Corporate Undead

The zombie wasn't the movie kind—flesh rotting, limbs dragging, hungering for brains. No, this zombie wore a tailored navy suit and sat three desks away from Elena in the open-plan office. His name was Greg, and Elena had watched him slowly hollow out over three years, the corporate machinery stripping away everything that made him human until only the useful parts remained: the compliance, the spreadsheets, the endless capacity for absorbing abuse without complaint.

Elena was running late again—third time this week. She slipped into her desk chair at 9:04 AM, heart hammering, though honestly, what did it matter? The projects stretched endlessly before her, a Sisyphean landscape of quarterly goals and deliverables. Her fluorescent-orange water bottle sat beside her monitor, a violent splash of color against the sterile gray and white of her workstation. Marcus had given it to her last Christmas, back when they were still trying.

That's when she noticed it: the tiny wireless camera tucked into the crown of Greg's hat, a standard-issue corporate baseball cap that he wore even indoors. His phone screen was visible from her angle—showing her own desk, her own computer, her own face.

The realization hit her with physical force. Greg wasn't a zombie at all. He was a spy.

Marcus's warnings echoed in her memory: *"They're watching us, El. The new monitoring software? It's not for productivity. It's for control."* She'd dismissed him as paranoid, another conspiracy theory from the man who still kept a go-bag by the door in case of societal collapse. Now she watched Greg adjust his hat, his dead eyes flickering with something that looked almost like satisfaction as he documented her every movement.

Her phone buzzed. Marcus: *Can you talk?*

Elena's hands trembled as she typed back: *Not here. They're watching.*

The orange water bottle caught the light, suddenly obscene in its brightness. How long had Greg been reporting on her? On all of them? She thought of her late nights, her private conversations, the tears she'd cried at her desk when her mother died last spring. All documented. All data.

Greg's dead eyes met hers across the aisle. He knew she knew. A slow, terrible recognition passed between them—survivors of different hells, both trapped in the machinery, both complicit in its operation.

Elena opened her private browser, typed *resignation letter* into the search bar, then deleted it. Not yet. First, she needed to understand the game she was playing. First, she needed to find the other spies.

Her phone buzzed again. Marcus: *I found something. Meet me after work. And El? Bring the orange bottle. They're not tracking it yet.*

Greg adjusted his hat. Elena smiled at him, a thin sharp thing, and began planning her own surveillance.