The Survivor Kind

I was pretty sure we were all human by now, but it never hurts to follow the rules. When I got to about ten yards out I stood in the middle of the street and slowly turned around, arms extended out from my sides. My guess is that the point of this maneuver is to show that you have no bites on you. Or maybe to prove you don’t have a zombie clinging to your back. It doesn’t really matter if I understand it or not; it’s part of the ritual. I went through the motions, and watched as they did the same.

We were in the outskirts of what used to be Denver, in one of those neighborhoods that had been gentrified enough that people didn’t care how small the houses were. The street was littered with burned-out BMWs and SUVs. Most of the houses were run down but still standing. I’d been breaking into them, scrounging through the pantries for canned goods and other supplies. It was a dangerous task. There were too many places to hide, too many blind spots where someone, living or dead, could sneak up on me. But you do what you have to if you want to survive. I dropped my duffel to the street, the cans inside clanking against one another.

“Hello. I’m Tom,” I said.

“Oh, hello, dear. I’m Laurie, and this is Mike.”

I turned to the latex-covered man and said “Hello, Mike.”

Laurie’s brow wrinkled. “No, silly. That’s Robert. This,” she indicated the stuffed anteater “is Mike.”





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This is me: home-writer, book-reader, dog-lover and occasional poet. I make this website to share my and my friends texts with You, dear Reader. Please: read carefully, don't be scary, upgrade your mood and be king and leave your comment. :)