Zombie Drabble #435: “The New Guy In Town”


One of the distant figures went limp, mid-stride, and fell hard to the ground. He didn’t look up from the scope. “What’s my count?”


Someone whistled. “Two more and you’re tied with Hank.”

He chambered another round. “Who the fuck is Hank?”

“Old deputy Mayor. Lost him on a run two years ago. Good guy, always—”


Another figure spun in place, dropped to lie motionless. “Twenty-three”

“Anyway, Hank: he was always making sure the kids had sweets. You know, candy, stuff the other guys wouldn’t bother with.”

“Kids? What kids?”

A long silence followed.


“Twenty-four. Tied.”

The Umbrella Man

He’s in the crowd somewhere, beside the lady with the grocery bags, behind the two middle-school girls sharing a pair of earbuds, a few steps ahead of George from down the street walking his dog. He ducks around lampposts and between parked cars where the sidewalk is blocked, never motionless, never breaking his stride. His progress through the city is relentless.

You ignore him, because deep down, you know he’s going to someone else’s office, or home, or table at the coffee shop. He’s coming for them, not you. You wouldn’t see him coming, if he was coming for you.

SF Drabble 468 “Incomplete Pass”

The capsule tumbled away in excruciating slow-motion, engine bell over nosecone, shrinking against the blue and green and white and brown of the planet below.



She sighed. “I missed.”

What?” A pause stretched out into a lull, into a quietly hissing eternity. Then: “Okay… Okay: FERN says not to panic. We can intercept in less than an hour, if we don’t wait for the window.”

“How much fuel does that leave you?”

Another long pause followed. “FERN says not to worry about it.”

“Patch her into comms.”

She says not to worry. And she’s a computer. So relax.”

Zombie Drabble #434 “Never Goes Out Of Fashion”

“Somebody help!”

Someone was in the hall, the hall outside the apartment, running back and forth, knocking on doors, yelling: a girl, young, panicked, desperate. He listened from the floor of his front closet between ski boots and suitcase-with-wheels.

“Please somebody! Help me!”

There was the old wooden bat, the one with A-Rod’s signature burned into it by a machine, the one his dad had given him when he turned ten, a million years ago in a world that still made sense. He grabbed it, clutched it in both hands.

He white-knuckled it as he listened to her being eaten.