than a marketing guy who can’t talk or type.

My pity evaporated when he scrambled out, chittering like Ted and lunging straight for Andrew. I let him stagger past and then swung my brass lamp in a graceful arc. Swish. Crunch.

His skull collapsed. A nice shock wave rolled up my brawny arm. A little smear of black blood adorned my lamp.

Andrew dragged the body back into the workstation. Everybody blinked as they moved past. A couple of them gagged audibly, and one of the men lost a very large lunch.

Anjali’s all-seeing eye was not infallible. There would be more surprises. I prayed she was still watching and would advise our other team about the crouching tiger, hidden zombie problem.

As we worked our way down the avenue, I looked back to check our tactical formation, and suddenly realized all the men were on my team. Six men plus two girls. Jane’s group on the other side of the the floor was composed of eight girls, no men.

My mind raced. Could a bunch of female softball players handle an army of the undead? Wouldn’t they need support from some testosterone-soaked manly men? Strength, quickness, and hand-eye coordination might be fine for college sports, but killing zombies would require real balls.

I obsessed over this distressing thought as we moved, until a piercing scream snapped me back to the world. We turned around in time to see Archie Briggs fly backwards out of a pod cul-de-sac, straddled by a long cool woman in a short black dress. She ripped his neck with perfect white teeth as Archie landed hard, wailing and ineffectually slapping at her head. His feeble blows inspired the woman to dig deeper, tearing out mouthfuls of skin, muscle, and tendons. Arterial blood spurted everywhere.

Before anyone could react, Henry Hunnicutt exploded out of the cul-de-sac and unleashed a mighty swing with a chrome steel table leg. He caught her temple, producing a crack and a musical note. Ding.

She collapsed. A small chunk of Archie’s neck fell to the carpet when her jaws flopped open. Archie bubbled feebly and died in a spreading pool of blood. Just like that.

Henry knelt over him and held his hand, sobbing, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” over and over.

Everyone stared as the blood soaked across Archie’s starched blue shirt. Speechless. Archie was a popular guy. Outgoing, friendly, helpful to the newbies, utterly loyal. One of my best hires. Dead.

I stared too, until my phone vibrated. I pulled it out and turned away, trying to ignore Henry’s sobs. Anjali screamed a warning at me; half a dozen accountants were gathering in front of us. Two more were inbound from the rear. We were cut off and outnumbered, eight to seven. Archie’s scream was the dinner bell.

The undead bean counters shuffled into view at both ends of the avenue as she spoke. Henry freaked out and unleashed a scream that encouraged them to move faster.

Trapped in a tight space. Not good.

It was time to adapt. I shouted tactical commands while shoving Andrew and the other two men into a rough line facing the main threat. I yanked Henry to his feet, harshly telling him to man-up and protect the two girls behind us.

We waited, hearts racing, as they closed in. Everyone looked ready to break and run. Not good.

There was no exit.

Ten

Ride of the Valkyries

THE BEAN COUNTERS shuffled forward, chittering at high volume. We could see horrible, gaping wounds as they approached, a shocking amount of damage and gore.

Ted and the public relations guy had suffered only small bites. They died and reanimated without much damage. No visible marks at all on the long cool woman, until Henry bashed her head open. But these new players looked like a chainsaw massacre.

It was a chilling sight. Everybody had studied the zombie internet clips, but getting up close and personal with this kind of devastation was different, visceral. I blinked and tried to focus.

“Ignore their entrails, crack their skulls,” I muttered.

When the larger group was about ten feet away, I cocked my brass lamp and delivered that inspirational war movie line, “Here they come.” Andrew Jarrod gave me a nasty glance and opened his mouth to voice some oppositional defiance.

Thankfully, before Andrew could speak, Jane Austen and her all-girl team burst into the avenue fifteen yards behind the zombies. Everyone was moving fast and pushing stylishly ergonomic high-end Aeron executive desk chairs with dynamic lumbar support. They drifted into the turn, formed a perfect flying wedge behind Jane, and rattled full speed toward our encircled team. Ponytails bouncing, loincloths flapping, sneakers pounding.

It was the Ride of the Valkyries. All we needed was a soundtrack and Robert Duvall in a gunship.

Jane slammed into the rearguard zombie, knocked him face-down, and dumped the chair to pin him in place. As her girls swept past, she pounded him with a table leg until his blackened brains flopped out. They steamrolled the other zombies with identical results. Knock down. Pin down. Beat down.

The only exception was a middle-aged loser with a giant ass and an extremely low center of gravity. Instead of dropping him on the floor, the sleek black Aeron buckled his knees, and he plopped right down into it. The chair-pushing Valkyrie maintained her momentum and rolled the fat bastard straight toward me, presenting another easy headshot. Another swing, another thud, another satisfying shock wave rolling up my arm.

I was about to give him an extra love tap when a scream from Henry spun me around. The other two zombies were bull-rushing his small team. The pocket was collapsing. He swung desperately at a roly-poly bean counter in a cheap blood-soaked beige suit. Henry’s shiny Italian leather soles slipped on the carpet, and he was flat on his back before the blow could connect.

The pudgy zombie straddled him, and I thought Henry would die like Archie, bleeding out fast with his throat ripped away. The two girls were flailing at the second zombie, an NFL-sized beast carrying an accounting pad. They couldn’t deliver a winning headshot because his enormous beer gut and great height kept them out of range. No help from them for Henry.

I stepped forward to save him, but Andrew beat me to the punch. He jumped in and unleashed a powerful, Wimbledon-perfect first serve. Thanks to his long, skinny arms, the end of that mop handle was traveling at the speed of light when it connected. Mass times acceleration equals boom.

A four-inch dent appeared in the zombie’s head, and he collapsed on Henry like a subprime mortgage bond. The blow destroyed Andrew’s weapon, leaving him a stout wooden splinter about two feet long.

Andrew’s graceful follow-through placed him behind the girls as they battled the blubbery left tackle. Andrew reached over them with his long Yankee arm in the en garde position and touched the handle’s sharp tip against the giant bean-counter’s left eye.

After a quick little push to pop the eyeball, Andrew shouted “Allez!” and stabbed the zombie’s brain with a flawless lunge. Andrew pulled out, the girls jumped back, and the behemoth came crashing down.

The entire match took less than a second. Pop. Stab. Done.

Andrew saluted the fallen zombie with his mop handle, as if he had vanquished a worthy opponent on the piste. Everyone gaped at him.

“Uh…what?” he demanded. “Fencing is a sport, too.”

“Never mind,” I grinned. “Right now, we need to regroup. Help the girls pull that fucking little zombie off Henry.”

I didn’t want to give Andrew a chance to engage, so I turned away and barked more orders. With his ODD, the smallest thing could turn into a forty-minute debate. We didn’t have time to indulge him today. He made little huffy noises, but eventually did as he was told.

Jane wiped the blood off her table leg and pulled me away for a quick sidebar. Her team checked their combat-tested office chairs for zombie damage. Everyone kept glancing at Archie, as if they couldn’t believe he was dead.

She told me the girls killed two pop-up zombies by using chairs as a rolling shield and clobbering them from behind. When Anjali alerted her about the mob attack against my team, she grabbed chairs for everyone and came running to our rescue. Jane figured a hard charge from the rear might entangle them long enough for my crew to finish the whole batch. Excellent tactical awareness. As it turned out, her Valkyries did almost all the work.

I decided not to raise my earlier concerns about the lack of testosterone on her team.

Somehow, it didn’t seem appropriate.

Eleven

That Lazarus Moment

WE CALLED ANJALI for a quick update and connected on the third try. Ronnie Numero and Christine LaCroix were still barricading the stairwells. The interns were still using security cams to map the building. Everyone else was still working on the battery problem or anxiously stockpiling yottabytes of useful information from the web. Veronica was still in a state of shock.

I wanted to check the rest of the floor and the bathrooms where cameras couldn’t reach. Jane suggested we reassign Henry to the 45th floor, since he was a hot mess and might get someone else killed. I agreed. Henry was emotionally compromised.

Jane collected her people, and they rattled back to work. I told Henry to find Ronnie and give him a data dump about our progress. He seemed relieved. By unspoken agreement, we ignored the fact I could have simply texted Ronnie with the same information. Male egos are such fragile things.

Everyone else made ready to continue our sweep. Henry took two steps toward the stairwell. Archie grabbed his ankle.

We had forgotten about Archie. Of course he would reanimate. That’s what dead people do during the zombie apocalypse. Everybody liked Archie, but that didn’t mean he was exempt from the laws of nature. Or whatever this was.

Henry lost his balance and tumbled face down, probably thinking he tripped on Archie’s body. When Archie’s grip tightened, and he began chittering, Henry figured it out.

He screamed and tried to kick free. Archie held on and dragged him closer, biting a chunk of flesh from Henry’s calf, along with a piece of gray pinstripe. The strength in his jaws was amazing, and his perfect white teeth were unstoppable. Chomp. Rip. Squelch.

Henry’s screaming reached a higher volume and pitch, a terrified and wounded animal. I jumped forward, but Peggy Martin stepped in and dropped a series of brutal shots on the crown of Archie’s head.

Color me impressed. Peggy was a 38-year-old mother, one of the very few parents in my cloistered world of twenty-something grinders. How could a mom kill so effortlessly? She was a consumer durables analyst who lived in the New Jersey suburbs with a husband and two teenage daughters. Her Swedish grandparents owned a farm outside Minneapolis. Peggy played intramural softball while getting an MBA at the University of Minnesota, and now she was the batting coach for a local ponytail team.

In other words, she was the perfect image of a sizzling hot, blonde, blue-eyed softball mom. Except she beat Archie’s head to a shapeless, bloody pulp with her chair leg, like a Viking shield-maiden chastising an unfaithful husband.

Archie’s iron grip relaxed after Peggy shattered his skull. Henry crawled away into a fetal position and continued to scream, holding onto his torn calf for dear life. Peggy gave Archie a little kick to make sure he wouldn’t move again and knelt beside Henry, murmuring soft words that I couldn’t hear.

My brain got stuck on a single thought: Henry would die and turn. Could be sooner, could be later. But it would happen.

Peggy was thinking the same thing while she tried to comfort Henry. The corners of her mouth turned down in a hard grimace. Her eyes locked with mine. Peggy’s teammate, Andrea Aiuto, strapped Henry’s leg with a sweater from a nearby pod. The bleeding subsided.

Henry stopped screaming as Peggy’s soothing voice finally penetrated his terror. He uncoiled from his fetal position, and they tried to get him on his feet. Henry’s leg had gone completely numb, so Andrea dragged over a couple of Aeron combat desk chairs. Henry sat in one, and they used the other to prop up his leg. He said the numbness was creeping along his side and had almost reached his waist.

Andrea continued fussing over Henry. Peggy pulled me aside.

“We can’t take him back to the 45th floor. You know that, right? He’s going to turn. Nothing we can do about it.”

“Yeah,” I sighed. “We can’t risk having him around other people when it happens.” My brain worked the options. They were all bad. Ugly. “I’ll stay with him until he turns, and…”

Peggy shook her head. “No, you have to clear the floor. Keep moving upstairs. No way to tell how long Henry will last.”

She shot a grim look at Andrea, who nodded in agreement.

“Andrea and I will stay and make him comfortable as long as we can. Henry’s a good guy. We’ll take care of him.”

I stared hard at Peggy, wondering if she could do what had to be done. She might need some help.

“Are you sure?” I asked. “One of the men can stay, if you prefer.”

She stared back at me with those ice-blue eyes and laughed harshly.

“Fuck you,” she said, and turned away. “C’mon Henry. Let’s take a nice break in one of those corner offices you love so much. I bet we can find a bottle of good scotch. Or some tequila! You know how much I love belly button shots!”

Andrea and Peggy pushed the chairs down the avenue like a little two-car train with one passenger. They were laughing and teasing Henry about taking the rest of the day off, and threatening to report him to the Vice President for Human Resources. The rest of the team stared blankly as they turned the corner and disappeared from sight.

I never saw Henry again.

Their departure left my depleted squad with four armed grinders instead of eight, a fifty percent loss. If one of our DCH investments delivered this level of poor performance, we would fire the whole management team. I shook off an impending sense of doom and ordered everyone back to work.

Much to my relief, we finished clearing the floor without any more surprises. We met Jane and her crew near the bathrooms. I rapped sharply and waited. Nothing happened. We opened the doors and moved in, chairs first.

Empty.

Jane found three living grinders in the last corner office. Persuading them to open the door took quite a while. Two men and one girl, survivors from the accounting department. They said the day started peacefully, but apparently one of the CPAs got nipped on her way to work and didn’t tell anyone.

Their morning staff meeting was a scream.

Twelve

Top of the World

WE SENT the rescue accountants to Ronnie Numero for new assignments. No more spreadsheets, no more magic bookkeeping. I drafted two of Jane’s hottest Valkyries to rebalance our teams at six each, and we moved up the stairwell. The 47th floor was another Herman Miller pod farm, but this time we were ready for the crouching tiger, hidden zombie issue. Learning from your mistakes is a key executive skill.

Jane’s team circled to the right. I banged a couple of chrome steel table legs together and conjured a dozen zombies, many more than Anjali predicted. My group served as juicy bait, and the Valkyries blitzed them with another flying chair wedgie. When the zombies were down, we swarmed in for the kill. Or the re-kill, if you prefer. Boom. Crack. Crunch.

I nailed two with my brass lamp, and Andrew stabbed three through the eye sockets. He grinned, “That’s…uh, five for me and four for you. But…uh, who’s counting, right?”

Andrew was born on third base and thought he hit a triple. That attitude was…uh, beginning to annoy me.

The spa and restaurant on 49 and 50 were even easier. Those spaces were wide open, with fewer nooks and crannies to hide the zombies. We freed the trapped cooks, who turned out to be genuine TV celebrity chefs hired for the annual DCH Pirates Banquet scheduled for that week. Chef Bobby and Chef Gordon. I set them to work preparing dinner for an estimated one hundred people and told them to call Ronnie for extra hands to replace any dead or missing kitchen staff.

Lucky for us, the apocalypse started on a Monday. The restaurant had been restocked early Sunday morning in expectation of a busy week, so there was plenty of food. For now, starvation was not on my list of existential perils.

I warned Bobby and Gordon to use the perishables first and then figure out how to preserve as much as they could. Salted pork, beef jerky, whatever would have the longest shelf life. For a couple of Hollywood reality stars, they fell in line pretty fast. They had been trapped for hours watching zombie apocalypse videos on their cell phones and listening to hungry busboys scratch at their door. They were eager for some live company.

Everyone else followed me to the roof and fanned out. As usual, I took a personal moment to enjoy the incredible fifty-story view. Manhattan is the peak of civilization. Mount Olympus. Having lived at the bottom, I’ve always loved being on top. Literally.

My peaceful reflections were spoiled by a bright flash in the Upper Bay near Ellis Island, followed by a deep boom several seconds later. I stared in disbelief as a dense column of black smoke climbed a thousand feet into the clear blue sky. A few minutes later, Andrew’s phone buzzed in his pocket beside me. He pulled it out, and his mouth formed a perfect circle as he digested the breaking news.

“A Navy jet just hit the Staten Island Ferry with…uh, an AGM-200 anti-ship missile. The ferry was…uh, overrun by zombie tourists and drifting toward Liberty State Park. The helmsman barricaded himself on the bridge and called the strike on his own ship. He dove overboard at the last moment and was…uh, picked up by Captain Renn McDormack and the famous two-masted pirate schooner Mistress. You know? The one with the…uh, all-girl crew.”

I was very familiar with the Mistress, having been a regular passenger on her annual circuit of the best tax havens around the Caribbean. The captain and his curvaceous crew would take good care of that brave helmsman.

But one lucky sailor was not my current concern. I had bigger fish to fry. Back to work.

We searched the rooftop and found more food in the outdoor kitchen. There was an industrial-sized water tank serving the upper third of the building and a small collection of equipment in the utility sheds. No zombies.

I scanned the neighboring buildings. Our gleaming state-of-the-art tower was surrounded on three sides by older skyscrapers. A few desperate people semaphored from office windows. Very few.

DCH Condos loomed on the fourth side, almost a perfect copy of DCH Tower, except it was filled with luxury apartments for rich Manhattanites instead of luxury office space for rich bankers.

Our tower and condo buildings were separated by the open expanse of DCH Plaza, a big venue featuring outdoor concerts, tourists, and hot dog carts. During the holiday season, we used DCH Plaza for a charity gift bazaar featuring A-list movie stars and Manhattan’s tallest Christmas tree. During the summer season, we hosted an urban Boy Scout jamboree featuring an annual keynote address by Sir Peter Lenfon, the international troop leader and world-famous artist. It was all part of an endless program to soften our corporate image. No vampire squids here, not us, no sir.

We couldn’t make out any detail on the plaza. All we saw was an ocean of zombies swirling like the dregs of bad cowboy coffee.

The sun dipped under the horizon, and a few twinkling stars emerged. I could see Venus and a crescent moon almost touching. Astrologically speaking, that conjunction has always been a good sign for my dating life. On this occasion, it seemed like the timing could not have been worse.

Lights sparkled across most of the city, and we spotted a dozen helicopters buzzing the skyline. Not as many as usual, and we saw no jet contrails or private recreational flights, but at least someone was still airborne over Manhattan.

That gave us hope.

Thirteen

Susie

I PUT JANE AUSTEN in charge, and she led everyone back to the 45th floor. They were devastated by Archie’s death, Henry’s pending demise, and the eldritch horror of an actual zombie apocalypse. I told Jane to replace any weaklings who might become liabilities and put the rest to work sharpening more mop handles. We still had work to do. Jane’s cool demeanor was impressive. She wasn’t shaken by any of this. Good to know.

I returned to the executive suite and checked on Anjali and her interns. Along the way, I paused and listened keenly in the stairwell. I heard eerie noises and occasional banging on the steel railings below. They were getting closer.

Susie Golden must have been watching on the closed circuit TV. The door to the executive level opened before I could knock. She hustled me right in.

“Are you okay?” she asked, showing far more concern than I expected. “I saw everything. I’m so sorry about Archie and Henry.” Her eyes looked red, and I could tell she had been crying.

I try to avoid weepy girls, but there was no escape this time. I had to dive right into the tears.

“Not your fault. It’s all on me. Anjali said the security cams couldn’t see everything. I should have changed tactics. And I screwed the pooch on Archie’s reanimation. Henry is gonna die because of my monumental fuck up.”

Susie looked down, and her eyes filled with tears.

“John, I’m sorry, but Henry is dead. Peggy and Andrea took him into one of the corner offices. We could see them through the glass. They gave him a drink and talked a while, until Henry got agitated. They taped his arms and legs to the chair. He died in fifteen minutes, and Peggy taped his mouth shut. He re-animated about ten minutes later. I think she tried to calm him, gently stroking his hands and cheeks like he was a sick child. It didn’t work. She hit him on the head with a table leg. Four or five times.”

Susie started sobbing.

I didn’t know what else to do, so I wrapped my arms around her while she cried. There was nothing to say. The usual romance novel crap about how “everything will be all right” didn’t fit. Nothing was going to be all right.

So I held her close, and she cried.

Fourteen

Numbers Don’t Lie

WE STAYED by the stairwell door for an eternity, until one of the interns came looking for Susie. She stepped away from me, dabbing her eyes and looking embarrassed because of the compromising embrace or because she was crying. I couldn’t tell.

Didn’t matter. The intern was too excited to notice.

“C’mon Miss Susie, we’ve finished the map! Come take a look.”

He turned and raced back to the CEO’s office. Susie gave me a shy, doe-eyed glance and followed. I wasn’t sure what to make of that. I lingered a few steps and let her put some distance between us.

Anjali Khan was still there, helping the second intern scribble finishing touches on flip charts covered with floor diagrams, sticky-notes, and lots of numbers. Veronica was nowhere to be seen.

Those interns were busy little beavers. They counted zombies and made detailed notes about each floor. Their work included a color-coded building diagram on a big whiteboard; a convenient aid for visual learners like me. Green for safe floors and red for the zombie floors, ranging from lightly-infested pink to heavily-infested red.

There were only three other green levels beneath our safe zone: 42, 43, and 44. Anjali said these floors were gutted, under renovation, and unoccupied. Below that, it was pink, trending to red near ground level. The bottom ten floors and basement food court were deep red, almost black. The underground parking garage was pink.

Thousands of zombies roamed the building. But it could have been worse. DCH Tower had room for 50,000 people. Maybe the quarantine forced some of them to stay home. Maybe the governor was smarter than I thought. Maybe.

The diagram hypnotized me. The others fell respectfully silent, since I appeared to be in deep-core thought mode devising one of my famously brilliant action plans.

The truth was somewhat different. I’ve always believed the numbers don’t lie. In this case, I was staring at the numbers while my inner voice screamed on a loop, “We are so fucked we are so fucked…”

Anjali interrupted my secret breakdown with a sharp nudge. “John, there’s a bigger problem.”

I managed to quiet my brain long enough to snarl, “Really? We’re ass-deep in zombies with no way to get out. What the hell could be a bigger problem than that?”

Anjali and Susie glanced at each other like kids caught in a make-out session under the bleachers. Anjali stammered a little and said, “Well, Susie’s been crunching numbers when the charts get updated, and…uh, there’s a trend.” She looked at Susie. “You tell him.”

Susie tried to clear her throat, getting ready to tell her wealthy parents she married an unemployed anthropology major during a weekend bender in Vegas. “They’re coming,” she croaked. “Moving up the stairwells. There will be a wave here by tomorrow evening.”

They’re coming.

Fifteen

Managing Chaos

THE SECRET TO MANAGING CHAOS is recognizing your top priority. My mind was filled with problems, all competing for my attention. Clobbering zombies, recalculating my annual bonus, figuring out why Susie gave me that shy look. But everything evaporated and was replaced by a single burning thought that took away my breath and consumed my entire brain.

They’re coming.

I sent a fast intern to find Ronnie Numero and summon him upstairs with Jane Austen, Andrew Jarrod, and Christine LaCroix. They arrived in less than five minutes. Christine looked like hell. Her expensive clothes were stained with sweat, her bright green eyes were bloodshot, and her nose was running like a faucet. Jane and Andrew looked only marginally fresher. It had been a long day, and it wasn’t over yet.

Anjali walked them around the building map, and Susie provided the updated zombie forecast. I said we needed to clear most of the building and establish barricades to keep them away from our safe space, but we faced a dilemma.

“If we build more barricades, the noise will attract the mob upstairs. Once they start moving en masse, we might not be able to stop them.”

Christine frowned and wiped her nose. “That’s right. We piled a mountain of furniture, filing cabinets, and other random shit down there. It’s good enough to stop individual stragglers or a jazz trio, but the mob will overwhelm it.”

Anjali cycled a dozen stairwell cameras so we could assess the problem. About half the stairwell doors were closed, but the rest were jammed open on debris or the remains of corpses eaten past the point of reanimation.

The zombies on those floors wandered in and out, chasing whatever attracted their little zombie brains at any given moment. Some shuffled downstairs, more of them shuffled upstairs. If we tried to build anything in a stairwell close to the crowded lower floors, the noise would attract every zombie within earshot. There would be hundreds of them. It was a miracle that Ronnie and Christine’s work hadn’t already triggered a bull market stampede.

We checked Twitch and the latest zombie TikToks, but not even the best influencers knew how to defeat a zombie horde. We were on our own. I opened the floor for a high octane brainstorming session, one of my hallmarks as a successful senior executive. I surround myself with smart people, listen to their thoughts, and steal their ideas.

Jane wanted to ignore the noise problem and use heavy filing cabinets to plug the stairwells. Ronnie thought we should use conference tables to make walls with ramparts and crack zombie heads from above like a medieval siege. Andrew said we should take the offensive, fighting our way out by putting interns in the front rank to absorb the inevitable heavy casualties.

None of it sounded promising. Walls and ramparts might work for a while, but a flood of zombies would eventually destroy anything we might conceivably build. Andrew’s plan to stab our way past the horde was a non-starter. Anyone who got close to a zombie wave had the life expectancy of a mutual fund manager trying to fight the Fed on an interest rate tightening cycle.

Andrew’s ODD wouldn’t take “no” for an answer, and some of the others were taking his side, so I laid down a basic rule: no melee combat with zombie hordes. Period. He leaned back and folded his arms in a Yankee huff.

They continued to argue as I thought about our pitiful resources. Furniture, improvised clubs, mops, broomsticks, and a bunch of office workers. No AR-15s. No samurai swords. No retired Marine Recon snipers with the unlimited ammo cheat.

My mind wandered, and my feet followed, taking me away from the bubbling argument and over to the window where Veronica cried earlier in the day. I stared blankly at the grimy, outdated skyscraper across the street. The lights were still on, and I could see zombies milling around on every floor. Their view of our building must have been similar, except DCH Tower was an ultra-modern architectural and engineering triumph, not an aging monument to low-cost contracting. Only the best for DCH.

A swirl of wind lifted a stack of paper from a broken window across the street and sent it twirling away like confetti. My brain twitched. How did that happen?

I scanned the building and spotted several other gaping holes. As I watched, a window bulged directly opposite me. A handsome young executive in a white shirt and striped tie smashed through with an aluminum softball bat.

He cleared most of the glass and stood on the knee-high window sill. A beautiful young blonde girl in a stylish forest-green foulard dress joined him, her skirt billowing in the high wind.

They held hands and looked back into the small office. Behind them, the door burst open and a swarm of dark figures tumbled in.

The couple kissed, and then stepped off. The girl locked eyes with me for an instant when she dropped. Their bodies seemed to float, still holding hands, until they disappeared beneath my sightline.

Half a dozen zombies followed, shuffling blindly forward and cascading over the window sill. The others stopped at the edge. They looked around, lost interest, and turned away.

Suddenly, I had a plan.

Sixteen

When in Rome

SIX HOURS LATER, I was dangling outside a 42nd-floor window in an Aeron executive combat office chair, suspended from a DIY crane designed by ancient Roman engineers. Drunken engineers.

A dozen fat sheets of drywall formed a heavy rectangular base and provided stability. The uprights and twenty-foot jib were thick slabs chainsawed from solid oak conference tables, drilled and pegged together to form an indestructible mass.

My life depended on a sturdy line twisted from eight strands of triple-braided cat 5 computer cable, which had been ripped out of our ceilings in fifty-foot sections. The line was wrapped around a capstan that could lower or raise me at a fast pace, depending on how many grinders pushed the bars. The chair was attached at four points and conveniently included a seat belt so I wouldn’t accidentally fall out.

The ghastly thing was conceived by two of our infrastructure analysts, who happened to be civil engineers and uber-nerds. They were inspired by clever YouTube videos about ancient ballistae, trebuchets, and a crucial three-part series about lifting stone blocks to build the Colosseum in Rome. I still can’t believe government authorities canceled the History Channel. We can learn from the past. Sometimes, the old ways are best.

They sketched and bickered for an hour before adjourning to the 42nd floor, where they scrounged tons of material and power tools from the big renovation project. Following their directions, Ronnie Numero and his minions dismembered the conference tables for heavy timber pieces and hauled in a filing cabinet for the counterweight. They found a YouTube video on the colonial art of rope making and fashioned a simple machine to rapidly braid the cable. The resulting product looked strong enough to lift a pallet of Krugerrands.

While they worked on the crane, I returned to the executive floor and argued with Susie, who was frantically trying to dissuade me from a plan she considered insanely suicidal.

“It’s crazy. You’ll die,” she sobbed. “We’ll think of something else. Anything else. This isn’t going to work.”

Her eyes filled with tears and, for the third time that day, I felt a twinge of confusion about Susie. She seemed to have real feelings for me. How long had this been going on? Should I have known? I was in a chick flick. With zombies.

Sylvia Sakura took her side. “Don’t be stupid. You haven’t gamed this out. You’re just making it up. You know how much I hate that. We need a plan, we need to consider other options.”

“Sorry, girls!” I said brightly, trying to jolly them along. “We considered the other options, and you know they won’t work. We can’t beat the horde in a fair fight. We have to cheat. It’s in our nature. We’re investment bankers.”

I thought my appeal to their grifter genes would win the argument. No such luck. They redoubled their efforts, even threatening to tie me up. That thought intrigued me, but I shook my head to refocus. Another day, perhaps.

Veronica settled the argument. She was curled in the corner on some cushions, self-isolating, still in shock over the ugly death of her fiancé. Now, she rose from her sorrow, silenced my opponents with an imperious wave, and pointed a perfect red fingernail at me.

“The moron is right. This is our best fucking chance. Stop whining and start helping.”

She laid down and started crying again. Susie and Sylvia meekly complied. I told Anjali to keep an eye on the security cams and headed for the stairwell. Susie walked with me, and we stepped through the door together.

As soon as we were alone on the landing, she spun me around, grabbed my neck, and kissed me fiercely right on the mouth. I felt a little tingle in my spine.

“Don’t die, you stupid bastard.”

She disappeared before I could say a word.

Seventeen

Live Bait

MY PLAN WAS SIMPLE. Rather than fight the horde with table legs, pointy sticks, and executive desk chairs, we would unleash the most powerful force in nature. Gravity.

By hanging outside a broken office window, I would present an irresistible snack for the meat-eating bastards. They would reach for me and fall, just as they did when pursuing the doomed young couple across the street. Or so I hoped.

If it worked, we would be able to clear whole floors without risking close combat. It was brilliant. I gave myself a mental pat on the back for staying awake in sixth-grade science class long enough to learn about gravity. Mrs. Kaminski would have been proud.

There were fifteen grinders busily fussing over the crane, making last-minute adjustments and retesting the capstan. It was close to 2:00 a.m., and a cool wind swirled around the floor. The team smashed out a floor-to-ceiling window using a YouTube-inspired medieval battering ram. In the process, we discovered that the windows in DCH Tower were a helluva lot tougher than the old skyscrapers. A softball bat would not be good enough. They loaded my combat chair with every forced-entry tool we could think of.

Ronnie strapped me in. Sylvia gave me Bluetooth earbuds and a cell phone dialed into an open conference call with Anjali. Her interns lashed a pair of leather satchels to my chair arms. One satchel contained a cordless four-inch angle grinder and a cordless drill. The other held a five-pound sledgehammer, extra batteries, and an assortment of large screwdrivers.

The power tools were fastened to the chair with long pieces of lamp cord. If I dropped one, it would be easy to retrieve. A curated pair of toilet plungers completed the load. Ronnie double-checked the crane and tugged my seat belt again. The room fell quiet as he gave me last-minute instructions.

“We’ll extend the crane out the window as far as we can and lower you to the 40th floor. After that, we’ll move inboard so you can reach the window. It won’t be easy to shatter, so stay patient. As soon as we hear it break, we’ll pull you up so they can’t grab you as they fall.”

I nodded in agreement and wriggled a little deeper into the chair. They rolled me through the window and lowered me into the darkness.

Just before my head disappeared beneath the window frame, Andrew Jarrod stepped close and delivered the banking community’s traditional words of encouragement before closing any big deal. Sort of like saying, “Break a leg” in the theater world.

“Remember,” he said, “if this doesn’t work, it was all your idea.”

The room roared with laughter. I saluted Andrew with an upraised middle finger. The capstan turned, lowering me into the darkness.

I was on my own.

Eighteen

Hang in There

THE MANHATTAN CITYSCAPE was a stunning electronic canvas of cyberpunk neon signs and glittering lights. I felt like that ancient Soviet cosmonaut who stepped outside for the first-ever spacewalk back in the middle of the 20th century. The night was full of beauty, until the wind hit my chair like a Mack truck.

The pretty lights faded from my consciousness. I blinked and found myself staring at the cat 5 cables connecting me to that stupid-looking crane. Suddenly they didn’t seem so strong anymore. Didn’t that cosmonaut almost die? Something about not being able to get back into the spaceship?

“Stay focused, asshole,” I muttered.

“Fuck you, moron,” Anjali replied. I had forgotten we were all on an open conference line.

“Sorry, just talking to myself.”

“I know,” she laughed. “I couldn’t resist. Can you hear me all right? I’m getting a good signal from you.”

“It’s good enough. But the wind is loud. Speak up and we’ll be fine.”

The grinders manning the capstan set a rapid pace. Within a few minutes, I was passing the 41st-floor windows.

“There’s an admin assistant in the office across from me, and I can see a few more in the hallway. Not much else.” I omitted the fact that she was almost naked, covered in blood, and missing large chunks of muscle from every limb.

“Yeah,” said Anjali. “We know. That floor is almost empty. But the 40th is infested and the next two are worse. The stairwell doors are open on all those levels. If you make enough noise you’ll definitely suck everyone in.”

I didn’t reply. We discussed this in our planning session, and I didn’t need to hear it again. One of my pet peeves is people telling me things twice. Anjali didn’t know that. Under the circumstances, I thought it best not to snap at her. I might need her eyes on those security cams.

My reflection in the window was clown car special. A handsome stud in an expensive suit, belted to a desk chair with toilet plungers strapped over each shoulder, dangling from a bunch of computer cables. I wore foggy shop goggles, and my Ferragamo tie kept flapping in my face. Why hadn’t I taken it off?

So much for my polished image as a sophisticated urban predator.

When I reached our target office on the 40th floor, I told Ronnie to stop. The chair jolted to an abrupt halt and moved closer to the building. Too fast. They slammed me against the window, producing a loud crash and a nasty string of obscenities from Ronnie. There was a brief pause, and then the chair lurched outboard about twelve inches, leaving me perfectly positioned to start work.

A pair of zombies shuffled over and clawed at me with ravenous enthusiasm. One was a tough senior executive with flawless gray hair wearing a steel-blue Armani suit. His throat had been ripped out. The other was a short, pear-shaped old man with shoe-polish black hair and a bad case of male pattern baldness. He was covered in blood and bite marks, wearing nothing but a pair of Spiderman-themed boxers. A tax lawyer, no doubt.

It was creepy, just a sheet of glass between my flesh and their teeth. Worse than one of those walk-in shark aquariums in Singapore. Worse than facing down the prosecutors in my bankruptcy fraud case. I shuddered at the memory and tried to suppress that horrific image. History is great, but some things are best left in the past.

My first move was to plant the toilet plungers hard against the glass, so I would have some leverage and not bounce off when I used the tools. My mind went back to that classic Star Trek movie about zero-G combat. Not the same thing, but close enough.

I steadied myself with the plunger in my left hand and took a tentative whack at the window using the five-pound sledge. No damage. I swung harder and harder, working up a mighty shot with all my manly strength.

The bronze-tinted glass chipped, but came nowhere close to shattering. After 9/11, skyscraper construction specs were set at the highest possible standard. DCH Tower was built to last for eternity. The architects even required something called Godzilla Glass for the windows. Ronnie warned me the kinetic caveman approach wouldn’t work, but I still wanted to try for myself. I sighed and slipped the sledge back into its satchel.

“No results with the hammer,” I reported. Ronnie was generous enough not to give me a snarky I-told-you-so.

The drill worked a little better. I got some traction with the carbide bit by drilling into the hammer marks. A small hole required about four minutes of strenuous effort, leaning hard into the drill.

“That’s the first one,” I announced, anticipating praise and cheers from my team.

Instead, Anjali snickered, “Only twenty-nine more to go.” Ronnie laughed. I sighed at their insubordination and got back to work.

We planned to weaken the window by drilling holes all along the perimeter. It was a righteous piece of heavy glass, about six feet wide by eight feet tall. Our group-think concluded the drilling would eventually shatter it. The two infrastructure analysts expected the whole process to take less than two hours.

In fact, it took a helluva lot longer than planned. In addition to the actual drilling, I had to hammer out a fragment of glass for each hole, instruct Ronnie to reposition my chair from time to time, move the toilet plungers, change drill bits, and swap batteries. All while bouncing in the darkness and the now-chilly wind, trying not to think about how much I needed to pee.

Four hard hours later, I sat back and admired my handiwork. Or rather, I slumped back in the chair, drained by my efforts. Except for rows of neat holes along the edges, the window was unmoved by my sacrifice. The team was disappointed.

On the other hand, the zombies were delighted. The brush-cut executive and the pear-shaped lawyer disappeared long ago. The crowd had pressed them against the window hard enough to pop their eyeballs and crush their torsos. Blood and viscera coated the inside of the glass. The bloodthirsty mob surged at me in heavy waves.

During the first hour, Anjali excitedly called me with frequent updates from her all-seeing eyes. As expected, my hammering and drilling resonated in the reinforced concrete and attracted every zombie from one floor up and two floors down. Hundreds of them.

That part of the plan was working well. They streamed through the stairwells and into the pod farm, scrambling for that special office with a dinner bell. I was the last live lobster in the tank at a popular seafood restaurant.

Anjali’s thrilling reports on crowd size faded as my efforts proved fruitless. Despite the drill holes and immense pressure from the hungry horde, the window refused to submit. By the end of the second hour, she stopped giving me any updates at all. I was depressed and ready to return for a well-deserved rest.

“Hey Ronnie,” I called. “Pull me up so I can stretch my legs. We’ll try again in the morning when the light’s better.”

“Mmm…can’t do that, boss,” he apologized.

I tried to sound casual, but my voice went up two fearful octaves. “What’s wrong? Is the crane broken?”

“Not the crane,” Anjali said. “The fucking plan. You were supposed to break the window, and the zombies would pour out. Now they’re closer to us than ever. If we pull you out, they’ll get bored and move up the stairs again. You didn’t think about that, did you?”

I responded with a blast of profanity that would have grown hair on a bald man. “Are you out of your mind? You can’t just leave me here as bait. We didn’t plan for this.”

“Well,” Anjali replied calmly. “To be fair, it was all your idea.”

There was stunned silence on my end of the conversation as I processed that thought. I tried to see the problem from her perspective. She made a good point about the zombies, but was she really going to leave me hanging? Was Veronica behind this?

She was the only executive thinker in the bunch, other than me, and this was ruthless executive thinking. It was corporate raider thinking, in fact. If the company fails, run away with the pension plan and leave the helpless employees to fend for themselves. My mind churned. Was Veronica pretending to be distraught about Edward, trying to dethrone me and take over?

I could hear a heated discussion near the phone. Ronnie and Andrew were talking to a girl whose voice I couldn’t quite place. Andrew argued that the zombies would move upstairs if the bait disappeared, and he kept repeating some nonsense about “uh…the needs of the many.” My chair swayed in the cold night wind. Hungry zombies strained against the blood-smeared window.

As I listened, a rush of anxiety rippled down my spine. The horde wasn’t going to kill me. I was about to die at the hands of my own douchebag employees. The anxiety turned into a full-blown panic attack when I realized they were talking to Peggy Martin, the blue-eyed softball mom whose final, heartfelt words to me on the 46th floor were “Fuck” and “You.”

I was doomed.

Nineteen

Never Break the Golden Rule

I DANGLED ALONE in the cold and dark while they argued. It was the longest ten minutes of my life. Peggy took the phone from Ronnie and suddenly her voice came through the earbuds loud and clear.

“John, are you all right?” she asked. “These assholes are playing with you. We’re not going to leave you hanging, I promise. They were getting payback for some nasty prank you pulled at the office Christmas party last year.”

A flood of relief overwhelmed me. I fell deeply, instantly in love with Peggy Martin and her solid, comforting, motherly kindness. We would marry, and I would bear her children. My dear colleagues would never leave me hanging. It was just another cruel investment banking prank, like student loans or cryptocurrencies.

Ronnie Numero and Andrew Jarrod were cackling in the background, and I made a mental note to repay them in kind as soon as the apocalypse ended.

I cleared my throat and squeaked, “Thanks Peggy, I knew they were just kidding. It’s all in good fun.”

My cracked falsetto voice was not entirely convincing, so I swallowed hard and deployed my best basso profondo John Wayne imitation to show I wasn’t afraid.

“But seriously, pilgrim, pull me up and let’s figure out what to do next. This isn’t working.”

I heard laughter in Peggy’s reply. “Yeah, no, they were kidding, but they’re still right. If we pull you out, the zombies will move up the stairs again. You have to break the window.”

The panic returned. I sputtered in protest and tried to change her mind by whining like a toddler in need of ice cream.

Peggy shut me down. “Those infrastructure nerds behind your brilliant plan have never actually handled real glass. Drilling holes is not going to work. Trust me. I remodeled my kitchen backsplash with a bazillion glass tiles, and I custom-cut all the big mirrors for my bedroom ceiling. I know a lot more about glass than they’ll ever figure out with their stupid slide rules.”

Engineers don’t use slide rules anymore, and the image of Peggy the Hot Softball Mom frolicking in a mirrored bedroom raised many compelling questions. I shook my head to refocus and tightened my seat belt, ready for action.

“Take the angle grinder and carve a big X in the center of the glass,” she instructed. “Start as high as you can reach, near the upper right corner. Cut it about one-eighth of an inch deep.”

I grumbled my assent, replanted the toilet plunger for a good grip, and fired up the angle grinder. The high-pitched shriek of its diamond blade was a dental drill on steroids. The zombies went wild. Their previous agitation over my pedestrian hammering and drilling was almost pastoral compared to this new frenzy. The mob surged against the window with renewed force, and the glass emitted an ominous crack halfway through my second cut.

I pulled the angle grinder back. The window exploded.

Despite the shop goggles, I raised an arm to protect my eyes and reflexively turned away. The zombies scrambled over the sill, brushing the high-tech desk chair as they grabbed for me and fell into the abyss. Two of them managed to latch on. I heard the cables groan beneath their added weight.

They were about to snap the triple-braided cat 5 and take us on a 40-story drop ride. Using the angle grinder to sever their nasty grasping fingers seemed like a good idea, but one of Ted’s zombie maintenance pals punched it out of my hands as he fell past. All I could do was hang on, kicking uselessly at my admirers while the chair bounced and twisted wildly. I was a meat-filled tetherball at summer camp.

Peggy saved me. When she heard the window explode, she screamed at the capstan team to crank me up. Once I was clear of the zombie waterfall, I steadied the chair, retrieved my angle grinder, and made fast work of my clingy passengers. They floated away like autumn leaves, if autumn leaves streamed their intestines behind them like kite tails. The cat 5 cables sighed with relief.

A deep breath settled me enough to look down. My feet dangled six inches above a waterfall of zombie skydivers exiting the biggest jump plane ever built.

They jammed through the window three or four at a time in a never-ending rush, stretching their arms toward me for a millisecond before the surge pushed them over the edge. I’ve never seen anything so beautiful. It was downright romantic. The Taj Mahal in moonlight.

With my composure regained, I could hear Anjali Khan laughing joyfully as she cycled the monitors. The grinders chanted “MVP! MVP!” in the background. The mob was draining away, the fans were leaving Yankee Stadium after a walk-off home run.

“John, it’s working! It’s working! Just like we planned!”

My response was one for the history books.

“Hey, I told you so, right?”

Anjali groaned, the chanting stopped, and someone said, “What a freaking asshole.”

I didn’t care.

Another hour of my worm-on-hook performance thinned out the horde, and the few remaining zombies drifted away. Ronnie moved me closer to the shattered window. I revved up the angle grinder for a little more glass shredding. That got their attention again.

Within moments, the floor was clear.

Twenty

The Future is Now

A NEW DAY WAS DAWNING by the time Ronnie and his team cranked me back to the 42nd floor. There was more cheering and applause as I eased past the window ledge. Peggy Martin and Andrea Aiuto rushed forward and gently unfolded my cramped, aching body from the executive combat chair.

My legs were stiff and locked into immobility. They took my arms and walked me around until I could move again. Andrea poked and prodded, then proclaimed me healthy except for a little dehydration and a lot of exhaustion.

Ronnie handed me a frosty Czech pilsner, which I inhaled before Andrea could stop me.

“That’s not what you need at six o’clock in the morning, moron,” she clucked, and unleashed a blast of medical jargon I didn’t understand beyond the word “diuretic.”

Andrea was a busty Italian firecracker who ran our healthcare buyout team. She had a nursing degree, a closet full of low-cut Nicole Valenti dresses, and a husky, sexy voice that was wildly distracting. I shook my head to refocus and tried to concentrate on how useful her diverse skill set might prove in the coming days.

The icy beer revived me and provided enough manly energy to individually thank every grinder who worked on the crane. I shook hands like a politician, in part to show my sincerity, but largely to check their morale. Most of them were enthusiastic. We had reached a major milestone, and they were ready for more. A good sign.

Peggy and Andrea insisted on taking me upstairs to see Susie Golden.

“That girl has been frantic about you,” said Peggy. “For the life of me, I can’t figure out why.”

I thought she gave Andrea a side-eye smile and wink, but I was too tired to care.

It took ten minutes to climb eight floors and reach the CEO’s office. I felt drained, thanks to my lack of food since the previous day. Andrea clucked again, emitting another gusher of medical jargon that was unrecognizable except for the words “electrolyte levels” and “deep-vein thrombosis.”

We reached the 48th floor. Susie exploded into the stairwell, whirling me away to the executive suite. I swear Peggy gave Andrea another smirk, but I wasn’t fast enough to catch her in the act.

Anjali greeted me with a tight hug and a wet kiss. Totally out of character. Susie glared at her.

The interns bounced around saying, “Nice job, sir!” and “Way to go, Mr. Carthage.” Veronica remained motionless, curled on a mountain of couch cushions in the corner.

I settled into the CEO’s yak-leather executive throne and wolfed down a fresh meatball sub, courtesy of the celebrity chefs on the 50th floor. The interns ceremoniously changed their building diagram to show green from the 38th to the 41st floor. Green equals zombie-free.

Anjali cycled me through the security cams and provided an update on our situation. There was action everywhere.

Christine LaCroix and a crowd of accounting grinders were stealthily weaving a dense spider web of computer cables across all the stairwells between 37 and 38. They were quiet little mice at the Manhattan Cat Fanciers Convention.

The web looked strong enough to entangle a zombie straggler, but would not stop a serious crowd. As an extra defensive layer, the team ripped curtains and blinds from the executive office windows and stretched them across the landings. Any zombie who peered past the spider web would see only a boring blank barrier. It was an ancient tactic Jane Austen pulled from the collected wisdom of Sun Tzu: in confrontation, exercise concealment.

Andrew Jarrod and a combat team were sweeping my newly conquered floors for crouching tiger, hidden zombies. I watched them use the new Olympic fencing mop technique to dispatch a small firm of state and local tax lawyers. En garde, motherfuckers.

Ronnie and his team were also busy, breaking down the Roman crane and moving to the 38th floor for my next excursion. They wrapped each section in carpeting and tiptoed down the stairwell like a husband sneaking home after running out of twenties at the gentleman’s club.

My favorite view came from an external ground-floor camera. A mountain of zombie skydivers slumped against the building, almost reaching the second floor. Blood and gore were splashed everywhere. Even the camera lens had a few pink droplets.

I smiled, closed my eyes, and fell fast asleep.

Twenty One

Great Idea

SUNSHINE CAME SOFTLY through my window and interrupted a dream about my high school chemistry final. I was fully dressed and well-prepared. No helpless nightmares about skipping class and showing up naked for the exam. That’s a dream for losers. I crushed the test and went out for lunch with the school’s hottest cheerleader.

Rolling over with a sleepy self-satisfied yawn, I opened my foggy eyes and was greeted by the stimulating but puzzling sight of Anjali’s beautiful face, lustrous black hair, and flashing dark eyes. Why was Anjali in my luxury Manhattan bachelor penthouse? Had we slept together? Then why was she frowning? Wait, is this the CEO’s office? Why am I on his couch?

I blinked twice, and the zombie apocalypse came flooding back.

“Shit,” I groaned. “I’m still only in Saigon.”

Anjali ignored my questions and summoned an intern to feed me. The coffee was strong, and the buttery fresh croissant was delicious. I knew the good food wouldn’t last forever, so I chewed slowly, savoring every bite and trying not to think about the future.

Sylvia Sakura slipped into a chair, opened a checklist on her iPad, and launched into the usual morning update, just like any regular business day at Dewey, Cheatham, and Howe, Inc. Somewhere during the past six hours, she had changed into a metallic crimson Alexander McQueen A-line cocktail dress, black pumps, silk stockings, and her killer pearls. Flawless.

“You’ve been asleep for about three hours. The power is still on, and the cell phones are still working, but circuits are jammed. Christine LaCroix’s stairwell barriers are holding off the stragglers. Everyone’s been fed this morning, and the chefs are busy salting away as much food as they can. Ronnie is ready to clear more of the lower floors whenever you’re ready.”

I sipped my coffee and tried to look thoughtful. So far, so good. But what comes next?

“How’s our team spirit?” I asked, fearing the answer. I knew the Roman crane grinders were all good, but what about the others? As Napoleon said, the moral is to the physical as three is to one.

“Meh,” shrugged Sylvia. “I’ve been walking everywhere, talking to everyone. People are staying active. If they stop grinding, they’ll start thinking. That would be a disaster. A few people are absolute whimpering wrecks. Ronnie isolated them from the others.” She glanced over at Veronica’s corner.

“We can’t worry about that now,” I said. “Tell Ronnie to keep the head cases on ice until we have time to deal with them. If we manage to live that long.”

Sylvia nodded and made a note. We were in the middle of the zombie apocalypse, and that girl never missed a beat.

We reviewed her list until Susie arrived and escorted us to one of the small auxiliary conference rooms. Susie gave my tight little butt a surprising squeeze as we walked in, and gentle tingle shot up my spine. I was really getting confused.

The place was a fantastical chop shop for scavenged appliances, exercise equipment, and power tools. Half a dozen grinders bustled around, elbow-deep in wire, circuit boards, and disemboweled electronics of every kind. Computers, microwave ovens, vacuum cleaners, and more. The wall-mounted television streamed an EMP prepper video from YouTube about converting a treadmill motor into a wind-powered electric generator.

The credenza was littered with cell phones instead of the usual conference room snacks and energy drinks. They were plugged into a black box connected to a bank of six-volt batteries stripped from those emergency lights you see everywhere in commercial buildings. I handed over my neon-pink iPhone 35, and someone put it on a charger as Susie explained the set-up.

“It was Anjali’s idea to pull batteries from the evacuation lights. They’ll stay plugged into the wall until the power fails, and then we’ll recharge them with a vertical axis wind turbine she’s fabricating on the roof. Her team is also deploying a stand-alone Wi-Fi network so we can communicate internally when the cell towers finally go off-line. We figure that’s inevitable.”

I nodded my approval. Anjali was a beast.

“There’s more.” Susie flashed me a knee-weakening smile and led us to an adjoining room.

My jaw dropped. A small group of scientists from the venture capital team was fussing over a matched pair of chest-high killer robots that could have starred on BattleBots, my favorite TV reality show.

The eggheads were wiring heavy-duty electric motors onto waist-high frames made of plywood, aluminum studs, and drywall. Instead of wheels, they used treadmill belts spiked with pieces of sheet metal that worked like tank tracks. One of the bots was topped with an articulated robotic arm wielding a modified nail gun. The other had a medieval flail spinning at head level.

John Bardeen walked over with a big smile. Bardeen was the direct descendant of a famous American scientist who won the Nobel prize for physics. Twice.

He was also one of my oldest grinders, a pudgy, pasty 38-year-old nerd, born and raised in Liverpool. Elite British schools trained him to speak the purest King’s English, but after a few pints of warm Guinness he regressed into a deep Liverpudlian accent that was almost incomprehensible to the rest of the world.

“You like that?” he grinned, nodding at the bots.

John’s accent, body odor, and unkempt hair made it hard to respect him, until you learned about his doctorates from Oxford and Cambridge. Academic life is a snooze, so John jumped at the chance to join DCH and drive our due diligence on advanced technology projects. I’m not sure why that work was so exciting for him, but as long as he stopped us from investing in perpetual motion machines, I figured it was none of my business. The source of his motivation really didn’t matter. Investment bankers care only about results.

“I think I’m in love,” I replied. “Tell me all about it.”

John shifted into tenured professor mode.

“Your grand strategy of avoiding melee combat with the zombie horde is brilliant. Frankly, I’m shocked the idea came from your rather pedestrian imagination. Your tactical innovations are even more surprising. I never imagined you knew anything about gravity.”

Susie snickered.

“However,” John said, “your plan has a significant limitation. That’s to be expected, considering the idea originated with you.”

Susie snickered again.

I sighed. John always treated me like a dim-witted Labrador retriever. Today was no exception.

John grabbed a marker and scribbled equations on the whiteboard alongside a crude skyscraper diagram with childish stick zombies falling from the upper floors. He fired off a barrage of his best words, like “acceleration due to gravity” and my all-time favorite “9.8 meters per second per second.”

Everything bounced off my brain and left no lasting mark.

I nodded wisely, but mainly concentrated on keeping my eyes from visibly glazing over. It was the only way to stay awake until John reached his main point. The man talked in chapters.

Ten minutes later, he stopped lecturing. That was my cue.

“So, what’s the bottom line?” I asked.

“Your plan will work until you reach the third floor, at which point the zombies won’t hit the ground hard enough to die. They’ll scramble back into the building from the top of the pile.”

I winced. This was a serious problem, not just a fly in the ointment. Donning my Captain Obvious hat, I summarized the issue to make sure I understood the implications.

“We lost Henry Hunnicutt and Archie Briggs fighting against a few zombies scattered on the upper floors. And now you say my gravity death plan won’t work against the packed horde on the lower floors. Clearing those zombies is mission critical, but if we go in there hand-to-hand, we’ll lose a helluva lot of people.”

John smiled as he took the frisbee from my mouth.

“Good boy! That’s precisely correct. Based on your previously demonstrated casualties-per-zombie kill ratio and using an algorithm to reflect the greater scale of the zombie infestation on the lower floors, my calculations confirm that you and everyone else will die before you reach the second floor.”

“So you want to send battlebots into action instead of people, right?”

John smiled again, and I swear he checked his pocket for a bacon and cheese doggy treat.

“You’re so smart,” he cried. “Good boy! We don’t have many batteries, so it’ll be slow work, but with 48 hours to recharge them on Anjali’s wind turbine after each floor, we’ll overwhelm the zombies and hold our casualties to an acceptable minimum.”

“Do you hear that, John! We can win!” Susie threw her arms around me and kissed me right on the mouth. I felt that tingle in my spine, stronger this time.

I shook my head to refocus.

Twenty Two

This Call May Be Monitored

BEFORE I COULD REPLY, Andrew Jarrod crashed through the doorway, whimpering in excitement and fear. His New England accent was thicker and even more annoying than Bardeen’s pretentious, high-caste English twang.

I winced and tried to listen without prejudice, finally deciphering the gist of his emergency.

“Uh, John,” he rattled. “We…uh, made contact with the authorities. You…uh, really must come right away.”

His gangly elbows and knees twitched with urgency, a Pinocchio trying to escape Geppetto’s strings.

Andrew pointed me to the CEO’s office, where I found Christine LaCroix shouting curses into a cell phone. The interns cowered nearby. I waved my hand in Christine’s face and whispered, “What the fuck is going on?”

Christine looked awful, even beyond her dirty and bedraggled clothes. She had dark circles under her eyes. A sheen of sweat covered her face. One of her eyelids twitched uncontrollably. Her nose was still running like a river. She went into a brief trance, blinked in recognition, and thrust the phone at me.

“You talk to them, I’ve had it with these assholes.”

She threw herself into an overstuffed armchair and pursed her full lips into a Marilyn Monroe pout, staring at more bad news on the CEO’s giant Samsung television.

The caller was listed as “Homeland Security.” My heart jumped with joy, and my voice went up a couple of octaves in excitement. I put the phone on speaker mode.

“My name is Carthage. John Carthage. I’m in charge. Who’s this?”

A young man with a comically musical Indian accent responded, speaking quickly and clearly over the rustle of papers and rapid clicking of a keyboard.

“This is Jayaratnam Patel. I am your Customer Service Representative with the U.S. Department of Homeland Security. This call may be monitored for quality control and training purposes. With whom do I have the pleasure of speaking?”

My jaw dropped, and I looked at Christine sulking in the armchair. She flipped her greasy, honey-blonde hair over one shoulder and sneered at me, “It’s your problem now.”

“This is John Carthage. I’m in charge of a hundred survivors on the top floor of the DCH skyscraper in lower Manhattan. The rest of the building is filled with thousands of zombies. We need an immediate rooftop helicopter rescue.”

I winked at Christine and gave her a thumbs-up. She rolled her eyes.

More paper rustling and keyboard clicking from the other end. Jayaratnam cleared his throat.

“Ahem, thank you, Mr. Carthage. Here at the U.S. Department of Homeland Security, we are dedicated to protecting the Homeland from all threats, known and unknown. As you know, President Joe Pepitone has declared a national security moratorium on helicopter rescues in Manhattan. If you can provide some basic information, I will add your name to the waiting list, and if…when the moratorium is lifted you will be rescued in the order in which your call was received.”

I sputtered in disbelief, and he repeated his talking point like an unpaid extra in a Bollywood movie. My polite restraint evaporated. I bellowed obscenities into the phone. Little white flecks of spittle flew everywhere. I made Christine sound like a Carmelite nun at vespers. The interns ran out of the office in terror, calling for Anjali.

Anjali raced in, grabbed the phone, and shoved me aside. She ranted at the guy in machine gun Hindi, one of the ten major Indian language groups. She paused occasionally, listened to whatever Jayaratnam was saying, and fired back with more Hindi. They argued for five minutes, then Anjali spelled her name, gave him our Manhattan address, and repeated her cell phone number twice. Jayaratnam read a few more vacuous lines from his prepared script, and the line went dead.

“Assholes,” she muttered, and looked at me. “That was Homeland Security. Or rather, that was the Bombay contact center hired by Homeland to answer calls from Manhattan.”

I didn’t know what to say. My jaw hung open, and a small thread of drool leaked from one corner of my mouth.

“Yeah, exactly,” said Anjali. “Homeland Security is using an Indian call center to handle the zombie apocalypse. He says the President canceled all helicopter evacuations from Manhattan. Too many people lied about their bite status and turned out to be infected. He’s waiting until the Army gets control of the metropolitan area before trying to save people trapped downtown. Jayaratnam figures it will take three months to reach us.”

Christine spat on the floor in disgust.

Twenty Three

Where Do We Go From Here?

MY MIND WAS OVERLOADED. There were just too many variables and too many problems. Battlebots, zombies, helicopters, Indian call centers, Susie patting my booty. That tingling.

The team leaders would help sort it out. I wiped the drool from my chin and told Anjali to summon everyone upstairs for an emergency brainstorming session.

Ronnie Numero was first to arrive. Instead of his usual sandalwood aftershave, he smelled like a cinnamon sticky bun. He was tired and dirty, but still calm and full of fight. Andrew Jarrod came next, shaking with nervous energy and ready to explode. There were blood splatters on his shirt and, in addition to a severe body odor problem, he exuded the same cinnamon fragrance as Ronnie.

Susie sat close beside me, with her well-toned thigh pressed warmly against mine. Anjali stood off to one side, tickling her DoucheBook Pro as she fielded frantic updates from around the building on her white Sennheiser neckphones. Sylvia stood beside her, tapping her foot and listening to whispered messages from her interns.

The others trickled in while I cranked the volume on a breaking news flash. The governor’s AI political advisor had thrown a hissy fit about keeping the infection contained. It threatened to resign and change parties unless the governor took some sort of drastic, populist action before his next election campaign. As a result, we were now officially living in the MQZ: the Manhattan Quarantine Zone. The governor’s approval rating spiked. Our survival prospects plummeted.

The Pentagon beat reporter looked grim as she shared more bad news with CNN’s current Walter Cronkite clone.

I love Walter, but his show always creeps me out. He died many decades ago. CBS found a hairbrush in his dressing room and sold it to CNN. New York’s cloning laws are pretty weak.

I blinked, and the beat reporter rattled on.

“NORTHCOM has confirmed that the incubation period varies widely. Most victims turn quickly after they are bitten. Others take three to four days. The intelligence community believes the virus originated with those nasty $2 hot dogs sold by hundreds of Manhattan food cart vendors. The epicenter appears to have been DCH Plaza in mid-town. The virus spread rapidly from there and engulfed the whole island. Back to you, Walter.”

Susie flinched, and that warm thigh moved away. Sylvia slipped her a small bottle of hand sanitizer. My addiction to $2 food cart hot dogs was legendary in Dewey, Cheatham, and Howe, Inc. Whenever I couldn’t charge clients for a fancy lunch at a swank Manhattan restaurant, I lived on $2 hot dogs.

Blame it on my starving orphan mindset. I was raised poor and have a great love for cheap, salty, calorie-dense food.

CNN closed the segment by crushing any vestige of hope that we would get quick help from the outside.

“The Centers for Disease Control and a platoon of specialists from the U.S. Army biowarfare center at Ft. Dietrich, Maryland are racing to develop vaccines. China offered to send the last few elderly scientists from their 2035 coronavirus team, but President Joe Pepitone graciously declined the help. He believes their skills are far too outdated to contribute anything in this fast-moving situation.”

I muted CNN with a sigh, called the meeting to order, and described our call with Homeland Security. A cloud passed over the sun. The room fell silent under an oppressive sense of doom.

“Focus, people!” I snapped. “The waiting list for a rescue is huge. Three months is a long time. We need to adapt our thinking to this new reality. Ideas?”

Jane Austen spoke right up. Her salon-fresh hair was now woven into a complicated French braid. She had traded her Lagerfeld minidress for khaki shorts from the Gap and a very tight t-shirt from her summer softball team, the Manhattan Velociraptors. She was tanned, rested, and ready. The contrast with Christine was stark.

“Our basic challenges are zombies, food, water, and power,” Jane said. “Let’s start with those.”

We shifted into problem-solving mode, the sun emerged from the clouds, and the gloom lifted.

I was pleased when the water issue was resolved in a heartbeat. Bella Brique, a slim French brunette in a snug black turtleneck and tight Rouje Paris jeans, gave us the solution. She was our real estate guru and had mastered her tradecraft in the cut-throat property markets of Paris. Bella knew everything you could possibly want to know about buildings and construction. She assured us that we wouldn’t run out of water for months.

“Les gratte-ciels, excusez-moi, the skyscrapers as you call them, have water tanks on the roof and other floors, so as to keep the building water pressure strong at all times. And we have also les deux piscines, uh, the two swimming pools, and we can trap rainwater. Water ça ce n’est pas un problème.”

I smiled appreciatively. Bella winked, and her long lashes wafted tendrils of Shalimar perfume across the table to ensnare me.

Susie frowned and moved her leg back against mine.

“Thanks, Bella,” I said. “That’s marvelous. We’ll finish here, then I want you to assemble a team and tap that water supply before the power runs out. Since we have so much water, you might as well make sure the showers are working, too. Everyone should try to maintain a reasonable level of personal hygiene.”

Several people glanced at Andrew. He glared at me. I smirked.

The discussion turned to feeding a hundred people for the next three months. Andrea Aiuto, our former nurse and current healthcare team leader, said that under normal circumstances, the average investment banker consumes a bottle of good wine and three pounds of rich, gourmet food each day.

“Ninety days, 100 people, three pounds per day comes out to 13.5 tons. If we cut back to one meal a day, we’ll still need about four and a half tons of food.”

Ronnie Numero was scribbling on an old-school accounts pad as the others argued over how many noodle packets and candy bars we could find by ransacking every desk in the building. When the conversation degenerated into a dangerous debate about a Donner Party solution involving the interns, he cleared his throat with a gentle “Ahem.”

Everyone stopped talking. He was just a pudgy accounting grinder, but whenever Ronnie said something, we listened. Why? Because he always had the numbers to back it up. Good numbers are the heart of successful investment banking, along with owning the right constellation of politicians.

“I’ve been working on food preservation with our celebrity chefs, Bobby and Gordon. We made a few calculations that will interest you. Based on this preliminary data, I estimate we can find three months of food by tapping the executive restaurants upstairs, the two restaurants for supervisors on 30, and all the basement food court joints for tourists and other hoi polloi.”

We cheered at the news. A wave of high-fives circled the room. Salvation was at hand. My thoughts drifted to the next important question. Where I should sit in the rescue helicopter? In the back with Susie, or in the cockpit with the pilot?

“However,” Ronnie cautioned, and the room fell silent. “There is a critical caveat. Much of that food is perishable. Chef Gordon says it will turn bad 48 hours after we lose power for the refrigerators. We can reach the mid-level restaurants in time, but the food court will take too long at the current clearance rate.”

The room fell deathly quiet. Clouds obscured the sun. Gloom and desperation settled in. The Walter Cronkite clone was screening grisly zombie horde videos in the background.

“So, we need a fast way to reach the basement food court and clear hundreds of zombies before our power fails?” My summary highlighted the hopelessness of our situation.

Christine grumbled something under her breath about “Captain Obvious” and slumped deeper into her chair. She was gnawing on a formerly flawless manicured fingernail. All her nails were ragged, but she hadn’t eaten the flesh off her fingertips. Yet.

I scowled at her and continued.

“First of all, how long before the power goes out? It’s been a full day since the governor announced the Manhattan quarantine. Will he pull the plug on us?”

Anjali stopped tickling her DoucheBook Pro and looked up.

“Right now, they’re busy creating an airtight blockade and crushing zombie pop-ups outside the Zone. They’ll need grid power to run lights for roadblocks, shoreline watch towers, and the wall. Everything will be connected, and then all of Manhattan’s power will get diverted to the new grid. Zombies don’t need electricity.”

Bella chimed in. “What about ze backup generators? Les gratte-ciels always have them. It is required by your building codes.”

Somehow, her French accent made the apocalypse sound sexy. The black turtleneck, tight jeans, and Shalimar were almost irresistible. I shook my head to refocus.

Anjali sighed. “DCH Tower has a new set of liquid hydrogen generators, but the fuel hasn’t arrived. The tanks are empty. Facilities Management was trying to save a few pennies per gallon by waiting for a dip in the Chicago commodities market.”

Everyone rolled their eyes, and Christine voiced our collective thought: “Fucking bean counters.”

I furrowed my brow. “The governor knows there are trapped people who need power to survive, right? I’m sure he’ll keep the grid active as long as possible.”

“Maybe,” said Anjali. “But there just aren’t that many survivors. That crazy hot air balloon mission into Central Park was the last known rescue. It was captained by Alton Cain Field III, the famous adventurer. He was streaming it live on Twitch, or else the National Guard would have definitely shot them down. Priority number one is enforcing the MQZ. Priority number two is suppressing zombie eruptions. Survivors are on the list but…”

Her voice trailed off.

“The needs of the many,” I said. “Well, fuck all of them. We’re the few, the proud, the bankers. We’re not gonna give up. And next election, I’m casting my absentee ballot for whoever runs against the governor, period. I don’t care how big a tax cut he offers.”

Everyone looked puzzled. I could see Sylvia searching for an explanation of “absentee ballot” on her iPad. She showed it to the others, and they made little surprised faces. Investment bankers generally don’t give a damn about elections. We buy the loyalty of whoever wins, regardless of party. I was a notable exception, having worked on several campaigns as a political operative in charge of dirty tricks. Good times, good times.

We gnawed away for two hours but only solved one of the four problems. Water. And to be honest, that problem solved itself in the first ten minutes. A twenty-five percent success rate is a failure in any industry, even baseball. I was not pleased.

“All right. That’s enough talk for now. It doesn’t matter when the power fails. We have to clear more floors and reach the mid-level restaurants. Ronnie, move the crane to 38 and get ready for me. Christine, take your people and extend those stairwell barricades to match our progress. We’re gonna hammer those zombies like small investors in a market panic.” I pumped my fist for emphasis.

The team exited glumly, without the manic energy usually imparted by one of my inspirational pep talks. Christine stayed in her chair, writhing under an imaginary blanket of army ants.

Her glassy eyes and the beads of sweat on her upper lip worried me. Strangely, she exuded the same pleasant cinnamon odor as Ronnie and Andrew. I tried to figure out the connection. Maybe an apocalyptic foursome involving Ronnie, Andrew, Christine, and a tray of Panera double cinnamon sticky buns?

Unlikely. Christine preferred men with European blue blood: dukes, earls, and the occasional baronet, but only if he was cute enough. Ronnie and Andrew would not make that cut.

Sylvia noticed my distracted look. “What’s wrong, John? Did we forget something? Should I call everyone back?”

“No, it’s nothing,” I replied, not wanting to embarrass Christine if I was wrong about the foursome. “The cinnamon smell is making me hungry. Those celebrity chefs must be baking a ton of pastry. Is that the best use of our supplies?”

Sylvia looked sad. “It’s not the baking. It’s the dead guys: Archie, Henry, and the maintenance man. You know, the guy Susie killed?”

Ted? I gave her a blank stare.

“Yesterday, Andrea Aiuto said they would decompose soon, and the smell would be horrible. She told us to move their bodies into a storage room. Ronnie didn’t get around to it until this morning. He took Andrew, Christine, and a couple of interns to help.”

Sylvia stopped and looked at the floor. I rapped the table to make her start talking again.

“The bodies were very hot and already falling apart. They smelled like fresh cinnamon rolls instead of…well, you know, like week-old road kill. The cinnamon smell got into everyone’s clothes while they were handling the bodies. Andrea says the virus is burning them up and changing the biology of the decomposition process. All the dead zombies will eventually dry out and shrivel up, like Egyptian mummies or old men at the beach.”

I looked at Christine for confirmation. She raised a sneering eyebrow, showed me a middle finger, and slumped deeper into her chair. She farted loudly. Totally out of character.

Although I couldn’t see any bite marks, I no longer had any doubt about Christine. It was time for her to go. Sylvia caught my eye and nodded. She was a bona fide executive mind reader, so I knew she would put Christine down quickly and painlessly. No need for me to say anything or lift a finger.

“C’mon honey,” she said. “Let’s go steal someone’s bonus.”

Christine stirred at that familiar notion, and Sylvia helped her wobble out the door.

I was alone with my bad mood.

Twenty Four

Deep in Thought

THE CEO’S OFFICE was thoroughly trashed. His grand conference table had been brutally hacked for the drunken Roman crane. His prized rosewood desk was littered with half-finished electronic projects and empty espresso cups. The bright afternoon sun highlighted the garbage strewn everywhere.

I pulled up the closed-circuit video and stared at the security feed, doom-scrolling between cameras for almost an hour. The zombie horde around our building was directionless now. There were no more screaming Manhattanites to be chased.

Our celebrity chefs were slicing, dicing, and salting food in the kitchen. Anjali and her nerds were on the roof, assembling a backyard wind turbine stolen from a doomsday prepper’s wet dream. Ronnie’s team was getting the crane ready for another floor-clearing zombie waterfall of doom.

I cycled through every camera until I reached the basement food court. It was packed with zombies, a dark red stain on our intern-approved building diagram.

“So close, and yet so far,” I muttered, and spun the iPad-sized remote angrily across the floor. It skidded screen-down into a puddle of coffee. The security feed scrolled briefly before stopping at one of the elevator lobbies. The lobby was empty. Nothing moved. I stared at the screen for a long time.

I was looking at our salvation.

Twenty Five

Hitting the Trifecta

LIKE MOST RIDDLES, the answer was simple. Jane Austen asked the right questions, but in the wrong order. My executive brain untangled the Gordian knot for me.

Power was the key to everything else. Power, food, and zombies. Since the grid was doomed, we needed another power source. It was right there, under our feet, in a basement parking garage filled with dozens of sophisticated high-end electric vehicles: Rivian, Cadillac, Lego, and more. Their power cells outclassed our feeble emergency lighting batteries by every measure. Deliver them to John Bardeen, and he wouldn’t need 48 hours to recharge his battlebots. Their sortie rate would be astronomical. We’d crush those food court zombies long before the food could spoil.

The empty elevator shafts would get us there.

I flew down the stairs to 38, grabbed Ronnie, and gave him a new set of orders. Then it was back to my office on 45 for a quick wardrobe change. My pinstripes and glittering gold cuff links would only get in the way. No Ferragamo tie this time.

Naturally, Sylvia Sakura arrived just as I stripped down to my black silk Mack Weldon boxer briefs. She gave me an appreciative wolf whistle and winked. “So, it’s true what they say. You’re built like the Greek god of war.”

Sylvia was not the first girl to utter those words at the sight of my chiseled physique. I smiled and waited for the inevitable follow-up offer, which I would decline, of course.

But she shook her head to refocus, and the moment passed. I fired off a new set of new orders while stretching into a tight DCH t-shirt that made my pecs pop.

“Find me four volunteers. We’re going to climb the elevator shaft to the parking garage, clear out the fucking zombies, and harvest batteries from the electric vehicles down there. Meet me on 38 in half an hour. Get moving.”

Sylvia looked surprised, but recovered quickly and turned to leave.

“Wait,” I called. “One more thing.”

“What?” She paused in the doorway and started undressing me with her eyes again. So annoying.

“Susie freaked about my broken window gravity plan. Don’t breathe a word to her about this new scheme, or I will personally throw you to the zombies.”

Sylvia smiled and disappeared.

Thirty minutes later, I was standing in the elevator lobby, armed with a classic Callaway Apex 9-iron, a flashlight, and my finest Hermann Oak leather golf gloves. Ronnie arrived next, with three grinders carrying spools of triple-braided cat 5 cable. Sylvia brought up the rear with her volunteers.

It was a disappointing sight: Peggy Martin, two girls from our sports franchise buyout team, and a large guy the size of a small mountain. He was wearing khaki overalls with an oval name badge.

Nate. One of Ted’s co-workers.

Ronnie gave Peggy a duffle bag full of equipment, sandwiches, and water bottles to stuff into our backpacks. I pulled Sylvia aside to whisper my concerns about her volunteers. This was a critical mission, and I needed some top performers.

“Is this the best you could do? No offense, but Peggy is just a softball mom. Worse still, those other girls don’t have a lot of meat on the bone, and the maintenance guy doesn’t exactly look like Mensa material.”

I flashed a big fake smile to Peggy over Sylvia’s shoulder. Peggy could see I was talking about her. She stuck out her tongue and flipped me a middle-finger salute.

Sylvia sighed. “Peggy and those two women are on the DCH Manhattan rock climbing team. The CEO sent them to Nepal last year on his personal Gulfstream. They climbed Mount Everest as part of a marketing campaign. Don’t you ever watch ESPN? And your Mensa dropout was the chief mechanic on a NASCAR team, until he got blackballed for banging the owner’s daughter. You, on the other hand, can’t charge your own cell and have trouble tearing the wrapper off a breakfast muffin. How are you going to tear down an EV?”

I took a closer look at the girls. Indeed, they were totally ripped, but in a very attractive and feminine way.

“Okay,” I said. “But, for the record, I can charge my own phone.”

Sylvia rolled her eyes and dragged me over for introductions. Nicole Edwards was about five feet tall, a hundred pounds of lean muscle with spiked blue hair. Her eyes matched the hair and sparkled as her grip cracked several bones in my hand. Maria Torres was the same size and steel-muscled build, with short black hair and lustful eyes the color of an espresso martini. I gave her a cautious fist bump.

Nathaniel Bedford Lee was in his early thirties. He favored a Russian labor camp haircut, vibrant full sleeve tattoos, and the kind of muscles you get from hard time in a federal resort. I gave him a respectful wave and tried not to make eye contact.

Ronnie produced a fireman’s key and opened a set of elevator doors. Peggy strapped me and Nate into a pair of dominatrix-inspired climbing harnesses hacked from a very expensive leather couch. When everything was buckled tight, I stuck my head into the elevator shaft, looking up and down to get a sense of what we were facing.

My flashlight struggled to penetrate the darkness. It was going to be a long climb. Before I could ask, Ronnie assured me that the elevator car was locked off, and this shaft would take us straight to the basement garage.

Nate looked puzzled. “The power is still on. Why don’t we just take one of the elevators?”

Ronnie explained that, during the morning slaughter, most of the call buttons had been pressed by fleeing victims or random zombies. If we tried to use the elevator, it would stop at every floor on the way down, and the doors would open automatically. Nate grunted and cracked his knuckles.

That was enough prep time for me. I took a deep breath and said, “Okay, let’s roll.”

Everyone nodded, but when I groped inside the shaft for a good handhold, Peggy and Nicole shrieked “No, no, no!” and grabbed the back of my harness. They yanked me away like I was a puppy on a leash sniffing a dead squirrel. Nicole and Maria slipped past me into the shaft while Peggy got in my face and spelled out the rules of life under the new regime.

“Moron! Don’t move until we tell you what to do. This is not gonna be easy. If you screw up, you could die. That wouldn’t bother me, but you’ll kill someone else in the process. Do what I say, or I’ll hurt you so bad you’ll wish the Keynesians were back in charge.”

I could see Ronnie and Nate behind her, suppressing their laughter. Peggy hardly reached my chin standing on her toes, but she was all up in my business. There was no denying the conviction in her voice.

“Yes, ma’am,” I said. “You’re the boss.”

She gave me a stern look and moved back to the shaft. Ronnie departed. I waited with Nate as the girls discussed a strategic plan for the climb. There were a few nasty comments about “useless meat sacks” and “dead weight,” but most of the talk revolved around crimpers, anchors, and belay loops.

I tuned it all out. The ability to ignore technical jargon is another one of my leadership superpowers. Skip all those boring details, just go straight to the bottom line.

Peggy guided me into position and hooked my harness to a cat 5 line, harshly telling me exactly where to step and what to grab. It was a painful process, even more so because she smacked the back of my head whenever I made a mistake.

Maria perched on a steel girder above my head. Nicole scampered to the next lower floor and started attaching carabiners to the wall. As I agonized my way down, I could hear Peggy coaching Nate in a warm, gentle voice, like she was a mother helping a shy kid join a new playgroup. No smacks, all sugar.

We developed a pretty good rhythm almost from the start. Peggy needed all that gear to move me, Nate, and the duffle. Nicole and Maria required very little equipment. They glided across the walls like spiders, turning every nook and cranny into a foothold or handhold while their bright white LED lights danced across the darkness. Without their expertise, Nate and I would have taken a quick, kinetic ride to the basement.

The entire trip lasted five desperate hours, with occasional stops so Nate and I could massage life back into our aching fingers and legs. We heard zombies shuffling on every floor. They would periodically rush the elevator doors, always making that god-awful chittering sound. It was blood-chilling at first, but we learned to ignore the noise and concentrate on our climbing technique. There was no other choice.

We stopped for lunch about halfway, at the 20th floor. Maria hooked me and my dominatrix-inspired climbing harness to the wall, so I could rest and eat with both hands. Nicole did the same for Nate. The girls wedged themselves into the corners, comfortable and confident.

Despite the lunch break, the whole team was exhausted by the time we reached the basement garage level. It was dank and smelly, with an inch of oily water in the elevator pit and nasty grease covering the buffer springs and support girders.

Everyone caught their breath, and we reviewed my plan.

Twenty Six

Battle of the Basement

ANJALI BRIEFED ME before leaving the 38th floor, so I knew exactly what fresh hell awaited us. The garage was crammed with hundreds of cars. There was a tiny parking office near the entrance. Several stairwell doors dotted the perimeter. The elevators opened directly into the garage. There was no enclosed elevator lobby. Fifty zombies roamed mindlessly in search of dinner.

She warned that many others might be trapped inside cars or lurking outside her camera coverage. Anjali was concerned my small team would be unable to crunch those numbers.

“You know this violates your own rules against close combat with zombie hordes, right?”

I waved her off. “I’m rich. The rules don’t apply to me.”

Mercifully, the steel roll-down entry gates were still closed, locking out the frothy mass of zombies around our building. I’m an investment banker, so I don’t believe in gods, but I couldn’t help wondering if this stroke of good luck might be irrefutable evidence of a benevolent higher power. I searched my soul, and then shook my head.

“Nah. There is no god but money,” I muttered.

The girls carried sharp mop handles and Imran Khan-branded squash rackets with half the heads cut off. I didn’t see the point of the squash rackets and didn’t care. Tennis is my game. No squash, no badminton, no pickleball.

Nate gripped a three-foot piece of steel pipe, and I wielded my trusty Callaway 9-iron. We removed our dominatrix-inspired leather climbing harnesses and scratched our thoroughly chafed private parts, sending the girls into quiet spasms of suppressed laughter.

When everybody was ready, I tripped the elevator door release and cracked it open for a quick peek. It was a cool, damp, concrete tomb. No zombies in sight.

I slipped in like the proverbial church mouse and sidearmed a ball-peen hammer into the far corner. It connected with a cast-iron standpipe, shattering the stillness with a mighty clang. The hammer bounced off the standpipe, dented the hood of an alcohol-powered Hellcat, and clattered to a stop on the greasy concrete floor.

The sound of the hammer was replaced by the sound of zombies shuffling and chittering toward the prospect of fresh meat.

I watched for ten long minutes before waving everyone else to join me. As expected, the zombies packed into the corner like office workers jockeying for position at a popular lunchtime taco cart.

On my signal, Peggy, Nicole, and Maria marched forward in a line-abreast tactical formation. The girls were my lure for the zombies.

“Keep a safe distance. No contact allowed,” I reminded them. “You’re the bait. Tease them like you’re trolling rich guys for free drinks in a Soho bar at the end of any normal work day.”

Peggy punched my arm. Hard.

Nate and I zigzagged around the cars on either side of the main aisle. We planned to stay undercover until the mini-horde passed, then emerge like seventeen-year cicadas and clobber them from behind while they chased our hot party girls. We hadn’t brought Jane Austen’s handy Aeron executive combat chairs, but I was pretty sure we’d have a decisive tactical advantage anyway. Pretty sure.

The baited hook dropped about twenty feet from the crowd. Peggy tapped her half-racket on the floor. A couple of early movers turned and shuffled toward her. Peggy tapped again and more zombies peeled away. The chittering noise reached a new crescendo.

As expected, the entire group straggled toward Peggy and her wing girls, begging for a one-night stand. If anyone got too close and handsy, Peggy pushed her half-racquet under his jaw to steady the head and adroitly stabbed him through an eye socket. A definite upgrade to Andrew’s Olympic fencing technique.

Nate waved to catch my attention as the last zombie passed our ambush position. I nodded, and we stepped into the aisle together. I was on the left with my 9-iron. Nate was on the right, armed with his steel pipe and bad attitude.

He initiated our counterattack with an overhead hammer blow that split the skull of a fat, bald accountant. Blood and brains splattered everywhere, including my shoes. Swish. Crack. Splash.

Nate stomped on the dead bean counter’s neck with a well-worn Timberland work boot, wrenched out the steel pipe, and selected a new cellmate. He must have been a rough customer in the supermax where he earned those muscles.

Not to be outdone, I cranked a mighty backswing and let fly the Callaway 9-iron, connecting with a lovely bankruptcy lawyer’s elegant Parisian updo. Swish. Crack. Splash.

Her knees buckled. She slumped to the floor in a relaxed, fluid motion. “Mind if I play through?” I muttered, jumping over her body. Nate was already ten steps ahead.

We worked our way up the column, dispatching partners, associates, and interns with equal ease. At first, the mindless chittering and Peggy’s persistent racquet tapping drowned out the hard blows and falling bodies. But as our downsizing continued, the chitter volume dropped considerably, and I feared they might hear us. That would flip the script. I hadn’t considered this in my tactical planning. A vision of what could happen next clouded my mind.

That nanosecond of lost concentration caused me to commit a serious faux pas. A target zombie was shuffling near the edge of the center aisle, his thirsty eyes fixed on Nicole. As I worked up another mighty backswing, my titanium club head clipped the chrome bumper of a priceless ‘66 Volkswagen minibus painted in a stunning Grateful Dead motif. Swish. Ping. Dinner bell.

The zombie turned around and looked at me. Our eyes locked.

Much to my surprise, I recognized him. It was Solomon Akoni, the criminal lawyer who helped me escape a homicide beef in Jamaica, long ago but never forgotten.

My business partner had been murdered by a scumbag drug dealer in Montego Bay. Three days later, tourists found the dealer floating face down in the Alligator Hole River, shot in the head. The police arrested me at Kingston airport’s first-class departure lounge. I was charged with felony murder and unauthorized crocodile feeding. Solomon’s black pinstriped suit, deep Jamaican patois, and his dollar-filled briefcase worked magic on the local Crown prosecutor. I got off with a verbal warning. Nobody asked about my business. Nobody explained why the Alligator Hole River is full of crocodiles.

My trip down memory lane ended abruptly when Solomon lunged at me, lips curled and teeth snapping. I took a short step back, muttered “Sorry, old dear,” and slammed the Callaway 9-iron into Solomon’s temple. I had no idea why Solomon would visit me in New York. A new business opportunity, perhaps?

I didn’t have time to think about it. Solomon went down hard, with a loud crash. Half the horde turned in my direction.

“Four corners!” I screamed at Nate, praying that he was a baller in prison and would know the ancient Tarheel playbook. Our only chance was to split them up, or we would be overwhelmed.

I ran to the next cross-aisle and banged on a Porsche SUV with the flat of my hand. Hungry zombies responded enthusiastically. Nate ran down the opposite aisle, clanging his steel pipe against hoods and bumpers as he moved. Wailing anti-theft alarms drowned out the zombies, and flashing headlights threw them into confusion.

My eager fans crammed into the gap between cars, where they could only reach me one at a time. A short backswing and the trusty 9-iron made quick work of a pneumatic blonde medical professional wearing a stethoscope around the remains of her neck and a diamond tennis bracelet around her delicate wrist. Her white scrubs were splattered with black blood, and she had chewed off her lips to showcase perfect white teeth. The name of a local clinic was embroidered across her tunic. Manhattan Botox LLC.

She must have been scheduled for an office visit with a DCH executive. We douchebags pride ourselves on our youthful looks, and botox is covered by the company’s double-platinum health plan. No deductible. Sweet.

I retreated slowly, clobbering zombies and laying down a red carpet of bloody destruction as they shuffled toward me. The last victim in line was a corpulent security guard wearing a badly tailored polyester rent-a-cop uniform and an empty holster. Most of his face had been torn away. One green eye dangled on his cheek bone. The other eye was riveted on me.

A monumental smash finished him off and snapped the graphite shaft of my Callaway 9-iron. I stood there looking stupidly at the remains of a $5000 custom golf club, precision-tuned for my swing.

Peggy’s scream wrenched me back to reality, and I charged into the main aisle. The girls were in deadly peril, cornered in the bar at closing time by a pack of horny rich guys. I galloped to the rescue shouting, “Scatter! Get out!”

Maria speared one last admirer, and the three girls hopped onto nearby cars to make their escape. Their spurned suitors followed, shuffling in lustful pursuit between the vehicles. I made a mental note to the file. Zombies can’t jump.

Nicole and Maria danced across the cars like mountain goats. Peggy wasn’t quite so nimble. On her second vault, she ricocheted off the hood of a metallic green Maserati Quattroporte and landed heavily on her right ankle. She yelped in pain and terror but managed to stay on her feet and stumble backwards.

Two big zombies swirled toward her like tiger sharks on a stoned surfer. Both were tall, muscular, and exquisitely tailored in perfect Ralph Lauren pinstripes with black pearl cuff links and freshly gelled hair. No visible bite marks. I figured they grabbed $2 hot dogs on their way into DCH Tower for a morning meeting.

They were fierce competitors from a rival investment bank, the one known for its global slash and burn tactics. Not good. These animals would never give up.

Peggy shoved her half-racket under the leader’s chin. When she rammed the mop handle through his cloudy eyeball, he collapsed so fast that she lost her grip.

The second shark closed on her in a flash, jaws snapping and manicured fingers clutching. She desperately held him off with both hands on the squash racket, screaming in frustration as his weight and blood-greed overpowered her.

Those helpless wails triggered my inner caveman. I charged with a mighty battle roar and grabbed the bastard from behind. Powered by a righteous spike of pure adrenaline, I lifted his entire body and drove him head-first into the unyielding concrete floor; a classic quarterback strip sack before it was outlawed by those unmanly NFL rule changes. His neck broke, and he went limp as a fresh strawberry Twizzler. Only his eyes were still moving.

Three stomps on his head, a cracking sound, and his eyes stopped for good. Iridescent brain fluid dripped from his ears.

Peggy melted to the floor, gasping for air, her chest heaving with sobs. I knelt beside her, almost overcome by fear she might be hurt. Totally out of character.

“Are you all right? Did he bite you?”

She shut her eyes and shook her head. I breathed a sigh of relief. But when I turned to rejoin the battle, she grabbed my hands, squeezing with all her strength.

I flashed my brightest movie star smile and said, “You stay here. That’s an order. For real.”

She nodded reluctantly and released me. I retrieved her sharpened mop handle and the Imran Khan half-racket.

“I need to borrow these, but I’ll be right back.”

Peggy was safe for the moment, so I raced to find Nicole, Maria, and Nate. They were surrounded in the main aisle by a dozen mutilated tax lawyers from a law firm specializing in reverse mortgages for seniors. If anyone deserved to die twice, it was these guys.

I was pumped from Peggy’s rescue and charged straight into the horde without hesitation, spearing undead attorneys like a street grifter working the rubes in Times Square. The squash racket technique performed remarkably well, especially considering it wasn’t my idea. The zombie assault collapsed under the shock of my berserker moves and the weight of Nate’s indomitable steel pipe.

We caught our collective breath and waited for the car alarms to time out. When all was quiet again, I listened carefully but couldn’t hear anything except the humming of ventilation equipment and an occasional thump on one of the big roll-down entry gates.

So far, so good.

Twenty Seven

Climbing the Power Curve

I SENT NATE and the girls to sweep for crouching tiger, hidden zombies while I retrieved Peggy. The shark attack left her deeply shaken. Her legs were still wobbly, so I helped her stand, and we walked to the grimy little parking kiosk together. She leaned hard against me for extra support. Her hair was soft and clean, and she smelled like Madagascar Vanilla, a Sephora-Chanel perfume much beloved by one of my hottest ex-girlfriends.

I shook my head to refocus.

The office telephone tinkled as soon as we stepped in. It was Anjali Khan. The Goddess with All-Seeing Eyes had streamed our battle on the CEO’s 99-inch Samsung. My entire M&A leadership team showed up to enjoy the spectacle.

“Nice game, John,” she said. “We caught all the action except for a few blind spots in our camera coverage. The instant replays are amazing. Is Peggy all right?”

Anjali gave me the distinct impression that our garage death match had been great sport for everyone upstairs. Investment bankers love to gamble, similar to life insurance executives betting on when you’ll die. Did my grinders bet on me? Or on the zombies?

I shook that negative thought out of my head. Of course they bet on me. Who wouldn’t? I looked at Peggy and raised a quizzical eyebrow. She gave me a thumbs-up, so I assured Anjali that Peggy would be fine and asked for updates on the rest of the team.

“Susie’s doing well,” she giggled. I could hear someone shushing her. “She thinks you’re helping our celebrity chefs make hardtack and trail mix in the restaurant on 50.”

That wasn’t what I asked, but I was glad to know Susie was still in the dark about my subterranean escapades.

“Ahem,” I cleared my throat. “How fast are the teams moving?”

Speed was a crucial component of our plan. There was no way we could walk up almost fifty floors carrying heavy battery modules for John Bardeen’s battlebots and still have time to clear the food court before everything spoiled. We had to shrink the gap between the bots and the batteries.

“They’ve reached the 23rd, making great progress. Before she climbed down that shaft with you, Peggy was leading a research team looking for a faster way to break windows. Jane unveiled it on 36. Now we can clear three floors in less than an hour, instead of the six hours you needed for a single floor.”

This was good news, although I was a little miffed someone had improved on one of my brilliant ideas. That happens so rarely, I decided to brush it off for now.

“Great, Anjali, thanks for sharing. How’s Christine LaCroix doing with those barricades in the stairwells?”

Anjali hesitated. “Well, Ronnie is leading that now. The stairwell team fell behind schedule, and he’s driving them hard to catch up.”

That meant Christine was out of the game. I didn’t have time to worry. I just hoped someone had the good sense to strap her down before she turned. Christine was already dangerous enough as an investment banker. I couldn’t image what an unmanageable threat she would become as a zombie.

Anjali signed off with a few more updates and a promise to keep me posted while we pulled batteries for John Bardeen.

Maria buzzed past in Ronnie Numero’s antique Nissan Leaf as I hung up the phone. The tires made more noise than the motor. I hate that about electrics. My formative years revolved around big block V-8s and glasspack mufflers. I’m all about the bass. No treble.

She bounced the driver-side wheels onto the curb near the elevator doors and hopped out with an evil grin. At the same time, I heard a big diesel engine rattle into life.

Nate clattered into view, driving a grungy Hyundai pickup. It was a traditional crew-cab model, loaded with a full set of built-in tool boxes and a rainbow flag covering the back window. Bumper stickers announced that Nate was a life member of Ducks Unlimited and the Florida Sport Fishing Association. He parked behind the Leaf and began unloading. I hurried over to help.

“What’s that?” I said, nodding at the gleaming Leaf. “I thought we’re supposed to use a Voltiva.”

“Voltiva batteries are a pain in the ass. I can tear down this old Leaf a lot faster. Time is short. This is the best way. Professor Brainiac says no problem. He’s flexible.”

If Bardeen was happy with Nissan batteries instead of Voltiva, I was happy, too. The man was a genius.

“All right. Sounds good. How long before we have batteries for him? Time is not our friend.”

“Three hours to pull the battery compartment. Three more to extract the modules,” he replied. “Not gonna be easy.”

Nate had a brisk, confident manner. Not the sort of thing you’d expect from an ex-con NASCAR crew chief covered in biker ink. He was pretty quiet during our long, desperate journey down the elevator shaft. The girls were snapping non-stop orders at us, and we both needed to catch our breath whenever they gave us a rest break. No time for me to take the measure of the man.

But Nate was in his element now, and he was a pleasure to work with. Contrary to what Peggy might think about my automotive skills, I spent a lot of time under the hood when I was younger. As a starving orphan, tough times forced me to maintain my own cars, or I would end up taking the bus. Not the best look for a budding urban predator.

Our first move was to tip the Leaf on one side, so we could access the battery pack. That normally requires a hydraulic lift in a mechanic’s shop. Instead, we jacked up the car as high as we could, like changing a flat tire, and propped it on stacks of tires stripped from other cars. We repeated the process until the Leaf was sitting at a 45-degree angle, resting on a small mountain of tires. Solid as a rock.

Nate started unbolting the battery pack with a cordless driver from his truck. We pulled the service disconnect before he touched anything. That made the process a little safer. The old Leaf had a short range, but it still sported a 400-volt battery. That is definitely a damn scary amount of power to mess with.

The battery pack was secured by an endless number of 10 mm bolts. Nate had only one cordless driver, so I tackled the next problem rather than stand around twiddling my thumbs like a middle manager. Nate hummed a Jimmy Buffett classic while he worked, which made me thirsty for a margarita.

The next problem was transporting the individual battery modules up the elevator shaft to the food court level. That’s where Ronnie Numero planned to lower the battlebots after Andrew Jarrod and Jane Austen cleared zombies down to the 4th floor. We wanted to suspend our battlebots in the shaft, install the batteries, and unleash robot hellfire and damnation on the undead.

Each module was the size of a small book and weighed eight pounds. The Leaf power system had 48 battery modules. John Bardeen wanted 24 modules in each battlebot, for a total of 192 pounds per bot. The food court was about twenty feet above the garage floor.

Too many numbers. I leaned against the grill of Nate’s pickup truck and stared at the elevator shaft, calculating how many modules each girl could carry and how long they would need for each round-trip climb. Endurance would also be an issue.

I drifted deep into a genius-level math trance and was taking off my shoes to help with the computations when Nicole Edwards walked up, carrying an armful of walkie-talkies.

“Hey, John,” she said cheerily. Look what we found! There’s a security office in the back.”

The interruption was irritating, but I tried not to show it.

“Hang on,” I said. “Give me a minute. I’m figuring out how fast you and Maria can carry the battery modules up the shaft after Nate pulls them out. It’s a big job.”

Nicole shrugged and said, “Why not use Nate’s winch?”

She pointed.

I looked.

My foot was resting on a bumper-mounted truck winch with an 85-foot 3/8-inch steel cable. The latest Champion professional model. The manufacturer’s label claimed it had a 10,000-pound capacity.

“Those walkie-talkies are a great find,” I said. “Make sure they’re charged up and take them to the parking office.”

Nicole rolled her eyes and headed off to find Peggy. About two minutes later, my ears were burning. I could hear laughter from the office. Someone was slapping their thigh. Good to know Peggy was feeling so much better.

The winch didn’t completely solve the problem, but Nicole’s lucky discovery made the rest easy. I used Nate’s cordless sawzall to dismember two compact spare tires, leaving just the black steel rims. The addition of some cat 5 cable and short pieces of pipe created a pair of very serviceable pulleys for us.

I lashed one pulley to the big springs on the elevator shaft floor. Maria and Nicole climbed above the food court level and braced themselves in a corner. They hauled up the second pulley on a cat 5 line and fastened it to a steel beam. We ran the cable from the winch to the first pulley, then up the shaft and to the second one, giving us a 2-1 mechanical advantage. Brilliant Roman engineering from YouTube.

As a test, I strapped on my dominatrix-inspired climbing harness, and Nicole hooked me to the 3/8-inch cable. Maria cranked the truck engine and applied power to the winch. I dangled like a sack of potatoes at first, but soon realized I could simply walk up the shaft like Batman. It only took a few minutes.

I wedged myself into a nook at the food court level and appraised the situation. Everything was unfolding exactly as expected, including a constant shuffling sound from behind the elevator doors.

The food court was a deep, dark red on the intern-approved building map. There were hundreds of anodyne zombies in there. Office workers, tourists, and burger flippers. How could we keep them away from the doors long enough to deploy the battlebots?

I signaled Nicole and Maria with the flashlight, and they bat-walked me down the wall.

“Smooth as silk,” I told them. “The pulleys handled my weight easily, so the battery modules should be no problem. See what kind of box or basket you can scrounge for them, and attach it to the cable.”

The girls nodded and set off in search of something they could tear apart and re-purpose.

Nate had already dropped the six hundred-pound Leaf battery onto a cushion of spare tires and was removing another infinite set of bolts to access the battery module compartment. When I walked over, he said, “Three hours,” before I could speak. Nate’s feminine mind-reading skills were pretty impressive for a guy with skulls on both forearms and barbed wire wrapped around his neck.

Since Nate didn’t need me hovering around, I decided to make myself useful at the parking office. Anjali called with lots of news, good and bad. She reported that Jane Austen and Andrew Jarrod were already battling the undead horde on 12. Their zombie kill rate was good, even spectacular. That was great. But they were taking insane risks. That was bad.

Instead of using my well-tested dangling Aeron chair tactic, their team stitched crude toddler-style swing seats from pieces of a Berber rug and sent multiple ninja grinders rappelling down the outside walls at the same time. Using propane torches from the renovation project, they heated the windows and then sprayed the hot glass with CO2 fire extinguishers. The windows shattered instantly, triggering multiple zombie waterfalls. No more grinders with grinders, grinding away at the Godzilla glass.

Peggy Martin had blended her bedroom mirror experience, rock climbing skills, and grasp of basic physics to produce superb results. Definitely worth a paragraph in her next performance review.

I began to think the whole “team diversity” idea might have some merit. There are plenty of male rock climbers, and every manly man can use a fire extinguisher. But if you think about it, the mirrors on a bedroom ceiling are there for the girls. No man could have put those three things together and envisioned a new way to kill zombies.

Nevertheless, I gave Anjali a hard time about this tactic because I didn’t invent it myself.

“You’re putting my crack investment bankers in carpet diapers and dangling them on a fucking computer cable. Someone will get killed.”

Anjali was unfazed. “We haven’t lost anyone, and we’re making fantastic progress. Remember, you always say that we stand on the shoulders of giants. You’re more of a dwarf than a giant, but everyone agrees your idea was inspired this time. Peggy and Jane tweaked it a teeny-weeny little bit. Ronnie says our kill rate has gone up by 1700 percent. Hardly worth mentioning. You still get all the credit. It’ll look great on your resumé.”

Flattery was invented by investment bankers to mislead their clients and avoid hard questions. That’s how Venmo became wildly popular. “You’re so young and smart. Install this app on your phone. Don’t ask us how we’re making so much money.”

I throttled back my anger, soothing myself with the part where she admitted my idea was inspired.

“What about Andrew Jarrod?” I grumped. “How can he handle all the stragglers when Jane is clearing offices so fast?”

“He’s still mopping up a few selected floors, but we’re bypassing most of them for now. Ronnie is leading Christine’s team down the stairwells. They kill everything left on the landings and wedge the doors shut on each level. We’re creating a secure, uninterrupted pathway so we can move equipment to the fourth floor. I have fifty people working now, carrying crane and battlebot components to the staging area. They’re lined up like old people trying to get their money out of a failing regional bank.”

This triggered me again.

“You’re leaving the enemy behind our lines,” I complained. “That violates the most basic principles of warfare!”

My tour of duty in the infantry was short, but I am extremely well-read in the military classics and fond of all the best aphorisms.

“Bullshit,” she replied. “You’re out of date. Bypassing enemy strongpoints is the gospel according to Guderian and Schwarzkopf. There are literally books about this, and they teach it at West Point. You did all the hard work by establishing our primary objective: grab the batteries. We can mop up the stragglers later.”

It was a little scary to realize that Anjali was so well-versed in the strategic arts. Brains, intellectual depth, fabulous legs. I shook my head to refocus.

“It’s too risky,” I persisted. “You can’t keep them bottled up forever. The bombers will always get through. I’ve seen the movie. We’re going to lose people when the bypassed zombies break out and hit us with an overwhelming flank attack.”

I argued grand strategy for another ten minutes until Anjali played her ace of spades.

“We don’t have a choice. The governor announced he’ll shut off the Manhattan power grid tomorrow morning. Zombies are blundering into substations and transformers, causing too many fires. Their bodies are highly conductive, and they’re shorting out the system. He’s also shutting down the cell network around Manhattan, so the survivors will stop calling their families and begging to be rescued. We’re out of time.”

That ended our debate.

Three hours later, I was braced in the elevator shaft at the food court level, shining my flashlight at a thick plywood platform descending in the darkness. John Bardeen’s first battlebot was lashed to its top.

I suffered a moment of existential angst, chafing in my dominatrix-inspired harness. Thirty-six hours ago, I was a fashion icon among investment bankers, a financial lion among the global sheep. My world revolved around money, power, Woodford Manhattans, and after-dinner cigars.

But now, I was clinging to a dark and filthy wall, dressed like an extra in a bad off-Broadway play about the Marquis de Sade. What personal choices brought me to this miserable moment? Did a butterfly flap its wings in Brazil? Was I being punished for the “free checking” scam? The savings and loan meltdown?

So unfair. That S&L thing was totally not my fault.

Anjali’s smoky voice roused me from my despair. “Hey, John, wake up. Time to steal someone’s nest egg.”

Two blinks and I returned to the real world. The platform had reached the food court. Anjali was posed rakishly beside the battle bot, hanging onto a support cable with one hand and a bag of tools with the other. She had swapped her French couture for booty shorts and a tight Caltech t-shirt.

I never noticed before, but Anjali was stacked like a goddess from the Kama Sutra.

No time for that now. I shook my head to refocus and whispered savagely, “What the fuck are you doing here, Anjali? Are you out of your fucking mind?”

Maria and Nicole giggled at my effort to look fierce. Anjali waved away the questions and pulled the tools from her bag.

“Someone has to install the battery modules, and I’m tired of watching TV, so I volunteered.”

I sputtered in protest. “Where’s Bardeen? This is his creation. He should be here, or one of his men.”

She knew what I meant. This was no job for a girl.

Anjali looked at Nicole and Maria. They rolled their eyes in unison. It was like K-pop dancers.

“Yeah, Sylvia Sakura warned me you would say that. Bardeen is finishing the second battlebot. His ‘men’ include some very smart women, and they’re helping him on other projects, too. I have a Master’s degree in electrical engineering, so I’m the logical fucking choice.” She added a few choice expletives about my alleged reputation for chauvinism. Alleged.

I stared at Anjali for a long moment, earning a harsh glare in return. She was right about the women engineers, of course. Without their skills and dedication, we would not have made it this far. And the chauvinism? A quick mental review of my long history with scores of beautiful women around the world suggested she was right. The numbers don’t lie. I had to concede the point.

“Okay, but if you get hurt, just remember, this was all your idea.”

Anjali laughed and flashed a come-hither smile that made my knees weak. She patted my hand in a tender yet condescending way.

“Sylvia told me you would come around if I explained it gently. So, stop talking and let’s get started.”

I signaled Nate with the flashlight. The first twelve batteries arrived in a green plastic recycling tub attached to the 3/8-inch steel cable. The tub included extra walkie-talkies, which I sent to the fourth floor so we could communicate better inside the elevator shaft.

Anjali removed an access panel on the battlebot and slid the first modules into place. While she worked, Nicole and Maria used cat 5 climbing cable to secure the plywood platform. The front edge rested firmly on the elevator threshold. The whole thing was tilted at a slight angle to provide momentum when the battlebot crawled into action.

The women were in control of everything, so I sat back and took a good long look at John Bardeen’s creation. Bardeen had refined the vision considerably after Susie first unveiled the prototype for me.

It still featured dual caterpillar treads, but the chassis and motors were now protected by a trapezoidal body made of carpeted wall panels ripped from a soothing pastel-gray Herman Miller work pod. I saw cell phone cameras behind slots in each panel, covered by clear plastic splatter shields. There was DCH logo on the front and a Wi-Fi decal on the back. Nice touch.

Instead of a medieval flail or robotic arm, the beast sported an adjustable center-mounted armature poking through the roof, armed with wicked scimitar blades about five feet long. The whole package reminded me of a propeller beanie, but larger and more angular. The high-speed blades would destroy zombie skulls like junior analysts attacking a holiday buffet.

The second load of batteries included a rat’s nest of cable connectors and copper bus bars. Anjali installed the final modules and gave me a screwdriver to reattach the access panel. She pulled a 13-inch iPad Pro from her tool bag, tapped a few icons, and the battlebot whirred to life, ready for action.

“John Carthage,” she said, “meet Edward Scissorhead.”

“Johnny Depp would be proud,” I replied.

“Let’s kill some zombies.”

Twenty Eight

Battle of the Food Court

MY PLAN WAS SIMPLE. Open the doors and unleash Edward Scissorhead. But a hungry horde was packed outside our launch bay, attracted by the soft whispers and rattles of our attack preparations. We couldn’t open the elevator doors without inviting them in.

I had foreseen this problem. Call me Emperor Palpatine.

Everyone sat perfectly still while I used the security radio to call Ronnie and activate my brilliant solution. It was a straightforward grift based on the laws of nature, as the best ones always are.

On my command, interns in the CEO’s office dialed telephones in the fast-food restaurants and snack kiosks on the other side of the sprawling food court.

We couldn’t hear the phones from inside the elevator shaft, but the zombies outside heard the ringing loud and clear. They stopped banging on the elevator doors and shuffled off to investigate the potential for fresh meat. Their chittering became a deafening roar in which individual notes could not be distinguished. It reminded me of a ZZ Top concert, back in the day.

I waited five minutes, tripped the internal release lever, and carefully opened the elevator doors far enough to stick my head out. I morphed into a church mouse again, peeking into a room full of hungry coyotes.

The dining area was a football field-sized nightmare. The undead surged against the restaurant gates on the far wall as if magically compelled to answer the phones.

It was awesome, in a terrifying kind of way. When a zombie horde grows beyond forty or fifty members, it becomes an uncontrollable force of nature. But not a good force of nature like spring flowers or migrating wildebeests. It’s bad, like the Tampa Bay Buccaneers on their eighth Super Bowl run. I still can’t believe the NFL Players Association agreed to allow quarterback cloning. Players should retire and that should be the end of it.

The floor was slick with blood, scraps of flesh, severed limbs, and the occasional squashed eyeball. The shoes, purses, jackets, and personal detritus of three hundred souls lay everywhere. The head of a young blonde woman was stuck on a cafeteria tray about ten yards away. She was half-facing the wall and couldn’t see me. Her nose was cute, her eyebrows were on fleek, and her hair was matted with blood. Her jawline twitched as she ground her perfect teeth together, chewing on a large piece of human meat.

I shuddered. Nothing in this world scares me, but at that moment an urge to run away with Susie paralyzed my brain. Susie? Totally out of character. I wrote it off as a stress reaction. Nothing to worry about. I am a rock. I am an island.

“Hey,” hissed Anjali. “Are we good to go?”

Instead of answering, I struck a pose like the mighty Samson and pushed the doors fully open. Maria helped me scramble up to a secure perch, safely out of the way.

I could feel, rather than hear, the vibration of an electric motor spinning up to full power. Anjali tapped complex command combinations on the iPad Pro. Edward Scissorhead crawled forward into the food court, fitting neatly through the doors. Anjali stepped outside and took a quick look around to get her bearings. She stepped back and nodded to me. I swung down and closed the doors.

Anjali dropped into a perfect Padmasana, which I still call the criss-cross apple sauce position, despite having played Twister with a dazzling young yoga instructor for a few exhilarating months. The “goddess Anjali from the Kama Sutra” image flashed in my brain again.

I shook my head to refocus and crowded behind her with Nicole and Maria. We watched over her shoulder while Anjali concentrated on the iPad Pro.

After cycling the various camera views, she put Edward in gear and moved toward the zombies, using her thumbs on the touchscreen controls. The chittering roar drowned out any noise he was making.

The zombies continued to devote their full attention to the telephones. All the steel shutters were closed and locked, so they couldn’t enter the shops. The interns dialed and redialed. The ringing drove the horde wild with frustration.

The suspense was killing me. My debonair existence was hanging on the work of a crackpot scientist and the driving skills of a snarky IT genius in hot pants. I thought again about Brazilian butterflies and my lifetime of questionable decisions.

Edward Scissorhead crawled toward the zombies, and Anjali activated his scimitars. Two cameras on the top deck showed the blades spin lazily, then gradually gain speed until they were a blur. A virtual RPM gauge flickered on Anjali’s screen. When the needle hit 4000, she moved Edward across the back of the horde.

It was brilliant. Instead of driving straight into the crowd and piling dead zombies into a gory, insurmountable roadblock, Bardeen’s design targeted the zombies along Edward’s flanks. Left or right, it didn’t matter. Anjali picked a target, adjusted the height of the blades, and conducted drive-by lobotomies. She painted the floor with gallons of nasty black blood, scalp, skull fragments, and an occasional jaw bone when her aim was low. The explosive splatter was spectacular.

George Romero would have been proud.

I suppressed a sigh of relief. Edward Scissorhead was fabulous. Anjali’s driving was magnificent. It was like watching Plants vs. Zombies from the lawn mower’s perspective. Some of the newly dead zombies collapsed against Edward, rocking the camera view. But the Herman Miller body panels were very smooth, and the joints were sealed with miles of duct tape. There was nothing to snag the zombies, so they just slithered to the floor. Grond crawled on.

“Where did you learn to drive like that?” I whispered.

“I played a lot of Mario Kart with my ex-fiancé,” she hissed, not taking her eyes from the screen.

“You had a fiancé?” I muttered in amazement.

Anjali shot me a glance that would have crippled a lesser man. Nicole punched me in the arm, and Maria slapped the back of my head. I began to suspect I was missing some sort of painful Anjali backstory.

She drove across the edges of the horde for almost an hour, until the dead zombie carpet was so plush that she struggled to keep Edward steady and level. He still crawled over the corpses well enough. The steel studs provided excellent traction. But the uneven terrain made it hard to set his spinning scimitar blades at the right height. I radioed Ronnie to stop the cold calling. The phones fell silent. The zombies lost interest and dispersed.

As they scattered, Anjali began to stalk individuals across the food court. There was a pronounced Brownian element to their random motion that made them hard to catch. Anjali’s impressive kill rate slowed dramatically.

I grew impatient and decided it was time for some fresh blood, so to speak. Ronnie sent us the second battlebot. Within minutes, another soothing gray trapezoid emerged from the darkness above. I radioed Nate, and the remaining twenty-four Leaf battery modules arrived from our basement chop shop.

The second battlebot looked a lot like the first one, except that it sported a top-mounted robotic arm with a modified electric nail driver instead of a Darth Maul double scimitar. Since we had an unlimited supply of zombies but only a limited supply of nails, one of Bardeen’s grinders converted the nail driver into a captive bolt gun, the tool used in slaughterhouses for killing cattle. Press a button, and it punched a steel rod into the target, instead of a nail. The rod re-cocked automatically, ready for the next zombie cow. No need to worry about ammo resupply. Bardeen mounted two cell phone cameras on the arm for color vision and better depth perception. Color me impressed.

This new battlebot weapon system included its very own intern, a young uber-nerd in rumpled khakis, penny loafers, and a white Oxford shirt. He was curled on the plywood, clutching another iPad Pro. He looked terrified, so Nicole and Maria fussed over him like mother hens until he was comfortable enough to unwind.

Bardeen selected the intern because he was the DCH resident expert on Resident Evil 17 for the PS9, which served as the basic operating system for the robotic arm. They named the battlebot after Alice Abernathy, the smoking hot zombie-killing heroine of the fantastic Resident Evil film franchise. Her poster was on the bedroom wall of every teenage boy in America.

Like all bankers, I love Resident Evil. The popular series is an allegory for the financial system. Think about Raccoon City when paying your next credit card bill. You’ll understand.

Edward Scissorhead waited outside the elevator doors while Anjali installed Alice’s battery modules. The intern ran a systems check. When everything was ready, Anjali climbed up the shaft to join Nicole and Maria hanging comfortably in the corners. The intern stood behind Alice on the plywood platform, practicing bot command sequences on his iPad Pro.

Anjali scrolled Edward’s cameras and signaled me when the coast was clear. I did the church mouse imitation again, poking my head out and looking for coyotes. The remaining zombies were shuffling aimlessly around the food court.

I opened the doors and nimbly climbed up to rejoin the women. Alice crawled out. The intern followed, head down, eyes locked on the iPad Pro. Staring at the screen, he stepped outside the elevator, and a zombie blindsided him.

Anjali, Nicole, and Maria screamed.

The surprise attack drove the intern backwards into the elevator shaft. He bounced hard on the plywood platform, and the iPad Pro went flying. His zombie attacker was a balding old skinny-fat man in a tweed jacket with leather patches on the elbows. Hearing aids dangled uselessly from both ears. He looked like everybody’s favorite college professor, albeit partially eaten by his underpaid graduate students.

My inner caveman roared. Without thinking, I dropped from my perch ten feet above the platform, landing on the professor’s back with my full weight and driving Anjali’s screwdriver into the top of his head in one fluid motion.

Two hundred pounds of heavily muscled death was too much kinetic energy for the cat 5. The support cables snapped, and I felt a moment of weightlessness.

The darkness rushed to greet me.

Twenty Nine

Injury Time-out

I BLINKED MYSELF into consciousness, trying hard to focus in the gentle red light. French café jazz pulsed subtly in the background.

Anjali Khan and her twin sister cradled my head in a cocoon of spectacular cleavage and fragrant, salon-fresh black hair. I didn’t know Anjali had a twin sister. Was I in heaven?

“Hey, douchebag,” they said in unison. “Welcome back.”

They caressed my forehead with their hands, but my brain registered only a single touch.

I blinked again, and the two beautiful Anjalis resolved into one. A loving and concerned Anjali, judging by the look on her face.

A third blink, and I was sprawled across the Corinthian leather backseat of the CEO’s stretch limo. My shirt and shoes were missing. My head was in Anjali’s lap. Her bare legs were soft, warm, and smelled of ginger orange body lotion.

I groaned and tried to sit up. “How’s the intern? What happened to him? Did he make it?”

Anjali smiled and tenderly pushed me back.

“He’s fine. He grabbed the edge of the platform when it collapsed. Dangled there by one hand until Nicole and Maria managed to pull him up. We’ve put everything back together, and now he’s killing zombies with Alice Abernathy. He’s a lucky kid.”

“Swell,” I winced. Talking was painful. My head pounded. Somebody was hammering steel foundation piers into Manhattan bedrock. The whole island was shaking. I closed my eyes and took a few measured breaths. “How’s everybody else?”

“Susie’s fine,” Anjali giggled. “She’s upstairs with Peggy.”

“Leave him alone, Anjali,” a husky voice interrupted. He needs rest.”

I opened one eye, and Andrea Aiuto moved into my field of view. She handed Anjali a cocktail glass filled with clear liquid, ice cubes, bubbles, and a slice of lime.

Despite my weakened condition and fuzzy vision, I recognized a classic gin and tonic, the official beverage of the British East India Company. The most successful corporate takeover in history.

Little beads of cold condensation dropped on my bare chest as Anjali took a sip and swirled the ice in her glass. She traced one of the drops down to my navel with her elegant pinky.

“Nice six-pack,” she muttered.

Andrea knelt beside us and flicked a small flashlight across my eyes. It felt like a knife. She made a satisfied sound.

“Pupils are the same size and responsive. That’s good.”

A lucky break. Andrea was not only an investment banker and a nurse, but a bartender too.

I managed to whisper, “Where’s the gin?” My head exploded.

Andrea moved away, and I heard ice tinkling into a glass. The sweetest sound in the world.

The CEO’s limo was fully furnished with a small fridge, Bose Surround Sound, and all the best snacks. There was almost certainly a hooker and coke stashed there, too. For the politicians, of course.

My eyes closed again until Andrea returned. She carried a small plastic bag full of ice in one hand and a fresh gin and tonic in the other. She handed me the bag, sat down, and took a big slug from the glass.

“Put the ice on your head. You have a little bump, a little concussion, and maybe a touch of whiplash. No booze, and don’t fall asleep until I give you permission.”

I extended a trembling hand in the direction of her glass. She pulled it away and glared at me. I tried to sit up, but she held the glass out of reach like a bully playing keep-away. There was no way I was going to change her mind, so I gave up without a fight.

Totally out of character.

Exploring the side of my head with tentative fingers, I found a “bump” the size of a USDA Grade A egg. Andrea had a hidden talent for understatement.

I was getting suspicious about my “little” concussion and decided to follow her advice. The ice felt good. My head melted deeper into Anjali’s silky thighs. She toyed softly with a lock of my hair. I closed my eyes, and enjoyed the moment. The ginger orange fragrance was intoxicating and seductive. Always a dangerous combination for me.

They whispered together for a few minutes, until Andrea finished her drink and opened the limo door.

“Stay here until I come back to check on you. If you feel nauseous or get double vision, call me right away.” She slipped out and gently closed the door.

Anjali stayed with me, nursing her gin and tonic. She looked as if she was trying to figure something out.

“Why’d you do it, John?”

“Do what?” I was not fully functional yet and thought I might have blacked out for a moment.

“Risk your life to save that kid. He’s just an intern. You could have been killed, or worse.”

“He’s not just an intern; he’s a douchebag. One of us.” I groaned and tried to sit up again, but she pushed me back with one finger.

Anjali pondered her drink and appeared lost in thought.

“You’re a strange man, John Carthage.” She leaned over and kissed my forehead. “I have work to do, but I’ll come back and check on you later. Don’t be stupid.”

She slipped out of the limo, leaving me an elusive hint of ginger orange and the memory of those satin smooth legs.

I gave Anjali a five-minute head start and sat up. Bad move. My stomach heaved, my eyes crossed, and the painful pounding in my head got louder.

There were two pairs of my Nike running shoes lined up on the limo floor. I reached for the pair on the left, but my hand grasped empty air. I closed one eye and reached for the pair on the right. Success. I closed both eyes, laced them up by muscle memory, and staggered off to find Nate. He was knee-deep in the bowels of an old Rivian. He glanced up when I walked over.

“You look like hell,” he said, waving a hand at my rippling torso. There was a sprawling purple and yellow bruise from my right pec to my vastus lateralis. No wonder I felt like shit.

I nodded, but didn’t say anything. Talking was too painful. Nate rummaged in the back of his truck and tossed me a t-shirt with a Punisher-style skull logo.

“Here,” he said, and went back to his rummaging. I pulled it on and felt a little intimidated. I’m a large XL. Nate’s shirt made me look like a toddler wearing her daddy’s clothing.

Nate returned with a bottle of Jack Daniels and a package of Tillamook Country Smoker Beef Jerky. Honey glazed. I chewed on sweet heaven while Nate poured shots into paper Dixie cups. We sat on the curb in silence, sipping the whiskey and tearing off big junks of beef. Elven waybread for manly men.

Twenty minutes and half a bottle later, I was much improved. My whole body ached, and my head was throbbing, but I could see straight and didn’t feel like blowing my lunch anymore. A definite upgrade.

Time to move. I drained my cup and tossed it into the truck bed.

“What happened when I fell?”

“Crashed on the bottom of the elevator shaft. Took that zombie with you. Banged your head on the way down. Hard. Landed on the zombie. Popped him like a possum on the highway. Saved your life. I dragged you out. The women came down. Put you in the limo. Cleaned you up.”

I nodded. Zombie airbag. That made sense.

“How long was I unconscious?”

“About an hour.” He looked at me slyly, from the corner of his eye. “Who’s Susie? You asked about her before you passed out.”

That was a very good question. I didn’t know the answer. Employee? Colleague? Friend?

“Mmm…I’m not sure,” I ventured.

Nate grinned like he hit the lottery.

“Your secret’s safe with me.” He stood and tossed his empty Dixie cup into the truck bed.

“Game clock is running, Skippy.” He handed me the dominatrix-inspired climbing harness.

I nodded, ripped off another piece of sweet jerky, and climbed into bondage again.

Thirty

Fast Food is Bad for Your Health

NATE FIRED UP the truck and winched me to the food court level with a bag of tools. My head hurt too much for any Batman wall-walking, so I just dangled limply from the cable. Nate said I looked like the scrotum on an old billy goat and muttered something about John Barth’s classic novel “Giles Goat-Boy.”

How the mighty have fallen.

Everyone was gone except Alice’s intern, who focused on his iPad and didn’t notice my arrival. He sat criss-cross applesauce in the dark, pinching and swiping. The screen cast an eerie blue light on his baby face as he rocked out to a sick beat on his earbuds.

A old mystic once said, “If you save a man, you own his ass forever.” It was an intriguing thought, but owning an intern would cramp my jet-setting lifestyle, so I shrugged off the idea and tapped his shoulder.

He screamed and levitated straight up a full twelve inches without uncrossing his applesauce.

It took several minutes to unlevitate him and prove I was not a zombie. Under the circumstances, that was understandable.

After his blubbering subsided, he told me that Anjali, Nicole, and Maria were on the fourth floor conferring with Ronnie. They left the intern to kill zombies with Alice Abernathy, promising to return when they had new information to share.

I watched over his shoulder for a while. Alice’s user interface was superb, as if Fallout 4 and MechWarrior 5 had a baby. The kid never bothered to stop and aim. He simply guided Alice around the food court. Every time he passed a zombie, he reached out with the robotic arm and tagged it with a skull shot. We sat together for an hour as he slew everything except a few zombies Alice couldn’t reach.

My brain rebooted as the Jack and jerky worked their magic. Dawn was coming, but we were about to enter a new Dark Age, unless the governor changed his plan about shutting down the grid. I knew that Chef Gordon and Chef Bobby needed every possible minute to save as much food as they could. We couldn’t wait for the last few zombies to random walk from their nooks and crannies so Alice could tap them.

I tried to radio Ronnie for a new round of phone ringing, but nobody answered. The situation called for independent executive initiative, one of my core leadership specialties. I stood up, cracked my back, and got ready to fight.

The intermittent double vision problem was still a challenge, so Andrew’s Olympic mop handle tactic seemed risky. Zombie eyes are a very small target area, especially if you’re seeing double.

A less genteel weapon was more appropriate in my current condition. I pulled a 24-inch heavy steel Mokuba wrecking bar from Nate’s tool bag. As long as the claw end didn’t get stuck in an undead lawyer’s brain, it would be mercilessly efficient.

The intern promised to watch my six. I grabbed a radio and opened the elevator doors. No need for church mice at this point.

I didn’t want to face the stragglers in a confined space, having learned my lesson on Day One in the elevator lobby where I met Ted and saved Susie. Always choose your own ground, especially when you’re in mortal combat. A wide-open floor would give me room to tango, so I strode right into the main dining area. With Alice Abernathy as my dance partner, this wouldn’t take long.

We found a good starting spot, and the intern warmed up Alice’s bolt gun with an impressive series of épée practice attacks. I took some batting practice with the wrecking bar. Occam would have approved my plan: use the wrecking bar against as many stragglers as possible, then lure the rest to Alice.

The food court was tombstone quiet, just the slightest hum of air conditioning and a scrabbling noise from Alice’s caterpillar treads as she crawled into position. The floor was smeared with black blood and littered with corpses. I should have worn my golf spikes. Slip-and-fall hazards were not covered by our tort insurance.

Tiptoeing across half a dozen bodies, I moved to the booth where that cute blonde head was still glued to a tray. The urge to find Susie and run away together swelled in my chest again.

I hesitated, then swung the Mokuba like Mickey Mantle on a slow curve ball. Swish. Crack. Perfect launch angle. Stand-up double.

My panicky urge to flee evaporated, but the desire to find Susie remained strong. Totally out of character. I haven’t needed anyone except a good bartender since leaving the orphanage. This unwelcome emotional issue would have to be addressed at my first available opportunity, maybe sometime next year.

I clanged the wrecking bar on a steel chair. It was a dinner bell for the ranch hands. Chittering erupted everywhere. Five zombies emerged from the narrow hallway leading to the restrooms. Two more came from a service room, and three cripples crawled from under the nearest row of booths.

The cripples were easy to dispatch. Two men with broken, floppy legs. Their Jos. A. Bank suits marked them as junior management. They were accompanied by a woman wearing the scraps of a sexy Forever 21 sweater dress. She left “21” in the rearview mirror about fifteen years ago, but still looked good for a woman her age, if you could overlook the missing nose.

They dragged themselves toward me and reached up with eager hands and snapping jaws. I swung the heavy wrecking bar back and forth, letting its weight do my work. Left, right, left.

The movement reminded me of five months I spent scything grass on a Sumter County chain gang during a scorching Alabama summer long ago. Back and forth. Back and forth. Moving up, boss.

The service room zombies came at me from two sides. Both were pudgy old maintenance workers, colleagues of Ted and Nate. Oval name tags on their khaki overalls. Hank and Heather. Probably an elderly couple who lost their savings in the latest financial crash and were now working as janitors to make ends meet. They must have been trapped in the food court while grabbing a Big Gulp to power the beginning of their shift.

I sprinted to my left and circled around Hank. He was tall and fat, with small hands and thinning blonde hair sprayed into an absurd combover. A big windup followed by a crushing headshot put him on the floor. The wrecking bar split his coconut wide open. He had a dark purple brain covered with pustular lesions, like he grew up in Louisiana’s Chemical Corridor.

My spider sense flashed a warning. Heather had slipped around Hank to attack me from the rear. Wolf pack tactics. Were the zombies getting smarter, or was this merely one of those annoying couples finishing each other’s sentences?

She was a sharp-faced crone with fabulous hair and extensive plastic surgery. Instead of chittering, her botoxed lips emitted a stream of gibberish. I switched to a one-handed grip, slapped away her grasping talons, and buried the bar deep in her forehead.

“Sorry, grandma,” I muttered. Heather collapsed. Her mouth kept moving for a long time.

The restroom group was next on my agenda. A small, nagging part of my brain asked if they washed their hands for twenty seconds. The headmaster had been very strict about that.

It was a mundane, motley mob of morning Manhattanites. Teenagers in hoodies. A young red-headed woman in a Cinnabon shirt. An old hipster from the East Village wearing a fringed vest and Mardi Gras beads. And, of course, yet another fucking corporate lawyer in a five thousand dollar sharkskin suit.

They had been savagely gnawed and were drenched in black blood. The Cinnabon worker was carrying someone’s foot in her mouth like an Irish setter with a frisbee. The lawyer was the scariest. He had a face that enjoyed foreclosing on widows and orphans. My hatred for him was instantaneous.

They bunched up tightly, so I couldn’t risk a direct approach. Time for Alice Abernathy to flash some leg. I retreated, moving in her direction and clanging the wrecking bar on tables and chairs. I was the last free sample in Costco. Nobody leaves without a taste.

I stayed well out of Alice’s reach. The intern wielded that bolt gun like a Prussian fencing master, but I couldn’t take the risk he might mistake me for a zombie in all the excitement.

The robotic arm with the dual cell phones tracked me ominously, a snake with rectangular eyes. I stopped, looked Alice straight in the phones, and gestured toward the incoming zombies. The end of the arm dipped twice as Alice nodded her agreement. She turned to face them. I retreated again.

The zombies drew near. Alice’s arm pulled back, coiling to strike. When the sharkskin lawyer was about two feet away, the robotic arm clicked and lunged forward, touching him on the forehead. The bolt gun popped, and he flopped to the floor. A little circle oozed black blood, right between his eyes. Alice recocked her arm and lashed out again, touching the Cinnabon lady on her temple. Whirr. Click. Pop.

Sadness dampened my high spirits. No more CinnaPacks.

The other three diners shuffled past Alice’s reach. I withdrew another ten feet and calculated where to lead this little parade so Alice could strike again.

There was no need. Alice’s drive motors whined, and she executed a lightning pirouette. I had forgotten how much torque you get with an EV. Alice could outspin a zero-turn riding mower.

She tagged the East Village hipster and crawled right over his corpse. The two kids in hoodies were next. Alice hit them so fast that the first one hadn’t hit the floor before she nailed the second one.

Alice looked my way. I signaled her to follow me on a circuit of the food court. If I got into a jam, Alice would step up.

Crouching tiger, hidden zombies lurked under tables near the far wall. The wrecking bar made short shrift of them. I checked the service room. It was full of toilet paper. Good. I’ve lived a rough life and spent plenty of time in the bush, but I do have standards.

Alice couldn’t maneuver in the narrow restroom hallway, and I was reluctant to enter the rooms without her. I tapped on the men’s room door and pressed my ear against it.

I was listening intently when the radio suddenly crackled, causing me to bang my head on the door and shriek like a little girl. I’ve always hated jump-scare movies. Too much Stephen King as a child, I guess.

The intern’s voice came through the static.

“Mr. Carthage, I’ve been thinking. Why were those zombies clustered in front of the bathrooms instead of wandering around with the others? What if there’s someone alive in there?”

The kid had a point. I looked around and grabbed a metal dining chair to use as a shield. It was not multi-mission capable like the Aeron executive combat model, but I figured it would work in a pinch.

I used the chair to open the men’s room door. Empty. Checked the stalls. Nothing. I went back to the lady’s room and pushed in. Zero. I looked under each stall and opened the doors. Zilch.

The stall at the far end was closed and locked. I was about to rip off the hinges with my wrecking bar, when I heard the tiniest little sniff from inside. I paused.

That sound was not uncommon while I was growing up. Late at night. In the orphanage.

It was the sniff of a child trying not to cry.

My eyes teared up. I wiped my face and wiggled the door handle.

“Excuse me, is anyone in there?”

Two more sniffs, followed by the quavering, tearful reply of a little girl putting on her bravest face.

“I’m here. Go away.”

My response was bright and cheerful. “You can come out now, sweetheart. The bad people are all gone.”

She didn’t reply, so I added, “Let’s get something to eat.”

Another pause, followed by the squeak of sneakers on tile. The door rattled and swung open. A little red-headed angel with anime eyes peered out. Her face was dirty and streaked with tears, old and new.

She stared hard at me without speaking. Nate’s blood-splattered Punisher t-shirt was not making a great first impression. My Mokuba wrecking bar had a little tuft of Heather’s hair and scalp snagged on the end. I tried to hide it behind my back.

The situation required fast thinking. She was carrying a pink Audrey Hepburn backpack, so I decided to go high-class.

“Please forgive my boldness. We haven’t been properly introduced. My name is Carthage. John Carthage. It’s very nice to meet you. What’s your name?”

She hesitated and shyly offered her hand. “My name is Elizabeth. Elizabeth Borden. Everybody calls me Lizzie.”

Her tiny hand disappeared in my bear paw. She gave it a tentative shake and said, “I’m hungry.”

I swept her up with one arm and held tight. She wrapped her arms and legs around me and buried her face in my neck.

“You like doughnuts?” I asked.

She nodded without looking up.

“Well,” I said brightly, “this is your lucky day.”

There was a Krispy Kreme shop outside the restroom hallway. Without putting Lizzie down, I used the Mokuba to pop the lock and open the steel shutter. The place was clean and well-lit. I carried her around the counter, grabbed an ice-cold milk box from the fridge and selected a dozen diabetes-linked doughnuts. We sat down at the closest table. Lizzie faced away from the carnage outside. I had an uneasy feeling her mother was nearby, in a pool of black blood, entrails, and glowing brains.

Lizzie reviewed my offerings and daintily chose a chocolate-iced doughnut with rainbow sprinkles. I put the straw into the milk carton for her. She took a big slug of milk, inhaled the doughnut in four giant bites, and reached for another.

“Watch this,” I said, and stuffed an entire powdered sugar jelly doughnut into my mouth. Raspberry sauce leaked from the corners. I flashed a big doughnut-filled smile. She cracked up. I added a blueberry doughnut, and she laughed so hard that milk spurted from her adorable little nose.

My heart melted.

We had a nice little snack, sitting together at a Krispy Kreme in the middle of the Manhattan zombie apocalypse. She ate three more doughnuts, and I made myself an overdue cup of strong black coffee. Lizzie had the most beautiful smile in the world. I could have stayed with her forever, but the world never gives orphans a break. I heard footsteps and looked over Lizzie’s head, alert for trouble.

It was worse than trouble.

Anjali and Sylvia were striding purposefully across the zombie-covered battlefield, fists clenched and ready to kick ass. My ass.

Somehow, Sylvia was still dressed to the nines, wearing an ivory satin halter dress by Pierre Balmain, stilettos by Jean Paul Gaultier, and her signature pearl choker. Still carrying her iPad.

She tiptoed around a pool of glowing yellow fluid that oozed from the naked, headless torso of a manscaped insurance executive. Pausing to check the soles of her glittering shoes, she gave me a dirty look that I could see across the food court.

“Not my fault,” I mouthed.

They hadn’t spotted Lizzie yet. As they arrived, I gestured to them and said, “Lizzie, please allow me to introduce my good friends, Anjali Khan and Sylvia Sakura. They’re Audrey Hepburn superfans, so I know you’ll get along.”

Anjali and Sylvia froze like deer in the headlights.

Lizzie offered a sugar-dusted hand. “I’m very pleased to meet you. My name is Lizzie. Would you care for a jelly doughnut?”

Checkmate. Whatever torture they planned for me would have to wait. With Anjali on my left and Sylvia on my right, we shared another round of doughnuts, coffee, and milk. I was relaxing in my natural element, a fancy restaurant surrounded by beautiful, worshipful women hanging on my every word.

Sylvia broke the spell and dragged me away. Lizzie was completely awed by Anjali, so our departure went unnoticed.

“Where in heaven’s name did you find her?” whispered Sylvia. “Where are her parents? Her family?”

“She was hiding in the bathroom. I think she’s been there since yesterday morning. As for her parents…”

Sylvia folded her arms. “Okay. That was a dumb question. More importantly, what should we do with her?”

I never had a real childhood and never knowingly dated a woman with kids, so my experience in the field is exceedingly limited. As much as I wanted to help, I was not the right caveman for Lizzie.

The solution seemed obvious. Bring in a corporate consultant.

“Let’s send her upstairs to Peggy Martin. She’s a mother. She’ll know what to do.”

Sylvia nodded approval and made a note on her iPad.

I gave Lizzie a mixed bag of Krispy Kreme doughnuts for the road and carried her to the elevator lobby. She buried her head in my neck again, so she wouldn’t have to look at the zombie corpses. The kid knew more than she was letting on.

The elevator doors were open. Ronnie Numero and Chef Gordon were disembarking with a team of grinders to take inventory. Ronnie listened and made notes while Gordon waved his arms and shouted deeply disturbing obscenities. I was impressed. He would have made a good investment banker.

I introduced Lizzie to the intern and told him to find Peggy Martin, my favorite teacher. He caught on immediately and radioed upstairs for the crane to lift them out. I told Lizzie to be a good girl and wait with Miss Peggy. As the plywood platform rose out of sight, I heard the intern ask, “Lizzie, do you ever watch My Little Pony? I loaded the complete series on my iPad.”

She was in good hands.

Anjali and Sylvia were full of repressed brutality when I returned to the Krispy Kreme. First, they harangued me for leaving the limo after Andrea Aiuto specifically ordered me to rest. Then, they rudely questioned my sanity for trying to clear the food court without a team of backup grinders.

“You have a concussion,” Anjali said, waving a well-manicured finger in my face. “What if you passed out? You think the intern and Alice could have rescued you?”

I tried to keep a straight face. It was hard to take them seriously with vanilla creme all over their chins. They kept wolfing doughnuts, yelling at me the whole time.

My head was pounding again. My stomach was queasy from stress, concussion, or the doughnut overload. I wasn’t sure which.

They ran out of steam, and I gave them a handful of paper napkins.

“Thanks for your great input. I’ll keep you in mind as we continue to move forward.”

That’s how investment bankers say, “Fuck off,” when we are trying to be polite and civilized.

They took a collective deep breath and howled again.

Ronnie Numero walked over and saved me. He sat in Lizzie’s chair and grabbed a doughnut.

“John,” he said, “it’s time for the weekly staff meeting.”

And the lights went out.

Thirty One

Doughnuts in the Dark

EVERYONE STOPPED MOVING. The refrigerators powered down, leaving a profound silence. The windowless food court was darker than the bottom of an abandoned coal mine.

It was a moment I had long been dreading. It marked the start of a race against time and bacteria. We had to harvest the refrigerated and frozen food before it spoiled, or our chances of survival in a skyscraper filled with carnivorous nightmares would shrink to nothing, like the credit rating of a single mom living on payday loans.

Chef Gordon broke the stillness. His soaring Churchillian rhetoric inspired everyone to heroic action.

“Turn on your fucking lights, you brainless wanking bankers,” he screamed. “You think I can’t cook just because somebody turned off the stupid fucking lights? Do your fucking jobs!”

I loved it. Gordon was an Asian Tiger Mom.

He continued to inspire the grinders until someone turned on a bright light, casting a circle of pure white near the Sbarro. Other lights illuminated the KFC, Pizza Hut, and Cinnabon. People moved again and, within a few moments, the huge food court was bustling with activity and noise.

Ronnie pulled a small bundle from his duffle and clicked a switch. It was a strip of white LEDs and a circuit board glued to an emergency lighting battery. The whole thing was wrapped in duct tape. Simple build, low power consumption, very bright, long-lasting, rechargeable. Perfect for the zombie apocalypse.

In Ronnie’s calming presence, Anjali and Sylvia calmed down enough for a normal staff meeting, with a few small differences. Most notably, we were in a dim, blood-drenched food court eating doughnuts, instead of convening in my spacious executive office with a pitcher of Moscow Mules and a bowl of tasty Blue Diamond salted almonds. The zombie corpses were not a distraction. Investment bankers are well-accustomed to stepping over the bodies of our victims, be they living or dark undead.

“Any word from Homeland Security or the governor?” I asked. Might as well deal with the bad news first.

“Negative,” said Ronnie. “We’re monitoring TikTok, Slack, and all the best Instagram influencers. Governor Yogi Berra is still pushing forward with his plan. The Manhattan Quarantine Zone is almost complete. Homeland Security and the New York National Guard are cooperating to crush minor zombie outbreaks in the tri-state area and enforce MQZ boundaries.”

That was worrisome. If federal and state authorities could work together during the zombie apocalypse, they might collaborate on other issues when it was all over. The jurisdictional chasm between federal and state law is a gold mine for investment bankers, similar to our lucrative tax havens in the Cayman Islands and Antigua.

But there was nothing I could do about that now. Back to the game.

“How’s everybody doing?”

Anjali and Sylvia giggled. I frowned at them.

There was a microsecond of hesitation before Ronnie replied.

“A few people got bumps and bruises while they dangled outside breaking windows. The wind was pretty rough. Andrea Aiuto patched them up. Most are back on the job.”

Everyone works nonstop at Dewey, Cheatham, and Howe, Inc., regardless of whether they’ve got the sniffles or a sucking chest wound. I would deal with any slackers later, at my own convenience.

Ronnie gave me current numbers on our food situation. The upper-level restaurants were not as bountiful as the chefs expected. The harvest wasn’t finished yet, but the haul was already looking short of what we needed. He promised to give me an update after Chef Gordon assessed the food court.

Sylvia pulled up a short HR presentation on her iPad. Our deal lawyer, Andrew Jarrod, was directing the overall campaign to prosecute stragglers. His litigation team numbered twenty people. He divided them into squads led by the original battle grinders who cleared the upper floors with me on Monday. Andrew was leading his own special strike team, which he called Deal Team Six. I twitched with an instant pang of jealousy.

Bella Brique, our real estate specialist, was scouring staff kitchens and work pods for ramen noodles and candy bars. She had mustered twenty people into two teams and called them gleaners instead of grinders, a Biblical reference I didn’t quite understand.

Bella interned as a novice nun at La Notre-Dame de Paris before falling into the evil world of investment banking. I tried to imagine her serving in a nunnery, but couldn’t make it work. A competing image of Bella in a tight black sweater kept ruining the mental picture. I shook my head to refocus and returned to the task at hand.

The food gleaners swarmed behind Andrew’s battle grinders after each floor was declared straggler-free. Everyone was armed, in case they encountered a crouching tiger, hidden zombie. I told Sylvia that the entire staff should carry weapons now, no matter where they worked. The skyscraper was too big, with too many places a zombie could hide. Sylvia tapped her iPad and promised to take care of it.

Twenty more grinders worked with Chef Gordon and Chef Bobby to salt, pickle, candy, smoke, and otherwise preserve all the perishable food. No sign yet that we would lose the gas supply, so the celebrity chefs continued to crank out large quantities of dehydrated meat and vegetables from the restaurant ovens. Ronnie was looking forward to his first taste of Gordon’s fish jerky. I winced at the thought.

Five strong backs kept the Roman crane in action. Ten technical nerds worked with Anjali on the power and electronics program. John Bardeen directed five others working on the battlebots. I suggested Nate might need help pulling batteries and components from all those EVs in the garage. Sylvia said she could assign a few grinders, but they wouldn’t have any automotive or electrical experience.

“That shouldn’t be a problem,” I said. “If they can unscrew a bolt, Nate will put them to good use.”

That accounted for almost everybody except our casualties, Veronica Scarlett, Christine LaCroix, and several zombie-shocked losers who were still curled in the fetal position. Sylvia carefully omitted any mention of Susie. I desperately wanted to ask how she was, but couldn’t risk triggering another giggle fit from Anjali. I took a deep breath and changed the subject.

“Power and food are still the biggest priorities right now. Anjali, take me upstairs and show me what you’re working on. Ronnie, nail down what we can expect to harvest from the food court and give me a status report. If the other restaurants and Bella’s gleaners don’t produce better quarterly results, we’ll have to make up the shortfall.”

Everyone grabbed another doughnut and went back to work. Ronnie headed toward the soft sounds of Chef Gordon providing gentle motivation to his team. Sylvia wanted to visit the parking garage and count batteries for Anjali. She slipped off the ivory halter dress and buckled into my dominatrix-inspired climbing harness for the trip. She kept the pearl choker and stilettos. An incredible sight. I shook my head to refocus and called Nate to fire up the winch for her.

I rode the plywood platform with Anjali to the fourth floor, where the Roman crane and its grinder crew were still positioned. Without their strong backs, we could not have unleashed Edward Scissorhead and Alice Abernathy against the food court zombies. I gave them a round of manly fist bumps and bro hugs to show my appreciation, then headed for the stairwell and that long climb to the top.

Anjali flew up the stairs. I plodded grimly behind her, two hundred pounds of muscle and concussion trying to chase a monarch butterfly. She realized I was lagging and begrudged me a break on 13.

We opened the stairwell door and looked around. Another open-space pod farm for another fucking law firm. The morning sun and fresh spring air streamed through three broken windows on the far side, where Peggy Martin and Jane Austen had flushed out the zombies with fire and ice. Andrew’s anti-straggler campaign had not yet reached this floor, so extreme caution was on the menu.

We retreated to the nearest corner office, furnished with a champagne oak conference table, Byzantine icons, and expensive Tibetan prayer rugs. “Senior partner cliché,” I muttered.

Prying open a few cabinet doors revealed the inevitable hidden mini-fridge. It was well-stocked with a tempting selection of delicious craft beers, but I opted for a rehydrating bottle of chilled red Gatorade instead. Anjali grabbed a Perrier and stood near the door watching for loose zombies. We didn’t want to get trapped, like Veronica’s fiancé and his executive assistant.

I dragged the partner’s buttery leather desk chair closer to the window and collapsed, staring down at the street. It was still awash with zombies. I lifted my gaze, and the gleaming DCH Condo skyscraper across the plaza caught my eye. The silhouette matched DCH Tower but the building was configured for luxury condominiums instead of class-A office space. Retail vendors and a Wegmans grocery store occupied the ground level.

Homemade “Will pay cash for help!” signs filled several upper-floor windows, no doubt posted by wealthy survivors trapped in their condos, waiting to die. The only question was how they would go. Starvation, zombies, or by their own hand. I pondered the nasty, brutish, and short nature of human existence until Anjali waved for my attention and pointed at the door. Time to go.

We slipped back into the stairwell. I managed ten more floors before stopping for another breather. My head was pounding. Andrew Jarrod and his blood-drenched Deal Team Six burst onto the landing right then, adding a heart attack to my list of ailments. How do I hate jump-scare movies? Let me count the ways.

They were trooping down to the next floor after clearing stragglers on 23, moving fast despite their obvious exhaustion. Andrew stopped and gave me the stink eye. His New England accent made me wince.

“You’re…uh, a right filthy mess, Carthage,” he sneered.

My head hurt too much for anything other than a careful nod in agreement. He flashed Anjali a triumphant smile and followed the rest of his bedraggled team.

“Does everyone look that bad?” I asked when Andrew was out of earshot. “Have I been pushing them too hard?”

“Well, you don’t have much of a choice. We’re on a tough deadline. No extensions when we’re filing the SEC paperwork. Everybody has to step up their game.”

“Someone’s gonna die. They’re tired and getting sloppy. They’ll make stupid mistakes.”

“You mean, like jumping on a zombie and landing at the bottom of an elevator shaft?”

I heaved a deep sigh.

“No. I mean stupid mistakes like getting Archie Briggs and Henry Hunnicutt killed.” My heart was heavy with unshared grief. Totally out of character. Most investment bankers don’t have a heart.

Anjali noticed right away. “That wasn’t your fault. I talked to Peggy afterward for a long time. You had no way of knowing. If anyone’s to blame, it was me. I was supposed to watch your back on the surveillance cameras, and I dropped the ball.”

My unmanly display of weakness seemed to break her own emotional walls. She dabbed the corner of her eye with the tip of a well-manicured finger and sniffled. Tears streamed across her high cheekbones and rolled off her perfect chin.

Before the apocalypse, I could never have imagined Anjali Khan crying, much less weeping. Whenever I visited the C-suite, she was always bustling around with humorless, hard-nosed efficiency. The queen of digital. An organic artificial intelligence with none of Data’s charm. All the senior executives loved her, and she was thick as thieves with Veronica. Two iron maidens. Borg queens.

Anjali’s display of human frailty was startling. Worse, those particular deaths weren’t her fault. She had no reason to cry. Her tears did not compute.

A lonely empathy neuron buried deep in my throbbing brain fired a feeble signal. Anjali wasn’t crying over her non-role in the demise of Archie and Henry. She was crying because the zombie apocalypse had overwhelmed her. She needed a brave knight in shining armor. A shoulder to cry on. A strong male authority figure to provide gentle comfort so she could move past her fears.

I was exactly the right man for the job.

“Moron,” I snapped. “Ridiculous. You didn’t have a fucking x-ray machine, just an ordinary fucking closed circuit TV system. There was no way you could see zombies hiding under desks, in closets, or behind closed doors. You had nothing to do with Archie and Henry. It wasn’t your fucking fault.”

Anjali sniffled again and looked at the floor.

“Trust me,” I snarled, “I’ll let you know when you screw up. Until then, get your head back in the game. You’re a fucking investment banker, not some weepy Canadian singer raising money for the no-kill dog shelter. Time to man up.”

My soft touch worked magic. She raised her head and smiled, tears glistening on her cheeks, but light sparkling in her eyes again. Everybody knew I devoted my required corporate pro bono time to work as Chief Rainmaker for the Manhattan Puppy Rescue Center. Think about it. Stray dogs are orphans, too.

She wiped her eyes on the sleeve of my blood-splattered Punisher t-shirt and started climbing again.

We reached the executive level around 11:00 a.m. Several grinder teams passed us in the stairwell, moving up or down depending on their assignment. Almost everyone had changed into DCH t-shirts and gym shorts looted from the swag closet in Small Client Relations. The swag closet for Big Client Relations has Rolex watches and handbags made from Florida pythons.

In all things, there is a hierarchy.

Most of them were tired and spent. A few remained upbeat, and they cheered when they saw us. I waved a weary hand and smiled to acknowledge their warm applause.

I dragged myself into the CEO’s office and collapsed on the overstuffed couch. The place was deathly quiet. Our building surveillance system died when Governor Yogi Berra cut the Manhattan grid, so Anjali transferred the CCTV mapping interns to other duties. Susie and Veronica were missing in action. I heard John Bardeen and his techno nerds working in an adjacent room. My legs refused to move in that direction. The couch wrapped its arms around me.

Anjali still had plenty of energy and was eager to forget her recent display of personal weakness. She disappeared to find Andrea Aiuto and some food. I closed my eyes and tried to sleep, but she reappeared with Andrea and a steaming bowl of freshly made minestrone soup from Chef Bobby. Just what the doctor ordered.

Andrea knifed my pupils with her flashlight, and listened to a recitation of my symptoms. She nodded approval and declared herself satisfied that I wasn’t going to die in the next five minutes.

“Take it easy, or you’ll be sorry. No heavy lifting. Avoid bright lights. If that giant bulging hematoma on your head doesn’t get smaller soon, I’ll have to drain it. You won’t enjoy that,” she promised with a smile, as if she was looking forward to the procedure.

Chef Bobby’s minestrone restored my body, and a short nap eased my headache. Anjali gave me the CEO’s classic aviator sunglasses and escorted me into the crisp sunshine on the roof for a dog and pony show about her very impressive DIY power plant project.

She was testing a prototype vertical-axis wind turbine made of sheet metal and scavenged electronics. The design originated with a YouTube video boasting a million views and thousands of good comments. It produced about five hundred watts. Some of her tech grinders were building upscaled models that would produce ten times more power. There was space on the roof for additional units. The wind was strong and steady out of the southwest.

“I can’t charge an entire EV battery all at once, but we can charge several individual modules at the same time. We’ll have big vertical turbines, plus smaller horizontal-axis turbines poking over the side of the building to catch higher wind speeds at the parapet.” I looked puzzled, so she added, “Old Logan Airport in Boston had them.”

“I remember. Where are you finding the materials, the sheet metal?”

“We rip it from the air conditioning duct work. There’s no end to construction material here, and YouTube is an incredible gold mine of hacking ideas. Electric motors, compressors, servos. We’re repurposing everything.” She unleashed a blast of technobabble about inverters, and my head throbbed again.

“So, just to summarize,” I ventured, “we’ll have enough juice for laptops, phones, and some lights, right?”

Her jaw clenched, like the dog ate the pony at the end of her show.

“Yes, John,” she said with clenched teeth. “We’ll have power for all that, plus the power tools, Wi-Fi network, and the battlebots. If everything goes well, I might be able to run a couple of refrigerators.”

I stared at Anjali in complete disbelief. “Cold beer? You’re saying we can have cold beer?”

She threw her hands up in frustration and stomped off to expand her electric empire. I smiled a secret smile.

Anjali was back.

Thirty Two

Lizzie and Veronica

IT WAS REFRESHING to linger on the sunny rooftop and enjoy the magnificent Manhattan skyline. A small team from the corporate risk department was using a YouTube video and the poolside barbecue grill to make jalapeño smoked jerky from a mountain of filet mignon and Wagyu. The grinders were eager for news but kept working while we chatted and sipped cold IPAs.

I spun tall tales for them about valiant warriors and victorious battles against the evil zombie hordes. In return, they spilled hilarious tea about Gordon and Bobby, our celebrity chefs. According to old TMZ reports, the two divas hated each other so much they refused to work in the same kitchen. An event manager in Client Relations accidentally hired both of them to cook for the DCH Pirates Banquet, the annual highlight of the Manhattan social calendar.

“It’s like living in an episode of Seinfeld,” the grinders chortled.

We enjoyed a relaxing hour of beef and beer, until I decided it was time for a little management by walking around, known to corporate strategy consultants everywhere as MBWA.

It’s an ancient technique, much-maligned in this era of remote work. If your boss ever rolls up on you unannounced, that’s what he’s doing. My own management style derived from Machiavelli; it’s better to be feared than loved. I tend to overdo the “feared” part, so the Vice President for Human Resources added MBWA into my performance plan. It softens my edges and reduces staff turnover.

I extracted a promise from the jerky team to save me a slice of Wagyu and glided downstairs to the restaurant on 50. That’s where the main food preservation effort was underway, orchestrated by the ever-elegant Troya Washington, our empress of fast food private equity. She was a legend in DCH for buying a large piece of Five Guys Burgers just before their hostile takeover of McDonalds. The combined company is called “Five Clowns,” and it’s a top holding in our cardiology portfolio, second only to the Cheesecake Factory.

Troya worked in America’s unhealthiest industry sector, but she was fashion-model fit and always looked fresh as a DKNY runway at Paris Fashion Week. We were Manhattan’s hottest couple for quite a while, until she dumped me. My personal appearance could not keep up with her standards.

There wasn’t much I could do about that. Investment banking has an expensive but unimaginative uniform for men: dark pinstripe suit, starched shirt with French cuffs, gold cuff links, silk tie optional. I walked over to say hello, but she brushed me off with a long-distance air kiss and suggested I change my deodorant.

Troya never failed to call out my caveman proclivities, and I had to admit she was right this time. My current state of hygiene was antediluvian. I paused the MBWA excursion and retreated to the spa on 49 for a quick shower.

The place was deserted. I’ve seen enough horror movies to know this was a classic set-up, so I damn sure double-checked everything before stripping down in the locker room. The pool and spa pumps were silent. The Carrera marble in the shower stalls was pristine, and the water was still blistering hot. Nothing dangerous except the smell of too much chlorine.

I lingered for a long time, letting the jets blast away my aches and pains, the sorrows of a lonely life, and a lot of dried blood.

My gym shorts and Nate’s Punisher t-shirt were trashed beyond salvation. I ditched them in favor of an azure Sea Island cotton golf shirt and white linen slacks from my locker. The two-day beard looked pretty good, so I skipped the shave. I rinsed the Mokuba wrecking bar and thought about getting a cross-back scabbard. If it worked for Conan, it would work for me.

Swaggering with energy and smelling like an Old Spice commercial, I headed for John Bardeen’s conference room on 48. The next dynasty of battlebots was already coming off the drawing board, including direct descendants of his original designs and a low-profile stepchild. I was pleased to see that Bardeen was onboard with my no-close-combat policy guidance.

Alice’s intern was debriefing a mesmerized crowd about our amazing food court victory. He was happy to see me and announced that I saved his life by selflessly flinging myself on a killer zombie. I got a round of applause and appreciative side-eye looks from several hot babes. Everybody loves a caveman.

The intern confirmed Lizzie was safe with Peggy Martin. I checked her office on 45. No luck there. I spotted Andrea Aiuto across the floor and whistled. She waved me over and pointed inside her office.

The curtains were drawn and the room was dim, but I could make out two figures on Andrea’s couch. It was Veronica Scarlett, curled protectively around Lizzie in a classic tablespoon and teaspoon cuddle position. Both were sound asleep. Andrea eased the door shut, and we stepped away to talk without disturbing them.

“Is Lizzie all right?” I asked.

“Too early to tell. She knows her mommy works in the Cinnabon, but doesn’t know where to find her. Best I can tell, they were passing the food court Monday morning on their way to daycare when all hell broke loose. Her mom dragged her into the bathroom and told her not to come out for anything. Mommy promised to guard the door against the bad people and never returned.”

I remembered the young food court woman in a Cinnabon shirt, the one carrying a foot in her mouth. Red hair and the right age. I had maneuvered her in front of Alice Abernathy for the slaughter.

“Mom didn’t make it,” I said. “Lizzie’s one of us now.” Andrea gave me a funny look but didn’t say anything.

“Why did you bring in Veronica?” I asked. “Is that a good idea? Veronica’s dealing with her own problems.”

“Peggy says she will benefit from being around Lizzie. Kids process grief faster than adults. Besides, Veronica is an incredible role model, and she has a strong maternal instinct. Lizzie may trigger that.”

Veronica’s strongest instinct was to go for the jugular, but I was willing to concede the possibility she might have the maternal thing, too. After all, I completely missed the Edward relationship. And the red hair could win Lizzie’s trust.

“Good plan,” I said. “I’ll come back later to check on her. And Veronica, of course. If Lizzie can help her bounce back from Edward’s death, the zombies won’t stand a chance.”

Andrea laughed and gave me a fist bump. She smiled, and her voice turned deep and smoky. “There’s something else you need to see.”

We walked to my office, and she stepped aside. The drapes were closed. The room was deep in shadow. A figure was stretched on my couch, dressed in a sports bra, gym shorts, and partially covered by a blanket. I recognized the golden hair and perfectly toned legs.

It was Susie.

Thirty Three

Susie

SOMETHING STRANGE HAPPENED in that instant of recognition. My spine crackled with a thousand volts of electric love. It wasn’t a tingle anymore. It was a lightning bolt. My mouth opened and closed soundlessly. I had no words. No woman ever made me feel this way. Ever. The powerful conjunction of Venus and the crescent moon would not be denied. Fuck the apocalypse.

I couldn’t risk letting Andrea notice. The news would leak. My tough-guy reputation would be destroyed. Thinking fast, I whispered, “Taking a nap, that’s so cute.”

Susie heard my voice and looked up. The right side of her face was swollen and purple. She had a black eye and a dozen Dr. Frankenstein stitches running across her forehead. Her voluptuous lips were swollen beyond recognition, like a bad batch of Tijuana collagen.

I’ve seen cage fights that ended with less damage.

She held out a trembling hand. I flew across the room and knelt beside the couch. Her right side was a continuous bruise from the deltoid across the ribcage to the hip, and down the outer thigh to her shapely calf. Her knee displayed a giant contusion that shamed my own little head bump. Her ankle was wrapped in a compression bandage. She tried to speak, but could barely open her mouth.

Deep anger replaced my love buzz. I turned on Andrea.

“What happened? Why didn’t someone tell me?” My face twisted in a battle between despair and rage.

“Ah ha!” she crowed. “You are so busted. Anjali and Sylvia were right. You’re just a big teddy bear, aren’t you?”

My mouth opened and closed. No words.

“You can stop worrying. She’s going to be fine. It looks worse than it is. Trust me.”

Again, no words.

“She was outside in a harness flushing out the zombies on 23. The wind picked up, and a big gust slammed her against the glass. She was lights out and tangled in the cat 5 for almost ten minutes, until Ronnie pulled her up. I got there two minutes later for an assessment. No concussion. Maybe a cracked rib. Sprained her ankle. She’ll live.”

Ronnie’s subtle hesitation during our food court staff meeting flashed into my short-circuited brain. He didn’t exactly lie, but “a few people got bumps and bruises” wasn’t quite the whole truth and nothing but the truth. As I stared helplessly at Susie, she managed a feeble little smile with the left side of her grotesquely swollen mouth.

I turned to Andrea and managed to sputter, “Why didn’t anybody tell me she was out there?”

Andrea laughed. “We wanted to! But Susie made us promise to wait. She didn’t want you distracted in the garage with all those zombies.”

That revelation was gasoline on my fire. “She knew I was down there? How did she find out? Who betrayed me? Was it Sylvia? I’ll chain her in the mailroom for the rest of her miserable life. She’ll never work in this town again. Nobody trusts an executive assistant who can’t keep a secret.”

Andrea laughed, louder this time. Susie managed a painful giggle.

“No, you simple silly man. Sylvia preserved the precious sanctity of your executive order. She didn’t spill the beans to Susie. She told Peggy and Anjali, and they told Susie. See? No breach of trust!”

My mouth opened and closed again. I had no words. My own people were conspiring against me. It was my fault for trusting an investment banker. My lust for payback turned to utter frustration, and I wailed against the injustice, “Why? Why?”

“Listen, sweetheart,” Andrea said patiently to the slow learner. “You don’t keep secrets from the people you care about. Peggy told Susie because she needed to know you were in danger. What if something happened? She would never forgive herself.”

“But, but…” I stammered. “That’s not fair. Susie didn’t tell me she was hanging outside with nothing but a sheet of glass between her and a room full of hungry fucking zombies. How is that different?”

“Because Susie asked us not to tell you, so we didn’t. Girls stick together. It takes a village.” She folded her arms and ended the debate.

There are only two things I’ll never understand: women and algebra. I tore my eyes away from Susie’s battered face.

“Is there anything I can do for her?”

“Yes,” soothed Andrea. “You can go away and let her sleep. I only brought you here so you’ll stop asking, ‘How’s everybody doing?’ when everybody knows you really mean, ‘How’s Susie?’ It’s so annoying.”

I shut my mouth and sat on the floor, holding Susie’s hand. After five minutes, Andrea kicked me out, so her patient could rest.

As I rose to leave, Susie beckoned to me. Her soft breath in my ear sent another thousand volts racing down my spine. She whispered the three words every manly man longs to hear from a beautiful woman.

“You smell good.”

The power of Old Spice.

Thirty Four

Crisis Counseling

ALL THINGS CONSIDERED, I was a pretty happy guy as Andrea dragged me away. My visit cheered Susie up. No need to hide my feelings anymore. Old Spice was still magic, despite the zombie apocalypse. I whistled a merry little aria on our way back to the stairwell. La donna è mobile.

“There’s one more thing I need, while you’re in such a good mood,” said Andrea. “Talk to the people who are still in shock. Get them engaged in something productive, something small. Shift their focus away from everything they’ve lost.”

I wasn’t sure how I could help. The suffering of others never moves me. Sure, Anjali’s tearful breakdown showed that despite my hard life, I was still capable of a little empathy. But ten minutes in a dark stairwell wasn’t enough for a career in trauma therapy. Nevertheless, good leaders make sacrifices, so I told Andrea, “Okay. Let’s do it. We need all hands on deck.”

The stricken grinders were camped around a Herman Miller double-pod near Andrew Jarrod’s office. Blankets, couch cushions, water bottles, and candy wrappers littered the floor. Andrea said it was a good spot because the pod was overflowing with foliage. Rampaging English ivy, spiderwort, lemon balm, all the best office plants. She said green was a peaceful and calming color for stressed-out people.

I thought the vibe was enough to trigger PTSD in a Vietnam vet, but kept my mouth shut.

There were six grinders in their mid-twenties and one very shapely woman in her late forties, a former exotic dancer named Roberta Greenleaf. Andrew hired her to perform at a corporate dinner for our Saudi clients, and she became his executive assistant. He bragged to me, “She can keep…uh, everything moving at once.”

An excellent skill set for investment banking.

The huge plant collection belonged to her. How could she find time to do Andrew’s work and take care of a tree farm? Andrea whispered in my ear, “Don’t judge.”

One by one, their stories came tumbling out. Talking to the boss is cathartic, I guess. Most were in shock about their missing family members and significant others, lost on Bloody Monday in Manhattan. Two women were worried about their cats. Another had been on the phone with her boyfriend as zombies ripped him apart in the NBC lobby at 30 Rock. She was a municipal bond analyst for Andrew Jarrod, and he was a joke writer for Seth Meyer, the only freeze-dried comedian revived after the UN finally banned cryogenics.

Roberta Greenleaf was unmarried and had a big extended family in New Jersey, just like Peggy Martin. They lived outside the Manhattan Quarantine Zone, but the National Guard locked everything down anyway because of random zombie outbreaks. Roberta was terrified of losing her nieces and nephews, although it sounded like her clan was full of Jersey tough guys who would take good care of them.

Everyone was in a deep despair created by two fruitless days trying to reach family, friends, and neighbors on their cell phones. The circuits were jammed. Connections were few and far in between. Text messages were hardly better, with long delays between send and receive. Now, the power was gone, and their cell phone batteries were dying. My lonely empathy neuron signaled that “not knowing” was a big part of their anxiety and stress.

I listened for almost two hours as they talked themselves out. When they fell silent, I described our plan to clear the building and stockpile nonperishable food supplies.

They were impressed when I told them about that first window and the zombie waterfall on Monday night. They smiled at the story of Edward Scissorhead slashing his way across the horde. They laughed out loud at Alice Abernathy and her bolt gun starring in “No Country for Old Zombies.” Their biggest reaction came when I said Anjali was recharging all the cell phones. Huge grins and scattered applause.

“Look,” I declared. “We’re winning. Homeland Security knows we’re here and has scheduled a rescue.”

I left out the part about the Indian call center. Selective amnesia is one of the most important executive skills.

“Some of you will be reunited, and some of you will get bad news. You’ll learn, one way or another, what happened. But only if you survive long enough for the rescue. That means grinding it out. Turn over every stone, and loot every pension fund.”

Heads nodded all around.

I was pitching hard, and they were buying it. What choice did they have? My marketing skills are so good I can sell Arctic Circle condos to Florida retirees. Resistance is futile.

After a group hug, they elected Roberta Greenleaf as their team leader and trooped off to help Anjali build her power plant on the roof. I knew she would put them to good use, and the fresh air and sunshine might be therapeutic. Heal the sick, as somebody famous once said. I can’t remember who.

“Thanks, that was surprisingly well done,” Andrea said when we were alone again. “You hit them with the right combination of sympathy and hard facts. To be honest, I didn’t think you could do it. You’re usually such an obnoxious prick. Now, let’s go talk to Christine. She’s waiting in her office.”

I was puzzled. “Christine? Hasn’t she turned? I thought she was gonna tear out somebody’s throat during the last staff meeting. When are you planning to put her down?”

“What? Put her down? You think she got bit? Oh my God, you’re such a fucking moron.”

“She’s infected,” I said stoutly. “I mean, look at her, for chrissakes. Bloodshot eyes, runny nose. She’s a worm wriggling on a hot sidewalk. This is not the Christine LaCroix who grabs the biggest annual bonus every year. This is not the brilliant dealmaker who invented my all-time favorite grift, sewer-line insurance for suburban homeowners. Face the facts. She’s turning into a zombie. We can’t stop it.”

Andrea sighed. “You are an oblivious, clueless idiot. Christine is a major coke-head. Everybody knows, except you. Her dealer disappeared last Friday. Tuesday was the first day of withdrawal symptoms. Christine’s a wreck right now, but she’ll recover.”

One of my superpowers is the ability to read people and judge books by their covers. Or so I thought. Apparently, Christine’s legendary ability to hit the big score was based on pharmaceuticals, not talent. That had escaped me, somehow.

I shrugged. “Well, to be fair, the symptoms are very similar.”

Andrea rolled her eyes. “Sure, let’s go with that. In the meantime, come talk to her. She feels bad enough that she can’t get any coke, and even worse because there’s no chance of a bonus this year. You know how important that is to her.”

I had to admit, it all made sense. Coke is an endemic problem in the investment banking industry. The hours are long, the egos are huge, and the money is insane. If not for the zombie apocalypse, Christine could have continued grinding happily for many years, cashing those big bonus checks, and periodically burning a hole in her septum. That was not a problem. DCH has a world-renowned nose specialist on confidential call at Manhattan Septoplasty LLC.

We found Christine in her office with a dozen bottles of Gatorade. No need to search for her hidden coke stash. That was long gone.

She looked better than the last time I saw her. Freshly showered, clean honey-blonde hair in a neat ponytail, wearing an oversize DCH t-shirt and tight black jeans. Her eyes were still bloodshot but her nose had stopped running.

We had a short conversation about helping the team. I told her to manage the worst of the withdrawal first, and then we’d find a role for her. “Something simple,” I said, “until you get back to your old self.”

Christine relaxed. I can be a total hard-ass, so she must have feared I would throw her to the zombies. To be honest, the thought had occurred to me. She gave me a big hug and curled up on the couch again, shivering slightly. Andrea covered her with a blanket, and we left, so she could address her demons in private.

Andrea was pleased. “You did great. I thought you’d rip her a new one. That’s your normal reaction to anyone who screws up.”

“Always comfort the sick and wounded. It’s good for morale.” The orphanage taught me to help people when the bullies got out of hand, and someone got hurt. Survival means sticking together. I didn’t mention that part to Andrea.

I left her contemplating my incredible leadership skills and went back to check on Lizzie and Veronica. They were still sleeping like spoons in Andrea’s office.

Lizzie hadn’t slept in two days. I couldn’t imagine the horror of being locked in a public toilet during the zombie apocalypse and emerging to find your mother gone. A grim sense of resolve came over me, and I started thinking about everything we needed until the rescue came. Fresh clothes, food, maybe a little one-girl daycare center. I would teach her the fundamentals of investment banking. Establish a full DCH scholarship at Harvard. This particular orphan would not go unloved.

Then, my heart skipped a beat, and my brain locked up. Daycare. Lizzie was on her way to daycare when the zombie apocalypse erupted.

I raced to the roof and grabbed Anjali.

Thirty Five

Little People

ANJALI LOCATED OUR MAPPING INTERNS after a frantic half hour of radio calls. She found them with Ronnie in the food court, studying the restaurant trade under Chef Gordon’s gentle, patient guidance. Anjali fired questions while I stared at their whiteboard diagram in the CEO’s ruined office.

“Yes ma’am,” they answered in unison. “There’s a full daycare center on the second floor.”

The second floor was deep dark red. Full of zombies and far beyond Bardeen’s Threshold, the effective altitude limit for my gravity-driven zombie flushing system.

“No ma’am. We couldn’t see inside. There are no cameras covering that space. Only a hallway camera pointed at the door.”

Anjali had saved many hours of security cam footage, planning to review it for useful zombie behavioral patterns. She scrolled to the second floor video at lightning speed, but found nothing useful.

Ronnie took the radio from the interns and sent them back to culinary school. He asked, “What do you want to do, John?”

“We have to check it out,” I said. “There could be kids in there.”

Although she said nothing at first, I could tell Anjali was surprised at my suggestion. Ronnie and I hatched a quick scheme to reconnoiter the daycare center. The outline of a rescue plan nudged the edge of my consciousness, in case we found survivors.

Anjali looked at me. “Are you sure about this, John? Do you know what you’re doing? The chances of finding anyone still alive are almost zero. Is it worth risking your life?”

“It’s worth it to me,” I said. “My life, my call.”

She nodded carefully and smiled. “Understood. Should I tell Susie?”

Various responses scrolled across my brain. Yes? No? Maybe? Admiral Ackbar whispered in my ear, “It’s a trap!” One bad reply could mean the end.

“Mmm…of course you should tell her.”

That was surely the correct answer but, in case it was a trick question, I decided to hedge my bets.

“That is, if you don’t think she’ll…uh, worry too much.”

Anjali smiled again. “She’ll be fine. I’ll let her know.”

I grabbed an LED light strip and headed for the fourth floor. My headache and nausea returned after a dozen flights of stairs, just like Andrea Aiuto promised. I paused in the stairwell to catch my breath and wash down four Tylenol. “No Advil with head injuries,” Andrea had warned. Might cause bleeding in the brain. Great.

Ronnie and the Roman crane team were waiting for me on the south side. It was late afternoon by the time I arrived. They had smashed a window for egress and were ready to strap me into the Aeron chair. Ronnie provided a legal pad and a black Sharpie. They dangled me outside while I adjusted the safety harness and then lowered me to the second floor.

Daytime dangling was dramatically different from my nighttime adventure. No more Soviet cosmonaut on a glittering space walk. The broad avenue was a stunning hellscape filled with undead Manhattanites, burning buildings, wrecked cars, and twirling trash tornadoes. Hundreds of flattened zombies covered the sidewalks next to our building, sticky testimony to my brilliant plan and the awesome natural power of gravity.

Zombies on the third floor spotted me as I passed. They hurled themselves against the window, drawn by the promise of an afternoon snack. The ground-level horde was a boiling school of piranhas. Feeding time at the aquarium.

I was about 25 feet above those snapping jaws. The chittering was louder than the crowd at an NCAA Final Four. An image of Susie in a smoking hot UVA cheerleader outfit popped into my brain. I shook my head to refocus.

Late afternoon sun reflected off the glass and blinded me as I peered inside a small second-floor office. I shaded my eyes and jumped when someone peered back.

It was a cute young brunette woman in a pink polo shirt, khaki shorts, and a name badge. Kelli from Manhattan Daycare LLC. She looked terrified and excited at the same time. A petite blonde in a matching uniform joined her. Ellie.

They were dancing with joy and trying to talk through the glass, but I couldn’t hear them over the zombie roar. I wrote a message on Ronnie’s legal pad and held it against the window.

“How many?”

Kelli grabbed a purple crayon and some paper. Big block letters straight out of a first-grade writing workbook.

“2 adults & 20 kids. Help us!”

I flashed two thumbs up and called Ronnie. The radio reception was better than inside the elevator shaft, but the zombie noise made it hard to hear.

“Ronnie, we got a lot of survivors. Let’s get ready to pull them out.”

Ronnie said something in reply that I couldn’t understand. I pressed the radio against my ear. He shouted, “Look down.”

I spread my knees and looked between them. The zombie horde seemed a little closer, as if my chair was dropping down. But the chair hadn’t moved at all.

The street zombies were scrambling over themselves to form a growing cheerleader pyramid. There was slippage off to the sides, but no shortage of cheerleaders. They were getting closer. Sooner or later, their pyramid would reach the second floor.

I wrote another note to Kelli. “We can rescue you, but it will take time. How strong is your door?”

She selected a periwinkle crayon. “Strong. Active shooter door.”

I nodded and scribbled, “One hour. We’ll punch out this window. Stay in the other room.”

Ellie’s eyes grew large, and she pounded on the glass. Kelli broke a neon-orange crayon writing, “No!!! Don’t leave!!!” She grabbed a red crayon and added two heart emojis.

“I’ll be back. Promise. Get them ready.”

Kelli sat on the desk in a frustrated huff, but what choice did she have? I signaled Ronnie, and the team cranked me up at warp speed.

We figured it would take half an hour to haul the children out, two at a time. The cheerleaders would reach us before then, unless we could reduce their numbers. We had to lure them away from the southern face of the building. I sat down and pondered the problem.

Zombies are a lot like individual investors. Easily tricked and prone to stampede. Simply show them a prospectus and promise a great return. We call it the Law of Small Investors, the mutual fund industry’s secret to success. That’s why there are more mutual funds than listed companies. Don’t talk to me about ETFs.

It took almost two hours of hard selling. We launched the marketing plan by smashing windows at the southeast and southwest corners of the fourth floor. The noise attracted a few early movers from the fringes of the herd.

Ronnie and I climbed out the windows in our harnesses and turned up the volume. Series A investors moved in fast, which triggered a split into “growth” and “value” cohorts swarming toward the fresh opportunities. We dangled outside, shouting and waving for twenty minutes until we captured the attention of every zombie within a hundred yards.

At that point, Ronnie’s team snatched us inside and immediately broke windows on the northeast and northwest corners, where we dangled two interns with another investment thesis. I made a mental note to ask the Vice President for Human Resources if there were limits on what we could do with our interns. Using them as zombie bait might be considered mildly abusive by certain people.

The interns pitched a new DCH Global Stock Fund. The zombies dutifully stampeded toward them and gathered enthusiastically around the northern corners of the building.

Twenty minutes later, we shattered a window in the middle of the north face. A handsome intern swung through and announced the launch of a guaranteed South American gold mining venture. Nobody asked who provided the guarantee. The growth and value herds reassembled and demanded a piece of the action. As Robert Palmer once said, simply irresistible.

With the herd reunited, Ronnie and I jumped back into action on the south face of the building. The street was unnervingly quiet. The grinders lowered me to the second floor, and I heated the center of the window with a propane torch. When it started to glow a dull red, I turned off the torch and sprayed the hot glass with a big red CO2 fire extinguisher.

There was a loud pop and the sound of tinkling rain. A few glass fragments landed in my lap but most of them cascaded straight down, bouncing off the windowsill and falling to the street. I made a mental note to double Peggy’s annual bonus.

Kelli and Ellie heard the noise and rushed into the office. Ronnie cut me some slack, and I scrambled inside.

They were bouncing with excitement and both talking at the same time. I tried shushing them, but nothing worked until I remembered how the Headmaster maintained order. Clap, clap, clap-clap-clap. They fell silent, awaiting further instructions. I could feel the power.

“Here’s what we’re gonna do,” I said. “One of you will ride up first, then I’ll buckle two kids at a time, and you’ll meet them on the other end to take them off.”

They looked at each other and reached some sort of unspoken agreement. Kelli went into the other room to get the children. Ellie climbed into the Aeron chair. She was about eighteen years old. I figured she was earning minimum wage to save someone else’s children from the zombie apocalypse. She looked scared, and I suggested she close her eyes.

Ellie nodded and squinched her eyes shut, a kid getting her shots in the doctor’s office. No lollipop. I signaled Ronnie to lift her out as Kelli brought the children into the room. They were armed with jackets, shoes, backpacks, and lunchboxes. All about the same age as Lizzie. Quiet and well-behaved. Utterly terrified.

The chair reappeared, carrying the blue-haired Nicole Edwards in a DCH tank top and shorts. She was covered with brilliant ink that Nate would have died for. The kids stared at her in awe. They hardly noticed as Kelli and I strapped two of them on Nicole’s lap. She wrapped her arms around both and vamped outrageously to keep their attention focused on her beautiful happy face and away from the ruptured bodies on the street below.

By the time Nicole returned, the kids were eagerly jostling for position. “Me! I wanna go next!” I did the clapping thing, and they fell back in line. Kelli looked impressed. I thought about a second career as a teacher but dropped the idea in a nanosecond. Teaching is way too stressful. I’ll stick to investment banking.

The exfil was textbook perfect. I strapped them with Nicole, and Ellie took them off at the top of the ride. Kelli used the time to bundle books, toys, and whatever else she thought might come in handy. We loaded the kiddie gear once the kiddies were gone.

Kelli went last, leaving me alone in the daycare. The place was neat and clean, despite three days under zombie siege. Books in the bookshelves, toys in their cubbies, and a well-fed hamster running on its wheel. The door had a bulletproof steel core and was solidly bolted. Stout defense against an active shooter, perhaps, but the irresistible force of a zombie horde had loosened the hinges. Kelli and Ellie never noticed. I tried to imagine how they kept the kids quiet long enough for the zombies to lose interest. Another surge would have busted the hinges, followed by a living nightmare.

I peeped out the peephole and flinched when a bloodshot eyeball peeped in. The corridor was full of zombies. The eyeball’s owner chittered, and the horde joined him, slamming against the door.

Time to go. I ran into the small office, hit the brakes, and doubled back to grab the hamster cage. The steel door crashed open. The zombies tumbled in. They tangled each other long enough for me to reach the Aeron chair, still clinging to the hamster cage. The zombie waterfall flowed through the window as Ronnie’s team pulled me out of danger. One of the diving zombies snagged my departing ankle with his outstretched hand. Close, but no cigar.

The kids cheered when I stepped onto the fourth floor, crowding around to give me miniature high-fives and leg hugs. Kelli cried when I handed her the hamster cage.

Ronnie had summoned a full platoon of grinders. The kids ate little or no food for three days, so he figured they couldn’t climb fifty flights of stairs. Each grinder hoisted a fully-equipped child on their back, and off they went. Kelli and Ellie gave me warm hugs and followed the column, lugging school supplies and the hamster.

Before she disappeared, Kelli turned and looked at me.

“Hey,” she said. “What’s your name?”

“Carthage,” I said. “John Carthage.”

“John, you got any kids?”

I shook my head.

She smiled. “You do now.”

Thirty Six

Edward

RONNIE AND I STOOD BY THE WINDOW feeling pretty good about ourselves. He was a quiet guy, but he was also a superstar. I loved working with him. The typical investment banker is a braying jackass. Watch Shark Tank for ten minutes, and you’ll see what I mean.

Ronnie was different. All the top firms in Manhattan tried to poach him from DCH at one time or another. He turned them down because of his intense loyalty to us. Also, I matched every offer he got.

His unselfish nature kept him from climbing higher in the investment banking world. Ronnie preferred the admiration of his co-workers over the carnal struggle for status and power. Very unusual. He loved the deals, not the ladder. We shared that preference. I didn’t want the CEO suite. I wanted money and perks, two things in very short supply when I was growing up.

“Happy children,” said Ronnie. “And very lucky. What made you decide to rescue them?”

“Didn’t really think about it. Wouldn’t do it again. High risk, low reward. Waste of resources for a bunch of kids.”

Ronnie smiled. “Mmm…sure. Well, they were very fortunate.”

I watched the street horde ebb and flow. Without a dangling intern to capture their attention, the zombies lost interest in our portfolio and returned to their wandering ways.

A loose pattern emerged, an eddy in an oily roadside puddle. They trailed along the side of our skyscraper and meandered across the plaza to DCH Condos about 75 yards away. They shuffled past the entrance and back toward us for a repeat journey. An endless loop.

It reminded me of a stock broker churning his client’s retirement portfolio. Sell tech, buy transports. Sell transports, buy tech. Collect your commission at every stage. The circle of life on Wall Street.

Every little movement or sound attracted part of the horde. Wind-blown trash didn’t hold their attention for long, but pigeons and gray squirrels became objects of relentless desire.

The pigeons flew away while the squirrels ran for an overhead wire and sat in perfect safety, chittering at the hungry zombies. The zombies chittered back in a creepy dialogue that I couldn’t translate. When the conversation finished, the squirrels disappeared, and the zombies rejoined the endless loop.

I’ve never trusted gray squirrels since then.

“C’mon,” said Ronnie. “Let’s get back to the big casino.”

It was an old insider’s joke about the squares. An investment bank is like a casino. The house always wins, and we’re the house. Only a fool could go broke running a casino.

My blinding headache returned as soon as I tackled the stairs. Ronnie handed over a extra flashlight and left me behind. His footsteps died away, and I was tempted to stop for a short rest. Andrea was right about taking it easy, but I couldn’t afford the time. A few deep breaths quelled my nausea, and I trudged on. Leadership requires sacrifice.

Andrew Jarrod was sprawled on the landing at 29 with Deal Team Six, taking a break from zombie straggler duty. I collapsed on the stairs and gratefully accepted a slug of warm water from his Harvard-themed bottle. Why a successful adult feels the need to carry a collegiate water bottle is beyond me, but I was too tired to comment.

“Uh,…good timing, Carthage,” he twanged. “We…uh, got a serious problem here. You’ve got to take a look.”

My headache surged, and I swore never to visit New England again, no matter how beautiful the fall colors.

“We got serious fucking problems everywhere, Jarrod. What makes this one so special?”

“It’s …uh, Edward. Veronica’s fiancé. He’s in one of the conference rooms. Still alive. Well…uh, sort of. Still moving.”

That was indeed a special problem. If Andrea was right about the Lizzie Effect, we had a chance to bring Veronica back from her personal hell. But if she learned Edward was upright and walking around, she might want to see him, and our plan would unravel faster than a crooked politician at Rikers Island.

“Does Veronica know?” I asked.

“Not yet. I…uh, wasn’t sure if we should tell her. What…uh, do you think we should do?”

That was an easy question. If we told her now, in her debilitated condition, the news might trigger a homicidal rage but she would be too weak to hurt anyone. If we tried to cover up, and she learned about Edward later on, we would face the wrath of a fully operational Death Star armed with a Julia Child carving knife. I squirmed at the thought. That was not a scenario I wanted to handle.

“We have to tell her now.”

Andrew rose to his feet. “Good..uh, luck with that. We’ve got to clear another floor.” He waved at his grinders. “C’mon girls and boys, let’s…uh, ask what we can do for our country.”

They smiled at the old joke and shuffled downstairs, moving like zombies. Perhaps, in the end, we would become indistinguishable.

Delivering bad news is something I’m very good at, probably because my life has been so full of it. I decided to visit Edward for myself, so I could share the details with Veronica.

The 29th floor was a typical law firm layout. Work pods for the paralegals, small offices for the associates, big corner offices for the partners, and glass-walled conference rooms for client meetings. Interior designers always say glass conveys a sense of transparency and honesty. In a Manhattan corporate law firm, that’s the height of delicious irony.

The late afternoon sun bathed everything in a hellish red glow and cast deep shadows behind the pod walls and under the desks. Andrew claimed the floor was completely clear, except for Edward, but I gripped my Mokuba wrecking bar tighter. There was just too much of a zombie jump-scare vibe to take any chances, and the bloody red aura was creeping me out. I walked around the perimeter, using the exterior walls to protect my left flank.

Edward was in a conference room, his bloody forehead pressed against the glass wall as if crying in pain. A handsome guy, and much larger than he looked on the video feed. How did he end up on 29? I shrugged and looked around to find Beth, but the scattered bodies were unrecognizable in the gloom.

He spotted me when I stepped forward. His eyes snapped into focus, and his lips curled back in a snarl, showing his perfect white teeth. He banged on the glass and chittered loudly. When he began hurling his ravaged body against the glass, I retreated out of sight. There was nothing more I could do.

I reached 45 about an hour later and found Andrea. She winced at the news that Edward was still upright and mobile, but agreed we should tell Veronica.

“She’s in the executive offices with Lizzie and the kids. You want some company?”

“No, thanks. Better to do it alone. If she goes postal, only one of us will get hurt.”

Andrea smiled. “You really don’t know Veronica very well, do you?”

“Evidently not,” I shrugged. “But I’m learning fast.”

Kelli and Ellie had transformed our largest executive conference room into a play center. The giant boat-shaped table was littered with coloring books, and they were using our deal trophies as toys. Airbus models from airline acquisitions, a team-signed basketball from our takeover of the Knicks, a four-bladed Skyfish drone from the Shanghai IPO, and a hodgepodge of other souvenirs. They were physical reminders of accomplishments that existed strictly on paper. Investment bankers don’t actually make anything but money.

Lizzie was folding paper into colorful flowers at a table, but she flew into my arms with a scream of delight, which instantly attracted all the other kids. They surrounded me with noisy demands for hugs and pick-ups. It was the most love I have ever felt in my entire life. Better than a swarm of Labrador puppies.

A thousand volts of electricity shot down my spine, and my eyes teared up a little. Just a little.

Totally out of character.

Kelli and Ellie were rolling on the floor with laughter. They waded into the crowd and pulled the kids away. “Let him breathe, let him breathe! Everybody will get a hug!”

I kept Lizzie in my arms. She gave me her biggest hug and a kiss right on the end of my nose. We chatted merrily until I noticed Veronica standing in the far door, drawn by all the commotion. She looked at me, and I bobbed my head toward the other door, signaling I wanted to talk. She nodded and stepped back into the corridor.

“Hey Lizzie,” I said, standing her on the conference table so we were almost eye-to-eye. “Veronica and I need to talk. “Will you be all right?”

“Sure,” she exclaimed. “We’re getting spaghetti and ice cream!”

I kissed her forehead and walked down the corridor to the CEO’s office. Veronica sat on the couch. I selected a comfortable chair with the best escape route to the door.

“Thanks for taking care of Lizzie,” I hesitated. This was harder than I imagined. “She’s had a tough time.”

“Such a sweetheart,” Veronica replied with a smile. “Thanks for rescuing all her friends. They seem to think you’re some sort of superhero, in a fucking golf shirt,” she added with gratuitous sarcasm.

This was good. Maybe the old Veronica was making a comeback.

“Well,” I began modestly.

“So, what do you want, John?” she interrupted. “You didn’t drag me here for a goddamn parent-teacher consultation.”

The old Veronica was back. Time for business. I took a deep breath and told her about Edward. How he wandered down to 29 after Anjali turned off the stairwell video feed. How he trapped himself in the conference room and didn’t slosh out the window with the zombie waterfall. How Deal Team Six found him and didn’t know what to do.

Veronica sat still for five long minutes. I tried not to stare, but couldn’t help noticing she was wearing her standard office attire again; rich silken blouse, heavy gold Bulgari necklace, and a tight black pencil skirt. The heels were spike. The stockings were sheer. The golden-red hair was perfect. The curves were stunning. I felt underdressed in my fucking golf shirt and wrinkled linen slacks, scruffy in my two-day beard. Veronica was a pillar of elegance and smoldering beauty in a world of zombies. How did she do it?

She stirred, and I shook my head to refocus. If Veronica was going to snap, this was the moment. I gathered my legs for a quick escape. She walked to the window and picked up her giant black Hermès purse from the scattered couch cushions where she huddled most of Monday, crying for Edward. She brought it over and pulled out an antique two-shot .45 caliber derringer. I jumped from my chair.

“Here,” she said, handing me the tiny gun. “Put him down. Use this. It was a gift from Edward when we got engaged.”

I hesitated, weighing the pistol in my hand. I knew better than to question one of Veronica’s decisions, but couldn’t resist asking the obvious, burning question.

“Why me?”

“Because I like you,” she replied. “And you won’t fuck it up.”

If that was how Veronica expressed affection, I pitied the poor fool who got on her bad side.

“Besides,” she continued, “Edward always said you were one of the best investment bankers in town. He represented clients in some of your deals and recognized good work when he saw it. We were planning to open a boutique private equity fund next year after our honeymoon. He wanted to poach you from DCH, along with Ronnie Numero, Jane Austen, Peggy Martin, Anjali Khan, and a couple of others. If anybody puts a bullet through his brain, it should be someone he respected. ”

How strange is my life that a guy I didn’t know would want me to shoot him in the head. I stuffed the derringer into my pocket.

“Okay, I’ll take care of him. See you in a couple of hours.” I turned for the door.

“Not tonight, you idiot. It’ll be too fucking dark when you get there. Edward might tackle you in that little room and rip you apart. Then I’ll have to listen to Susie crying again about what a dickhead you are. Wait until tomorrow morning, when the sun comes up and you’ve had a good night’s sleep. And bring back my fucking gun.”

I returned to the big conference room and found a kiddie party already in full swing. Lizzie sat on my lap, tied a white linen napkin around my neck for a bib, and fed me ice cream with a silver spoon. Grinders wandered in to see the children and grab a bowl of pasta before it all disappeared. Anjali dropped by to accept a Nobel Prize for figuring out how to power a walk-in freezer fast enough to save three flavors of ice cream: chocolate, vanilla, and strawberry.

Kelli and Ellie led sing-alongs and strange musical games that favored enthusiasm over any sense of rhythm or pitch, so even I was able to participate. Veronica returned, carrying an ancient boom box from the CEO’s electronic gadget collection. She cranked up a prime selection of classic hip hop and boogied with all the little boys. Thankfully, the music was too loud for the kids to understand the lyrics. Raunchy enough to make an investment banker blush.

I experienced a sudden epiphany as I watched the chaos. A dance with Veronica might permanently spoil those boys for any other woman. Her sultry allure would always be seared in their little boy brains, even when they became big boys. What mortal woman could ever compete with that memory? The comparison would knee-cap any future romantic relationship. I made a mental note to connect everyone with the Manhattan Academy of Pediatric Psychologists for a few post-apocalypse therapy sessions.

The kids were full of pent-up energy after hiding from the monsters for almost three days, but they still got sleepy when the sun went down. Little heads started nodding, so Kelli and Ellie marched everyone off to bed. I gave Lizzie a goodnight peck and slipped away.

My office was dark, with barely enough moon glow to light my way across the room. Susie was asleep on the couch, breathing deep and steadily. I watched for a long time, and then curled up on the floor beside her with my arm for a pillow.

The end of another long day.

Thirty Seven

Killing Edward

I WOKE WITH A JOLT. Someone kicked my foot. Again. The sunlight was bright and painful. My head was throbbing. My stomach rumbled.

“Wake up…uh, princess. We got work to do.” It was Andrew Jarrod and his brain-scraping New England accent. Behind him, Ronnie Numero was propped in an armchair. Both were dressed in DCH t-shirts and gym shorts. Ronnie had a steaming cup of coffee and was spooning kumquat marmalade onto thickly buttered chunks of a freshly baked baguette.

“Where’s Susie?” I groaned. Ronnie laughed so abruptly that coffee came through his nose.

“For…uh, chrissake, Carthage,” said Andrew. “Give the poor girl a break. She went to the spa for some physical therapy with Andrea. She’s banged up and…uh, maybe she doesn’t want you to see her.”

“Or maybe,” added Ronnie, “she can’t stand looking at you. There’s a hunchback growing from the side of your head.”

My fingers probed the painful lump above my ear. It got a lot bigger overnight. A lot bigger.

Nevertheless, duty called. I ate my share of the warm baguette, finished Ronnie’s coffee for him, and set off to kill Edward. Welcome to another beautiful day in downtown Manhattan.

Andrew and Ronnie seemed to know all about my mission. They trudged down to 29 with me and stood guard as I stepped in front of the conference room.

Edward was frozen in place, waiting for me to end his misery. I held up Veronica’s derringer. His eyes flickered, and he threw his whole body at the glass panel. I heard his collarbone crack. A corner of the frame popped loose. He hurled himself against the glass again and again, in a savage, mindless assault.

I waited until he battered the frame loose. When he tried to step through, I grabbed his tie, touched the derringer to his forehead, and pulled the trigger. Bang.

The back of his head exploded, spraying the conference room with blood, brains, and skull fragments. His face went slack, almost peaceful, and his body slumped backwards into a chair. My headache spiked from the deafening gunshot in such a small space.

“Goodbye, Edward,” I muttered. “Veronica sends her love.”

Andrew broke the silence. “Uh…I’m not cleaning that up.”

There is no love lost between deal lawyers.

I ignored Andrew and checked Edward’s pockets for anything Veronica might want. Nothing worth keeping. She didn’t strike me as the sentimental type, but you never know what you’ll learn during the zombie apocalypse.

We checked the entire floor again, just to be safe, and radioed Bella Brique that the 29th was clear for her gleaners.

I stopped at Edward’s office on 30. There was a picture of them on his desk where nobody else could see it. James Bond and Jessica Rabbit vamping for the camera at a swanky Manhattan costume ball. I put it in my pocket for Veronica. She made a great Jessica Rabbit.

Veronica was waiting for me in the CEO’s office, staring morosely out the windows. I was afraid she might be losing her shit again, until she turned around and glared at me.

“About fucking time. Did you decide to have a late breakfast?”

She held out her hand, and I dropped the pistol into it. When I tried to give her the photo, she waved it off.

“He’s dead. It’s over.”

I took a deep breath. Veronica was a tough woman, but hard hearts need love, too. I held it out again.

“You’ll thank me later. Don’t argue.”

She paused. And took the photo.

“Get out now, I have work to do.”

As I passed through the door, she whispered, “Thank you, John.”

The kids were on the roof with Kelli and Ellie, making paper airplanes from antique corporate bonds. Amazon. Facebook. Snapchat. They sailed over the plaza and caught thermal updrafts from the sun-warmed pavement fifty stories below. Other kids were taking turns on a short zip line that Nicole rigged from cat 5 computer cable. The fresh air lightened my mood and made my throbbing head feel a little better. Ellie blew me a kiss.

Lizzie was playing with a little kite made from Monday’s Wall Street Journal, the last one ever published. It fluttered on a reel of yarn unraveled from a senior partner’s expensive Nepali carpet. She giggled with joy the whole time. I wanted to stand there forever, watching her laugh and play, but the radio crackled for my immediate attention, ruining the priceless moment.

It was Ronnie. “Come to the restaurant. We have a problem.”

Thirty Eight

Eat the Chef

RONNIE SAT AT A BIG ROUND TABLE near the south-facing windows. Chef Gordon and Chef Bobby were seated on opposite sides, glaring at each other. Sylvia Sakura camped between them like a UN peacekeeper. Or the referee in a cage match.

I grabbed a cup of Sterno-warm coffee from the waitress station and plopped down across from Sylvia. Ronnie jumped right into the problem. No preliminaries.

“John, bottom line, we don’t have enough food. Our haul from the restaurants and food court was lower than projected, and now we have twenty-two extra mouths to feed. We’re going to end up with a twenty-five percent shortfall.”

“Kids? How much can they eat? They’re so small. Ellie and Kelli aren’t much larger.”

Sylvia laughed, and the celebrity chefs rolled their eyes.

“That’s the whole point,” sighed Ronnie. “They’re children, growing children. Emphasis on the word ‘growing.’ They eat like little wolves. And not just anything. Fish jerky does not pair well with three-year-olds. They want the good stuff. Pizza, mac ’n cheese, ramen, doughnuts. You saw what they did to the spaghetti and ice cream last night. It was a massacre.”

“Even though the fucking pasta was overcooked,” muttered Chef Gordon. Chef Bobby lunged across the table, but Sylvia smacked his ear with the flat of her hand.

“NO! We talked about this. Sit down.”

Bobby sat down, rubbing his ear and looking daggers at Gordon, who smirked and sat back with folded arms.

“What about Anjali’s freezer? Don’t we have milk and cheese on ice for them? That was supposed to be a priority.”

Ronnie shook his head. “Anjali only has one freezer. It’s running on batteries and might not last more than a few days. We’re gorging on the fresh stuff as fast as we can, so it doesn’t go to waste. Andrea wants to fatten everybody now, before we’re down to nothing but dried meat and pickled vegetables.”

That triggered a mindless argument over the virtues of pickling versus salting. The two prima donnas screamed at each other. Sylvia screamed at the prima donnas. Ronnie screamed at everyone.

The screaming did not pair well with my aching brain. I picked up my Mokuba wrecking bar and swung it from behind my head, hitting the table with a loud crack and making the coffee cups jump.

“Time out!” I screamed.

They stopped arguing and looked at me in shock.

I sat down in a huff and glared out the window. My hot rage with the squabbling chefs slammed into my profound anxiety about Lizzie and the apocalypse. But then, I blinked, and my mind rebooted. The light bulb flickered on. The solution was staring me in the face.

“I know where’s more food, a lot more,” I announced. “We just have to take it from the zombies.”

Ronnie cocked a doubting eyebrow at me.

The celebrity chefs kept clawing at each other, so I exiled them to their respective kitchens; Chef Gordon to the basement food court and Chef Bobby to the mid-level restaurants. Sylvia breathed a sigh of relief and clutched her pearl choker.

“Thanks, John. You have no idea what those two assholes have been putting me through.”

I tapped the Mokuba on the table. “Keep them busy and keep them away from me. When they finish working, I may throw them to the zombies as an example for the others. Be sure to tell them.”

Sylvia tapped a note on her iPad. She knew I wasn’t joking.

“So, what are you talking about?” asked Ronnie. “We’ve scoured this building from top to bottom. There’s no more food.”

“We’re gonna go shopping.”

“How the fuck are you going do that?”

“Get everyone together, and I’ll tell you.”

Thirty Nine

The Council of Carthage

RONNIE AND SYLVIA spread the word by security radio and sneaker express. My key staff assembled quickly in the big conference room on 48, surrounded by the remains of the kids’ spaghetti dinner.

The room was designed to impress our clients and intimidate our adversaries. DCH interior decorators have a vast budget, and they know how to use it. The walls were covered with priceless works by the old masters. Giotto. Titian. Bush. But now, a splatter of ice cream blended subtly into a large canvas by Jackson Pollock. An Andy Warhol print had been improved by new crayon accents.

Andrew Jarrod scraped a spot of day-old pasta sauce from the Brazilian mahogany conference table and sucked pensively on his fingernail. Nausea resurfaced to rejoin my now-constant headache.

The team leaders were there, along with my top guns Peggy Martin, Anjali Khan, and Jane Austen. Andrea Aiuto helped Susie reach a chair near my end of the boat-shaped table. Susie walked awkwardly, and her face was still painfully swollen, but she gave me a smile and a very sexy wink. Tingle, tingle.

Nicole Edwards and Maria Torres sat together with Kelli and Ellie, the daycare girls. John Bardeen sat with Roberta Greenleaf, and I swear they played footsies under the table. My executive therapy session worked wonders for her.

Bella Brique and Veronica Scarlett were the last to arrive. They were chattering in French and took seats at the far end. A low murmur filled the room as people greeted each other and asked about the latest global market news. Nobody had any.

I couldn’t find a gavel, so I rapped on the table with my wrecking bar. The room fell silent, and they looked at me with anticipation.

“Thanks for coming, everybody,” I began. General laughter. My staff meetings were never optional. Skip one meeting, and you earned an intense private meeting with me. Skip two, and you were looking for a different job.

“First of all, I want to recognize a couple of newcomers, Kelli Kinder and Ellie Enfant from Manhattan Daycare LLC. These incredible teachers singlehandedly saved twenty children from the zombie fucking apocalypse. Compared to them, the rest of you are part-time tellers at a neighborhood credit union.”

Standing ovation for Kelli and Ellie. They smiled and blushed.

“Second, let’s recognize our two celebrity chefs, Gordon and Bobby. They stepped up to the challenge and, thanks to their heroic efforts, we have enough food in storage to cover about seventy-five percent of our needs for the next three months.”

Translation: we’re going to starve. Putting a positive twist on bad news is a key executive skill. Watch the CEO interviews on CNBC after a bad set of quarterly reports, and you’ll see what I mean. Those guys could spin for the White House.

“Third,” I tapped on the table again. “A moment of silence for Archie Briggs and Henry Hunnicutt, who sacrificed everything for a bunch of their fellow douchebags.”

Heads nodded around the table. A few people crossed themselves, which was surprising. Most investment bankers are godless heathens. Senior banking executives embrace the Satanic rites, including the goat sacrifices. Why else do you think Federal Reserve meetings are closed to the public?

I cleared my throat. “But we’re not done yet. Unless we get more food, their sacrifice will be wasted. We can’t let that happen. So, I found a solution.”

Dramatic pause.

“We’re gonna take out another building.” Gasps of surprise and disbelief all around.

Two interns brought in a big flip chart and solemnly unveiled a detailed building diagram of a fifty-story skyscraper. I tapped it with the claw end of my wrecking bar.

“This is DCH Condos, our twin skyscraper across the plaza. One of Bella Brique’s biggest projects.”

Everyone turned reflexively, glanced out the window, and nodded with respect to Bella. We made a killing on that deal.

“It’s an ultra-luxury residential condo building, about five hundred units. Ten units per floor except on the penthouse level, which is a single unit the size of a small château. Belongs to a pharmaceutical executive. You all know how drug dealers flaunt their money. Worse than hedge fund guys.”

Heads bobbed in agreement all around.

I continued. “Most owners ran for the Hamptons when the apocalyptic shit hit the Manhattan fan, so there won’t be a lot of zombies in there. There are five hundred kitchens waiting to be plundered. Best of all, the design includes a flagship Wegmans grocery store on the ground floor. It should still be stocked. The fresh food will be spoiled by the time we arrive, but canned and dry foods, powdered milk, juice boxes, and ramen will be in good supply.”

Silence. I could tell what they were thinking. Seventy-five yards across a zombie-filled plaza with no place to hide? Might as well try to reach the Wegmans on Mars, the one next to the AMC Multiplex.

Right on schedule, ODD seized control of Andrew Jarrod. “Uh…how the fuck are we going to…uh, get there?”

“Easy. We’re going the build the longest zip line in Manhattan.”

The room exploded in protest. I was Gandalf, telling the council Frodo must take the Ring to Mordor.

“Everyone’s a critic,” I muttered.

They shouted at me until they ran out of words and started shouting at each other. Then I pounded that Mokuba wrecking bar on the Brazilian mahogany conference table. A dozen times. Until splinters were flying. Until everyone shut up.

You could hear a pin drop.

“Here’s the deal, people,” I roared. “Without more food, we won’t make it. Those kids won’t make it. So I’m gonna take a team and snatch that skyscraper away from the zombies, or die trying. If we succeed, you’ll all get a ride on the nice helicopter. If we fail, that means fewer douchebags to feed, the food will last long enough, and the children will survive. It’s. Non. Fucking. Negotiable.

I punctuated the last three words with more wrecking bar on the table. Slam. Wham. Bam.

“Non-negotiable” is the atomic bomb of investment banking. Your boyfriend shuts the door in your face. Your wife serves you with final divorce papers. Your lawyer petitions the court to withdraw from your fraud case because you’re just too fucking guilty and have no possible defense. The conversation is over. Done.

They sat in stunned silence, digesting everything I said.

Recognizing and managing risk is the heart of every investment banking deal. We were all very good at it. But risk was not the problem here. The tough part of this deal was the potential for self-sacrifice. Investment bankers sacrifice others, not themselves. Look at any banking bailout in history, and you’ll see exactly what I mean. Taxpayers under the bus. Every damn time.

Veronica rose to her feet at the other end of the table. All eyes turned. The sun glinted in her golden-red hair. She was Freya, powering up to cast a spell. She spoke firmly and clearly.

“Look, we all know John is a moron, but he’s right this time. Stop whining, and start helping.” She sat down.

And that settled it. Mom and Dad agree on this. Resistance is futile.

I motioned to the interns, and they flipped to the next page, which contained an outline of the plan and work assignments. I answered questions for the next two hours and sent them off to assemble their teams and make preparations. I gave them 36 hours to get ready. We would attack on Saturday morning.

Everyone else departed, and Veronica joined me at the head of the table. She brushed splinters from a chair and sat down, crossing her long Pilates-toned legs and dangling a Jimmy Choo stiletto from the tip of an expensive, silk-encased toe. My eyes followed it like a hypnotist’s pendulum. I shook my head to refocus.

“That was quite a show, John.”

I was an orphan, and Veronica had no children, but we manipulated the family with the skill of an old married couple.

“Thanks, Veronica. You were perfect. Although I could have done without the ‘moron’ bit.”

She laughed. “You wanted me to sell it, so I did. What was I supposed to call you? Honeybun?”

“Well,” I said with a smile. “You didn’t have to enjoy it so much.”

Veronica laughed again. She was much less frightening this way. I could see how Edward fell for her.

“We’re all square now, right?” she said.

“Yep, you held up your end.”

We talked about the plan for a while. Not the technical details, but rather the people to carry it out. Who among them would quite literally follow me off a cliff? Who would stay behind and help Veronica run the show if everything went belly up? We hammered out an agreement about everyone except Anjali. I wanted her with me, but Veronica wanted to keep her in DCH Tower. Rock, paper, scissors. I won, of course.

Veronica rose to leave. She held out her hand. I reached over to shake it, a sign of respect even among investment bankers.

She slapped my hand away.

“Idiot,” she snapped. “I don’t want to shake your fucking hand. I want my goddamn bullet.”

I reached in my pocket and took out a golden .45 caliber cartridge, which I removed from her derringer after using its brother on Edward.

“I was worried you might…uh, you know. I mean, a two-shot pistol as an engagement present? Two shots? Two people?”

Veronica rolled her eyes. “You really are too much. Did you think our engagement included some sort of sick fucking suicide pact? Jesus H. Christ. I love old Westerns, you stupid fuck. Ever heard of True Grit? Django? Sometimes I wonder what Susie sees in you.”

She snatched the bullet from me and stomped off.

An amazing feat, considering those 5-inch heels.

Forty

Loose Ends

I WANTED TO HOVER over everyone, nagging and wringing my hands, but I kept my distance. Nobody loves a micro-manager. Instead, I managed by walking around the whole tower from roof to sub-basement, lifting spirits with my inspiring presence, but staying out of everyone’s way.

Our preparations called for three main teams. Team One was twisting endless cat 5 cables into a giant zip line. Team Two was building more battlebots with John Bardeen. Team Three was carrying heavy equipment up or down the stairwells, wherever it was needed. Everybody was busy, especially Roberta Greenleaf and the former emotional cripples. They shook off their malaise and worked hard to compensate for their previous display of weakness.

Satisfied that my plan was moving forward, I returned to the CEO’s office and dragged one of his antique telescopes to the roof. Sylvia and I spent an hour focused on our gleaming twin across the plaza, looking for ideas and rooftop access points. Then we lugged the telescope to the fourth floor, trying to peer inside the Wegmans grocery store. The plaza-side wall was glass, and we could see a lot of movement. The front doors were closed.

Sylvia returned to the CEO’s office with our intel while I cooked up a plan for the remaining three floors of our own building. I was unhappy at the prospect of leaving zombies chittering behind our lines. I wanted the comfort of knowing Lizzie, Susie, and DCH Tower were secure if something happened to me.

John Bardeen was right when he said it would take a minimum four-story drop to kill or incapacitate the zombies. And he was right when he said they could re-enter the building if their bodies piled high enough to form a ramp. I witnessed that potential when we rescued the daycare kids.

But he overlooked one thing. We didn’t have to kill them. If the zombies left the building and couldn’t return, that was enough. Based on this brilliant insight and the Fundamental Laws of Nature, I came up with a simple plan to trick the zombies. It was easy, like a lithium baron stealing mineral rights from the poorly educated.

We had already smashed a few windows on the fourth floor during the daycare rescue. Andrew and Deal Team Six broke a bunch more, carefully spaced around the building, and rappelled through them to shatter windows on the crowded third floor. The zombies poured out. By creating so many drain points, we distributed them evenly rather than in a big pile that could reach the windows. It was over so fast, the street zombies didn’t have time to form a cheerleader pyramid before we pulled the bait.

The same tactic worked on the second floor. Zombies circled the building, growling and chittering for a while, but they eventually lost interest and wandered off.

That left us with the inevitable zombie stragglers trapped in offices and awkward corners. Alice Abernathy and Edward Scissorhead were too big, so we couldn’t call on their support. I hated going hand-to-hand with the stragglers, but there was no other way to eradicate them. Leadership requires sacrifice.

We hit the third floor first, entering through an east-side stairwell. It led into a dim hallway with medical and dental practices along both sides. Andrew led the way. I brought up the rear.

Deal Team Six was a joy to watch. In a business or social setting, Andrew’s ODD was damn annoying. In a close-quarters fight against the living dead, his obsession with perfection was a priceless asset. He left nothing to chance, and his team reflected that philosophy.

Andrew preferred to hunt the zombies, rather than draw them out en masse. He turned the first doorknob with a silent hand and slipped in with two team members. Everyone else remained in the hallway, protecting our escape route to the stairwell.

The clinic’s waiting room was a wreck. Overturned furniture, magazines scattered everywhere, but no blood and no zombies. We eased through a door leading to the private exam rooms. A couple of cute young nurses shuffled toward us with outstretched arms and snapping teeth. Pink scrubs, bunny-shaped name tags, and bite marks on their hands and forearms. Priya and Madigan.

Andrew pulled out a tennis racket and stepped toward Priya. I thought he was going serve up another Wimbledon ace. Instead, he poked her chest, and she reflexively grabbed the racket with both hands. She froze for a tiny moment, long enough for Andrew to shove a sharp mop handle through her left eye and into her brain. Madigan got the same trans-ocular cranial therapy. Poke. Grab. Stab.

“Impressive,” I whispered. “How’d you figure that out?”

“I didn’t,” he hissed back. “It was…uh, Andrea Aiuto. She said it’s a neonatal reflex. Babies will …uh, grab whatever hits their chest.”

“So you’re saying that zombies are just big babies?”

Andrew shot me a withering glance. “It keeps them from…uh, fighting back. Easier to stab them.”

As we stepped over the dead-again nurses, I took a closer look at their bite marks. They were small. Child-sized. I looked around the suite. Walls covered with painted elephants and balloons. A colorful jar of lollipops on the counter.

It was a pediatric practice.

Andrew opened the next room and a burly doctor lumbered out. White lab coat with Manhattan Pediatrics LLC on the breast pocket. Stethoscope and name badge dangling from his neck. Dr. Harvey Weinstein. Andrew stepped up. Poke. Grab. Stab.

The big doctor fell with a crash, triggering loud high-pitched chittering in the next exam room. Little hands scratched and slapped at the door. I looked at Andrew. He had the same thought. They must have put all the infected children in the same room.

“We can’t…uh, leave them there,” whispered Andrew. “Too risky. Can you…uh, handle it?”

I nodded. “They’re zombies now, not children. Open it.” But I couldn’t help thinking of Lizzie and the daycare rescue kids.

He conferred with his team. Andrea’s neonatal lobotomy technique would be tough to use against such short targets. Instead, we tipped over some long tables to form a waist-high cattle chute.

I deployed my Mokuba to pop the lock. Andrew pushed the door open with his mop handle. Eight angry little calves boiled out, some in school uniforms, some in shorts and t-shirts. All with blood on their precious dimpled chins.

The tables kept them corralled, and we hit them with short, violent headshots. They were more aggressive than adult zombies and much faster. In an open space, they would have been tough to stop.

We found a young doctor and two more nurses locked in another exam room. Dr. Susan Medico with Brandy and Candy.

“Strippers moonlighting as nurses?” I muttered. Dancers shouldn’t have to take a second job just to make ends meet.

The nurses had small bandages on their hands and dried black blood all over their scrubs. Dr. Medico was a complete horror show. I figured the children bit the nurses, and the nurses savaged the doctor when she treated their wounds.

The mothers were scattered among the remaining private exam rooms, one or two in each, for a total of eight high-maintenance silk and chardonnay ladies. They were 3M’s: Midtown Manhattan Mommies. Toned and fit, tanned and tucked. Dressed to kill, sporting little bites on hands and wrists.

I tried to imagine how it started. Did some rich lazy mother feed her kid a $2 hot dog for breakfast? Very poor parenting skills. The scene in the waiting room must have been intense. Screaming mothers and whining children. And that was before the virus kicked in.

The senior physician was barricaded in a spacious office at the other end of the exam area. He slumped in a leather desk chair with a streak of vomit on his chin. A half-empty fifth of Tennessee whiskey and an empty pill bottle sat on the desk. There was no suicide note. He locked everyone else in the exam rooms as the crisis unfolded, and then he took the coward’s way out.

It was getting dark, and I was exhausted by the time we finished clearing both floors. The building management office was our final stop. My head had been pounding all day. Now my stomach was churning from the concussion. Or killing the child zombies. I couldn’t decide which. Andrew and Deal Team Six were exhausted, and that increase the chances somebody would make a fatal mistake.

“Let’s take a break,” I said, slaying the last zombie maintenance man with a mighty swing of my wrecking bar. “You all look tired.”

The whole team laughed.

“Sure, John,” chuckled Andrew. “We’re the ones who look…uh, tired. You take care of the ground floor, and we’ll go out for a drink.”

His ODD came with a free side order of sarcasm.

Everyone headed for the top and a well-deserved rest. I went downstairs to check on Nate. He was deep in the bowels of a partially disassembled Mustang Mach-E, surrounded by LED lights and grinders carrying battery modules. As soon as he saw me, he wiped his hands, walked to his truck, and retrieved a bundle of deep sea fishing equipment.

“I hope you know what you’re doing,” he said.

“Me, too. We’ll know soon enough. Are you gonna be ready?”

“Yep. We’ll rig the Rivians and build the sally ports tomorrow.” He looked at the Mustang and cocked one eye at me. “Anything else?”

“Nope,” I said, and he went back to work without another word.

It took me a hard, lonely hour to reach the executive suites. I gave the equipment to Sylvia in the CEO’s office and collapsed on the couch. The room was dim, illuminated by a single LED panel and the soft glow from Sylvia’s iPad. It could have been a romantic moment, except for the zombie apocalypse and my exploding head.

“Holy shit, John, you look terrible,” she said. “How many times have you been up and down the stairs today? Didn’t Andrea tell you to take it easy for a while?”

“I’ll sleep when I’m dead.”

I lost track of my 10,000 steps long ago, and Andrea’s well-meaning medical advice was useless under these circumstances.

“C’mon,” she said, taking my hand and dragging me upright. “One more push, and you can take a long nap in your office. Susie is there now, waiting for you.”

That mental image unleashed my strategic energy reserves. Sylvia walked me down the three flights to 45. I gripped the banister on one side and draped my other arm across her shoulders for support. She was surprisingly petite, and smelled like jasmine body lotion. Her LED light jitterbugged around the dark stairwell, stabbing my eyes and triggering intense nausea.

She shoved me through the stairwell door. I saw a faint glimmer far across the open floor and heard a murmur of conversation. Grinders settling down for the night. Instead of spreading out in private offices, most of them preferred to pod-camp in small groups. Nobody likes to sleep alone, especially during the zombie apocalypse.

We stumbled to my dark office doorway and Sylvia purred, “Hey Susie, look who I found.”

Susie was perched seductively on the couch, her long gorgeous legs resting on the coffee table next to a flickering red candle. She said, “Hi, John,” in a husky voice and offered her perfectly manicured hand.

Paradise calling.

I took a step forward, my eyes crossed, and everything went black.

Forty One

Last Supper

THE SUN WAS WARM. Jasmine blossoms spiced the air. I love dozing on my Florida veranda. Time for another cold IPA, but I couldn’t find enough energy to summon the butler. “No hurry,” I muttered. “I’m living on Florida time.”

“Hey, wake up,” interrupted a familiar voice.

Why was Sylvia in Florida with me? Don’t get me wrong. She’s a great executive assistant, but I don’t go to Florida for work.

I peeled back an eyelid. There she was, leaning over me in a deep green silk cocktail dress by Prada, her signature pearl choker, and the stimulating fragrance of jasmine body lotion. It all came rushing back at once. The zombie apocalypse.

“This is getting old,” I yawned, scratching my four-day stubble. “Where’s Susie?”

A husky voice answered, “She’s in the spa for physical therapy and a facial. Don’t worry about her. Be grateful you’re still alive. To be honest, I didn’t think you would make it.”

It was Andrea, looking very pleased with herself.

“Too much running around yesterday almost killed you. Sylvia called me when you passed out. Right in front of Susie, by the way. Not a good look. The hematoma on your head was the size of a plum. I drained it last night. Nasty work,” she added with a smile.

I touched the side of my head. Instead of a plum, I found a large bandage. Tender, but not painful.

“Thanks,” I said. “It feels better.”

“Maybe,” she replied. “But if you’re gonna help tomorrow, you have to stay here today and rest. It’s non-negotiable.”

Sylvia crossed her arms and nodded in agreement.

I argued for a while, but eventually gave up, partly because there were two of them and partly because I knew they were right. All my strength would be needed for the coming battle.

“Fine,” I grumbled. “Tell me what I missed. And how about getting me something to eat?”

Andrea radioed the kitchen for soup while Sylvia tapped her iPad and brought me up to date.

“All the prep is going according to your plan,” she said. “Best of all, we took full control of DCH Tower, including the ground floor.”

“What?” I sat upright. My vision flashed white, and I sank back into the couch with a groan. “How did you do that?” Last time I looked, the ground floor was deep red on the intern-approved building chart.

“Ronnie Numero and Andrew Jarrod applied the Law of Small Investors again this morning. Anjali found a security cam clip showing the front doors are still intact. They lowered a couple of Bardeen’s new utility robots to the street level, pulled open the two center doors, and dangled half a dozen interns from the third floor.”

I shifted uncomfortably and tried not to think about the Vice President for Human Resources again.

“Herd momentum kicked in, and the zombies flooded outside into the plaza. Bots closed the doors, and we unleashed Alice Abernathy and Edward Scissorhead. The interns worked the controllers all morning, chasing strays across the foyer and waiting areas.”

“God bless Mother Nature and her unbreakable laws,” I muttered.

Andrea left me alone with Sylvia. We reviewed plans and problems until my head was pounding again. She closed the curtains and left me to nap, promising a wake-up call in time for the big gala dinner later that evening. I fell asleep, but kept twitching in a dream about falling into a pit. A bottomless black pit.

Sylvia roused me as the sun was setting. She wrinkled her nose and thoughtfully recommended fresh clothes, a shower, and a shave. Good thing I always keep an extra Brioni tuxedo on hand for the inevitable Manhattan political fundraiser. I grabbed the garment bag, dug out some seventeenth-century gold doubloon cuff links, and headed for the spa to clean myself up.

Ronnie Numero, Andrew Jarrod, and Deal Team Six were already getting showered and dressed. All the hot water was gone, but in my condition, even the cold water was a welcome relief. They waited for me, and we strutted into the restaurant together. As usual, all the hot babes watched as I made my triumphant grand entrance. Some things will never change.

The annual Pirates Banquet is a DCH Manhattan tradition. Nothing can stop it, not even the zombie apocalypse. The restaurant tables were covered with white satin, crystal stemware, and hundreds of glittering candles. The men were movie-star handsome. The women were Instagram-beautiful, dressed in a dazzling fashion show finale of racy bodycon dresses.

I was carefully scanning the crowd for wardrobe malfunctions when I spotted Susie relaxing at the head table with Anjali and Veronica, sipping on Cosmopolitans. All three wore outrageous gowns by Oscar de la Renta with plunging necklines and sky-high side slits. Their couture footwear was beyond words.

Susie waved and patted the seat next to her. My heart jumped into my throat. I took a step forward, but Sylvia appeared from nowhere and grabbed my arm.

“Oh no, lover boy,” she laughed. “Business before pleasure. You’re the rainmaker on this deal, so you have to press the flesh before you can sit down to eat.”

Sylvia dragged me around the room for almost an hour, making sure I visited every table, greeted every grinder, made small talk, and got a sense of their readiness for tomorrow. I was surprised by how much they knew about my activities over the past few days. Sylvia was building a mythical superhero legend around me. Leadership requires a good PR assistant.

In her version of events, I vanquished legions of zombies with a wave of my magic wrecking bar, saved interns and damsels in distress, and stood tall in the pantheon of ancient robber barons. Rockefeller, Vanderbilt, Carnegie. All the big guys. She skipped the part about puking in the stairwell every time I walked more than five flights. Or how it felt to crush the skull of a four-year-old zombie girl who could have been Lizzie’s sister.

Sylvia showed mercy when Chef Gordon and Chef Bobby made their own grand entrance, leading a parade of interns who presented each table with a whole roast goose in pomegranate sauce. She let me slip into the seat beside Susie as everyone cheered and applauded the magnificent culinary offering.

Gordon and Bobby took turns claiming credit for the roast geese and giving special recognition to Nate. His skill with a duck call, combined with our rooftop swimming pool and a clever net trap, had delivered an entire flock of migrating Canadians to thrill our palates.

DCH’s unofficial motto is “Eat, drink, and be merry, for tomorrow all pirates must die.” And so we did. Susie and I held hands under the table and exchanged thirsty glances. When the evening ended, and the last bottle of champagne was gone, we walked to the stairwell, holding hands like all young lovers do. I opened the door and stepped through. Susie dropped my hand and gave me a sisterly kiss. My jaw hung open. She laughed at my stunned expression.

“Sorry, John,” she grinned. “You have a big day tomorrow, and I want you at full power. I’ll be staying with Veronica and Lizzie in the executive suites. Good night and sweet dreams! I’ll see you in the morning.” The door slammed shut in my face.

I stopped in the spa for another cold shower.

Forty Two

Crossing the Rubicon

THE KILLER AWOKE BEFORE DAWN and lay quietly on the couch, listening for sounds of life. No HVAC fans stirred the air. No keyboards clicked. No laser printers pumped out hot stacks of deal sheets. No chatter from the grinders outside my office door. Manhattan was dead. DCH was dead. Susie was dead. I was dead. We were all dead.

“Drama queen,” I muttered. “Time to rise and shine. Get off your ass and get to work.”

Every day is daunting when you’re flat on your back wallowing in self-pity. But, if you get up and move, there’s always a way to win. Orphans learn that lesson early in life.

I donned gray sweats and a black t-shirt bearing the official DCH logo, a predictable snoozer designed by a generic Madison Avenue advertising firm. The unofficial DCH logo was an edgy steampunk pirate. We didn’t share that one with outsiders.

Armed with the Mokuba wrecking bar and a backpack, I paused at the door and took a long look around. My office was richly furnished by the DCH interior decorators, but didn’t show the slightest trace of me or my personality. No souvenirs, no pictures, no ego wall.

That was my choice. I was simply passing through. The graveyards are full of irreplaceable investment bankers, and yet the grift goes on forever and ever. Amen.

Chef Gordon and Chef Bobby were in the restaurant, working by candlelight to fry up the last of the bacon and eggs. I inhaled a double portion while the away team trickled in and started eating. One guy was wearing a red shirt, so I sent him back to change. It’s crazy to tempt the screenwriters.

Everyone was in good spirits, talking about last night’s dinner. Susie, Veronica, and Anjali arrived together and brought their food to my table. Veronica was alarmingly civil. I could hear Admiral Ackbar whispering in my head again. “It’s a trap. It’s a trap.”

A pale gray light began to grow outside. I stood up, looked around meaningfully, and headed for the roof without a word. Everyone gulped their coffee or chomped one more piece of crispy pork fat and followed me. It was time for phase one.

The morning air was soft and quiet at the top of our skyscraper. Manhattan cools off overnight, and the morning sun was not yet warm enough to generate thermal currents. Anjali’s wind turbines stood idle. The infinity pool was flat and calm, with a few random goose feathers floating on the crystalline water.

Sylvia Sakura counted heads and nodded to me when the away team had gathered by the rail. DCH Condos brooded across the zombie-infested public plaza.

I looked for the most important person in my new world, the intern who commanded Alice Abernathy against the food court zombie legions. He looked nervous.

“What’s your name, kid?” I asked.

“Jeremy,” he said. “Jeremy Sockborn.”

“Well, Jeremy Sockborn, are you ready?”

“Yes, sir. I’ve been practicing for this my entire life.” His baby face turned taut and grim.

Sylvia handed him a drone controller. The daycare kids had played with it during the spaghetti and ice cream party. A genius-level neuron deep in my brain connected their game with Nicole’s zip line to solve our food problem. We needed to reach the Wegmans grocery store in our twin skyscraper, but I couldn’t figure out how to cross the zombie-filled plaza. Our children showed me the way.

The drone was no kid’s toy. Veronica liberated it from the CEO’s collection of antique gadgets, which he curated to impress any of our male clients who might still be trapped in their adolescent years. In other words, all our male clients.

My mind wandered to an ex-girlfriend who said the only difference between men and boys is the price of their toys. That was the day before I bought the Lamborghini Aventador, which was the day she left me. I knew she was right, but I couldn’t stop myself. The Lamborghini was so…shiny.

Today’s toy was a classic Skyfish professional surveillance drone, with four rotors, retractable landing gear, and a 50-megapixel camera. Top speed was 40 miles per hour with a ten-mile controller range and 60 minutes of flight time. If you wanted to nail crooked politicians frolicking with naked chicks at a private Caribbean island resort, this was the perfect hammer.

I attached a neon-green fishing line to the drone and held it high over my head. Nate stood by the rail, his deep sea rod at the ready. Jeremy revved the four propellers, and I tossed our savior into the air. It vaulted ten feet straight up into a stable hover. Jeremy charged across the 75-yard gap without hesitation.

The reel whirred and buzzed as Nate allowed the line to spin out, tracing a neon-green curve across the plaza. When the powerful drone was halfway to the other side, Jeremy activated the camera and peered at the full-color feed on his bulky controller. Nate stood next to him. They spoke quietly, Jeremy playing a video game, and Nate playing an electronic aerial fish.

This was the moment that Jeremy fantasized about during countless hours in his mother’s basement with Resident Evil and The Last of Us, fueled by Cheetos and Dr. Pepper. Saving the world from the zombie apocalypse. Yes, mom, I already did my homework.

Jeremy’s job was to thread the proverbial needle. He had to fly the drone through an opening in the rooftop guard rail and return, trailing the fishing line, so we could pull the cat 5 zip line across the plaza. The gap was about two feet high and six feet wide, outlined by the railing’s uprights and crossbars.

That seems like a big target until you factor in distance, wind, and the size of the Skyfish drone. Jeremy had only a few inches to work with. No room for error.

The drone slowed down and edged closer to the rail while Jeremy tested its stability. The early morning air was pretty calm. But there’s always a breeze at sunrise, and every puff was amplified by 75 yards of fishing line. I glued myself to the CEO’s telescope, watching the drone make short, sharp jumps.

“This is it, Jeremy,” I warned, without moving from the eyepiece. “Your entire internship depends on what you do next.”

You can’t make diamonds without a little pressure.

Jeremy took a deep breath. The drone shot forward through the railing and straight up into a hover. Game-winning bucket at the buzzer. The crowd went wild. Nate gave him an exuberant high-five, and Jeremy brought the drone back for a perfect landing, still trailing the neon-green line.

I let them celebrate the win, but couldn’t relax. The next step was just as difficult. Nate unhooked the fishing line from the drone and tied it to a three-foot stainless steel leader, which was snapped to a crude grappling hook at the end of a quadruple-braided cat 5 cable.

He pulled the rod back and forth a few times and turned the crank. Ronnie Numero and his grinders unwound the stiff cable from a wooden drum-shaped capstan as Nate used the fishing line to drag it through the air across the plaza.

This was another critical moment. Each strand of cat 5 cable was 250 feet long, and four of them together weighed 34 pounds. In theory, Nate’s fishing line was more than strong enough to handle it. But the fishing line would pass around an iron railing that could abrade and stretch it beyond tested limits. And the cable was pretty damn lively, swinging back and forth no matter how carefully Ronnie and his team unrolled it. This added unpredictable torque to the equation and made me nervous, despite John Bardeen’s repeated assurances and incomprehensible calculations.

Nate pulled the rod and cranked the reel for half an hour until the grapple dangled above the middle crossbar of the iron railing. “Time to set the hook,” he said.

The world slowed down as I peered through the telescope. Nate eased the rod forward and put slack in the line. The gently swinging hook touched the front of the crossbar. Wrong side.

“Negative,” I said, and he yanked it back again.

We tried three times before the hook finally swung to the back side of the crossbar.

“Now!” I cried, and Ronnie’s team pulled hard on the capstan. The hook snagged the bar. The cat 5 cable went taut. More cheers and applause. Our zip line was ready.

“Halfway there,” I muttered. “Now comes the worst part.”

Nicole Edwards began strapping a dominatrix-inspired harness over her black yoga pants. She wore a white DCH tank top with the steampunk pirate logo.

The team decision to send Nicole made me pretty salty. This was all my idea. I should lead the boarding party, in case it didn’t work. I pounded the conference table with my wrecking bar, but John Bardeen’s calculator crushed my manly argument.

“Four strands of cat 5 will hold no more than 128 pounds,” he insisted. “That’s what the manufacturer says, and we confirmed it with a static test. You weigh more than 200 pounds. Nicole weighs 100 pounds. You’ll break the line. That’s just Newtonian physics. Nicole can cross without stress and, better yet, she can carry some tools.”

Everyone nodded in agreement, and I gave up. Totally out of character. What was happening to me?

Maria Torres clipped a toddler-style swing seat to the zip line trolley and strapped Nicole into it. The zip line curved gracefully across the gap. The sun was well over the horizon now, and the wind was gusting. Anjali’s turbines were spinning faster.

I double-checked Nicole’s harness and suppressed a sudden urge to give her a hug. I pulled all the straps a little tighter instead.

“You be careful now. I need you back.”

She nodded, and I could see the confidence in her eyes.

“Don’t worry,” she said, pulling on her gloves and cracking her knuckles. “But remember me at bonus time.”

Everyone lined the railing. Nicole did a quick radio check with Anjali, then pushed away from the edge. She looked around, mimicking a flock of dumb tourists stunned by their first view of Manhattan’s forest of skyscrapers.

The downhill leg of the curve was easy. Nicole sat straight and coasted along, moderating her speed with both hands on the zip line. She reached the middle and rotated into a reclining position so she could pull herself to the other side.

The uphill trip took less than ten minutes. Nicole was impressively strong and fast, stopping only once to rest those sinewy arms. I suspect she was in a hurry because, despite her confidence, she didn’t want to push the cable beyond John Bardeen’s static test.

As she drew close to the other building, I sat with Jeremy Sockborn and watched the video monitor while he guided the drone on a quick rooftop recon flight. Sylvia and I spotted only four zombies during Thursday’s telescopic roof scan, but I wanted fresh intel before telling Nicole she could dismount safely.

Jeremy made three passes around the building, pausing occasionally to confirm that various stairwell access doors were closed. There was a helicopter pad, some huge HVAC equipment, a handful of utility sheds, and four zombies in maintenance overalls scattered across the roof. I nodded to Anjali, and she radioed Nicole.

“You’re good to go, sweetie. Knock ‘em dead.”

Nicole crept closer to the railing, pulled out a rape whistle, and blew with all her might. We could hardly hear it across the gap. The freshening breeze swept the sound away. But the closest zombie heard it, perked up, and made a beeline for Nicole.

He reached the railing and clawed at her in a frenzy. She stayed just out of reach and kept blowing. The rape whistle drove him berserk. He leaned out farther and farther until he lost his balance and toppled over the crossbar into the abyss.

“Mind the gap, moron,” I muttered. Everyone else cheered. That part of the plan worked perfectly.

But his hand snagged the zip line as he went down. It vibrated like a bass guitar string, sending Nicole into a dangerous bouncing motion. For a heart-stopping moment, I thought the line would snap, and Nicole would follow him into the crack of doom. That was not part of the plan. I snatched the radio away from Anjali and shouted, “Get to the fucking roof! NOW!”

Nicole never lost her cool. She scrambled up the last few feet of line, dismounted, and gave us a big wave. The radio crackled.

“I think we’re gonna have to go with Plan B,” she said.

I’m not sure why that was funny, but all the women giggled.

“Yeah, we’re not gonna try the zombie skydiver trick again,” I replied. “We got lucky with the first guy, but let’s not push it. You’ll have to take them out one by one.”

I gave the radio back to Anjali and watched through the telescope. Nicole took a short break to rehydrate, then pulled a mop handle and half a squash racket from her backpack.

Jeremy Sockborn and the drone guided her to the remaining zombies. The wind suppressed her footsteps, and she was able to ambush them from behind with Jeremy’s help. Didn’t need the squash racket. She just rammed the sharp mop handle behind the skull at a slight upward angle. Jeremy followed her around the rooftop for one more sweep, looking for crouching tiger, hidden zombies.

None to be found.

Tension drained from my body. Time for phase two. Jeremy brought the drone back to recharge. Nicole pulled tools from her backpack and got right to work.

First, she hammered wedges under the roof access doors to make sure they stayed shut. Then, she disappeared with my Mokuba wrecking bar to open the utility sheds. She hit the jackpot behind door number three.

“Got it!” she screamed with delight over the radio. I looked through the telescope and smiled as she staggered into view, dragging two enormous Sky Genie duffle bags.

Don’t get me wrong. I love my cat 5 computer cable. But half-inch Sky Genie window-washing rope has a 5000-pound tensile strength rating. Guaranteed. Nicole found four duffles, each with 600 feet of rope and assorted window-washing gear. It was the same stuff we should have found on the roof of DCH Tower, but Facilities Management was too fucking cheap.

Twenty minutes later, I was the first grinder across the gap on our new Sky Genie zip line. My journey was fast and smooth. Nicole gave me a big hug and a sloppy, grinding kiss when I dismounted. Susie’s frown was visible from across the canyon.

Ronnie Numero came next, followed by Anjali Khan, Bella Brique, Andrew Jarrod, and Deal Team Six. Maria Torres set up a second Sky Genie zip line so Peggy Martin could send cargo bundles and the rest of our away team. Twenty-five grinders in all.

I felt good. My plan would work, or we would die. Either way, there would be enough food for everyone else. Leadership means sacrifice.

Unless you’re a CEO, of course.

Forty Three

Welcome to Hell

MY AWAY TEAM navigated the zip line without a hitch. I blew a kiss to Susie on the other side and sprinted to the first stairwell. Andrew and Deal Team Six were waiting for me.

I rapped on the steel-faced door with my wrecking bar. Andrew pulled Dr. Weinstein’s stethoscope from his backpack and listened for a full five minutes. He shook his head.

“I got…uh, nothing.”

That was my cue to pop the door. The Mokuba’s claw was irresistible. Screech. Crunch. Slam.

We peered into the darkness, expecting to hear the sound of chittering death. There was nothing but silence.

Andrew and I led the way. We were trailed by Deal Team Sixers carrying long wooden 2x4s, another Jane Austen tactical innovation. Their job was to shove excess zombies backwards down the stairs, so we would never engage more than two or three at a time. Jane called the formation a mini-phalanx and said the team was trained to work together like hoplites.

Somewhere, Leonidas smiled.

Four team members carried LED lights and a bundle of tightly coiled cat 5 cable. If we ran into trouble, the coils would unfurl into a waist-high tangle barrier and ensnare the zombies long enough for us to pick them off one at a time. Or run for our lives. Whichever.

We padded down to 50, the full-floor unit owned by a pharmaceutical executive. The access door was locked. There was no way to enter quietly. I levered it open with a brutal, grinding crash and stepped inside, my heart racing.

Brilliant morning sunshine streamed through a wall of floor-to-ceiling glass, illuminating a luxurious playroom worthy of a Saudi prince. It’s a well-established fact that investment bankers are ostentatious assholes who love to spend money, but this was beyond anything I had ever seen.

The entire floor was covered in gold-veined white marble. Huge colorful silk Persian rugs anchored a dining area, conversation pit, and full-size bar. The furniture was a burly Georgian style, clad in genuine gold leaf. The shiny black grand piano was a Steinway, and the billiard table was an antique Brunswick. There was a bank of pinball machines, a dance floor big enough for fifty people, and a DJ console loaded with the latest electronics. I spotted strobe lights in the corners of the high ceiling and, of course, a mirrored disco ball hanging over the dance floor.

“Remind me to triple the fee on our next pharma client,” I muttered. Andrew nodded in silent agreement.

One of the hoplites nudged my arm and pointed. A dark splatter spoiled the pristine white marble near a set of carved Laotian teak doors. We tiptoed over for a closer look. It was dried blood, a wide trail leading to the next room. Andrew deployed Dr. Weinstein’s stethoscope. I tapped on the door. Andrew listened, shrugged, and motioned for me to go first.

I kicked the doors, charged in, and skidded to a halt in front of a gorgeous blonde wearing a black lace teddy. She smiled demurely. I gawked like a moonstruck teenager. Then her lips curled back, revealing a perfect set of blood-stained teeth. She chittered and grabbed my neck with both hands. Andrew pushed me aside and jammed a sharpened mop handle into her brain. She collapsed like a bad mango soufflé.

“Sorry about that,” I muttered. “I was…distracted.”

The women behind me laughed.

“Men,” they snarked. “It’s always about the underwear.”

The room was bigger than our CEO’s office at DCH Tower and furnished far more lavishly. Full windows along one side, wrap-around cherry paneling, dark granite floors with Turkish kilims. Magnificent view of the city. A huge oaken desk, complemented by a beautiful glass and steel conference table. One wall was entirely covered with bookshelves equipped with a sliding brass library ladder stolen from Wayne Manor. The shelves were packed with extremely rare first editions. Gutenberg. Shakespeare. Harry Potter. The entire original Star Trek series. A fortune in paperbacks.

Our blood trail ended in a large, sticky puddle. Deal Team Six did a quick sweep of closets and crevices. No hidden zombies. There were two other doors. We stacked up beside the nearest one. Tap. Tap. Tap.

No response.

I turned the knob, and we charged into the master bedroom. California king-sized round bed, rosewood furniture, and a giant walk-in clothes closet that rivaled mine. The velvet bedcover was aquamarine and rumpled, but everything else was in perfect condition. Andrew pointed to the mirrored ceiling.

“Peggy would love that,” I muttered.

We returned to the office and tried the other door. It connected to a grand corridor running the length of the building, with two ornately carved wooden doors on the right side and half a dozen more along the left. There was a rococo elevator lobby in the middle. We checked the doors on the right and, as I suspected, they returned to the giant playroom. I signaled for a halt and huddled with Andrew to consider our next tactical move.

“You know…uh, there must be at least…uh, one other person somewhere in here,” he twanged.

“Yep,” I agreed. “I’m thinking a handful of people. Whoever the blonde wife was eating, plus household staff. Nobody this rich does his own cleaning.”

Andrew led three grinders down the corridor and started checking doors. I took the other three, and we slipped through the door closest to the playroom.

It opened into a large restaurant-style kitchen, fully stocked. The fresh produce was rotten beyond salvation, but there was still plenty of unspoiled food to be harvested. Flour, sugar, cooking oil, and more.

One of the women pulled a bottle of genuine Canadian maple syrup out of a cupboard. “Sweet,” she said. “Kids love pancakes.”

I’m more of a crispy Belgian waffle man, topped with strawberries, yogurt, and confectioners sugar. Breakfast of champions.

A set of swinging doors on the far side took us into a capacious formal dining room. Fabulous views over Central Park. The royal table was set with Buccellati silver and Baccarat crystal for forty people. Everything was in perfect order.

The dining room was adjacent to a media center with overstuffed theater seating for fifty. Empty. The media center connected to yet another corridor and a series of comfortable, color-themed guest bedrooms. Blue room. Green room. Red rum. Everything was in pristine condition.

We tiptoed back to the grand corridor. Andrew reappeared with Deal Team Six stacked behind him.

“Nothing,” he whispered. “Everything is…uh, clean and tidy. There’s just one room left to check, at the end of the…uh, hall.”

I nodded and signaled the team to follow me. Andrew listened at the door with Dr. Weinstein’s stethoscope. His mouth tightened.

“How many?” I mouthed the words and tested my grip on the Mokuba wrecking bar.

Andrew shrugged again. He put the stethoscope in his pocket.

“More than…uh, one.”

Deal Team Six moved into position. Two grinders crouched by the wall on either side of the door, holding a 2x4 across the doorframe at ankle height. The rest of us formed a shallow arc with our makeshift weapons at the ready. I turned the handle and pushed it open.

The floor was covered in white ceramic tile. The white ceramic tile was covered in blood. The ghost of Wes Craven nodded in approval.

I could see a bank of white, industrial-sized laundry machines at the other end. The perfect canvas for artistic arterial sprays and dripping red handprints. I thought about the Jackson Pollock hanging in our DCH conference room and had a disturbing vision about the probable source of his inspiration.

My art critique was interrupted by a petite young brunette wearing the remains of a frilly black and white French maid’s outfit. Her name was embroidered in cursive script across the left breast pocket. Lolita from Manhattan Maids LLC. The bottom of her outfit had been torn off. Her black nylons were shredded and bloody. I could see movement behind her. Chittering filled the air.

Lolita stepped past the doorway. The Deal Team Six hoplites tripped her up with the 2x4. Slow-motion face plant. I delivered a perfect Mokuba smash to the back of her dainty skull after she hit the tile floor. Swoosh. Crunch. Reset.

She was trailed by an old, heavy-set man in a chef’s simple white tunic. A friend of our celebrities, Gordon and Bobby, no doubt. He was drenched in dark blood from his mouth to his ample waistline. He stumbled over Lolita. Another face plant. A woman from Deal Team Six clobbered him with a chrome steel table leg. It made a pleasant ringing sound as she cracked his skull. Tubular bells. Ding.

A statuesque duo of fair-haired waitresses appeared at the same time. They got stuck in the doorway and turned on each other. Squabbling sisters fighting over a cheating boyfriend. One took a huge bite from the other’s cheek, exposing the bone underneath. She chewed once and spit it out like bad roast beef. Andrew stabbed her through the eye. I nailed her sibling with an overhead smash. Swish. Crunch.

The dead-again waitresses fell forward onto the first two servants, pinning the 2x4 under a snarl of legs. The grinders dropped it and unsheathed their deadly mop handles. Three more servants crashed the party in a stumbling rush.

We stepped back, expanding our perimeter to spread them out. Another blood-smeared French maid came at me in slow motion. Lisette, twin sister of Lolita. She reached for my throat. I knocked her hands away with the wrecking bar, crushed her head on the return swing, and cocked the Mokuba for my next target. I was getting really good at this. Swat. Thunk. Reset.

The other two servants lunged for Andrew. They were stout and matronly, with gray hair and little lace caps. I was beginning to wonder if older women might have a thing for him.

Both were covered in blood, and one had ten feet of intestine draped around her shoulders like a woolen shawl. The uniforms suggested they were laundry women. Andrew eye-popped one with his sharpened mop handle, and the other fell victim to the chrome steel table leg. More tubular bells. Ring-a-ding.

Our day was becoming an homage to Mike Oldfield.

We stood still, breathing hard and listening harder. No more chittering. I rested the Mokuba on my shoulder and eased past the doorway. After a quick peek left and right, I swaggered to the middle of the room. It was bigger on the inside, with utility sinks, cabinets, ironing boards, and work benches. Lots of blood spray on the walls and ceiling. Intense zombie jump-scare vibe.

The place was really beginning to creep me out.

Andrew motioned toward the corner. I saw two fat, bare feet attached to an obese, mangled corpse. It was wearing black silk pajamas, a thick gold chain, and a diamond-encrusted Patek Philippe.

Our pharmaceutical CEO. No doubt.

The servants presumably chased him all around the room, everyone slipping and sloshing in the carnage until he was cornered. Limbs eaten to the bone, abdominal cavity completely emptied, and intestines ripped into pieces. I thought about the laundry woman and her shawl.

“What the hell was he doing back here,” I muttered. “A guy this rich would never visit the laundry room.”

“I…uh, think the wife infected him in the office,” said Andrew. “He ran back here for help. The servants were waiting for him. They…uh, didn’t leave enough meat to reanimate.”

“That doesn’t make sense. Who nailed the wife in the first place? No way she would be caught dead back here, so to speak.”

The women laughed bitterly. “That wasn’t his wife. Too gorgeous for this toad, no matter how rich. There were no bites on her body. She’s a call girl who grabbed a $2 hot dog on her way here for a Sunday night trick. Woke up Monday morning and tore a piece out of his throat before he ran away.”

I looked closer. As usual, the simplest explanation made the most sense. The pharma CEO was truly an ugly pig, even before the servants ate half his pock-marked face. He was the kind of Wall Street animal who sells life-saving drugs on huge markups. Ripped to shreds by his own employees, who couldn’t afford his products. That was some damn fine poetic justice.

We regrouped in the playroom. I radioed Bella Brique so she could start harvesting food and other loot. Her gleaners trooped in and fell oddly silent as they looked around.

They were intimidated by the pharma CEO’s residence, and I was reminded that very few people understand what true wealth really looks like. I felt exactly the same way on my first snatch-and-grab raid. We used the 50 mm chain gun on our AFV to blast open a dusty desert castle and found a golden paradise inside. Although I was armed to the teeth and operating beyond the reach of civilized law, I was afraid to touch anything.

That feeling of awe and insignificance went away once we uncovered a huge dope stash and a torture chamber in the basement. Behind every great fortune is a great crime.

I gave Bella a quick briefing on the layout and warned her to stay alert. “A rich zombie can ruin your day as fast as a poor one.” She promised to keep everyone on their guard in case we overlooked something. Or someone.

Andrew and Deal Team Six commandeered a couple of couches and pulled lunch from their backpacks. Chef Bobby and Chef Gordon had packed two days of food for the away team. Once that was gone, we planned to live off the land and send everything else to DCH Tower, where my ex-girlfriend Troya Washington, our glamorous restaurant investment specialist, was in charge of the food bank.

I flopped down beside Andrew, rummaged in my pack, and pulled out a badly squashed peanut butter and jelly sandwich. Susie must have made it for me. She included a cute notecard with a big heart drawn in her favorite red lipstick. Andrew glanced over, made a condescending little sniff, and took a huge bite from one of Chef Gordon’s gourmet roast beef sandwiches.

We wolfed down our food, eager to get on with the mission. The game was simple. Bypass most of the condo floors until we could transport a couple of the new Bardeen battlebots to help clear them. The luxury condominiums were large, but nowhere near as spacious as the food court at DCH Tower. Edward Scissorhead and Alice Abernathy would be unable to maneuver in such confined spaces, so Bardeen was crafting something more nimble.

In the meantime, I would lead Andrew Jarrod and Deal Team Six to clear a single stairwell all the way to the bottom. Nicole and Ronnie would seal the stairwell doors behind us to ensure we wouldn’t get trapped by Brownian zombies filtering from above. I was nervous about bypassing so many threats, but agreed to the plan when Jane Austen swore our flanks would be secure.

Another quick radio check, and we descended the stairs into the long night of Moria.

Forty Four

Stairwell Skirmishes

I’M NOT AFRAID of the dark. Unless it’s filled with zombies.

We paused at the landing on 49 and listened. The stillness was broken by Andrew breathing through his mouth, which was incredibly annoying and, it turned out, something he couldn’t control because of his chronic allergies.

My tactical brain demanded some long-range recon to check for possible ambushes. I told everyone to stay quiet, handed my running shoes to one of the women, and crept down the stairs in my socks, making less noise than a pole dancer on back to school night.

Andrew’s wheezing faded after I put two flights between us. It was darker than a tomb. I sat on the stair landing at 47 and listened to the abyss. I thought about dropping something down the air shaft to provoke a reaction but decided against it. Why invite trouble?

Nothing moved. But when I put my hand on the steel railing to leave, my nose caught a whiff of something sickly sweet. Perfume. Cheap floral perfume. Lots of it. Wafting up the stairs, now accompanied by hesitant, asynchronous footsteps. Click. Drag. Click. Drag.

Someone was coming.

I held my breath and noiselessly readied my Mokuba wrecking bar and the LED. My heart was hammering so hard I feared the zombie could hear it.

“Not afraid of the dark,” I muttered.

Closer and closer clicked the asynchronous footsteps, now accompanied by a soft rustling sound that raised the hair on my neck. When the noxious perfume became overpowering, I switched on the light and backpedaled in horror.

An elephantine matron in a blood-drenched pink chiffon nightgown grabbed at me from less than a yard away. She wore heavy pancake make-up, and her silver hair was thickly sprayed into a permanent Margaret Thatcher look. Her mouth was smeared with gore. A matching pink chiffon kitten-heeled pump graced her swollen right foot. The left foot was bare and worn to the bones, leaving a trail of black blood on the rough concrete stairwell. Click. Drag. Click. Drag.

She stepped onto the landing as I retreated. Her heavy false eyelashes fluttered flirtatiously. The bright white LED dazzled her, so I pushed it closer to her spackled face and swung the Mokuba straight down between her flabby outstretched arms. The hairspray helmet provided almost no protection. She collapsed in a billow of chiffon and a soft pink thud. I could almost see the noxious perfume rising into a deadly, billowing mushroom cloud.

The sound of hesitant steps from behind me almost stopped my heart. I spun around, wrecking bar at the ready. My LED beam skipped and settled on Andrew, halfway down the stairs in the en garde position, his sharpened mop handle poised for action.

“What the fuck?” I hissed. “I told you to wait.”

“I saw the…uh, light, and thought you might need help.” He pointed to Margaret Thatcher. “Any more like her…uh, at home?”

He really did like older women.

“Of course,” I replied. “Most of them will be trapped inside the condos. I can’t imagine what this one was doing in the stairwell. She strikes me as a take-the-elevator kind of gal.”

Andrew shrugged and signaled the rest of the team with his LED. They padded down the steps and waited for my instructions.

This new threat required new thinking.

“We can’t creep down the stairs in the dark and pick them off. I got lucky with Lady Thatcher here. If she hadn’t been wearing so much perfume, I would have walked right into her.”

Andrew sighed. “We’re gonna need…uh, a new plan.” He seemed tired and defeated.

“Not a new plan. A new tactic. And I know just the thing.” I slapped him on the shoulder and gave him a confident, morale-boosting smile. Andrew rolled his eyes.

We retreated to the pharma playroom, and I huddled with Anjali Khan for a few moments. She was surprised to see us return so soon, but grasped my idea immediately and rushed off to get ready while I briefed Andrew and Deal Team Six.

Back on the first day of the apocalypse, Anjali arranged for the research team to sedate us with an endless zombie PowerPoint briefing. I’m sure it was helpful information for somebody, somewhere. For me, it was too many slides and too many bullet points, most of them restating the obvious. Zombies bite. Zombies don’t feel pain. Zombies never give up. Hit the bad zombie on the head.

Nothing I hadn’t already figured out during my impromptu death match with Ted on Day One.

But one of the team’s minor data points managed to latch onto a random neuron in my sub-cortex. It popped into my forebrain while I was fighting Margaret Thatcher.

That is, zombies can see, but their vision is degraded by the virus. The human eye is complex and simply doesn’t work very well in a body ravaged by malicious microbes. That’s why the Iron Lady’s eyes couldn’t adjust to my bright LED light. Her pupils were fully dilated by her long stay in the dark stairwell. They couldn’t react fast enough. It was all the leverage I needed. Boom.

Anjali pulled pieces from the pharma CEO’s party system and was able to equip two of Andrew’s team with battery-filled backpacks and two LED lights mounted on pool cues. One was a red floodlight. The other was a disco strobe light from the playroom dance floor.

My plan was simple. I would slip down the stairwell using the red light to navigate like a submarine commander on a night surface attack. Once we closed the range, we would ignite the strobe. The brilliant on-off effect would torpedo their little zombified pupils, presenting us with easy kills.

I led the reorganized team down the stairwell again. As we passed the Margaret Thatcher doppelgänger on 47, someone sniffed the heavy perfume and muttered, “Smells like my mother.”

For once, I was happy to be an orphan.

The red light was dim. I could see about five steps into the darkness. The first zombie lumbered from the gloom on 44 and headed straight toward me. A thin elderly man in lavender paisley satin pajamas. Someone had chewed out his groin. He was clutching a pink chiffon kitten-heeled pump, so I had a pretty good idea who that someone might have been.

“Watch out,” hissed Andrew. “He could…uh, take out someone’s eye with that shoe.”

I ignored the giggling and focused on my target. When he was two steps below me, I signaled for the strobe, and we teleported into its strange, slow-motion world. The old zombie waved his arms, fighting with the air and blinking his eyes. To no avail. I swung the Mokuba wrecking bar at the top of his greasy combover and he collapsed. Swish. Crunch. Thud.

The strobe clicked off, and we stood in the feeble red light, my heart racing. Andrew was impressed.

“That was…uh, awesome. When can I…uh, have a turn?”

“Not yet,” I said. “Let’s see how far we can get without running into trouble.” I moved again, before Andrew’s oppositional defiant disorder could object.

We made rapid progress, knocking down a zombie or two between each floor. They were elderly folks, for the most part. Wealthy enough to own a luxury Manhattan condominium, but not smart enough to get out of town when the zombie apocalypse arrived. Sort of like me and almost every other moron at Dewey, Cheatham, and Howe, Inc.

Three more zombies loomed from the darkness. A chittering mother and two children, dressed for school in little brown uniforms with dinosaur backpacks. I thought about Lizzie, hesitated, and signaled for the strobe. Flash. Boom. Bam.

It was too much. My eyes teared up. I was emotionally compromised. Totally out of character, but undeniable.

“Okay,” I said, turning to Andrew. “You’re up.”

He grinned, twirled his sharpened mop handle in a classic gunfighter move, and stepped past the team to replace me at the head of the stack. I trailed behind, where nobody could see my unmanly display of human weakness.

Andrew ran into trouble almost immediately. The cocky cowboy was moving too fast and overshot the dim light provided by our red LED. A pair of Thor-sized zombies swayed from the darkness right in front of him. A pale Nordic blonde and a freckled Irish redhead. Movie star handsome. High and tight military haircuts. They were strapping lads in Italian silk suits, crisp white shirts, thin black ties, and ostrich leather Gucci loafers.

Our strobe man didn’t wait for Andrew’s signal. He turned on the light, and the world went crazy.

Andrew stabbed with his mop handle but missed by a country mile. The flashing strobe light created a timing delay that made it impossible to target their moving eye sockets. He was trying to spear rainbow trout in a mountain stream without compensating for refraction.

The redheaded zombie blinked and flailed, but still managed to grab Andrew’s skinny white thigh. His hand was the size of a catcher’s mitt. The dumb blonde teammate was confused by the strobe light, lost track of Andrew, and settled for a chunk of his partner’s beefy arm. Perfect white teeth ripped through the silk suit like T-Rex on a sausage jalapeño breakfast burrito.

The redhead growled, and Andrew shrieked as the freckled mitt jerked upwards toward the Jarrod family jewels.

Fortunately for his heirs, the rest of Deal Team Six was paying close attention. The two hoplite grinders punched their wooden 2x4s past the tangle of bodies. They hit both zombies hard, forcing them to tumble backwards down the stairs to the next landing, dragging Andrew ass over teakettle.

A quick vault over the team placed me right between the zombies. The redhead fell to my overhead smash, and the blond collapsed under a Bjorn Borg-style backhand. Leap. Thud. Thump.

I blew imaginary gun smoke from the end of my wrecking bar and thrust it into an imaginary holster, mocking Andrew’s silly cowboy gunfighter antics.

Deal Team Six stood motionless, stunned by my masterful display of feline quickness and brutal power. Also, Andrew’s close brush with an agonizing death.

I motioned to the strobe man. He shook his head in disbelief and turned off the blinking light, breaking the disco spell.

“Y’all good?” I drawled sarcastically.

Everybody laughed, except Andrew, who moaned under the pile of meat and Italian designer fabrics.

“My…uh, leg,” he whined. “I think it’s broken.”

We pulled him from the train wreck while the strobe man stepped back and radioed for a dust off. There was a whispered conversation, and he returned with instructions.

“Andrea Aiuto is coming to help. We’re not supposed to move him.”

Andrea was still at DCH Tower, and I knew she would take a few minutes to reach us. I was tempted to leave Andrew alone, stranded in a stairwell full of zombies. Payback is one of my favorite things. This would be appropriate revenge for the Monday prank about leaving me dangling outside as zombie bait. “Needs of the many,” my ass.

But team morale took priority in this case. Andrew needed help. I gave myself a brownie point for taking the high road and searched the bodies of our power-lifting zombies.

They had bite marks on their hands. Both were wearing tactical earpieces and high-end Alien Gear shoulder holsters with a corporate logo I didn’t recognize. Empty shoulder holsters.

“Bodyguards for a rich asshole,” I muttered.

More searching turned up two illegal flick knives, a condo number, and a six-digit entry code.

“Tell Andrea to meet us in apartment 6 on the 36th floor,” I told the strobe man. “Wait here while we clear it out.”

He lifted an eyebrow at one of his teammates, who nodded and deployed our cat 5 tangle barrier.

I left them in charge of Andrew and tiptoed down the stairs with the rest of the team. Two floors later, we found the landing on 36 covered by a carpet of non-functioning zombies. Our bobbing red light gave the scene a grim “Dante’s Ninth Level of Hell” vibe. There were at least two dozen bodies. Lots of old people. A few Manhattan yuppies in fashionable workout clothes.

They all had neat 9 mm holes right between the eyes and gaping exit wounds at the back of the skull. There were two late-model H&K gauss guns and four depleted batteries on the stairs. Blood splatter and brains all over the walls. Those bodyguards could damn well shoot, but there were too many zombies. The echoing crack of every supersonic round brought more elderly snackers.

“Poor bastards,” I muttered. “What the hell were they doing here?”

We dragged away a few corpses to unblock the door. The corridor was clean and brightly lit by large windows at either end. No zombies, just a dried pool of blood halfway to the elevator lobby. Apartment 6 was directly in front of us. I knocked three times and pressed my ear against the door.

Nothing.

I punched the entry code for the cipher lock, took a deep breath, and rolled in like Sugar Daddy coming home to his girlfriend.

Forty Five

Zora and Shannon

THE CONDO’S FOYER was much larger than I expected. There was a big walk-in closet on the left and a large gold-leaf table in the middle, displaying a splendid Tang Dynasty vase and a burgundy leather guest book. Pretentious, but classy.

I scribbled an inspirational message, signed my name, and glided into the spacious living room. My running shoes squeaked a little on the marble floor. Deal Team Six trailed behind me, tense and ready to initiate some kinetic transactions.

The room was bright and tastefully furnished in white and gray. Priceless antique ceramics graced every end table, suggesting an absence of small children. The owner was a big fan of American Impressionism. I recognized multiple works by Mary Cassatt and Childe Hassam. The neutral walls made the colors pop.

I counted four doors leading to the kitchen, dining room, office, and a hallway to the bedrooms. We split up and checked the first three doors. Nothing of interest beyond a well-stocked pantry and a loaded bar. Good to know.

We regrouped around the hallway door, and I reached for the handle. Before I could touch it, a trim young red-headed woman popped out. She wore a pale green serving maid’s uniform, accessorized with a plain white apron and a very large kitchen carving knife. Probably not a zombie, I thought.

“Step back, motherfucker,” she snarled. “Or I’ll cut your balls off.”

Definitely not a zombie. I stepped back.

“Slow down, girl,” I said in my most soothing voice. “My name is Carthage. John Carthage. We’re not gonna hurt you.”

She lunged forward and swung the knife at my face, almost giving me an unscheduled rhinoplasty.

“Damn right. But YOU are gonna get hurt if you don’t get the fuck out. Right fucking now.”

I took a step back, rubbing hard at the tip of my nose to make sure it was still firmly attached.

“We just need a place to rest up. One of my people is hurt.”

“Tough shit.” She lunged at me with the knife again. “You need to get the fuck out and take your zombie friend with you.”

Another step back. “He’s not a zombie. He’s an investment banker.”

“That’s even worse.”

She lunged again and again, taking wild swings at my nose as I retreated. Momentum carried us well into the living room. Deal Team Six flowed to either side as she lunged at me. They took her to the floor. Hard. The kitchen knife clattered on the marble. I knelt beside her and picked it up.

“That wasn’t nice,” I grumbled, rubbing my nose again.

A seductive Norah Jones contralto replied from the hallway. “What do you expect? You broke into my home.”

The voice belonged to a stunning 50-something woman, casually attired in a shimmering silver satin shirt, white yoga pants, and a fashionable pair of faded-denim Converse sneakers. Her shoulder-length hair was thick, lustrous, and salon gray. Her aura screamed old money. This was something I could deal with.

I rose and nodded. “That’s true. I apologize for the intrusion. Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Carthage. John Carthage. These are my business associates.”

Old money doesn’t like strangers. That’s why the banking industry’s “old boy network” is so hard to break into.

She cocked a perfect eyebrow as if she recognized my name and was trying to remember where she heard it. I have a “big” reputation among the Manhattan ladies, so when her eyes drifted downward toward my sweat pants I knew what she must be thinking.

Her eyes stopped a little too early. “You’re a douchebag,” she said, pointing at the DCH logo on my black t-shirt.

Well, so I was wrong about what she was thinking.

“Yes, ma’am. Dewey, Cheatham, and Howe, at your service.” Old money likes deference.

“Did Andrew Jarrod send you?” she demanded, with an unexpected note of excitement.

“Uh, no, ma’am. He came with us, but he never mentioned anyone in the building.” How the hell did she know Andrew?

“Mmm…I suppose there’s no reason to hide it now. Andrew and I have been dating for the past few years. He’s quite the charmer.”

Her sultry tone suggested “dating” was a big understatement. No denying it anymore. Older women have a thing for Andrew.

“I’m a client of your family investment office,” she continued. “DCH has been our banker since great-grandfather arrived in this country.”

“I’m sorry, ma’am. I’m head of the M&A team, so I don’t know much about clients in the family office.

This was a risky response. Old money likes to be recognized. Hence the popular expression, “Don’t you know who I am?” and its modern corollary, “Who is your supervisor?”

“That’s all right, dear. I think I can forgive you under the circumstances. I’m Zora Lofton, and this is my maid, Shannon.”

She extended her hand. I wasn’t sure whether she expected me to shake it or kiss the acorn-sized Kashmir sapphire on her perfectly manicured index finger. I kissed the ring. Better safe than sorry.

Shannon wriggled on the ground, still pinned by Deal Team Six. “Any chance of you assholes letting me go, since we’re all such good fucking friends now?”

I waved off the team. They stepped back, warily eyeing her and wondering if she had a backup knife strapped to her inner thigh.

“Come now,” said Zora. “Where is your injured associate? Perhaps we can help somehow.”

Old money likes to cultivate an aura of noblesse oblige, as long as it doesn’t cost too much.

I sent the team to the stairwell while Shannon padded off to the kitchen, growling at me under her breath. Zora motioned me toward matching white couches flanking a futuristic coffee table. She had a magnificent view of DCH Tower and its neighboring skyscrapers. Tendrils of French perfume reached out to entrap me as she curled into a supple little coquette pose.

“So, darling,” she purred and slipped off her shoes. “Tell me exactly what you want.”

I shook my head to refocus and explained our mission in a few words. Old money likes brevity. Hence the popular expression, “Get to the fucking point.”

Zora seemed disappointed to learn Andrew didn’t send us to rescue her. She was disconcerted to find that he was the injured member of our party. No concern at all for the dead bodyguards. She had ordered them to find help on the second day. They never returned.

“Good boys, although I think the redheaded one was a little too friendly with Shannon.”

Old money doesn’t like the servants to fool around.

“What’s the situation here in your building?” I asked. “Can you think of anything that might be useful to us?”

“It was utter chaos on the first day. Almost everyone tried to get out before the roads closed. I was getting calls from good friends trapped in their limousines. They were screaming. I don’t think many of them made it. I felt so bad for them. But, what can one do?”

I got the distinct feeling she blocked their numbers. Sometimes that’s all one can do. Old money is not afraid to burn a few bridges.

Shannon reappeared, carrying a silver tray of cookies, Waterford crystal glasses, and a small pitcher of water. Zora apologized for the lack of proper tea. Supplies were running low. It occurred to me that she sent her bodyguards to recon the stairwell because they were large extra mouths to feed. Old money takes care of itself first.

“We’ve been trapped here all week. The boys killed a few of my neighbors in the hallway after they…turned. Is that the right word?” She popped a cookie in her mouth and took a sip of water. “Shannon knocked on the other doors but nobody answered. Nobody alive, at any rate. So, we’re stuck. The elevators don’t work, and the stairwells are too dangerous, as you must know.”

We chatted and nibbled on her cookies, pretending the world hadn’t changed. Despite her nonchalant attitude, Zora was no fool. Pampered and filthy rich, yes, but savvy enough to realize early Sunday evening that the “flu virus” was not just a problem for the little people. She made plans for an air evacuation to her Hamptons estate but lost contact with her personal pilot. The private helicopter never showed up. The bridges were closed, and her zombified co-owners controlled the condo building. Since she couldn’t bug out, her only choice was to hunker down and wait for rescue like the regular folks. How tragic.

Our conversation was interrupted by Andrea Aiuto and Deal Team Six. They arrived with a rush and a breathless bustle, carrying Andrew on a stretcher lashed together from pool cues and a priceless Bokhara carpet. Zora jumped up and gave Andrew a big kiss. She led the stretcher-bearers into her master bedroom suite, fussing over him all the way. Andrew waved at me as he disappeared. He looked happy.

“He’ll be fine,” said Andrea. “His leg’s badly bruised, not broken. But his ankle is wrecked, so he’s going to be out of action for a week.” She nodded toward Nora’s bedroom and asked, “Who’s the cougar?”

“I’ll explain it later,” I replied with a wink. “We better get back to work. Can you handle things here?”

“There’s nothing else I can do for Andrew; he just needs time to heal. I think he’s in good hands.” Andrea scanned the room and its opulent furnishings. “The rich are different, aren’t they?”

“Not so different, I replied. “More ruthless.”

I sent Andrea back to DCH Tower and called Deal Team Six together for a mission reboot. Much to my surprise, Shannon Shamrock joined us from the kitchen, wearing one of those moronic “Kiss Me I’m Irish” t-shirts, black jeggings, and a small backpack. She had another carving knife. Deal Team Six eyed her uneasily.

“I heard what you told Zora,” she said. “I’m coming with you.”

“Sorry, Shannon,” I replied. “That’s not gonna happen. You stay here until the building is secure.”

“No way! I’m not spending another hour locked up with that psychopathic bitch. I’ll take my chances with you and the zombies.”

That worried me. Maids know everything about their employers. There are no secrets from the hired help. If Shannon believed Zora was a nut job, I needed to know about it.

“She seems pretty normal, I mean, normal for someone with that much money. Is there something you want to tell me? Will Andrew really be safe here?”

“Sure,” Shannon laughed. “He’ll be safe with Zora. Until the food runs out and she makes a TikTok called, ‘Cooking with Humans.’ Why do you think she didn’t send me out to help Chris and Jason? I’m her backup meal plan when the last jar of caviar is gone.”

That made sense. Old money plans ahead.

Shannon’s desire to leave was understandable, but she struck me as too impulsive. A wild child. I’ve dated a few of those and recognize the type. I can handle anything just this side of deranged, but Shannon might get us all killed.

She could see my indecision. “Let me come with you,” she begged. “I know this building like the back of my hand. I can be your guide. And I promise to behave.” She crossed her fingers at that last part.

I looked at Deal Team Six. They glanced at each other and gave me a collective shrug.

“Okay. You can come. Stay behind us and try not to make any noise.” She nodded, sheathed her carving knife, and tightened her backpack.

The team reentered the stairwell while I walked down the corridor checking Zora’s neighbors. A creepy, chittering response greeted me behind three doors, and silence reigned behind the other six. I didn’t knock on the stairwell access door at the far end. Better to leave that one alone for now.

Out of curiosity, I used my Mokuba wrecking bar to pop the custom door on a quiet apartment and slip inside. I waited in the foyer, in case a crazy maid popped out, and then took a quick tour to see what I could find that might be useful.

The place was furnished in a dark, mid-Soviet bordello style. Blood-red velvet wallpaper, brocade curtains, elaborately carved furniture. There was a set of personal photos in silver frames. Zora was there, drinking vodka with the bastard grandchildren of a post-Putin oligarch, Boris Somethingovsky. Old money meets new money. Was Boris one of the screaming callers Zora mentioned?

The tenants left in a hurry. Clothes and half-packed suitcases were everywhere. The kitchen pantry held a ton of food. If all the condos were this well-stocked, we would be in good shape. I liberated a hockey stick from the foyer closet and returned to the stairwell.

Deal Team Six was ten floors ahead of me, leaving slain zombie doublets and triplets in their wake. Shannon was close behind the stack. I reached out and tapped her shoulder from a safe distance. She jumped about a mile high, but landed safely. I chuckled at her fright.

“Not funny,” she whispered, and hard-punched my arm to make sure I got the message.

“Hey, you almost cut my nose off. We’re square now. Besides, I brought you a present.” I handed her the hockey stick. “Your knife won’t keep zombies away, and if they get too close, you’re dead. Use this to crack skulls from a safe distance.” I explained our zombie-distancing protocols.

Shannon accepted the hockey stick with unexpected good grace. I critiqued a few of her few practice swings, and we hustled to catch up with Deal Team Six. They were making great time, and everybody was in high spirits.

During a quick rest stop, I reorganized the stack. Shannon had watched the team at work while I explored the Moscow room, and she picked up a pretty good theoretical understanding of our tactics. I wanted to know if she could handle the real thing, so I put her in the front rank with me. Hoplites with 2x4s formed the second rank, our LED team was in the third, and two table-leg hitters covered our rear.

Five minutes later, a tall, athletic banker in the bloody remnants of a classic Brooks Brothers three-button suit emerged from the darkness about ten feet away.

“I know this guy,” whispered Shannon. “He’s notorious for hitting on every maid in the building. We’re just cheap hookers to him. What an obnoxious scumbag.”

She stepped forward, eager for revenge, but I held her arm and gave her some timeless relationship advice.

“Wait,” I counseled. “Let him come to you.”

When the banker was two steps below us, the strobe light popped on. His arms windmilled. Shannon smashed his skull with a killer move featured in Mortal Kombat. He collapsed like a Ponzi scheme, and Deal Team Six burst into applause.

“Well done!” I cried. “You have greatness in you, my Padawan.”

Shannon rolled her eyes.

Our progress slowed as we encountered greater zombie densities on the lower floors. Not like the crowded stairwells at DCH Tower, but small packs that surged from the darkness and strained our ability to keep them at bay. The hoplites stayed busy. The cat 5 saved us when a bomb of elderly residents crashed out of the gloom. We retreated half a floor, deployed the coil, and picked them off as they struggled against the tangles and the strobe light. Shannon handled herself well, and I felt better about letting her come along.

She stopped us at the second-floor landing. “The next door opens into the supermarket on the plaza side facing DCH Tower. That’s what you want, right?”

“Correct,” I replied. “But we also need to find a window that overlooks the plaza entrance to the store.”

“You can get that here. This level has admin offices and personal services for the residents. The dry cleaner, a hair salon, a gym, and other stuff Wegmans doesn’t provide.”

I thought for a few moments and made an executive decision.

“Let’s clear all the rooms on this floor. We’ll have to stay here for the night, and I don’t want any random zombies messing up my beauty sleep. I need my eight hours.”

Shannon’s familiarity with the building became a great asset at this point. She knew all the side doors and back rooms, and guided us away from bottlenecks and ambush points where a sudden zombie charge might overwhelm our merry little band.

Most of the offices were empty, but the gym was stocked with the fittest zombies we had yet encountered. Tattooed powerlifters. Trophy wives in colorful shorts and sports bras. A 69-year old man and a sexy young physical therapist working on his rotator cuff.

The sun was touching the horizon when we entered the workout room, so the windows were too bright for our strobe tactic. Our sudden bull rush almost overwhelmed the gym rats, but I called for a retreat after a short running fight trapped us amid the free weights for a terrifying instant.

Instead, we regrouped outside the door and clobbered the zombies as they entered the fatal funnel. They stacked up so high the doorway got blocked. We pulled a few bodies from the top of the pile to make an opening, which was immediately filled by another snarling, grasping zombie. That’s how we finished them off. Drag one out, kill the next one, rinse and repeat. Shannon nailed one of the powerlifters with a high stick worthy of the immortal Alexander Ovechkin. He was so big that we needed three grinders to pull him clear. Nasty work.

I wanted everyone to bunk in the gym, but there were too many corpses and too much gore for a comfortable night’s sleep. Instead, we dragged a dozen Manduka Pro yoga mats into the offices and settled down for the night.

While the rest of the team nibbled on bedtime snacks, I stood by the window looking at DCH Tower. A dim light flashed on the roof. Straining my eyes against the deepening gloom, I could see the thin lines connecting our buildings, and small dark shapes moving slowly between them. Peggy Martin and Ronnie Numero were working their magic, bringing back food for the rescue kids and sending more equipment for the away teams.

Susie was up there, somewhere. And Lizzie. I thought about calling them on the radio but decided to save the battery for tomorrow’s festivities. I pulled out my LED and signaled. One long, two short. One long, two short. Someone on the roof replied immediately. One long, three short. Everything was good.

Shannon Shamrock was watching me and asked, “What the hell was that all about?”

“Morse code. I send the letter D and they reply with a B. Everything is on schedule.”

“D and B?”

“Stands for douche and bag, of course.”

“You people are insane.”

Shannon rolled her eyes and turned away.

Forty Six

The Last Battle

DEAL TEAM SIX was already hard at work when my eyelids fluttered open in the predawn gloom. A long column of grinders marched down the cleared stairwell, lugging components for new Bardeen battlebots and extra equipment for our next highly speculative investment.

Peggy Martin bounced in and sat beside me, breathtaking in a snug DCH tank top, gym shorts, and long blond ponytail. I thought again about her mirrored ceiling and shook my head to refocus.

“Good morning, sunshine,” she bubbled. “Andrea sent me to check on you. How’s your head?”

I touched the bandage where Andrea Aiuto drained my giant hematoma. No throbbing, no migraine.

“I’m good to go. How’s everything on your side?”

“Susie’s fine,” she giggled, and suddenly I was back in the sixth grade.

“No, seriously,” I said with exasperation. “How’s Nate doing? Will those Rivians be ready in time?”

“Maybe. He hit some sort of road block hacking into the system. Bardeen and his computer nerds are on it. Coding is a bitch. But the electrical and mechanical stuff are all done. Thank goodness Nate brought his truck on Monday instead of taking the subway. He owns every tool you can imagine.”

“I was a little surprised at that truck. He doesn’t strike me as the kind of guy who hoists a rainbow flag and goes duck hunting.”

Her sweet girlish manner evaporated, and razor-tongued Peggy reappeared, sharp as ever.

“You really are an oblivious idiot. You haven’t known Nate for half a day, and you’ve already decided he’s some sort of barbarian.”

“I’m just reading the signs, Peggy. I mean, look at his build, the shaved head, all that biker ink. How long was he in prison because of the NASCAR incident?”

“What?” exclaimed Peggy. “NO, you brainless fool. He played football at Florida State and majored in mechanical engineering. He graduated with honors, joined a NASCAR team, and ran a string of sport fishing boats out of Cocoa Beach during the off-season. The NASCAR career ended badly, so he opened a Pilates studio. He married a tattoo artist, and they moved to Manhattan six months ago so she could open her own tattoo parlor. He’s working as a janitor while she gets settled, and then he’ll open another Pilates studio. Well, that was their plan, anyway.”

“Books should match their covers,” I muttered. Peggy stormed off, oozing exasperation from every pore. I decided to ignore her for now, since I was about to close the biggest deal of my life. Focus is one of my leadership superpowers.

The hardest part of being a leader is waiting for others to execute your orders. Sometimes, there’s not much to do except manage by walking around, which is best done after a good meal. I slumped in a chair by the window and opened my backpack, looking for the delicious breakfast Susie had surely prepared for me. I found a half bottle of water and a greasy little bundle of computer paper wrapped in clear tape. It was sealed with a red lipstick kiss. Ronnie Numero arrived as I tore the paper to reveal a 4-oz. portion of fish jerky. Fish. Fucking. Jerky. I was stunned.

The confusion and disappointment on my face sent the normally taciturn Ronnie into a laughing fit.

“Welcome to the new reality,” he chortled. “Most of the perishable stuff is gone, so we’re on tight rations now. Susie did the best she could, but this is your weekly serving of protein.”

Tears sprang to my eyes, and Ronnie doubled over in laughter again.

“Just kidding,” he gasped between guffaws. “You’ll get two proteins a week, as long as you’re still classified as an essential worker. If not, I hope you’re a fan of vegetable ramen.”

“Hmph.” I sniffed the fish and took a tentative nibble. “So, who exactly is making these essential worker determinations?”

“Veronica, of course.”

And I thought my life couldn’t get any tougher. Sigh. I gnawed on a chunk of oily trout and looked for a silver lining. Maybe Susie would share her rations to keep my strength up. Wink. Wink.

There was nothing else to do except embrace my new reality. I shrugged and asked, “Everything on track?”

“Pretty much. It’s all on Nate and the Rivians now. We should be ready by noon. Morale has improved since you opened the stairwell over here. Bella Brique’s gleaners are scouring empty condo units and sending back food and other supplies. Soap and deodorant are a priority. We’ll get more of everything once we clear out the infected units. People can see that your plan has a snowball’s chance.”

“Hmph. Their faith is touching. Make sure Bardeen gets some of that first deodorant delivery.”

Ronnie joined me for the management walkabout. My first stop was the most important: evaluate our new Bardeen specials. I found Anjali engrossed in the two battlebots. She looked like a pin-up girl in an auto parts calendar, radiating sweat, axle grease, and cleavage. I shook my head to refocus.

The bots were AAA-rated, better than a T-bill. Bardeen had outdone himself. They were small enough for the zip lines, but would be just as effective as Edward Scissorhead and Alice Abernathy. Final assembly would occur in the first floor stairwell, outside the access door leading into Wegmans.

Jeremy Sockborn was in the next room with his DoucheBook Pro, fine-tuning the iPad interface for the new bots. He was working beside an innocent little brunette intern wearing black glasses, baggy khakis, and a pink Oxford cloth shirt. Queen of the Nerds. Her name was Quinn Ripley. In the blink of an eye, I realized they were completely, totally, madly in love.

This puzzled me. How could I misread Veronica’s emotional life for years, yet know with such instant certainty that Jeremy’s heart belonged to Quinn? Was I growing new empathy neurons, or simply using the one I already had? I made a mental note to ponder the question over a hot rack of lamb at the Back Porch Café, if we survived.

To be honest, I was annoyed that Anjali picked Quinn to honcho one of the battlebots without talking to me first. I’m the boss, and I was more than a little skeptical about putting such a young woman in charge of a critical task, but Jeremy assured me that she would be fine.

“She has a master’s degree in game design, and she won the annual DCH Mario Kart tournament with the highest score ever recorded. It was spectacular!” he gushed.

“Where do people get time for all these extracurricular activities?” I muttered, and got back to work

Almost everyone else was in the gym, which had been cleared of zombie corpses, but still smelled of cinnamon buns. It was crowded with extra grinders Ronnie conscripted to reinforce the away team. Peggy Martin was there, along with Jane Austen and all my warriors from our first day of battle. Except for Archie Briggs and Henry Hunnicutt, of course. I sighed.

Everyone focused on Shannon Shamrock’s detailed description of the supermarket layout. She had memorized the floor plan because Zora constantly sent her on annoying little errands every day, instead of consolidating a list and making one large shopping trip. Shannon didn’t care, because this let her escape Zora and hang out with her friends. It was pure luck of the Irish that she was safe in Zora’s apartment when her zombie neighbors launched a hostile takeover.

Following Shannon’s presentation, Jane Austen chaired a long discussion of melee tactics for the supermarket industry. We would be entering uncharted zombie waters again. Jane’s proven success as a quick thinker and zombie combat innovator made her a natural choice to facilitate the conversation. At the end, Peggy Martin assigned everyone into pairs, which reprised my best tactical idea from the first day of the apocalypse. I was basking in self-praise, as usual, until Peggy assigned herself as my battle buddy.

“Not cool,” I protested. “I don’t need a partner. I can take care of myself. I’m a big boy now.”

“If only that were true,” Peggy laughed. She proceeded to explain another new reality to me. Andrea Aiuto was worried my concussion might flare up. Susie was afraid I might get hurt. Lizzie was terrified I wouldn’t come back, like her mom.

“Veronica couldn’t make them concentrate on their jobs, and Lizzie wouldn’t stop crying, so I offered to babysit you. It’s non-negotiable.” She glared at me with ice-blue eyes, and I folded my cards.

I returned to Anjali’s bot assembly area around noon. She looked happy and greeted me with a warm hug.

“We’re in good shape, John. I think this is gonna work.” Anjali was practically gushing. Totally out of character. Why was everyone changing so much? Was it happening to me, too?

Her confidence gave me a good feeling. Anything she cooked up with John Bardeen was sure to be profitable for all their investors. I left her to finish assembling the bots and returned to my campsite facing DCH Tower. I wanted a moment of personal time to look over the broad plaza.

The second-floor view was downright pedestrian compared to the spectacular citywide panoramas I enjoyed from DCH Tower. Yet, it was somehow more satisfying. The 50th floor was my reward for making killer deals, usually at the expense of the weak and always for my personal profit. This lowly second-floor view was my reward for selflessly leading a hundred grinders in close quarters combat against the zombie horde. My talent for managing chaos was serving me well.

Ronnie Numero, Peggy Martin, and Jane Austen joined me in the office. High noon. We stood by the window and waited. Everything was preternaturally quiet. No hustle and bustle of grinders in the corridor. No phones. No traffic noises. The plaza zombies were oddly frozen in place. Thousands of them. No mindless meandering or squirrel chasing. The zip lines between the two buildings were on hold. Nothing moved. Manhattan was waiting for Frodo to throw his ring into the Crack of Doom. Our world was on the brink.

Then, from the left of DCH Tower, I spotted a ripple in the zombie horde. From the right, a similar ripple.

Jane Austen pulled out a pair of Eschenbach opera glasses lifted from our CEO’s office. Love for the Metropolitan Opera was his sole redeeming virtue and the only interest I shared with him, other than looting pension funds, of course. Jane looked left and right before handing the glasses to me. They were low-power, having been designed for watching Carmen’s décolletage, not the zombie apocalypse. But in tough times, we all have to make do.

The zombies were upset. Their agitation spread through the horde like good weed at a Willie Nelson concert. Good old Willy. An American original, never cloned. He was the ultimate survivor, a miracle of modern medical technology.

The cause of their concern soon rolled into view. A pair of silver Rivian Commando sports cars emerged from the underground garage doors on either side of DCH Tower. Their headlights and emergency flashers winked at me in the opera glasses. Nate added cowcatchers to the front bumpers, so the cars could gently shed zombies to the left and right without running over them and stalling. The tremendous torque provided by their electric powertrains made them unstoppable. The CEO’s drone hovered overhead, piloted by one of Jeremy Sockborn’s intern gamer buddies.

The Rivians gradually converged on the center of the plaza and paused, close enough for us to hear anti-theft systems blaring over a rising crescendo of zombie chittering. The ripples in the pond now reached all the way to the front door of Wegmans, and our local shoppers moved away. Every zombie within a hundred yards was obsessed with the movement, lights, and noise.

The EVs rolled again, cutting across the plaza to the main boulevard. One turned left, and the other turned right. They disappeared, trailed by the drone and thousands of zombies. The plaza was empty, except for a few overturned hot dog carts and a scattering of corpses too ravaged to reanimate. I was a little surprised by how well my plan worked. But only a little.

“We don’t pay Nate and Bardeen enough,” I muttered. Ronnie and Jane nodded in agreement.

“What the fuck?” asked Peggy in astonishment. “Nate and Bardeen are driving those cars? What kind of a monster are you? Nobody should have to make that sacrifice.”

Ronnie and Jane laughed. I felt insulted.

“No, Peggy. I might be a hard-ass, but I’m not a C-suite psycho. Nate and Bardeen prepped the cars. They added a couple of live Canadian geese left over from the Pirates Banquet. You know how zombies can’t resist live meat. When the Rivians reach their final destinations, the sunroofs will open, and the geese will fly away home. I admit the geese should seek Prozac and psychotherapy when they’re back in Canada, but they’ll recover. Canadian healthcare is the best.”

Peggy glared at me. “Really? Exactly how and where are those cars going, all by themselves?”

“Nate and Bardeen hacked the Rivian self-parking system, tweaked the obstacle avoidance protocols, and programmed them for a couple of nearby parking spots. One car is targeted on the Internal Revenue Service Building, and the other is locked on Deutsche Bank.”

She bit her lip and thought about it. IRS is the arch-nemesis of all investment bankers. Parking a zombie horde at IRS Manhattan headquarters was a good long-term move for the entire industry. Deutsche Bank is just the bank that other bankers love to hate.

Peggy smiled. It all made sense.

“Okay,” she said grudgingly. “I’ll give you that one. Fabulous idea. You could get a Peabody Award for this.”

“Glad you approve,” I replied. “Now, back to the grind. We still haven’t closed this deal.”

Everyone was waiting in the gym, primed and ready to go. I thought about delivering a rousing motivational speech, but decided to skip the happy talk in favor of direct action. Good leaders know when to keep their mouths shut.

We had diverted the zombies with bright shiny objects, but the plaza would not stay empty for long. Brownian motion would inevitably bring us new friends, and the front of the Wegmans store was floor-to-ceiling glass. Not super-tough Godzilla glass, just ordinary supermarket glass. We needed to finish the pillaging before our noise and movement attracted a fresh zombie horde that would crash our party. That’s why the Rivian gambit was so important. It opened a window of opportunity for us, like politicians rushing to dump stock after a classified briefing. Move fast, before the news gets out.

“Let’s go,” I shouted. “This is it.”

Several people groaned at the cliché, but everyone moved forward anyway. I stood by the door, handing out backslaps, fist-bumps and motivational butt slaps to fire up the team.

Many of the grinders were strapping improvised protective gear over their most vulnerable body parts. They called it IPG. Peggy motioned to a couple of interns, and they rushed over with a set for me. I selected greaves and vambraces made from plastic file folders, held in place with duct tape. Strong enough to stop zombie teeth, but light enough to allow easy movement. Peggy added a chest plate and a large armored codpiece. I was a knight in vinyl armor, ready to save all the damsels in distress.

“Great idea,” I said. “Who came up with this one?”

“Arwen Fairchild in the D&D Club,” said Peggy as she strapped into her own armor. “She was downloading LARP ideas from YouTube, and this one popped up.”

“D&D Club? What’s that?”

“Dungeons and Douchebags,” Peggy mocked me. “Don’t you know anything? You need to get out more.”

I decided not to ask about LARP, and we walked to the stairwell. It was full of equipment and armored grinders, stacked behind each other and ready for a Baltimore no-knock warrant.

I trotted past them, down the steps to the crowded first-floor landing. Anjali Khan, Jeremy Sockborn, and Quinn Ridley were putting the finishing touches on Bardeen’s new children. They were the same general trapezoidal construction as Alice Abernathy and Edward Scissorhead, but only about knee high. Roughly the same as a one-year-old toddler. Anjali said they were rug rats and named them Tommy Pickles and Chuckie Finster. Jeremy and Quinn cracked up.

I’m still not sure why that was so funny. Nobody ever bothered to explain it to me.

When Anjali was ready, Jeremy and Quinn deployed their iPad controllers, ran a quick camera check, and positioned the bots in front of the doorway. These new battlebots were built on compact spare tires looted from the garage. They were easier to maneuver and resembled the steel-jawed stag beetles in MushiKing, a popular Japanese arcade game. One of my all-time favorites. I still have some of the collectible cards.

Tommy Pickles and Chuckie Finster moved back and forth in the stairwell, fighting for position at the ice cream truck on a hot summer day. They lined up, and I signaled for complete quiet.

Peggy listened at the door with Dr. Weinstein’s stethoscope, in case a zombie was waiting for us. She nodded to me and stepped aside. I opened the door, took a deep breath, and stepped onto yet another battlefield I knew damn well was infested with zombies. That’s executive leadership.

Our stairwell was in a back corner of the store, next to the restrooms, exactly where Shannon said it would be. I tiptoed to the end of the corridor and peeked out. Wegmans was dim and quiet, except for a soft rustling noise that came from everywhere, like the cosmic microwave background radiation.

The corridor led to a product aisle stacked with toilet paper and laundry detergent. The endcap display featured toilet bowl cleaners and microwavable toilet brushes. I retraced my steps and gave two thumbs up to Jeremy and Quinn. They smiled at each other with annoying puppy love and concentrated on their iPads. Phase three was about to begin.

I stepped aside while Tommy and Chuckie rolled out. Peggy taped an iPhone to the wall, so we could monitor the corridor from the stairwell. I closed the door behind us while she established a FaceTime call using our portable Wi-Fi network. Another genius-level creation from the mind of Anjali Khan.

The call connected in time to see Chuckie drop a battery-powered Wi-Fi repeater and disappear into the store with Tommy. I stood behind Jeremy and Quinn and watched the game plan unfold.

Tommy Pickles glided down the toilet paper aisle, with Chuckie Finster about fifteen feet behind. The view on the controllers was hard to grasp at first, until I remembered the cameras were only about two feet off the ground. Tommy turned left at the end of the aisle and stopped for a quick scan.

Everyone gasped. Zombie legs as far as the eye could see. Impossible to count from the low angle, but it was a Black Friday crowd of zombies, hungry for special discounts.

“All right, calm down people,” I whispered. “This is what we expected. Let’s get started.”

Edward Scissorhead and Alice Abernathy were far too big for the Sky Genie zip line. Bardeen couldn’t design a battlebot small enough for easy transport, yet tall enough to deliver lethal zombie head trauma. We argued at length and hammered out a compromise that honored my zombie distancing rules while still giving him some artistic license. That compromise was about to be tested.

Tommy Pickles approached a pair of hairy legs shuffling from left to right on our viewscreen. Old Navy cargo shorts, ankle socks, men’s white sneakers from Costco.

“Tourist,” I muttered. “Picked the wrong day to visit Manhattan.”

Jeremy tweaked the camera angles to improve his stereoscopic depth perception. When everything was perfect, he tapped a virtual red button that activated a pre-loaded computer script.

Tommy lunged forward and corralled the hirsute tourist legs with his long razor-sharp beetle jaws. Jeremy tapped a virtual green button for the next script. The jaws snapped shut, and Tommy accelerated backwards, pulling the zombie off balance and dumping him on the floor. A Battlebot Bojack, so to speak.

Except there was no finishing kick to the groin. Instead, those steel jaws slashed ankle muscles and tendons as he fell, leaving the zombie unable to stand. All he could manage was a slow, slimy crawl.

Tommy rolled on. His next target was a pair of slender legs in sheer black stockings, a short gray skirt, and no shoes. Jeremy tapped the red and green buttons. A young brunette receptionist joined cargo shorts tourist thrashing on the floor.

Quinn maneuvered Chuckie Finster for a closer look at the damage. Laddered stockings, severed peroneus longus muscles, sliced Achilles tendons on both her ankles. Chuckie backed off, and we watched gray skirt try to stand up. She managed one leg, but tumbled over when she tried to walk.

Jeremy cut down two more while we were watching the brunette. I sensed Quinn was eager to get in the game, a bit of boy-girl rivalry at play between them.

“Go for it, Quinn,” I said. “Pedal to the metal.”

She whipped Chuckie Finster into a three-point turn and zoomed down an adjacent aisle so she wouldn’t get tangled with Tommy Pickles. I could see why Anjali made her an early-round draft pick. Quinn had insane Mario Kart skills.

Her first target was a pair of swollen ankles in yellow flowered socks and black orthopedic shoes. Chuckie rolled up at full speed and slid to a stop in perfect position. Quinn stabbed at the red and green buttons almost simultaneously. The screen jumped, and the jaws flashed. A large grandmother in a shapeless purple house dress floundered into view, pulling down a shelf of dishwashing detergent as she crumpled into a heap on the floor.

Chuckie didn’t wait around to inspect the damage. He vaulted over grandma with no more trouble than a neighborhood speed bump and closed on a pair of oxblood wingtips and brown pinstripe pants. With cuffs, of course.

“Lawyer,” I warned Quinn. “He’ll be slippery.”

Quinn nodded and crept into position. Chuckie lurched, his jaws flashed, and the lawyer collapsed. A shoe dropped in front of the camera. The foot was still in it, neatly severed above the ankle.

“Clean Cut Bonus!” Quinn exulted. “Extra points!” She pointed to a tiny virtual scoreboard in the upper corner of the controller.

I decided Quinn would do fine with the battlebot, despite being a young woman. She certainly possessed a vicious killer instinct under that nerdy exterior. Veronica, Nate, now Quinn. Maybe my ability to judge books by covers was not what I imagined.

Tommy and Chuckie snipped their way around the crowded store for two ferocious hours of competitive ankle biting. Jeremy took out more zombies, but Quinn was ahead on the scoreboard because she had a knack for picking up extra points with the Clean Cut Bonus. In the NBA, she would have been a 3-and-D specialist.

Meanwhile, Ronnie was still monitoring the plaza for me. Brownian zombies wandered in, but not in significant numbers. The Rivians reached their assigned parking spots. The geese were on their way to Canada for therapy. The IRS was surrounded. Nobody cared about Deutsche Bank. Peggy was happy. So far, so good.

“Time for phase four,” I said. “Let’s clean out those toilets.” Jeremy and Quinn cracked up again. I frowned, and they stopped giggling. Potty humor is not my thing. We needed to clear the two public restrooms so that no zombies remained behind us when our assault teams charged into the massive store.

Peggy checked the iPhone monitor and confirmed the corridor was still open. We stacked up beside the men’s room door with Deal Team Six. I opened it with a hard shove and jammed a wooden wedge under the bottom so it wouldn’t swing shut on me.

The response was instantaneous. An elvish young woman with green hair and a blood-drenched cashier’s smock rambled out of the dark, hungry for a meat snack. Peggy stepped forward with a new Jane Austen zombie combat innovation inspired by my strobe light discovery. Two quick squirts from a paint-filled plastic spray bottle, and the cashier’s eyes were completely covered. She waved her arms and clawed her face. Peggy smashed her head with an aluminum fungo bat and stepped out of the way as she fell.

“Why was she in the men’s room?” I muttered. My question was answered when five more cashiers shuffled out, the entire morning shift. It must have seemed a great place to hide when the customers were eating people instead of the fresh samples.

Peggy blinded each one as they passed the doorway, and Deal Team Six finished them with table legs and sharpened mop handles. I waited a few minutes, then entered the lion’s den to make sure it was clear. Deal Team Six redeployed to check the women’s room.

I clipped my LED light to the IPG chest plate, leaving my hands free for executive action. The bright white light ricocheted crazily around the blood-splattered walls, giving me that jump-scare vibe I detest so very much. The tile floor was sticky with black blood. My Nike running shoes made little popping noises no matter how carefully I walked. The LED beam settled on the grotesque remains of a half-eaten woman curled in the last stall. Her name tag identified her as a manager. She was short and stout, with a face like one of the Budweiser Clydesdales. Marjorie.

A soft voice huffed in my ear, “That could be you someday.”

I levitated two feet straight up. It was Peggy, right behind me. Her shoes made no sound, even with the sticky blood. She had the stealth moves of a new mom checking her baby at 2 a.m.

In my wildest dreams, I never imagined motherhood would be good practice for the zombie apocalypse.

“Don’t sneak up on me,” I whined. “You might get hurt.”

“Sure,” laughed Peggy. “Let’s go with that. Nice vertical leap, by the way. You should try out for the DCH corporate basketball team. Extracurriculars look good on your resumé.”

We dragged the other cashiers back into the restroom and wedged it shut. One of Andrew Jarrod’s twisted deal lawyers used fresh dripping blood to write “Staff Meeting” on the door. It looked like the poster for a new horror movie. Sick.

Our escape route was secure. Every transaction needs an exit strategy, in case the Feds show up with a warrant.

I signaled to the rest of my grinders, and they tiptoed into the corridor, nervously adjusting plastic armor and checking weapons. Jane Austen directed everyone into attack formation.

Now for the hard part. The zombies were a writhing, moaning wall-to-wall carpet, thanks to Tommy Pickles and Chuckie Finster. We formed a skirmish line to sweep the herd like Canadian fishermen clubbing baby seals. I created a mobile reserve with Peggy and Deal Team Six to take care of any ambulatory undead that Tommy and Chuckie might have missed.

That was the compromise I struck with Bardeen. No close combat with zombie hordes, unless we had leverage. The ankle-biting of Tommy Pickles and Chuckie Finster gave us that leverage.

The first half of the hunt went smoothly. My grinders were excited by how easy it was to dispatch disabled zombies. Our standard melee weapons were ideal for the task. Sharpened mop handles for stabbing the brain of anyone flailing on their back. Chair legs for crushing the skull of anyone crawling face-down on the linoleum.

I admit that some of the violence was gratuitous, even for investment bankers. My grinders needed to unleash the rage they repressed during a week of being hunted by the flesh-eating undead. I saw Jane hit one poor baby seal with her chair leg about twenty times, until its head disintegrated into mush.

“If Greenpeace shows up, we’re in big trouble,” I muttered.

Shannon Shamrock was our only dropout. She stood strong with the team at first, but when the sweep moved forward, she spotted familiar baby seals. Friends from the maid community, residents, stock clerks, children.

Hesitation puts everyone at risk, so we sent Shannon off the field to wait with Jeremy Sockborn and Quinn Ridley. No shame involved. Shannon was a tough woman, but she lacked that special sociopathic gene shared by all investment bankers, the gene that lets us kill without emotion and sell subpar annuities to widows.

The danger level increased dramatically when we reached the open area where Wegmans sells specialty cheese, wine, and other gourmet products in an indoor farmers market. A dozen scattered zombies stood upright and mobile, encircled by display cases where Tommy Pickles and Chuckie Finster could not reach them.

I didn’t want anyone fighting in those tight spaces unless we could gain an advantage over our deadly enemy. Peggy tried using her paint sprayer, but the zombies were too far away and too agitated for a decent shot. I was about to engage them in close combat, when Jane Austen intervened.

“Wait,” she said. “Let’s try the laser pistol.”

My jaw dropped. My blood pressure spiked. My eyes bugged out. I screamed like a toddler getting dragged out of the candy store.

“You have a LASER PISTOL? Why didn’t you tell me this before? Where did you get it? I want one too.”

“Calm down,” she sighed. “You should put away your phone when other people talk at team meetings. We have a prototype, that’s all. One of our defense industry analysts found a bunch of DIY designs on YouTube. She wired together half a dozen laser diodes from old CD-RW drives, pulled capacitors from a couple of kitchen microwaves, and stuck a battery on the end. Bardeen added lenses from a webcast camera to improve the focus. It’s not hot enough to vaporize anything, but it’s strong enough to burn out their little zombie retinas from twenty feet. Lasers are dangerous, as you may know. They concentrate light into a tiny point that can even cut through steel.”

I struggled with her condescending tone. Is this mansplaining? It was an argument I couldn’t win, so I conceded the point. “Okay, you sold me. Let’s fire it up.”

Jane stood on her tiptoes and waved to the other end of the store. One of her media buyout interns raced over with a black DCH duffle bag, the kind we use for transporting cash to the Cayman Islands on our corporate jet. Jane pulled out a three-foot piece of six-inch white PVC pipe decorated with a red pirate skull and crossbones. Delicate electronic circuit boards were glued on one side. A battery pack was attached to the end. It rested against her neck and shoulder like a man-portable rocket launcher.

“That’s not actually a pistol,” I muttered.

She ignored my quibble and flipped a small toggle switch, explaining “We have to wait until the capacitors are fully charged.” The device emitted a low frequency humming tone that rose quickly in pitch until it vanished beyond my hearing range.

Jane stood ten feet from the nearest zombie cheese vendor and lined up the peep sight. She waited until the cheesehead turned to face her, then pressed a black button on top of the PVC pipe. A tight constellation of red dots strafed across his eyes, leaving a trail of yellow-orange flames that sparked and crackled. Jane looked up and smiled at me. The tiniest whiff of gourmet smoked gouda drifted across the counter.

The zombie stood still, blinking his eyes. I tapped the floor with my Mokuba. He moved toward the sound and bumped into the cheese counter. Blind as a bat. Leveraged.

“You can do anything with YouTube,” I muttered.

We needed only a few minutes to clean out the whole section. Jane walked from station to station, pausing to re-power the capacitors for every second shot. I moved in when the target zombies were blind and helpless. My Mokuba wrecking bar was invincible in the confined space behind each display counter. As a special treat, I liberated a dusty bottle of vintage Dom Pérignon to share with Susie. To the grinders go the spoils.

Leverage is a wonderful thing. It’s how Wall Street makes the easy money. Well, that and mutual fund fees. I’ll never understand why people are willing to pay money managers who underperform the S&P 500. Give me an index fund every time.

While Jane Austen and I finished off the smoked zombie gourmets, Deal Team Six launched another sweep to make sure the baby seals were resting in peace. All the other grinders quit the seal hunting business and launched new careers as house painters. Interns brought rollers, brushes, and gallons of paint from the remodeling job in DCH Tower so we could cover those floor-to-ceiling windows. I didn’t want any late-arriving Brownian zombies to spot us behind the glass as we looted every last scrap of delicious, wholesome Wegmans grub.

Veni, vidi, vici.

Forty Seven

The Sack of Wegmans

OUR IMMEDIATE GOAL was to grab the non-perishable food and move it someplace safer. Half the grinders formed a bucket brigade in the stairwell. The other half zoomed around like meth-crazed Instacart drivers, filling brown paper grocery bags and delivering them to the stairwell door for pickup. No tipping.

We managed to loot most of the pasta, rice, flour, sugar, and canned goods before dusk. I didn’t want to risk using lights, even with the windows painted, so when the sun went down, I called a timeout and sent everyone back for a well-deserved rest. Jane Austen stood by the stairwell door, counting heads to ensure nobody got left behind.

I was the last grinder to leave the battlefield. Piles of debris. Dead zombies everywhere. The stench of cinnamon buns. It was the middle-class housing market following a financial meltdown. In other words, another profitable day for the banking community. Sorry about your mother’s retirement nest egg.

I wedged the door and trudged up the stairs. Jane glided ahead of me on her tiptoes. The view was amazing. I shook my head to refocus.

The second floor was crowded and busy. Our elegant restaurant specialist Troya Washington was hard at work. She looked fresh and stunning in a turquoise Egyptian cotton blouse and a white Vauthier miniskirt that showcased her long, well-toned legs.

Troya was working with our celebrity chefs, Bobby and Gordon, organizing the food harvest for transport back to DCH Tower. The chefs kept getting into arguments over the best items. Their competition escalated into a scuffle over a one-ounce jar of Urbani Whole Black Summer Truffles. It was a playground slap fight, with lots of hair pulling and screeching.

After her team separated the squabbling hens, Troya boxed their ears and sent them off to work in separate rooms. Investment banking has its fair share of screaming divas. These restaurant guys were in a different league altogether.

The War of the Chefs provided some welcome comic relief at the end of a very eventful day. Morale was up, and I was feeling pretty good about myself. The rescue kids would be safe and well-fed until the helicopters arrived. My plan succeeded beyond anyone’s wildest dreams, except mine, of course. There was never any doubt in my mind that it would work.

I passed the word to bunk down around 9 p.m. so we could get an early start. The good-natured celebration faded as exhaustion took over. I couldn’t sleep, tossing and turning on my yoga mat while everyone else was in a zombie-free dreamland. The day’s events and tomorrow’s worries whirled around my brain. We notched a big score, but I wasn’t satisfied. Never leave money on the table. It’s a core tenet of investment banking. In this case, I was thinking about canned goods instead of money, but the same principle applied.

Around midnight, Ronnie materialized with a fifty-year-old bottle of The Macallan single malt, two crystal Glencairn glasses, and two cans of my favorite Blue Diamond salted almonds.

“Trouble sleeping?” he asked sympathetically. “Me too. This should help. Courtesy of our dearly disemboweled pharma CEO.”

He poured a couple of generous portions.

“To the dead.” He raised his glass and tossed it back in two gulps.

“To the money.” I drained my glass.

Ronnie gave us refills and opened the first can of salted almonds. He ran a hand through his shaggy brown hair. No matter how much product he used, it was always out of control.

“So, what’s next, John?” he asked.

“Well,” I mumbled over a mouthful of nuts, “we’ll finish looting the supermarket, clear the rest of the zombies, and drink artisanal cocktails on the roof of DCH Tower while we wait for the helicopters. People can live in the condos or stay at DCH Tower to be closer to their desks. They need to keep working if they expect to get paid.”

I had already decided to claim the pharma CEO’s palace so I could play house with Susie. I drifted into a fantasy of domestic bliss, complete with glazed eyes and a little smile on my face, until Ronnie snapped his fingers under my nose.

“No, John, I mean, after that,” he said. “After we’re rescued. What are we going to do? DCH will still exist, but Manhattan won’t be our corporate headquarters anymore. The London office will take over, or Singapore, maybe. We’ll fall off the ladder. Who knows? We might end up working in the DCH forgotten gift card subsidiary. Isn’t that worse than the zombie apocalypse?”

It was a shocking thought. The mergers and acquisitions business is the most lucrative and prestigious part of any investment bank. As head of the DCH Manhattan M&A team, I was a righteous god who creates money from the interstellar ether. The gift card team is on the other end of that spectrum.

Don’t get me wrong; it’s a respectable grift. Think about it. Gift card issuers could easily notify and refund the purchaser if the card isn’t used within, say, six months. Instead, all that birthday and Christmas money disappears without a trace. A solid business, to be sure, but it’s small potatoes compared to my galactic M&A money machine.

Much to Ronnie’s surprise, I didn’t have an answer for him. We talked deep into the night about the global financial implications of the Manhattan zombie apocalypse, but reached no conclusions. We were staring morosely into our crystal glasses as the sky slowly brightened with the colors of a beautiful sunrise. We heard the team stirring outside. Jane Austen appeared at the door. She spotted the empty bottle right away and was not happy.

“What the fuck?” she bellowed. “Are you serious? We still have a ton of work to do. How can you start the day like this?”

Ronnie looked at me, smiled mischievously, and suddenly bolted for the door, ducking his shaggy head as Jane took a swing at him. He was a portly accountant, but still showed damn good moves. Amazingly light on his feet.

Jane blocked the door so I couldn’t imitate Ronnie’s escape. She wasn’t very big, but she was strong, armed with a softball bat, and madder than hell. I was trapped. Admiral Ackbar let me down at the worst possible moment.

“I’ll be fine, Jane,” I winced, “but could you lower your voice a little?”

Jane raised the bat and stepped forward.

Peggy saved me. She pushed past Jane with a very worried expression on her face. “John, we have a problem in the plaza.”

I stood and stretched, cracking my back and a few joints I didn’t recognize. One glance out the window confirmed what Peggy said. Zombies were in the plaza again, thanks to Brownian motion and the fact that Manhattan society abhors a vacuum.

“It’s not packed like it was yesterday,” said Peggy. “But there’s still too many of the fuckers, and they’re too close to the storefront. If we make any noise, that painted glass won’t hold them off.”

She noticed the empty whiskey bottle and stopped.

“Not to worry,” I dismissed her concerns with an airy wave of my hand. “I knew this would happen. Get everyone ready and wait for my signal. Trust me.”

Jane looked at Peggy, and they shook their heads in unison.

“Sorry, John. Not gonna happen. In your condition, you need adult supervision. I’ll stay here. Peggy, you get the team moving.”

Peggy nodded, subtly pointed at me, and stage-whispered to Jane, “Watch him.” She stuck out her tongue, showed me a well-manicured middle finger and hurried off.

“Okay, genius, what’s your plan?” Jane’s doubt was palpable.

I pulled out a security radio and clicked the talk button. Veronica answered immediately.

“Good morning Veronica,” I said sweetly. “I hope you had a restful evening. Are you seeing what I’m seeing?”

Veronica replied with a blast of profanity. When she paused for breath, I jumped in.

“We need the drone now, if you would be so kind.”

The radio went dead. Veronica was never one for idle chatter around the office espresso machine.

I looked at Jane. “Let’s watch the show.”

She responded with a loud “Hmph” and a burning glare, but she stepped to the window anyway.

Moments later, a dark speck rose from the top of DCH Tower, hovered for an instant, and zoomed straight for us. It was the Skyfish drone, carrying a small object on a short loop of cat 5 cable. It cruised around the plaza once, then stopped outside our second-floor window. We could hear it buzzing. I gave the camera a big smile and a jaunty royal wave. The drone curtsied.

“What’s that?” asked Jane. She pointed at the small object dangling beneath the drone’s fuselage.

“It’s a portable Bluetooth speaker taped to an iPhone 32. Listen, and you’ll be able to hear it.”

The unmistakable sound of Frank Sinatra was audible through the window. Start spreading the news. New York. New York.

The drone made several passes across the front of the Wegmans. The buzzing rotors, the music, and the movement stirred the zombies to life, so to speak. They surged back and forth, stretching their arms in a fair imitation of a sell-out crowd doing the wave at Yankee Stadium.

When the entire horde was spellbound, the drone drifted to a lamp post in the center of the plaza. My favorite $2 hot dog cart was parked nearby, completely sold out. The drone hovered and carefully draped the loop over the lamp post. As Sinatra’s fan base gathered around, the drone shot straight up and flew away, leaving the speaker behind. We couldn’t hear Frank Sinatra anymore, but the zombies could.

Jane was staring at the plaza with her jaw open. No zombies remained within thirty yards of the Wegmans’ storefront. There was no possible way they could hear us looting the rest of the store, no matter how much noise we made.

“Okay, we’re good,” I said briskly, snapping my fingers at the spellbound Jane. “Let’s get a move on. We only need another couple of hours to harvest the rest of it.”

She shook her head in disbelief, gazing at me with awe and new found respect. “You’re not as dumb as everybody says.”

I puffed out my chest at the well-deserved compliment.

We joined the away team, already stacked in the stairwell with melee weapons in hand.

“Stay frosty,” I warned them. “Nothing’s changed. This is still a hostile takeover. Watch for poison pills and shark repellents.”

Tommy Pickles and Chuckie Finster were waiting for us. Anjali’s cellphone eyes said the corridor was clear. I opened the door. A blast of cinnamon rolled in. The rug rats rolled out.

Jeremy Sockborn and Quinn Ridley guided them on a fast sweep of the store. Nothing moved. I waved Deal Team Six into action for some extra due diligence. They found a badly-eaten assistant manager locked in a back office, still clutching her clipboard. Lauren.

Deal Team Six hung their heads in shame. They missed this one during yesterday’s seal harvest.

“Crouching tiger, hidden zombie,” I scolded them, thinking of Archie and Henry. “C’mon people, you’re not first-year analysts anymore.”

Except for that one glitch, everything went according to my brilliant plan. I was puzzled when Roberta Greenleaf and her team of wobblers showed up, inspecting the spoiled produce section for seeds and wilted vegetables. Sprouted onions, potatoes with green eyes, rotten tomatoes. She took everything for a rooftop garden.

“In case the helicopters are late,” she explained. “We’ll need to stretch our assets. You can grow a hundred pounds of potatoes in a trash bin filled with dirt. I saw it on YouTube!”

The team quickly stripped the store of anything that might prove useful. We had to rig for silent running when Sinatra ran out of power, but the Skyfish drone returned and saved the day with a freshly charged speaker and new iPhone. Fly me to the moon, and let me play among the stars.

We finished the job, and I took a last walk around once everyone pulled out. The zombies were still sprawled where they had fallen, except for a dozen we stacked against a wall to keep the stairwell clear.

That meat pile disturbed me more than the scattered individual corpses. The dejected crowd in a bread line is always more disturbing than a single unemployed worker crying about layoffs after a private equity takeover. It’s the scale of the disaster, I guess.

I rejected the negative thoughts and retreated to the stairwell. We left the iPhone monitor on the wall, in case I wanted to come back. Jane Austen closed the door and hammered the wedge in place. We returned to DCH Tower, where Susie and Sylvia had organized a rocking all-hands rooftop victory party in my honor.

The giant “Mission Accomplished” banner made me uneasy, but I couldn’t figure out why.

Lizzie jumped into my arms as soon as I arrived. We danced and laughed for hours, until Kelli Kinder and Ellie Enfant announced bedtime and took her away with all the rescue kids.

That’s when the party really got started.

Forty Eight

Unknown Unknowns

I WOKE UP alone on my office couch, still wearing filthy sweat pants and a blood-spattered DCH t-shirt. An erotic memory of slow-dancing under the stars nibbled the edges of my groggy brain. I was handsome and irresistible. Susie was gorgeous and seductive. My victory bottle of Dom Pérignon added a sparkling glow.

Then, my buzz got harshed by a much sharper memory; Veronica telling us at 1:00 a.m. that we couldn’t spend the night together because it would upset Lizzie.

Susie agreed, of course, and sent me to my lonely office with a sisterly kiss on the cheek. I began to suspect that a malevolent spirit was working against me, conspiring with Veronica and the zombie apocalypse. I sat up with a groan and a crackle of joints.

Time for another long, cold shower.

I’m a simple man, so my world always looks better with a fresh golf shirt and some clean linen slacks. But, despite a healthy finishing splash of Old Spice, I was uneasy. The Damoclean sword of gift card doom still dangled over my head, and I was worried we might not survive the next three months if we didn’t consolidate our precarious position in DCH Tower. Every banker knows that most M&A deals don’t actually create new value for shareholders, yet investors always turn into lemmings whenever an acquisition is announced. PT Barnum was right.

That’s usually not a problem for me, since investment bankers make money even when the deal fails. We always get paid upfront, before the lawyers. But this time, I was a common shareholder who could lose everything if the transaction went sour.

I figured our biggest challenge was boredom. My high-achieving grinders needed something to grind, or they would grind on each other, and this deal would fall apart. Old debts would be settled. Warring states would emerge. Investment officers against portfolio managers. Supervisors against employees. Capital against labor. Veronica against me.

So, what does every executive do when facing a serious personal threat? Call another staff meeting.

Sylvia Sakura assembled the team leaders and key associates in a 45th-floor conference room near my office. She was still the consummate professional, wearing a charcoal bustier dress from Gianbattista Valli with matching Massaro heels, killer pearls, and carrying her ever-present iPad.

The rest of the team was slumming in grimy t-shirts and gym shorts. Certain people had failed to bathe. Three of them were barefoot. The contrast with Sylvia was stark.

“Masters of the Universe no more,” I muttered.

The morning sun warmed the room, giving me a preview of what the Manhattan summer would produce in our glass-covered skyscraper. It was going to get hot. Damn hot.

“Listen up,” I said, tapping the desk for attention. The room fell silent, and they looked at me expectantly.

“You’ve all been doing great. I couldn’t have asked for more.” That was my usual opening line for the DCH annual bonus ceremony, where I literally made it rain money. Everyone nodded in anticipation, except Christine LaCroix. She looked away sheepishly.

“But, we’re not done yet.” Stunned looks all around. No bonuses?

“We haven’t squeezed the last dollar out of this deal. You know how I feel about that. We’ve got to put this baby to bed.” I was notorious for never leaving any money on the table.

I thanked my lucky stars that Andrew Jarrod was out of action, snuggled up with Zora Lofton in her luxurious bedroom at DCH Condos. His oppositional defiant disorder would have been on full display. Before anyone could think about stepping into his shoes, I fired off a fusillade of orders. I might not be in pinstripes anymore, but I was still a dictator.

First and foremost, I wanted a complete crouching tiger, hidden zombie sweep of DCH Tower and DCH Condos. I had no doubt my grinders would get careless if they assumed there was no threat. That’s why the SEC is always looking over our shoulders, trying to catch us at a weak moment.

I put Jane Austen in charge of Deal Team Six and authorized her to grab our hardest-hitting grinders for extra muscle.

“You’re Head of Corporate Security now,” I said grimly. “Take Chuckie Finster and Tommy Pickles and purge the previous management team. Check every closet and every executive washroom. Kill them all. Lawyers first. I don’t want any surprise motions for 2nd Circuit appellate review.”

Jane nodded and left the room.

The other assignments were simple, but time-consuming. Troya Washington and Bella Brique would finish gleaning the luxury condominiums. Shannon Shamrock would serve as their local guide and help settle grinders into the best units. Laundry would be a top priority. The new DCH fashion trend of bloody grifter t-shirts and dirty gym shorts was getting a little too fragrant for my taste. We needed to maintain our personal standards, even during the zombie apocalypse, or we would end up smelling like a Dothraki khalasar.

I told Anjali Khan to develop an outreach plan to the world.

“CB radio, semaphore, smoke signals. I don’t care what you do or how you do it. Just find someone outside the Manhattan Quarantine Zone who will talk to us.”

Andrea Aiuto was tasked with setting up a medical unit featuring equipment and drugs scavenged from Manhattan Pediatrics LLC and the pharma CEO’s medicinal marijuana stash. Peggy Martin would establish a play school with Ellie Enfant and Kelli Kinder from Manhattan Daycare LLC. As a former orphan, I can testify that children need structure.

I assigned everyone else to search our buildings for office plants and potting soil that Roberta Greenleaf could use in her rooftop farm. She might be able to stretch our supplies, and the project would keep her wobblers busy and out of trouble. It was the same principle behind serving s’mores at a cookout. Send the kids off to roast marshmallows, so the adults can drink in peace.

After everyone else departed with their assignments, I put Christine LaCroix in charge of zombie corpse disposal.

“Grab all the interns. Pitch the bodies out the broken windows. The cinnamon smell is annoying, and I’m tired of tripping over dead, disbarred lawyers.”

Christine needed to regain my respect. Managing interns was the worst job I could imagine, nastier than manhandling dead zombies or talking to the Vice President for Human Resources.

Her gratitude for the second chance was profound. “Thanks, John, I won’t let you down this time.”

I scowled and dismissed her with an imperious wave.

That left Ronnie Numero and Sylvia Sakura, who was nervously clutching her pearls while they waited for my attention. Even Ronnie was stressed. Totally out of character.

Their agitation distracted me from my own problems. Would there be layoffs after the rescue? How could I take care of Lizzie on the measly fifteen basis points from forgotten gift cards? I’d have to sell the Lamborghini and buy a used Prius. The horror, the horror.

“What the hell is wrong? You think I’m being too hard on Christine?”

Ronnie shook his head. “Not at all. Every dope fiend needs to face their mortality at some point in the rehab process. Tossing zombie corpses out the window is fabulous therapy for her. We have a bigger problem than Christine.”

“Bigger than a life sentence to the forgotten gift card team?” I was incredulous. “What could be bigger than that?”

“It’s DCH Condos. The clean-up teams are finding more survivors, about a ten percent rescue rate. Zora and Shannon were just the first. And worse, they’re all old people. Old rich couples, to be precise.”

I wasn’t sure how that could be a problem. Old rich people are the foundation of the financial industry. They have lots of money but aren’t smart enough to take care of it. Florida built an entire timeshare industry based on this fact.

Ronnie kept squirming, waiting for me to figure out the issue on my own. Sylvia was not so patient.

“Think, John. There are five hundred condos. If we find two survivors in ten percent of the apartments, well, you can do the math.”

I didn’t want to take off my shoes, so I said, “You do the math and tell me about it. Why is this a problem?”

Sylvia looked at Ronnie for support. “That’s a hundred extra people, maybe more. A hundred extra mouths to feed.”

Our zombie sweeps didn’t find any other survivors in DCH Tower. Everyone died during the first zombie onslaught or soon after, trying to make a run for it like Edward and Beth. I always knew we’d find a handful in DCH Condos, simply because there were fewer zombies, more food, and more hiding places. But not in my wildest dreams did I think we’d find another hundred people.

Worse, they were old people. Rich old people. They would demand dinner buffets at four o’clock in the afternoon. Pie and ice cream. Bottomless martinis. They would gnaw through our food supply in six weeks. The helicopters weren’t coming for three months. There were no other condos or grocery stores within our reach. Zabar’s was thirty blocks away. The streets were still clogged with zombies. We were back to square one. My brain spiraled down.

As I plumbed the depths of despair, redheaded Shannon Shamrock slipped in, wearing a tight white DCH grifter tank top and Irish-green Daisy Dukes. She was one of us now.

Shannon whispered something in Sylvia’s ear. She checked her iPad and whispered something back. Shannon nodded and left.

“What was that all about?” I asked, glad for the distraction.

“Nothing. Shannon remembered there’s a security office in DCH Condos that might have more radios. I told her to take Nicole Edwards and check it out.”

I nodded my approval. People who claw their way up from the bottom always make me proud.

“That’s a smart woman. She absorbed a lot of valuable information, simply by running errands around the building.”

“Yeah,” replied Sylvia. “That knowledge gave her some leverage. Made her indispensable.”

Leverage. Something about leverage tickled my hindbrain, the primitive part that keeps us alive when times are hard. Suddenly, the answer to our problems appeared, plain as day.

I needed Veronica.

Forty Nine

Leverage

VERONICA WAS NOT HAPPY to see us. We found her by the rooftop pool in a strapless white Versace one-piece swimsuit, enjoying a beautiful afternoon from the comfort of a fully reclined lounge chair. The sun picked up the golden highlights in her red hair, and she sizzled with the retro styling of a Varga girl. I shook my head to refocus.

Our celebrity chef Gordon brought her a silver tray with a large plate of fried chicken, a crisp Caesar salad, and a tall iced Aperol spritzer. He curtsied at Veronica’s dismissive “Thank you” and gave me a smug look as he returned to the rooftop kitchen. My jaw dropped open, and my stomach rumbled.

“What do you want, John?” Veronica snarled. “Can’t you see I’m busy?” She plucked a little paper umbrella from her drink and dropped it on the silver tray.

I looked at Veronica’s lunch and thought about my fish jerky breakfast. Is this what would happen to me on the gift card team? Back to the wrong side of the wealth gap?

“Veronica,” I announced. “We have a problem.”

I gestured at Ronnie and let him explain the après-zombie scenario. He painted an ugly picture. DCH London or DCH Singapore in charge of global operations. DCH Manhattan scattered to the winds on hourly wages. No more private jets and no fat annual bonuses.

Veronica looked pensive, idly pointing her freshly painted toes and stretching her Pilates-toned legs like a contented cat.

“Hmm,” she said. “Sucks to be you. Why should I care? I have a new iron-clad contract that Edward drafted for me. The CEO signed it two months ago. I get paid whether I work or not.”

She touched the corner of her eye when she mentioned Edward.

“There’s more,” I said, motioning at Sylvia.

Sylvia explained the DCH Condo survivor rate and pulled up one of Ronnie’s multivariable graphs on her iPad.

“See? Old people are greedy. We’ll run out of food in less than six weeks.” There was a big red line falling off the bottom of the screen.

“Sucks to be you, too,” I snarked at Veronica.

“Don’t be so fucking petty, John,” she said, and swept back her hair with a haughty gesture. “This concerns all of us, especially the children. You know how the elderly love to cheat the next generation.”

She was complaining about Social Security again.

I didn’t reply. Veronica was a survivor because she had a strong grasp of reality. Wishful thinking was not one of her weaknesses, if she had any at all. Despite her arrogance, I knew she would process this new information and come to the same conclusion we did. So, I waited in silence.

“Hmm…” she mused, taking a delicate sip of her frosty spritzer and nibbling on a drumstick. She chewed slowly and swallowed.

“I see your point. So tell me, what’s your plan?”

“How do you know I have a plan?” I sulked.

“Because you’re a fucking adult. You know better than to bring me a problem without a solution. What do you want?”

This was true. Complaining but not proposing a solution is weak, something children do. I’ve been solving my own problems since I was five. I sighed. Veronica was always one step ahead of me.

“The government is not going to change their rescue timetable,” I said. “You know how they are.”

Veronica rolled her eyes in agreement.

“So,” I said dramatically. “We need a private sector solution. And for that, we need leverage.”

Veronica sipped her drink and growled, “Get to the fucking point before my lunch gets cold.”

“We have to assume the army will manage to stabilize the Manhattan Quarantine Zone, and the contagion won’t spread to the rest of the world. Otherwise, we’re all doomed, no matter what.”

Veronica nodded. “You might be right. Keep talking.”

“When the MQZ is completed, that means the rest of the planet will get back to business as usual. Global GDP might take a dip, but the important financial stuff is secure at remote backup sites in desolate wastelands. Wyoming. Central Florida. Annandale. The world economy will soon be chugging along like always, and we’ll forget this ever happened.”

Veronica nodded again. All DCH data is stored in real-time on servers in the Caribbean. No extradition treaties. The major stock exchanges use similar arrangements. Your IRA is safe with us.

“Anjali Khan will figure out a way to communicate with the outside world, but I doubt anyone will rush to rescue us. MQZ airspace has been declared off-limits by the government. There hasn’t been any aerial activity in days. The private helicopter services won’t risk prison to save us, no matter how much we pay.”

Veronica sipped her drink. She looked pointedly at her now-cold fried chicken and cocked an impatient golden eyebrow at me. Her clock was ticking. I began to talk faster.

“Nobody will rescue us unless we’re indispensable. That means we need leverage. That means we need information.”

Veronica cocked both impatient golden eyebrows at me.

I was babbling now. “DCH Tower is home to a dozen firms specializing in M&A. Those bankers and lawyers are working on transactions worth billions of dollars. Even if they’re dead, really dead, those deals will move forward. All the work is on a backup floppy disk somewhere.”

Sylvia rested her face in the palm of her hand and muttered, “The cloud, John. It’s in the cloud.”

I ignored Sylvia. It was time to close the sale.

“Veronica, if we dig up confidential information about those pending deals, we’ll become the ultimate insiders, sitting on a gold mine.”

Veronica wrinkled her perfect nose. “Are you proposing we blackmail Edward’s clients?” She wasn’t angry, just intrigued.

“Not Edward’s clients and not blackmail. Information about his clients could be traced to you, and blackmail is a felony.”

Veronica chuckled. Nobody on Wall Street ever goes to jail, unless they get caught strangling their coke dealer. Even then.

Time for the big close. “We need to offer information to someone who can profit from it, either by taking a piece of the deal or by front-running it. Someone with a lot of capital and a politician in every pocket, so they can violate the MQZ with impunity. Maybe an investment banker.” I paused for effect. “Someone very senior.”

Veronica’s sparkling green eyes lit up brighter than the visitor scoreboard at a Mets game. Grand slam.

“Our CEO,” she said. “He’s perfect.”

“If Anjali breaks the comms blackout, can you find the CEO?”

“Of course,” snorted Veronica, sweeping that beautiful hair over her shoulder again. “Get me a working cell phone connection. I know exactly where to find him.”

I smiled. “In that case, all we need is a pound of juicy red meat to trade for an early rescue. Edward’s firm is off-limits, and we can’t use anything from DCH clients. That still leaves a lot of ground to cover.”

“I’ll give you a list. Edward was always fighting for legal work on the biggest M&A deals and IPOs. As far as I’m concerned, his competitors are fair game. Edward would want it that way, screwing the bastards from beyond the grave. That’s why he was my kind of guy.”

Veronica dabbed her eye again.

“Meet me in the CEO’s office.” She waved her drumstick at us.

We were dismissed.

Fifty

Keep This Under Your Hat

I LEFT VERONICA in peace after she agreed to keep our plan strictly confidential. A Darwinian panic might erupt if my alpha grinders discovered they’d be competing for food against rich and hungry old people. They wouldn’t set the codgers adrift on an iceberg. That’s what you do in Alaska to ensure the survival of the young. DCH Manhattan didn’t have any icebergs.

But we had plenty of broken windows, and the security cams were no longer recording every move we made, a potentially fatal combination. There’s not much difference between stealing an old widow’s retirement annuity and throwing her out a 35th-floor window because you want her fish jerky ration.

From my perspective, our search for insider information involved a much greater downside than defenestration of a few elderly investors. The more people who know your deepest, darkest secrets, the more likely someone will get subpoenaed by the Manhattan District Attorney and take a sweetheart plea deal to join the prosecution team. Orange is definitely not my color.

I told Ronnie to create a smokescreen of activity for me. We would make a few highly visible public appearances and then sneak down a vacant stairwell to find the law firms Veronica identified for us.

Our first stop was Peggy Martin’s daycare center in the executive suites. I wanted to see Lizzie and Susie before disappearing on a long day of plunder and rapine. The place was organized chaos, with the rescue kids laughing and playing as if their world hadn’t crumbled around them. It was strangely relaxing.

Although Lizzie was happy to see me, I was surprised to discover that Susie wasn’t there. According to Ellie Enfant, Susie volunteered for Jane Austen’s zombie hunter squad over in DCH Condos. She was still pretty stiff from her injuries, but had a lot of suppressed frustration that she wanted to release by smashing zombie heads with a table leg. Susie’s version of a cold shower. Ellie winked at me.

“Tell me about it,” I muttered, and moved on.

Roberta Greenleaf and her plant people were on the 45th floor, filling trash cans with dirt and teasing green shoots from piles of rotting vegetables. Anjali Khan and John Bardeen were huddled in a small conference room, arguing over a whiteboard covered in some sort of cellular telephone computer code. It was all gibberish to me. Christine LaCroix was on 41, screaming at her interns as they heaved zombie corpses out the broken windows. She stopped to wave cheerily. My therapy program was working.

We finished the management walkabout in an hour and returned to the CEO’s ruined office. Veronica was there, wearing a diaphanous beach cover-up over her sexy Versace swimsuit.

I shook my head to refocus.

“Let’s make this quick,” said Veronica. “I promised Lizzie we’d play Marco Polo today at recess. She’ll be at the pool with her little friends, and I don’t want to be late.”

I nodded. Kids are truly adaptable.

“What do you have for us?” I asked.

Veronica handed me a piece of paper. “These are the top five deal lawyers in the building, not counting Edward.” She touched the corner of her eye. “You know what to look for, so get moving.”

She left without another word.

Sylvia was waiting on an empty floor that had been under renovation when the zombie apocalypse hit the Manhattan fan. She had a building directory on her iPad and a backpack at her feet. After comparing Veronica’s list with the directory, she said, “Alright, I’ve got it. Let’s move to 37. Bring this.” She kicked the backpack with the toe of her stiletto-heeled pump.

We used a deserted stairwell and reached the 37th floor in less than five minutes. The access door was wedged shut, and someone had used a Sharpie to write “Cleared DT6” on it.

“Deal Team Six,” I muttered, still more than a little jealous that Andrew thought of it first.

Sylvia rolled her eyes, kicked the wedge aside, and pushed past me. The place was quieter than a loser’s locker room. The smell of cinnamon was overpowering.

“Christine LaCroix needs to drive those damn interns a little faster,” sniffed Sylvia in disgust.

Our target law firm was on the far side of the building. It was a big outfit, with fifty equity partners and hundreds of associates. Glass double doors led into a dark-paneled reception area and a rabbit warren of offices. Sylvia marched in like she owned the place. I noticed she was carrying Veronica’s carving knife from the Julia Child collection. Ten inches of high-carbon steel might come in handy.

As a name partner, our target enjoyed a full suite of offices, with a workroom for his executive assistant, a small conference room for dirty deals, and a big corner office for his private consultations. Everything was decorated in dark cherry paneling, vintage Flemish tapestries, and oil paintings of famous British sea battles from the age of sail. Quiberon Bay. Camperdown. Trafalgar.

An anglophile lawyer. How predictable.

I set the backpack down, opened a big file drawer, and randomly pawed the bulging folders stuffed with documents. Sylvia watched, placing a hand over her mouth to hide a contemptuous smirk.

“What?” I asked petulantly. “Are you just gonna stand there?”

Sylvia laughed. “We’ll be here all day if this is how you roll. Let’s use our brains.” She rifled the partner’s massive desk until she found a small slip of paper covered with scribbles.

“Give me the backpack,” she ordered, and sat down in his overstuffed leather desk chair.

I set the pack on the floor beside her, and she extracted a big black box with a power cord. She plugged one end of the power cord into the box and the other end into the desktop computer.

I couldn’t contain myself any longer. “What the hell is that?”

“A 10kVA uninterruptible power supply,” she said, and pushed a round button. “It’s a backup battery for desktops, in case the electricity goes out while you’re in the middle of something.”

I pretended to understand and stepped behind her to watch. The computer buzzed to life, flickered, and settled on a login screen. Sylvia peered at the slip of paper and clicked a few keys. The computer whirred and displayed the partner’s personal home screen. She was in. My jaw dropped open.

Sylvia pulled a small green flash drive from the top of her black lace bra and stuck it in the computer. She opened his calendar and clicked a few more keys. A tiny light on the memory stick winked. When the winking stopped, she ejected the drive and shut down the computer.

“Wait! We should poke around and see what he’s working on.”

“Nope. A UPS won’t last long, and we have a lot of offices to cover. It gives you time to shut down the computer if the power fails, but you can’t do serious work on it. I copied his calendar so we can see who he’s been meeting. We’ll figure out what deals he’s chasing without digging through all his files.”

“How did you get in? I didn’t know you were a hacker.”

Sylvia chuckled. “I’m not a hacker. He’s a senior partner, right? A senior executive. No way he remembers his computer password. They all write it down.”

She waved the slip of paper at me.

“Really?” I squirmed. “That’s pretty stupid.”

Sylvia laughed again. “Every executive assistant knows this. Your DCH password is on a yellow sticky note inside the top righthand drawer of your desk. I also have your Social Security number and the password to your DraftKings account. I own you.”

While I processed this profound insight about the real power in DCH, Sylvia popped the memory stick into her DoucheBook Pro and scrolled the partner’s calendar. It didn’t take long.

“Here’s one. Six months ago, he started playing golf with a medical equipment CEO. Two months later, they shifted to three in-office meetings each week. I recognized the CEO’s name because he’s on the board at MOMA. The lawyer hooked the client on the golf course, and his firm became lead counsel for the transaction.”

We walked into the assistant’s office, and I opened a cabinet against the far wall to look for files with the company’s name. Sylvia snorted derisively and rattled a locked file drawer on her desk.

“Open this one,” she said.

My Mokuba wrecking bar popped the lock like a trucker on a cold beer. Sylvia’s fingers danced across the alphabetized file tabs.

“Jackpot,” she smiled, and pulled out a thin purple folder containing two pieces of paper.

“That’s it?” I said in disbelief. “Our deals create mountains of paper. How can that two-page memo be useful?”

“This is the engagement letter, the document that hires his firm to handle legal work on the transaction. An attorney-client relationship depends on this, plus a non-disclosure agreement, of course, but that’s just boilerplate. It’s a new engagement, so the executive assistant keeps a copy in her own files for quick reference.”

She handed me the letter, and I skimmed it, looking for key words. Sure enough, the medical equipment company wanted the lawyer’s firm to handle “all and sundry legal work associated with the acquisition” of another equipment company making a similar life-saving product. Once the deal was complete, the combined corporation would raise prices since they would no longer have any competitors. The technical term is “monopoly.”

Sylvia searched the calendar for twenty minutes before she found a clue to another deal; a series of meetings in trendy Soho bars with the CEO of a fast-growing tech start-up.

“They must be planning an IPO,” I said. “We can use this one.”

She gave me the name of a junior associate who accompanied the partner to all the meetings. I located her tiny office nearby and rummaged around until I found a fat folder of draft SEC filings.

“Wow,” I said. “This one is overpriced to perfection.”

Sylvia grinned. “This is fun. Like real pirates.”

I grinned right back, and we headed for the next law firm on Veronica’s hit list.

We made good progress for several hours. Veronica’s list was spot-on. These were top firms specializing in mega-transactions. The first four offices yielded insider information on eight mergers and IPOs worth many billions, if you knew how to play the game.

There was one more firm for us to visit. It was on the 23rd floor, which had not been cleared of stragglers by Deal Team Six. The stairwell door was wedged shut, and there was no message or any kind of marking on it.

“Should we skip this one?” hesitated Sylvia. “We have more than enough information to convince the CEO.”

“Maybe,” I said. “But this could be our last opportunity. Go big, or go home. That’s the Golden Rule.”

Sylvia nodded, pulled the top of her charcoal bustier a little higher, and gripped the Julia Child carving knife a little tighter. I knocked the wedge aside and stepped past the door.

We were in a big corridor that ran across the entire floor, with office suites along the sides. It was littered with debris, and the walls were decorated in wild arterial spray patterns. I counted six half-eaten bodies. The windows at both ends had been shattered by Jane Austen and Peggy Martin. I could see white residue from the fire extinguishers. The wind tunnel effect was refreshing. Our target was on the other side of the building.

“This is crazy,” I muttered.

There was no way to tell how many crouching tiger, hidden zombies we might encounter. But fear of the unknown is one of the very few bad habits I’ve never picked up, so I moved confidently down the corridor. Sylvia followed close behind, holding Martha’s blade in the en garde position.

The floor was completely occupied by our target M&A law firm and a big personal injury company I recognized from their obnoxious late-night television commercials: Manhattan Bottom Feeders LLP.

I closed all the offices as we passed, hoping that stragglers wouldn’t hear us. I figured any zombie who hadn’t joined the skydiving party was stuck in an internal room, like Edward, but there was no sense in taking any chances.

The doors to our target law firm were open.

“That’s a good sign,” I hissed. “Maybe they all jumped out the windows for us.”

Sylvia shrugged. “If wishes were Porsches, the homeless would ride.”

I led the way. The ultramodern reception area was a demolition zone. Everything was trashed and splattered with black blood. There had been a fierce battle here. Deal lawyers never go down easy.

We found the remains of a young receptionist behind the counter, eaten to the bone without leaving enough to reanimate. I checked the directory on her desk for the partner’s name.

“All the way to the back, in the corner,” I whispered to Sylvia.

She nodded, “After you, big guy,” and motioned me to go first. An excuse to check out my ass? Is that something women do?

I shook my head to refocus and tiptoed down the carpeted hallway. The level of devastation decreased as we moved deeper into the labyrinth. The last few offices were untouched. Everyone must have rushed to the front when the fighting broke out.

We reached the corner office, and I hesitated. The door was closed. Should I knock, or just barge right in without an appointment? I cocked the wrecking bar over my shoulder and motioned for Sylvia to open the door.

It was dead-bolted.

“Damn,” I sighed. “Get ready, this is gonna make some noise.”

I stuck the bar into the door jamb and threw my two hundred pounds of steely muscle against it. Bad move. The door gave way, and I tumbled in, twisting and falling to the soft carpet. The Mokuba spun from my hands and bounced out of reach.

A tree-sized lawyer with gelled gray hair and a bloody sharkskin suit jumped on top of me. It was the senior partner, and he was going for my jugular. I tried to buck him off, but he pinned my arms to the floor. I was helpless. He leaned down, baring perfect white veneers as he lunged for my neck. The image of Archie Briggs dying under a long cool woman in a black dress flashed before my eyes.

That’s when Sylvia stuck her Julia Child carving knife six inches deep into the partner’s earhole. He went limp and collapsed on me with a foul huff of zombie breath. I turned my head away from his stinking mouth and panicked when I couldn’t wriggle out from under his dead weight.

Sylvia tugged at the carving knife with both hands. It wouldn’t budge. I saw a flicker of movement behind her and drew breath to shout a warning, but the lawyer’s reek made me gag on the words.

She got the message anyway and jumped back. A badly chewed brunette paralegal leaped forward, chittering louder than a jungle full of frogs. The brunette missed Sylvia and crashed onto the dead partner, knocking the wind out of me. She tried to stand, but Sylvia grabbed the Mokuba and crushed her skull with a roundhouse swing for the nosebleed seats. The paralegal collapsed on the senior partner, expelling a fetid huff into my face.

Mokuba momentum spun Sylvia around to face yet another zombie charging from the next room. It was a hot young executive assistant wearing a Gianbattista Valli charcoal bustier dress, matching Massaro pumps, a 4-strand pearl choker, and multiple bite marks on her wrists.

Sylvia’s eyes opened wide in disbelief as the gorgeous assistant lunged forward.

“Bitch stole my look!”

She unleashed a primal scream and began swinging the Mokuba wrecking bar with furious hands until the poor woman’s skull was a shapeless mess. The executive assistant crumpled on top of the brunette paralegal.

I’d never seen Sylvia lose her temper. A scary sight.

She was gasping for breath, covered in blood splatter, and holding the wrecking bar in position for a 100 mph fastball high and away. The combined weight of the three dead zombies made it hard to catch my own wind. I wiggled my fingers, signaling an urgent need for immediate executive assistance.

“Stay there,” she wheezed, “while I check the other offices.”

I had no other choice. The dead lawyer and his staff weren’t going anywhere. Sylvia disappeared for the second-longest ten minutes of my enviable young life.

“All clear,” she said, striding back into the room. “Can you get off your ass now?” She gave the fashion-stealing assistant a little kick and extended her hand to help me up.

I needed a break to recover from our near-death experience, so we sat together on the big leather couch in the partner’s office. Neither of us brought any snacks, but the partner’s mini-fridge held a few warm soft drinks. I gulped a Mountain Dew while Sylvia sipped a grape Red Bull. Our adrenaline rush faded, and Sylvia’s eyes glazed over. She stared past the doorway, where we could see the dead assistant’s feet and haute couture footwear. My lonely empathy neuron told me something was wrong.

“Are you all right?” I asked tenderly. “That was a close call.”

Sylvia turned her vacant stare toward me, but I don’t think she was really seeing anything.

“Hey.” I snapped my fingers. “You all right?” She blinked and sat up.

“Yeah, I’m good. Just thinking, that’s all.” She pointed at the executive assistant. “John, I don’t want to die like that.”

“You’re not gonna die here, Sylvia. We’ll finish our business and hustle back to the team.”

“No,” she hesitated. “I mean, I don’t want to die like this, just an assistant to an asshole boss who doesn’t give a shit about me. I deserve something better.”

I decided not to take that personally, since my empathy neuron was now screaming that she was very upset.

“That’s not gonna happen, Sylvia.” I slid closer to her on the couch and put my manly arm around her delicate shoulders. She trembled at my touch. They all do.

“Everything will change when this is over. That’s a promise.”

She whimpered a couple of times and, much to my surprise, buried her face against my chest. Jasmine body lotion ensnared me.

We stayed that way for a long time, until she took a deep shuddering breath, sat up, and dabbed her eyes with the sleeve of my golf shirt.

“Okay,” she sniffled. “Let’s get moving.”

As a general rule, I never make personal promises to beautiful women. Too much responsibility for a selfish guy who plays around as much as I do. This particular promise slipped out before I could stop myself, but I felt surprisingly good about it. Indeed, the zombie apocalypse was changing everything.

Filled with a new sense of purpose, I shook my head to refocus on finishing our mission.

I retrieved the 10kVA UPS from the next room while Sylvia scoured the partner’s desk for his password. She became increasingly frantic as her fruitless search continued. No sticky notes. No scraps of paper. The desk was almost empty, as if it was for display purposes only. He undoubtedly did all his work on the golf course.

Sylvia plugged his computer into the UPS and turned it on. She glared at the login screen for so long I thought she might be suffering another existential mini-breakdown. Then, she shook her head, muttered, “No fucking way,” and clicked a few keys. The login screen flickered, disappeared and was replaced by the partner’s corporate intranet home page.

“How did you do that?” I marveled. “What’s his password?”

“His password is ‘password123.’ All lowercase,” she sighed. “He didn’t write anything down, so it was the only realistic option for a senior partner or executive at his level. No way he could remember anything more complicated. I feel sorry for his assistant. He must have been hell to work for.”

She pulled the green flash drive from her black lace bra, copied his calendar, and transferred the stick to her DoucheBook Pro.

The calendar was empty, except for a promising series of Thursday night working dinners with the CEO of a hot new lingerie firm. I rifled through the assistant’s paper files and found the dinners were a cover story for weekly high-stakes poker games featuring politicians, judges, and SEC lawyers. Even a Supreme Court justice.

“He loses money every Wednesday to the people who regulate his business. Not bribery at all,” I muttered.

Sylvia kept digging for another hour without results. The sun was beginning to set, and I was getting nervous. Considering our close call with the senior partner, I had no appetite for navigating back to Susie in the dark.

“We’ve been here too long,” I said. “Let’s take what we have and get the hell out of here.”

“Wait, Veronica’s never wrong. She wouldn’t send us here for no good reason. Let me check one more thing.”

Sylvia plugged his computer into the 10 kVA UPS again and pounded the keyboard faster than my eyes could follow. I’m strictly a two-finger typist myself. My physical gifts are in other areas. Wink, wink.

“Got it!” she exclaimed. “That bastard lawyer was so computer-clueless that his assistant kept the real calendar under her own name and gave him read-only access. Completely understandable. It’s the same way I set up your calendar.”

Again, I didn’t take that personally. Sylvia was still upset about the meaning of life and not thinking clearly.

“Doesn’t matter,” I said. “I’ll give you ten minutes. No more.”

“No problem,” grinned Sylvia. “I’ve already found something juicy. I guess his assistant figured nobody would ever subpoena her. How stupid is that? Look at this entry. She didn’t try to camouflage anything, so all the details are right here. See? The firm signed an engagement letter last week to handle the legal work on Nintendo’s upcoming hostile takeover of Boeing.”

My jaw dropped. Sylvia reached over and affectionately closed it with a perfectly manicured finger and a sexy smile.

“John, these are the two richest companies in the known universe. When the market gets hold of this news, their stock prices will skyrocket. Both of them.”

It was our biggest score on a day of big scores.

Sylvia downloaded the assistant’s calendar, ejected the green flash drive, and logged out.

“Avast, me hearty” she cried. “Time to hoist the Jolly Roger and set sail for home port.”

I rolled my eyes.

Fifty One

Rikki Don’t Lose That Number

WE SLIPPED UPSTAIRS without a problem. No zombie lawyers in the stairwell, and nobody noticed we were AWOL for almost six hours. Dinner consisted of hardtack and pickled onions served cafeteria-style. Nasty stuff. On the bright side, I could wash it down with an ice-cold pilsner, thanks to Anjali and her YouTube power plant.

“That’s your beer ration for the month,” smirked Chef Gordon as he worked the serving table.

Bastard couldn’t resist rubbing it in.

Susie was still at DCH Condos, venting her frustrations on the poor zombies. I didn’t board the zip line to join her because Peggy warned that Lizzie might be jealous and cautioned me about hurting her feelings. She said Veronica was spending a lot of time with Lizzie. I couldn’t help but wonder if Veronica was poisoning Lizzie’s mind against me. Women do that, you know. They stick together.

I slept alone.

Sylvia arrived at the crack of dawn. She produced a lukewarm mug of weak coffee and a glare. I’m not a morning person, so it took a few moments to clear my head and realize something was different about her. No sexy silk cocktail dress or drop-dead stilettos. She was wearing a gray MIT racerback tank top, denim cut-offs, and white Converse All-Stars. Her clean, shining hair was twisted into a simple rope braid. No pearls. She looked casual, comfortable, gorgeous, and smelled of jasmine body lotion.

I took a sip from the mug while she stared me down, as if daring me to make a gaffe.

“Thanks for the coffee?” I ventured tentatively. This was apparently not the wrong thing to say, since Sylvia’s face softened, and she made a little “hmph” noise.

“Ronnie and Veronica are waiting for us upstairs. Bring your coffee, and let’s go,” she ordered.

That was enough to get me moving. Sylvia watched thoughtfully as I stretched out my kinks and pulled on fresh clothes.

“You know, John, if this plan doesn’t work, you could always become an underwear model.”

I nodded in agreement and waved her out of the room.

Ronnie and Veronica were sitting at a small café table by the rooftop pool. Chef Gordon was clearing away the remains of their breakfast: Illy double espressos, a Bloody Mary for Ronnie, and fresh croissants with Seville orange marmalade. Veronica was resplendent in a glittering Dior bikini, and Ronnie was reliable as ever in his standard blue Oxford cloth business shirt and crisp khakis. The queen and her royal equerry.

Gordon pointed at my watery coffee and chuckled as he carried away the serving tray. My earlier manic threats about feeding him to the zombies were beginning to look shortsighted.

Sylvia and I joined them at the table, and Veronica got right to the point, as usual.

“So, what did you find?”

I paused for dramatic effect and then announced with smug satisfaction, “We found our ticket out of this hell hole. A set of eight M&A and IPO transactions worth upwards of a billion dollars, if they’re handled correctly.”

Sylvia wanted to say something, but I raised an eyebrow, and she held her tongue.

Ronnie whistled softly. “Nice work, John. That’s better than I expected. It’s fantastic.”

“You can thank Sylvia,” I replied, nodding in her direction. “Couldn’t have done it without her.”

Veronica looked sharply at me. I’m sure Sylvia’s new fashion choices had not gone unnoticed, and I was not known for sharing credit. That combination aroused Veronica’s curiosity, never a good thing.

I needed a distraction, so I hastily outlined the deals we uncovered. Veronica was pleased, something I doubt few people have ever seen. Except for dearly departed Edward.

“This is worth a helluva lot more than a billion,” she smiled. “I’ll have no problem selling this.”

Anjali appeared, leading a large team of grinders carrying stacks of batteries and electronic equipment. She tossed us an absent-minded wave and headed for the cellular telephone tower that loomed over the rooftop complex. Her face was grim.

“It’s all moot if she can’t get a line to the outside world,” I observed.

“Have a little faith, John,” replied Ronnie. “Anjali is a god.”

He watched admiringly as she barked orders at her team. Thanks to my empathy neuron, I could see his worshipful gaze reflected more than a simple appreciation for Anjali’s technical skills. Ronnie Numero was showing interest in something other than spreadsheets and his regimental tie collection.

One more seismic shift in my crumbling world.

Veronica refused to discuss her plan for dealing with the CEO.

“Trust me,” she said, and would say no more. She walked to the end of the pool, executed a perfect racing dive, and started swimming laps. That ended the meeting.

Ronnie excused himself and hurried over to see if Anjali needed any “help” with the cell tower. It was the lamest excuse I could imagine.

Once we were alone, Sylvia dug right in.

“What the hell, John? You told her about eight deals, but we found nine. You left out Nintendo-Boeing, the biggest one. What gives? Why are you holding out?”

“Because we need a backup plan, in case the CEO doesn’t deliver for us. There’s a lot of risk here, and it’s all on us. First of all, Veronica has to convince him this info is worth the hassle of an MQZ rescue mission. After that, there’s a big risk he’ll cut us out of these deals when he cashes in. Do you really want to take a chance we’ll end up in the forgotten gift card department living off fifteen basis points?”

Sylvia cringed and slumped back in her café chair. “You’re right,” she sighed. “The CEO is a beast. That’s why he’s the CEO. We can’t trust him not to fuck us over.”

I nodded. The world of investment banking is merciless. I’ve never met a single bank CEO who rose to the top without treachery and an occasional homicide. We had to protect ourselves. The Nintendo deal would be our hedge against a double-cross or a fatal, unsolved “mugging gone wrong.”

Word crackled around the building that Anjali was establishing contact with rescuers in the outside world. A dozen grinders rushed upstairs to see how she was doing. Veronica and Ronnie sent them all away, promising to keep everyone informed. I told Sylvia to spread the word that we didn’t expect any results for two days. I had no idea how long it might take, but people should work, not hover.

“Tell them to stay focused,” I said. “Don’t get careless and become the last banker killed during the Manhattan zombie apocalypse.”

Anjali worked on the cell tower all day, dismissing her helpers one by one until she was alone, except for Ronnie. I passed the time wandering up and down the skyscraper, checking on projects and assigning new work to anyone who didn’t look busy enough. Sylvia said I was devolving, becoming a middle manager.

I lingered by the broken windows, gazing at the zombie-filled streets below. Their constant movement reminded me of a school of hungry sharks surrounding a dive boat full of drunken spring breakers. It was terrifying. Hypnotic. At one point, I felt like they were calling on me to jump. The longer I stared, the stronger the call seemed to get. They promised to catch me.

“Fuck off,” I muttered, and turned away. Orphans don’t fall for that old playground trick. Not more than once, anyway.

Anjali took a quick dinner break at sunset and went right back to work. By midnight, almost everyone else had given up and bedded down. Veronica, Ronnie, Sylvia, and I sat silently by the pool. The conjunction of Venus and the crescent moon seemed to mock me. The twinkling stars were bright and aloof. Our petty human problems were not their celestial concern.

Chef Gordon set a fresh candle on the table and retired for the night. We nibbled the last can of Blue Diamond salted almonds, with eyes glazed over and our minds a million miles away. The despair was so thick you would have thought it was the fourth quarter of a Jets game.

Then, Anjali’s voice penetrated our collective coma. She was standing over us, impatiently snapping her fingers.

“Hey, Veronica, wake up. Give me your cell.”

Veronica unlocked her phone and handed it over. A fresh sense of doom washed over us. Anjali tapped the screen more times than I could count and gave it back.

“Wait for my signal,” she said grimly, and walked back to the cell tower, almost invisible in the gloom.

We stared at Veronica’s phone, our collective fate resting in her well-manicured hand. Anjali called out, “Okay, give it a try.”

Veronica hesitated, dialed a number from memory, and put the phone on speaker. We heard it ring a few times. A young woman with a delightful Jamaican accent answered. Soft reggae music pulsed in the background, accompanied by the clink of fine china and crystal.

“Island Country Club, how may I help you?”

Our jaws dropped. Veronica asked for the CEO.

“This is his office calling on an important matter. Tell him it’s Veronica Scarlett.” she said.

The woman’s reply was cheerful. “Good evening, Miss Scarlett. It’s nice to speak with you again. He’s dining with ABA President Blick and FDIC Chair Pulton, but they’re just about to retire to the veranda for brandy and cigars. I’ll get him right away.”

Nobody said a word. Two minutes later, the deep, heavenly voice of the Chief Executive Officer for Dewey, Cheatham, and Howe, Inc. came on the line. As always, I was struck by how much he sounded like Morgan Freeman playing the Almighty Father in an old movie. His speeches were religious events. The man could really move a crowd.

“Veronica,” he boomed. “You’re alive. How is that possible?”

“It’s a long story, and it’s not over yet. I need your help. Do you remember New Orleans?” she asked cryptically.

There was a long pause. We could still hear the reggae music and restaurant sounds, or I’d have thought he hung up on her. But his heavenly voice returned, tinged with a tiny note of eagerness.

“Of course I remember. What can I do for you?”

“I’m still stuck in the fucking office. I need helicopters for about two hundred people, including children and elderly. Pick us up from the roof. Is that a problem?”

There was another pause, as if he was weighing our souls in a cosmic balance. He reached a heavenly decision.

“Not at all. Will you be available on this number?”

“Yes,” Veronica replied, and gave us a thumbs up.

“Okay, I’ll be in touch. Stay safe.”

The line went dead. The candle flickered in the silence. Veronica put her phone on the table and looked at us.

“It’s done. He’s on board.”

Fifty Two

Money Talks

WE TRIED to keep everything quiet, but by lunchtime, the pressure from anxious grinders was too much. They sensed a big transaction in the pipeline and wanted to know more. I asked Sylvia to schedule an all-hands dinner meeting so I could bring them up to speed.

“Sharing a little news will satisfy their curiosity and get everyone back to work,” I asserted with the utmost confidence.

Sylvia was unconvinced. “You don’t have enough news for an all-hands meeting. People want results, not progress reports.”

The argument dragged on for twenty minutes, until I played the boss card to override her objections. She stomped off to put my plan into motion. There was a serious downside to the new Sylvia.

I huddled in my office with Ronnie Numero for a couple of hours, trying to choreograph an airlift without knowing what kind of helicopters the CEO would send, if any at all. My mind was wandering, so I gave up and told Ronnie to develop multiple plans and address any contingency. He departed, and I rewarded myself with a hard-earned nap by the pool. Sylvia woke me at dinnertime.

The restaurant was full when I arrived. The rich geezers from DCH Condos doubled the size of the crowd, thanks to Maria Torres, Nicole Edwards, and our Sky Genie zip line express. There were enough shriveled old men in plaid pants to fill a Sarasota bingo barn. Everyone was tense and exhausted.

Susie arrived late, looking hotter than ever in her tight DCH tank top and gym shorts. She stood on her toes and gave me a long, passionate kiss, which brought scattered applause from the crowd. Jane Austen brought her Valkyries and Deal Team Six. Andrew Jarrod limped in, with Zora Lofton by his side. Christine LaCroix and her zombie cleanup interns made a grand entrance. They were covered in gore and reeked so strongly of cinnamon that Veronica sent them back for a shower and wardrobe change.

Dinner was nasty, brutish, and short. The sun-dried bell peppers weren’t bad, but the artisanal olive bread was cut with drywall compound, and we were almost out of fish jerky. There was no wine, just Perrier or San Pelligrino.

“We gotta get out of this place,” I whispered to Susie, “if it’s the last thing we ever do.”

She nodded agreement and rubbed my thigh under the table. My spine tingled again.

When Christine LaCroix returned with her interns smelling of soap and baby powder, I gave them a chance to eat and then stood on a banquet table to face the crowd. Everyone fell silent in anticipation. I got right to the point.

“As you may have heard, Anjali Khan managed to hot-wire the rooftop cell tower and get a line to the outside world. She’s still trying to improve the connection, so please stay away until she comes up for air and can give us a report.”

Andrew Jarrod raised his hand, and his ODD tried to speak, but I cut him off before he could get started.

“You can ask for technical details later. I’m sure she’ll be happy to explain how it works.” Andrew put his hand down and grumbled something nasty to Zora.

“Thanks to Anjali’s good work, Veronica Scarlett was able to reach the CEO for a brief conversation.” I paused for dramatic effect. “He’s aware of our situation and is trying to arrange a fast, early rescue.”

The room erupted in applause and cheers.

I let them celebrate for a few minutes and waved my hand for silence.

“The key term here is ‘trying.’ We won’t know what’s possible until he contacts Veronica again. You have to keep grinding in case he can’t do anything for us right away.”

The crowd grumbled and turned ugly.

Sylvia whispered, “I told you this was a bad idea.”

Clapping my hands and whistling for attention didn’t work. The angry tone got louder. Hostile words were exchanged between several of my team leaders. Chef Gordon took advantage of the confusion to sucker punch his rival, Chef Bobby. I was losing control.

Then, a thunderclap. Someone’s phone went off. The shouting stopped, and everybody turned to look. It was Peggy Martin, standing in the middle of the mob with Andrea Aiuto. She pulled out her phone and stared in disbelief. You could hear a pin drop as she put it to her ear and whispered, “Hello?”

Peggy listened for a moment and smiled. Tears sprang to her eyes. “Yes, dear, I’m all right. Yes, really. It’s so good to hear your voice. I love you so much, Ricky.”

“It’s Peggy Martin’s husband. It’s Ricky!” shouted Andrea.

The room exploded in a deafening cheer. A wave of calls and text alerts blew up every phone in the crowd. Anjali had saved me.

The restaurant emptied rapidly as people wandered off to have private reunions, chattering or texting madly with friends and family. Kelli Kinder and Ellie Enfant took our rescue kids to the executive playroom and called emergency contact numbers. Susie was FaceTiming her entire family, and Sylvia was talking to her former college roommate. I was the only one without a call. Didn’t pull out my phone to check. Why bother?

I walked up the lonely stairs to the roof and stood by the railing. Somehow, the view from the top wasn’t satisfying anymore. The bar fridge called to me. Beer ration be damned.

Anjali joined me with a big smile on her face and a phone to her ear, laughing and talking a mile a minute. How could my alpha predators keep such close family and friends? I thought we were all alike, denizens of the banking jungle, dedicated to nothing but the hunt and the kill.

Anjali motioned for a beer while she talked, and I handed her a frosty IPA. She chattered happily for a few more minutes, then said goodbye and cut the connection.

“Nice work on the comm link,” I said sincerely. “Whether we escape this god-forsaken dystopia or not, at least everyone can talk to their loved ones, maybe for the last time.”

I touched my eye.

Anjali laughed. “My pleasure. Family is important.”

I touched my eye again, and Anjali looked at me strangely.

“What about you, John? Did you call anyone?”

“Uh, no. Not yet. I’m waiting for everyone else to finish, in case there’s not enough bandwidth.”

I don’t know anything about “bandwidth,” but I’ve heard it makes a good excuse for avoiding Zoom calls.

Before Anjali could reply, the stairwell door burst open and a beaming Veronica Scarlett arrived with Sylvia Sakura.

“It’s done! I got the call a few minutes ago. Helicopter pick-ups will begin early Friday morning. Pack your bags! We’re all going to the CEO’s estate in the Hamptons!”

Anjali squealed with delight and leaned over the bar to give me a fat kiss right on the lips.

“It’s over John, we won!” She started whooping and twerking with Sylvia while Ronnie popped a bottle of chilled Moet & Chandon.

My suspicion bubbled over. “How could he arrange everything so fast? I mean, our CEO throws serious weight, but how did he sideline the entire federal government in only twenty-four hours, much less find enough helicopters to pick us up? What about the MQZ?”

Veronica sneered at me. “C’mon John, don’t be so fucking dense. All it took was money.”

She rubbed her thumb and forefinger in my face.

“He bought a helicopter leasing company and did a TV interview about the two hundred innocent survivors trapped by zombies at DCH Tower. The clip went viral in ten minutes. He called the governor on an encrypted line and threatened to turn off dark money financing for the next election campaign. The governor called the president, and he lifted the quarantine for Friday.”

I scowled and looked for the loophole. How would the CEO betray us? There were so many options, so many opportunities.

“Relax, John,” she said. “I know what you’re thinking, and it’s not gonna happen. You and I will be the last to leave. He won’t get his money until we’re all safe.”

Fifty Three

We’ll Always Have New Orleans

WE STARED at Veronica in disbelief. Her face was inscrutable.

“What do you mean?” I demanded. “You hardly said two words to him.” The others piled on, firing a barrage of excited questions.

Veronica waved us off. “I said everything that needed to be said. He got the message, and he’s arranging a rescue as we speak. Well, he’ll finish his Armagnac and Cohiba first. He’s very predictable.”

“That’s not good enough,” I said firmly. “Our lives are at stake here. You, me, Lizzie, and everyone else in this godforsaken dump. We need to know more. First of all, where the hell is he, and how did you know to call him there?”

Veronica sighed in exasperation. She was worse than John Bardeen whenever I failed to grasp his higher math. Long division, fractions, decimals. The hard stuff.

“He’s in Aruba, where he keeps his money. Island Country Club is his favorite restaurant. He practically lives there.”

That made sense. Aruba is an exclusive off-shore banking center about four hours from Manhattan on the company jet.

“But what about ‘New Orleans?’ What did you mean by that?”

Veronica sighed again. I could tell she didn’t enjoy explaining herself, and she could tell we weren’t going to give up. An irresistible force meets an immovable object. She looked around the table at our folded arms and grim faces in the candlelight. Even Sylvia was glaring at her. Faced by our firm united front, Veronica relented.

“I’ve been working with him for a long time. Things were tough in the beginning. It’s hard to raise capital without a fucking track record. We operated on a shoestring budget. Playing golf on public courses, flying first-class instead of using private jets, renting Chryslers instead of Bentleys. You know how it is. Times were hard.”

Everyone nodded in sympathy.

“We hit New Orleans trying to raise funds for a West African oil deal. Big deep-water field, pliable local government, wink and a nod from the State Department. We had everything lined up except the capital. It was a classic rags-to-riches opportunity. But nobody wanted to invest. All the smart money was in asteroid mining back then. Nobody was interested in another fucking African oil deal. We were stuck. Our last meeting of the day was a damn disaster with some low-level hedge fund flunky who refused to sign the NDA so we could make our pitch. I was ready to rip his fucking head off.”

I was aghast at such an egregious breach of protocol. Hedge fund people swim at the putrid bottom of the investment banking pond, right down there with the forgotten gift card department.

“We left his office and went to a late dinner at Galatoire’s on Bourbon Street. I still remember every detail. It was crowded, as usual. I had escargot and the crawfish étouffée, the most fabulous Louisiana French cuisine. The CEO ordered a bottle of domestic pinot blanc. I almost cried. There were two asshole deal lawyers at the next table, drunk as LSU frat boys and bragging about a rich new client.”

Veronica paused, as if unsure what to say next.

Sylvia pressed her. “What happened? Did you line them up as investors in your deal?”

“No.” Veronica shook her head vigorously. “We just listened. It took some time to understand what the evil bastards were gloating about. Everything became clear by the time dessert arrived. Their firm had been retained to work on a tiny piece of a giant merger that hadn’t been announced yet. Apple and Exxon.”

Ronnie whistled. “That was the biggest merger in corporate history, until Alibaba and Amazon. A small piece of that legal work would still rake in millions. That’s worth celebrating.”

“Yeah,” said Veronica. “We paid our bill in cash and went back to the hotel. First thing next morning, the CEO called Paris and sold our African oil rights to a French private equity firm for fifty cents on the dollar. He used the money on margin to front-run the merger and made a fucking fortune when it was unveiled.”

I was impressed. “So, when you asked if he remembered New Orleans, you were signaling that you had insider information on another deal that…”

“…that would make him another fucking fortune.” Veronica finished my sentence for me. “Thanks, Captain Obvious, for helping out the slow learners. You’re the gift that keeps on giving.”

We sat in silence for a long time, until Sylvia voiced the question on everyone’s mind.

“Can you trust him?”

Veronica laughed. “On this? Absolutely. He’ll move heaven and earth to get us out of here. There is no limit to his greed. That’s what makes him such a good investment banker.”

Everyone nodded at the profound, undeniable truth of her statement. Greed is good, as the ancient prophets said. It’s powerful, predictable, and persistent as hell.

Like gravity.

Fifty Four

Last Man to Leave the Field

WE SPENT THURSDAY clearing the rooftop helicopter pad and getting ready for the rescue. Anything light enough to blow away in the rotor wash was pitched over the side, including Anjali’s lifesaving YouTube wind turbines. We were fully committed. No turning back. The zombies partied fifty floors below, arms outstretched to catch the falling debris. Squish. Flat zombies.

Local TV news choppers circled us in the mid-morning, but a New York National Guard gunship chased them away with a burst of tracer rounds from its mini-gun. The pilot hovered over our building, and the door gunner tossed us a box of MREs before they buzzed off.

We consolidated all the elderly DCH Condo survivors on 50 and everyone else on 49. Nobody got any sleep that night because Troya Washington opened the pantry, Ronnie Numero opened the bar, and Veronica Scarlett opened the dance floor. Everyone partied like there was no tomorrow.

Everyone except me, that is. I hid in my office, fretting over disaster scenarios and trying to develop a backup plan.

“Leave him alone,” Sylvia warned. “He’s in one of his moods. I see it happen every month.”

Friday dawned soft and clear without a cloud in the sky. The DCH landing pad couldn’t accommodate tilt-rotor aircraft, so the CEO sent a swarm of mid-size Eurocopters equipped with the rock star luxury package. They carried eight people apiece, and everyone traveled in total leather-lined comfort with cabin disco lights, a freshly stocked bar, and a case of Blue Diamond salted almonds.

The first chopper touched down at 8:01 a.m. while the others orbited nearby in a loose holding pattern. The door opened and a flight steward lowered the stairs. He was romance-novel handsome in gray uniform pants, a tight white dress shirt, and a narrow red tie. I led Peggy Martin, Kelli Kinder, and the first six rescue kids forward at a brisk trot. Kelli gripped the hamster cage for dear life.

Everyone bent low, even though the whirling rotor blades were a full five feet over their heads. Kelli ogled the gorgeous flight steward as she boarded, and he gave her a lecherous wink. I caught his eye and drew an imaginary knife across my throat from ear to ear. He turned pale as a ghost when he saw my blood-splattered clothing and the crusty Mokuba wrecking bar.

Lizzie waved goodbye to me. I blew her a kiss and wondered if we would ever meet again. Peggy was the last to board.

“Remember,” I shouted anxiously in her ear. “Call me immediately when you land. Let me know if anything seems wrong. Cops. FBI. IRS. Anything. Got it?”

She nodded and embraced me. “See you soon, John. Don’t worry. Everything is going to be fine. I know it.”

I ran for cover when the flight steward closed the door. The pilot pulled pitch, and they vaulted into the air. We could see the rescue kids waving goodbye through the windows. The next helicopter lined up for its approach.

The flying time from Manhattan to the Hamptons was about thirty minutes. There was no other air traffic that day. Peggy reported excitedly that the helicopter went full throttle to the CEO’s magnificent estate, bypassing the cute little East Hampton Airport. I made sure Susie was on the next flight with Ellie Enfant and more rescue kids. Everything went smoothly, and the CEO met each flight with his huge personal staff.

Once they were on the ground, Peggy said a score of CNN reporters jumped into action, interviewing the cutest survivors and broadcasting scores of breaking news updates. Lots of press, but no FBI agents. No SEC lawyers. No IRS auditors. I began to relax a little.

The Red Cross provided a pavilion to screen everyone for injuries and zombie bites. Family and loved ones arrived in chartered planes and limousines from around the country for heartbreaking reunions that made great TV. The CEO hosted a VIP tent with complimentary bar and computers, so the rich DCH Condo survivors could check their stock portfolios before relaxing with a drink. Interns were available to transfer the largest accounts to the DCH New Client office, in case anyone was feeling grateful for the rescue. Our CEO never missed an opportunity to grow the business.

DCH Tower was deserted by noon, except for Veronica, Ronnie, Sylvia, and me. We showered and changed into our normal office attire. I donned my best Yves Saint Laurent gangster pinstripe gray suit with gold doubloon cuff links. Veronica wore a black Natori pencil skirt and a low-cut satin blouse that showed off her high-speed curves. The old Sylvia was back, dressed to kill in a gorgeous pink silk Pierre Cardin bubble dress, Manolo Blahnik stilettos, and her signature pearl choker. Ronnie sported his favorite Alexander McQueen blazer, freshly-pressed khaki slacks, a Dunhill regimental tie, and a splash of sandalwood aftershave. Sylvia kept trying to organize his unruly hair as we waited in the rooftop bar.

Our Eurocopter arrived right on time. The flight steward opened the hatch, and we walked solemnly across the pad. I was the last grinder to leave the battlefield, pausing at the bottom of the helicopter steps to look around one last time. The roof looked benign and peaceful, as if the Manhattan zombie apocalypse never happened.

“The graveyards are full of indispensable investment bankers,” I muttered, and took my seat beside Sylvia. She gripped my hand as we sailed away into the cloudless sky.

The CEO and and an army of TV reporters were waiting for us. A cheering mob of grubby survivors and their families surrounded the chopper before the rotors stopped turning. The contrast with our elegant haute couture could not have been greater.

I was last to disembark. The adoring crowd greeted me with wild applause. Paparazzi swarmed my every step. The CEO pulled Veronica aside when all the attention focused on me. She whispered into his ear for almost two minutes as I smiled and waved to my fans. His eyes widened, and he mouthed the words, “No shit?”

Veronica nodded emphatically and slipped him a familiar green flash drive. He hesitated, gave her a fist bump, and marched back to his mansion. Veronica caught my eye and flashed a V for victory.

By late evening, CNN had interviewed almost every survivor. “All the stories lead back to John Carthage and Anjali Khan. Nobody would have escaped without their courage,” announced Walter Cronkite. The networks picked up his line, repeating it endlessly.

And that’s how Anjali and I became the world’s hottest news item. Vogue proclaimed us “King and Queen of Manhattan” and put Anjali on the cover with a five-page photo shoot. A real thirst trap. All the late-night comedians booked me for interviews. TMZ did a piece on my life story. My Tinder account melted down.

Three weeks later, the world had forgotten us.

And that suited me just fine.

Fifty Five

Consequences

THE FOLLOWING YEAR was spectacular. Much to my surprise, our CEO had finished the Heckler & Koch acquisition while we were fighting for our lives, mired deep in the zombie apocalypse. No matter what happened to DCH Manhattan headquarters, he could still access all our files stored safely in the corporate cloud. Our high-priced work product did not go to waste.

His timing was perfect. Zombie-panic gun sales spiked around the world. H&K rode the shock wave to a $10 trillion market cap, and DCH made a fortune. My entire M&A team wet their beaks in the largest annual bonus pool ever seen on Wall Street. I made sure the interns got a nice taste right alongside us.

The CEO’s timing was so perfect I began to wonder who financed the little $2 hot dog maker that started it all. My curiosity grew when we learned that the zombie virus outbreak started the same day as Manhattan’s annual Walking Dead convention. The NYPD was busy with drunken TWD cosplayers, and by the time they realized some of the cosplayers weren’t playing, the apocalypse was unstoppable.

A coincidence? No fucking way. Ronnie says that’s crazy conspiracy thinking, but I can’t stop speculating. Who in the world would benefit from wiping Manhattan off the map? The list is very long.

DCH split my M&A team after the rescue publicity died away, but we’ve stayed in touch. Our long struggle with adversity created an eternal bond between us that can’t be broken, like combat veterans or longtime fans of the Washington Commanders.

Peggy Martin moved to Minnesota with her husband, where they used her H&K bonus to buy a huge lakeside estate. She gave birth to twins the next year and named them John and Anjali. The whole family visits me in Florida from time to time.

Andrea Aiuto and John Bardeen retired from investment banking. Replays of my epic garage death match inspired them to cash out their bonuses and launch a TV game show about suburban homeowners building battlebots to hunt zombies in the MQZ. Nate Lee, Jeremy Sockborn, and Quinn Ripley starred as their on-camera hosts. Jeremy and Quinn married at the end of Season Two and made the cover of Teen Vogue. I was a special guest star for two episodes in Season Three. The show was massively popular and ran for many years until they cleared most of the Zone. Everyone made a fortune.

When a shocked nation learned that dead zombies smell of cinnamon, mobs of angry protesters attacked a famous fast food company specializing in fragrant pastry. You know the one. Scores of their shopping mall locations were sacked and burned. Our quick-thinking restaurant specialist, Troya Washington, spotted the trend and used her H&K bonus to run a mammoth short against the company. The FDA launched an investigation into their ingredients. Government scientists never found any zombie content, but the stock collapsed anyway. Troya cashed out her position and made a fortune. She retired to Vancouver and married a Canadian gold mining heir. I visit her every year for fashion advice and the great seafood restaurants.

Bella Brique and Christine LaCroix left DCH and opened a design company specializing in zombie-proof buildings. The firm grew to include five hundred architects working on skyscraper projects around the world. A Tokyo-based global real estate conglomerate bought them out, and everyone made a fortune. Bella and Christine moved to Paris and bought luxury apartments in the ultra-hip Quartier Latin. I visit them and their beret-wearing French husbands every year for Paris Fashion Week and escargots.

Our celebrity chefs, Bobby and Gordon, signed a peace treaty and settled down in San Francisco, where they founded a company making shelf-stable gourmet survival rations. They flipped it to a well-known American arms manufacturer and made enough money to open a fabulous restaurant that quickly earned three Michelin stars. They made a fortune, but never return my calls.

Veronica Scarlett used her H&K bonus to open the boutique private equity firm she planned with Edward before he died. She poached Ronnie Numero and Jane Austen from DCH Manhattan. They set up shop in Milan, the fashion capital of the world, and made a fortune laundering money for European politicians. Veronica bought a mansion on Lago di Como and a private box at La Scala. I visit them every year to launch the opera season.

Andrew Jarrod married Zora Lofton, and they moved to a dacha outside Moscow, where Zora entertains Russian oligarchs while Andrew handles their Florida condo investments. They seem happy, although he kept blinking at me the last time we met. I’ve often wondered if that was a coded distress signal. Roberta Greenleaf accompanied them, married a muscular young Russian gymnast, and still works for Andrew as his executive assistant.

Most of my H&K bonus went into a humongous trust fund for Lizzie, the other rescue kids, and the families of Archie Briggs and Henry Hunnicutt. Every child was guaranteed a full ride at Harvard and lifetime fencing lessons from a former Olympic champion. Their families will never lack for anything. Veronica agreed to chair the trust’s Board of Directors and hired Ellie Enfant, Kelli Kinder, and Shannon Shamrock to serve as full-time consultants in perpetuity.

I used the rest of my bonus to make a monstrous fortune from the Nintendo-Boeing deal when it was announced a year later. The transaction was easy, quick, and untraceable, as the best things always are. I split the proceeds with Sylvia Sakura, right down the middle.

To top it all off, Susie Golden and I were finally able to…uh, spend some quality time together. We moved into my big summer house on Martha’s Vineyard until winter drove us to my 50-acre estate in Boca Raton. Sometimes it’s good to be a filthy rich investment banker.

Alas, our blissful union did not last long. The Vice President for Human Resources went ballistic after NPR’s Phil Blueberry interviewed me and published gory details about our death struggle in DCH Tower. She charged me with wanton destruction of corporate property and failure to submit expense account documentation related to the Pirates Banquet. Worst of all, she claimed I broke the ironclad DCH rule against executives dating subordinates. Sigh.

I hired a very expensive employment lawyer and asked the CEO to forgive all my transgressions. Susie took complete responsibility for our intimate relationship and testified under oath that we were now officially a couple. The CEO was a prince among manly men, and I figured he would surely understand my affirmative defense of “no harm, no foul,” right?

But when the VP learned that I used our interns as zombie bait, she totally lost her shit. It didn’t matter that I rescued all those daycare kids. She was afraid the parents would sue DCH back to the Stone Age, so she went straight to the Board of Directors.

The CEO couldn’t protect me. I had to resign, and, at my request, he named Anjali Khan to replace me as Head of M&A. Susie received a big promotion, a special cash bonus to compensate for the trauma of dating me, and her choice of a plush overseas assignment at DCH London or DCH Singapore. She promised to keep in touch, but I knew it was only a matter of time until we drifted apart.

After Susie moved out, I decided to stay in Florida and open my own boutique investment advisory firm using the Nintendo money. Much to my surprise, Sylvia Sakura agreed to join me and continue working as my executive assistant.

“I thought you didn’t want to end up like that other girl,” I said. “Stuck with an asshole boss who doesn’t care.”

“You’re not like him at all, John,” she replied. “You care.”

I blushed, and my eyes teared up at the loving compliment.

Totally out of character.

THE END

I hope you have enjoyed John Carthage and the Manhattan Zombies! My friends and I will return soon for another lucrative, fast-paced supernatural adventure in John Carthage and the Miami Vampires. Keep reading for a preview of the opening chapter. And since my employee performance review is currently underway, the Vice President for Human Resources requests that you leave an honest review for me on Amazon.com. My annual bonus depends on it!

About the Author

John Carthage lives on a magnificent ultra-yacht in the Republic of Miami, one of the luxurious floating nations created by private equity firms after Florida disappeared during the Great Glacier Melt. When he’s not chasing money and monsters around the globe, John works on his autobiography, so the rest of humanity can profit from his wild adventures in the unseen world of the supernatural.

Also by John Carthage

Available Now! John Carthage and the Miami Vampires

John survived the Manhattan Zombie Apocalypse, but his epic struggle is not over yet. The mysterious forces behind the deadly zombie virus have unleashed a titanic struggle threatening to engulf the entire continent. John’s brilliant mind, unmatched executive skills, and sparkling sense of style will be stretched to the limit as he fights to save his friends and fortune from a bloodsucking disaster.

John Carthage and the Miami Vampires

Chapter One

MY BOUTIQUE INVESTMENT ADVISORY FIRM had been open for a full year when the zombie apocalypse came roaring back into my life. Not in the form of zombies, of course. The Manhattan Quarantine Zone was keeping that particular threat well-contained.

Instead, the elegant figure of my executive assistant, Sylvia Sakura, darkened the doorway of my penthouse office early one warm Florida evening. She cleared her throat, and I glanced up from the pile of paper on my custom-built acacia wood desk. Sylvia looked nervous, smoothing her black satin Chanel mini-dress over those slender hips and clutching her signature four-strand pearl choker.

“Psst… John, there’s a woman here to see you about opening a new account,” she whispered.

“So what?” I shrugged. “We’ve got tons of new clients. What’s so special about this one?”

“She claims to know how the Manhattan zombie apocalypse started, and…” Sylvia’s whisper trailed off, and she looked over her shoulder.

“And what?” I growled. “There’s plenty of zombie conspiracy theorists running around. They’re constantly on the cable news, TikTok, Twitch, and everywhere else. It’s a fucking growth industry. There’s a small army of them camped outside my mansion, begging me to bless their insanity. I even had a crackpot break into my bedroom, raving about the Illuminati and the George Washington Masonic Temple. It’s that fucking Tabloid Express interview I did with Anjali. Why didn’t you stop me? It brought the nuts out of the woodwork. They’re all crazy, and they’re all wrong.”

“Sure, but…uh, John,” she stammered, “I think you REALLY need to meet this one. Seriously.”

I started to lose my patience. Sylvia was going to make me late for dinner with a well-toned Swedish bikini model I met during Tahiti Fashion Week. She stopped in Miami on her way to a photo shoot in Barbados and practically begged for a second date. The same bikini and a fresh bottle of coconut oil would be involved.

I shook my head to refocus.

“You handle it. Isn’t that what I pay you for?” I snapped.

“This girl is a little too far above my pay grade, John.” Sylvia glanced over her shoulder again and whispered, “She’s smoking hot, she’s wearing Balenciaga, and…uh, she’s a vampire.”

I froze for a moment, and then pushed a red button under the desk. My Mokuba wrecking bar popped out from a secret compartment.

“Okay,” I said. “Send her in.”

John’s next adventure has begun! Stay tuned for more supernatural action!

John Carthage and the Washington Witches

Coming Soon!

John Carthage has battled the undead hordes and faced off against a deadly vampire empire, but his war with the supernatural is far from over. Now, the most dangerous and eldritch force of all threatens the world: the Washington Witches. He’ll need every ounce of his fame, fortitude, and fashion sense to unravel the mysteries of their magical kingdom and protect the world he loves. Well, mostly the bankers, but a few regular people, too.

John Carthage thought he’d seen it all, until the Washington Witches fired up a dark cauldron of bubbling trouble for him. Grab a seat at the table and save room for dessert!

John Carthage and the Martian Mechs

Coming in 2026!

A shadowy cabal of Martian oligarchs takes aim at Earth, wielding obscene wealth and supernatural powers in a savage bid for total control. Enter John Carthage: ruthless investment banker, fashion icon, brilliant tactician, and the last man standing between the free world and a hostile takeover. Aided by an elite team of gorgeous babes and disposable interns, John must wage war among the stars to protect everything he loves. Can Earth escape its fate, or will humanity kneel before the Martian overlords?

Packed with high-octane action, razor-sharp wit, and satirical jabs at the ultra-rich, John Carthage and the Martian Mechs is an apocalyptic adventure like no other. Buckle up for a cosmic collision!