After the Zombies Came: Day 99
“Well, Junior-Shit-For-Brains, just how the fuck do you fucking think
fucking Santa’s going to get into this little fortress we’ve scrapped together?
You helped me weld the grate over the chimney after they figured out raccoon
brains taste sweet as sapiens sapiens and that burglar-masked little
fuckface turned your sister…”
Fernando wailed.
“He’s crying, Ron.”
“He’s bawling his eyes out, Joan.”
Ron was easing a drawknife over a piece of lumber that had until a few hours
prior
been one of the supporting ribs of an electric organ.
“Well maybe you shouldn’t talk so rough.”
“Well maybe we shouldn’t have picked them up by the side of the
road.”
Joan sifted through the guts of the Hammond and pried loose another viable
scrap.
“Think this’ll make a decent short-spear,” she said to no one in
particular.
Joan observed Fernando rasping the limestone mantel. He was sobbing but for
the moment smart enough to stay silent. She was vaguely aware of his movements –
studying the mantel for minutes, tugging the spines of each book on the
bookshelf. Looking for secret passages, she assumed.
Ron held up a newly-cut spear for Joan’s approval and suggested, “I’m
thinking we head for Deluth once the road thaws.”
Joan stepped closer to the window, closed her eyelids, and thought about the
old Plymouth, about the gas situation. “Maybe,” she told her husband,
“maybe.” Then, after she opened her eyes to the room, “Fuck me,
Fernando, we should’ve left you.”
Ron held ready a machete. A red-costumed and white-bearded monster stood
rocking in the vestibule, chewing on Fernando’s hand.
“I’m starting to get tired of this, Joan,” announced Ron over the
Santa’s pronounced mastication.
“Yeah,” she agreed, “yeah, me too.”
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