Johnny America


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

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

Joan sift­ed through the guts of the Ham­mond and pried loose an­oth­er viable

“Think this’ll make a de­cent short-spear,” she said to no one in

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.”

Filed under Zombies, of or Relating to on April 26th, 2010

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