A Variety of Vermin

By four o’clock, Kris is clean out of fucks to give. It’s the Friday preceding spring break. There’s no aftercare today, no other underpaid employees to push her last few kids off on. The parents either forgot or don’t care. Kris reckons she’s absolved of any obligation to keep them from running wild in the rain.

Drizzle thrums against the awning, echoing through the open corridor. Kris leans against the classroom door frame, eyes scanning the blacktop. On a campus built for three hundred students, the play yard is eerily empty with just the three. Her hand itches for her whistle as her first graders kick and skip and stomp in the puddles. But maybe a weekend spent with a scrub brush and the Oxiclean will serve as a reminder to parents not to be late for pickup.

“I have a theory,” Kris announces.

“Bounce it off me.” Antonia’s low, satin-smooth voice resonates from the earbud hidden beneath the locks of Kris’s bun.

“I’ve deduced a foolproof way to tell kids apart.”

“Always impressed me that you can memorize the names of thirty-five goblins.”

Kris’s lips turn up at the corner. “I mean, predict their personalities. Their temperaments.”

“I’ll bite.”

“You watch how they treat worms washed out by the rain. Firstly, you have lifeguards. They pluck the little guys up and stick ‘em back in the grass.” Kris’s eyes fall on Dylan, the smallest kid in her class. He’s crouching, rolled up like a pill bug at the field’s edge. He plucks little pink strings off the ground, studies them, and settles them gently in the lawn.

“Hope they wash their hands,” Antonia muses.

“I make sure they do. Next, you have the ostriches.”

“The what?” Antonia’s laughter rumbles in Kris’s ear.

“The avoiders. The ones who bury their heads in the sand.”

Ava skips along on a jump rope and into a puddle, stumbling out of her rhythm. Her buckle shoes kick arcs of dirty water into the air. She stops and peers over Dylan’s shoulder, only to leap back with a shriek when he lifts the worm in his hand. She dashes away, rope abandoned on the wet asphalt.

“They might feel bad for the worms,” Kris continues, “or they might think they’re icky. But they don’t care enough to do anything about it.”

“Oh! Let me guess.” Delight soaks Antonia’s voice. “Last, we have the crushers.”

Kris hums, eyes flickering to Tristan as he stomps around with a big red bouncy ball clutched between his hands. He stretches it overhead and taunts, “Oh Dy-laaaaaaaaan!”

When Dylan turns around, Tristan slams the ball down on a wriggling worm. Kris flinches. The impact sends the ball soaring over the iron fence and into the parking lot.

“Tristan!” Ava, hands perched on her hips, gears up to tell him off. Each syllable hits the perfect rhythm, weaving a composition of pure sass: “You don’t have to be so mean!”

Anticipation surges in Kris. She craves to see little Dylan show some backbone too: shout, sneer, flip him off. She won’t even deduct it from his conduct grade. But he just trudges off, kicking miserably at the puddles until dirty water dots his khakis.

“Crushers,” Kris confirms.

Tristan performs a grand hop onto the next stranded worm. His laughter mirrors Antonia’s. “Is that derision I hear in your voice?” she demands. “You’re engaged to a crusher. A professional crusher, of a variety of vermin.”

Kris grins, twisting the diamond on her finger. “I’m not passing a judgment. Just suggesting the worm test is a good predictor of who’s going to brandish the scissors during art.” Her eyes roll skyward. “Or throw orange peels into the orangutan enclosure.”

Antonia snorts. “Sounds like the field trip was a blast. You’ll have to tell me all about it over dinner. Rain’s starting to come down like hell, so I’m done spraying for today. If I—?”

The Bluetooth blares. Pain locks Kris’s jaw and prickles the hairs on the back of her neck. She tugs the earpiece away and the tones’ pattern come into focus: the Emergency Alert System.

Once it’s faded, Kris tucks in her earpiece to catch Antonia’s words mid-sentence: “— orders to shelter in place.”

Shelter in place. The words spin circles in Kris’s mind as her gaze flickers between the three children. “What? You mean, like… immediately?”

“One sec, one sec.” A synthetic voice blares from what must be Antonia’s truck radio. “Yeah, immediately. Nearest indoor shelter.”

“Why?” But then a better question occurs to Kris. “Where are you now?”

“On my route in Laguna. It’s a riot, maybe? They’re giving all sorts of instructions for traffic redirection now.”

A groan stirs in Kris’s throat. It’s not like she’s getting home on time anyway. Still, the realization aggravates the pinch of her shoes, the cinch of her skirt. She slips inside the classroom door and fishes her phone out of her desk.

“You gotta see this footage.” The anxious excitement in Antonia’s voice is alarming; she thrives in chaos. “Cities all over the country. Fuck, the world. They’ve taken anchors off the ground. It’s helicopter footage. I’m sending you videos.”

Between glances toward the children, Kris minimizes the Bluetooth call and opens her messages. She scrolls through the videos, squinting and lifting the screen to her eyes until it clicks what she’s seeing: looting. People beating the shit out of each other. Pulling guns. Shots ringing out amid screams. Children trampled. A shot of what looks like a scene from a late-night apocalypse drama: some gray-skinned fucker sinking its bloodstained teeth into the throat of a screaming woman, tearing chunks of flesh and muscle like taffy.

Kris tries to refresh the video, but the website bids her a cheerful apology; it’s been taken down for violating the terms of service.

The phone case crackles under Kris’s white-knuckled grip. “What the hell is this?”

With all the confidence of pinpointing a rats’ nest, Antonia declares, “This is zombie shit.”

#

Watching the down slope of humanity occur in real time is fascinating. The directions relayed by the governor are clear: shelter in place, do not engage, allow authorities to set up the quarantine zones. But actual authorities are spread thin and panicked mobs aren’t well known for following simple instructions.

That’s how the roads end up clogged with crowds smashing store windows for toilet paper and canned beans. People with guns playing cops, people with guns playing robbers, all carving wounds society can’t cauterize fast enough. Mesmerized, Kris watches the videos under her desk, with Antonia commenting in one ear while Bill Nye lectures the kids from the smart board. It’s like being strapped to a zero-gravity carnival ride, guts stuck to her spine, while the world whirls around her.

She’s gotta get these kids out of her hair.

When someone pounds on the classroom door, Kris jumps so high that her knees bang the desk. She bites back a swear and dashes to the window. Dylan’s mother stands in nursing scrubs, face still masked. Kris opens the door and her reflexes nearly slam it shut again; the woman’s sleeves are coated in dark red blood.

At the sight of her, Tristan blurts out an impressed, “Whoa!” He cocks his head, admiring the gore. “Did someone die?” He seems delighted at the prospect. Ava smacks his arm.

A mama’s boy through and through, Dylan would have attached to her waist on any other day. Today, he stares with knees crunched against his chest, glued to the rainbow carpet. When he doesn’t move, his mother crosses the room and lifts him to his feet. As she drags him to the door, Kris catches her gaze: steely, determined, in survival mode. There’s nothing left of the patient, indulgent mother that swings by for centers every week.

“Get out as soon as you can,” she instructs Kris, walking her child out the door. They leave his backpack behind.

In the context of a suburb, Kris isn’t sure in what direction she’s meant to “get out.” How far did they need to go until they were safe? Farmland? Mountains? Coast? There was river access close by; maybe it’d be smartest to follow it to the bay?

But she’s ahead of herself. Before she and Antonia can go anywhere, she has to get rid of these last two kids.

No doubt a bit riled, Tristan threatens to wipe boogers on Ava, who brandishes a hardcover book at him. In hopes of distracting them, Kris gets out the construction paper, ink stamps, and glitter. Thoroughly on edge, she hides her phone away and watches the parking lot instead. Before long, a pickup truck with a jam-packed bed pulls into the fire lane. Ava’s father throws open the passenger door. Head swiveling in every direction, he dashes past the iron gate and through the open corridor. He shouts from the window for Ava. She nearly trips over herself to obey, hands fisted tightly in her skirt.

All the while, Kris tracks Antonia’s progress through her Bluetooth: driving, pulling up to their house, rummaging around in a flurry.

“I’ll be there in a flash,” she pants in Kris’s ear. “Grant Road is a clear line to you.” Antonia sounds way too damn giddy. She loves emergencies—the break in routine, the swell of excitement, the problems that need tackling.

Kris would have been fine with a movie and takeout tonight. She struggles to keep her voice level as she whispers behind her hand, “I don’t want you driving out in this.” But it’s more of an observation, an admittance of fear, than an instruction. There’s only one back road separating the school from their little duplex. It’s mostly wild grass along undeveloped land—safe, so long as it’s not already some sort of congested traffic jam surrounded by a wildfire.

“I’m safer in the truck than you are in your dumb electric cube.” A final thud reverberates from the earpiece. “All right! Got our emergency supplies in the back of the truck.”

“We have emergency supplies?”

“Not formally. But I filled all our water bottles. Tossed in the nonperishables. Rice, beans—”

“The Pringles?” Kris tries to season her voice with levity. She’s too detached to hear if she succeeds. “I just bought those.”

“You should think better of me than to forget.” Antonia’s words are punctuated with a telltale crunch.

“Leave my salt and vinegar.”

“Like I’d touch those. Disgusting.” A truck door bangs. “I’m coming to you now. Seven minutes.”

Kris’s heart springs into her throat, pushing up bile. “Stay on the line with me?”

Antonia snorts. “Who else am I gonna call, my mom?”

A grin tugs at Kris’s lips, but it fades when Tristan materializes at her elbow saying, “Are you on your phone?” as if she’s committed a heinous, cold-blooded puppy execution.

“You haven’t offloaded those little goblins yet?” Antonia sounds equally appalled.

“You’re not supposed to be on the phone,” Tristan declares. “My mom locks up my babysitter’s phone so she can’t use it.”

“Wow, I hate him!” Antonia drawls.

Kris has to pause and reengage the correct portion of her brain to address Tristan. “Why don’t you go get the Play-Doh out? You can even mix the colors.” As he turns tail and scurries away, Kris mumbles under her breath, “Eat it for all I care.”

She grabs her spiral-bound emergency contact book and the old corded school phone to dial Tristan’s mother. She steps into the corridor, breathing deeply of the rain-tossed air. Eyes sweeping the vacant campus, she grits her teeth through four rings before it hits the answering machine. Out pops that uncanny, high-pitched voice she uses to deal with parents: “Good afternoon, Ms. Forrest. This is Ms. Rhodes calling from—”

Click.

“Ms. Rhodes?” The words are more breath than voice. The mother’s ragged panic conjures the image of a frail woman hiding under a bed as the undead stumble through the room.

Kris shakes the image off. She misses a beat, struggling to get her voice working again. “Just calling to let you know Tristan is safe in lockdown with me. I’m wondering what the possibility is of you reaching the school to pick him up.”

Antonia drawls in the opposite ear, “Tell them to move their asses. I’m not adopting any fucking apocalypse children.”

Meanwhile, the woman’s teeth chatter between words: “The broadcasts say we’re not supposed to go outside.”

Kris sucks in a humid breath to cool the irritation burning up her chest. “Given the circumstances, it’ll become harder over time to reach the school.”

“I don’t have a car.” The woman lets out a moan that reeks of helpless misery

Kris bites the inside of her cheek. Seems to her that having a son might inspire the long-term motivation to problem-solve situations like this. But hell, if she had a kid who chucked orange peels at orangutans, maybe she wouldn’t sweat it if he became zombie chow either.

“Perhaps you can give me Rob’s number, so I can get in touch with him?”

The words have hardly left Kris’s mouth before Ms. Forrest utters, “Oh no, he wouldn’t like that. Besides, he’s not answering his phone.”

In lieu of slamming her head, Kris rests it on the window glass. Inside, Tristan mashes Play-Doh into the rainbow carpet. “Okay. Well. I’ll touch base soon. Stay safe.” Kris steps back inside and slams the phone into the receiver. With that one catharsis, the tension in her jaw melts away. It leaves behind a glimmer of empathy. Maybe because Ms. Forrest had the same quiver in her voice that Kris’s mom had, in the weeks leading up to her death. She pinches her nose hard, dismissing the intrusive thoughts.

Kris has never met Tristan’s mother; it’s always some guy named Rob who picks him up, though he’s not listed on any paperwork. Not technically allowed, but Kris has to pick her battles. That sneering, burly man that yanks on Tristan’s arm, whose every word is flecked in spit… He reminds Kris of her now-deceased stepfather; she doesn’t get paid enough to put herself in the warpath of a guy like that.

The mother doesn’t sound like she could survive a regular walk to the mailbox, let alone a zombie-filled one. Best not force the issue; if she died, Kris would have no one to shunt the kid off onto.

Hell, there’s an idea.

Kris could haul the kid to her. The rule of thumb was not to waste time. Not to get cornered. She had to get the hell out of dodge.

There would be no adopted apocalypse children in her car by day’s end.

“I’m close,” Antonia announces.

“Good. You’re gonna have to play bus driver.”

“Hey, whatever moves things along.”

Antonia hums “Wheels on the Bus” as Kris corrals Tristan to the parking lot. She leashes his hand in hers, taming his impulse to jump into puddles left by clogged drains. The school is tucked into a court, flush against a suburb on one side and across from a half-developed park. A dome of gray sky curls around them in what feels like a protective bubble. Standing here is like getting the luckiest spawn point in a video game.

It\'s all downhill from here.

A white pest control truck barges in through the exit lane and onto the curb. Antonia flings her door open and stands on the step bar to catch Kris’s eye. She’s stripped down to a white tank top. Her bronze arms glisten from a sheen of sweat and rainwater. Humid-frizzed brown curls frame a smile that’s equal parts cocky and eager.

An unwitting smile threatens to match it at Kris’s lips. They’re together for what comes next. That’s all that matters.

“Is that your girlfriend, Ms. Rhodes?” Tristan’s voice is woven with snarky, smug satisfaction that doesn’t belong anywhere in the mouth of a seven-year-old. It’s like a boy mimicking a pervy older brother. Except Tristan doesn’t even have an older brother to aid his evolution to snot bag.

Kris rolls her eyes, and Antonia peers down at him with a leering smirk. “You’re the crusher, huh?” She thuds her boot against the truck’s metal frame with a laugh.

“Come on, kiddo.” Kris jerks open the backseat door. She lifts Tristan by the armpits, and he yelps, half-laughing as she hauls him into the truck. A corner of her brain tsks about the lack of a car seat, as if that’s the biggest threat right now. Although right behind the apocalypse is probably Antonia’s driving, honestly.

Kris slides into the passenger seat, one hand finding a home on Antonia’s thigh. “Get your seatbelt on, Tristan.” She pulls his crumpled emergency contact sheet out of her purse and types his address into her phone.

“Why are you driving me? Is my mom okay?”

Kris’s hands freeze at the vulnerable tremor in his voice. She glances in the rearview mirror; all the brazen, carefree attitude has leaked right out of the kid. He’s quiet and fidgety in a way that makes her want to jam a thermometer in him. She swivels around in her seat to meet his eyes. “I talked to her on the phone earlier. She’s fine. Just stuck. Needs us to drop you off.”

“Why? Is her stupid boyfriend dead?” There’s a glint of hope in his voice that makes absurd laughter bubble up in the back of Kris’s throat.

Antonia smirks, but manages to shut up as she veers out onto the road again.

After drumming up her composure, Kris says, “He wasn’t at the house when I called.”

“Can you drive fast, please?”

“Wow,” Kris mouths at the windshield. She’s never heard the word “please” out of that kid’s mouth in the entire year.

“No sweat, little crusher.” Antonia, ever generous with the gas pedal, floors it. Kris grimaces, fingers biting into the seat cushion. But she says nothing. Today, faster is better.

They don’t pass any flesh gobblers, but there’s more subtle signs of the chaos: people boarding windows, cars getting packed up, children strapped hurriedly into back seats. It makes Kris’s brain itch; she’s one seven-year-old away from also hightailing it somewhere safer, if such a place exists. Anxiety winds her ribs tighter for every car they pass going in the opposite direction, toward the highway.

Antonia slows out of neck-craning curiosity as they pass a small crowd in the street. They’re pacing with agitation, talking with each other and on their phones. One man is collapsed in the gutter, sobbing. There’s something shrouded in a blood-splattered blanket on the road. It’s unnervingly small.

“What’s happening?” Tristan asks, nose squashed to the window.

“Don’t look,” Kris mutters. “Someone might have hit a dog.”

Only three turns left. Two turns left. One turn left.

Antonia brakes hard, throwing an arm across Kris’s chest to pin her in place. When her vision levels, she’s staring down a narrow street bend. They’re scrunched between cars as a figure limps toward them.

It’s a woman, if you can call it that. Her throat waterfalls blood down her front. Her cheeks are ripped open, jaw partially hinged. A bloodied skirt is shredded at the knee, revealing a chunk torn out of one calf. It should hurt like hell to be wobbling around like that, but the thing doesn’t seem to register pain.

A car horn blares furiously behind them, firing adrenaline in her blood. Antonia swears, and Kris’s eyes follow hers to the rearview mirror. A silver hatchback has pulled up behind them. The driver slams his horn and screams soundlessly past the glass.

No room to go around, no room to back up.

The mindless monster stumbles against the truck’s hood, doubling over and scrabbling stupidly at it with bloody finger stumps.

The screaming behind them sharpens. The man has jumped out of his car and started to around their truck. Seeing the cause of the road block, he spins and runs screaming back to his car.

That triggers Tristan. He screams. And screams. And screams.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” Antonia groans, clapping her hands over her ears.

Kris can’t help the wild grin that stretches across her face. She pinches the whistle hanging around her neck and blows. And blows. And blows. With the advantage of bigger lungs, she outlasts Tristan. As his banshee shriek fades, Kris almost wishes it hadn’t; now they can hear the dead woman’s scratching, the gurgling in her mangled throat.

“I don’t suppose spraying pest control chemicals up its nose will work?” Antonia suggests.

Kris’s words get lodged in her throat when she catches a glimpse of the thing’s eyes. Fresh adrenaline curdles her blood. In the movies, the undead’s gaze is clouded over white. This thing has a ceaseless stare—sharp blue in the irises and every vein bursting red. She unlocks her jaw to ask, “What about your bait gun?”

“It’s not that kind of gun.”

“Hm.”

They stare for a while, watching the stubs of its fingers paint a crimson maze on the truck’s hood.

“Screwdriver?” Antonia suggests. “Through the eye and stir up the brain? Saw that in a video game once.”

Kris winces trying to imagine the mechanics. But if they’re going to experiment, best to do it before they’re caught in the thick of things. “Two-person job, I think.”

Antonia grins. “Ah, the stepfather treatment. You pin, I stab.”

Kris turns around and barks at a blotchy-faced Tristan, “Close your eyes.” After a pause, she corrects herself. “Actually, keep them open. And if you see another one, let us know.”

Not like he would have closed his eyes anyway.

In tandem with Antonia, Kris steps out of the truck. She whistles and flails her arms to lure the thing after her. She rounds the truck, flinching when Antonia’s telescoping pole smacks her on the head. She scrambles to catch it as Antonia rattles around the tool box in her truck bed.

Kris angles her steps backward, leading the zombie so it’s between her and the truck. Her gaze is drawn to the rain painting curves through the blood spatters on its neck. The arms hang limp, which gives her the courage to move in.

Hands spread wide along the pole, she walks the creature back and pins it by the neck to the truck. Head jammed upward, its teeth snap at the sky with such volume that Kris cringes. It stretches its arms, and bloody finger stubs scrabble at Kris’s blouse. She arcs away, her blood speeding down the highway of her veins.

Antonia appears over the lip of the truck bed and lines up the screwdriver. The blade plunges straight through that bright, focused eye. They both let loose a disgusted groan. Kris’s eyes water from the strain of watching that jaw snap inches away from Antonia’s wrist. The body twitches, settles, and falls limp to the ground.

“Nice!” Antonia crows, holding out a hand for Kris to slap. She manages a weak high-five, releasing a shaky sigh. She tosses the pole into the truck bed, and they clamber back inside.

The second the door opens, Tristan blurts out, “That was so cool!”

“You need to take this seriously,” Kris scolds, equally addressing Antonia who’s saying, “I know, right?!”

They round the corner toward Tristan’s house. Kris has never seen the kid’s mother, for the number of times she’s had to call about his crappy behavior. But she has met Rob, who’s dragging a petite woman by the hair. The woman screams and thrashes, kicking up mud from a browning lawn.

Numbness prickles Kris’s face. Beside her, Antonia hisses, “Oh, fuck no.”

The truck lurches.

Kris spins instinctively to make sure Tristan has his seatbelt on. His chest heaves, eyes bulging wide and face stark white. Antonia squeals to a stop in the driveway, blocking Rob’s truck parked at a haphazard slant.

“Hey.” Dark and eager, Antonia’s eyes draw Kris’s complete attention. “Let’s give him the stepfather treatment.”

Adrenaline rides the tide of Kris’s blood. She nods.

Antonia throws open the driver’s side door and Kris crawls into the back seat. She pushes Tristan’s head toward his knees in passing. “Stay. Down.” She says it beat by beat, as if the force of her words can ground him. It won’t. She hasn’t made him listen all year. There’s no magic trick to making it happen now.

As Kris slides the back window open, the woman’s anguished wailing comes into clarity: “No, please, let me go. What about Tristan?” Kris shimmies into the truck bed, chewing the inside of her cheek until she tastes blood. Rain slides off her soaked skin like glass.

“Hey!” Antonia’s shout cuts through the air, lending Kris the strength to cinch her chattering jaw shut. “Hands to yourself, fuckface!”

“Mind your own business, bitch!”

Kris unravels the orange sprayer hose on the truck. She grips it between white-knuckled hands, head down and ears perked. It’s hard to gauge what’s happening through hearing alone: footsteps, the woman wailing, the man hissing at her to shut up, Antonia issuing a “last warning.”

A bloodcurdling shriek tears from both Rob and Ms. Forrest. Kris dares to peek over the truck bed. She blinks rain rapidly from her vision. Antonia has her truck key buried handle-deep in Rob’s throat. She’s frantically deflecting one of his hairy arms away. His other is still gripping Tristan’s mother, wrenching her furiously in rage and pain. His face, purple with fury, bellows slurs and curses. There’s pleasure in Antonia’s leer as she wrenches the key and he howls. He finally releases Tristan’s mother, who collapses into a fetal position on the lawn.

Rob wrestles a hand around Antonia’s bicep. She kicks him in the balls and stumbles back toward the truck. Kris dips her head again, sucking in a steadying breath. She flinches as their combined weight slams against the truck bed. Antonia’s gasps turn into sputtered choking, and alarm singes Kris’s heart.

Not yet. Not yet. Not yet.

She needs to wait, until Antonia reverses their positions and gets him pinned. But every second feels like a lifetime, until strands of Antonia’s hair spill over the lip of the truck bed, inches from Kris’s face. She can’t get him off her.

Kris lunges onto her knees. Fire ignites her chest to see that brute with his hands around her fiancé’s throat, bending her backward by the spine. Fury tailors her movement with precision: she loops the orange hose around his neck and yanks.

His fingers scramble in a panicked flurry to his neck, and Antonia falls gasping to the ground. Kris plants her feet against the truck bed and pulls with all her strength. She knows she can do this; she’s done it before—but her own stepfather was a potbelly drunk. Rob has strength. His thick arms strain with the effort of heaving himself upward.

Kris pulls the hose to either side to maintain tension, but that doesn’t stop him from crawling forward—over the truck bed, over her. He eclipses the sky, replacing the rain with spittle dribbling down his chin and flecking her cheek. His thumbs press into the hallows of her throat. Air backs up, knotting in her swelling, burning lungs. Her heart is a squeezed juice bag about to pop. Can’t understand how he’s withstanding it, why won’t he just—

A garbled, inhuman sound thrums in his throat.

His grip loosens.

Breath skims Kris’s lungs again. Wet, warm droplets paint her eyelashes together. She lifts a rain-slick hand to wipe them. Rob is gaping, jaw ajar. He clasps a clumsy hand to his balding head, red dribbling between his fingers. Kris shoves him off her and sits up.

Tristan leans halfway out the back window, holding a hammer pilfered from Antonia’s tool box.

Kris plucks it from his tiny shaking hands, lifts it over her head, and smashes it down to dent Rob’s temple. She bashes with all her might until his eyes roll back, until his skull loses shape. Warm pleasure erupts in her chest, curling through her veins. It’s like she’s gotten revenge on her stepfather. Again.

“Think you got him, babe,” a voice rasps.

Kris brings the hammer down one last time. His head already looks like a collapsed raspberry soufflé. His blood flecks her hands, the truck bed, Tristan’s face, probably hers too. His rattling breaths have stopped altogether.

Kris glances over her shoulder to see Antonia clawing herself up, fingers rubbing a bruised neck. After giving Kris a once-over, Antonia smiles weakly at Tristan. She reaches out, touching a finger to his nose; it breaks his stricken trance and he flinches, tears swimming along his lower lids.

“Good job, little crusher,” Antonia says in a rare, soft voice. She turns her gaze on Kris, brow wrinkled with worry. “Let’s go.”

Kris nods.

Antonia unlatches the tail gate. She pulls and Kris pushes. Rob’s body crumples onto the asphalt. Kris hops down and opens the backdoor. Tristan flies out of the truck and wraps his little arms around her waist. He’s never done that before. She hugs him and whispers, “You’ve seen enough television, you’ve played enough games. You know the drill. Stay low and barricade until the worst passes. Wait, as long as you can, then start poking around empty houses. Don’t trust anyone you don’t know.”

He nods dumbly. Only needed the damn apocalypse for the kid to take directions.

After a beat of painful reluctance, Kris pushes him away and climbs into the passenger’s seat. Antonia’s hand jerks to the gear shift and the truck lurches backward. Kris scrambles for the handhold as they jolt right over Rob’s body.

Antonia winks. “Just in case.”

They run back over him and veer down the street. Kris rests her head against the cool window glass, staring through the side mirror. Tristan trudges over to his mother—still a useless huddle on the grass.

At least Rob hadn’t killed her. Kris’s mother wasn’t as lucky.

She sighs, wiping the rain and blood from her phone screen to check the highways. “Think he’ll be okay?”

“Having to take care of his mother? I dunno.” Antonia swivels to face her with an easy smile. “But he might. He’s a crusher. Like us.”

Kris hums, unsure of how she might revise her theory. After all, she’s never crushed a worm. But a worm has never deserved it.

About the Author

As an author, Ana hopes to help fill the speculative genres with lesbian heroines embarking on epic adventures. Her joint BA is in English Literature and Creative Writing from the University of Winchester, England.