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Z-Motors By Terry Wright
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It
must’ve been 120 degrees in the shop, but that didn’t bother the
mechanics at Z-Motors, or the owner, Dean Zyla, who always wore a suit and
tie. From his counter in the service office, he looked out to the
shop through a plate-glass window and saw one of his employees rip the
muffler off a 1993 Ford Taurus with his bare hands, literally bare, damn
near to the bone. The car was
in for an oil change, but some lamebrain had inexplicitly stripped the tires off the
rims. Another imbecile slammed a sledgehammer through the windshield, and
one blockhead tore off the driver’s door and tossed it
aside. The mechanics were out
of control, no doubt because they were stuck working into their lunch
hour. But that was no excuse
to destroy Mrs. Miller’s car. He
opened a steel door to the shop and stormed in. “What’s
the matter with you guys?” Six
mechanics turned to the sound of his voice.
What an unsightly bunch, he thought: glazed-over eyes, faces rotted
down to the molars, ratty hair, and bony limbs.
They wore a tattered mismatch of filthy shirts and slacks.
Some went barefoot; others wore ragged tennis shoes or grungy
boots. “Can’t
you do anything right?” The
mechanics grunted at him, the only intelligible sound that ever came out of
them. Zyla
stomped up to the bean-brain holding the crumpled muffler. “Look! It’s ruined.” He
turned to the dimwit who’d ripped off the door.
“How are we going to explain THAT to Mrs. Miller?” Dumbfounded,
the mechanics looked at each other, not a brain cell working among them.
Exasperated,
Zyla glanced at the mangled Ford hoisted up, the bent wheels, the busted
windshield, and the nearby piles of shredded tires and broken doors.
His mechanics had managed to total Mrs. Miller’s car.
She was waiting in the customer lounge for the ten-minute service
job. Oh man, was she was
going to be pissed. He
figured he’d better take her out to eat. “All
right, you guys. Break for
lunch.” The
mechanics shuffled up, gathered around, salivating. Zyla
rushed to the customer lounge where Mrs. Miller looked up from her magazine.
“Is my car ready?” A porky old broad who sweated like a sumo wrestler, she was on her way to Denver for
Christmas when her Check Engine light came on.
She'd stopped here in Rolling Oaks to have it repaired.
Big mistake. “Ma’am.
Found a problem with your car.” “Oh
dear. How bad is it?” He
motioned for her to follow him out to the shop.
She damn near fainted when she saw what they’d done. “Who’s going to pay for my car?” “Don’t
worry,” Zyla replied. “You
won’t be needing it.” The
mechanics surrounded her, gnarly faces scowling, choppy teeth gnashing. She
screamed. They
piled on her like a pack of wild dogs.
Clothing flew through the air: ripped blouse, busted bra, torn
panties. Blood splattered the wall.
Within seconds, the mechanics were fighting over strands of
intestines and bloody internal organs, slurping and chomping. Zyla
left them to eat their lunch and retreated to the service office where his
wife, Shannon, set a large dinner plate on his desk.
She wore a maroon sequined dress and matching high heels.
Blonde hair flowed over bare shoulders, most elegantly, but she’d
done a sloppy job of applying her red lipstick, all splotchy and over the
lip lines. “Having trouble
with the men?” she asked as she set two big spoons and a meat cleaver
beside the plate. “I’m
going to put a Help Wanted ad in the paper.”
He sat down. “It’s
hard to find good mechanics these days.” She
struck a match, lit the candelabra on the desk.
“You’ll feel better after lunch.” A bloody-faced mechanic shuffled in holding Mrs. Miller’s head by the hair. He plopped it down on the plate. Splat. Her wide eyes stared out blankly, mascara running like black tears. Zyla felt the roaches and maggots in his stomach writhe with anticipation. He shooed off the mechanic, who left licking his fingers. “We need someone with at least half a brain.” “Then
stop snacking on the hired help.” Shannon
rolled up a second desk chair, grabbed a spoon. Taking
the meat cleaver, Zyla cracked open Mrs. Miller’s skull. “Nothing like fresh brains for lunch.” Shannon spooned out the gray-matter goo. “Beats McDonalds any day.”
HELP
WANTED. Busy auto repair shop needs highly qualified technician.
Apply in person at Z-Motors. Jim
Lowry leaned back in his chair at the breakfast table and closed the Rocky
Mountain News Classifieds. He’d
been unemployed since gasoline hit $5 a gallon.
People weren’t driving as much.
Cars weren’t breaking down as often.
Sure, he could work at Discount Tire or Grease Monkey, but that was
below him. He was a highly
trained MASTER technician. This
help wanted ad sounded like the perfect job for him. “That
old auto repair shop on Route 6 is hiring,” he said to his wife,
Nichole. “You know, the one
in Rolling Oaks.” Dressed
in a pink robe and slippers, she flipped eggs in the frying pan.
“It’s a two-hour commute each way, Jim.
We can’t afford the gas.” That
was enough to throw a wrench in the works.
Their gas-guzzling Ford Explorer would digest a big portion of his
paycheck, for sure ... unless ... “How
about if we drive out there, look over the town, check out the shop? Maybe we’ll move there.” Thirteen-year-old
Kelli charged into the kitchen, schoolbooks clutched in her arms.
“Move? Move where?” She
always wore baggy black pants and a lacey blouse.
Purple hair hung straight down over her forehead and ears.
“What’s he talkin’ about, Mom?”
“Rolling
Oaks, honey.” “No!”
Kelli slammed her books on the table.
“That’s a million miles away.
What about my friends?” “Weirdoes,” Jim muttered. “There’s
a job opening, Kelli, and your dad needs the work.” “I’m
not going.” Nichole dished up the eggs. “Eat your breakfast.”
A
punishing sun beat down on the Colorado plains as a Ford Explorer sped
along the winding two-lane highway. At
the wheel, Jim Lowry watched the gas gage quiver on empty.
He wasn’t sure they’d make it to Rolling Oaks. Nichole
traced State Highway 6 with a manicured fingernail.
“Eight miles.” “We
may not have enough gas.” “I
told you to fill up before we left.” “The
tank was half full, damn it. I
can’t afford to fill it every time.” Nichole
grumped. “Then
we should buy a Honda.” “I
need a job first.” “Mom,”
Kelli said from the back seat. “I
gotta go to the bathroom.” “You’ll
have to hold it a little longer, honey.” “Easy
for you to say.” Nichole
fanned herself with the folded map. “I’d
hate to have to walk in this heat.” Jim
agreed. Goddamned global
warming. Here it was the
middle of December. No snow.
No rain. Average
temperatures fifteen degrees above normal.
Carbon dioxide levels quadrupled. It was hot enough to raise the
dead. “We
should've stayed home,” Kelli whined. “Don’t
you want your dad to get the job?” “I
wanta go to the bathroom.”
A
dust devil swirled down the main road through Rolling Oaks, a quaint
little town of cracker-box houses, small businesses, and rustic parks.
Population 2200, the sign read as the SUV passed.
But the streets were deserted.
Jim wondered where everybody went. “This
is spooky,” Nichole said, surveying the desolation. “I
see someone.” Kelli pointed out the window. Jim
spotted him too, an old farmhand by the looks of him: ragged coveralls,
soiled t-shirt, tattered straw hat. He
must’ve been drunk because he stepped onto the road without looking.
Jim slammed on the brakes. The
Explorer ground to a halt just before striking the man.
With glassy eyes, he stared over the hood at Jim. “What’s
wrong with that guy?” Nichole asked. Jim
laid on the horn. “Hey!
Move it, buddy.” The
commotion attracted other stone-faced townsfolk who suddenly appeared in
doorways and behind windowpanes, their white-rimmed eyes glaring from dark sockets. Nichole
said, “These people don’t look well.” “Or
friendly,” Jim added. Without
as much as a nod, the man moved across the road.
The other people stepped back and out of sight. “And
you thought my friends were weirdoes,” Kelli said. “Maybe
this wasn’t such a good idea,” Nichole whispered to Jim.
“We should go back.” Up
ahead, he saw the sign: Z-Motors.
An arrow pointed left. He was so close. He needed that job. “There’s
no sense in turning back now, besides, we have to find a gas station.” Nichole
shivered. “This place makes my skin crawl.” Swallowing his own fears, Jim followed the sign to Z-Motors, down a gravel road that skirted an old graveyard with canted headstones and mounds of dirt. He wondered if he’d feel comfortable working so close to dead people. In
front of Z-Motors, he pulled up to a closed gate.
The chain-link fence rose eight feet, topped by three strands of
barbed wire angled inward, as if designed to keep people in, not out.
Beyond the fence, he saw rows of junk cars piled three high and a
gray four-bay garage with the doors shut.
The place looked closed. “What
are we going to do now?” Nichole asked. Suddenly the gate lurched, and with a clank, began to slide open. That eerie feeling of being watched sent a chill up Jim’s backbone. “Turn
around, Jim. Get us out of here.” He
saw a gas pump in front of the shop and looked at the gage reading empty.
“We won’t get very far. I’ll
check out the job and buy some gas. How
bad can it be?” He pressed
the accelerator, felt a hesitation before the Explorer lunged forward.
The engine was running on fumes. Behind
him, the gate rattled and clanked closed.
That feeling of being trapped tied knots in his stomach until a lanky man
exited the garage door marked OFFICE and waved.
He seemed friendly enough, Jim thought, though the man looked odd wearing a suit and tie in this
heat. And his bald cranium seemed
overly large for such a narrow face.
Freaky. Jim drove up
to the pump, shut off the engine and got out.
“I need gas,” he said to the approaching man. “That
old pump hasn’t worked in years,” he said.
“Nearest gas station’s another mile up the road.”
He offered a bony hand. “Name’s
Dean Zyla. Wife and I own
this shop.” Holding
eye contact with Zyla felt unsettling, as if those intense gray eyes would read his
mind and discover his anxiety.
“I’m Jim Lowry.” He
accepted Zyla’s hand, but it felt cold and clammy, so he shook it quick
and let go. “I came about
the job.” He wiped his hand on his pants. “Well
then, let’s not waste any time.”
Zyla gestured to the shop office door.
“I have applications inside.” Nichole
joined them. “My daughter
needs to use your bathroom.” “We
have a very clean restroom, ma’am.”
He led the way. Inside,
Jim scanned the service office,
sparkling clean with computer terminals, racks of technical manuals, and
clipboards with work orders attached.
A blonde in a white satin dress sat behind the desk.
She laid a napkin over a bulge on a plate and proceeded to gather up spoons
and a butcher knife. “Just
finished eating,” Zyla explained. “Wife
and I have lunch together every day.” “Good for you,” Jim replied, perplexed by their eccentricities. And how could they stand being all dressed up in this heat? “Shannon,
this gentleman has come for the job.” “How delightful.” Her smeared-lipstick smile grossed out Jim, but he noticed that same intense glare in her eyes. Looking away from her felt painful, like pulling out fingernails. As she left the office, he wondered why they didn’t have air-conditioning in this place. “I
gotta go, Mom.” Kelli stood with her knees pressed together. “Restroom’s
right through there, cupcake,” Zyla said, pointing to an unmarked door. “Thank
you, mister.” She pushed
through the door and disappeared. “What
a delightful daughter you have,” Zyla said, watching her go.
Jim
didn’t like the hungry look in the man’s eyes, but before he could say anything, Zyla produced an employment application.
“I’ll need some information from you.”
He handed Jim a pen. “Don’t
forget to put down your Social Security number.” Taking
the pen, Jim got a glimpse of the shop beyond the window behind Zyla, a
hazy view of four lifts with cars hoisted up.
A brightly lit work area. Big
red toolboxes parked along the wall: Snap On.
MAC. There were technical machines for engine tuning and
diagnostics. Everything looked
clean and orderly. Even the mechanics wore pressed blue uniforms with patches on their sleeves. Very professional. Just the kind of shop Jim was
looking for. Glancing
at the application, he saw the usual things:
Name. Address.
Phone. Education.
Work History, then Fantasies. “Fantasies?”
He stabbed Zyla with a sharp glare.
“Why do you need to know that?” Zyla’s
gray gaze landed on Jim wantonly, head tilted as if admiring a fine work
of art. “I like to know
what's going on inside my employees' brains.” “A
bit personal, don’t you think?” “We’re
a personable bunch,” Zyla replied with a grin. Nichole whispered over Jim’s shoulder. “Just write something, stall him until Kelli gets back, and then we'll go.” Gritting his teeth, Jim looked at the shop through the window again and weighed how badly he wanted this job. Would the money be worth putting up with a quirky boss? Perhaps his mechanics would shed some light on what it’s like working around here. Jim decided to ask them, filled out the form, and under Fantasies he wrote: earn a million bucks a year. That
got a chuckle out of Zyla. “Very
clever. I like that in my employees.”
He burped. “Congratulations.
You’ve got the job. You
can start right away.” “I
want to talk to your employees first.” Zyla
stepped back, frowned. “Oh
... I don’t think you should.” “Do
you
want me to work here or not?” Zyla’s
shoulders slumped. “Go
right through that door.” The
sign above the steel door read: INSURANCE REGULATIONS PROHIBIT
CUSTOMERS IN SHOP AREA. Jim turned to Nichole. “I’ll
be right back.” He pushed
through the door ... and got the shock of his life. He’d stepped into a totally different shop than he’d seen
through the window. Wrecked
cars were strewn about a dimly lit work area like tossed junk. He saw dilapidated machines with broken meters and trashed toolboxes with bent
drawers and spilled tools. Piles of old car parts littered the floor, and
like gritty black snow, grease, oil and dirt covered everything.
What a pit! Confusion
racked his mind. He turned to
go back. The door slammed
shut in his face. He tried
the doorknob. It was locked. “What the hell?” He
spun around to summon the mechanics for help, but when he saw them, he bit
his tongue. These guys were dirty, scraggly, unprofessional slobs that
looked like they’d been run over by a truck and dragged for miles.
They weren’t the same men he’d seen through the window earlier.
How was that possible? A
trick of lights and mirrors? But
why? Did Zyla want to give
his customers a false sense of professionalism? Standing
in the stifling heat, he watched one mechanic rip off a car’s hood with
his bare hands. The side of his face looked like raw meat, and his right
eyeball dangled from its socket. Obviously
he’d suffered a serious on-the-job injury.
The safety record of this shop must be atrocious, Jim thought, and
didn’t Zyla ever hear of workers compensation insurance?
A
couple other mechanics were busy busting out car windows and denting fenders with
their fists. Another guy beat
an engine with a sledgehammer. What
kind of shop was Zyla running here, anyway?
This had to be the worst job in the world.
Jim
turned around, frantically twisted and jerked on the doorknob.
“Open up!” he shouted, hoping Nichole was standing nearby. “The door is locked!” The
mechanics heard him, quit working, gathered together and strode toward
him. They appeared to be in a
daze as if controlled by a single, maniacal mind.
Jim figured it was Dean Zyla’s doing.
He was the brains of this operation.
Somehow he’d turned his employees into mindless morons.
Frantic,
Jim banged on the door. “Let
me in! Nichole!” Nothing.
He
turned to face the approaching mechanics, hoped they were just coming to
welcome him aboard, but they didn’t look happy to see him.
As they neared, their body odor hit him like a board, the stench of
rotting meat and maggots. He'd
smelled better road-kill. The air turned putrid, and his stomach revolted. Vomit
climbed into the back of his throat.
Swallowing hard, he
remembered the graveyard he’d driven past, the
canted headstones and mounds of dirt.
It was hot enough to raise the dead, all right, and Zyla had found a source of cheap labor the government
couldn’t deport. Zombies!
Of course. The Z in
Z-Motors stood for Zombie, not Zyla.
What a scam! By
now, the zombie mechanics were only steps away, bony arms outstretched and hands grasping for him. He
felt warm urine blossom in his pants. Fighting
panic, he searched for a way out, saw nothing but dark corners and deep
shadows. He spotted an old
battery on the floor, grabbed it up and flung it at the nearest zombie.
It impacted the ghoul’s face.
Teeth flew like Chiclets. The
blow knocked him back a step, but he rebounded and continued moving
forward, unfazed. Terror
lit fires in Jim’s bloodstream. His
heart pounded against his ribs.
And tunnel vision set in. The zombies appeared wavy and distorted.
No way could he work with these ugly, smelly bastards. Not even for a million bucks a year. Some fantasy that turned out to be. Again, he banged on the
door, every bit of his sanity nearly drained.
“Nichole!” Another
wave of nausea clogged his throat. “Help!”
he gargled. The
door opened a crack. “What’s
the matter?” It was
Nichole. He
threw his body into the small gap.
A zombie grabbed Jim’s left leg, started pulling him back into
the shop. He clung to the
doorknob with one hand and to Nichole’s arm with the other.
“Pull! Pull! Don’t let me go!” “Jim!
What’s happening?” Pain
shot up his leg. He screamed.
The son of a bitch bit him. He
kicked and squirmed against the zombie’s lethal grasp. “Bastard!” The
others were almost on him. “Help
me!” Nichole
pulled harder. He
felt like the rope in a tug of war. With
his free foot, he kicked the biting zombie in the head with enough force
to jar its teeth loose from his leg, tearing flesh as he
and Nichole tumbled into the service office. But
the door was open. And the
zombies were coming. Nichole scrambled to her feet, got to the door first and slammed it shut. Breathing hard, Jim heard the crazed mechanics banging on the steel barrier. With her back pressed to the door, she shouted, “Who the hell are those guys?” “Employees,” he spat, tried to stand but fell. “You’re
hurt!” He
assessed the damage to his left leg.
His pants were shredded and blood-soaked, the raw meat of his calf hanging out
and gouged with jagged tooth marks. “God
damn that hurts.” Nichole
hovered over him. “You’ll
need a tetanus shot.” Or
rabies, he thought. “Help me up.”
Zyla was still standing behind the counter. “Mechanics
seem to like you just fine.” “I’m
not taking this job, after all.” Zyla
glanced at Jim’s wounded leg and smiled.
“Paydays are on Fridays.”
“You
can’t pay me enough. We’re
out of here.” Jim turned to
Nichole. “Where’s Kelli?” Color drained from her face. “In the restroom. She’s been gone a long time.” Nichole rushed to the door her daughter had gone through earlier and called out, “Kelli! Come on! We’re leaving!” Nothing. Dread stabbed Jim’s chest. “Kelli!” No answer. He hopped on one foot to the door
and flung it open, expecting to see Kelli sitting on a toilet. Instead, he saw a long hallway illuminated by a single flickering
ceiling bulb. Panic seized
him. He staggered through the doorway. “Kelli!”
The restroom had to be around here somewhere. Nichole cried out behind him.
“Kelli! Where are
you?” Suddenly, Zyla appeared down the
hall. “I need you to fill out
your W-4 form. How many
dependants will you claim?” The madman must've been kidding, Jim
thought. Who’d want this
job from hell? He found the
restroom door and barged in. “Kelli?” Empty. He rushed out.
By now, Zyla was only two steps from Nichole.
She was backing up. Jim
grabbed her arm. “This
way.” Hobbling, he reached
a closed steel door. The sign
above it read: INSURANCE REGULATIONS PROHIBIT CUSTOMERS IN SHOP AREA. He started to open the door when Nichole stopped him. “We can’t go in there ... those
things ... those employees are in there.” “And so is Kelli.”
Zyla strode up behind them.
“I need you to sign our Material Safety Data Sheets, too.” Jim shoved open the door. Now he was sorry he’d ever read that Help Wanted ad.
Kelli was right; they should’ve stayed home. “Kelli!” Nichole screamed.
“Are you in here?” Behind them, Zyla stood in the
doorway, a blood-red glare in his eyes.
“Get back to work, Jim!” He’d never work any job where the
boss got that angry and the employees were such brainless idiots.
Okay, so this job wasn’t much different than most others; only here
he could be eaten alive. “Kelli!” He looked at the first bay door
and saw the electric operating buttons in a panel beside it: Up. Down. Stop.
Between him and the door
stood piles of junk car parts. A little fancy footwork and they could make it. They
could get out. “Come on,
Nichole. Run!”
Hobbling and pulling her along, he
negotiated the obstacle course of junk.
The zombie mechanics changed direction and shuffled after them. Suddenly, he slipped on an oil spill
and fell, taking Nichole to the floor with him.
His head began spinning in a euphoric kind of whirl: warm,
peaceful, happy. Nichole screamed as she stared at her
hands. They were dripping ... blood! He hadn’t slipped in a puddle of
oil. It was a pool of blood.
Kelli’s blood? God, say it wasn’t true,
but blood was smeared on his forearms, his elbows, and his hands.
Its coppery perfume filled his head with bliss.
He felt woozy and drunk on the fumes.
“Nichole!” he
shouted, but his voice sounded far away.
He could see her still kneeling in the blood, all blurry and tilted. “Come on, Jim,” her echoing
voice pleaded. “We’ve got
to find Kelli.” Kelli, he thought
... got to find Kelli. Who’s
Kelli? As he stepped forward, he noticed the zombie bite wound on his leg didn’t hurt any longer. How magical. How wonderful. But his next step felt stiff and forced, as if rigor mortis had set in. What was happening to him? Then
a
deep voice in his head whispered, “Kill her!”
The voice sounded familiar. “Kill
her!” It was Dean
Zyla’s voice. “Bring
her brain to me!” Jim heard Zyla clearly and wanted to
please him. He had to please
him, for HE was the MASTER. Nichole’s distant voice shouted,
“The employees are right behind you, Jim!” She tugged on his arm, but he held
back. He wanted to say I
love you, but all he could manage was a guttural grunt.
I want you. “Grunt!”
I need you. “Grunt!” I
want to eat you. “Grunt!”
He pulled her to the floor, down
into the pool of blood. Her
screaming sounded like a symphony. The
euphoria in his head was building, climbing, billowing up toward an orgasm
fiery hot. He welcomed the
sensation. Craved it.
Loved it. With powerful hands, he ripped off
Nichole’s blouse and bra with a single swipe.
Luscious round breasts stared up at him. “Jim!
No, don’t!”
She flailed her arms. “Have you
gone mad? Jim!” Who’s Jim, he thought as he bent
over her right breast and bit off the nipple.
It tasted sweet, like the cherry on top of a spewing hot fudge sundae. The symphony of screams played on as Jim’s new coworkers gathered around him. They fell to their knees, and everyone ate lunch together. He had the greatest job in the world.
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