Chaucer let out a frustrated wail that was not unlike the sound of a dying hippopotamus. His head connected repeatedly with the hardwood desk under its own volition.

"That bad, huh?" Wraith, who had the desk opposite his, could sympathise. He, too, felt the pressure of meeting his quota before the end of the month.

"How do they expect us to keep increasing the number of deaths in metropolitan areas? Can we do floods again? I kinda feel like the ones in January didn't really count because no one actually died. And February's a short month so no one gives a sniffle piffle if you don't quite reach target. But now it's March and desperate times call for desperate measures."

"You can't do floods a month apart. It's not random enough, and drawing attention to our existence is the number one no-no, remember?" Wraith replied patiently.

"Well, cancer's not an option anymore, courtesy of that Frazer fellow. God, why couldn't he stop with cervical cancer? Why did he have to ruin the other ones too? Science will be our undoing, I tell you! Next thing you know, people won't even be able to die of old age, and then where does that leave us?" Chaucer ranting earned him some nods and murmurs of agreement from his colleagues. But that was as far as things would go in this office. Everyone knew that it was getting harder and harder to kill the humans, but no one knew what to do about it.

While the others were content to lament lazily, the issue had been eating away at Chaucer like highly concentrated acid to the face.

He made a move to stand and the sound of his scraping chair was fateful poignant.

"I'm stepping out," he said. The weight of his words hung heavy in the silence.

"I'll come with you," Wraith rose to his feet.

"No." Chaucer held up his hand. "This is something I need to figure out for myself."

He turned away so that he wouldn't be subjected to the sad-puppy look that Wraith was giving him, and headed briskly out into the world of man.

The city was a chaotic place, fuelled by overpopulation. The first thing that hit Chaucer was the unmistakable stench of humans living in tightly packed spaces; it was the sharp sting of aerosol abuse mixed with sour garbage. As he meandered through the city, the realization that he blended in with the swarms of business men gave him acute and bitter amusement.

Usually, the walk would help him focus on the task of taking lives, but he found no such clarity today. The humans had an uncanny ability to thwart whatever widespread killings the reapers threw at them. War, which would have been a readily available remedy to life ten years ago, was no longer feasible now given the strong diplomatic relationships that countries had formed with each other. The rise of this global brotherhood had quickly eradicated hunger and disease as mankind pooled their resources. The age of mass deaths was over.

Chaucer had been the one to give this report to the higher-ups, but nothing came of it. Their quota of deaths continued to rise proportionately each month while their options dwindled.

He found himself procrastinating in a bookstore, flipping through books without really reading them. One thing that humans hadn't learnt yet was how to curb their consumerism, and Chaucer waited with bated breath for the day that the humans ran out of resources to burn.

The next book he picked up was one with a bright red cover and a half decayed corpse lumbering towards the reader.

"Zombie Attack Survival Guide," he read the title aloud to himself before flipping the book open to a random page.

When he realized what he was reading, his eyes bulged.

"What took you so long to get back?" Wraith asked when Chaucer danced back into the office.

"I almost got arrested by the humans for shoplifting, but that's not important!" He slapped his hard earned prize on top of his friend's ledgers. "Look at this!"

Wraith gave Chaucer a doubtful look, but did as he was told. "Are zombies even real? You'd think that we would have heard of them if they were."

"Doesn't matter if they're real or not, because the humans think it's a thing!" Chaucer said excitedly. "Do you know what this means, Wraith? Can your dull and slow moving mind even comprehend the possibilities before you?"

Wraith's chin quivered and Chaucer let out an exacerbated moan.

"Look, I'm sorry. You know how I get when I know I'm onto something. It's within the purview of our work. If the humans already believe in zombies, then they can't trace it back to us."

"It seems a bit far fetched," Wraith said. "I don't know if it's going to work."

"It's going to work," Chaucer said with conviction. "It has to."

The humans called it The Reckoning; the day when hope abandoned them. It started in the early hours of the morning at the fringe of the city where a sombre crowd gathered to lay their beloved to rest. Just as the casket was lowered into the freshly dug grave, it began to shake, as if its occupant had woken up from a bad dream. The nails were quickly pried open, and the casket lid raised. The undead man within latched onto the nearest body, sinking its yellow teeth into soft flesh.

Infection spread. What were peaceful streets were soon stained with terror and blood. Within a month, it was as if Death herself had marched across the land.

Chaucer stood in front of the panel with his hands clasped at his side and a zealot's pride in his eyes. Finally, he had figures he was proud to present.

"Your department exceeded March's quota by two hundred percent," said Forten who sat in the middle of the panel. He was the top dog. The one to impress.

"Yes, sir," Chaucer preened.

"Keep up the good work." Forten closed the file.

A moment passed.

"Sir?" Chaucer frowned. "Is that it?"

"What, do you expect a medal?" Forten leaned forward with a menacing glint in his eyes.

Chaucer fidgeted behind his back. His confidence was suddenly gone. "Well... yeah. I acheived one of the largest death tallies modern times have ever seen."

"You're a reaper, Chaucer. If you're looking for fame and glory, you're in the wrong division."

"A raise would be nice," Chaucer mumbled.

"What was that?" Forten's eyes were white with fury.

"Nothing, sir."

He was dismissed, and he knew it. Chaucer dragged his feet out of the board room and sulked back to his office. Looking around, he realized that nothing had changed. Nothing would change. A couple of his co-workers gave him sympathetic glances as he dragged himself back to his desk.

He slumped back into mediocrity, and his head met again with the hardwood surface before him.

"Cheer up, Chaucer," Wraith said cheerily. "They may not appreciate you, but I do."

"Thanks," Chaucer said emptily.

"Here."

Chaucer felt the vibrations on the desk as Wraith set something down in front of him. He looked up to see a white mug with black print across it.

I unleashed the zombie apocalypse and all I got was this lousy mug.

Despite himself, Chaucer smiled.

A/N: This morning I received a PM from Liz proposing a race. Here is the result. As you can see, I didn't have a lot of time to give it much thought, so it's just the unedited crazy from my brain.

This was written for the writing contest on Labyrinth with the challenge of writing something to fit a title. Out of the titles on offer, I chose Death March for obvious, month related reasons.

Ian Frazer is an Australian researcher who is known for his input into developing the HPV vaccine against cervical cancer. It's not a vaccine against cancer per se, but it targets the viruses that cause the cancer.

The story itself is dedicated to my partner. ;)