The Legend of Jimmy Headshot (Shingles Book 6) by Rick Gualtieri & Authors and Dragons

Author:Rick Gualtieri & Authors and Dragons [Gualtieri, Rick]
Language: eng
Format: azw3
Publisher: Authors & Dragons
Published: 2018-05-31T16:00:00+00:00

8

A COLD DAY IN HELL

Three months of canned beans, chemical toilets, potted meat, and the constant underlying smell of garbage would have been enough to break most men.

Personally, I found it invigorating. That said, being locked up with my sister was definitely starting to grate on my nerves.

As expected, Otis’s bunker was fully stocked. The dude had been expecting a long, onerous apocalypse—a lonely one, too, judging by all the creepy-ass photos we found. Guess that explained why he kept asking me to take my shirt off.

Skeevy shit aside, the place had almost everything—food, clothing, fresh water, solar panels atop the mountains of cars for nominal electricity, and weapons. There were guns, piles of ammo, and more. Otis had been a man after my own heart, minus the part about being a wannabe pedophile.

Mom still wasn’t quite over Dad being eaten by cats, but I figured acceptance would come with time. And we had a lot of that on our hands. I tried to help by attempting to teach her how to defend herself, or at least cover me well enough so I wouldn’t get blindsided the second I turned my back. Not surprisingly, it was mostly an exercise in futility.

Fortunately, there was plenty of mom stuff to keep her busy—namely cooking, cleaning, and keeping Darlene the fuck away from me.

As for my darling sister, I mostly left her to mindlessly play with her dolls and hopefully contract tetanus from all the sharp metal.

I made the occasional sojourn to the surface. The scrapyard was our new home, and I fully intended to make it a fortress. But in order to do that, I needed to make sure it was ours and ours alone.

Dad was the first issue that needed taking care of. On the upside, he wasn’t any more adept at being a zombie than he had been at being a man. I pulped his head, burnt his body, and then stuffed the remains into a junked car on the far side of the yard. With any luck, Mom wouldn’t wake up one morning with an overwhelming need to check out trashed Suzuki Samurais. If so, that could be awkward.

The cats, I was somewhat horrified to learn, seemed to have retained some rudimentary instinct. Following our first encounter with them, they seemed to become wary, at least in small groups. That was worrisome, for it told me that some parts of their cold dead brains were still firing.

It also made me wonder who or what patient zero was in this mess. Had the apocalypse started with people and then somehow spread to cats? Didn’t seem to make much sense, unless the first victims were really stupid cats. But if that wasn’t the case, then how? Did someone accidentally feed the neighborhood strays a can of radioactive tuna?

Regardless, it wasn’t until the weather turned and winter set in that I was able to properly kill some kittens. When the first big freeze of the season hit, I was overjoyed to find the junkyard full of frozen zombie cats, their cold undead bodies stuck fast to the ground.

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