Mac jammed the accelerator all the way to the floor in a failed attempt to prevent the dark sedan from sliding in front of his armored car. He had a load of gold in the back and a high school understanding with Physics that should have sent the pesky sedan on a one-way trip to Upside-Downsville. Of course, Physics wasn’t what he used to be. All this fancy quantum drivel that everyone was talking about had made that old reliable set of laws less confident in himself. At least magic wasn’t around to beat the old bean down any further, despite whatever Mac's cliché-dropping wife might say to convince him otherwise.

  The impact with the sedan surprisingly lifted the armored car up onto its front wheels, giving Mac a good look into the back of the sedan. You’d think any self-respecting armed robber would have the decency to tint their windows and hide their villainous deeds from the sun. At least that ruled out any eviler-than-thou vampires. The driver had the distinctive pointed ears of an elf and the obligatory green shirt. At least it wasn’t flannel. Those ones were the worst. The passenger looking back at him with a sleek black pistol appeared to be your average human; tan skin, black hair, and dark eyes with the haunted look of one who had seen too many ghosts.

  They weren’t real.

  The ghosts, that is. If you died, and enough of you was left, you could always end up a zombie—quantum physics and all that scientific mumbo jumbo—but not a ghost. They did not exist. He had never seen one, and no one would ever convince Mac other-wise.

  The gun flashed once and he heard the distinctive *tink* of bullet-proof glass doing what it’s paid to do. At least Physics hadn’t just taken his ball and gone home. That also explained the lack of tinted glass on the sedan.

  Mac chanced a peek beside him and noted the look of sheer terror on his senior partner’s ghostly white face. There was that word again. Not. Real. The blue uniform’s postman hat was sitting atop his partner’s shaved head as if wondering whether it wanted to continue on a ride it had only just paid for.

  The rear wheels slammed back down to the asphalt accompanied by the clang of the rear bumper having a somewhat less than amorous encounter with the solid concrete of Highway 281. At least they were still moving, if not a bit slower.

  A quick glance in his driver’s side mirror revealed two more dark vehicles creeping around his blind spot, waiting for their own turn to strike. The van contained yet another green-shirted elven driver and what had to be the darkest skinned troll he had ever seen looking between the front seats from where it crouched in the back. But, the wide-eyed girl or possibly lady (She could have been thirteen or thirty, Mac couldn’t tell) in the passenger seat had a look of determination that sent warning chills up his spine.

  “Police command, this is AC 20, come in, please,” his senior partner practically begged over the radio.

  Static.

  “Hey, boss? You got any ideas?” Mac asked as the panic began to build inside of him.

  “Police command, this is AC 20, come in, please,” the man tried again.

  “Could really use your advice here, boss,” Mac tried again.

  “Would you shut up!” the boss man shouted back at him. “I’ve got to let the police know we’re being accosted.”

  “Not going to matter much if we’re dead when they get to us,” Mac challenged. “Seriously, what am I supposed to be doing to get us out of this mess?”

  “We’re supposed to call the police!” his senior partner shouted back angrily as he cradled the CB radio to his chest like some ancient family heirloom. Given this truck’s age… it was possible.

  Mac could only watch as the van pulled up beside him and completed the rolling steel box around his vehicle. The walled highway hemmed him in from the other side as if daring him to test it. He wasn’t that stupid… at least, not today.

  Two days of orientation training and filling out forms. Three weeks of driving normal routes and learning security procedures. Not even five minutes on dealing with a robbery attempt. Nothing but, “Call the police.” Of course, that wasn’t working.

  He was going to have to save himself. Mac was a creative type. He’d done it multiple times before, and he could do it again. “Alright Physics, please don’t fail me now,” he whispered to his capricious friend between gritted teeth.

  “Wait! what are you doing?” his partner squeaked in fear. “We’re supposed to…”

  “I know, I know, call the police,” Mac interrupted. “You do that.”

  Mac jolted the truck hard to the left trying to push the van back. The green-shirted driver was ready for the move and simply pulled away. The driver in front, however, applied his own brakes catching the front corner of the armored car. Physics obliged the dirty play with yet more lost momentum. Mac gunned the engine again, but the sedan held him fast. Perhaps it was time to start thinking about an exit strategy.

  A passing sign reminded Mac there was an offramp in another kilometer. Maybe he could escape these goons from there. It would also protect anyone else trying to use the highway for something as mundane as going to work or picking up groceries. His superiors would probably fire him if anyone but him got hurt.

  With his partner fearfully chanting the familiar refrain into the CB, Mac kept his foot on the gas doing everything he could to reach the exit ramp. A slight tap to the side here, a hard push there, a little wiggle for good measure, but no brakes. No brakes. That would definitely be detrimental to his health. He reasoned the armored car should have airbags which had the unique property of improving his odds of survival.

  Mac’s major worries now included acute lead poisoning, or perhaps hypovolemia on account of his arm being ripped off by the troll with skin the color of a moonless night. Who knew what that intense looking girl… or lady, whatever… had up her sleeve. He’d be lucky if it was only a knife. Mac’s insurance wouldn’t kick in for another three days yet (thank you, Minister Snaggleski) and such medical conditions were worrisome to say the least. The company was doubtless too cheap to zombify him, which would put him in the thrall of some sadistic necromancer until he had paid the debt. Just the thought of being stuck in cool flesh sent a shiver through his currently intact body.

  He’d better make it to the exit ramp.

  The seconds crawled by as Mac fought to keep the armored car moving toward his goal and being forced slower and slower by the bandits in the sedan ahead of him. At least they hadn’t tried to shoot at him again. Probably just saving bullets for when they counted.

  At last, the ramp arrived. Mac pulled hard right and stomped down on the gas yet again… only to find a roadblock at the bottom. Mac instinctively stomped down the other pedal available to him and absently noted that the van was still beside him and the other car was still behind him. But… there was only a guard rail to his right. Too bad he was now moving too slow to push past it.

  Maybe that was a good thing.

  As soon as the armored car jolted to a stop, he unbuckled his seatbelt, scrambled across his terrified partner and opened the door. No way he was getting out on the side with the girl… lady… whatever, and the mid-night troll.

  One problem.

  The cursed door got caught by the guard rail, so that not even a bulimic elf could have slipped out.

  “Window it is,” Mac announced quietly in frustration as he began hand rolling down the window.

  “What are you doing!?” his partner shouted at him.

  “Staying in one piece,” Mac replied as he focused his effort on getting the window down.

  “We’re supposed to call the police!”

  “You keep saying that. However, I want to live,” Mac replied. “There we go!” the window was finally down, and Mac slipped out gracelessly to the guard rail.

  Common sense would tell most people that guard rails exist for a reason. Usually this is to prevent a vehicle from careening into oncoming traffic or to prevent a fall from height. In this case, it was the latter.

  The narrative has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

  A convoluted twist and a frantic grab later, Mac found himself hanging from the guard rail. There were politicians who had a better grip on truth than he had on that guardrail, but he fought with everything in him to hang on… That was, until he saw the wide-eyed… female…(that was safe) looking over the edge with far too determined eyes.

  She reached a slender hand towards Mac, and suddenly the ground didn’t seem quite so far. Maybe Physics would be a gentleman and quietly exit the room, although he secretly suspected Physics would grow a spine at the worst possible moment.

  Physics or her… who to entrust his life to.

  Mac let go and she mercifully missed his collar by a hair.

  The approach of death has a way of slowing time and bringing out details. There was the dull roar of wind rushing past his ears, his postman’s cap drifting in the air above him and the strangely inquisitive look on the wide-eyed girl’s heavenly face. Then, there was that bright flash just before reality called it quits and dreamland took him.

  XXXXX

  Mac blinked his eyes and then had to close them again. That light above him was pretty bright. He absently remembered he should stay away from that. Still, consciousness once again had him in its tenuous grip, and he doubted he would be able to sleep. He blinked his eyes open again and turned his head to the side so he wouldn’t have to stare up at the bright light.

  Gradually, the room came into focus. White walls, white sheets, white floors, it obviously wasn’t home, which led to the natural conclusion he must be in the hospital. Hopefully he hadn’t been here long, or he would be spending the rest of his life and possibly a chunk of the next paying for the expensive stay. He knew that deceased debtors were often turned into zombies until their debt had been worked off. Some had been working in the hospital so long they had succumbed to becoming doctors themselves, thus continuing the cycle of indebtitude.

  Mac lifted his arms which was a good sign and then patted himself down to ensure there were no missing bits or extra painful spots. At least he wasn’t a zombie. He was still checking himself when the door at the end of the room opened.

  A nurse walked in. She was a bit on the short side for a human and bared enough skin on her arms and calves to demonstrate she wasn’t a zombie with only a cursory glance (That could be faked with enough make-up by a determined undead. There were stories…). “Awake, or just pretending… again,” she asked somewhat perturbed. Her voice had enough gravel to suggest she was nearing the end of her half-day shift.

  “Would it help if I waited another five minutes,” Mac asked politely.

  The annoyed nurse framed the word, “yes,” with her mouth, but changed her mind as her oath kicked in, “Not unless you want to be a zombie. The necromancer is signing in at the nurses’ station as we speak. Which means I’m now going to be late. Unlike you,” she sighed.

  “But I’m not dead,” Mac protested.

  “That’s usually not much of an obstacle for a certified debt collector,” the nurse answered. “Would you like to try standing up while I’m here?”

  “What!? So, I can end up passed out on the floor when I get dizzy?” Mac was a bit alarmed.

  “It would move this along quicker. I do have other things to do today.”

  “I’m sorry,” Mac replied completely dishonestly. “Just how long have I been here, anyways?”

  “I just saw the date on your death certificate,” the nurse tapped her clipboard with her pen as she pondered. “I guess about two months give or take a week. I only work in this ward twice a week for the overtime.”

  “I’m screwed…” Mac’s face fell into absolute dejection at the horrible news. There were probably so many zeroes involved that the digit at the front of the bill ceased to matter. “I’m so screwed.”

  A dark figure appeared at the door seemingly from nothing. Dark suit, tall hat, wingtip shoes; He was everything Mac expected from a necromancer. Another much shorter man dressed in riotous colors promptly stepped around him and into the increasingly smaller room. “I’m looking for Mr. MacDonald,” the bubbly voice claimed. “Is this his room?”

  “Who’s asking,” Mac quizzed in return.

  “Why only the Great Bencini, creator and star of children’s educational programming, friend of politicians, benefactor of the circus arts, and necromancer extraordinaire,” the man announced himself then finished with an over-done bow. “I’m here to be of service, or possibly find out how you could be of service to me.” It seemed there were fates worse than death.

  “Daddy, I know him,” said a small, familiar voice from the other side of the room.

  Mac nearly wrenched his neck turning to see his (it had been two months, hadn’t it?) four-year-old son standing on a visitor’s chair.

  “Zach? What are you doing here?” Mac asked

  “We’ll get to him in a moment,” the nurse answered as she felt her evening slip away. “One thing at a time. The things I do for patients…”

  “There’s more?”

  “There’s always more, Hun,” the short nurse lectured as she rolled her eyes.

  “I’m a busy man, and a businessman,” the clown-like necromancer interrupted. “Are my services needed or not? I’m told someone in room 321A might be dying for my assistance.”

  “I’m good… for now,” Mac replied hesitantly, wondering what he had just escaped. The nurse tossed up her hands helplessly.

  “Here’s my card,” the necromancer flourished a small business card via a simple slight-of-hand trick. “It’s never too… late… to see me… unless you burn to death in a fiery car crash or get lost at the bottom of sea, or are mauled and eaten by wild animals. Not enough left after that to do much. But I digress. No digging ditches or haunting tombs with me, just politics, babysitting, and kids’ television. Tudaloo.”

  Mac allowed the necromancer and his dour looking assistant to leave the room and then softly asked the nurse, “Please tell me my company stepped forward and is paying for my care?”

  “They paid for the first two days, but then went out of business,” she answered after checking the clipboard in her hand. “I’m afraid there won’t be a job waiting for you. It’s why we notified the necromancer when we did.”

  “Just how much do I owe?” Mac ventured hesitantly.

  “There have been patients who owed more,” the nurse dodged the question, probably because she didn’t want to take the time to look it up.

  Mac cringed then tried another tack, “Could you just whisper it in my ear?”

  The nurse flipped a page on her clipboard then leaned over and began whispering numbers in an impossible succession. “Now can we get on to the big thing so I can go home?”

  “Daddy, are you okay,” his young son asked.

  “I… I…” Mac stumbled through his thought process until an idea struck him, “Where’s Mommy?”

  “I’ve been trying to tell you…” the nurse looked pained. “Do you see that envelope on the stand beside the bed?”

  “Yes,” Mac answered somewhat fearfully.

  “That was left by a lawyer two days ago. You might want to review the papers inside since you’ve already signed them,” the nurse advised as she tapped her foot.

  “How could I have already signed them, if I was unconscious?” Mac logically challenged.

  “Since you’ve been unconscious for so long,” the short nurse explained impatiently, “the lawyer was permitted to put a pen in your hand to acknowledge receipt. Please keep in mind you were supposed to be zombified already that morning and thus able to sign. Someone else will be back in a few hours with something to eat, and after some checks, you will hopefully no longer be my problem.”

  Mac picked up the envelope as the nurse left the room and read through the contents. Once the quick scan was over, he looked over at his four-year-old son sitting beside his bed. “Looks like it’s just you and Daddy, kiddo,” Mac advised his son.

  “What about Mommy?” his son asked.

  “According to these papers she left you in my custody.”

  “And Fluffy?”

  “Zach, you’ll never have to see that awful dog ever again,” Mac replied. At least, something good came of this. That devilish poodle would never threaten either of them again.

  XXXXX

  Mac and his son stepped off the bus outside their small home. He immediately noticed the “for rent” sign in the front yard. The relator’s key box hanging on the front door gave him a little trouble as he opened the door to the musty unused smell reminiscent of grandmother’s house.

  The inside was mostly empty. At least, Zach’s bed and a few toys were still in his bedroom. That meant she wasn’t completely heartless. The fridge contained a few diet sodas (known to be good for zombies) and some milk just shy of its expiration date.

  “Looks like I need a job,” Mac smiled at Zach as he suppressed a sigh and continued his inspection of the tomb-like house.

  The master bedroom had a large piece of plywood on the floor, obviously the intended place for a zombie to sleep if it decided it wanted to. It would keep corrupted flesh from getting on the carpet which was a necessary hazard of the undead “life”.

  Further inspection revealed his old laptop computer resting against the wall in the closet behind his clothes. It even had a power cord with it. He would be able to job search from home assuming the internet hadn’t been cut yet. A quick test revealed he was finally in luck.

  A sharp knock at the door pulled him out of his optimistic reverie. Even before he could exit the room, he heard the front door open and his son, Zach, say, “Hi, Doctor.” That reminded Mac it was about time to teach his kid a few important things about strangers.

  “Hello,” the thickly accented voice replied, “It is I, Dr. Vandersnelt, your landlord.”

  “Hello, Doctor,” Mac replied politely as he stepped around the corner into the empty room.

  “I see the zombification was rather kind to you, yes?” Mac’s surprisingly cheerful landlord observed. His white, double buttoned coat with bleach spots and a fresh blood stain on one of his sleeves was difficult to take your eyes off of.

  “Actually, I’m still alive,” Mac countered.

  “Wonderful news,” the landlord replied. “I was afraid I would have to kick you out. Zombies and carpets. You understand, yes?”

  “Of course, Doctor. You won’t have to worry about that,” Mac smiled pleasantly.

  “I am also here to speak about rent, assuming you are staying, yes?” the landlord motioned to the empty room.

  “I’d like to,” Mac answered. “Rent is already covered to the end of the month, right?”

  “Actually…” the landlord began apologetically, “Your rent is overdue, only your safety deposit has kept me from evicting the rest of your possessions.”

  “How long do I have?” Mac asked.

  “Well, two weeks by law,” the doctor reluctantly granted. Mac grimaced. “There is another possibility,” the landlord ventured ominously as he noticed Mac’s consternation. “Being an experimental scientist, I’m always in need of additional assistance.”

  “Assistance?”

  “For example,” the landlord offered in his thick accent, “my current research could be greatly advanced if I had access to a healthy kidney or perhaps a section of a well-functioning liver, you don’t drink do you?”

  “It’s been a few months,” Mac replied cautiously.

  “I would be willing to spot you six-months’ rent for either, if you decide to help in the advancement of science,” the landlord offered. With considerable, unneeded emphasis on the final word.

  “I’ll consider that,” Mac answered as he herded the doctor out the door and closed it behind him. He leaned against the door and allowed himself to slowly sink to the ground.

  “Daddy, what’s a kidney?” Zach asked as he sat down in front of him.

  “It’s an inside piece I would like to keep that way,” Mac replied. He needed a job like a politician needed controversy. Better get on it today.