A 'Night' for Sore Eyes

If you were to ask me what I do for a living, I would confidently answer that I am a hardworking, capable, and resilient security guard who acknowledges the high levels of responsibility that come with my role.

The truth? I am the embodiment of a huge sloth that spends half of the night shift sleeping and the other half thinking about how lovely the act of sleeping is. Nobody can blame me when I have the most legendary edition of all workplace recliners, also known as the "plastic chair," under my butt. Large, parallel holes in the seat provide me with what I like to imagine is high-tech air ventilation, allowing me to rejuvenate quickly after a satisfying flatulence.

With my index and middle fingers, I make a terrible attempt to imitate the rhythm of the Bee Gees' "Stayin' Alive" by tapping on the work badge hanging above the desk. Or maybe I'm just sick of looking at that pig's face next to my name, Arty Choake. For those who are unaware, an artichoke is nothing more than a type of flower that didn't bloom. My mother had a strange sense of humor if she gave me this name just before she passed away and abandoned me to the world.

Deeply resigned, I reach under my uniform and grab the beer belly that has begun to take root. To the untrained eye, I might look like a bloated hippo were my skin not so pale.

This white, empty chamber is also not helping me with the tan. What a brilliant idea it was to model asylum cells after security rooms; now I wonder whose sanity was compromised in the process. Now that I think about it, that makes some sense. It comes, most likely, from the designer's own experience.

At the very least, the CCTV monitors add some colour to the room, and by colour, I mean white eye-destroying light. Honestly, I can't see much of a difference between being here and being a character in the most tedious 1950s movie ever made.

Thankfully, I have a kindred spirit in this tiny abode of mine. When I look under the battered desk, I see Mr. Roach scavenging for chip crumbs on the right table leg. He must be a member of the cockroach aristocracy, what with his polished carapace and sleek antennae.

We perform our greeting ritual, which consists of me 'high-fiving' him against the wall and Mr. Roach shyly fleeing like a lady on her first date. And by that, I mean like the lady on MY first date.

With another sigh, I force my depressing romantic prospects away from my head. If something were to happen inside the garage I'm supposed to keep an eye on, my job would be a lot less taxing. Are people so good these days that they don't bother stealing vehicles or spending the night in a pitch-black and deathly silent private garage?

It's gotten to the point where I hope a criminal drops out of the sky. Yeah, someone like that half-zombie dude on the CCTV cams.

As a result of my brain remaining inactive for so long, it takes me a while to process the visual information presented to my eyes.

A human being! Praise Garage Jesus in his shiny whiteness of robe and halo—finally, a person! But I must say, the poor guy keeps staggering forward like a zombie, and his left foot hangs lifelessly below the ankle. With the added spice of an exaggerated hunched back, he’s the perfect recipe for a nightmare-inducing sight.

Suddenly, I became acutely aware of the silence that surrounds me. I slap the legs of my uniform in an effort to dry my sweaty hands and take a big, audible gulp. At that very moment, the nut job on the monitor also decided to call it a day and put a halt to all the scurrying around like a rat.

Of course, the repulsive thing is staring at me through the screen instead, as if he wasn't creepy enough already. The zombie, it must be said, does not exactly set the world on fire with his good looks. Bloodshot eyes, sunken cheekbones, and decaying, yellow teeth do not strike me as a cocktail of beauty.

But his lack of movement is starting to grate on my nerves. Here and there, I can make out scurrying shadows in the darkness of the room. There is almost no noise, and yet I have the unsettling feeling that everything is watching me. Beads of sweat drip down from my forehead. Creepy!

"I... see... you.”

The voice was just as charming as the man himself—coarse, angry, and shrill.

Now, protocol dictates that in this type of scenario, I should go there and inspect things with my own eyes, which is exactly what the protagonists do in horror films right before their limbs are hacked off or a lunatic in a ski mask comes running at them.

Yeaaaaahhhh, I’m not doing that.

"Come... here.”

My apologies, but my schedule is packed with better things, like... l-like babysitting Mr. Roach or... or not walking towards certain death. Besides, I am too lazy to even breathe; why would you ask me to lift my ass from the chair?

I don't think zombies can read minds, because this one appears to be quite upset that his instructions are not being followed. In a childish display of rage, he bares his teeth at me (ew, nasty) and raises his chin.

"I... said... coooooome heeeere!”

By the end, his voice is so loud that it raises the hair on my arms and nape. I'm afraid I can't, as I'm too busy trembling in my seat.

The adrenaline rush feels great, but I think I'm OK for the day now. I grab the phone on the desk for emergencies and try to contact the cops. My top priority at this point is to get back to my peaceful and meaningless life without zombies, but I will admit that I am mildly curious to hear their reaction when I explain why I’m calling. Unfortunately, I learned the hard way that life is like riding a bicycle—it will lead you right into the path of an oncoming truck when you least expect it.

What? You sure that's not how the quote goes? No matter.

Something that did matter, though, was the white noise being emitted by the prehistoric phone clasped in my hand. The zombie's visage on the screen suddenly brightens, and I feel a shiver run down my spine at the sight of him grinning.

"You... will... die…" 

I raised an eyebrow in response to his comment. I mean, really? What is this neanderthal of a zombie even talking about, seeing as how we all die in the end? Will I die in an hour, ten years, or a thousand? He receives a 3 out of 5 zombie star rating.

“...now."

Ohhhhhh. My apologies; you were simply gasping for air before finishing your words. Now that's one blood-curdling sentence! Although it lacks a bit of creativity, the fear factor is enough to make my knuckles go white. Bravo!

To tell you the truth, I am not really concerned about the situation at hand. The zombie poses much less of a threat to me than the prospect of working overtime without compensation. Sure, he gives off a spooky vibe, but the security room door is locked, and zombies can't stand the light of day. Or was it the vampires? Curse all these folklore tales going around; there are more zombie sub-species than dog breeds.

I feel like this particular zombie is getting salty that I am not paying attention to him. But let's put the elephant on the table; it wasn't me who decided to enter the garage at night, and it's his fault for being able to see me from the other side of the CCTV camera thanks to some taboo magic nonsense.

Mr. Roach squeaks in agreement before proceeding to gorge himself on the extravagant food of the wealthy. Fat little arthropod.

"Then..." He takes a longer pause than normal, giving me the opportunity to count the bulging veins on his face. "I... will... come... to... youuuu.”

Sure thing, mate. At that rate of walking, I'll see you in 2090. To settle my anxiety, I munch a few chips from my half-empty bag of Lays. Eating is such a relaxing and gratifying activity that it never fails to make me happy. To top it all off, imagine how delightful the atmosphere would be if the room didn't smell like a delectable brew of stale sweat and rotting eggs.

In the deafening silence, the ticking of the clock above the monitors is surprisingly soothing. It's also perhaps the only object in the room that I don't dislike—one of those antiques featuring old, deep wood and a classic curvy shape. It's comforting to know that each tick of the pointers equals one fewer second I have to spend in the chamber of madness.

The zombie remains in the displays, slowly heading towards the security room. And by slow, I mean slower than a herd of snails travelling through peanut butter. Of course, the guy didn't look like the sharpest knife in the drawer to begin with, so expectations were low.

The occasional "I... kill... you." comes out of his mouth as well, but after a while, I stopped being wary of him and started caring more about his mental health. Being so hostile does not appear to be healthy.

Upon more reflection, it's possible that I, too, am missing a few screws. Even if a zombie, like the kind seen on shows like "The Walking Dead," is standing right outside, I find myself worrying more about when my shift ends than about actually coming into contact with the undead oddball.

I have to hand it to him; he is slowly but surely getting here, far faster than I'd anticipated. I'm rooting for you from behind the screens, Sir Zombie!

Or at least I would if Mr. Roach hadn't decided to scale the desk at this crucial juncture and perform a suicide jump straight at me. In my haste to avoid it, I lose my footing and the chair topples backward, taking me with it.

"Argh! Mr. Roach, you've done it!”

I've got a nagging pain in my back, and I know my spacious bottom will be covered in bruises when I wake up tomorrow.

The little guy fared no better than I did. With his carapace on the floor, he is desperately trying to turn around by wriggling his legs. He looks kinda cute, so I prop him up with the toe of my boot.

After a wave of the antennae, which is roach code for 'thank you, mate,' he retreats to his private hole in the wall. You're very welcome! Next time, please don't try to do a life check-out and stay with me during my night shifts.

Knock, knock

“Who’s there?”

"I... have... come... for youuu.”

And he ruined the knock-knock joke.

It's so much creepier when the voice comes from the other side of the metal door. I am dead sure this zombie has a Ph.D. in voice acting. My brain knows I'm safe inside, but my heart tells it to go squat in a cactus patch and drops beats harder than David Guetta.

"Ahem... Hello?”

Smooth, Arty. Very smooth.

"Open... the... DOOR!" He raises his voice and yells even more fiercely.

This guy needs to chill. If we are going to make it through the zombie apocalypse, we're going to need some sort of therapy for the undead.

"Hmmmm, that might be a bad idea. You know, because of all that 'I will kill you' talk we had earlier.”

I don't think he appreciates my edited version of his voice, because I can see his enlarged nails trying to scrape the door from the CCTV feeds. Dude, that's metal; it's not going to work.

"Since I still have two hours until the end of my shift, why don't we talk for a bit?" I scratch the bottom of my jaw and attempt to recall how to interact with other humans—or zombies; potato, pothato. "So, what's your name?”

"Open... the... DOOR!”

"Pleased to meet you, Mr. Openthedoor. My name is Arty. You keep threatening to murder me, but what have I ever done to you?”

"Hungry... want... to eat.”

It seems like we're making headway. In the end, he isn't as stupid as he looks. However, I'm not sure how I feel about his unusual dietary preferences. Most of my body is fat, so you couldn't call me the prime example of fine cuisine. Perhaps Mr. Openthedoor is one of those middle-aged men who enjoy fast food.

He also seems to be focused on scratching the doorknob this time, making bizarre hand gestures that are honestly plain embarrassing.

"I understand you're hungry, but there are plenty of options for you to eat outside this garage. Why would you bother to come after me?”

He tilts his head towards the camera.

"Smell good.”

Fair enough. Nobody has ever told me that before, so I must say I'm flattered. Mr. Openthedoor wouldn't be the town's lady killer if looks mattered, but I'm sure he'd be rather successful at it otherwise.

Click

Is it my imagination, or did the security room door just open? My expression turns pale as I turn around and come face-to-face with a ravenous zombie. 

In this predicament, it is only natural to wonder things like, "How did the freak open the lock?" or "How am I going to get out of here?” or “Did I delete my Google Search history?" Instead, the first thing that comes to mind is that artichokes are pretty tasty.

Then all hell breaks loose. The zombie lunges at me, drooling saliva; Mr. Roach squeaks and runs out of his burrow; and I pull a Marlboro cigarette out of my pocket, resigned to my fate as worm food.

Before I can reach for the lighter, Mr. Openthedoor clenches his teeth around my arm like a cannibal on a fasting.

Of course, the one and only zombie in existence had to be the undead Einstein who knew how to pick locks. I have as much luck as a blind man on a dartboard.

However, fortune unexpectedly smiled on me—it was about time, I guess—and the sun peeked over the horizon, bathing everything in a warm orange glow.

After the zombie and I compete to see who can scream in agony the loudest (I won), the freak finally collapses on the pool of my blood.

Considering that everything is going round and round like a yo-yo, all I manage to do before passing out is open the first aid kit hanging on the wall and partially staunch the bleeding.

To be honest, my memories are hazy owing to all of the limb severing and so on, but I do recall a fat insect sneaking through the open door when my arm was being pulled out of my body. There's a rotten scent of betrayal in the air, I can tell.

When I finally wake up, a masked, tough-looking man (hopefully a doctor and not a thief) is there to reassure me that I'll be alright. By the way, that's a huge red flag.

"Cool," I say groggily.

Talking can be challenging when your body is 99% pain and 1% blood. But I muster the strength to utter the words that history will record as my last.

“Tell..."

The doctor takes hold of my left hand (it's not like he could take the right one) in a show of support.

"... Mr. Roach…"

His eyes light up, and he leans in towards my half-dead body to have a better listen. The chump is probably going to start looking for a person named Mr. Roach the moment I cash in my chips. Good luck, pal; you'll need it.

"Screw you."