First Chapter of “Undead Insurance”

Kenya “call-me-Kenny” Williams was the whitest white girl I ever met. Born to two small-town parents, Kenny was oblivious to her surroundings, rash, and swore like a sailor. She was worse as a zombie.

Incidentally, Kenny Williams was also my employee and the first person I ever killed, to boot. Although, “person” could be argued; at least, that’s what the big wigs are doing up in D.C. nowadays, I guess.

They don’t like us to talk about all the killing we had to do during the apocalypse now that everyone is cured and all that.

“Move on,” the President advised solemnly after we first knew the virus had been completely eradicated. “Turn the page and close the book. This story is finished.”

Well, Mr. President, that’s all well and good, but I respectfully decline. The story might be comin’ to an end, but I’m not fuckin’ done reading.

Chapter One - Week One

No kid grows up wanting to be an insurance agent, myself included.

In fact, right up until my 25th birthday, I wanted to be an artist. Then my birthday passed, I got dropped from my parents’ insurance, and my student loans came a-callin’. Real Life stepped in and turned my dreams to dust.

12 months after my quarter-life crisis, I had charmed and sold my way into being the Agent of my very own insurance office. It wasn’t much to look at from the outside (or the inside, if we’re being honest), but I had a solid customer base, lots of plans, and years ahead of me.

Or so I thought.

“Boss, you wanna handle the Hanson case?” Kenny yelled from the front of the office.

I could distantly hear Art complaining about how often she raised her voice and her less-than-polite reply.

“Behave, children,” I said, striding into the open floor. For a minute, I probably looked real professional – shoulder-length dark hair styled cutely, attractive pantsuit, and killer heels – and then I tripped over my killer heels and nearly killed myself.

Kenny and Art snickered meanly.

“You’re supposed to be on my side,” I reminded them grumpily, catching my balance on the edge of my desk.

A small office space was all I could afford at the moment, so the three of us were practically on top of one another at all times. Our three desks were wedged as far into each corner as we could manage with two rickety folding chairs serving as a makeshift lobby in the spare corner.

“Right, boss,” Art said with a mocking salute.

“So, the Hanson file?” Kenny asked again. “You wanna handle that one?”

“No, I think you can manage that, can’t you?” It was a rhetorical question. Kenny was going on seven months with us and was still lagging behind in productivity. As small an office as we were, everyone had to be plodding along at top efficiency. Kenny was getting there, but she needed a nudge. Sadistic Mrs. Hanson would be a great nudge.

Kenny didn’t seem to think so.

“But Mrs. Hanson hates me,” she groaned. “Last time we were on the phone, she told me about her cat’s entire medical history. Like, from the time the thing was a baby.”

“What’s its name?” Art asked disinterestedly, poking at his keyboard.

“Charlie,” Kenny mumbled. Then she perked up, “Hey, I’ll trade you – “

“No,” I said firmly. “No trading.”

Kenny pouted in my direction, but I sat at my desk smoothly and made myself look busy with a couple files.

“Kenny, you’ll handle the Hansons. Arthur, you’re on that commercial building for the bar down the street, yeah?”

Kenny groaned aloud again and flounced off for a cup of coffee before digging into the Hanson file.

“No can do, boss,” Art said promptly. “Bar is ineligible.”

Damn.

“Right,” I huffed. “What about his cars? His house? There’s gotta be something.”

“Working on the cars,” Art agreed. “I’ll see what I can do.”

“Good man,” I said distractedly. A brilliant white envelope had fallen out of one of my files onto the cracked plastic of my desk, catching my attention only because of how pristine it was compared to all our other junk.

“The hell?” I muttered, opening the envelope in one quick tug and pulling out the letter smoothly. “’Dear Agent Porter, we are sorry to inform you’ – oh, Jesus Christ!”

“Abigail?” Art asked.

“Who the hell put a goddamn death benefit check on my desk and didn’t tell me about it,” I snapped.

Kenny crept guiltily around the corner, fresh coffee in hand and a wince already etched on her face.

“Ah,” she hedged. “I was meaning to mention that…”

“When?” I asked. “Next year? When did this come in?”

“Last Thursday?”

It was Tuesday now.

“Jesus, Kenny, that’s almost like a week!”

Kenny winced again apologetically, sipping quickly from her cup and skirting around the sharp corners of our desks to hide behind her computer monitor.

“Sorry, boss, I forgot. Won’t happen again.”

I huffed in agitation, but there wasn’t anything to be done for it.

“I gotta get on this right away,” I sighed. “Art, I’ll be busy for a bit.”

Art knew to field my calls from that point on, so I picked up the heavy packet of paperwork and started to read through it again.

“Dear Agent Porter, we are sorry to inform you of the passing of one of our esteemed customers. Enclosed you will find…”