Mankind ponders why often times the good die young while the truly evil amongst us are allowed a free ride into their golden years only to pass peacefully in the night.

Witness a case to the extreme opposite side of said scenario in this next chilling saga, wherein the vilest of all get their just due, and then some, and from the most unlikely of sources...

Our tale of unlikely retribution commences:

 *

Multiple announcements reverberated in true assembly-line fashion from a plethora of wall and ceiling mounted speakers.

  “Z-881, please proceed to assignment booth forty-eight. Z-eight-eight one to assignment booth four-eight.”

  “V-321, please proceed to assignment booth fifty-six. V, three two one to assignment booth five-six. ”

  “G-444, please proceed to assignment booth seventy-nine. G, four-forty four to assignment booth seventy-nine.”

   From various locations within the colossal, cathedral-style hall, they rose to obey whichever verbal command pertained in relentless waves of undead inhumanity.

   “WW-248, please proceed to assignment booth one-sixty. W, two four eight to assignment booth one-sixty.”

   “M-23, please proceed to retirements branch, room seventy-eight. M, twenty-three to retirement’s branch, room seventy-eight.”

   A spattering of applause filled one corner of the hall as the potential retiree is shown a level of respect deserving one who had served so tirelessly through the decades (or perhaps centuries, depending on the individual addressed).   

   In the front center section of rows sat a diverse grouping of job hunters of varying skills and experiences, each calmly awaiting for a droned voice to direct them to one of a possible seven-hundred fifty assignment booths. Booths that rotated in three to four minute intervals on a twenty-hour, seven-day-a-week schedule like revolving doors caught in a permanent spin. Occupying an aisle seat lounged Z-198, an old school warrior from the undead legions of the late nineteen sixties. Having perished following a Haitian political riot, he was then revived and reanimated (via family request) just days later by one of the island’s most noted Voodoo doctors. Despite decades of wear, tear and natural decomposition, he has fed well and thereby maintained the gist of his body parts, save a missing left arm at the elbow and a gaping hole below his rib cage. Like all those within the workforce designated under the Z-FE (Zombie –FLESH EATER) classification, he was required to wear thick metallic mouth and neck braces until physically arriving within the assigned task perimeter.

   Due to the ‘Z’ workers penchant for attacking on instinct, the razor-wire mouth guard disallowed random biting of innocents, just as the cylinder-styled neck restraint limited neck movement.

   “AP-133, please proceed to assignment booth two-eleven. AP, three-thirty three to assignment booth two-eleven.”    

   Sitting two seats over was W-486, who eyed Z-198 with obvious anxiety. A pudgy, middle-aged man with a balding plate and puffy jowls, he had once been revered as a skilled hunter of big game, that is until a dark, foggy night on the English moors saw him forced into the role of hunted. As his turning was fairly recent, there was a blatant inexperience in dealing with those not of his kind. He wore his fear like a shiny gold badge, like so many of the WWL (Werewolf-LUPINE) designation whose courage only surfaced within the fiery glow of a full moon.

   “V-516, please proceed to assignment booth ninety-six. V, five one six to assignment booth ninety-six.”

   Wearing an expression of casual indifference, V-132 (officially designated V-BS – Vampiric/BLOOD SUCKER) filled a chair just three spots to the right. Cocking her head to the right, she brushed back her lengthy locks (pitch black with streaks of silver) with spidery fingers that sported three-inch nails painted blood red. Her complexion was best described as pasty; though her lips (frozen in a permanent pout) were full and shaded in dark crimson. Having been turned at the tender age of seventeen within a tiny, remote Danish village, she has done ample time within the frenzied, chaotic atmosphere the hall provided.

   “First time?” she droned seductively, her accent thick but comprehensible. WW-486’s eyes widened momentarily at the sudden, unexpected inquiry. He quickly narrowed them and puffed out his woefully concave chest while executing his best Clint Eastwood impersonation to offset the stark fear clasping his undead soul.

   “Nah. Not this boy. Been here, done that,” he crowed through a shaky, warped grin as a thick bead of sweat formed directly between his bushy eyebrows,”and you?”     

  “Might be wise to monitor your back, young man,” she replied, having leaned over to whisper into an outstretched palm, then gesturing with a thumb towards the rows directly behind them “That GL a few seats back is drooling over you like a freshly sliced slab of pork." 

   Whipping his head around at break-neck speed, WW-486 cringed back as if ducking an incoming assault. Two rows back and directly behind him, GL-779 leaned forward and sniffed the air aggressively, thick threads of drool coating the underside of the Iron Maiden-styled mask all GL-FE (Ghouls- FLESH EATER) are forced to don while in pre-task mode. As with all GL’s, the creature is assigned a ‘Guardian’; a lifelong Sentinel of sorts who is supplied with behavioral modification drugs administered solely for preventive measures. Long heralded as the loose cannon of the undead, those designated as GL’s are generally labeled the Tasmanian Devils of the underworld, prone to attacks on both the living and undead with similar frequency and ferociousness.

   To the majority of GL’s, flesh is flesh and meat is meat, regardless of whether or not the host is with or without pulse.

   “WW-219, please proceed to assignment booth one-fifty-three. WW, two one nine to assignment booth one-five-three.”

   “Tsk...tsk…and not a single ray of precious moonlight in sight,” V-132 crooned, parting her lips to reveal inch-long incisors and waiving a skeletal forefinger from side to side like a ticking pendulum blade, “Ah, the perilous non-life of a shape-shifter. So potentially dangerous yet so very vulnerable.”

   “How right you are, Elvita,” spat an unidentified V (Vampirc) designate from several rows over. Tall and gaunt, his slick-backed, grayish-brown hair was wound into a ponytail that hung over his rounded shoulder like a pet snake. His accent was slight and virtually impossible to properly identify, though there were hints of either a watered-down Romanian or Ukrainian dialect.

   “Damn fur-balls don’t even belong here in their human guises. Like frightened rabbits, one and all. Hiring standards have most certainly taken a dive in recent decades. Such a pathetic sight that never ceases to sour my gut.”

    V-132 turned to acknowledge her distant kin with a slight nod and a subsequent roll of her sparkling hazel eyes.

   “Greetings, Williem. Discontented as usual, I take it. Ah, youngsters. You must all learn to harness such futile frustrations for the mission to come. Besides, questioning the W.H.A’s policies aloud isn’t very wise, you know. Big brother is indeed everywhere.”

   The male bloodsucker frowned, then grunted sarcastically without verbal response. WW-486 watched in silent relief as the GL’s muscle-bound, leather-clad Sentinel tugged at one end of a heavy chain that essentially forced the creature back into its seat. Before turning to again face-front, WW-486 spotted an entity positioned a row back, several seats over from the ghoul and his one-man entourage. With its scaly, bloated, multi-colored torso, tentacle-like appendages and a trio of pumpkin shaped skulls propped atop a narrow, translucent neck, even a novice like himself knew it was undoubtedly an AP designate. AP’s (Alien Predators) were not only the new kid on the planet’s predatory block, with an earthbound ancestry of less than fifty years, but also the fastest growing minority, with a current listed employee population of just over four hundred. This of course, paled considerably to such veteran entities as The Living Dead, the roster of which included:

 - ZOMBIES, i.e., the living dead, (2013 census count of just under eleven thousand world-wide, mostly within The Virgin Islands, Haiti and the Caribbean islands), and GHOULS (seventy-six hundred, centered mostly in South America) Plus other familiar stalwarts of the ‘societal purging’ trade, such as:

 - VAMPIRIC PARASITES (nine thousand registered; though the overall population was estimated at near double that total if counting Eastern Europe’s age-old purist masses, which had long since refused to stoop to what they considered manual slave labor)

 - WEREWOLVES (sixty-five hundred; with North America, Europe and Southeast Asia housing the main ‘vein’)    

   And of course, the grandfather of the underworld, the MUMMY (less than two-hundred active employees, almost all located in either Egypt or Saudi Arabia).

   “AP-294, please report to CORRECTIONS unit six. AP, two-nine-four, proceed to CORRECTIONS unit six.”

   With that, the bloated alien of many colors slithered from its seat with multiple legs pumping, leaving behind a thick trail of glutinous goo as several ‘Z’ and ‘V’ designates dived out of its lumbering path.

   “Security Units Three and four, report to employee lounge. Security Units three and four to employee lounge. Please escort AP-294 to corrections unit six. Escort AP two-nine-four to corrections unit six. Utilize whatever force necessary. Repeat…utilize whatever force necessary.”

    Within seconds, five heavily armored sentries teleported onto the scene and pinned the AP designate to the carpeted floor via hand-held shock-batons, narrow electrical wands capable of emitting electrical charges of up to two-hundred-fifty thousand volts. With the precision of a veteran pit crew, the sentries took less than a full minute to fit circular steel bands over each set of the Alien’s snapping teeth while effectively shackling its tentacles. Seconds later, they dragged it past the gathering crowd towards a large, neon-lit overhang reading ‘W.H.A CORRECTIONS DEPARTMENT – 2 LEVELS UP’, where a wide, double-door elevator awaited.

    “Um, what will they do wit-...to..it? Incarceration?” WW-486 asked aloud without addressing anyone in particular. The male vampire howled with sardonic glee.

   “Incar-….? My word, you are indeed as green as freshly lain Kentucky blue grass, aren’t you? There are no prison cells within the corrections unit, my dear Lupine hybrid,” V-132 interjected between yawns, “It is more a matter of disintegration. Within the stringent rules and regulations set to and enforced by the powers that be, transformation into a pile of smoldering ash is akin to being handed what humans refer to as a pink slip.”

    “Oh yeah. I remember now. It’s in the contract,” WW-486 mumbled, swallowing nervously.

   “W.H.A Operating Instruction A-nineteen. Page four, line seven, if I recall correctly,” V-132 replied matter-of-factly, “Any deviation from assigned mission for personal gain shall result in severe reprimand. Three such incidents shall result in termination with extreme prejudice. Three strikes and you’re ash (she sighed). Makes one long for the carefree days of freelance slaughter, does it not?”

   “Z-1,233, please proceed to assignment booth five-twenty-seven. Z one two three-three, proceed to assignment booth five-twenty-seven.”

   As the crowd slowly settled back down from the previous commotion, WW-486 turned and faced front, weary of further conversation. A trio of new arrivals sat side by side just two rows ahead, the hand-weapons each brandished instantly setting them apart from the rest of the gathered crowd. WW-486’s chair squeaked loudly as he leaned forward with both nostrils flaring. From the corner of both eyes, he detected a mass of movement. Whirling about, he saw several Z designates shamble forward from various directions, followed by a spattering of G’s (dragging their respective Sentinels along for the ride) and a fellow W rep, all of which tilted their heads to one side and displayed wide, flaring nostrils.

   Within moments, the newly arrived trio was literally surrounded on all sides. The female V rep identified earlier as Elvita faced down the man occupying the center chair, the ankle-length maroon cape she donned flowing gracefully over her petite frame as if possessing a life all its own.

   “Are we lost, gentleman?” she cooed softly, licking ruby lips.

   “Why do you ask, madam?” the middle man replied apprehensively, scanning the building crowd while clutching a mini-grenade launcher tightly against his slim midsection.

   The man’s exposed skin was the color of baked clay; his hair dark and oily, his eyes coal black pits. He was donned in nothing more elaborate than blue jeans, black boots and a white, cotton Tee-shirt, and spoke broken English with a distinct Middle-Eastern accent.

   By dramatic contrast, his cohort on the right was shaved bald, his complexion fish-belly white. A huge specimen with wide-shoulders, thickly muscled arms (he wore a muscle tee with the words ‘TO KILL IS TO TRULY LIVE’ stenciled across the back) and a barrel-shaped chest. He gripped a nine-millimeter handgun in each palm, crossing his arms across his chest in an ‘X’ shape. His accent was North American in nature, possibly the United States Midwest.

   “What the hell’s with this sideshow garbage, Omar? Ya know I don’t dig crowds, man.”

   The third of the group was a medium-sized African-American male decked out in camouflaged fatigues with a black beret pulled low onto his squared forehead. A thickly roped ammo/utility belt hung across his left shoulder, and was filled to capacity with various weapons of destruction, to include grenades; several serrated combat knives and at least three revolvers of various sizes and makes. His deep, brutish accent seemed a hybrid of perhaps South Africa and a native of the West Indies.

   “My god, what manner of devils are these? Omar, where have you led us, you imbecile?”

   “I….I came where I was instructed to report, that’s all.  Report here, they say.  I do as told,” Omar shrieked with the discovery that he could not escape Elvita’s unblinking stare.

   “Please identify yourselves, gentleman,” she asked while seemingly holding the bludgeoning crowd at bay with a mental command that they alone are privy to.

   “Why, we are liberators of the New World Order,” Omar blurted, his expression growing increasingly trance-like; the words spoken in a robotic monotone, “I serve as the Chief Coordinator, North American Sector, for the Global Coalition. We…fight…we kill for all the oppressed…for justice. I am Omar…once a high ranking officer within Al Qaeda, I branched out….for the greater good of….my people.”

   Elvita’s searing gaze quickly shifted to the large man on Omar’s right.

   “Jake. Jake M-Myers,” he began to prattle in the same mechanical tone, his moon-shaped face slowly turning a bright shade of red, “Codename ‘Master Blaster’. Explosives and hand-to-hand. Plied my trade with both the KKK and Aryan Brotherhood for just over twelve years…before…becomin’ a foundin’…member of the...Global Coalition.”

   Lastly, she trained her sights on the third, who openly winced before falling victim to her steely, hypnotic glare.

   “Benjamin….Jerome…McCafee.  Former member in good standing with…several high level Black Separatists Groups, to include….the Ebony Warriors and the….Dark Shields of Hope. Was…recruited by…Global Coalition for my….strategic experience…and peerless…combat record.”

   “Why, color me impressed. Such a dastardly trio. Yes indeed, a true melting pot of evil,” Elvita exclaimed in mock glee, bowing slightly as all three men seemed to snap from their collective trances at precisely the same moment, “unfortunately, it seems a rather…fatal mistake has been made. Quite irreversible, I’m afraid, at this point.”

   The hall’s PA system wailed in true Klaxon-horn fashion before she is allowed to properly elaborate.    

   “Attention…attention…will Terrorists delegates 290, 291, and 292 please report to HR Assignments, main control desk, LEVEL 1. Repeat; Terrorist delegates two-nine-oh, two-nine-one, and two-nine-two please report to Human Resource Assignments, main control desk, LEVEL ONE.”

   The three men eyed each other momentarily, each donning masks of comical befuddlement, before turning back to Elvita.

   “Get it, fellas? Human Resource Assignments?” she cackled, her cape swooning and swaying as never before, ”Doesn’t happen very often, I’ll grant you. Amazing how one could accidentally bypass such carefully guarded security measures at Level One. Actually, damned astonishing is a better term.”

   “I do not…under-…" Omar blubbered, slowly lifting the grenade launcher towards his left shoulder.

   “So we’re on the wrong floor, lady. Who gives a rat’s ass? C’mon guys, let’s blow this freak show. Lilly Munster and her travelin’ geek revue are startin’ to creep me out,” Jake interrupted gruffly, allowing the twin revolvers to rest in his lap even as his massive shoulders began to bulge and contract from building tension.

   “Omar, I told you floor one. Those badges we were given outside the hall were meant for someone else,” McCafee shouted, reaching over to slap the smaller man across the back of his scalp.    The male vampire suddenly appeared as from nowhere to pose next to Elvita. Rail-thin, the creature stood at least seven feet tall. He and Elvita exchanged knowing nods.

   “It is possible?” he inquired with a hideous grin.

   “Why, I do believe so, dear Williem. Fringe benefits from the company. How very thoughtful of upper management.”

   “And here I thought they no longer cared,” he concluded wryly, studying the terrorists with a baleful stare.

   “Don’t get us wrong, gentleman,” he continued in a polite yet icy tone, “it isn’t as though were not at least somewhat sympathetic to the vile, cowardly acts individuals such as yourselves specialize in. Crude but effective, I must confess. It’s just that…hidden bombs and suicide missions that serve for martyrdom purposes alone hold little value within our little fraternity.”

   WW-486 elbowed his way towards the front of the surging mass, his breathing huffy and labored. “Did I hear right? These…assholes are nothing but ordinary, everyday terrorists?”

   “Correct, greenhorn," the male vampire spat disdainfully, "idols of yours?”

   “Not quite, Slinky. It was yellow bastards just like these that were responsible for the murder of my niece at the Twin Towers.”

   Positioning her right arm across the lower portion of the male vampire’s narrow waist, Elvita levitated the entire group as one, essentially backing up the swelling horde several feet without benefit of taking an actual step.

   “I’d heard the World Horror Association’s recruitment of human associates had fallen so severely that they were scraping the bottom of the barrel, but this is truly disheartening.”

   Glancing up, she noticed a pair of security hovercraft floating above, each containing at least four armed guards. Gesturing silently to the lead guard with a ‘what now?’ expression, she calmly awaited an answer. To her left, a masked Sentinel reached up to remove his assigned Ghoul’s iron mask.

   A similar scene played out less than five feet to her right, as several Zombies are assisted in removing both mouth and neck guards. Seconds later, the head security officer nodded solemnly beneath his dark faceplate and the hovers slowly distanced themselves from the maddening crowd.

  “Now then,” Elvita purred seductively, floating back down until she centered the three seated men, “I believe there is the matter of a reprimand to be dolled out. Simply remarkable. Talk about the wrong place at the wrong time.”

   “Kiss my ass, freak,” Jake snarled, pointing the revolvers up and out in a single, fluid movement that paid loving homage to Wild West gunslingers of old, “Now you and your travelin’ Carny act back the hell off or I start decoratin’ the place with body parts.”

   “Well then, by all means, Mister Blaster,” Elvita replied with a fearsome scowl, spreading her arms wide while levitating slowly forward, “allow me to be the first to volunteer for such a drastic make-over.”

   The eight shots that followed are executed at a range of less than two full feet, a fact that would normally have left the intended victim a twitching pile of unidentifiable mush. As it is, Jake remained frozen in a classic shooters pose; his arms fully extended as misty tendrils of smoke rose from both barrels of the twin nine millimeters.

   Similarly, Elvita’s bare feet still hovered airborne, both her wingspan and ghoulish expression wholly unchanged despite her midsection and upper chest being inundated with dark, quarter-sized holes that sporadically leaked perfectly circular smoke rings.

   As she floated several inches higher, the wounds began to gradually refill before vanishing altogether. Standing directly behind her, a female zombie (sans the mouth and neck guards) studied the half-dozen baseball sized craters torn into her own torso with comical bemusement.

   “Uh-oh. Hope you fellas took the time to map out a suitable Plan B,” Elvita quipped through a hideously wide, toothy grin that literally seemed to stretch from ear to ear. Rising over the pulsating crowd, she then levitated slowly back while waiving a single arm forward, much like a softball pitcher tossing an underhanded offering to home plate.

  “Bon appetite, dear comrades! Enjoy this rare treat your employers have been so kind to offer!” she shrieked, watching the crowd rush forward as if a transparent force field had been lifted.

   Leaping two full rows of seats, Omar Shakif Mohammad, who once took pride in the death of an extended family member via a carefully hidden car bomb, had time but to lift the launcher onto his shoulder before it was torn from his grip. Hoisted airborne, his girlish screams were quickly cut off as he was effectively drawn and quartered in mid-air, though not before his terror-filled eyes temporarily locked on the black-pitted orbs of the ancient Mummy who ripped him into separate halves with frightening ease.

   Pinned to his seat before he could do little but grasp the marble handle of a Colt Ranger Bowie knife strapped to his belt, Benjamin Jerome McCafee, widely known in terrorist circles as ‘the decapitator’ of political enemies, had his skull torn from his shoulders by a single swipe of a clawed hand. As geysers of maroon mist spewed forth from the ravaged stump of his neck, The Decapitators headless torso continued its shaky death-spasm even as dozens of greedy hands and gnashing teeth lunged forward for the spoils.

   Using the butt end of both revolvers to pound away at the head and face of the giant male vampire holding him airborne, Jake Myers, an equal opportunity killer of both small children and senior citizens alike, had his arms torn from their respective sockets moments before his neck was snapped like a rotted plank. Raising his head from the frenzied hordes encircling the fresh kill, the male vampire spat out a sizeable chunk of scalp in order to verbally address Elvita, who stood a dozen feet away, surveying the carnage with casual aplomb.

   “Sure you won’t indulge, my dear?” he asked as strands of moistened gore hung from his pointed chin like seaweed from a ship’s hull, “The flesh is a bit rank, but the warm nectar beneath is quite refreshing still.”

   “I’ll pass, dear Williem. Just save me a drumstick if at all possible,” she replied with a sly nod. The male vampire returned the gesture and dipped his head back into the shredded mush that had once been one of the more feared terrorists on the planet.

   “Is such a thing…actually permitted without consequences?” WW-486 asked, having taken up position directly to the female vampires right, “not that the wholesale slaughter of such scum bothers me in the least, but…I mean…damn.”

   “Permitted? More like sanctioned,” she replied curtly, “It was no accident they were given the wrong security badges or allowed past Level One. The company…recruits such men every blue moon or so, simply as a gift to our kind. They toss us the occasional bone, so to speak, usually a serial killer or mass murderer, if memory serves.”

   “Gift? I don’t…” he began, frowning in disgust as a veritable monkey-pile of bodies grew atop each victim’s sparse remains like feeding maggots.

   “Look at it this way, um, what’s your name again?”

   “Jack. Jack Jenkins. New York City…formerly.”

   “Well, Wolfman Jack of New York City, look at it this way; our kind, and the company as a whole, view men of such ilk, terrorists in particular, in the same vein as incarcerated humans do your basic child molester.”

   “I…see. But..why exactly? I mean, um, we‘re all here for generally the same purpose.”

   She turned on him wearing a fierce sneer, her incisors dripping frothy drool.

   “I cannot disagree more fervently, Sir Jack. In most people’s minds, we are nothing more than mythical creatures, kept alive by hokey Hollywood films and the occasional killing spree that goes unsolved. A select few within the Super Powers are privy to our existence, and deem us a necessary evil; as much a vital cog in the World’s eco-system as Great White sharks, vultures and intestinal parasites. A vital part of the food chain, yes, but also a secretly guarded one. The World Horror Association was created in order to…keep our killing sprees in check, therefore maintaining our anonymity while also provided an extra layer of security for the human race.”

    “Have to confess,” he sighed wearily, “once I found out what those men were, I wished with all my might I possessed the ability to shape-shift at will just to take a healthy bite out of their collective asses.”

   Her anger having subsided, Elvita smiled warmly, pausing to give him a quick once-over.

   “Guess we’re not as different as one might think, you and I.”

   They watched in brief silence as the multitude of creatures slowly began to dissipate, leaving behind little more than a spattering of gnawed bone and a trio of wide, dark maroon smears.

   “Apparently not. Can’t really say I feel an ounce of guilt at the thought.”

   “Don’t sweat it, Wolfman J,” she said, lightly patting his back as she began to slowly levitate away, “Thing is, you’re baring witness to a fact known by few outside the supernatural community.”

   “And that would be?” WW-486 inquired, studying the separate blood smears a final time before turning to saunter away.

   “That even we so-called Monsters have our standards.”

   After a moment, the task announcements began anew…..

END