Night of the Twister


Lightning forked illuminating the parking lot. I chanced a glance out the window to see if there were any more customers sodden and staggering in seeking shelter. Zombies, I shuddered and ducked for cover when a car pulled through the parking lot. Every single fucking one of them, zombies. I was fairly confident I’d survive, surrounded by an island of gasoline, and locked up tight in a store with all the beer and junk food I would ever need. My more realistic chances were that during the zombie Apocalypse that I would be looted, blown up, and then fired because of the loss of merchandise.

The emergency lights flickered and blinked. If it wasn’t for the incessant beeping that accompanied them, I’d be asleep curled up on the cushioned rubber mats behind the register using a wad of Wypalls as pillows and dreaming of a proper night’s sleep in a real bed. Instead, I forced myself to finish the evening tasks regardless of the lack of light and prayed no more customers came knocking. An hour later I was bored to tears and wondering how the Awful Waffle across the street fared on this dark and stormy night. Grabbing a lighter and a cigarette I wandered outside to watch the storm clouds race by. A warm front collided with a cold front right over the horizon. It was the stupidest thing I ever did. Even with my makeshift key, an Allen wrench I ganked from the soda fountain brixing kit, there was no way I could reenter the building. “No!” I screamed, kicked, and pulled at the double front doors. They were locked tight. 

Continued in Dark Days on the Dixie Highway: Diary of a Third Shift Zombie