Zachary

Zachary, I need your help. They sent me to the boondocks, and the boondocks house zombies. I've killed about a thousand by now. The first one appeared after I crashed my car. It happened deep in the forest that my tires spun out of control and barreled me down a mountain. The rain obscured the wormhole-dark. My headlights, weak in the fog, illuminated infinite depths.

"Zachary!" I called your name, but you didn't respond.

The lights of my car flickered and danced. They illuminated a corpse as I ran it over. Perhaps I ran it over before that, and it rolled over the hood.

"That wasn't very nice of you," the zombie said. At least it seemed to be a zombie. It had knocked on my window and asked me to roll it down. Now its rotten-apple breath hung in my face.

"I beckon," I said, "your pardon," I said, "as this is my first time here," I said. I said each line from three different mouths. Then a missile shot out from my wet vagina that homed in on the zombie's face. Its pupa-green, now exploded face.

"Zachary!" I called, but you didn't respond.

A second zombie soon arrived. This one had a gunshot front-center in its brains. I turned my hand into a miniature drill, then thrust it into the zombie's wound, elbows deep. His body swung around the torque of my arm like the blades of a new windmill.

"Zachary!" No response.

For eighteen years, I did things of the sort. No one counted, but by the candles of my cake, eighteen years had passed. When the zombies stopped their assault, the dark lightened up, and around me a rural village materialized. Blood and gore caked the ground. Stone pavements colored red, not gray, supported my feet, as well as the bodies of men, women and children. I stood, the only one alive in a city of dead. For another eighteen years, I cried my soul black, then packed my bags and left. By the time I looked back, the village bustled with people.

"Zachary," I said as I washed myself in the nearby river.

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Pub: 03 Feb 2025 08:10 UTC

Views: 90