For my boyfran.


Brains

Zachary Smith was a car salesman. He had a wife named Linda, a son named Bobby, and a cat named Snuggles. He also had a steady income and while he was not rich, his family could have nice things if they wanted to. The Smiths lived in a nice yellow house with a picket fence around the spray-painted green grass. He drove an old Chevy truck that his father had passed down to him. Now, Zack was a decent guy. He took care of his family, he did his job, and he was generally nice to everyone he met.

He had a clean record, if you didn't count his double life as a cocaine supplier.

But hush, that was just his second job. He only started it to make some extra cash. So he tested the product every once in a while, didn't everyone? Just because he did it once or twice didn't mean he was addicted!

One day, Zack had a 'meeting' behind a grocery store with a nice crack whore who didn't have any cash on her. But Zach was a nice guy, he didn't shoot her in the face and take his coke back. He knew that she needed her fix. So he let her pay him in a couple favors.

But something odd happened. You see, the nice lady had some weird bite marks on her ankle. At first, he just thought the girl was into some kinky shit. However, he was concerned when she passed out and lost her pulse.

"Well, fuck." Zack muttered simply. Did he kill her?

The car-salesman-turned-crack-daddy nudged her with the toe of his shoe. No movement. Maybe he should just bail. Linda did say she was making chicken pot pie tonight. But as he turned to leave, the strangest thing happened.

The bitch sunk her teeth into the crook of his fucking neck. She really did want that crack.

And that's when he changed his mind and shot her in the face. Ouch.

Zach brushed the girl off of him, buttoned his pants, and didn't look back once as he got back into his car. He didn't see how the girl's jaw still twitched, even though pieces of her grey matter and skull littered the parking lot. And he certainly didn't see the skin around his bite mark turning a sickly green. Did something smell rotten?

Poor old Zachary started to feel sick on his way home. He went straight to bed without even a glance at his family. He didn't see how hurt Linda was that he wasn't going to eat the dinner she slaved over for six hours. He didn't see how Bobby's face fell when he realized he couldn't tell his dad about how his team won the high school football game. Zach just laid down, closed his eyes, and drifted off into what he thought was sleep.

What woke up was not Zachary Smith.

The zombie stumbled out of the bedroom and into the hallway, tracking the scent of two delicious humans in the lower levels of the house. His foot caught on the corner of a desk, so he could hear his bones crunch as he fell down the stairs. He barely felt it though. All he knew was food.

"Honey, are you alright? What was that crash?" Linda called from the kitchen, her shrill voice ringing through the house.

The zombie let out a wet groan, and clawed through the skin of his cheek in frustration. How was he supposed to get up if his spine was bent the wrong way?

"Dad?" Bobby peeked his head around the corner. "Dad!" He screamed when he saw the disfigured remains of his father.

Having the food so close to him was enough motivation for the zombie to get up. He figured out how to work his legs in the direction of the two humans. Linda shrieked and dropped that pie she had worked so hard on. Splat. All over the kitchen floor.

She didn't stop screaming until he ripped out her vocal cords with his remaining teeth.

And let's just say, Bobby doesn't play football anymore.