Pulling the trigger on Supermarket Man wasn’t my finest hour but it was my most necessary. His beautiful, fully tatted, sculpted surfer arms fell lifeless as his head exploded…well actually the arms were technically lifeless anyway but they were still beautiful in my eyes and with his head coming apart, his arms dropped. His biceps were so sexy I had to stop myself from caressing them one last time because the blood had splattered everywhere – and one knows one should not touch zombie blood. Luckily I was far enough away when the blast hit him. No longer will I see that funny little duck waddle down the meat aisle. No longer the funny glance over the shoulder to take a peek at me. I won’t see his wardrobe change with the seasons, never again to admire his collection of cashmere sweaters.
It was 9:45 on a Thursday morning when all hell broke loose at my local supermarket. I was still giggling from my interaction with the bakery girl when every shopper went John Carpenter on my ass. Screams could be heard from outside but since I always assume it’s some rotten child I ignored them for at least a minute as I perused the produce. Bakery girl yelled my name from behind the counter just as an elderly man and a very nice check-out girl began to bite her arms and legs. Well I can’t say I was surprised; I mean I’ve seen so many zombie movies it all seemed quite normal to me.
The next thing I saw (as I stood there frozen with a bunch of Swiss chard in my hands) was the handsome, Latino liquor department manager with a sawed off shotgun at his shoulder shooting all three of them. With his rubber gloved hands and uncharacteristic apron, he dragged them outside and locked the sliding doors behind him glancing up at me saying: “I have always liked the way you look in jeans. Please do not eat any bakery items.”
I slowly abandoned my cart and started for the meat section. I have a few friends (Hunter, Riley, Gonzales) that have prepared me for this moment (zombie invasion) and even though I cursed those friends under my breath, I knew what I had to do. It was entirely possible I’d never make it out of this luxurious supermarket but no matter how slim the chance I was determined to go in style, and not going without a fight. There was a bottle of Charles Krug with my name on it and a very handsome Irish chef, who at this moment, if he was keeping to schedule, should be fondling chickens at the other end of the store.
Since the hour was early and the store fairly calm there weren’t too many customers. The few that were there were quietly huddled together looking about suspiciously, but oddly without urgency. As I passed each customer and employee, I pulled the lids of my eyes wide apart so that they could see I was not a flesh eater. Well not a human flesh eater anyway.
I made my way along the back of the store (dairy section) looking down each aisle as I passed: cat food and lighter fluid, toilet paper and cosmetics, cookies and soda, crackers and canned items, booze and…booze, frozen items, breaded items and spices, cereals and juices, tea, coffee, and more booze; until finally I was in the wine and meat section. More booze…and right on time: Supermarket Man.
He was sitting on the floor with a very expensive bottle of Caymus in his lap, quietly taking slugs from the bottle and plucking lint from the sweater tied around his waist. I looked around me; the butchers were in a huddle with the liquor manager discussing the best way to chop off the heads of the un-dead. Jesus and Leo the pizza guys were sitting on their counter drinking what looked like a nice bottle of Trefethen while heating 2 very large machete’s in their brick oven. Jesus lifted his bottle and nodded his head towards me. I nodded back and walked towards my chef.
Silently I picked my bottle of wine from the top shelf and sat next to my Irish lad. He turned to me and asked:
“I suppose you will be wanting to use my wine opener?”
I shook my head and pulled out my Swiss Army knife and opened my bottle. His mouth parted in a gentle grin. He held his empty hand out open on the floor in a gesture to join mine with his. We clinked our bottles and sat back listening to the distant screams that were slightly drowned out by a Tears For Fears song. We sat there for some time as he caressed my arm and looked at me. Neither of us spoke. What does one say at a time like that anyway? I knew at some point I would have to go into full combat mode but why rush?
As he let go of my hand and began to lean into what I hoped to be the best kiss of my life, I got a good look at his once green eyes…that were now black as coals and ringed a crimson I hope to never see again in my short life.
It was at this moment I pulled the pistol safely tucked against belly, rolled backwards feet-over-head plow style, and shot blindly.
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