Prologue:
Serving the NotUnDead - Customer Service in a Retirement Town.
7:30 a.m.: The one day a month we open at 8:00, an hour early, Senior's Discount Day, but an hour isn't good enough for the huge population of elderly - the NotUnDead. Half an hour before opening, the wall to wall sliding glass doors look like a scene from any George Romero flick; whithered talons, dry flaking skin tightly stretched over fleshless bones, claw hungrily at the glass. Parchment covered skulls bob forward, allowing myopic, half dead eyes to scan for bargains - easily digested soup, some type of tea biscuit that hasn't been made since 1963 that they're sure they bought here last month: the Scouts have arrived. This can only mean that the donut shop up the street has disgorged the Army of The NotUnDead, all fired up on the coffee and sugary donuts they've been gumming and slurping up since 4 a.m., the time they are all done sleeping and rise from their bleach and lilac scented shrouds. Next come the FrameWalkers, six-legged complaint machines specializing in aisle clogging and general slow downs as their wispy-haired heads sweep back and forth, targeting systems locking on to any employee they can badger. After them, the True Cyborgs: half NotUnDead, half Motorized Full Attack Battle Platform, capable of high speed assaults and maximum collision damage.
Our Uber-miester for the day finishes reading off the casualty list from last months encounter, and we absorb the stats with tight grimaces and somber faces. It appears we only held our position by the narrowest of margins, and today we're starting out already down 2 members, who called in sick, presumably still traumatized by last months battle.
7:59 a.m.: the unfortunate StockMonkey who drew the short straw grasps the door in trembling hands, utters a silent prayer, and slowly begins to slide the doors open, the smell of liniment and naphthalene smashing into his face like a brick. With the gap barely two feet wide, a number of their Scouts are already through, followed by a deceptively quick FrameWalker who, although only 6 feet inside, is already yelling that they can't find the soup anywhere and waving a 9 year old flier from some other store. The StockMonkey looks back at us, an unspoken plea for help plain on his face, but, sadly, we can do nothing: the Cyborgs have just breached the threshold. Simultaneously, 2 displays go down and the P.A. announces the need for 'Wet Cleanup' in Pharmacy, Adult Protective Undergarments and Hardware.
8:01 a.m.: We are already overwhelmed. The horror mounts as another employee bursts through their line from outside: while sneaking a quick smoke, he spotted 2 nursing home day-trip buses pulling in. Damn. One of our younger girls starts to sob as an older veteran calls home to tell her husband she loves him, maybe for the last time. A chill courses down my spine when I notice the passengers from the first bus - mostly FrameWalkers, fast ones, too. As I reach for my phone, preparing to call MsAnthropy, the payload from the second bus appears in the distance - all Cyborg, 15 of 'em. Fuck. All around me, the stench of Ben-Gay Ointment and Polygrip fills the air, along with screams of "I can't find", "I want" and "I'm sorry, Ma'am, but..." I grab my cell, hoping to fire off the text we all knew might come one day, but...
To be continued...
Until next time, as always, Be safe.
TRS
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