After The Zombies Came: Day 31


“I’m fucked,” Remy repeated to himself.

He’d grown careless and bold — the zombies had arrived three weeks prior, by his reckoning, and he’d never come close to his end. Remy dashed through Aisle 6 at Key Food, unafraid of the undead in the cereal section. It was the twilight of his summer break when the zombies came, but he’d kept his training up — he had a shot at Nationals in the Fall.

Remy’d barely slowed to snatch a jar of chunky peanut butter, for his sister Annie’s sandwiches. He’d tucked a carton of Newports in the drawstring of his track suit for his father, who frequently wondered aloud what the point of not smoking was, what with the end of days. Remy didn’t share his father’s pessimism.

“I’m fucking fucked,” he sighed again.

Remy lay in the trunk of a deserted Chevy Malibu on Avenue A, clutching his broken ankle. The hoard had almost overtaken him, and it was the only shelter he could find.

“Fucking Italians.”

He’d leaped over an upturned case of ravioli in Aisle 8 and slipped in an unnoticed pond of marinara sauce.

The calm of a doomed animal washed over Remy. He recited the Lord’s Prayer under the din of strained sheet metal. The gang outside beat against the Malibu with hands and head and feet. The trunk resonated to the dull rhythm. It would take them a long time to pound through, he knew, but they were persistent and hungry for brains.

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