Fall Festival
“Hersh to the day when we don’t neeed this stinkin’ festival
anymore!”
Like the clapping crowd, Mayor Billingsly was already drunk
from the tub gin Amos Walton had been making all Summer long. Dolly was happy her
boss didn’t mess up his first duty for the day, but she needed to make sure he
made his way through the rest of the day’s obligations. He still had to hand
out the trophy at the zombie chuckin’ competition, put the first rubber band
around the undead man’s head at the “How many till it pops?” tent and the one
he was most looking forward to, hosting the Miss Post-Apocalypse McKohn County pageant.
“You need so slow it down sir,” she said, pulling him off
the platform.
“Nonsense,” he countered. “Gotta make this last festival one
we all remember.”
“Sir, there will be
another on next Fall.” November was the perfect time for the event. It was
right before the welcome of winter where the remaining zombies would freeze and
give the survivors some respite.
“Not for me.” He rolled up his sleeve, revealing a yellowing
bite on his forearm. Her stomach dropped. “C’mon Dolly let’s make this one for
the ages. Just promise me one thing.”
“Anything sir.”
“When I turn zombie. Make sure I don’t end up in Amos
Walton’s goddam catapult.”
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