The Health Code Blues

"BRAINS EXPIRE AFTER TWO HOURS WITHOUT PROPER REFRIGERATION!"

My shout bounced off the empty shelves of what used ta be Macy's. The other zombies ignored me - typical. These days, my fellow undead treated food safety like they treated their own rotting bodies. My fingers squeezed the clipboard, last reminder of my life as Senior Health Inspector.

Dave staggered past. Chunks of grey matter stuck between his ribs, right there in plain sight. My remaining guts churned.

"Un... acceptable..." I stabbed my pen at his exposed chest. "Body heat... bacteria breeding ground!"

Dave's only answer was a groan as he lurched away. A piece of brain plopped onto the floor. My nose wrinkled. Lord save me from amateur food handlers.

Sunlight stabbed through dirty skylights, highlighting the mess in the food court. My shoes - polished daily, thank you - clicked against something sticky. Better not to think about what. Each step revealed new nightmares: raw product next to cooked, temperature abuse, cross-contamination everywhere.

"Aw geez, Herb!" Big Mike's bulk crashed outta nowhere, knocking over an empty Cinnabon display. "We're zombies! Whatcha think bad bacteria's gonna do - make us more dead?"

I adjusted my name tag. H. Prendergast gleamed through the cracks. "Protocol exists for good reason."

"Um, excuse me?" Karen drifted over from her yoga corner, yoga top still spotless. "But like, this whole masculine energy is literally disrupting our mindful consumption vibes?"

Her platinum blonde balayage somehow still looked fresh - must've been that "post-life hair restoration ritual" she kept pushing on Instagram. Last week she'd tried organizing a "conscious brain consumption workshop" right in the middle of a feeding frenzy. Typical Karen stuff, really. Even death couldn't cure that level of... well, Karen-ness. The crystals clinked against her green juice bottle - now filled with something decidedly less wholesome than kale smoothies.

My fingers found the bridge of my nose - old habits die harder than people. "Karen, zombification isn't caused by negative-"

"If I might interject," Dr. Wilson cut in, scribbling with her backward arm. "The bacterial colonies in unrefrigerated cerebral tissue display quite remarkable growth patterns, though given our current metabolic state..."

Her upside-down arm kept writing - funny how that happened during reanimation. Third time this week she'd interrupted with some science mumbo-jumbo. Back when she was chief of neurosurgery at County General, that know-it-all attitude probably worked better. Now she just collected data about our rot like it was gonna win her a Nobel Prize or something. The scissors holding her bun caught the light as she tilted her head, still doing that thing where she observed us like we were lab rats 'stead of fellow dead folks.

My head started pounding - weird, considering my current condition. I grabbed a fresh citation form, paper crisp against all this chaos. At least my paperwork stayed orderly, even if nothing else did.

Something crashed near Foot Locker. Feeding sounds followed. I gripped my clipboard tighter. More violations to write. Back when I inspected hot dog carts, life seemed simpler.

"Fr... fresh meat!" Big Mike's loose jaw flapped with excitement. "Les'go Herb! Still warm - jus' how ya like it!"

"Pro... procedures!" My voice cracked. "Need... sneeze guards! Hair nets! Basic serving line organization!"

"Oh. Em. Gee? Like, totally?" Karen bounced, perfect hair swishing. "We should absolutely honor our food's spiritual journey? Quick sage-cleansing circle before we feast?"

Victoria's pen scratched away. "Fascinating behavioral patterns emerging in post-mortem social groupings..."

Big Mike ignored us, already stumbling toward fresh meat. Other zombies crawled outta stores, drawn by breakfast possibilities. My professional standards crumbled faster than last week's cerebellum.

"HALT!" I threw myself between the horde and Foot Locker, wielding my clipboard. "First we establish proper- oof!"

Shambling bodies knocked me sideways. My precious clipboard - last piece of civilization - slid across tiles.

"Most intriguing territorial display," Victoria mumbled, scooping up my clipboard with her backward arm. "Though perhaps ineffective given current group dynamics..."

"Roll up, ya meatbags!" Big Mike's voice boomed. "O'Malley's All-You-Can-Eat Brain Bar now serving!"

Big Mike - lord, that man. Even dead, he acted like he was still running that health-code nightmare of a pub downtown. That B-minus rating he got in '19 which nearly gave me an aneurysm. Still remember writing up that report with shakin' hands after finding the expired meat hidden behind the good stuff. Now here he was, same blood-stained O'Malley's shirt stretched over his massive frame, jaw hangin' sideways like a broken door, trying to run another unsanitary operation. Some things don't change, even after death.

"Unregistered establishment!" I scrambled upright, snatching my clipboard back. "Where's your food service license?"

"Like, everyone?" Karen twirled through the crowd, spraying lavender mist. "We totes need to set our consumption intentions? Gratitude circle time?"

The feeding frenzy paused. Half the zombies shuffled toward Karen's wellness circle, while others clustered round Big Mike. Perfect timing for proper protocol implementation.

"Right. Simple three-point system..." I sketched diagrams with my pen. My dead heart mighta fluttered. "First: sanitize hands. Second: orderly queue formation. Third: temperature monitori-"

A scream cut through the mall. Running footsteps echoed. My audience's attention scattered faster than rats in a health code violation. Even my best PowerPoints never lost 'em this quick.

"Subject group displays immediate response to auditory hunting stimulus," Victoria scribbled, surgical scissors clicking in her bun.

Karen's wellness warriors abandoned their meditation circle - though they paused ta align their chakras first. My authority crumbled like moldy bone marrow.

"St... stop!" I hugged my citation book. "Haven't covered proper pursuit protocols!"

Big Mike's massive frame blocked everything as he paused mid-lurch. "Herb, buddy. Ya gotta learn ta roll with it!" He thumped his bloody 'O'Malley's' shirt. "Ran my pub fifteen years. Only got one B-minus from them inspectors!"

My eye twitched. "B-minus barely passes in normal times! During apocalypse, standards should rise!"

"Speaking of rising?" Karen swayed, green juice sloshing. "My spirit guide in Sedona? She says we need elevated vibrational mastication frequencies?"

"Actually," Victoria's pen stopped. "Mastication becomes optional post-jaw separation, though behavioral patterns suggest persistent human dining compulsions..."

Another scream bounced off mall walls. Primal instincts kicked in. Suddenly I stood alone, surrounded by retail wreckage and violated regulations.

Staring at my clipboard - rows of citations neat as cemetery plots - each line marked another defeat in my war against chaos. Death hadn't killed my need for order. Maybe that's what made me the real zombie.

Feeding sounds grew louder. I straightened my tie, checked my pen's ink, and shuffled toward disaster. Someone had ta maintain standards, apocalypse or not.

The Foot Locker scene woulda given any health inspector nightmares. Zombies sprawled over knocked-down shelves, faces smeared with evidence. Fresh meat smell mixed with decay and Karen's endless lavender oil.

"This... this here!" My clipboard trembled. "Perfect example... need designated feeding zones!"

"Bruh." Big Mike glanced up, mouth full. "Ya killin' the mood. Not the good kind neither."

Victoria perched on a shelf, backward arm writing furiously. "Group continues resistance to hierarchical organization despite clear benefits of structured hunting patterns."

"Um, that's because they're literally not aligned with their zombie goddess energy?" Karen adjusted her designer scarf. "My 'Live Laugh Lurch' workshop next week? It's gonna completely transform our post-life wellness journey?"

My clipboard creaked. "Post-life journey? This isn't spiritual evolution - it's complete breakdown of basic health codes! Look!" I pointed at Dave stuffing another brain chunk in his ribcage. "No temperature control!"

"Easy there," Big Mike stood, dislocated jaw swinging. "Dave's just meal preppin'. Did it alla time at my place."

"YOUR PUB HAD REFRIGERATION!" My voice hit citation-worthy levels.

"Fascinating correlation between past-life behavioral patterns and current manifestations," Victoria mumbled. "Subject shows remarkable attachment to former professional standards despite obvious physiological changes."

"Standards aren't obsolete! Food safety transcends death! We must-"

A crash from the entrance cut me off. Boot steps echoed - military grade by the sound. Fifteen years inspecting army mess halls taught me that much.

"Omg you guys?" Karen clapped her manicured hands. "New clients! Special preview rate for my mindfulness sessions? Only three brains per workshop?"

Had ta act fast. Last chance for proper protocol before everything went sideways again.

"Listen up!" I planted myself front and center, channeling my inner Senior Inspector. "Before anyone moves, I've prepared a PowerPoint on proper hunting procedures-"

"Ya what?" Big Mike's remaining eyebrow shot up. "When'd ya make that?"

Heat crept up my grey neck. "Found... working laptop in Office Depot. Had time between inspections..."

"Subject demonstrates extraordinary commitment to administrative tasks," Victoria's pen scratched. "Possible denial manifestation regarding current existential state?"

"Not denial - dedication!" I fumbled through my papers. "Now, regarding proper hand sanitation-"

Boot steps got closer. The horde stirred restless-like.

"Like, no shade?" Karen adjusted her yoga headband. "But your chakras are literally screaming right now? Maybe start with a cleansing breath-"

Something snapped inside me. "WE DON'T BREATHE! WE'RE DEAD!"

My shout knocked a ceiling tile loose. Everything went quiet. Even Victoria stopped writing.

"Uh... you good there, Herb?" Big Mike cleared what used ta be his throat.

Shame washed over me. Completely unprofessional. Gonna need a separate form for that outburst.

"I... apologize for elevated volume levels." Straightened my name tag like it still meant something. "But proper procedure remains critical. We need organization. Structure. Food handling certificates!"

"Remarkable," Victoria scribbled faster. "Acute stress response persists despite non-functional adrenal system."

Tactical gear clicked closer. Multiple targets by the sound. My army cafeteria inspection days paid off - recognized those treads anywhere.

"Heads up, shufflers!" Big Mike blocked the doorway. "Prime grade-A stuff headed our way."

"Oh em gee?" Karen bounced, green juice sloshing. Getting strong military energy vibes? Like, those free-range brain-types are totally packed with protein?"

My chance at last! "Exactly! Military means discipline! Our hunting protocols should match-"

Dave's chest cavity made a wet squishing noise.

"See here." Flipped to fresh citation paper. "Created simple grading system. Points for cleanliness, efficiency, proper storage-"

Tactical lights sliced through dark. Our horde melted into shadows.

"Group displays retained survival instincts," Victoria whispered, still taking notes with her backward arm. "Suggesting muscle memory from-"

"Shhhh!" Caught myself. Great. Another self-citation for unauthorized shushing.

Five soldiers swept through, moving like pros. Finally - people who understood procedure!

"Remember," one whispered, "Command says these zombies act weird. Stay alert."

"Weird?" My professional pride stung. "Because we maintain standards?"

Another soldier nodded toward Karen's corner. "That one keeps handing out wellness pamphlets."

From her spot up on the Juice-It-Up counter, Victoria kept taking notes. I swear that woman'd document her own decomposition if she could. "Subject exhibits remarkable pack mentality... though questionable choice in dietary restrictions..."

My clipboard shook so hard I nearly dropped it. All them years of food handling certificates, wasted. "This is completely unacceptable!" Voice cracking like a health code violation notice. "Where's the portion control? The serving guidelines? Has everyone forgotten basic food court protocol?"

The whole tactical response team just... scattered. Left everything behind - gear scattered everywhere, them half-finished wellness flyers Karen's bunch was so proud of, and what was left of my dreams about proper dining procedure. A yoga mat tumbled past me, trailing peace crystals and broken promises.

But, against my expectations, we changed after that. Weeks passed. I learned to bend - just a little. My clipboard tracked progress 'stead of just violations.

The new brain buffet system worked okay. Big Mike's "grab-n-go" section next to Karen's "mindful munching corner." Victoria's research showed organized hunting improved success rates. Added gold stars to my reports these days.

Dave still used his chest cavity for storage - but with proper containers now. For a dead health inspector, I'd call that progress.