Mavobella: The Angel Of Death

Chapter 11

The tension from the previous day still clung to the air, thick like smoke. Residents of Anubistopia were holed up in their angelic-dust-secured shelters, only venturing outside when absolutely necessary. No one could explain why a zombie had emerged during daylight—frankly, no one wanted to stick around long enough to find out if it could happen again. And yet, there I was, walking the streets with the boldness of someone who didn’t fully understand the meaning of ‘self-preservation.’ Most people in my situation would be armed to the teeth or at least close to an exit route. Me? I was just out here, winging it. Literally and figuratively.

Nicole swung open the doors of Caketopia, revealing the inside of the bakery like a royal court unveiling its queen. Except this court was filled with half-asleep customers and a suspicious smell of burnt sugar. Melissa was sprawled on one of the seats, drooling in her sleep like she was auditioning for a sleep-deprivation experiment.

“Wakie, wakie, darling,” Nicole sang, in that way that made you feel both soothed and slightly terrified. Melissa jolted awake, wiping a stream of saliva from her chin with the grace of a newborn deer learning how to stand.

“Yes, ma’am,” she mumbled, wiping her eyes off the clinging sleep with her sleeve.

“You can have the rest of the day off,” Nicole uttered with a lopsided grin that suggested that she was grateful for the previous night’s work.

“Thanks ma,” she appreciated, stumbling toward the door like someone who’d just remembered they left the oven on at home. Poor girl must’ve seen too much last night—watching the customers’ cower all night from the Dead O'clock zombies. Seeing them through the giant windows would’ve been enough to make anyone lose a few marbles, I couldn't imagine it plus the customers' tension.

Nicole, the drill sergeant, marched toward the few remaining customers. “All right, folks, time to close up. Come back when the sun’s a little higher, or, you know, when you’re less terrified of dying horribly in the streets.” The few stragglers grumbled, but they filed out in no time, no one keen on lingering in Caketopia’s weird, sugar-fueled purgatory.

“Looks like you’ll be filling in for Melissa today,” Nicole said, eyeing me from across the room. “Good thing you’re already dressed for the part.”

I glanced down at my uniform and couldn’t help but laugh inwardly. The Angel of Death—ancient soul collector, guardian of the underworld, master of the deadly scythe—was now reduced to serving pastries in a bakery. My children would be so proud. If I had any. Ironically speaking.

In any case, I pinned my golden name tag onto my chest, right above my heart. Mavobella. I took my new role in stride.

Bakery by day, venom gun by night—it was quite the resume. Nicole had roped me into this because I knew absolutely nothing about neutrons colliding in greenish acidic liquid, or whatever science mumbo-jumbo she had going on in her side project. It wasn’t exactly my area of expertise. I was more of a ‘slash-and-burn’ type.

Nicole was convinced she had a formula to wipe out the zombies for good, something about using the city’s "common stuff" to amplify the effect. Apparently, all her other formulas had failed (not surprising), but she was confident this one was the key. She had to be, given that the last batch of green sludge she’d thrown at a zombie made it explode into tiny, zombified chunks instead of disintegrating like she’d planned.

While I was mentally preparing myself for a day of cake pushing, a bearded man swaggered up to the counter. He squinted at my name tag like it held the answers to a complex quantum physics question.

“Mavobella,” he drawled, his voice heavy with the tone of someone who’d never been told no. “Can I get today’s newspaper?”

I blinked at him, my mind instantly jumping to an internal monologue that should’ve stayed internal: You have legs, right? They work? You walked in here just fine, didn’t you?