“Number thirty-one.” The monotone call from the woman in horned-rimmed glasses echoes across the stark lobby of the Department of Motor Vehicles.
I look down at the number thirty-nine ticket I’m holding in my right hand. So close, yet still so far away. At least I’m not the unfortunate lady with two young kids that just walked in and pulled fifty-two from the ticket dispenser. She lets out a heavy sigh as she realizes she’s in for a long wait.
“Number thirty-two,” the second DMV lady, a white-haired older woman who likely oversaw the transition from horse carriage licenses to motor vehicle registrations, calls out from behind the dark brown counter.
Several screams erupt from somewhere outside the building, and as I turn and look, there are a dozen people running past the windows. No one else seems to be paying much heed to whatever this commotion is that’s going down. It is the DMV, after all, and the unwritten and unspoken protocol is to just mind your own business until it’s your turn to face off with the license and registration gatekeepers.
I fumble with the tax assessment and insurance papers in my left hand, hoping for the hundredth time that this is all I am going to need to get my tags renewed. The door swings out jarringly, as if the person is pawing it open like they don’t remember how doors work. Absentmindedly, I look over to see who this latest victim of state governmental bureaucracy is going to be.
Right away, something seems off about the man standing there. He is the epitome of disheveled—suit hanging loose and ripped in places, hair messed up, slack jawed, and eyes bloodshot. Poor fellow must have just come from the tax assessor’s office.
His eyes roam hungrily over where the twenty of us sit waiting. My unease grows as he moans and shuffles toward the playful, squealing sounds of the young kids who sit with their mother. The man’s teeth gnash together and my fight instincts kick in.
Before I can make my move, the third DMV lady calls to the man in a gravelly voice that can only be attained with a pack a day habit, “Sir, take a number.” He keeps shuffling toward the children, so she waves her arm, points at the red ticket machine, and replies even louder, “Sir! You have to take a number.”
This catches the man’s attention, and he alters his shuffling path of travel toward the long wooden countertop. The man’s moan becomes more of a feral growl as he approaches. He bumps into the counter and with outstretched arms, swipes at her. Things are getting weirder with the man’s behavior.
“Sir, if you are here for the vision test, you still have to take a number,” Pack-a-Day says.
The sound of a car crash in the parking lot and more screams pull my attention in two different directions. The chaos outside and the man inside quickly become secondary as the door shatters open and dozens of people shuffle through the door. Bloody with torn clothes, they moan and advance on all of us gawking at them.
A young man seated in the middle of the waiting area is the first to realize what’s going on. He stands and yells, “Zombies!”
In the blink of an eye, the DMV flips from a nervous calm to full bore chaos. Screaming. Crying. Cursing. Praying. Running. Pushing. Shouting. Accusations directed at the government. Chaos.
The first zombie to reach the crowd grabs a man wearing a flannel shirt and drags him to the floor. The other zombies collapse onto the downed man in a fit of gnashing teeth and flailing arms. The man’s unwitting sacrifice has bought us a few seconds of safety.
I look around for something that could be used as a weapon and pick up one of the plastic chairs, holding it with the legs facing out to form a barrier. Several of the other able-bodied people follow my lead and we form an improvised shield wall. We may just be able to hold off the zombies until help can arrive. Surely the police department is on its way here to save us, but then I quickly realize this apocalyptic event must be happening all over the city. We are on our own.
The situation nose dives even more as the zombies finish their flannel appetizer, then eye us, the main course. Better to go down fighting, I think, and ready myself.
As the zombies close in, they are suddenly distracted by a series of bright flashes coming from the counter. The Older DMV Lady has swiveled around the license camera and is unleashing a blinding fury of flashes to distract the zombies. Along with the flashing lights, she unleashes a barrage of foul language that catches everyone, including the zombies, off guard. I am not sure if the lights or the profane use of their mother’s names are having the biggest effect, but the zombies turn and lurch toward her.
With the attack redirected from us, Glasses DMV Lady calls out, “Quickly, everyone over here!” She beckons us to seek refuge behind the tall counters.
Those of us with the chairs form a rear guard as the crowd is ushered through the half door to temporary safety.
Glasses introduces herself, “I’m Velma. Over there, working the camera, is Elenor. Please excuse her course language, she’s a big Samuel L. Jackson fan. And there, by the license plate cabinet, is Janice. What we need you to do is hang on to your numbers and as soon as we clear this out, we will open back up.”
Pack-A-Day, or rather Janice, has gathered a handful of vehicle license plates into her arm and turns back toward the zombies. “All right, Elenor, it’s your state authorized hourly break. I’ll take over from here.”
Janice jumps onto the counter and, with deadly accuracy, unleashes a torrent of license plates into the zombies. The plates sling from her hand, slicing into the attacking undead, decapitating some and dismembering others. I can’t help but wonder if this is something they train for at a DMV Boot Camp or if Janice is involved in some type of metal slinging projectile team. Her attack has decimated the front line of zombies. Unfortunately, at least thirty more have staggered through the door into the DMV.
Elenor laughs. “Oh no, Janice, if you think I’m going to let you have all the fun, you’re sorely mistaken. I will just double stack my breaks.”
Janice scoffs. “You can’t do that Policy 3.2.4 clearly states that no employee is allowed to double stack breaks during off-peak hours or between Thanksgiving and Christmas.”
“Unless,” Elenor says, “the station supervisor signs off on it. What do you say, Velma?”
Velma looks up from where she is gathering the blank stock of driver’s licenses at a desk. “Approved,” she says and pulls out a big roll of tape from a drawer.
I am astonished at what is playing out before my eyes. In the middle of the zombie apocalypse, the DMV ladies have turned into action heroes. I watch as Elenor unplugs the optical vision screening machine and lithely hops onto the counter.
“Yippee-ki yay,” Elenor yells out as she dives off into the horde of zombies.
Instinctively, I look away, not wanting to see the dismemberment of the old lady, but instead of hearing her cries of pain, I hear Elenor manically laughing. I look out and see that she is holding onto the cord and swinging the vision machine like a mace. The room is filled with the thudding cracks of impact to zombie heads. Like a scythe cutting wheat, a circle opens around her as she clears out the undead.
The ladies have put a hurt on the zombies who have attacked the DMV. A small group of six people decide to make a break for it and seek refuge elsewhere. Velma tries to talk them out of the idea, but they are steadfast in their decision. I decide to stay here to help keep those who remain, including the mother with the small children, safe.
Just as the group makes it to the one remaining exit that had not been breached, a tidal wave of zombies burst through the glass door and wash over them, pulling them into a surge of bites and scratches. There are at least twenty new zombies that came in this attack.
Elenor yells over to Velma, “They still had their number tickets. In accordance with DMV regulations, any tickets that are unused but pulled must be recovered.”
“I’m on it,” Velma says back.
I look over at Velma and discover she has been busy. She has used blank driver license cards and tape to create a suit of bite protective armor to cover her body. Velma, not content with just defensive measures, has secured three letter openers to her right hand, making claws like Wolverine from the movies. She has transformed herself into DMVerine.
Velma dashes through the half door in the counter and rushes into the zombies piled on the escape attempters. In a vicious manner, she slashes away at the outer layer of undead bodies until she exposes the poor victims. Velma crawls into the pile of death and disappears. The writing mass of zombies close back in over the hole Velma created. I worry that one of these noble DMV warriors has finally succumbed.
Seconds pass and it seems time is standing still until a fist with letter opener claws pops out the back of the zombie on the top. Like a phoenix rising from the ashes, Velma stands up in the midst of a pile of carnage, and her left hand shoots high above her head, victoriously clutching six number tickets.
Another rush of zombies crashes through the door behind Velma and threatens to overwhelm her.
“Run!” Janice calls to Velma as she provides cover fire through a barrage of metal plates, slicing into the encroaching zombies.
Velma starts for the counter, but her path to safety is blocked as a dozen zombies break through a window, cutting her off.
A whooshing sound picks up in intensity and Elenor yells to Velma to duck. Velma drops into a baseball slide and glides across the polished floor under the spinning mace of Elenor. The improvised vision machine weapon cuts into zombies like a mower blade through a yard full of grass.
Velma climbs back to her feet and spins around, claws ready to engage any threats. Elenor slows the mace down and lets the vision machine come to a rest on the floor. Janice throws two more license plate projectiles, dropping the last zombie standing. The trio survey the DMV and find no hostile forces left to oppose them.
In the doorway, several zombies stumble in and survey the scene, looking at the trio of deadly murderous vixens standing ready to defend their sanctuary. Then they turn and shamble away from the DMV.
Janice opens the counter door and ushers the others and myself back into the lobby. “Sorry about the less than ideal condition of the lobby,” Janice says. “Now please find a seat, and we will be with you shortly.”
Janice returns to the counter as Elenor collects up the vision machine and returns it to its rightful place.
Velma clears her throat and calls out, “Number thirty-three.”
