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Vomiting in public is never a good idea and always carries with it a social liability, a liability Harold knew all too well; Harold began each workday with the uncontrollable urge to give up his breakfast, and no matter how hard he tried it was always far too public. There are jobs in which a nauseating odor is a hazard of the environment, and fellow workers of those fields are apt to be merciful when such overwhelming situations arise as to bring your food up with them. Harold's job, while grotesque, was far from odoriferous, and thus his social standing among his coworkers was as low as it could get before they considered him to be one of their charge.

Harold liked to think of himself as a "Zombie Manufacturer Specialist" which was really a fancy way of saying he was forced into a Voodoo cult by his grandmother, and through no fault nor effort of his own, found he was rather adept at raising the mindless dead and temporarily commandeering the will of the living. It was rather ironic, he thought, that a man with virtually now will of his own could turn out to have some latent talent for enforcing what little will he had on others; it was fitting, according to his grandmother, that said zombies were rather mindless and hungered for brains.

There was good money to be had in the zombie business, if one had the sense to look for it, as could be seen by the lavish compound Harold's cult had purchased some years back. Tucked away in midst of a thick jungle too dense for the average tourist or explorer to penetrate they lived and worked in isolation and blessed privacy. There were as many as twelve "domestic" zombies in the compound taking care of the routine maintenance, or constructing some new holding pit, or outbuilding. Each and every morning Harold and his fellow practitioners would inspect the zombies; those that still looked fresh were used near the gates and the more public and visible areas of the compound; those that looked to be near the end were sent to clear the surrounding jungle and not come back. Every morning they had to reinforce their will, lest the zombies break free of their binding control and go berserk; the last zombie outbreak had taught them that lesson, and at great peril.

The story of how the compound came to be is a long and complicated one, and it won't be told here. Suffice it to say that the story depended significantly on a few foreign investors and a handfull of wholly corrupt officers at the National Academy of the Sciences. An arrangement had been worked out where Harold would be given every tenth or so corpse that was supposedly given to science. In return, the officers who orchestrated the deliveries would be given more than enough money to live comfortably for many years to come.

The grand scheme was ultimately quite simple. Harold had convinced a few major discount clothing distributors to let him run his own manufacturing facility. Harold assured them that his factory was up to regulations, however, in all likelihood they wouldn't have cared if he was forcing endangered baby seals to do the work.

Today was the same as any other day. After Harold finished the morning duties of making sure all of the zombies were in order, he went to his underground office and linked his computer up to the satellite and downloaded his encrypted email. He had a few urgent emails from his contacts which strongly suggested that he make ready facilities to accept a much larger shipment than normal. Harold wrestled with himself over the idea of protesting such a delivery, but he ultimately convinced himself that he best not disagree with his contacts. Besides, he was leaving this hellhole soon, wasn't he? He wouldn't have to deal with an influx of "participants" for much longer.

As he closed up his computer, he wondered what kind of accident could have transpired to result in such an unordinary urgent delivery.

Harold shrugged his shoulders and figured there must have been a recent outbreak of malaria, or small pox. or jungle fever, or even that bird flu people were always talking about, to cause such a rapid incline in the number of corpses for their little compound. Harold was never thrilled to have more dead people delivered and then re-animated, and due to his unparalleled skill he always found he got the lion's share of them. Because they lived out in the midst of a jungle in the heart of the Caribbean tropics, if they couldn't employ a corpse within the first few hours of arrival they best incinerate it.

Zombies as a workforce may not take much upkeep and maintenance, but they have to have something to do. Harold's grandmother and her inner circle, who were more like business advisors than voodoo priests and priestesses, were lamenting the current downturn in the market for zombies. Time was a tourist, or a local big wig, would seek revenge at any cost. These days it was harder to find clientele who felt a zombie was the proper response to their current problem. This was when the clothing scheme popped up, and suddenly they had a use for as many zombies as they could conceivably get their hands on.

Harold was put in charge of the operations, with the reasoning that he could control more zombies simultaneously than any other member, and having them all function from one set of commands would be far easier than dividing up the duties. At first they were turning a healthy profit, and every extra zombie was added to Harold's work force. Try as he might to complain he never reached his limit and could always handle one more worker. Then they started getting complaints. Seems the customers were complaining of a faint rotting smell permeating the clothing.

Now it's common knowledge that zombies aren't alive quite like normal folk; that's why they are called the "undead". Their bodies continue to rot and decompose at a steady and measurable rate, and with any corpse a freezer is the best location of all. Why zombies and the Caribbean are inseparably linked we may never know, but perhaps for the first time in the history of voodoo the tropical climate was causing insurmountable problems for their zombies. This was the beginning of Harold's Great Decline; by what he figured was a stroke of genius Harold ordered several industrial grade HVAC units, "borrowed" zombies from his fellow co-workers, and put them to work installing the units.

It was a simple solution to a simple problem, but nothing in Harold's life was all that simple. Neither he nor his zombies knew the first thing about air conditioning, nor were they aware of the immense power needs. It worked, to a point, but he was always attempting to repair them, and what's worse, when they did work to his satisfaction the factory machinery the zombies used began to fail, not wanting to work in such extreme temperatures. Suddenly Harold found himself yet again the subject of scrutiny by his overbearing grandmother and her inner circle.

The news of a sudden influx of a large number of prospective workers seemed like a good thing to Harold, for maybe now he could turn his albatross of a project into a profitable venture and exit on a graceful note. So it was that he walked into his grandmother's sizable office suite with determination and hope, only to find the office in a panic.

Harold was used to the head office being in a panic. Seems that every week they had themselves convinced that the sky was falling, or a nuclear disaster was imminent, or something to that effect. Harold looked around amusedly, waiting for everyone to realize that there was really nothing to be worried about at all. However, after twenty minutes of waiting, he finally realized this was more than the typical "sky is falling" scenario.

Harold had wanted to make a good impression on his superiors before he left, but this was most certainly not the time to try. When in crisis mode, no one noticed a good job, they only noticed things people were doing wrong. Harold sneaked out hoping to carry out his daily duties until the latest Crisis-of-the-month tapered out. As Harold briskly hustled away from the office he was nearly tackled by his grandmother. "Thank goodness I found you!!" she exclaimed. "There's been an accident and we need your help! Jump in the four-by-four and let's go!"

He wanted to protest, but he knew it wouldn't do any good. Harold convinced himself that whatever he had planned for the rest of the day wasn't that important after all, although he kind of wanted to get the HVAC situation under control. Harold sauntered to the 4x4 that was preparing to leave and strapped himself in.

As they started moving, the driver explained that there was a shipment of 40 or so zombies coming in from another compound somewhere on the same island. No one knew quite for sure why the zombies could no longer stay at the other compound, but Harold's grandmother was always happy to take on more "profit makers" as she called them. The problem today was that the driver of the semi that was transporting the zombies had fallen asleep at the wheel and had crashed the semi. Reports of the accident were vague, but there was an obviously high liklihood that some of the zombies might have escaped.

The compound's existence on the island was always in the grey area. There were some politicians and officials who knew of the compound and were happy to stay quiet for a sum of money on a regular basis, but there were far more who had no clue what was happening. They had always been warned that they were to have absolutely no visibility in the public eye. Zombies escaping a crashed semi near the island's most populous city certainly did not help to that end.

Harold had prepared himself for a gruesome scene, and was expecting to have to perform quickly to get the situation under control. However, he hadn't prepared himself for what he saw.

"Forty? Where the hell did you learn to count? That's more like 80!" Harold spat at the driver.

"Oy! It's not like I'm the one in charge of that truck now is it? I just repeat what I hear," snapped the driver. "And if you don't want to walk home --"

"That's enough!" Harold's grandmother cut in. "Forty or eighty it doesn't matter. We need to get them under control and out of sight. Bob," she turned to the driver, "call back to base and have them get another truck and a mechanic out here, then grab your tools and see what you can do on that truck. Harold -- "

"Yeah, I know what to do Grams," Harold muttered.

"Well then get on with it! We don't have all day. We've got to -- " a blood curdling scream cut her off.

"We're too late Grams. They've started to feed, and they've slipped their collars. They've gone berserk."

Harold wrestled with himself for only a brief moment before springing into action. He ran to one edge of the crowd of swarming zombies and started waiving his hands wildly in an effort to gain attention. Some local citizens had wandered into the mess and were being eaten alive. "Oh well" Harold thought, there's nothing that can be done for them now. "Maybe they'll be put to work after this day is over" he jokingly thought to himself.

With the attention of at least a few zombies he quickly made his way into a lightly forested area on the side of the road. There wasn't a lot he could do to minimize their visibility, but this was at least something. With 80 zombies looming, there was no way he was going to be able to corral them all. Harold was the best in the biz, and he could maybe tame 20 under this kind of pressure, but certainly not 80.

"Grandma!!" Harold shouted, "throw me the tranqs!!" Someone in the compound had developed a tranquilizer dart specifically for zombies a few years ago. It didn't work particularly well, but Harold didn't have a lot of options. After all, machine guns would attract far too much attention this close to the city. Harold's grandmother didn't answer, however. Harold glanced around quickly while trying to stay ahead of the horde of zombies he'd now attracted. "Oh great" Harold said under his breath. He spied his grandmother out of the corner of his eye trying to sweet-talk a local police officer who was looking around the wreckage of the truck. Knowing he couldn't make too much of a scene, he quickly doubled back away from the road.

Noting that he was a good thirty yards ahead of the shambling horde, Harold put his hands on his hips and breathed heavily for a moment. Feeling that he wasn't alone, Harold looked over his right shoulder and nearly screamed at the zombie lunging for a nice tasty bite of his neck.

"HAROLD!!!" he heard his grandmother yell.

Harold ducked away from the zombie while nearly screaming mental commands to the few zombies under his control. Two tamed zombies came to Harold's rescue, and forced the attacker away.

Harold steadied his breathing, and began spreading his influence among the zombies. He managed to get a half dozen zombies under enough control to begin herding the others into the forest. Harold tried to give the horde a sense of easy food deeper in the forest.

Not far from the road, Harold knew, there was simple ranch with a few dozen sheep. Better the sheep then the town. Couldn't have the authorities getting involved, after all.

Sweat ran down Harold's face as he exerted his will. Once or twice a zombie escaped from the group, and Harold had to use precious energy to "round up" the straggler. It was with great relief that Harold sensed the horde devouring sheep. He almost smiled with the thought of the chaos on the rancher's pristine little acreage.

A shadow fell over Harold, and he looked up to see his grandmother, Beatrice. She was glaring at him with all the force her hard little eyes could direct.

"What?", asked Harold, "They are out of the road at least".

"And who will pay for the sheep?", Beatrice growled.

"No one. I'll have Thomas go over later, and declare the flock diseased. He'll put the rest down, and make sure none come back".

Beatrice allowed a grudging nod of approval. "You can use the opportunity to round up the zombies. The other truck should be here by then."

"What happened to the cop", Harold asked.

"He'll be joining us at the factory. Tell Thomas to ditch the patrol car in the ravine".

Harold "yes, mammed" his grandmother, and walked back to the truck for the radio. Within a few minutes Thomas was briefed, and on the way.

Harold jumped as he heard an unfamiliar voice behind him. "What do you think you're doing to my sheep!?" an angry man yelled. Harold stammered and did his best to come up with an excuse. Then again, how much of an excuse could he have with a bunch of zombies eating sheep? "Sheep are hard to get in these parts. I've worked right-hard to get these here, and I'll be darned if I'll let you do whatever it is you're doing!"

Harold opened his mouth to speak, and just as words started to come out the farmer fell over in a slump. Harold was not at all surprised to see his grandmother, Beatrice, directly behind the fallen farmer. Harold cringed at the thought of all of the innocent life that was lost in incidents like these. He always asked why she was so willing to harm bystanders, but he backed down when she became defensive and insisted it was necessary for their way of life. "You run over there and get back to work!" she exclaimed. "I'll have Thomas take care of this one when he gets here."

Harold looked back over the mass of zombies and started thinking. There weren't many sheep to begin with, and the zombies had certainly made quick work of them. If anything, this had just whet their appetite for the meal they were sure to find, somehow. He did some quick calculations and realized that he would have to find another thing to occupy their attention until Thomas arrived.

It was at this time that he heard an innocent girl's voice calling from the house nearby. "Dad? Dad, where are you?"

Harold looked dumbfounded at the young blonde that had wandered out of the house. Not knowing what to say, he stammered "I, I, I, I'mm H-H-H-Harold." Just as she was about to reply, she saw her father lying in a pile on the ground and she immediately screamed at the top of her lungs.

Harold was stunned and wasn't sure what to do. Before he realized he didn't know what to do, his grandmother grabbed him by the neck and firmly said in his ear "We can use her. You take care of her, we'll take care of the other problem." Harold tried to object, but she was already gone.

Harold had a unique ability to control other's minds. However, in order to control most people, he had to use all of his mental strength, and then some. Zombies were an easier feat, so he didn't mind. Humans though. He hated working on live humans.

Harold quickly got to work against his better judgement. He wrestled with the girl for a few minutes before finally mostly subduing her. By this point he was sweating profusely and he wanted to pass out. He directed the girl towards the truck, then he slumped into the truck himself and fell asleep almost immediately.

Harold awoke with a start to the soothing sound of a high pitched screaming session aimed at him. He caught the words "sleeping", "good-for-nothing", "lazy", and an oft use phrase to describe a canine parentage which always made him smirk. He gathered that his grandmother was upset to find him asleep in the truck.

" . . . I asked you to take care of one little slip of a girl and it's so much for you that here I find you passed out, fast asleep, snoring as loud as you please while the rest of us do YOUR job!" Beatrice continued. "I thought you were better than this Harold. You strut around like some well-to-do rooster who can handle hundreds of mindless shells but when we really need you it's suddenly nap time and poor ol' wittle you needs his nap time," Beatrice mocked in a sing song motherly voice. "Don't bother to get up. I wouldn't want to disturb your much needed beauty rest. Thomas has just loaded the last one into our other truck. At least HE is reliable."

Harold began to protest but caught his grandmother's infamous Glare of Death and Reanimation and thought better, lest he find himself a mindless slave shambling about the compound. Beatrice gave the girl a thorough once over noting her disheveled appearance in disgust. "I expected more out of you Harold. Other men might take advantage a girl before turning her, but I never thought you would stoop so low."

"But -- " Harold began.

"Don't you dare begin to defend yourself!" spat an incensed and infuriated Beatrice. "I may turn a blind eye on what other men do with their soulless slaves, but this is beyond turning a blind eye. What's done is done, but don't think there won't be consequences."

"I didn't -- " Harold started again.

"I don't want to hear it," snapped Beatrice. "Just secure her and buckle up. Don't bother putting her in the back, we're full up."

Harold bit his lip and did as he was told. He sat in silence the entire ride back, letting his grandmother vent. He played out, in his mind, various scenarios in which he presented his case but none of them appealed to him. His grandmother liked quick results, and as a ruthless business woman she'd rather kill and obstacle and turn it into one of her zombies than spend the extra effort to just contain the problem. As he saw it he'd be in even more trouble if he told her the girl was still alive just in a deep trance. She'd probably just kill the girl and be done with it and he'd be in even more trouble for his supposed sexual indiscretions. Harold hopped his grandmother would be too busy and distracted dealing with the sudden influx of zombies to bring down any punishment; he hoped that would be time enough to stash the girl away somewhere safe and explain the situation to her.

"GET YOUR FILTHY HANDS OFF OF ME YOU CREEP!!!!"

"I'll be back for you later sweetie, just hold tight."

Harold sat in his cell and fumed as he overheard the guards taunting this poor girl. He heard sobs coming from down the hall as the guards walked towards his cell.

The head guard of the division stopped in front of Harold's cell and peered in. He glanced back at the girl's cell and back a few times, then winked as he said "Nice, kid.".

"You lay a hand on her and I'll kill you!" Harold retorted as the guard walked off laughing.

Harold had been locked up, compliments of his lovely grandmother. He sat in the cell trying to think of a way out. He had known from the instant he was thrown in that he would be using zombies to help get out. He just didn't want to. That always raised such a hubbub, and he always had to run off to wait for the panic to die down. Harold kept a few of his favorite and most maluable zombies unleashed for moments like these. He'd had years to train them, and he'd used them to turn more than one guard into a "profit maker".

Harold sat and concentrated, and concentrated. Within a few minutes, he'd steathily guarded his minions through rather unknown corridors, and pretty soon he heard the blood curdling sound of zombies enjoying an un-rationed meal of guards. Having a zombie open the electronic door was always an effort of futility, but eventually, the door slid open. He willed the zombies back to their cells the same way they'd come, hopefully keeping their unleashed existence concealed. He whacked the disgorged guards a few times, and ran to the panel and opened the young girl's cell.