Going Postal… But Slowly
By Walt Staples
Jack Wesa flinched
as Max Helman blasted through the door into his office. On the whole he liked his assistant. He just wished Max didn't try to make up for being cut from Virginia Tech's team by attempting to smash through doors as he had been unable to smash through the opposing lines. Jack was of the opinion that after 18 years it ought to become a bit old.
“Boss, we got a situation,” he said tersely.
Jack sighed and put down his tuna sandwich; though not before a dollop of salad landed on his left thigh. As he rubbed a tissue at the offending spot, he observed, “Max, we always seem to have 'situations.' At least, whenever you try to knock my door down. Let's see, this is--what?--the third time in four days? Max, even for you that's got to be some kind of record.” He took in his assistant's stepped-on-puppy expression and relented. “Okay, what's up this time?”
“Villa Heights Processing Center has been taken over.”
“Oh? Who by?” This might actually be something approaching a “situation.”
Max's voice dropped in a significant way, “Zombies.”
“Come again?”
Max tried for the same tone again and missed, “Zombies.”
Jack took a breath. “Uh-huh. And what exactly are these zombies doing at the center?”
Even lower, Max answered, “Processing mail.”
His superior's voice was a whip-crack, “Say what?”
Max backed up a step from the smaller man. “They're processing mail. You know, unloading trucks, classifying it, canceling it, loading it onto other trucks.”
Jack squinted one eye at him. “Wait a minute, Villa Heights was mechanized last year. What about all the equipment?”
“They just pushed it aside--at least that's what Roy Camelstones said.”
“And he is?”
Max's voice had returned to a normal tone--something between a squeak and a rusty gate. “He runs the center. Well, him and a union steward.”
Jack furrowed his brow. “The place is totally automated but it has a steward?”
Max shrugged, “Contract year before last. Anyway, what we are going to do? After all, we're the Postal Inspectors.”
“Is anyone in the building?”
Max shook his head. 'No, there was just the two of them, Roy and the steward.”
Jack picked up a pencil from his desk and began to tap the end of his nose with the eraser as he counted off the steps. “Okay, one--call the City PD and tell them what's going on. We're going to need a cordon around the center to keep the zombies in and the curious out. Two--get on to Richmond and tell them we'll need inspectors from other jurisdictions, let's see…Staunton, Lexington, Wytheville, Abington, and--I don't know, either Bedford or Bristol for a start.”
Max punched away on his Raspberry. “What about from the east or north, and other states?”
Jack closed one eye and considered. “No, I think we want to keep it in the family for right now. You remember what happened when Hap Jordan let those guys from Fairfax in on his operation?”
Max nodded. “Yeah--though I hear Guam isn't all that bad these days.”
“Next, talk to public relations about drafting a statement. Not too low-key, but not 'blood, sweat & tears' either. Say, guarded hysteria.”
Max looked up. “Should I get the Zip force on the road?”
“Hmm? M-8s?” He thought for a moment.”No, I think not. I can't see what use tanks would be right off the top of my head.”
The red phone buzzed and Jack answered. “Yes, Director. We just got word. We should be loading the Ospreys inside of twenty minutes which should put us on scene an hour from now. Yes, sir, I realized it's a four minute flight from here, but the controllers over at Woodrum Field always put us behind the Half-Fast Package Service and Zip-Drop Parcel flights. Yes, sir, we'll do our best.”
“The Director sounds concerned,” Max ventured.
“Yeah, he mailed a care package to his grandma up in the supermax,” Jack answered distractedly.
“Anyway, we're supposed meet a zombie behaviorist from Quantico at the center.”
Both men went to the lockers across the room from Jack's desk and pulled on Nomex coveralls and hoods, slipped their feet into boots and headed for the door. They would pick up their armor and weapons before boarding the blue-gray painted V-22 Ospreys, making sure to slap the butt of the Mr. Zip character painted on the side for luck before walking up the rear ramps.
~~~~~
“Boss, we got a situation,” he said tersely.
Jack sighed and put down his tuna sandwich; though not before a dollop of salad landed on his left thigh. As he rubbed a tissue at the offending spot, he observed, “Max, we always seem to have 'situations.' At least, whenever you try to knock my door down. Let's see, this is--what?--the third time in four days? Max, even for you that's got to be some kind of record.” He took in his assistant's stepped-on-puppy expression and relented. “Okay, what's up this time?”
“Villa Heights Processing Center has been taken over.”
“Oh? Who by?” This might actually be something approaching a “situation.”
Max's voice dropped in a significant way, “Zombies.”
“Come again?”
Max tried for the same tone again and missed, “Zombies.”
Jack took a breath. “Uh-huh. And what exactly are these zombies doing at the center?”
Even lower, Max answered, “Processing mail.”
His superior's voice was a whip-crack, “Say what?”
Max backed up a step from the smaller man. “They're processing mail. You know, unloading trucks, classifying it, canceling it, loading it onto other trucks.”
Jack squinted one eye at him. “Wait a minute, Villa Heights was mechanized last year. What about all the equipment?”
“They just pushed it aside--at least that's what Roy Camelstones said.”
“And he is?”
Max's voice had returned to a normal tone--something between a squeak and a rusty gate. “He runs the center. Well, him and a union steward.”
Jack furrowed his brow. “The place is totally automated but it has a steward?”
Max shrugged, “Contract year before last. Anyway, what we are going to do? After all, we're the Postal Inspectors.”
“Is anyone in the building?”
Max shook his head. 'No, there was just the two of them, Roy and the steward.”
Jack picked up a pencil from his desk and began to tap the end of his nose with the eraser as he counted off the steps. “Okay, one--call the City PD and tell them what's going on. We're going to need a cordon around the center to keep the zombies in and the curious out. Two--get on to Richmond and tell them we'll need inspectors from other jurisdictions, let's see…Staunton, Lexington, Wytheville, Abington, and--I don't know, either Bedford or Bristol for a start.”
Max punched away on his Raspberry. “What about from the east or north, and other states?”
Jack closed one eye and considered. “No, I think we want to keep it in the family for right now. You remember what happened when Hap Jordan let those guys from Fairfax in on his operation?”
Max nodded. “Yeah--though I hear Guam isn't all that bad these days.”
“Next, talk to public relations about drafting a statement. Not too low-key, but not 'blood, sweat & tears' either. Say, guarded hysteria.”
Max looked up. “Should I get the Zip force on the road?”
“Hmm? M-8s?” He thought for a moment.”No, I think not. I can't see what use tanks would be right off the top of my head.”
The red phone buzzed and Jack answered. “Yes, Director. We just got word. We should be loading the Ospreys inside of twenty minutes which should put us on scene an hour from now. Yes, sir, I realized it's a four minute flight from here, but the controllers over at Woodrum Field always put us behind the Half-Fast Package Service and Zip-Drop Parcel flights. Yes, sir, we'll do our best.”
“The Director sounds concerned,” Max ventured.
“Yeah, he mailed a care package to his grandma up in the supermax,” Jack answered distractedly.
“Anyway, we're supposed meet a zombie behaviorist from Quantico at the center.”
Both men went to the lockers across the room from Jack's desk and pulled on Nomex coveralls and hoods, slipped their feet into boots and headed for the door. They would pick up their armor and weapons before boarding the blue-gray painted V-22 Ospreys, making sure to slap the butt of the Mr. Zip character painted on the side for luck before walking up the rear ramps.
~~~~~
All was quiet across the weed-grown employee parking area of the Villa Heights Processing Center. Jack mashed the buttons of his binocular/rangefinder and cursed. The tiny man in Marine utilities chuckled.
“If you're trying to get a heat signature, you're out of luck, Mr. Wesa. Zombies don't produce heat.” The sun glinted on the major's coke-bottle-bottom glasses as he grinned under the too large helmet.
Despite himself, Jack sighed. “What would you suggest, Major Bapp?”
The major continued to grin as he leaned against the side of the aircraft with his arms crossed. “I'm afraid we're going to have to eyeball them.” He hooked a thumb towards the east side of the building. “That brush looks to give reasonable cover. I think I'll go in that way.”
Jack regarded the “brush.” To his eye it looked to be all of four inches high. He gestured at it. “That way, huh?”
“Yep. Hand me the Mole-eye, will you.” The major took the small camera and put it in one of the pouches of his load-bearing equipment. He causally walked to the edge of the “brush” and disappeared.
Jack had to admit, the little guy was good. Even with the IR, his binoculars only caught a flicker once or twice. They waited.
Some twenty minutes later, the watching men heard a loud BAA-LOOOM! Jack and the others looked at each other. Silence fell once more.
The little major rematerialized at the edge of the concrete. He rubbed his hand as he walked over. “Camera's up.”
Jack grinned. “Was that cannon you?”
Bapp laughed and continued to work his hand. “Yep. That was me. .44 magnium. Knocks the dust out of me when I fire it, but it's even worse on the other end. Shoot something with that and you don't have to kill it again.”
“I take it you bumped into somebody?”
“Had a leaker come out for a smoke and he spotted me. Don't guess they read the Surgeon General's warnings or watch TV. Smoking definitely re-killed that one.”
“Let me guess, Marlboro's?”
“Nope. Acapulco Golds.” He touched a screen hanging on the side of the Osprey. “Let's see what the camera's seeing.” A view of the main floor of the processing center appeared. Figures in tattered suits and dresses moved slowly about. Oddly, though, there seemed to be an order to their spastic movements.
Max raised an eyebrow. “That's weird.”
Jack asked, without taking his eyes off the screen, “What's weird?”
Max held up an index figure for patience. He had a slightly confused look on his face as he turned from the screen. “If I didn't know better, I'd say that looked like a normal processing center only speeded up slightly and with less lost motion.”
~~~~~
The next morning, all was in readiness. Jack briefed the assault team made up of postal inspectors from his own Roanoke office, plus teams from Vinton and Salem. “Now remember, you're not dispersing rioting disgruntled customers or dealing with a pitbull infestation. These guys will kill you…and eat you. So keep your heads out and weapons free. We'll--“ The red light blinking on his comm unit interrupted him. “Yes, Director? Pardon? Did you say stand down, sir?” Jack was incredulous. His expression went from surprise to confusion as he listened. “Yes, sir, immediately.”
Major Bapp, caressing an M18 assault weapon slightly taller than himself, raised an eyebrow. “Problem?”
Jack spoke in a vague and wondering voice, “The mission's scrubbed. The director says it comes straight from the postmaster general. We're supposed to leave a perimeter up and attend a meeting in the morning.”
“Who are we expected to see at this dog and pony show, Jack?” the Marine asked.
Jack answered in a disbelieving way, “Some zombie expert from the Civil Service.”
~~~~~
If Julius Caesar had wanted to be surrounded by fat, sleek-headed men, he couldn't have done better than Dr. Norman Kleinsputz, the gentleman from the Civil Service Commission. The good doctor, besides being built pretty much along the lines of a bowling ball, had all three hairs firmly (and, indeed, sleekly) glued down over his glistening pate. He had the floor and demonstrated a disturbing habit of beginning to rise on his toes at the start of each sentence, reaching the vertex of his flight at the middle, and making a soft-landing on his heels to punctuate the end. “Gentlemen, I'm afraid that you cannot attack the processing center. The postmaster general has decided that the service will utilize the situation as best they can. At the moment, the zombies are neutralized. They cannot get out and he believes they will be unable to in the future. Rather, their presence shows a certain advantage.”
Being safely from DoD's ranks, Major Bapp spoke up, “And what advantages might they be?” The word, “Doctor,” was noticeably absent from the sentence.
Kleinsputz shot him a look, met his eye, and quickly looked elsewhere. “Since the zombies have occupied the processing center, the efficiency has spiked. The mail moves faster and more expeditiously now that the zombies are performing the labor. This has led the postmaster general to order that the building and loading dock be equipped with air lock style zombie traps. Sealed mail trucks are backed up to the loading doors, the traps seal to the rear and the rear doors of the trucks open. The zombies pull the mail carts out and push the departing ones in. The rear doors then seal, and the truck goes its way. To keep the zombies operating, we have only to unload a shipment of livestock--say sheep--the same way, and the zombies are nourished.”
“Why are they doing the work?”
Dr. Kleinsputz grasped his lapels and advanced his left foot in his finest professorial manner, thus giving the impression to the observer of attempting to hold himself erect by main force. “We have studies that suggest that people who are employed in mind-numbing jobs for a period of more than seven straight years tend to come back from the grave and pick right up where they left off. Airports are seeing the same type of occurrence with former TSA screeners, as are shopping malls with deceased Santas. I'm afraid one of our department secretaries even returned.
“So, the postal service will continue to employ them.”
At this, Jack spoke up, “But they're rotting to pieces!”
The academic raised his eyebrows and nodded. “Very true. Very true. But, since the 2017 amendment of the Americans with Disabilities Act, one can no longer be dismissed for problems relating to poor personal hygiene. Also, because of the Post Office Reformation Act of 2018, they are Civil Service employees. If I remember correctly, the last Civil Service worker terminated was the Pentagon office plant waterer who assassinated the Joint Chiefs of Staff and then was rude to the troop of Youth for Claymore girls touring that day.
“Besides, there is the very best reason.” He smiled benignly.
Major Bapp asked archly, “What, pray tell, is that?”
The smile became a leer. “They don't cash their paychecks.”
}
~~~~~ <~
}
According to Walt, the future trend of his life was probably foreshadowed when he was three. Driving with his parents, as they looked for a place to go to the bathroom on a Virginia fire trail, he was involved in a head-on collision with another family coming from the other direction also looking for a place to go to the bathroom. He credits this experience for his rather cockeyed view of the world.His blog, “Variable Credence,” can be found at http://gkfields.blogspot.com
If Julius Caesar had wanted to be surrounded by fat, sleek-headed men, he couldn't have done better than Dr. Norman Kleinsputz, the gentleman from the Civil Service Commission. The good doctor, besides being built pretty much along the lines of a bowling ball, had all three hairs firmly (and, indeed, sleekly) glued down over his glistening pate. He had the floor and demonstrated a disturbing habit of beginning to rise on his toes at the start of each sentence, reaching the vertex of his flight at the middle, and making a soft-landing on his heels to punctuate the end. “Gentlemen, I'm afraid that you cannot attack the processing center. The postmaster general has decided that the service will utilize the situation as best they can. At the moment, the zombies are neutralized. They cannot get out and he believes they will be unable to in the future. Rather, their presence shows a certain advantage.”
Being safely from DoD's ranks, Major Bapp spoke up, “And what advantages might they be?” The word, “Doctor,” was noticeably absent from the sentence.
Kleinsputz shot him a look, met his eye, and quickly looked elsewhere. “Since the zombies have occupied the processing center, the efficiency has spiked. The mail moves faster and more expeditiously now that the zombies are performing the labor. This has led the postmaster general to order that the building and loading dock be equipped with air lock style zombie traps. Sealed mail trucks are backed up to the loading doors, the traps seal to the rear and the rear doors of the trucks open. The zombies pull the mail carts out and push the departing ones in. The rear doors then seal, and the truck goes its way. To keep the zombies operating, we have only to unload a shipment of livestock--say sheep--the same way, and the zombies are nourished.”
“Why are they doing the work?”
Dr. Kleinsputz grasped his lapels and advanced his left foot in his finest professorial manner, thus giving the impression to the observer of attempting to hold himself erect by main force. “We have studies that suggest that people who are employed in mind-numbing jobs for a period of more than seven straight years tend to come back from the grave and pick right up where they left off. Airports are seeing the same type of occurrence with former TSA screeners, as are shopping malls with deceased Santas. I'm afraid one of our department secretaries even returned.
“So, the postal service will continue to employ them.”
At this, Jack spoke up, “But they're rotting to pieces!”
The academic raised his eyebrows and nodded. “Very true. Very true. But, since the 2017 amendment of the Americans with Disabilities Act, one can no longer be dismissed for problems relating to poor personal hygiene. Also, because of the Post Office Reformation Act of 2018, they are Civil Service employees. If I remember correctly, the last Civil Service worker terminated was the Pentagon office plant waterer who assassinated the Joint Chiefs of Staff and then was rude to the troop of Youth for Claymore girls touring that day.
“Besides, there is the very best reason.” He smiled benignly.
Major Bapp asked archly, “What, pray tell, is that?”
The smile became a leer. “They don't cash their paychecks.”
}
~~~~~ <~
}
According to Walt, the future trend of his life was probably foreshadowed when he was three. Driving with his parents, as they looked for a place to go to the bathroom on a Virginia fire trail, he was involved in a head-on collision with another family coming from the other direction also looking for a place to go to the bathroom. He credits this experience for his rather cockeyed view of the world.His blog, “Variable Credence,” can be found at http://gkfields.blogspot.com
