That was too easy. The zombie problem over, I turned on my heel to head back to the office and return to work. The man in the pinstripe suit was standing in the doorway. But something looked… different… about him.

Maybe it was the extra hundred pounds he had put on. Or maybe it was the huge bushy beard on his face with little bits of half-chewed brain tangled in the hairs. There was no doubt about it: he had become a Zombie Karl Marx too.

I found my cellphone and called my supervisor.

“Da,” he answered.

“Uh, Mike? I think I’m going to take the rest of the afternoon off.”

“Very well. See you tomorrow, comrade.”

I hung up the phone, knowing full well that I wouldn’t be coming back to this place. My car smelled like a sweaty crypt, but I cranked the window down and hit the gas anyway. The radio was playing nothing but Prokofiev.

As I drove, I saw the face of Zombie Karl Marx everywhere I went. He was spreading. I was glad he valued labor more than I did, but I knew all hell would break loose after 5:00.