My name is Mitch. I was assigned to the basement level of our ten-story condominium building. For the past three months, I have slept in the storage room next to the elevators. A small cot was provided in lieu of compensation. I’m not allowed to go to levels above me. For each day’s work, I’m supplied with just enough scraps of food to survive another night.

They chose me because of my prior career as a janitor. The elite residents knew I spoke few words. They knew I’d keep quiet and do my job. I mean, that’s why I took on this profession in the first place; I wanted to work alone. But that was before The Transition. Now I am forced to work in a position that requires risking my life for those above me who indulge in their weekly banquets.

Deliveries are at six in the morning every Monday. The path from garage entrance to elevator lobby must be clean to get a passing grade from the group of men who bring food for the residents. The blood takes hours for me to scrub. My own sweat blurs my vision if I scrub for too long. The blood is the easy part though. One of those things always seems to find a way inside. And I’m the one who has to kill it and clean up afterwards.

I can’t go on like this. I have squeezed my mop for the last time. The yellow hazard mop bucket is no longer just a mix of bloody fluids. I have filled it with piles of remains. Brains. Intestines. Scalps. Tomorrow night, I will lure one of those undead inside with a trail of blood. As it chases after me, I will let it enter the lobby, and then I shall shove it into the elevator. Any level will do. Just going to press the button a few times and send him on up for a feast.

I’m leaving this wretched place. I’ll take my changes on the outside. I’ve got enough brooms converted into makeshift spears. I used to think becoming a janitor was the best job for me. I’m not so sure now. I think I need a new career.