Acupuncture After The Apocalypse

Forty-eight Bags Each

What I did next was what I’d planned in the first place: I had my look around. The zombies followed me, but not menacingly close. I found tall stacks of cardboard boxes labeled as containing forty-eight bags each of Omaha Steak’s Potato Crisps; some men’s clothes not very well folded, sitting lumpily on shelves in a supply closet. And there was a stack of red, white and blue political posters reading “Ramsey for Mayor.”

I didn’t dare take the time to rifle through papers, though there were a few tempting stacks. I couldn’t do anything that would take longer than three and a half minutes. As I prepared to exit, I reached into my pocket, and removed a business card. It was from one of my acupuncture clients, an attorney named Omar Assef. I tossed it down on the counter. “Tell your boss I stopped by.”

The zombies nodded. They seemed eager to be helpful, though whether to me or to Beefcake, I couldn’t be sure.

Jill Riddell is a writer in Chicago. She teaches at the School of the Art Institute and has a weakness for nature, magic, and pennies abandoned in sidewalk cracks.