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FLASH FICTION — A Man’s Castle

Image - leftofurban
Image – leftofurban

Under current circumstances there will be no rescue squad, you will be on your own, alone.

Alone, even as your kindly and shirtless 215 pound neighbor came crashing through your four thousand dollar beveled thermal glass door, ignoring the fifty or so cuts across his face and torso, not to mention his missing ear, he will be ignoring your threats and screams, ignoring the CZ-75 P-01 semiautomatic handgun you have pointed and aimed at him and squeezed the trigger, as your thirty-five dollars per hour, plus membership fees, firing range instructor had taught you.

Even as the three, upgraded and modified 9mm shells rip holes in his chest — nice grouping as your instructor would have said — punching out fistfuls of flesh from his back that should have sent him, if not down, but flying back out the doorway from whence he came, but did not even slow him down, did not stop him from reaching for and grabbing your face, digging his fingers into your cheek, just as your fancy and expensive double pane bay window — or bow window you were never sure of the difference — exploded inwards from the pressure of the whole obese Glowgoski clan from across the street pressed upon it, even as that sound was over shadowed by the smashing of more exploding glass probably from the sliding doors of your patio, all comingled with the screams of your family —  your wife and children —  throbbing in your ears.

Even as the 215-pound neighbor of the last three years, the helpful guy who had and would lend just about every tool imaginable — Gary, I think? Gregg? — even as Craig grabbed your head, dug his fingers into your cheek and pulled you closer to him, to his mouth as if to smooch but instead swallowing half of your face, from eye socket to chin, ripped apart with his teeth, chewed and spat out as if it were bitter tasting only to snap back and gorge on your neck and throat, finally putting and end to the sounds of your kid’s  —  or your partner’s  —  howling, well at least in your ears.

Yes, you and everyone like you were alone and on your own. At least until you came back to join the multitudes to make unannounced visits to your other neighbors.


JJ (aka jfx mcloughlin) came to our rescue in times of zombie-crisis and is the mysterious force behind deadsurvivors and jimmy junk. Be sure to check out Survivors of the Dead. Look for JJ waving an AR-15 and booking it out of town.

Image - leftofurban
Image – leftofurban

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