The stairwell is closed off because of zombies, corrupted bodies trapped behind corrupted wood. They are forever statues.Trapped, they will keep stuttering in place for eternity, constantly bumping off the walls as they try to amble forward. They do not decay or age but they are not very fast and not very strong. You point out to the family that the door has been opened. Like automated vacuum cleaners of yore, the zombies endless bumping into obstacles will eventually lead them out of their so-called storage closet. You spot the one that has emerged, doll-faced and doll heighted. It wears a child’s lace frock and face and blond curls. In a realistic approximation of childhood, the dress is covered in bloodstains, which the zombie child does not care about. It moves slowly towards you, a wooden baseball bat gripped firmly in its tiny hands. You are armed with an extendable fork. Your mother insists that you be the one to take care of it. It’s your fault the door was opened after all, she says. It wasn’t your fault, but you don’t correct her. You swipe at the small zombie with your extendable fork, but it is not extendable enough, and is somewhat flimsy. Panicked, you grab the zombie’s wooden bat and firmly bludgeon its head. It falls to the floor. You tap its forehead until the eye comes out, (there is only one now), large as your fist but smaller than a dinner plate or a breadbox. Once this is done, the body, limp on the floor, must be burned. You have all learned this the hard way. You are in the basement of the house. The rest of the floor is a small department store. The racks are hung with cute jeans, which you would like to take. Your favorite pair is adorned with two disjointed light blue gradient rectangles down the front. There are many with tribal prints. There are some that are more appropriate for post-apocalyptic badassery, and you think you should probably get those instead. You go to look for your size, which is a three unless it’s a six. You cannot find your size. Some things never change. Your father yells that we really need to be going, aswe are underground and this is the Lempagic Zone, and that our presence here is calling more of them. You grab some pants and hope they fit. The zombies in the stairwell clatter slightly faster. Perhaps they sense their brethren. Perhaps they are bored. You think maybe you should take care of them. They are not strong. You could start the clean-up crew, reclaim the world one walking eating tearing corpse at a time. You do not. You leave the doll-like eyeless body on the floor without burning it. You leave the house.
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November 2016
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