Gerald Human was in the back office of his jelly store when he heard the bell ring. A blood-curdling hiss pierced the air one second later.
“Shit,” he muttered.
Gerald hopped out of his chair and sprinted into his showroom. He stopped at the register when he saw the customer pawing at the jars on his shelves.
“May I help you, sir?” he asked.
The customer turned its head toward the shopkeeper, revealing an empty left eye socket and a decaying mouth full of rotted teeth.
“Ughnnhhhhhhh,” it grunted, spastically gesturing with one arm at the jar of blueberry jelly it held in the other.
“Um, that’s blueberry,” Gerald answered. “Is that the flavor you’re looking for?”
The customer grunted again.
“We have lots of flavors,” Gerald blurted. “Grape, strawberry, apricot, raspberry…”
The zombie dropped the jar, turned and shambled toward the counter, dragging a broken leg along the floor. Its stench grew stronger as it walked closer. A maggot fell out of its eye socket.
Gerald’s right hand dropped below the counter and fingered the latch that held the shotgun in place. It had only been fired twice before. The first time was in 1954, when Gerald’s daddy had to put down a werewolf drifter who rampaged through the shop (the local werewolves were much more considerate). The second was in 1969, when farmer Johnson’s ghoul son took too much LSD and crashed through the window of the shop. Its head was severed from its body by one of the massive shards. The least Gerald’s daddy could do was put the head out of its misery.
Gerald hoped the gun wouldn’t have to be fired a third time.
The customer stumbled and fell into the counter with a loud thud. It grabbed a jar of rhubarb jam from the counter display and waved it at Gerald with one hand. The other hand grabbed Gerald’s arm and pinched, pulling and stretching the skin.
Gerald rolled his eyes, sighed and repeated the words he’d said countless times in the forty years he’d run the shop.
“No, no, no,” he said, speaking slowly. “My last name is Human. Human Jelly Emporium is the name of the shop. No human jelly. Just fruits.”
The thing hissed.
“I’m sorry,” Gerald replied. “You must be new to town. We’ve been in business almost seventy years. This type of misunderstanding happens all the time with new people. Is there anything-”
The bell cut Gerald off. He looked to the door as another zombie dragged himself in and hissed. The ghoul at the counter turned and grunted in reply.
They went back and forth, hissing and grunting, grunting and hissing. The one at the counter waved his arms wildly, nearly clocking Gerald in the face with the jar it still held in its hand.
“Listen,” Gerald interrupted. “Is there anything I can help you both with? If you’re looking for flesh, I’m afraid you’re out of luck.”
Suddenly, the zombie at the door turned and darted toward the register. It galloped clumsily on two broken ankles. The ghoul planted both hands on the counter, leaned toward Gerald and unleashed a gurgling roar. Gerald felt of chunk of something hit his cheek.
“Talk to your friend,” he replied. “I already told him there’s none of that here. Wouldn’t be right.”
It continued its irritated gurgling, raised a hand and furiously gestured toward the door. Gerald looked and saw a crowd of zombies gathering on the sidewalk in front of the shop.
“I know,” Gerald retorted. “But that’s the family name. It’s been the name of the store for seventy years. Most in town understand that when they hear ‘Human Jelly Emporium,’ it means delicious jellies, jams and preserves made from fruit, not guts.”
The zombie’s gesturing grew more emphatic, its gurgling grew louder. His friend, the initial customer, joined him and resumed swinging the jar of rhubarb jam dangerously close to Gerald’s head.
“Hey, careful,” Gerald said, ducking. “Get a hold of yourselves. Put the jar down. If there’s nothing in here you want, you should leave.”
The zombies ignored him.
“This is a family business,” Gerald said, trying to remain calm. “I won’t have you making a scene in front of everybody who walks by my shop. Give me the jar.”
The hissing continued, and the ghoul without the jar shambled over to the large display in the center of the shop. It stopped in front of the seven-foot-high tower of jars, and stared at it, slowly moving its head up and down. It was sizing it up.
“Don’t you dare,” Gerald commanded. “You make a mess of this place, and you’ll have to pay.”
The zombie’s head twitched, then snapped in Gerald’s direction. Gerald had only enough time to register one quick thought: Its eyes are widening, like the most clever idea just popped into its head.
“Those took hours…” Gerald started, but it was too late. The zombie swung one arm in a wide curve, hitting the display about five feet from the ground. Its leg kicked at the bottom of the display.
Gerald ducked behind the counter as six jars flew past his head. The rest fell to the ground and shattered, spilling slow-moving globs of jelly onto the floor of the shop. Enough was enough. Gerald reached up and flicked the latch holding the shotgun.
Wanting to join in on the chaos, the zombie holding the jar of rhubarb jam reared its arm backward and was about to throw it when Gerald stood up from behind the counter and pulled the trigger.
The head of the zombie that knocked over the display disappeared in an explosion of blood, brains and decayed flesh. The thing at the counter stopped its throwing motion as Gerald leveled the shotgun at it.
“It doesn’t need to happen to you, too,” Gerald said. “You can put the jar down, leave and live to walk another day. Or, you can end up like your friend here. Your choice.”
The zombie cocked its head to the side, and looked from Gerald to its now-lifeless comrade. Gerald wasn’t sure the fiend understood what had just happened, but since it stopped he felt certain he wouldn’t have to fire the gun again.
Still, he kept it pointed at the now-silent ghoul. He wasn’t going to put it down until the thing left the shop. But it wasn’t leaving. It just stood there, staring.
“What are you-” Gerald started. The zombie jerked, shoving its free hand into the pocket of its tattered jeans. It rooted around for what seemed an eternity before pulling out a crumpled $10 bill. It slammed the bill on the counter, then turned and shambled to the door.
Gerald finally put the shotgun down when the bell rang and the door clicked shut. He watched the zombie bump through the crowd gathered on the sidewalk. The crowd remained at the windows, peering in.
Gerald walked around the counter and toward the door, careful to avoid the mess in the center of the shop. When he reached the door, he flipped the “Open” sign to “Closed” and locked the door.
“Seventy years,” he muttered. “You’d think they’d know what we sell, after seventy years.”
He turned and walked to the storeroom to get a mop.