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The ringing continues. "Ah, Goddamnit," I answer. "Eat my ass!"

Gus. "Duck?"

"Gus?"

"Sí, Duck, I is using Gayle's phone."

"What happened to yours?"

"Aye Duck. Is was awesomed! Them moron twins, Yava y Johnny, who ain't twins, bets me I couldn't flush mí phone down the toilet, that it would gets stuck. But it flushed right down!"

"Congratulations."

"Sí! I won free jellied shots. Isn't that great? I is gonna--"

"--Shut the fuck up, Gus! I've got zombie problems."

"Aye, Este zombie mierda again?"

"Yes. Zombies. Undead. Asswongs. The whole island's teeming with them. Call for help!"

The low, familiar toothless laugh over video poker machines. "Aye, Duck, you gormless sonofaperrita, you is--"

"Gormless? Goddamn you Gaucho asshole, I'm serious. We're surrounded by an entire division of the walking afterbirth army. We need some serious crowd control. Call for help!"

"Aye, all rightie. Who?"

"Anybody. Senators, the Pentagon, the army, the navy, the Webelos, hell, call up the eighty-fucking-second airborne. I need help. Now!"

"Aye, Duck, the 82nd airborne ain't for crowd control. The 82nd airborne is for population control … Jesucristo!"

"So call them fucking now-o!"

"Duck, duck, duck. Cans I just sit here in mi writer's booth y enjoist mi burger y this new coronavirus-flavored beer y then … Aye, Fluck!"

Enjoist? "What the hellspawn? Are you being attacked by zombies?"

"Aye, nah, I broked another flucking tooth. Fourth this week."

"Jesus. When's the last time you went to the dentist?"

"Dentista? You means Jim, the Vietnamese vet y taxidermatologist who lives in that Winnebago out back of the Dark Bar? Aye, Duck, you know on Sunday mornings he'll pull your teeths y gives ya' a polyp check for only a gallon of plum wine?"

"What's the fuck's a coronavirus, Gus? Gus!"

"Is a good deal. Aye, the coronavirus is from the disfigurement of my memories of your future, Duck, don't worry 'bout it. The Gustradamus has gots it all fingered out."

Shit. He's wasted. "But Gus, the zombies. Call for help--"

"Phfffphhfffhhhhthhh."

"Day ain't zombies!"

I wheel around. Jon scowls at me from the hookah bar entrance. His bag full of dead angel fish splats on the patio floor as he speedwalks toward me. "Who are ya' talkin' to?" He snatches my cell phone, pulling it away, then peering at the screen. "No bars?"

"Calm down."

"What da' fuck?"

"Calm down, Jon."

"What da' fuck?"

"Calm down. Calm Down."

"What da' fuck? What da' fuck?"

Calm down! Calm the fuck down!"

What da' Fuck! What da' fucking fuck! Whatya doin' talkin' to yerself out here? What da' fuck?"

Jon takes a big, heaving breath. "Ya' know how fucked we are. We need each otha."

He walks towards me. "We is a team right? Right? Fer survival."

"We're a team."

"Good. And a team keeps its shit togetha." He puts his hand on my shoulder as we look out at the sunny, peaceful beach. The lolling waves. The seagulls gliding on lazy air currents. "You got yer shit togetha?"

"Yes. My shit is together."

An evil smirk with crooked lion's teeth. "Sometimes da' sun shines on a stray dog's ass, afta all."

Sounds of gunfire. South on White Beach. From the pier. The gunshots crescendo from single shots, to short bursts to full-on auto. We duck down behind the outside bar.

"'Ells bells."

The steady beat of Rotor blades whirring. A military helicopter skims towards us, shooting bursts into the tree line.

Jon playfully smacks my arm. "Ya' see? I told ya', Pecker'ead. Violence really is da' answer. We're saved." His smile morphs into a puzzled frown as the helicopter races past us. "What da' brass balls? C'mon!"

Neon zigzags of technicolor fish scales explode against the midday sun's rays, overwhelming my retinas. I adjust my glasses and peer at the poor angel fish swimming in their Ziploc dungeon, then up at Jon in his striped tiger tropical shirt. "Again?"

Jon scratches his armpit stains. "Better than nothin'. And quit mumblin'."

"I wasn't mumbling … again." We exchange circumspect glances. "Okay, I was."

"Again. How 'bout makin' yerself useful and git da' briquettes?"

"Briquettes?"

A snicker. "There in da Alamo."

"Wait? We have an Alamo?" I unfold my creaky bones and stand up from the table.

"Fantabulosa!. He finally gets it! Next door, past the wall."

I scratch my sandals together in a fetishized dance. Damn itching. "I thought we weren't supposed to go outside the wall, except, with a buddy? Like a safe space."

Jon scowls. "You pissin' yerself?"

"Foot fungus. It's driving me crazy and--"

"Oh, fer foock's sakes chust get the fookin' briquettes."

~

The Alamo is easy to miss. A single-door cement hovel overcome by shoots of drab olive green climbing plants and strangulated between two dead palm trees. In a former life, it could be a forgotten bunker hiding an ancient WW II soldier still fighting a war long lost everywhere except between his ears.

The inside is hoarder chic faintly-lit by a dust-filled window. Dank air permeates a large room outlined by rusted metal shelves overflowing with disorganized heaps of non-necessities. Where to start?

"Ahhh!" Blood-red slits for peepers, pus-filled bags under the eyes, all composed on a deadened pufferfish face. A zombie … or not? My eyes adjust at the sight of the half-shaven face mimicking me. The bagua mirror's been hung up at my eye level.

Mystery solved. What's this? A dislodged gunny sack slips from my hands, bursting open with innumerable baubles, a toy-sized wooden cross inscribed with INRI, and an old, frayed rope. Damnit. A quick duck walk past a woven doll about the size of a small child with the face of an old, bearded man with an oversized nose with one nostril seated on a rattan Peacock chair. I admire his goofy grin under the wide-brimmed sun hat before heading to the full-sized bed flanked by two grey marble end tables, each sustaining a shrine of votary candles. Who lit them? No answers. Nothing but the rhythmic drip drops pulsing from a corner ceiling crack.

The end table drawer closest to me has an ornate, five-point star on its handle. Something's … off. Disembodied. Is that rustling I hear? Is somebody here? Who Can It Be Now? My gringo spidey sense is tingling as if an electric eel is gnawing through my spine. My arm reaches towards the ornate drawer …

.… and my feet nearly jump out of my Keen sandals as Traci and Nathan, giggling like an amorous pair of rollicking sea otters, pour out of an anteroom hidden in the back shadows.

Seriously? "What's up?"

Traci wipes Nathan's red lipstick from her mouth, and then scrutinizes Nathan up and down. "Not much, eh ..." Then she stares at the zit on my forehead. "... Me cycloptic friend."

They gawk at each other, then burst out laughing before Nathan slips and falls to the floor. "Thundercunt!"

Jon scratches the armpit stains on his tropical shirt, then crumples his paper plate and perks up from the table. "Ah! Don't let dat big, ugly Ginger Beer get yer goat."

"I mean, I can understand Hurl, he had abs like a Greek god, but losing out to a guy in a dress?"

"He only wears that to get a reaction and if ya' do react, then you'll be judged."

"True, but it is a nice chiffon dinner blouse."

"True dat. Now get yer weapon of war."

As I hold up my trowel, Jon brandishes a small flathead screwdriver, then places it in his shorts pocket. "Then, let's fish."

As we amble onto the sand, Jon winces just before I pop my piece of cooked angel fish down my gullet.

Jon puckers. "Bloody 'ell."

"Gouda cheese. From Heidiland."

"Bollocks. Smells like pickled herring?"

"And speaking of bollocks." I nod further down the shoreline at Herman channeling his inner Jabba the Hut. He's tanning in a beach chair in his cheetah-print speedos, fishing pole by his side, and clutching the Bagua to his chest like he's focusing the cancer-causing sun rays directly into his heart. "What's that big, polar bear fucker doing, signaling rescue planes or getting a tan?"

"Both."

On cue, Herman sucks down yet another bottle of Red Horse beer from the opened half-case, then gives a forearm jerk turns and whistles, waving his hand in front of his face with a wicked smile.

We turn away and continue walking. Jon smiles and starts whistling White Christmas. The knot in my stomach feels like it's about to unGordian itself. "He's gonna kill us."

"Yep."

"Then, why are you so calm?"

"'Cuz, when I get da' gun on my next zombie patrol, shift …" Jon's tranquil smile shows its fangs. "I'm gonna kill 'em first."

And with that, we whistle while wending down White Beach.

~

"We could swim for it."

Jon takes a hard left onto Fianchetto's patio. "An we could drown, too." A thoughtful pause. "Nah, we hold out 'til da' army brings in a bit of da' ol' ultraviolence." He dodges upturned chairs and broken tables while shaking dried kelp and sand from his sandals. "Then, voilà, we walk outta 'ere like like nothin' happened. Like champions.!"

"Vroila."

Jon roots through a teak cabinet's myriad of liquor bottles. "Unless they make an example outta us an' drop a bucket of thermonuclear sunshine on da' whole island, of course … whoah! Cheek out dis shelf turd." He lifts off a dusty green bottle, pulls the cap, and downs a quick gulp. "Hrahhh!" After clearing his throat, he pours two shot glasses with the nasty gankwater and sloshes towards me. "160-proof old Anglo-Saxon baby. Ya' gotta piss?"

"Nah, I'm good." I quit rubbing my itchy feet together. Then, out of my peripheral. A nightmare. "Jumping shit balls!"

"Quoi?"

I gesture behind the patio bar, next to the storage closet. "Mac."

Big Mac's rotted corpse is a beatle and maggot feast, the wire coat hanger still piercing through his left eye socket. Jon steps around the bar with a long, quailing whistle. "Bloody fookin' 'ell."

"Why'd they stab him in the eyeball?"

"Maybe he was surrounded … or maybe day didn't ..." Jon pulls out two San Miguel beer bottles from the barback mini-fridge and pops the tops. He hands me one, then scratches his armpits, deep in thought. "... maybe he knew got infected an' decided to do 'isself in."

The horror. "I don't wanna even think about that." The grog burns my throat like I've sucked down molten glass, but beggars can't be choosers.

Jon plucks Mac's bowl-cut toupee from atop the bar rail, then covers his nose and kneels, placing it atop Mac's skull. "There ya' go, Big Mac. Feelin' aces?"

"Not really."

Jon picks through the unwashed bar back. "Well, ya' better. Dead is dead. It's up to da livin' to sort out God's Mess." His eyes widen. "Oh, la la." Jon wrests a large, forked tip bar knife that was caught in the drip edge. "How'd I miss this lovely?" An evil smile creases across his face as he holds it up with a stabbing motion, admiring the blade. "Voila!"

"My God, You look like you're ready to commit murder."

"I am." Jon wipes the back of the blade using his tiger shirt, then stuffs it in his big cargo shorts pocket. "C'mon."

On my first steps inside the hookah lounge I'm greeted by two corpses with their throats ripped out, stuck in a kanoodling embrace and lit up by the giant, techno-glowing volcano hookah contraption still going on strong. "What kinda batteries this thing got?" Back to business. "All right, Jon, where are the fishing ..." My jaw drops at the sight of Jon attempting to snag aquarium fish with a tiny fishing net. "... poles? What the fuck, man?"

"What?"

"This is it? This is your secret fishing hole?"

"Well, I'm not strappin' on a bloody harpoon an' divin' into no bloody ocean now, am I? They's sharks. Stinging jellyfish. All kinds of poisonous critters an' sea crap an' I fookin' 'ate fishin'. 'Cept fer the drinkin' aspect. Oh, bollocks!"

"What?"

With the face of a disappointed puppy, he holds up a lifeless angelfish in his net. "Dis one's dead. Can we can still eat it?"

"Holy fuck." That's it. I'm out.

"Where you goin'?"

"Outside. In the ocean. Where the real fish are!"

Jon's voice roars behind me. "'Ey! Grab mo' beer while yer at it!"

I pace figure eights around Fianchetto's patio. Even with lungfuls of sunny sea air, my body feels like it's been dipped in molten kryptonite. This is ridiculous. I'm surrounded by idiots. Glen was right. Abandon this tyranny of braindead morons and go it alone. All I need is just enough moral strength to take a quick step from this chessboard patio. Then, I take a cautious hike down White Beach, and enjoy the shining sun, the rolling waves, the seagulls coasting of lazy breaths of air. Destination: whatever's left of the pier. My point of no return. I must never give in, again. Just one bold step at a time, towards freedom, or die trying …

… Poor Glen. He's probably dead by now.

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"Yes."

"Ok. Uh, so, yes I can have the Epipen or yes I'm a dipshit lowlife?" It's do or die.

"Yes."

"Goddamnit! You know one goddamn word of English and I'm still losing the argument. Do you know how that makes me feel?"

"Yes."

Grab the fucking knife!

"Aaaaaaahhhhhh!" Joy screams from somewhere outside.

Phil Donahue pivots and I lunge in. Wrong move. He whips back, weapons ready for bloodletting. I'm stuck on my heels. "Friend. I'm your friend, Phil. I'm your friend. Yes?"

"Yes."

"Mrrraaaaahhhh!" The zombie squad rushes in.

"Holy shit! Everyone for themselves!" No time. A mad dash and a (ouch) slam into the back exit door. Ceiling plaster and powder dump on me. Turns out the "exit" is a closet. A well-locked closet. Who the fuck designed this place?

The room's blurring into a churning, dervish of bloody violence. Fuck this. I belly crawl past an uprooted five-foot smiling cartoon chicken in an elf hat as it bursts from a dinosaur egg with the word Balut painted on it in red and green letters and take refuge under the luggage table. Holy shit. Get outta here, anyhow, anyway, even if you have to build a public restroom and flush yourself down the toilet.

Fuck it. I stack piles of luggage around myself and crouch like a child playing Hunger Games in a magic wall fort. Close my eyes. Ignore the sounds of mayhem all around me. My God. Death has come, and it wants my juicy, yummy, stuffed with gooey protein, yet still quite succulent, tasty brain.

Please don't die like Santa Claus. Please don't die like Santa Claus. Please don't die like Santa Claus.

The mantra echoes my thudding chest.

Or at least I thought it was until I realized it was the teal hard-shell Samsonite luggage buzzing like a banshee's bastard at ear level. The keystone piece slides and shimmies, tilting the whole ad-libbed travel fortress to a great fall. No. No. No. No! "No!"

I look up. It's Phil Donahue, his pearl white barong Tagalog slathered in blood as he shakes his head. "Yes."

Standing up, the Dahlia's lobby floor is a visceral mass of internal fluid drenched vital organs and slashed zombie parts.

"Shit. I had your back the whole time, Phil. Right?"

"Yes." He raises his machete. Oh, shit. This is it.

Fight or flight or nothing? Even before the final blow comes down, my body decides for me. Something, some pre-conscious survival Gedanken path deep inside me snaps. I cower like a newborn litter runt sucking the life force out of his mama bitch's hind teat. I shake and twitch as Phil Donahue cleaves a gaping wound in the buzzing teal hard-shell Samsonite luggage. He digs into the polypropylene guts, feels around, and plucks an electric lime green dildo, vibrating on furious orgasm mode.

His face puckers in disgust. "Yes." Then he turns it and casts it amongst the gore-stained refuse.

"It's not mine. Phil!"

Without even an inkling of a thought, I stab the mighty trowel deep into the eyeball of the onrushing zombie.

Phil spins round and decapitates the one-eyed zombie with a blood-splattering machete swipe.

All these ghoulish body parts and pieced-up brains around me, torn asunder by a one-man ripping spree. Overwhelming. "Sweet Jesus, Phil Donahue, you're a badass."

"Yes."

That yes casually puma trots through the front doorway and outside, bladed weapons cocked for whatever undead comes next. Oh, shit. Hurry. That's my ticket out of this mess. "Phil! Phil stop! We're still friends, right? Hey, let's team up!" I give chase, then ... "Oh, shiznit." Back behind the counter. Grab the EpiPen. Then, a frantic race out of the Dahlia. "Phil! Phil?"

Jon releases a barely audible, quavering sob. "Day ain't zombies."

Joy racks the shotgun. "Let's do this."

We bound along the beach, Joy's wiry legs kicking up billowing puffs of sand in her wake. I scuttle behind, wielding my trusty gardening trowel, ready to bring horticultural mayhem onto any zombie flesh-crazed enough to try out our rear guard.

"Wait up!" I admire the cloudless blue sky suspended over White Beach's sun-kissed shoreline. Nary a living soul. Serene. Heck, if we weren't fighting for survival, we could be Eve and Adam traipsing about paradise lost. "Strange place to die."

"One only dies once, and if one does not die well, a good opportunity is lost."

"Ah, yes. Uh … Vonnegut?"

"Jose Rizal."

"Ah, of course." Who?

Her cadence ebbs to a stroll as we near the familiar beach access path. "Was that really Cleo Hathaway?"

"In all her romcom glory."

"Naks! If we survive this Aswang apocalypse she has to sign my book, Submerged Desires. It's about a--"

"--A U.S. Submarine captain embroiled in a life-changing extramarital affair with a trisexual Soviet midget atomic engineer set in an alternate Cuban Missile Crisis."

"It's a steamy masterpiece."

"I know." I chuckle.

"What's so funny?"

"Look at us. A couple of bookworms geekizoiding out over Jose Rizal and Cleo Hathaway while armed to the ..." I smirk and hold up my trowel. "Teeth."

Joy reveals a determined smile. "Conqueror bookworms."

The first steps into the alley. It's so quiet.

"Um, Joy?"

"Yeeeaaah."

"What if Traci's right?"

"You mean if it's a zombie virus?"

"Yeah, who do I trust?"

"I know what you mean. Trust's a tough thing to come by these days." She looks at me and snickers. "But, I trust you."

"You do?"

"Of course. I'm the one with the shotgun … litse!"

Mange Dog's fixed on the ground, a putrified blob, useless hind legs gnawed to the bone with deep papules. Its reptilian, blood-filled eyes deathstare.

"Jumpin' Englebert Humperdink! Is that a toe?"

Joy leans over cautiously, inspecting the bony nugget in Mange Dog's mouth. "You called it, dude."

"Lord have mercy."

"Fuck mercy." She grips her shotgun like a twelve-gauge billy club and rains down leveraged arcs of bone-splitting fury onto what's left of Mange Dog's skull. "Ahhhhhahhh!"

Stunning. What was once a civilized hot house flower is now five feet of ultraviolence. My God. Who can we trust? More screams, blood, and liquified goop. By the fourth or fifth salvo, my stomach's empathy nerve has frayed to nothing and I pull Joy from her frenzy. "Stop. Stop. You've won! It's dead! It's dead!"

I stare, shell-shocked at the lifeless patchwork of fur. "It was already half dead. Now it's … DEAD dead."

She lunges in, spits, then strides away. "C'mon."

One last look at the crude ripped flesh. "KillJoy."

"Glen! Stop!"

"He can't hear you, Dougie."

"I know. I know!"

Traci and I pass the gate and stop next to Jon, who's chugging a margarita while ensconced in a beach chair next to a bamboo table ladened with latchkey survival gear. He holds up a small ziplock bag with two betta fish. "Look. Straight from me secret fishin' hole."

Traci cocks her head in disbelief. "Are you serious?"

"Adam and Eve it." We watch helplessly as Glen heel-toes due North like he's the main character in a post-apocalyptic video game armed with unlimited re-spawns. "Where's 'e goin'?"

"Oh, fuck off!" Joy pulls away from Herman, who's hobbling around White Beach using a chipped wooden oar for a crutch. A big SO has been carved into the fine white sand next to Willy's Rock, presumably for any future rescue planes flying overhead manned by pilots with a hankering for coordinating subjunctives.

Joy stops at the table as Glen disappears into the distance. "Holy twotopotamuses! He's abandoning us?" She faces me and scowls. "Glen's the only man here who's not incompetent."

"Don't look at me."

Traci slants her head askew. "Maybe he's … going for help? Maybe a boat, eh?"

"Maybe he's making his last stand at the Jollibee? You know, kinda like the Alamo, but with more shakes and curly fries."

We flinch at the rumble of a monstrous gas engine firing up in the courtyard behind us.

Nathan appears from the corner of the church, wielding his hand cannon like a Tootsie James Bond with a cheap cigarette dangling out his mouth. "Generator's working."

"Thunder cunt!" He regains his footing, then bobs his head awkwardly as we exchange stares. "God bless the apocalypse. Hootie hoo! Hootie hoo!"

After a combined shrug, Joy, Traci, and I let loose a half-hearted "Hootie hoo."

With that, Nathan snaps to attention and marches off beyond the rock fence corner.

Traci rolls her eyes. "He's enjoying this."

Joy gasps in despair. "We're so fucked."

Traci taps my shoulder. "Care Bear!"

"Oh yeah, and if we don't get to the Dahlia Carrie Lee dies a horrible death."

"Dougie!"

"Sorry."

Joy stares, deadpan. "The Dahlia? You mean ZombieLand Central?"

"Oh, piss off ya' bloody tosser!" Jon long-distance mean mugs Herman, who flips the double bird before falling in the sand. "Himmiherrgotzaggramentzefixallelujamilextamarschscheissglumpfaregtz!!!"

"Jon!" Joy glowers.

"Bloody arsehole!" Jon grabs the shotgun and aims at Herman.

Gasps of horror. Without thinking, I snatch the weapon away. Jon crumples into his seat as if his life force's been discharged like a corroded AA battery, sobbing. "Ahhh! Bleedin' Annie Cakes!"

After Joy lifts the hedge clippers off the table and hands them to Traci, she pins a stern gaze my way, holding out her hand.

I shake my head No.

"You said you hate guns."

"Ah, uh, true … but I've become … accustomed to the ..." I fumble about, self-consciously. How the hell does this thing work? "... so long as it's not directed at me." Is there a safety? Have all my countless hours playing Call of Duty been in vain? "Damnit!" Shotgun ammo spills onto the table. "Only seven shells left."

"Then we can't afford to miss." Joy grabs the weapon and starts loading.

"Thanks." I inspect the only killing device left on the table: the trowel. Shit.

A mangled mass of zombies sprints through the mud bog. Santa can only muster a faint wheeze as they pounce, tearing into him. Second and third waves of leprous undeaders lumber like roofied tree sloths before wading into the writhing bait ball. Santa manages a weak, sibilant gasp before the remorseless brain-eating hive grows onto him from all sides, ripping, biting, rending … devouring.

That's it. He's gone.

But somehow, somewhere hidden in the seething crush, before the last pore of whoever he was has been assimilated, one final baleful, wailing shriek warbles into our ears. The remnants of a shipwreck being washed away in the all-consuming tide.

Then nothing.

Joy hugs the shotgun and crouches, gesturing at the Dahlia. "Get the Epipen, Chucklefuck!"

"Me? But ...the ghost lady ..." I glance at the Dahlia's dilapidated roof. "...and that roof looks … unstable."

Joy aims her weapon at my face. "Now!"

Shit. "Thanks." A bent-over sprint past the gym, listening to my heart thud against my sternum. No zombies following … I hope. And I can still get that workout in ... tomorrow … if I survive.

Clasp the Dahlia's heavy front door knob. An adrenalinized yank. It falls off its hinges, crashing to the floor. Oh well. Easy access.

Shufflestepping through the jumbled maze of upended Christmas ornament boxes and gutted luggage, I'm guided by the sunlight beaming through the Dahlia's myriad rips, tears, and perforations past the wraparound front desk.

Does Joy know she's infected? Hell, what if I'm … Nah! But, could I … if it came down to it … could I do it? Could I chomp down on a hollowpoint edible before succumbing to the brain eater's disease?

Enough fun thoughts. Time to get inside the closet. Remembering is the key, which I find right where it should be, hidden amidst the gewgaws and tchotchkes in the Barako coffee can hidden under the desk. Even with the neurons backfiring lacunas through my memory hole so wide an elephant could traipse through, I'm up to this task. Both Barnhoffer and what's his name, my high school guidance counselor, would be proud.

Three shotgun blasts outside. Clumps of plaster fall from the sprawling ceiling cracks. If Joy's shooting zombies how can she be a zombie? Maybe she's not? Then … whatever. Move fast.

I heft the pillow-sized cardboard box onto the desk, and plunge through an odd assortment of pill containers, handmade toys …

Another shotgun blast. Joy's running out of ammo, fast. The ceiling creaks and strains. Hurry.

... beads, cell phone chargers, cotton swabs, lollipops, a handheld POS machine, and …

More creaks and groans, steady as footfalls. From the stairway? Nah.

Another shotgun blast, and ...

… an Epipen, exactly as remembered. Now, let's get the fuck out of here.

I feel the blade pressed against the nape of my neck. "Holy sheeee-it!"

"Yes." Phil Donahue whirls me around, face-to-his-face, as he pulls back on the large bolo machete in his right hand. In his left, he wields a long, bent knife with a dragon hilt and points it at my throat. He smiles from ear to ear.

"Ahhh, ..." I hold up the Epipen. "It's for a friend. F-R-I-E-N-D." Grab the knife.

Another shotgun blast. That must be seven ...

He shakes his head. "Yes."

"What? C'mon Phil, You know me. I'm not just some dipshit lowlife stealing from you." Grab the fucking knife.

"Yes."

She shuffles toward us, a countenance of stricken pain etched on her ravaged face. No one says a word, that is, until ...

"Fuck me." Jon is spellbound in some warped magician's trance.

It's Anna.

Traci's voice hits a squeaky pitch. "Uh, Jonnie?"

Jon stops and stares, eyes welling.

Anna slogs closer, bony feet cleaving the sand in an aching, slow cadence.

More frantic calls. "Jon!" "Jon. Jon." "Uh, Jon?"

Anna's undead body is a mesh of string warts, bleeding chancres, and sloughing skin.

Jon ignores us, tears streaming down his face. "No, Annie. No, Annie. No, Annie."

She's locked onto him, with a slow, steady death march. Maybe thirty feet away.

Nathan points his gun at her. "Jon. What're you doing, man?"

Joy screams, "Jon. Wake up, uh!" The zombie struggles under her weight. She tightens her grip on the hedge clipper, as zombie blood drops mix in with the sand.

Zombie Anna lets out a hissing scream.

Twenty feet.

Jon convulses wildly like his insides have imploded. "No Annie. No Annie. No Annie."

Herman gapes at Anna's stricken body, then at the repulsive corpse buckling under Joy's weight. "They used to be human. Now they are the other." The lines on his face are etched in disgust. "Kill them."

Nathan points his weapon at Anna. "No hard feelings, Jon, but would you move to your right? I'd like to shoot your wife."

Jon pulls out his gun and points it at Nathan. "Back off!"

"Make me." Nathan trains his weapon at Jon.

Fifteen feet.

Jon erupts. "I said, back da fuck off!"

Carrie Lee screams, "Jon!"

"No Annie. No Annie! No Annie!" Between tears, he turns his gun back on Anna, then places it in his mouth like he's sucking on a .44 caliber pacifier.

A kaleidoscope of screams.

Ten feet.

Locked and loaded, Nathan strides forward but Traci pulls him back. "Nah!"

Joy shrieks. "Jon!"

Jon twitches, his eyes rolling back as if he's been yanked out of a coma. He pulls the gun out of his mouth and points it at Anna. "No Annie! Noooonooooo!"

Five feet.

Anna shambles forward.

Jon sucks in a deep breath and aims.

Another stride forward and he places the barrel right on her forehead.

Jon screams between clenched teeth.

Joy yells, "Shoot!"

A cacophony of shouts and zombie snarls.

"Ahhhhhhhh!" Carrie Lee swats a wasp on her hand, leaving an ugly, red welt. The fire of a gunshot. The sickening crunch of torn vertebrae. Chunks of pulverized brain matter spray out from the back of Anna's skull. The zombie's severed head rolls to a stop in the viscous pool of blood welling up in the fine, white sand.

It was a nasty day to be alive, but a living horror to be undead.

Jon spits. "Where da' 'ell is--"

A high-pitched scream. We stare at each other. An out-of-breath Traci bounds from a nook of palms and tousled bodyboards in front of a surf shop. "Where 'ave you all been, eh?"

Nathan holds up his weapon. "Things got a little shooty, shooty."

Traci's mouth is agape. "Is that me Saint Laurent?"

Nathan curls a sheepish grin as if it's just dawned on him that he's dressed in drag. "Mmmm … uh, … no."

"You thievin' muppet."

"Oh, no, no no. I just broke into your room and borrowed it, that's all."

She rips off one of her jandals and marches towards him. "I'll give you a hidin'!"

Nathan plucks off one of his stiletto heels, raising it like an eight-hundred-dollar Gucci billy club.

Another high-pitched scream from round the bend. "Ahhhhhhhh!"

"Crap cakes!" Traci stuffs her foot into her jandal and waves us on. "C'mon!" We follow the powdered sand past Willy's Rock.

Glen splashes up like Poseidon from the surf, cradling a crimson, football-sized spiny sea shell. Carrie Lee wades waist-deep, grabs the shell, hoists it, then chugs ashore towards a kerfuffle of movement in front of a thicket of banyan trees.

It's Joy, straddling a zombie like she's a cowgirl riding a decaying crocodile that she's trapped down prone, face in the sand. She has the hedge clippers 22-inch serrated blades around its neck, she's ready to prong it.

Herman looks up at joy and laughs, "That's my girl! That's my girl!" then delivers a swift kick to the zombie's face. After wincing in pain, Herman hobbles in circles with a swollen ankle while pinching sand out of his cheetah plum smugglers.

This all occurs under a rectangular LET US PUSH FOR A BETTER BORACAY! sign with a red circle crossing out stick figures posing in seven actions: No littering. No smoking. No drinking. No needles. No dog. No kiteboarding. No soliciting.

Whew! Nothing about decapitating zombies.

"Make wayyyyy!" Carrie Lee rushes in and slam dunks the giant shell into the undead's bloodied face. A dull thud. The shell cracks to pieces amid angry zombie screams.

"Oh, bloody fiddle fuck." Breathing heavily, Carrie Lee jogs towards the surf. "Glennie-pooh! Another shellie, please!"

Glen gives a thumbs up, takes a deep breath, and dives.

Herman screams. "C'mon baby! Be a good girl and cut its fucking head off!"

Joy squeezes the shear's handles. Blood oozes from the ghoul's turkey neck.

"Wait!" Nathan steps in. "The zombie virus. It could be transmitted through blood."

Traci backs up. "Or sputum … or ..." The zombie screeches, then coughs and spits. A long stream of bloody mucus discharges from its nostrils. "...snot. Ew."

Time to throw in my two cents. "Could be the air?"

"Oh, fuck off, Doug!" Jon glowers. "It ain't zombies!"

Joy digs her knees into the ghoul's ribs as it fights for brain-eating freedom. "It's the Aswang re-taking the island."

Ass Wong?

Traci looks around, bemused. "What's an Ass Wong, eh?"

"Shape-shifters." Joy braces her weight against the giant hedge clippers. "They feed on their victim's internal organs and make the sound of a laying hen at midnight."

The Thing lets loose a wild, piercing banshee howl.

I shake my head. "Uh, that's no chicken at midnight."

Nathan shuffles forward. "Whatever it is, kill it."

"Yeah, before we all become … ass wongs, eh." Traci shivers and covers her mouth in disgust.

"Comin' through!" Carrie Lee stumbles in with an even bigger shell and slams it onto the zombie's skull. More blood. More shrieks. Angrier than ever. "Oh, scodey!" She turns to shore and holds her hands up about a foot wide span. "Glen! Bigger! More spines!"

Glen combs his hands through his hair, then shakes his head in exasperation.

Carrie Lee stares icy daggers at Nathan. "Is that me soylent green linen mini-skirt?"

"What? Uh, um ..." Nathan crosses his legs and almost falls. "Shit fuck!"

Traci's frown shows off her dimples. "Nathaniel, we seriously need to talk, eh."

Nathan wipes sand from his mini-skirt. "Call me, Cleo."

Joy double-takes in surprise. "Cleo Hathaway?"

Herman grimaces and clucks his tongue. "Scheisse. Honey. Darling. Please, cut off its fucking head, so we can go grab lunch."

"Harold's been dead for three years." Traci dips a cleaning rag into a water glass and dabs Carrie Lee's forehead., then tugs at Care Bear's sweat-stained t-shirt, covering her dragon belly-button tattoo.

Glen and I squat in folding metal chairs around a cheap table at the other end of the vestry. Glen deftly ties a rope knot while I try to commit the sequence to memory. "OK. If I get this one right we head to Jollibee's for some Chickenjoy. Loop right around the pole." So far, so good. I lean over to the shoots of vivid snapdragons accommodated in a turquoise plastic vase on the center of the table. "Fuck off."

"Poor Care Bear. You didn't come out to this rattail island to die, eh."

"Loop left around the pole and then up through the hole." I give Glen an exuberant thumbs up. "Gotcha." I turn to Traci. "No. She came here yesterdie." I turn to the snapdragons. "Eat shit."

Glen passes me the rope, then folds his arms. O … K. I think I got ... it.

After a plaintive glance at her patient, Traci crosses the kluge of vestments and plops into the empty chair. "That's some sick joke, eh?"

"Sorry."

"Sorry? Care Bear's tickling deaths dragon's tail and we're sitting here useless as tits on a jellyfish."

"Reverse psychology."

"Eh?"

"If you talk to a plant it will grow. And if you use reverse psychology it'll grow even faster. How's that for smart?" To the plant. "Now fuck off."

"Dougie, that's a fake plant … and learn to shave."

"Lost my razor. Oh ... Shit!" I scowl at the tangled mess in my hands while Glen snickers. Is this a magic trick?

"Dougie!" Traci gasps. "What if we're all infected and just don't know it. Shit hot brakes, who do we trust, eh?" She shakes her head, then turns to Glen, who is signing up a storm. "What's that Gleneroonie?"

"Let me give it a shot." Must concentrate, but I've forgotten more ASL than I've learned. In one ear. Out the other. "Uh … uh, he says that, uh, he's hungry."

Glen shakes his head.

"Uh, no. Wait. He, uh, says I'm hungry."

Glen casts an exasperated look and tries again.

"Uh, No. Uh, shit. It's harder than it looks."

Carrie Lee moans. "I love ya', too, dear."

"Yeah. Nah. Me bestie's not dying, today." Traci grabs the dog-eared, yellow notepad on the table. "Ahhhh … hand me that peneroonie, eh."

"What? So you write fluent Tagalog?"

"We've got to do something, Dougie!"

"Shit. Shit." I drop the Gordian mess into my lap and snap my fingers. "The Dahlia."

"What about it, maaate?"

"A first aid kit. Behind the front desk. I think."

"You think?"

"Yes, I think. And … tourists are always getting into little troubles. Bites. Scrapes. Punctures. And ..."

Traci and I synchronize into a duet. "Bee stings."

Traci waxes optimism. "An EpiPen?"

"I think so."

"Aw, bugger all. You think so."

"Yeah … I think …"

Carrie Lee shivers and groans. A thick wad of spittle spews from her mouth. "Har … Harold I'm coming."

"… or maybe I'm misremembering."

"Well, piss on it all. Remember harder, Dougie!"

Glen cringes then pounces up and reels off a volley of sign language.

Traci strains like she's hearing a dog whistle. "What's that?"

Glen straightens his arm and makes the hand gestures of a snake weaving due North, then straps his diving knife to his leg, and bounds from the room.

"What the hell? Glen!"

"He's deaf, Dougie."

"I know."

One thing for certain is we both look like crap. Older than our years. Unkept.

With spastic hands, Doug jerks open the toiletry nook over the sink: floss, skin creams, dental paste, a dry razor, tweezer, and … shaving cream.

Lather up. I need this. In no time flat we're going to look and feel like a new man. He commences on the right side of my face, just the way I told him. Slow, cautious strokes. Very, very slow. Very, very careful. No sense cutting up that precious skin of ours. Thank you.

Halfway done. Now onto the left side. Rinse and repeat.

Wait. What's with this goddamn zit smack dab in the middle of my forehead? A second puberty? He pinches it. A dribble of wine-red fluid eeks out. Doug hunches over. The pain both of us feel. Our hands are shaking. No more shaving. Not until … the tweezers. Grab them, dumbass. Good. Thank you.

He glares at his reflection. I reply. Time to do it.

The metallic pincers jab into the inflamed bolus and our primal screams congeal. I wince as he digs in and pulls out a sleek, shiny black flukeworm, stretched thin like a rubber band about the length of a baby cottonmouth's rattler. The bloody drib drab flows into a vermillion river navigating the creases in Doug's forehead. He balls his fist and we howl together at the final tug. The bloodsack pops and a messy pus-filled slurry pours out.

The flukeworm thrashes, twisting to break free.

"Hoy Christ!" Get it away. Drown it! He yanks the shower curtain open. Armando's dead stump of a body lies motionless, head propped on its lap, lifeless eyes locked wide open.

"Ahhhh!" Doug drops the parasite and we flee into the de-installation art living room. The sound of rubber sandals clacking against the floorboards in strained figure eights.

The familiar ring tone: Charly Garcia's 'Botas Locas'.

"¡Felicitaciones, Duck! You is right for a change." Gus slouches into his ripped-velvet "writer's booth" in the liquored womb of the Dark Bar. He misses the ashtray and absent-mindedly dumps dead cigarillo embers into his half-empty pounder glass while chuckling at stupid music videos on his phone.

"What?"

Gus cranks the volume and croons a familiar ditty. "Sonned Seed.

Hay-sus is a friend a mine/Hay-sus is a friend a mine/

Is one catchy earworm, Duck. Fluck, even the most dyed-in-da-wolf atheist respects a thumpin' bassline."

"Is that why you called? A music review--" A river of blood from foams from under the front door. "Jesus!"

"Es a friend of mined. Exactamente. Y you called mio."

"No, you called me. Now--"

A fart sound. "You called mio, Duck."

"No, I didn't. Gus, are there--"

"You didito called mio, Duck." Gus takes a big drag off his cigarillo.

"No ..."

"Sí, you did. Ito."

"Fuck! OK. I did! I did! Are you happy? Now, are there--"

"Hah!" Gus blows out a big, self-satisfied cloud like a Patagonian Godzilla. "I knews it."

"Gus! I'm dealing with reality on a need-to-know basis right now, so--"

"Aye. You is hallucinating."

"What? No!"

"You is so lucky, Duck. Psychotic breaks is the spice of lifes."

"Gus, for Christ's sake, tell me ..." WTF? More blood gushes from under the door, making tidal pools on the teak floor. "... are there cannibal zombies in Portland?"

"¿Que? How should I know?" Gus blows out a heaving smoke ring, then accidentally double-taps more ash into his beer glass. "I hasn't left the Dark Bar in four days. Aye, is a--"

"Oh, shut up, Gus! I've got to know if what I'm seeing is--Holy shee-it!" Doug hops on the couch to avoid the ever-rising blood tide.

Gus crosses himself solemnly. "En el nombre del padre, del hijo, y del espiritu santo del noche de karaoke--"

"Gus, just fucking tell me, are there zombies in Portland, Goddamnit?"

"Aye, Duck." An evil laugh. "Betweens all them cracked heads y tweekters, who the hell knows?"

Doug sets himself onto the sofa's ripped-back cushions, barely avoiding the rising blood lapping at his sandals. "Gus, I gotta--"

"Chau, chau, Duck. Enjoy your nightmares. Phfffffffuuuuuuahh!"

Pippy Longstockings Gayle jumps onstage and seizes the mic from the clutches of a chubby twenties-something with a cherubic bowl haircut who is hula hooping seven technicolored hoops while butchering falsetto lines to Prince's "Pussy Control." The merciful ending act of a rare Dark Bar double-talent.

Gus gags down his ashened beer, then dumps his false teeth in the empty pounder, before bounding onstage to sporadic applause. He grabs the mic. A hearty belch. "This is fer all them lovelied ladies."

It's The Divinyls, Gusified:

"I fist myself/Do I really love me?

When my hands gone down/Third knuckle aboves me..."

Back in the hotel room from hell, Doug stretches ceilingward in an attempt to save himself. No chance. An ocean of metallic sanguine liquid whorls down his throat. "Ahhh!"

I jerk awake mid-scream, blinking up at high-pitched cross beams in replete silence. After wiping away a lather of sweat, I slide off the wooden bench, mouth agape: a quaint nave constraining three rows of wooden pews lined up taut towards an altar highlighted by a statue of the Virgin Mary bearing a golden headdress.

"Quit pointin' dat thing at me." Jon swats at my shotgun then waves away the decaying stench and hordes of flies. "Bloody 'Ell."

Ah, there it is, past the rusted, rickety green fence: The Mange Dog. Rooted on the ground and quasi-lifeless from the blood-boiling humidity, it strains to lift its head as if to say, Zombie Apocalypse? Couldn't give a rat's ass. It's nap time.

A drift to the right and we're heading north on the famous White Beach sand. A few steps in and Nathan's face flushes with a self-satisfied grin. "Randy Duke: Outback Dingo Hunter."

"What?" I stop in my tracks.

"Your first working title."

I shake my head.

Nathan re-assesses. "Maybe a non-working title. Sweet shitastik monkey balls!" He nearly falls, then frowns at his stiletto heels. "Stole them from a WNBA power forward. I mean, why pay for some uncomfortable hunk of designer crap?"

"Why are you wearing those?"

Nathan lifts one foot, shakes off a snare of kelp, then points his precious ankle-wrapped heels towards me in a supermodel pose, before shaking the sand out. "Because they match my skirt."

From my peripheral, I catch movement to the south. Far away. Is that a--? "Zombie. Six o'clock."

Jon winces. "Day ain't zombies!"

Nathan struggles to put his shoe back on. "Shambler or runner?"

I adjust my glasses and screw my eyes into slits at the blob sloth walking through the distant surf. "Shambler."

Jon points his pistol at the walnut-sized blur before Nathan turns around and clucks. "Nah. Too far."

Jon re-aims.

Nathan huffs. "Waste of ammo. C'mon."

Jon puckers up so tight you couldn't drive a straight pin up his ass with a ten-pound sledgehammer, then locks on target. His index finger hovers over the trigger. More sweating. More fidgeting. "Tom's tits." He sighs, droops his shoulders, and walks away.

Nathan slaps him on the back. "Don't worry. You'll get your chance."

After a sandy, sweat-soaked hike we come within a Tiger Woods 5-iron shot of Willy's Rock.

~

THE GUS' PHILIPPINES GUIDEBOOK PROUDLY PRESENTS:

Willy's Rock (Boracay Grotto)

Aye, Is you finds yourselves struttin' long Boracay's beautified waters near Station Uno y sees a prehistoric tugboat haulin' a terrariam wedged ashore with the Blessed Virgin Mary makin' googly-eyes, relax, it ain't no acid tripe.

¡Felicitaciones! You is at Willy's Rock, (Pussies calls it the grotto) one of them most recognated places on the isla. So, climb abroad (Mucho cuidado walkin' the stairway to Mary, though) Slick Willy, whip out yer phone and make photobomb whoopie 'til your tourista's heart bursts from contentment. Is free.

Free Willy's Rock got its groovy name from the nearby Willy's Beach Club Hotel. You sees, Boracay not only has four kilometers of white beaches, but also vulcanized creations, and one is Willy's Rock, well, except for them stairs, and the handrail, and the picture of the Virgin Mary. Those ain't vulcanic. They was built by the Aswang.

Aye, that is another storied.

Is recommendated you bee-bop to Willy's at low tide, to avoid that whole pesky drownin' thingee. That is, unless you plan on havin' a tourista frat kegger next to Mary, then takin' an Acapulco cliff dive faced-first from the top, in which case is recommendated to break your neck at high tide.

¡Felicitaciones!

"My schlong?"

More not-zombies crush into the Budget Mart.

Jon screams, "Bloody Tom's tits! Pistol mag!"

Nathan, er, Cleo squeezes off a couple shots while reaching into his purse, then tosses the mag with the dexterity of a Navy SEAL Team Six operator.

Foam fizzes on my shirt as I crack open a can of Red Horse beer for that delightful first sip. "Awww. That's some good hops. A little warm--"

"Shite the fuck up!" Jon feeds his gun.

Nathan yells, "Loading!"

Jon steps forward and shoots at the handfuls of The Walking Fucked rushing forward, a few shamble, others run full-tilt like they're on the undead Olympic hundred-meter sprint team. Jon's gun clicks. "Shite! Feed me!"

Nathan grabs his purse and dashes towards us.

"Last two mags." Nathan hands Jon some ammo, then points at me. "And you? Don't be such an amateur. Romance professionals won't ever let her see the D until midway through the second act. The rising action."

"Are you sure?" Uh oh. A female zombie darts into the aisle behind us. With a deep breath, I stand up, wielding a 750ml Sambuca Toschi like a billy club.

"Of course I'm sure. I'm Cleo Hathaway." Nathan snaps his last clip into his gun.

When the zombie-ess rounds the corner, I bash in her temporal lobe with a dull thud. Jon loads his weapon and places two into her chest. "Bloody brilliant. I got more Sambuca."

"What's your pseudonym?" Nathan scowls at my crotch. "You pissed yourself."

"Huh?" Sure enough, a perfect circle of shame strategically placed on my light beige cargo shorts.

"C'mon, man. Every romance writer uses a fake name. Makes you seem deep, naughty, and mysterious."

More living corpses ransack the aisle behind us. Nathan reaches into his purse. "Pigeon fuck!"

"What?"

"I left the rest of the ammo in my Saint Laurent Loulou chain shoulder bag!" He pulls out his last mag, then shakes his head at me scratching my itchy feet together like I need a bathroom break. "You okay?"

"Don't worry about me. I haven't even broken my second wind, yet."

"Nice. Let's go!"

Before the zombies encircle us, we press forward, erupting out of the Budget Mart. The upended tuk-tuk's still smoldering, but now dozens of bodies litter the D'Mall entrance grounds, some human, others humanoid.

I snatch the trowel on the ground, then tap Nathan on the shoulder. "Randy Duke."

BOOM! Jon blasts a zombie gorging on the security guard's dead body.

"Randy Duke?" Nathan raises an eyebrow and smiles. "I like it. Very John Wayne peckish. Maybe make him Australian? You know, six-foot-four and full of muscles. Walks around the outback with a ten-pound vegemite sandwich … Here, take this." Nathan picks up the guard's shotgun, then tosses away the guard's severed arm that was still clutching the weapon. "Not this … It's got a good spread."

"Good spread?"

"Yeah, it means ..." A zombie lunges at us from behind. " … waste that motherfucker!"

I do. The undead motherfucker's head disintegrates like an exploding pumpkin. "Holy fuck!"

"Hot shite, I wish I had a fifty cal." Jon gives a thumbs up, then scans the battlefield. "Geezer squad. Three o'clock."

Turning to the right, at the end of Balabag Lake, near a McDonald's parking lot, five zombies crouch around a crashed motorbike, devouring a freshly culled body.

Nathan whips around toward me. "Oh, and he's gotta be into poetry."

"Poetry?"

"Fuck, yeah. In touch with his feminine side. Like me." Nathan pulls a grenade from his bag. "Here. Hold my purse."

Feels high quality. "Nice."

"Yeah, it's Gucci." He pulls the pin.

The zombies drop the bloody stump of a leg they were chewing on, then let out guttural screams. "Ahhhhhahhhh!"

"Yeah, well my asspussy bleeds for you!" Nathan throws the grenade. A Quick puff of flame dead center in the middle of the group.

And from then …

… Strange reports of beheadings in airport bathrooms. Outbreaks of hyperviolence in taxis, ubers, subways, train stations, prisons, hospitals, office buildings, movie theaters, restaurants, convention centers, klan meetings, blood banks, retirement homes, schools, universities, churches, military bases, and sports stadiums. Anywhere a lungful of misery can slough off and infect.

Then, the Real Fear kicks in as social order breaks down exponentially, like those two-for-one livershot benders at Fianchetto's. Ludic insanity. Social ruptures. A massed cataract of unsaid superstitions released into the ether. Everywhere will be the land of unlimited bullshit and fantastical rumors will become commonplace and nobody will be able to tell what's real, anymore.

At first, the undead army will be confused with the hardest of the hardcore skulking homeless and false reports of fentanyl use will skyrocket nine-thousand percent. Then, persistent rumors of brain parasites being carried by house cats. Hokey snake oil bullshitters of varied degrees will fill the information void with desperate, cockeyed schemes: mainlining bleach, huffing hand sanitizer, wearing five layers of disposable surgical masks on top of a prophylactic face shield to wipe your ass. Sunlight kills the virus. Pet a Brahma chicken doused in Lysol. Purchase voodoo dolls from a Haitian witch doctor on the darkweb. Sunlight amplifies the virus. The only way to ensure a zombie is "dead" is to burn the corpse. Zombies won't attack gingers 'cuz gingers have no soul.

None of the bullshit will work, because at its core, a virus is a truth serum. A parasitic miracle of quasi-death. A zombie. It doesn't care what anybody thinks, and no amount of kicking, screaming, lying, denying, ignorance, hatred, or love is going to stop a billion years of evolutioneered perfection.

Undead masturbating carnies will stalk all the underpasses and fairgrounds. Every day will be the day of the dead. Carrot Top will be promoted to our lord and savior. Swimmers at local pools will be forced to tread water for days until the National Guard arrives. Local health clubs will be for undead trendy fine dining. Is it possible to live on a fishing boat in the middle of the ocean? Cat videos will be shadowbanned by the CIA. Marathons will take on a new sense of urgency and world records will be broken.

People will start digging up Graves to talk to loved ones and the hopelessly Woke will tell us not to discriminate against people who identify as the undead, even if they're trying to eat our brains.

Tropical cruises will be like playing Resident Evil in a conga line. Train trips to Buson will be a vacation hotspot. Submarines will be like playing hide-and-seek in a wax museum inside a broom closet.

The surviving populace will disengage into their own online islands while the internet's still functioning. Gamer groups with names like POE: Purity Of Essence/Peace On Earth, 3s Company/4s a Buffet, and The Good, The Undead, and The Ugly will spend their last remaining days engaging in brutal flame wars about the worst way to go. Being disemboweled consistently ranks high. If your partner turns into a zombie while you're having sex will it turn you into a zombie? The Rapture, armageddon, cannibalism, the Day of the Lord, necrophilia, the second coming, Vishnu, White Zombie, Aztec human sacrifice, and George Romero will be the most googled things on the internet. Will we go to heaven or hell or wind up as puppets in a Brothers Quay film for all eternity? 'It's the end of the world and we know it' will be on all the playlists at the rave parties. People will just give up on life completely and welcome our feline overlords.

Every night, large gangs of public masturbators will howl at the top of their lungs outside city hall while spraying geysers of diarrhea blood out their assholes. As institutional power structures fail, cartels, gangs, and militias will rush in to take their place, vying for as much of what's left of the resources as violently possible. The thin line between Security/Military groups rogue paramilitary gangs and common criminal street gangs will blur. Chaotic lawlessness will reign supreme and this will be the golden age for the psycho-sexual sadist serial killer. All of a sudden, Covid doesn't seem so bad, now does it?

A mohawk mullet pops up over the infant milk and mosquito repellant aisle.

"Donger."

The mohawk makes a three-sixty.

"Dong!"

Dong-eun Kwon turns the corner, looking around.

"Donger. Here."

A volte-face. Dong staggers over with a decided limp, sucking in baby teaspoons of air through his surgical mask. "Bu--Butt Munch?"

"Jesus Louises. We gotta get outta here. There's zombies all over--"

Jon's voice bellows from four aisles away. "Day ain't zombies."

"Whatever!" Back to Dong. "Listen, we gotta go. The hammer's coming down, and it's coming down hard."

The Donger labors to breathe like an asthmatic mule.

"Uh, and I mean worse than high school. Remember?"

Nothing but heavy breathing.

"Um, you don't happen to own a boat by any chance? Dong?"

His eyes roll back. Small flecks of blood form on his mask.

"Donger?"

More red blotches. The mask falls off, revealing a thick gash of pustulated chancres and bleeding maggots feeding at the rotted flesh around his lips. "MRRRRRAHHHHAHHH!"

Not good. I turn to flee but stumble. Turns out my hiking sandals aren't primetime survival gear. Zombie Donger jumps on my chest. Shit. This is it. Time to piss myself. Better to go out with an empty bladder.

"MRRRRRAHHHHAHHH--ah!"

Even in these wild twisted end of times, it's not often you see a zombie get brained up close and personal. I mean actually watching the entry and exit shot while bawling your eyes out.

I sit up and wipe skull fragments off my Exercise? I Thought You Said Extra Rice t-shirt. Nathan barrels toward me, dressed in an amazing taupe chiffon dinner blouse, and Soylent green linen mini-skirt with matching stiletto heels.

"Nathan?"

"Call me Cleo." He holds up his handgun and straightens his long, blonde wig, then catches himself before he slips. "Twisted shit missles!"

"Nice dress."

"Thanks."

"Um, you shot my childhood friend." The words tremble out of my mouth.

Nathan stares down at Zombie Dong's lifeless corpse, goose-turd green brain matter oozing from the headshot. "You're welcome … so, you serious about writing romance?"

"What?"

"Duck!" Cleo, uh, Nathan aims the barrel of his hand cannon straight at me.

"Huh? Ahhh!" I drop to the floor. Ringing in my ears as I turn my head. A maggot-ridden zombie jerks spastically, wine-red blood spewing from a gaping neck wound. It flails backward onto an end display of Huggie's diapers.

Nathan smirks. "Are you sure?"

"What? Yes. Definitely...I think."

"You think? Romantic friction ain't like dusting crops, boy. It's not some fucking lifestyle. It's a calling. Duck!"

Another shot. Another dead zombie bleeding out.

Nathan reaches into his red and navy stripe-sherry line purse, producing another handgun. "Are you up for the survival of the fittest?"

I grab the weapon. "Let's get it over with."

"Quick! Cover canned goods and processed meats!"

"Huh?"

Nathan emphatically points down the aisle. "Present a field of fire!"

I rush over, take a deep breath, and point my weapon. "Clear!"

Nathan's voice is pure exasperation. "Other way, dipshit!"

"Oh." I turn around. Now, we both have lines of fire facing the entrance from opposite ends of the aisle.

After moving a mouthwash and peanut butter combo pack for a better view, Nathan quips, "Locked and loaded?"

"Yep."

"Good." He wipes his brow, then trains his gun."So, what do you know about literary erotica?"

"Um, ah, I've watched Orgazmo fifty times."

"Hmmm …" Nathan shrugs pensively, then jerks to life. "Walking Afterbirth Army! Four o'clock!"

Glass shatters as a squad of wraiths burst through the front doors. Nathan starts blasting, now it's my turn. I squeeze the trigger. Nothing. Oh ... "Crap farts! I'm jammed!" I watch helplessly as Nathan fires away to his vicious heart's content. "Uh, your gun's defective!"

A vaguely familiar zombie with pale green skin covered in buboes rushes at me. "Björn? Shit. Björn's a zombie!"

A fifth of Jack Daniels flies past my head, shattering Zombie Björn's face.

"They ain't zombies." Jon sidles next to me with a tote full of booze: Bailey's. Kahlua. Blue Curacao.

Shaking my head. "Only necessities, huh?"

"'Ey, I got band-aids, too." Jon grabs my gun, clicks off the safety, then dumps the entire magazine into Zombie Björn's puss-ridden center of mass.

Poor Ludmila.

Past the rusted, rickety green fence on the right-hand side. An arterial labyrinth filled with mom and pop shops stripped of all manner of gimcracks amid battalions of flies whorling about liquifying bodies of masseuses, masseurs, and transmasseursi dressed in organ-stained nurse smocks. So far, so good. Nothing living, nor undead.

Joy canters along the path, ignoring the charnel house.

The Happy Pig Eatery is wedged between a hot pocket-sized laundry and a mini-mart. Fifteen strides under a confluence of sagging powerline coils. Dodge left past several dead bodies and crossed the main drag. No blaring motorcycles. No honking horns. Just a studied quiet, like being dissected from all sides.

Right as we scooch past the mud bog towards the imploded husk of the Manila Dahlia, Joy smirks. "By the way, you can quit trying to put the banana in the donut."

"What?"

"Traci."

"Traci? Hah! She's not my--"

"Shhhh." Joy peers past me towards the Dahlia's second-floor window pane shaped like a cracked eyeball. "The White Lady."

"Huh?"

"A ghost lady, dressed in all white."

"How appropriate."

"Very … and she appears before someone dies. Which sucks, because she was that window."

I stare dead-eyed. "Great."

"Don't believe me?" She looks through me like I'm growing devil horns.

She draws nearer, examining me with her eyes until our lips are a baby's breath away. What is this?

We exchange awkward nods and countervailing head shakes until … She takes a stride backward, then swings the shotgun barrel at my face, dead set on making hemoglobin splatter art. "What's gotten into you?"

"Wha … what's gotten into me? What's gotten into you?" Oh, creeping prairie shit. I see it, now. She's torn me from the herd for the quick kill.

"No! What the impyerno are you?"

I've fallen for it. A surprise attack. She'll be munching my brains for a mid-morning snack. I half-backup, half-run, and trip against what's left of the guardshack door. No escape. Buy time. "Wait!"

"Whew!" Joy swipes away clouds of flies from the defunct guard shack. "What in akong dios?"

"That … that would be Armando." Strange. She doesn't look like a zombie.

"Who's Armando?"

"Nevermind ... Joy?"

"Don't come near me! Don't come near me! Don't come ne--"

"All right. Alright!" I raise my hands, palms out. "Just one question before you blow my head off."

Joy casually lowers the gun, pointing it at my abdomen.

Great, now I'm in it for a gut shot. "Am I imagining things or is Santa Claus pissing on the side of that building?"

From a penalty kick away, the Santa Tourist has dropped trou, his sweat-lathered bowlegs spread in a cowboy stance as he geysers squirts of urine all over a rickety gate underneath the pale-blue 'Boracay National High School/Balabag/Malay/Aklan' sign.

His head turns to Joy pointing the shotgun at me and he freezes like a bloated chipmunk caught in crosstown traffic. The amber slick stream ebbs to a trickle.

After some painfully awkward, silent seconds, Joy and I slowly wave. "Hi."

Santa promptly zips up, grabs his duffel bag, and flips us off.

I shake my head. "Wow. Not exactly a jolly old elf, is he?"

"Ah, fuck!" My mask straps break and it falls to the floor.

Dull, thudding knocks on the front door. Everyone freezes, staring in silence. Herman snatches a resin snake lamp from the end table and wields it like a club and says, "Willkommen" in a friendly chirp.

Traci shrugs. "It's open!"

More knocking. I pick up my mask, then place it over my mouth while speedwalking over the handmade jute rug. A nod to Herman, who steps forward ready to brain whatever's outside. I fling the door wide open.

It's Jon, pale like he's seen his own ghost, staring shell-shocked straight ahead with a waterlogged cigarette clinging to his mouth. His arms are laden with grocery bags as he slouches into the room. "Bulalog Bay ..."

Herman smirks, then ogles Joy. "Well, well, well. If it isn't the murderer. Oh!"

She elbows him right in the floating rib.

I lean in. "What?"

Jon rambles. "There's a … transvestite kiteboarding ..."

Joy. "Jon."

Traci waves her arms. "Jonny. Jonny Boy."

"... In da middle of da typhoon …"

Herman quips. "Jon The Ripper. Oh!"

"... In Bulalog Bay ..."

Joy's piercing tone. "Jon!"

Jon's eyes titubate like a barn owl having a seizure in a hailstorm, then dumps his bags on the granite kitchen island and commences pulling out cases of Red Horse beer, cartons of Marlboros, and celery stalks. "Uh, it was a rough one, but I got all da survival stuff we need, 'cept for the .."

He glances over at the industrial-sized boxes of toilet paper on the coffee table. "... Bumwipe. Really? Da whole bloody world is comin' to an end and all any o' you can think 'bout is wiping your arses?"

Sheet lightning arcs around us, followed by God's thundering drum roll moaning in the background. The bungalow's power sags to sleep then strains back to life. When the lights come on Carrie Lee is standing right next to Traci, freaking her out. "Ahhhh! Where in bloody blazes have you been, eh?"

"Feeding needles to Drogoth. In the loo."

I can't help myself. "What?"

Carrie Lee pulls up her Kiwi Girl t-shirt, revealing an ornate dragon tattoo splayed on her stomach. "Me diabetes."

"Lovely." Jon uncaps a Red Horse beer bottle and heads towards the main bedroom. "G'night all."

"You're … ah ..." Traci's tone is curious. "... going in there?"

"Of course." Jon takes a slug of beer. "Why not?"

Her face is a mask of repugnance.

"Vell, I suppose if you've already killed her, why not sleep with her?" Herman starts drifting into Jon's orbit.

Joy pulls at Herman, trying to corral him. "Boobie!"

Boobie?

Herman lowers his gaze condescendingly at the shorter man. "It's all over the island, Jon. Sleeping pills, huh?"

Jon squares up, then scowls as he scans Herman toe to head. "Good God! Do ya' ever wear pants, man?"

Yikes. It was true. We've all gotten so used to Herman's cheetah thong with a sunburned belly flab attire it seemed normal.

"Enough!" Carrie Lee and Traci intercede, begging for peace as Joy and I tug on the two contestants in opposing directions. It's a mash-up of pushing, pulling, shoving, and inchoate screams before Jon breaks free from my grip. "And not dat ya' give a good shite, but I placed me lovely wife, God rest her soul, in the gardener's shack, so we all could have a good night's sleep."

Everyone sighs in relief, except Herman. "Fuck you!"

Jon laughs through hyena's teeth."You're welcome."

A bludgeoning knock. Thrice. The scuffle stops. We all tilt our gazes towards the front door. Silence.

It bursts open. A wretch of a golem, jutting rough hide bones slovenly dressed in a marl of putrescent green sloughing skin, shambles into the room on writhing footfalls. The baby's breath-thin clumps of hair, deathbed sunken cheeks, and bloody yellow pus-filled pus eyes obscure the semblance of the grotesque creature.

It's Hurl. He lurches forward, chancred skin, lacerated brain, and failing organs decaying with every strangulated heartbeat before our astonished eyes.

Nice six-pack abs, though.

His blistered mouth opens in a wheezing gasp, then he slumps to the ground, facefirst, ejecting putrid bile all over the handmade jute rug.

The lights go out.