The wind blustered around Horace as he stepped out onto the street, pulling his sensibly in-style bowler tighter over his routinely, parted down the right side, graying hair. Double checking his waist coat buttons (one does not presume to be seen in public with their buttons out of order) he started off down the road, nodding at various acquaintances as he passed them. No one stopped to make conversation with him or even bothered to make too big a show of greeting as they knew that Horace was a precise man who did not like his schedule thrown off with frivolous chit-chat.
Stepping off the sidewalk and onto the road on the same spot he always did (right after the Trottledown's mailbox and right before Ms. Hippola's nicely trimmed rose bush) Horace crossed the intersection and began making his way down Cobblebrookshirestone Road. This would lead him to Patterson's Tea House where he always had his afternoon cup of earl grey before heading to the Hat store at which he worked. Nearing the end of the street, he notice a bit of hub-bub up ahead involving three motorcars, three very angry men, and a distraught looking policeman. Nearing the site of disturbance, Horace saw that all three motorcars where blocking the road, one of them even having coming to a stop on the sidewalk and all three cars were crunched in places and smoking. He glanced at the policeman, clearly trying to keep the three angry men, who must certainly be the drivers, from starting to fight with one another.
"Oh my," thought Horace "this is indeed a problem. How shall I get to the tea house without getting mixed up in this awful situation?"
You see, Horace was not fond of confrontation and did everything he could to avoid it. Partly because he was no good at forming arguments but mostly because confrontation was not part of his daily routine. He sighed and viewed his current surroundings. There was a ladies department store. No good. Miss Bugles Buns and Baggettes. That wasn't what he wanted. Then there was Gordan's Garden store. Not only was there no tea to be bought there but Horace had never had a very high opinion of Gordan which stemmed back from their boyhood days and something to do with a "pin the tail on the fat kid" game they once played during recess.
Horace sighed again and felt sweat beading under his collar. He should be sitting at his usual table with his usual cup of tea right now. But the street was blocked with chaos and the potential of being in the wrong place at the wrong time. There was only one more thing Horace could think to do. Once more, he sighed, a very long, drawn out, miserable sigh, and turned to his left.
Zombie Street. Yes, he would have to walk down Zombie Street.
Horace had only heard rumors about Zombie Street and those who had dared venture down it didn't have a very high opinion of it. Most folks went far out of their way to avoid it, in fact. But Horace was desperate. Nothing got him through a dreary day in the hat shop like a cup of earl grey.
Straightening his hat and setting a determined look on his face, he began walking. The street was empty. No pedestrians, no peddlers, and no kind policemen to direct the non-existent traffic. As Horace made his way further from Cobblebrookshirestone Road, the sound of yelling and car horns muffled away into silence. The only sound now was the click-clack of his heels on the sidewalk and an occasional breeze that rustled the unraked dead leaves on the ground.
He spotted a sign further down the road made with the word "Tea" scrawled on a single plank of old, rotting wood in what looked like a six year old's writing. Of the two rusted chains that held it up, one was lopsided and Horace gulped at the thought of what sort of tea would be served in such a tea house. He quickened his pace, fear of what he might see keeping him from looking into the windows of the other shops he passed. Never the less, he had a distinct feeling that he was being watched.
He finally reached the tea shop, now almost jogging, and stopped to finally look behind him to make sure he wasn't being followed. "Being followed? Really, old boy. What do you think is going to happen to you on this quiet little street?" he thought to himself as he caught his breath. "If anything, this is a far more peaceful bit of town than any other. No people stopping me to talk about silly nonsense, no auto accidents. If anything, I should worried about enjoying this all too much!" However, he looked down the street one more time before he opened the door and stepped into the shop.
Horace had never actually seen a zombie before and he was a little taken back with the one who now stood before him. The zombie was quite tall, hovering at least two feet above him. His hair was thin, stragley, and had a greenish hue to it but Horace could tell that at one time it must have been red. His eyes were sunk deep into his head and he didn't once blink as though he had no need and his yellow skin looked as though it had very slowly been melting off. His mouth hung open, revealing four blackened teeth and a bloated green tongue. The stench that accompanied this creature made Horace's hand twitch to cover his nose but he was far too polite. Besides, this Zombie was wearing a very nice suit. It was dirty, disheveled, tie ascew and not buttoned quite right. Horace, however, could see that it was once high quality. A name tag on the lapel told him two things: One, this Zombie's name was "Graaahhh" and two, that the same Zombie who wrote the "Tea" sign must also be the one in charge of name tags.
Truth be told, this Zombie was all together not threatening at all. He had not moved or made a sound since Horace had entered. Stared daftly into the distance, yes, but no violent attack. Clearning his throat, Horace finally said "Good day, sir! I have come to have some tea. A bit of an inconvenience has arisen that stopped me from going to my regular place but I do believe your little shop will do quite nicely!" Smiling, he waited for a reply. None came.
He cleared his throat once more and removed his hat. "Is this a self seating establishment? Or shall I wait to be directed to an open table?" Again, no answer. Horace leaned slightly and peered around the corner of the entryway into the dining room. It was dark and empty. A few chairs were upturned here and there and one table in the corner had chunks out of it like it had been chewed on. Turning back to Graaahhh, he gave a nervous laugh and said "Business keeping you on your toes then?" The Zombie either thought this very funny or very rude because a deep, gurgly groan came from his throat and he slowly began raising his left arm. Not sure how to react, Horace tightly gripped the rim of his bowler and waited until Graaahhh's arm came to a stop, pointing straight at him. Hesitating, he looked at the gnarled hand, then at Graaahhh, seeing that his blank expression hadn't changed, then once again at his hand. "I'll just seat myself then, shall I?" Horace said, placing his hat on Graaahhh's outstretched hand. "See that my hat doesn't get dirty or dented, please sir. Thank you."
He stepped around Graaahh and into the dining room, making his way to a small table by a dirty and cracked window. He pulled out his hanky and wiped a thick layer of dust off the table and chair, tutting as he did so. "The things I do for tea" he muttered as he shook the hanky, leaving a very visible cloud of debri in the air. He took a seat and reached up to make sure his hair was still parted correctly when he heard a light scrapping to his left. Turning, he saw a second Zombie coming his way. Very, very slowly. His feet dragging on the ground, the Zombie inched his way towards Horace. This one was smaller than Graaahhh, and had considerably more hair that hung, wet looking, over his face. He was also a bit worse for wear. The left sleeve his dirty, stained shirt was missing, clearly having been ripped off, and what looked like a pencil protubed from the side of his head. With every step he took, he grunted a bit and Horace thought it must be because of the pencil.
After what seemed like ages, the Zombie finally reached the table and stopped. His name tag read "Blerg". Horace waited for a moment, thinking there would be the customary greeting and "what would you like" but when none came, he said "Good morning. I should like a cup of your earl grey and some scones with jam. However, if your jam has seeds in it, I should like honey instead. I'm not very fond of seedy jam." Blerg was at least more talkative than Graaahh. He grunted and shuffled his feet a little bit but did not move away from the table.
"Perhaps you'd like to write it down" asked Horace. "So you don't forget it? I really do dislike seedy jam and would hate for you to have to bother the kitchen for me twice."
More grunts and shuffles, though this time, Blerg slowly reached behind his long curtain of dirty hair to where his mouth might be and pulled out a small pad of paper, fat with drool and dripping. He grunted again and started patting it with his other hand. After a moment of doing this, the patting became hitting and his grunting, a strange aggitated growling noise.
"What is it lad?" asked Horace, getting a little nervous. "What's the matter?"
"Nrah! Nraaah!" barked Blerg "Nrah!"
"You.....you have nothing to write with? You need a pencil?"
Blerg stopped and Horace could have sworn he gave a small nod.
"Well...you have a pencil. It's....it's..." Horace just couldn't find the words to tell Blerg that it was lodged in his head. All he could do was point at it, hoping the Zombie would perhaps remember that he had it there.
Blerg stood still for a moment, then slowly turned and looked behind himself.
"No, no. Not behind you. It's...it's right here," he pointed to his own head, showing Blerg the spot where it could be located.
Grunting excitedly, Blerg reached out a hand to Horace's head.
"No, you fool! Not in my head! Oh, crimany. Here, just take mine." He pulled out his pen from his jacket pocket and held it out to Blerg, who took it with a loose grip and began scribbling something nondescript on his wet pad of paper. When he went to give it back to Horace, it was covered in drool.
"Uh...you can have it" he said, putting on a smile to mask his disgust. "One can never have too many pens" he laughed weakly.
Blerg just stared at him then barked what Horace thought might be a laugh and shuffled his way back to the kitchen.
Taking a deep breath, Horace shook his head. This place was definitely not what he thought it would be. It certainly wasn't terrifying like some had said it was. But it certainly wasn't the sort of place he was used to nor were the inhabitants like those in the normal part of town. By any means. Still, he had to have his tea and if this was how he had to get it, as long as he wasn't getting attacked, he would do it.
He finally heard the shuffle of Blerg returning and the rattling of a tray with china on it. A wave of relief washed over him. His tea was here. He would drink it quickly (but not too quickly because if he gulped it down he would be burping all day) and then be at the hat shop in no time. Then things would return to normal by tomorrow and he would never have to come down Zombie Street again.
Blerg set the tray down when he reached the table and Horace reached into his pocket to pull out his hanky, saying "Thank you kindly sir. That will be all for now." He placed his hanky on his lap and picked up his spoon as Blerg slunk away. He glanced at his plate of scones and realized with a shock that he didn't infact have a plate of scones. He had a plate of stones, covered in.....not jam, but something red. That certainly did not look like jam. A thought of what it might actually be crossed his mind and he gasped, dropping his spoon. It clattered into his cup of tea which splashed a bit onto Horace's best white shirt. Grabbing his handerchief, he began dabbing the tea spots off his shirt but looked up just in time to see an eyeball float to the top of his tea. He yelped and jumped up from the table, knocking his chair out from behind him.
"Good grief," he yelled, his voice shaking with terror. "That is certainly not what I ordered!" He tore himself away from the awful scene and ran from the dining room, pushing passed Blerg who was still making his way to the kitchen. Horace skidded into the entryway and found Graaahh chewing on his hat.
Outraged, he ripped it from Graaahh's mouth. "I say," he said, voice now shaking with terror and anger, "what sort of an establishment are you running here?!" Graaahhh groaned and raised his hand like he did before, this time pointing to a table by the door with a box that said 'comment poot in this hav goood day bye'
"Well," Horace said, angrily pulling his half chewed hat onto his head,"you had better believe I have quite a comment to leave! Lucky for you, sir, I do not have the time to do so. Good day!"
Graaahhh groaned louder.
"I said good day!!" And with that, Horace opened the door and walked out, slamming it behind himself. He huffed all the way back to Cobblebrookshirestone Road. With one final glance over his shoulder, Horace turned the corner and vowed to never walk down this street again.
