After dropping off Zach with the far too cheery “futurist” at the Future Center, Mac stepped into the pristine, white-tiled training room and instinctively sat down behind one of the subservient desks waiting in precise military formation before the same great desk he had seen in the reception building. It might have been glowering at its inferiors, but Mac couldn’t be sure.

  The same youngish zombie from yesterday, Miss Hafliff, sat behind the imposing monster with a clipboard in hand. He even caught a faint scent of roses that must have been her perfume. She smiled as pleasantly as a mostly intact zombie could and greeted Mac with a friendly, dead glance and a nod as he sat down.

  Being on the early side, Mac had the pleasure of watching the others enter the room and immediately fall under the overbearing influence of the zombie receptionist and her awe-inspiring desk. The overly handsome Joe Campbell mistakenly attempted a futile wink at Miss Hafliff as he stepped in the door.

  A death glare with more than a passing acquaintance with its namesake ended whatever intention he might have been considering like the truth ending a politician’s career. He slunk over to the chair in the far back corner of the room with his tail between his legs. It might have made him laugh if not for the cursed desk at the front of the room.

  Grist was next to arrive and prudently selected the oversize deck in the opposite corner of Mr. Campbell. It groaned just a little bit under his weight but under the pressure of the great desk at the front, decided it might be better to complain in silence.

  Several other people filtered in quietly who Mac recognized from the cafeteria last night. These were composed of a few sketchy looking elves with greaser or goth hair-dos and some other humans with chin-strap beards who may or may not have been employees from his internship days. Was this really the best job he could find?

  Natalia was the last to enter. The dark-haired, almost beauty (the slightly protruding fangs just ruined the attraction) glided into the classroom on five-inch heels and a black-on-black selection of clothing just this side of cliché. Even she seemed to fall unconsciously under the sway of the power duo at the front and meekly slunk away into an open chair beside the troll.

  “Glad to see you are all here,” Miss Hafliff announced after checking off the last name. Apparently, she had completed the roll call without their help. “Welcome to the first day of in-processing, here, at Hench Helpful Help. We’re glad you’ve accepted our offer of employment and look forward to your contributions to the success of our great company.” Heads bobbed affirmatively, but no one ventured a word.

  “Today will cover some basic paperwork and an introduction to our company values,” the zombie continued after a short pause for an unneeded breath. Her voice was far less raspy and much more coherent than Mac expected. Just how long had she actually been undead?

  “To start with, we’ll have several forms you’ll need to fill out dealing with benefits and pay options,” Miss Hafliff stated in an almost friendly way. “I encourage you not to just rush through these but give them some careful thought as they will affect your employment with us going forward. Trust me, I signed-off on my benefits just days before I needed them. The first sheet on your desk is your election for reanimation, that means zombification, form.”

  When had those sheets gotten there? Mac noted as he looked back down at his desk.

  “Basically, it allows you to set the conditions for reanimation insurance to kick in, if any. As this insurance is provided free of charge by the company, and we do keep top notch necromancers on staff, I recommend keeping it as wide open as possible,” Miss Hafliff advised.

  “It might come in handy.” Of course, she would say that. “I’ll be happy to answer any questions you might have both about the paperwork and the process, and I should probably mention that there is no automatic decrease in pay should you be reanimated. I have, in fact, received multiple-raises, the details of which I am not permitted to discuss,” Miss Hafliff stated evenly as she touched a gold earring.

  No one dared to raise their hand as the new-hires directed their gazes to their parchment forms. Mac re-read the initial statement ensuring that the operation was indeed free. History was rife with examples of zombie enslavement, and he wanted no part in that near eternal servitude bunk

  Finally convinced there was no small print, he squinted and checked around the slightly charred edges of the form just to be sure, Mac moved on to the questions and check boxes.

  He muttered quietly to himself and worked through the form, “Yes, I elect to undergo the procedure if I have A) a dependent under the age of sixteen.” He filled in the blank spot for the age. “The name of that (these) dependent(s) to trigger this clause is (are) Zach MacDonald.”

  Mac ignored the other check boxes as Zach was the only reason he really had to “live” for. He momentarily considered checking the revenge box for as long as his ex might be alive, but decided that was just being as petty as she had been, and besides, she simply wasn’t worth the effort.

  The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

  Mac skipped down over a strangely blank section to the periodic review and selected the day after his son’s sixteenth birthday. He doubted he would still be with the company at that point, but you could never be too sure.

  There was a section for special instructions and conditions just above that, but Mac resisted the temptation to edit the legalese already present. If they had a clear and concise form there would be fewer inconvenient misunderstandings that might convolute unforeseen future circumstances. Mac signed the form with a pen he had found on his desk and shoved it to a corner.

  The others around the room took a bit longer than he did, but finished soon enough. Even Grist seemed to be able to fill out the form fairly quickly without any help. That was odd.

  The next sheet in the stack arrested Mac’s attention as the zombie began speaking again, “The next form is to establish a company bank account. Due to the nature of our business, we have found it… less constraining to own our own bank. The multiple account seizures and freezes by misunderstanding governments in the early days of the company forced our hand for the good of our employees.”

  “Please keep this on your desk after you are finished as you will need the number for other documents. You can use the formula on the white board behind me for figuring your unique number. Don’t forget to mark your preferred currency. I’m afraid ‘cows’ are no longer an option due to tax difficulties in several of our operational areas. Something to do with confusing aerodynamics. Don’t ask.”

  The elegant solution for arriving at his eighteen-digit account number was surprisingly easy to follow.

  “Next is a standard J-3-21 global tax form. As you may find yourself working in various countries throughout the world, it’s necessary to cover all eventualities. It also improves relations when taxes are paid promptly and accurately allowing us to run our business smoothly in even some of the most… peculiar countries. Please pay particular attention to your dependent claims and answer every question no matter how absurd it sounds. You may need to refer to the previous document for some of the questions.”

  Mac began working through the fifteen-page J-3-21 form and soon encountered the odd questions Miss Hafliff had mentioned. Am I a dues-paying member of the Communist Party?

  No.

  Do I own or work in a secret, privately funded lab?

  No. Well, wait a second, what about my current location? I don’t see any test tubes or people in white coats. But this room is pretty white, and we are in an unstable cave in the middle of nowhere. I’ll just leave an indecipherable mark and let the clerks figure it out.

  Do I own livestock on either the Aluvian Plain (excepting the Tronthian river exception region) or the Green Mountain agricultural zone?

  No.

  How many doorknobs does my house have?

  I don’t have a house, so that would be zero.

  Do I raise dragon whelps either part or full-time?

  No, they don’t even exist. Do they? No, of course not. What kind of bureaucratic fool wrote this anyways? Mac wondered.

  Do I own exo-planet property such as real estate on the moon or a time share in an orbiting station? No. Who can even afford that?

  A glance to his side revealed a slender blonde with a hat in her lap that might have been worth more than his last year’s salary. Her tailored clothes were possibly even more. Fine. Legit question.

  Divorced, Single, Married, Widowed, Engaged, Betrothed, Hopelessly in love but unable or too cowardly to confess real feelings and thus doomed to singleness forever?

  Divorced, and why is that the first choice?

  The questions went on: Have I been diagnosed with a life-threatening condition and given a specified time to live?

  No.

  Am I an organ donor?

  Yes.

  Do I own a pet (not including ferrets, or platypuses)?

  No.

  Do I own precious metals and where do I keep them?

  Seriously?

  Am I member of a secret knitting society?

  No.

  Is that a lie?

  No.

  Do I have any outstanding debts resulting from reanimation or mob involvement?

  No.

  Will I promise to plant a tree this year?

  No.

  Do I have any medical conditions that might make payment difficult (please describe in detail)?

  No.

  When was the last time you went on a date with your spouse or a significant other?

  Let me think, what is today? Hmmm. Eight months ago, if I could even count that. They really should define “date”.

  The questions went on and on. It almost felt like the stack on his desk wasn’t getting any smaller and questions became increasingly personal. Name of Arch-nemesis?

  Fluffy. I hate that dog.

  What town did I grow up in?

  Drakesburg.

  Who is my favorite author? Lun Calsari.

  What was the make and model of my first car?

  I don’t remember.

  What is your birthdate, personal reference number, and mother’s maiden name?

  Okay, that was too far, “Miss. Hafliff,” Mac began to raise his hand surprised at just how hard he found it, like there was some giant flesh magnet in the floor. He grunted and fought the invisible force until he finally had his hand above his head.

  The zombie seemed… curious, “Yes, Mr. MacDonald?”

  Mac struggled to find words to express his concerns. It was like a wet blanket was wrapped around his head and the oxygen supply was short. It shouldn’t be so hard. Mac focused on the task at hand and his outrage at the questions, “I don’t think…” Come on Mac, you can do this. “some of this information is far to… personal. Security breaches are… a real risk. May… I… sk… sk… skip some of the more… dangerous items?”

  Mac took a deep breath and sucked in the cool air having nothing left to say. Did the zombie’s desk appear somehow… offended?

  Miss Hafliff seemed unexplainedly taken aback. She stared at him for a long moment before responding simply, “Yes. Mr. MacDonald.”

  Having given her answer she opened the laptop on her desk and proceeded to make some annotations between curious glances around the screen at the defiant employee. The HR scouting team looked like they were right again. Vlad would owe her the usual. Hopefully, Mac would accept the company values. They were non-negotiable for those wishing to continue working in their present condition.