Tax Not the Zombie

Meyer P. Dennison had worked for the Internal Revenue Service for less than a year. Eight months to be exact. He was made for the job. He was detail-oriented, had an even temperament, did not offend easily, and he was quick, too. Nine times out of ten, he managed to dodge the objects clients sometimes yanked off his desk and threw at his head. He loved numbers, as any good former CPA did. But he loved the complexities of the tax code even more. He enjoyed trying to make sense out of an archaic system still pulling and grunting its way toward the modern age.

Because he was the newest agent to join the IRS office in Tulsa, Oklahoma, he’d gotten the unenviable task of tracking down one Jessica Anne Matthews, resident of Broken Heart. Her file stated she was a widow, she had two dependents, she owned her home, had one vehicle for personal use only, and did not have a salaried position. Her family subsisted on the life insurance and investment residuals left by her deceased husband.

And she had failed to file her taxes.

Again.

Letters had gone unanswered. Her phone was disconnected. And so, his boss, Pete Landers, decided that she needed a personal visit. “Go scare the crud outta her,” said Pete, grinning. His rotund face always had a greasy sheen and he stank of stale beer and burnt sausages. Pete Landers had never met a bratwurst or a Budweiser that he didn’t like.

Meyer had gotten lost, twice, no thanks to his GPS, which kept trying to direct him back toward Tulsa. In addition, his Blackberry had stopped working despite the fact he’d recharged the battery before heading out. So, he rolled into the small and surprisingly deserted town of Broken Heart, Oklahoma just after six o’clock. It was already dusk, the sun starting its slow descent.

He drove past the darkened windows of an abandoned gas station called the Thrifty Sip. A few minutes later, he was coasting through downtown. It had a certain charm with its brick sidewalks and old-fashioned storefronts, most of which were empty. Only the sign of the Old Sass Café blinked neon.

The two-story house on Sanderson Street wasn’t very difficult to find, even with his GPS still insisting he go back to Tulsa. He pulled into the driveway behind the mini-van, gathered his briefcase and got out of the car. He strode across the driveway, preparing both his smile and his introduction.

“Uuuuhhh.”

Meyer stopped, his gaze riveted to the man shambling across the front yard. He was obviously homeless given his stained and torn attire, bad hair, and terrible skin condition. His eyes were a milky blue and his mouth gaped at an odd angle. Good Lord. The poor soul hadn’t seen a toothbrush in a long while.

“Uuuuhhh.”

Meyer was unsure what to do, and his confused hesitation was stupefying. Quick, efficient decisions were his forte. The homeless man shuffled faster, obviously heading in his direction. A shiver ran up his spine. He had the strange urge to run to the front door and pound on it like a screeching horror movie heroine about to get her innards ripped out. He was so shocked by his desire to turn into a sobbing wimp that he stood his ground and waited for the man to arrive. Meyer resisted the urge to cover his nose; his nostrils flared in a vain attempt to prevent breathing in the man’s considerable stench.

“Can I help you?” Meyer inquired pleasantly.

“Uuuuhhh.”

“Yes. Well. I don’t actually live in this house, you see,” said Meyer. His legs wanted to scramble backward. His lungs wanted to scream. He clenched the briefcase and held on to his self-control. “I’m only here for a visit myself.”

As the man came within arm’s length, Meyer had a more horrifying thought. I made a mistake. It’s the wrong house. “Do you live here? I thought this was the home of Jessica Matthews.” One meaty, gray hand thunked onto his shoulder. He gulped. “Sir?”

“Uuuuhhh.”

Meyer realized several things at once, none of which were particularly helpful. The first was that this poor creature had long since ceased being a living man. The next was that he exuded such a noxious odor that Meyer was having difficulty keeping down his late-afternoon hamburger. There were other details, too, things that were rather unimportant—such as the unfortunate gap in the dead man’s trousers and the sad fact that one of his eyeballs was loosening from its cavity. Meyer’s last coherent thought, though, was that he had never, not once, considered the idea he would meet his end as dinner for a zombie.

“I beg your pardon,” said Meyer. Then he smashed the briefcase into the zombie’s chest as hard as he could. The creature stumbled back. Meyer swung the case again, this time connecting with its massive shoulder. It staggered sideways.

The case still clutched in his sweaty hand, Meyer ran to the porch and proceeded to pound on the front door. “Hello? I need some help please!”

No one answered.

Then he felt two hands crush his upper arms, and the terrible sting of teeth digging into his shoulder.

Meyer screeched, louder and higher-pitched than all the horror-movie heroines before him, and swung the case backward into the zombie’s crotch. It lurched away, falling onto the porch. Meyer stumbled to it and kicked it very, very hard in the head. He heard a sickening crack and the zombie lay still.

Meyer straightened his suit, firmed his grasp on the briefcase, and returned to the door, giving three smart knocks. When it opened and revealed the annoyed countenance of a large man with impossibly silver eyes, he smiled. And promptly passed out.

* * *

“I went through his wallet. He’s an IRS agent,” said an amused female voice. “I mean, he’s a zombie already, right?”

“No, IRS agents are just dead on the inside,” countered another female, her honeyed voice rich with laughter.

“Ha ha,” whispered Meyer as he opened his eyes.

“He liiiiiiives,” said the attractive brunette sitting at the end of the bed. She grinned and wiggled her fingers at him. “Hey zombie boy.”

“It was real then.” He looked up at the woman sitting next to him. Her long red curls drifted past her shoulders, and her eyes were green flecked with gold. She wore a white loose-fitting top and a crinkled black skirt with calf-length boots. “Who are you?”

“Lenette Stinson,” she said softly. “And that’s Jessica.”

“That thing,” he said. “Is it …” He realized “dead” was an ineffectual term. He sat up, leaning against the headboard. He glanced around the room with its soothing blue walls and simple white furniture. The pleasant scent of jasmine tickled his senses. His gaze flicked to the woman so close to him, and he realized it was her perfume. Her eyes were filled with warmth, and there was something else, too. Interest. He blinked. It had been a long time since a woman had looked at him with anything other than ire. His occupation often precluded dating.

“Don’t worry,” said Jessica. “As soon as my husband brought you into the guest bedroom, he disposed of the zombie. Occasionally they still pop up. Most of the time we catch them before they actually chomp on someone.”

“You sound as though this was a common occurrence.” He tore his gaze from Lenette and looked at Jessica. Ah, Jessica Matthews. Excellent. He’d gotten the right house after all.

“Broken Heart isn’t your usual kind of town,” she said. “You’ll like it, though.”

“I’ll like it?” He shook his head. “I’m not moving here. I came here because you have not filed your taxes in two years, Mrs. Matthews. We need to discuss how—”

Her peals of laughter flummoxed him.

“I don’t find this situation merits joking,” he said stiffly.

Lenette laid a comforting hand on his thigh, and Meyer was immediately distracted by the intimate touch. “I’m afraid Jessica’s tax issues are no longer yours to worry about. It seems that the zombie bite has … infected you. You’re not quite human anymore.” She shot a look at Jessica who had her lips pinned together. Meyer realized the other woman was refraining from spouting more IRS jokes.

All right then. Bitten by a zombie, and now he was … something else. Meyer had no time to work his way through denial or put forth entreaties about the impossibility of his current situation. He was a practical man. “Will I turn into a zombie like the one who bit me?”

“Nah,” said Jessica. “Lenette’s a kick-ass Wiccan. She saved your butt with her magic. Dr. Michaels took some blood samples, but he seems to think that even though you’re sorta zombie, you’re not dead.” She patted his foot. Then she smiled, and he saw her fangs. “All this talk of blood is making me hungry. I’ll see you guys later.”

After Jessica left the room, Meyer turned a shocked gaze to Lenette. “Blood?”

“She’s a vampire, honey,” she said. “I’m a witch who practices white magic. And you are an almost zombie.”

“This morning, I was an IRS agent.”

“I think,” said Lenette, chuckling, “that zombies are better liked.”

Her lips glistened with some kind of gloss that he very much wanted to taste. She wore very little make-up, but she didn’t need it. He’d never been so enamored of a woman before. Decisive as always, Meyer leaned forward and kissed her, a brief tender invasion that made his heart skip a beat. He drew back, just a little, and gauged her reaction.

Lenette smiled, and cupped his cheek. “Hmm. Not bad for a zombie. But maybe you should give it another try, just to make sure I like it.”

So, he did.