So it was a rush to daycare, Allison crying and needing to be held and reassured that she’d have a fun day, then rushing into busy traffic…
She hadn’t even grabbed her extra make-up bag!
Maybe she could talk Betty into making an emergency run. They were tight, weren’t they? Tight enough to do each other a favor once in a while? She really wanted this job.
She checked traffic. Barely moving, but her exit was in sight. She dialed Betty on her cell phone. No answer. She left a message. “Betty, this is Jill. Jill Carole. I need a huge favor. It’s an emergency, actually. I’m on my way to an interview — remember how I told you about losing my job? Well, everything was so hectic this morning — I left without my Esteem. I need some foundation, eyeliner, lipstick—” She glanced in the mirror. “Oh, geez. I need the whole shebang. Can you meet me in the parking lot of the Johnson Building off I-94? I’ll pay double, plus throw in a few bucks for gas. I’ve got a half hour before the interview — if there’s any way you can get here before nine — I’ll be waiting in the parking lot. Please. It’s critical.”
She hadn’t been without her Esteem since she’d met Betty three months ago at her neighborhood block party.
Traffic eased forward. By the time she arrived at the Johnson Building parking lot, it was only twenty minutes to nine. Still — even if Betty got the message and raced here, it would be cutting it close.
She turned off the engine, leaned back and closed her eyes. Come on, Betty.
There was a sharp knock on the car’s window. Jill’s eyes flew open. It was a young man, twenty-something, creamy dress shirt, smart maroon tie. Jill sat up and rolled the window down a crack.
The man looked worried. “You okay in there?”
“Yes,” Jill said. “Just gearing up for an interview.”
The man frowned. “You don’t—” He swallowed. “You don’t look so good.”
Jill instinctively reached for her face. God, she could just feel her skin loosening, creasing, the wrinkles growing…
“I’m fine,” she insisted.
The man pulled out his cell phone and shook his head. “You need a doctor.”
She knew it was bad, but the guy didn’t have to be insulting. “I’m fine.”
The man hesitantly put his phone away and backed off. Talk about a confidence buster! Jill glanced at her watch. Five minutes to nine and still no Betty.
Maybe I should reschedule the interview.
Three minutes to nine.
But for this job, rescheduling was as good as saying no thanks. Their schedule was packed — the human resources director told her on the phone she was one of twenty interviewees. And to cancel this close to the interview…
Two minutes to nine and still no Betty.
She had to get in there, had to take her shot, make-up or not.
Come on, come on…
She took a deep breath. Confidence.
Her husband had always told her that it’s what’s inside that counts. But wasn’t that just a nice way of calling her ugly?
No, come on. He’s right. Show some confidence. Talk a good game. Let your inner light shine through.
Who’d said that? Oprah? Doctor Phil? Her mother?
She stepped out of the car. Adjusted her dress. Tossed her shoulders back and held her head up high.
That’s it. You can do this. Think positive!
When she stepped into the building, the security guard flinched behind the desk. “Jesus, lady!”
She ignored him. Stepped into the elevator and pressed 8. The elevator rose. As the doors opened, the receptionist shrieked and ducked behind a cubicle. Jill snorted and walked past. If they don’t like me for who I am, then they have a worse problem than I do, she assured herself. She’d find the conference room herself if she had to.
She passed a deliveryman on his way out. He doubled over, retching.
That’s just plain rude, she thought.
She found the conference room, knocked once and entered. Barbara Manning, the human resources director, looked up and froze.
Jill reached up and tried to push the flaps of skin back onto her face. “Sorry I’m late,” she said. Her upper lip dropped with a splat onto the large oak conference table.
Ms. Manning opened her mouth, but nothing came out.
Jill quickly shoved a drooping eyeball back into its socket. She tried her best to smile, to maintain her confidence despite her lack of Esteem. She winced as her left ear dropped onto her shoulder. She made a mental note to get her dress in the wash right when she got home.
She cleared her throat, dislodging her front teeth. She held out her hand, waiting for Ms. Manning to shake it. “Sanks for giving me a chance to meet wis you today,” she whistled around her missing teeth.
Her tongue flopped onto the table.
Confidence, Jill told herself as Ms. Manning screamed. Jill took another deep breath, the air making wet, sucking sounds as she inhaled.
Confidence.
Two-Minute Warning
Beyond the goalposts at the south end of the field, the undead howled and marauded within a large cage of thick, metal bars. They climbed the walls, shook them, stepped on and over each other, clambered their way to the top of the cage that rose just beyond the tips of the goalposts, only to fall back upon each other. They reached through the cage with torn, reeking limbs, reached out to grab at the humans who passed by. The cage seethed with their hunger.
Burke Smith stood on the sideline scanning the crowd for his wife, Sherry. He knew what section of the stadium she sat in, but could not see her among the crowd standing on its feet. Burke turned his attention back to the field. The undead had the ball and somehow they were winning. Burke’s team had not lost a game the entire season, yet here they were down by two points with less than two minutes to go. Burke watched his defense line up on the field, their helmets hiding grim faces. The undead wore no helmets. No shoulder pads. Just old jerseys, mud-caked and torn.
Burke remembered playing football as a kid. The smell of grass, of turning leaves, the cool autumn wind, the thrill of catching a long bomb and running, running, the feel of pure joy and exhilaration…
Now fear was his motivation. When he threw the ball or ran with it down the field, it was with anxiety, with not knowing whether the next time he was back on the field he’d be playing for the other side.
The ref blew the whistle. The undead tramped the earth, rubbed their chaffed hands together like anxious children, formed a wavering wall at the line of scrimmage. Their center chewed on the football as if teething. Their quarterback trembled with anticipation; his tattered jersey exposing glimpses of intestines hardened from exposure, of splintered ribs, the protruding ends sharp and poking into putrid green lungs.
“Hungh!” it grunted. “Hungh!” The center grinned like an idiot and pushed the ball into the quarterback’s bony hands. The quarterback stumbled backwards. Raised his mangled lips to the air and let out a guttural howl. He cocked his arm back to pass in one quick jerky motion and let loose with the ball.
It wobbled through the air toward another pair of tattered hands. The receiver caught the ball and pressed it into his chest. He ran with his head held high, his jawbone exposed and riddled with squirming maggots.
Hank Jones, one of the living, caught up to him and shoved him hard. The zombie fell face forward with an ugly crunch. Hank jumped up and brought his cleated shoe down on the thing’s back, where it disappeared up to the laces. The receiver stopped moving. The ref blew his whistle. Hank pulled his foot out and shook off bits of shredded heart and lungs.