Netherstream - Episode 1: Jane Doe Read Free Page B

chefs before, and it’s not a pretty sight. Parts of them always wind up in the entrée. They also take after their human counterparts—they don’t last long. Oblivious to a wide range of pain, they don’t feel a damn thing when they’re scalded, seriously injured or set afire. They just continue cooking, because it’s the only thing that they know how to do. ‘Tis only a flesh wound, right chap?
    But the worst thing in the world is watching a zombie cook french fries. They seem to have a handle on placing the frozen potatoes in the fryer and lowering them into the hot oil, but beyond that, all bets are off. They’re notoriously impatient, reaching in with their bare hands and scooping the fries out. Frequently they leave fingers behind. Gross!
    Without a second thought, I shot all of the cooks in the head, regardless of whether or not they were zombies. They were all bastards anyways. (Right?) I did, however, keep a Room Service Server around to ferret things from one side of the hotel to the other. To my surprise, he was quite useful.
    I punched in the five-digit pin, and opened the door. Rows of freshly pressed uniforms hung in racks to one side, while piles of dirty clothes cluttered the floor. I stepped away from Margaret briefly, grabbed a clean uniform, and rejoined her near the washers in the back of the room.
    Laundry always made me cringe when I stepped through the doors. The smell of strangers that I did not know lingered on every shirt and pair of pants. I could tell their choice of perfume, the detergent they had used and other unique bodily odors. And when I surprised someone, I could usually tell within a nanosecond whether or not they had crapped their pants. Showers were not only born of necessity, they were essential to my survival.
    Marge staggered over to an empty, yellow cart and stopped. She stared at a single drop of blood at the bottom, and then raised her head to the metal chute that fed it.
    “What’s wrong, Marge?” I began putting on her uniform. Fresh pantyhose were becoming scarce, so she’d have to do without them for a week. The gift shop and vending machines were running dry, and it didn’t make sense for me to wash them by hand since she enjoyed tearing them off.
    Margaret was unusually mellow that morning while I dressed her. Typically it was five-round MMA match where I had to fight her for every scrap of clothing. But every piece slipped on with ease that day. Once I had her fully clothed, I stood next to her and looked inside the cart. Shit. This could take awhile. I’ve seen zombies stare into the abyss for weeks.
    Before I nudged her along, I spotted the blood. “Is that from you? Are you bleeding?” I looked at her nose. “Crap, is it me?” I rubbed the Band-Aid over my ear.
    Suddenly a head popped out of the chute. “Aaargh!” the zombie moaned, but he was not one of ours.
    “Funnckk?” Margaret pointed.
    “Yeah, that’s a ‘What the fuck?’ moment if I ever saw one.” I pulled out my gun and fired.
    The corpse fell into the laundry cart with a thud. I leaned over and put another in his skull just to be sure. I wasn’t worried about him biting me, but I couldn’t risk what he might do to Marge. She was still salvageable, I was sure of it. Me? Forget it.
    “Thanks, Marge.” I turned and noticed the blood all over her uniform. “Well, at least we’re in Laundry.” I stripped her down and grabbed another uniform.
    After changing Marge a second time, I grabbed the laundry cart and pushed it down the hallway, making my way to the loading dock at the other end. As we passed by the service elevators, one opened. Travis, an Irish-Mexican Room Service Server with a goatee, stared off into space, his next move escaping him. He leaned against a gray cart with an unlit hotbox underneath. A wooden tray sat atop with a small, white carnation, miniature salt and pepper shakers, a fork, knife and spoon tucked inside a folded napkin and an entrée covered by a