Free Battle of the Network Zombies by Mark Henry

have a designer on speed dial) and stomped deeper into the offices.
    It was only later I’d realized she meant the river.
    She had an excuse for being bitchy, of course—and no, it wasn’t her time of the month or anything. More like her time of the year. Come every May, the hellhounds start sniffing from their brimstone doghouses, or whatever, for their precious Persephone, goddess of the underworld—Karkaroff, while a gorgeous and powerful attorney in this world, was pretty high up in management downstairs, as it turns out. And time is just as precious there. I’ve got a pretty good idea which world she’d rather inhabit. Right around the time the cherry blossoms popped open and the cottonwood trees filled the air with so much dander you’d think God was neglecting his dry scalp, the bitch got grumpy.
    And by grumpy , I mean deadly.
    The first year of our partnership, she tore through the marketing department with her bullwhip. Heads really did roll that day and she stomped them into mush. Of course, they were already halfway there, most of them being zombies and all. I had to bite back a comment about the fiscal irresponsibility of impromptu carpet replacement when I saw the stains spreading like a Rorschach.
    That said…
    The benefits totally outweighed the lingering fear of being swallowed up in an inky pit of death and darkness. Really, they did.
    Take the swanky new digs. In spite of a potential financial catastrophe courtesy of Necrophilique tanking, we were still living large corporate style, thanks to Karkaroff’s sizeable personal accounts.
    Wendy dropped me off in front of three stories of glass and chrome in a remodel overlooking Lake Washington, sailboats bobbing in the distance like a fucking Norman Rockwell painting and summer night client cocktail parties on the veranda.
    Too bad that last part was history.
    “Don’t forget the time. We’re meeting Gil at 9:00. And I need some time to freshen.”
    I waved her off. “Just pick me up in an hour. It’s just a business meeting, I’ll weasel my way out of it somehow.”
    The mood was remarkably chipper considering the layoffs of the previous week. Those had been exceptionally fun. To be fair, we started with the idea of ditching those hired most recently, but as one of the new guys, Jeff Gorst, was super-hot, we opted to get rid of Rachel Pratchett in accounting. She was a grim little zombie, wore Tevas in the summer and never brought us anything but bad news and even worse breath, unless you consider the questionable and mildly threatening casseroles she’d bring for potluck days an asset. I don’t trust zombies that continue to cook food. There’s just something wrong with it, like when people who wear leather dusters comment on fashion, or amputees insist on playing soccer. Plus, how many accountants does a business really need? With accounts in the toilet, there’s just not that much to count.
    There were a handful of others, but Greg Studebaker was the only employee I would miss, and primarily because his presence softened Marithé’s often frightening demeanor. Six-foot-three if he was an inch, tan and altogether agreeable, Greg had the kind of hair that stuck up like he’d just rolled in from a night of rough sex. He always had the good sense to wear clothing that stretched across his hips and crotch in such a way, every shift reminded a girl of a thin sheet draped over his naked junk. Marithé was appreciative, to say the least. But since no one could figure out what he actually got paid for, he was one of the first up for the chopping block.
    “Congratulations, Amanda!” Marithé looped her forearm through the crook of my elbow and clopped along with me. “Your appearance on American Minions and the ad revenue built into that contract is going to turn all this shit around.” She gestured to the rows of low-walled cubicles and then to a particularly forlorn employee named Renata. “ And that.”
    The woman’s head snapped up from