Front Porch Apocalypse
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Four years. That's how long it took Democrats to ruin our economy and plunge our southern border into anarchy. Who helped them hurt us? Ruben Gallego. Washington could have cut taxes for Arizona families, but Ruben blocked the bill. And his fellow Democrats gave a bigger break to the millionaire class in California and New York. They played favorites and cost us billions. And Ruben wasn't done yet.

We'll be right back.

Carrie and the Republicans will secure the border, support our families, and never turn their backs on us. Carrie Lake for Senate. I'm Carrie Lake, candidate for U.S. Senate, and I approve this message. Paid for by Carrie Lake for Senate and the NRSC.

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One nice thing about the apocalypse is the worry over morning breath goes right out the fucking window. So I don't think twice about huffing my sourness in the face of the young smartass who thinks he's a soldier. Not that I would have cared before the whole place went to shit. "I already told you," I say. "I ain't leaving my property." The kid, I think he's a corporal, but I don't know. I never served.

Something about my psyche, Val, not being up to snuff. Like some army doctor is the one to be judging my sanity. Or anyone's sanity. Anyway, the kid sighs and looks back over his shoulder. "Don't be looking to your army buddies to save you," I say. "They can't get me to leave, neither." "National Guard, sir," the kid says. "We're not regular army, sir."

"Then that means you're irregular, and you can take your irregular asses right on down the street," I say. "I ain't leaving my property." "I know, sir," the kid says. He's really exasperated now. Looks like he might cry. I wouldn't doubt it one bit if he starts spilling tears the way his generation is.

"We're not asking you to leave your property," the kid continues. "We're asking you to stay on your property, preferably inside your house, until the CDC is able to identify the issue and fix it." "Contain it," I say. "You said 'contain' the first time." "Right," the kid replies. "Contain, but hopefully fix. Until then, the governor, with the president's authorization, has declared martial law." He reaches into his breast pocket and pulls out a business card.

A goddamn business card. What's this world come to when the military is acting like a bunch of corporate douchebags by handing out business cards? On the front are the rules. Please follow them closely, sir, he says. For your safety. I snort and read the card. One, stay within the bounds of your property unless you have express permission to leave. I stop reading right there.

"What about all the moms and dads passing by my house each day with their little snot noses, huh?" "They got permission." I pick a piece of bacon for my teeth and spit it on the ground by his boots. "Do they?" "Yes, sir, they do," the kid says. "And they are carefully watched." "Carefully watched," I say with a snort, then keep on reading. "Two, you must provide proof of any permissions received."

3. All residents are required to be indoors by sundown. No exceptions. 4. Food and water will be provided every third day. Special requests will be considered, but may not be honored due to limited supplies. 5. If you have specific medical needs or require medical attention, please call 911. The emergency service is now operated by the Army National Guard.

6. While it is not our intention, the use of force may be necessary if the above rules are not followed. I read the card a couple of times then flip it over. "My name's Corporal Hollenbeck," the kid says. "My number is right there, sir. Please call me if you have any questions. We'd rather answer questions first and clear up any issues than make a mistake and use deadly force when it could have been avoided." This generation, I swear.

All the polite disclaimers they say to save their own egos. It don't matter a goddamn lick whether or not I ask any questions first. If the government wants to come in shooting, then they'll come in shooting. I wish them good luck with that, considering. I let the card fall from my fingers and land in the overgrown grass at my feet. My lips turn up in a smile, but I ain't happy. That's for damn sure. "That's a Remington 870," the kid says, looking at the shotgun I cradle in my arms.

"You duck hunt? This is the home defense model," I say. "Bought this just before the vid hit. Good thing I did. You couldn't find one even three states down during lockdown." I snort and sneer at the kid. Never thought I'd need it for another one. "Sir, I can assure you this is a lot different than COVID," the kid says. I just keep sneering. "All in back, let's go!" One of his army buddies shouts from the Humvee parked in front of my house. "We got eight more blocks to hit for fuck's sake!"

"Be careful with that, sir," the kid says, nodding at my shotgun. "Don't you worry none about me," I say. "You have a good day now." "You too, sir," the kid says, then joins his buddies and off they go. I watch the Humvee drive a few houses down, picking up other kids playing army along the way. Then they keep going and take the corner and are lost from sight. Good goddamn riddance.

I look down at the business card half hidden in my grass. I kick at it with the toe of my boot. "Son of a bitch." I mutter as I bend down and pick the card up. "You need to mow your lawn." The screeching voice calls from across the street. The widow Bollinger has come out onto her front porch. "Bitch." "Yeah, I'll get right on that." I say as I tuck the business card into my front pocket. Now that my hand is free, I give the widow a wave. It's a one-finger wave.

and I don't really wave so much as I hold that finger up high so she can see it clearly. I don't want any misunderstandings when I'm trying to be neighborly. "Right back at ya!" Widow Bollinger says, returning my salute. I can't help but chuckle as I make my way across my lawn and up onto my front porch. It's been a morning, I'll say that, with weary bones already the wearier from dealing with that government bullshit. I plop into my rocking chair and rest my shotgun across my legs.

On my left side is a faded red cooler filled with cans of Youngling. About the only beer I drink anymore, now that all the American companies have been bought up by foreign corporations. Never trust foreign beer. They put stuff in it to make you weak like Europe. On the side of me is a long blue cooler. Ain't no drinks in that one. Nope. That's where I keep the boxes of extra shells for my shotgun.

I also keep an AR-15, two Smith & Wesson 45 semi-automatics, and an MR Desert Eagle, which, if I'm being honest, I'm not sure these old wrists can even handle anymore. That baby gives quite a kick, but I got it in that cooler with my other firearms, along with enough ammo for everything to last me until Gabriel blows that horn and Jesus comes down from on high with his fiery sword, ready to smite the wicked.

Not that I'm much for church or scripture, but damn, wouldn't that be a sight to see. I check my watch. 10 AM in the morning, time for breakfast. I lean to my left and open that faded red cooler. The ice is already halfway melted.

I'll need to drain out the water and top it off by lunch, otherwise the beer will start to warm up. And I ain't drinking warm beer, even if it is American. The hiss and fizz of the beer as I crack the can open just fills me with joy. Is there any greater sound? "Sheldon!" Widow Bollinger yells from her own front porch. "You better eat something before you open a second!" Damn woman is always trying to tell me what to do.

I get it that she lost her husband last year to the cancer, but that don't mean she gets to start using me as her target for all her nagging and never-ending judgment. There's a thousand reasons I didn't get married, and Harpies like her is at the top of the list. "Too late!" I yell and hold up the can. "I already had one with my coffee this morning." I chug the beer, crush the can, and throw the empty onto the pile at the far end of my porch.

It bounces off the side of the pile and falls through the broken slats of the porch railing, landing with a few others down in the weeds and dead rose bushes. Without taking my eyes off the woman, I reach back into the cooler, pull out another beer, crack it, and take a nice long sip. "Ah, so damn good," I say loudly. Widow Bollinger gives me the middle finger once more, then shuffles over to her own rocking chair and practically falls into it.

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One day she's gonna miss and break a hip. She better not cry for any help from me. No way. I'll let that bitch die before I waste my time trying to help her. We both sit on our respective porches, rocking the morning away. I drink beer. She glares at me.

I get up a couple of times to piss off the porch, hoping that'll drive her inside. It don't. By about one in the afternoon, much to my annoyance, the neighborhood gets active. Parents with kids walk past my house on their way to the park two blocks away. Moms with strollers, dads giving piggybacks. Ain't they all just a bunch of happy fools? "Afternoon, Mr. Gibbons," a woman says as she and her two kids pause at my front gate. "Did the army come by and talk to you too?"

"Some snot-nosed kid with a gun and a soldier costume came by, yeah." I reply. "Gave me a goddamn business card. You ever hear of such a thing?" She winces at my cursing. They all do. Gotta protect those innocent ears. "Yes, well, I was wondering what you think about the sundown curfew." She says. Her kids are squirming. The one in her arms is a cute little girl with blonde hair and dark brown eyes. She could be three or four.

The one on the ground is a boy, maybe five or six or something like that. What do I know about kids and ages? Jack shit, that's what. Anyway, the boy is busy yanking up weeds that have sprouted outside my gate. Better him than me is all I can say. "Curfew!" I say in snort. "What are they gonna do? Shoot me?"

The mom looks nervous. I can't ever remember her name. I can't remember any of their names. Just moms and dads and little brats. Although, that little girl sure is cute. She always gives me a big smile. "I believe they may arrest you," the mom says. "Well, they can sure try," I say and fish out another beer. What is this? Six? Seven? Ten? I don't know. Counting is for nerds. She keeps standing there, staring at me.

"Something you need?" I ask. "My husband." She starts to say. Then I swear to God she chokes up and has to look away. "Yeah?" I ask and belch. "What about him? He at work right now?" She shakes her head. "No. His office shut down when they quarantined the town." "Sounds reasonable." I say and sip some more. The little girl waves at me. I scrunch up my face and stick out my tongue. She giggles. Dang, she's cute.

"My husband was taken to the hospital last night," the mom says. That gets my attention. "What was that?" Widow Bollinger shouts from her porch. "Does he have the Krusties?" That's what they're calling it. The Krusties. When it first appeared in our town, no one had a clue as to what was going on or where it came from. As far as I know, it ain't spread nowhere else. Just us lucky SOBs here in good old Bixburg.

Folks started getting dry skin around their lips and eyes. Then it spread. Before people knew it, their entire bodies was covered in what looked like scales. "I ain't shitting ya. Folks grew scales." They started calling us Ground Zero. But I can say this place has always been a zero. The mom turns around and shields her eyes from the afternoon sun. "Yes, ma'am," she says to Widow Bollinger.

They are pretty sure they got it early. I'm hoping to go see them tomorrow or the next day. They said they'd call me." Even from across the street, the widow and I share a look. Mama ain't never getting that call. "Shouldn't you be back at home?" Widow Bollinger asks, and I know what she's really asking. "Why the fuck are you and your little germ factories walking around the neighborhood if you have been exposed to the Krusties?"

Jesus H. Christ and all his pogo sticks. This woman could kill us all. The army said that close contact isn't how it spreads, the mom says. They say there has to be some sort of exchange of fluids like a bite. The widow and I both snort loudly. The mom swallows hard and tries to smile as she looks back and forth between us.

Well, I'm sure it'll all be fine. I say with enough sarcasm in my voice that the little boy stops pulling up my weeds and grabs his mama's hand instead. I give the kid a wink, but he don't care. He's too busy hiding behind his mama's legs. It'll be just fine, Widow Bollinger calls out. What you needing, hon? The mom looks nervous as all hell, and not just because I've been giving her shit. I was hoping, Mr. Gibbons...

"Maybe you could show me how to shoot you," she says. Now, I gotta say, that ain't what I was expecting to come out of her mouth. I narrow my eyes and study her for a second. Then I nod, set my shotgun to the side and stand up. Woo, a little wobbly from drinking and sitting so long. But I get it under control and lean my forearms on the porch railing. "You got a gun?" I ask because no way am I letting her have one of mine. "Yes, sir," she says.

It's a shotgun like yours. My husband's. He duck hunts. Good for him, I say. It American? I'm sorry? She asks. The shotgun, I say. Is it American or one of them foreign models? I don't know, she answers. Well, I tell you what, I say and stand up straight. I reach back and grab my shotgun and cradle it in my arms. You bring it by tomorrow and I'll have a look at it.

"Thank you," she says. "Don't thank me yet," I reply. "I said I'd have a look at it. I didn't say I'd teach you how to use it. I want to look first." "Okay, I understand," she says, nodding up and down like a fool. I can tell she don't understand shit. I'll look at the shotgun, and if it ain't foreign, then I'll see if it's even worth showing her.

Some folks can't handle guns. They're more likely to shoot themselves or their pretty little girls than shoot any threat. "We'll see," I say. "Bye now." To her credit, she gets the hint and goes on her way to the park to join the rest of the clueless. The widow and I share a look again after Mama and the kids are out of earshot. "What do you suppose she knows that we don't?" Widow Bollinger shouts. I shrug, then turn and walk inside.

Time for a roast beef sandwich. The sun is just about to set as I finish grilling up some hamburgers I had in the fridge. I slap those patties between some buns with nothing but ketchup on the side. Patties, buns, ketchup. If the beef is good, then you let the beef be the star. Ain't no need to turn around when I hear the engine rev from down the street. I take a huge bite of burger with my back to the street. The engine gets closer, then brakes squeal, and I hear it idling in front of my house.

"Sir?" A voice calls to me. "What?" I ask without turning around. "Curfew is in effect, sir." The voice says. With my mouth full of burger, I turn and stare at the same damn kid that was here this morning. I stare and chew, stare and chew. Then I swallow and take another bite, starting the whole thing all over again. Stare and chew, stare and chew.

Sir, you need to go inside, please. The kid says, Hollenbach, was it? I ask around a mouthful of meat and bread and ketchup. Yes, sir. He replies, Corporal Hollenbach. Well, Hollenbach, I like to sit out on my front porch and watch the fireflies. I say, so you have a good evening now.

"Sir, all residents are required to be inside after sundown," he says, and takes a look over his shoulder at the last bit of pink light reflecting off the clouds. "Which is in about five minutes. I am inside," I say. Stare and chew, stare and chew. "You must be behind closed doors," he says. "Please, sir." I glance past him at his buddies waiting in the idling Humvee. There are three waiting. Two of them are ignoring me and chatting away.

The third is eye-fucking me hard. I ain't afraid of this hollandback. I ain't really afraid of none of them. The eye-fucker can try to glare me down all he wants. "I'll finish up my dinner and head inside," I say. "I appreciate that, sir," the kid says. He looks around like he has a secret, then clears his throat. "Just in case you decide to change your mind, patrols will be driving by every hour on the half hour.

"Every hour on the half hour?" I ask and laugh. Burger flies from between my lips. "Yes, sir," the kid answers. "Good to know," I say. "Now, like I already said, you have a good evening." The kid hesitates, then backs up as the eye fucker starts smacking his hand on the side of the Humvee. "Let's go, Hollenbeck!" the eye fucker shouts. I watch them drive off, then I turn back to my burgers.

I got two more to go and a cooler freshly stocked with beer. Seems like a fine time to have a seat and enjoy the night. Of course, the widow Bollinger has other plans. As soon as that Humvee has gone around the corner, the old bitch shuffles out onto her porch and takes a seat in a rocking chair. "Why are you always fighting them?" she shouts at me. "Just let them drive by, then come outside. It ain't rocket science, Sheldon.

"When your husband died, was it really the cancer? Or did he just forget he couldn't look you in the face without turning to stone?" I shout back. "Asshole!" She yells. With a chuckle, I sit down and finish off my burgers. Then I crack open a beer and ease myself into my rocking chair.

Now, I'm gonna be honest. I have no plans to be outside on this front porch too much after the sun goes down. That ain't a good idea. I seen what happens to folks that decide otherwise. My next door neighbors on the right tried it one night and they got themselves in a heap of trouble. And by a heap of trouble, I mean some crusties came up and ripped them to shreds. I ain't saying they just killed them. No, no, no. Those crusties turned them folks into stew meat right before my eyes.

This was early on before we knew our little town was already being targeted and talked about by the idiots in Washington. By the time we got shut off from the rest of America, I'd say half the houses in this town had sleeping crusties in them just waiting for night to come. The first week the military showed up was nothing but door kicking and gunfire. But I know they didn't get them all. Shit, they know they didn't get them all.

Probably why they's so scared all the time. Yeah, anyway. I wasn't lying when I said I like to sit out on my porch and watch the fireflies. But I ended up seeing a hell of a lot more than some bug asses blinking away that night. It was dark and I saw the Krustys climb over the neighbor's gate. White picket gate, of course. The fact they didn't open the gate and climbed over should have clued me in right there and then. But like I said, it was the beginning of the apocalypse.

I just thought the people was being weird like people are. The neighbors were neighborly and stood up and waved to the Krustys. When the Krustys didn't wave back, they started asking them questions. When the Krustys didn't answer the questions, the neighbors began to panic a little. They should have panicked a lot. Those Krustys raced up those porch steps faster than a plot hound treeing a bear. Before I could even shout, the blood was already flying.

I went inside that night, locked and barred the doors. And haven't spent a single night outside since. I'm ornery, not stupid. So once the sun is all set, I finish off my beer, scrape off and cover my grill. Then grab up the coolers, one for beer, one for guns, and head inside for some shut-eye. Ain't like I can watch TV. No sir. The National Guard has us all cut off.

No TV and no phones except for local calls, which I ain't quite sure how they make that happen with these fancy cell phones. But I guess it's the government, so they can do all sorts of crazy things, and especially no internet. But what they can't stop are radio waves. They try to jam them, but I got an antenna up on my roof, so I can pick up that old country and western station on the AM.

With Harper Valley PTA playing in the background, I brush my teeth and double check all my doors are barred. And I do mean barred. I got two by fours across each and every door. I do worry a little about my windows since they ain't boarded up or nothing. But so far, I ain't seen the Krusty's try windows. After I spit and rinse, I go turn the radio off and head off to bed. That's when I hear the sound, a scratching like fingernails on wood coming from my front porch.

I have my shotgun up to my shoulder in a blink. Then I walk around the house and make sure every light is off. Once that's done, I stand in my hallway and listen. I know what's out there, I just don't know how many. After a few minutes of the scratching, I figure it's just one of them. The damn thing better not even think of sitting in my rocker. I don't need no scaly ass putting its germs where I sit. I take a few steps toward the front door. The scratching stops.

Listening hard, I move from room to room. Crusties don't just leave, they like to check a place out. I don't know if they's hunting or what, but they never just walk away after one try. I can't see nothing outside the windows, even with all my lights off. But by the time I'm in my kitchen, the scratching has started up again. I open the door to the mudroom and aim my shotgun at the outside door.

There, peering in between the 2x4s, I see slitted eyes. Snake eyes. Because crusties don't just get scales. They get the snake eyes too. One day science will explain that shit to me. But for now I don't give a flying wet fart. Scaly skin with snake eyes makes about as much sense as everything else happening these days. The eyes watch me. I watch the eyes. Then the scratching becomes louder.

It gets stronger and stronger. Then it turns to pounding. The glass window in my back door cracks, but I don't retreat. I'm the one with the shotgun, not the thing out there. And I ain't seen nothing, scales or not, come back from a short-range blast from a 3-inch Magnum shell. The eyes watch me. I watch the eyes. Then after a few minutes, the thing is gone. But I don't leave. I keep waiting.

When I don't hear or see nothing for a good 30 minutes, I finally lower my shotgun and head off to bed. I'm thinking I may board up the windows tomorrow, just in case. It's afternoon by the time I finish boarding up my windows. The lady and her kids haven't come by yet. I glance up into the sky and guess it to be maybe 4:30 or so. Most of the clueless moms have walked to the park and back already. Although, I gotta say, there were a lot fewer of them than I've been seeing.

Maybe about half as many, maybe less. "She's got kids," Widow Bollinger shouts. "She probably had to stay home because one of them is in a mood. So what?" I shout back. "She don't want to bring me that shotgun of hers. What do I care? I bet she'll be by tomorrow," Widow Bollinger says. I reply by letting loose a loud fart just after I open a fresh beer.

"You are one disgusting animal, Sheldon Gibbons!" Widow Bollinger yells, like she ain't sitting and farting all day herself. I can hear them all the way across the street. The Humvee pulls up out front. "Great." "Hello, sir," the kid says. "I guess I'm on his route now." "We have cases of water for you." "What the hell do I need cases of water for?" I ask, not bothering to get up. "That's why God made taps."

The kid responds, "I don't say nothing." He fidgets a bit. It's fun to see him squirm. "Just put the water on the sidewalk," Eyefucker yells from inside the Humvee. "Let's go!"

So the kid does just that. He goes to the back of the Humvee and unloads one, two, then three cases of bottled water and leaves them on the sidewalk. He waves and gets into the Humvee. I don't wave back. They left me four. Widow Bollinger shouts from her porch. That's because they know dried out old crones like you need more moisture. I shout back.

An explosion at the west end of town causes me to jump, and the widow cackles like she's watching a sitcom. But in seconds, a huge, black cloud billows up into the air. That stops the widow's cackling, all right. We both watch the skyline for a while. That looks like where the hospital is. I shout loud enough for the bitch to hear me over the sirens that fill the air. She don't respond, but I see her head nodding when I tear my eyes away from the black cloud. A few minutes later, the smell hits our road.

"Jesus Christ!" I say and cover my nose. "Smells like an outhouse and slaughterhouse done fucked and burst into flames!" Soon the smoke is drifting over the whole town. "Feel free to keep breathing that shit!" I say to the widow as I gather my stuff up. "But I'm calling it!" I'm only inside for about 10 minutes when I hear engines revving and racing by. I look out through my front window and see Humvee after Humvee racing down the street. Except they ain't racing toward the explosion.

They's racing away from it. That ain't good. One of the Humvees stops in front of my house and I see the kid jump out. He unloads two plastic crates from the back of the Humvee and leaves them on the sidewalk. Then he's back in the Humvee and the thing is racing off to catch up with the others. I soak a bandana in water and wrap it around my nose and mouth. Then I run outside to the sidewalk and pop open one of the crates.

Food, medical supplies, some sort of water filtration tablets, and a whole lot of matches and other shit. I open the other one and it's the same. "One of them is mine!" Widow Bollinger yells at me. "Then come get it!" I yell back as I lift a crate and walk back to my porch. I turn and see her hobbling down her steps. I pray for her to fall, but she don't. When my front door closes behind me, I set the crate down and bar the door.

Then I take the crate into the kitchen and leave it there so I can hurry back and watch the fun. Son of a bitch! The widow has her garage open and is wheeling a goddamn dolly across the road. I get a few laughs as she struggles to get the crate on the dolly, but my laughs die away as she finally manages it and easily rolls that dolly with the crate back across the road, right into her garage. As the garage door rolls down, I see a fist stick out with a middle finger extended.

Then the garage door slams all the way closed and I go back to the kitchen. I kill some time taking an inventory of the crate's contents. The medical supplies could be useful, but hell if I'll eat any of the food. It's all military. What do you call them? MREs? You know, those pouches filled with shit the government considers edible. I get everything put away because what else am I going to do? Then I go back to the front room and plop down on my couch so I can watch out the front window.

which now has a board across it. Well, shit. Okay, I got an idea. I take the bar off the front door, hurry outside into the stink, and grab my rocking chair. Then I set the chair in my hallway just past the door. Now I can look outside, and if any trouble comes by, all I have to do is kick the door closed. I sit there, wet bandana 'round my face, shotgun on my lap, beer cooler to my left, gun cooler to my right, and wait.

Not a soul goes by, just wafts of smoke now and again. The smell is creeping inside the house, but not a lot I can do about that. This house is so old it has more cracks than solid bits these days anyway, so it ain't as if the door being closed would keep the stink out. The widow is on her porch and shouts something at me. "I can't understand you with that damn scarf on your face!" I yell. She pulls it down and yells, "Sun's going down!"

"I can see that woman!" I yell back. "Get your old bony ass inside!" "I ain't going in until you do!" She yells. "I am inside, you dumb-" But I don't finish because I see movement out in the street. I lean forward and can't believe my eyes. Krusty's is out before the sun has gone down. The widow Bollinger has seen them too, and she lifts up her own shotgun, probably one of them Mossbergs, not a Remington like mine. Why ain't she going inside?

I stand and wave at her in a shooing motion. She shoos me back. Damn the woman! I shove my rocker down the hall out of the way, then move my gun cooler closer to the door. With my shotgun to my shoulder, I step out onto my porch for a better look at the street. I'm just gonna take a peek, then get my ass inside. Except what I see breezes my feet to the warped boards of my porch. The whole street is filled with crusties, and they're coming from both directions.

Far off I hear gunfire, then screams. Then I hear gunfire and screams, and it ain't so far off. I shoo the widow again. She flips me off without lowering her shotgun. Jesus, how many are there? Looks like the whole fucking town. This ain't good. I'm about to say fuck it and go inside. I can barricade myself down in my basement and wait until the… well, I was gonna say morning. But it ain't looking like that matters much anymore.

I take a step back inside. Then I stop when I see her. That cute little girl. She's walking along with the crusties like she's out for a walk with her mama. I didn't know the little thing could walk yet. I only seen her in her mama's arms. God damn it. I gotta do something. I can't just leave that cute little girl out there. I'm thinking. Thinking on what to do when life decides for me. The little girl sees me and giggles.

Then she points at me, and all the Krusty's heads turn my way. And here I thought me and that cute little thing had a connection. You see? This is why you can't trust people, nun. Even the cute ones is gonna turn on you. "Get off my lawn!" Widow Bollinger screams, then opens fire as a group of Krusty's bust through her gate and run towards her porch.

Ah shit, here we go! I drag my gun cooler out onto the porch, take aim with my shotgun, and wait for the Krusties to get in range. The little girl is lost from sight as dozens of the damn things break my gate and come for me. Do I let them have it? I'd probably drop six or seven before I have to reload. Except there ain't no time for that! The Krusties is running over the dead ones and almost at my porch steps. I kick open that gun cooler and grab out my AR-15.

Don't you tell me these things ain't for home defense. I flick off the safety and squeeze the trigger. My first three rounds go wild, then it's headshot after headshot once I'm dialed in. Oh boy, it's like shooting turkeys in a barrel. Them crusties is dropping like flies. The AR clicks empty, and I pop out the empty mag, snag a fresh one out of my cooler, and keep firing.

But there's just too many of the bastards. The AR clicks empty again, but I ain't got time for a new magazine. I drop the rifle and pull out the two .45s from the cooler. I double fist those fuckers and squeeze the triggers until both guns click empty. The Widow Bollinger screams, but I can't see what's happening across the street. No way I'm taking my eyes off these snake-eyed motherfuckers. I hear a last shotgun blast and my insides turn a bit.

That sounded a little like the Widow going out on her own terms. Which, as I look at the dozens of Krusty still coming for me, don't sound like such a bad idea. I grab my last gun from the cooler. The Desert Eagle. Damn, the thing is heavy. I take aim and fire, but I ain't got my feet braced right, and I lose my balance as the recoil nearly breaks my wrists. I stumble back, trip over my empty gun cooler, and fall flat on my ass. That's when I hear the giggle.

The crusties are on my porch now and waddling between their legs, that cute little girl. Except, she ain't so cute no more. Them beautiful brown eyes are slits now. Those rosy cheeks are nothing but scales. And her blonde hair is wispy and falling out right there on my porch. The crusties all hold back a little and let the girl get through them until she's standing in front of me. I'm still on my ass, my feet out. The desert eagle aimed for the girl's face. What are they doing?

The little monster smiles at me, and all I see is fangs filling her mouth. She just stands there. Then I understand as a scaly hand touches her shoulder. I look at the hand and follow up the arm until I see the face of the Krusty. It's the girl's mama, I think. And she ain't here for a shooting lesson. Fuck me, I get it. I see it now. She's teaching her little one to hunt. To kill. It'd be cute as shit if I weren't the damn prey.

"Sorry, sweetie," I say, "but you ain't learning on me." As the girl pounces, I flip the Desert Eagle around and tuck the barrel up under my chin. I wish I could have had one more beer. American, of course. The last thing I see are snake eyes and a mouthful of fangs.