We wandered the streets.
We became teenage soldiers scouring the endless barricade of semi-divided houses, looking for survivors, but as the long summer evenings progressed into the orange-lit night we lost hope and decided to raid the neighbourhood instead.
We became pirates on the playgrounds scattered in little manicured green belts. We shouted and drank rum and bountied souls lost at sea.
We became situational best friends with groups of passers-by, trying our best to either sound really normal or way too insane. They laughed but never stayed long.
So instead we became nomads, now searching for food, or drugs, or shelter, or sex.
We were broke and all too hungry. So we scampered endlessly through random neighbourhoods—more and more tangles to run our hands through. More grass, more glittering lights, more lethargic introverts holed up in tidy hideouts. Continue Reading
No one really knew the name of this kid, or at least, not his real name. He hardly ever ventured outside and seldom talked when he did catch some sun. But, those who knew his name also knew what Mickie was all about. And if Mickie was in the house, he and video games were always engaged in intense coitus. Even his folks called him Sticky or Stix, and they backed his obsession over games with all of their Christian love. Their teen could rape, steal, and kill to his heart’s content, and his God-fearing parents merely smiled and praised him for the effort. They bred him to be a lascivious boy, a game-drunk idolater, and they saw nothing wrong with that.
Mickie put his life into his games, and he often traded them to get discounts on newer ones. There was only one game that Mickie never traded in. It had been the first game he ever played, and the only game he had yet to conquer. Each day Mickie would look the game over and sometimes he’d play it aggressively, gargling sodas and foaming over plates and plates of nachos and popcorn. These sessions would last weeks, and for weeks Mickie would try to overcome the sixth level of Humanity’s Hope. It seemed to be impossible. Continue Reading
The men are barbaric and the women are objects, no matter where you turn. It just goes to show, it doesn’t take zombification to devolve a man. Without law, he does it on his own…
Lauren Granger has lived all of her twenty years in a stilted, boarded-up, derelict old single-family house in the hot and anarchic but generally zombie-free town of Prospect, Texas with her mothers.
Three of them. Imogene. Elaine. And Sara-Marjorie. All of them use the surname Granger, and Lauren isn’t sure which one, if any, is her biological mother, or where the other half of her DNA came from. Continue Reading
The girl’s hand was cool in mine, her hair long and dark, her doeskin dress as white as her smile.
“Ten beats and it’s done,” she said.
Tears trickled in the crags of the old man’s skin.
“I can still see the butchered women and children lying heaped and scattered all along the crooked gulch as plain as when I saw them with eyes still young,” he said. “A people’s dream died in the bloody mud, and was buried in the blizzard. It was a beautiful dream.”
The old man met my gaze. “Nine beats and it’s done.” Continue Reading