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 staring to get tired of this, Joan,” announced Ron over the Santa’s pronounced mastication.

“Yeah,” she agreed, “yeah, me too.”

You Might Consider Visiting

Our Online Shop


Santo D’Alessandro Tags Himself »

« Will You Marry Me, Pukeface?