Margie elbowed through the clot of guests gathered in the narthex and stumbled out into the blinding June afternoon. After a few cleansing breaths, she opened her notebook to review her checklists. She had dealt with her fair share of demanding brides in the past, but this one took the cake.
She thumbed out a text to the caterer reminding them that there would be hell to pay if they forgot the topper for the groom’s cake. Dropping the phone back into her pocket, she scanned a checklist but the words swam together as her vision doubled. Margie rubbed her eyes and reminded herself that in just a few hours she could snag a glass of champagne at the reception and give a silent toast to another wedding planned and executed. Two glasses would probably be in order, actually.
She shuddered as she remembered the bride yelling, practically snarling, at her bridesmaids to fix her hair, button her dress, paint her nails and half dozen other such orders. Margie had tried to defuse the situation as best as she could, but the bride would not be calmed. The dressing room was a disaster as the bride roiled like a typhoon.
Feeling dizzy, Margie walked to a parked car and leaned against the door. The unseasonably warm day combined with the stress of the job must have raised her blood pressure. She set her notebook on the hood of the car and wiped her brow.
She thought that the bride’s blood sugar might have crashed; she’d seen it happen before. Margie bought a juice from the vending machine and offered it to the bride. Then . . .
Something had happened. Why couldn’t she remember?
A car pulled into the parking lot. Sunlight reflected off the windshield into Margie’s eyes. She lifted her arm to block the glare and that’s when she saw the blood. Saw the jagged wound.
The bride bit her. The bitch grabbed her arm and bit her. Margie had been so stunned that she didn’t even scream. She just turned, walked out of the room, through the sanctuary and outside.
She was outside. What was she doing outside? She should be telling the ushers to take their places.
A man stepped out of a car and ran his hands down the front of his suit. Margie watched him, aware of an unfamiliar clenching deep in her gut. She pushed herself off the car and took a step toward the man. She was sure she could smell him. Not his cologne, but something else. Something deeper.
Margie’s legs were stiff; her feet dragged across the asphalt as she walked to the man. She needed to ask him a question. She didn’t know how, but she was sure he had what she needed.
Just like a bridezilla to drag everyone down into her own private hell. She’s not happy unless the whole wedding party is screaming and crying around her. Good thing the groom is already brain-dead.
Six zombies down, six to go. I hope you guys know that I would be doing this even if I didn’t have a blog. It’s embarrassing how happy these zombies make me.
See the whole gang here.