The Undead Shopkeeper

  The main part of being a shopkeeper is exchanging goods for money. This is made extremely difficult when the customer takes one look at you and runs off without paying. Things get a little trickier when you run after them and eat them. Don’t get me wrong, that never happened before I became a zombie.

  There’s also a slight language barrier. What I thought I said was:

  "Three pounds ninety-nine."

  What I actually said was:

  "URGGGG."

  And that’s before I even start trying to operate the till.

  Yes, there's always going to be the problem of trying to eat the customer if they come to the counter with any goods. It’s getting harder every day to make a living. Like they say, nothing is surer than death and taxes. I’m dead, but I bet the taxman still wants me to cough up.

  There was this day not too long ago when the taxman, the worst superhero name ever, may I add, rocked up here to audit me. In the middle of a zombie apocalypse.

  "Good morning," he said, checking the clipboard in his hand.

  "Mr. Patel, as per prior arrangement from HMRC, I have come to check your books and make sure all is in order."

  I was taken aback, to say the least. He was the first person I had seen in weeks who hadn’t instantly fled my shop in terror, then been eaten by me.

  So what I meant to say to him was:

  *"Yes, that’s me. Come this way."*

  What I actually said was:

  "Urggg arggg."

  He came to the counter and placed his briefcase down. And once again, I ate another human.

  A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

  As he was dying, his final words were:

  "There will be another taxman to take my place. We will get youuuuu."

  Bloody bastard taxman. It would have been a regret that I ate yet another human being, but can you even classify a taxman as human?

  From all the customers who had died here in recent weeks, a pile of bones was building up in front of my counter. That was going to cause someone to trip and hurt themselves. Not only that, but something was starting to smell. It could be the pile, it could be me, it could be the milk and fish in the fridge. Whatever it was, I definitely needed to shift the bones.

  Although, I wasn’t sure how to achieve that yet.

  You see, I can’t even lift the hatch on the counter to get out. So I’ve been climbing over to get in and out. I can’t just pick things up or twist things anymore. Not only have I lost all my human skills, but I’ve lost the ability to show emotions.

  Inside, I’m crying with frustration. Outwardly, I’m just a grunting, groaning face of rage. I know that’s how I look because I saw myself in the security mirrors.

  Right, back to the bones.

  Hang on a minute, is there meat on that one?

  A short while later, I'd love to tell you the time, but I don’t know how to tell the time anymore,nall the bones had been sucked clean of any remaining meat.

  To remove the bones from my shop, I started shuffling behind them, hoping they'd make it out the door. It worked, kind of.

  After many steps, I got one rib outside.

  This job needed to be done, and I had no other ideas on how to do it. So I just carried on kicking them out the door.

  When there are roughly 206 bones in the human body, it doesn’t take long to make a big pile.

  The thought of customer experience crossed my mind as I was clearing the last of the bones out of the door. Would it be possible, in this day and age, to get a self-service checkout? That way, I could make some cash without eating the customers.

  I mean, they are a bit bland. They could do with a little spicing up.

  Right, back to the self-checkout. If I could get one, it would fit there by the fridges with the cans of pop. It sort of solves a problem. Then again, it brings up others.

  If people come in to buy something, I’m still going to eat them.

  The other problem is, the world seems to have pretty much ended, so cash and cards are worthless now.

  Then again, the taxman didn’t seem to think cash was worthless.

  Fuck, I can’t speak to anyone, so how do I order one?

  This assumes there's still someone out there willing to fit a self-checkout—let alone one for a zombie. Is there even a point in selling these things anymore?

  I just said it to myself. Cash has no place in this world.

  Yes, you did, but these things didn’t pay for themselves.

  I’ll come back to this dilemma at a later date.

  As I kicked the last bone out of my doorway, a young woman happened to be running for what looked like her life.

  Well, she was until the last bone I kicked out went directly between her legs, and she went down like a sack of spuds.

  Gunshots were ringing out.

  I looked in the direction she had just run from, she had a swarm of zombies hot on her heels.

  When I looked back at her, she was trying to get back up.

  Now this was an opportunity that must not be missed.

  It’s like being a kid again and mummy going:

  "Here comes the airplane!"

  While I was thinking this, my body went on autopilot. I was already biting at the flesh, tearing off her nose, her cheek.

  She was trying to fight me off, but she was done for.