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snack.” She gestured at the sofa.

  Her guest goggled, bewildered.

  “Sit.” She pantomimed, jutting her posterior toward the couch. Then spun him and gave a persuasive push, applying gentle pressure until his knees bent. The zombie plopped onto a cushion. “That’s it!” The lady applauded, relishing his masquerade.

  The zombie perched like a stiff with an uncertain visage. Nelle turned on the television for him and merrily ambled to her kitchen, feeling eager to fix a meal for the first time in many years. She had loved to cook. It was in some people’s blood, a talent, a knack, whether male or female. Peculiar how you could bury yourself and live in denial that you were alive. She hummed, taking a clean plate out of a cupboard, swinging the refrigerator door wide. Oops. She had given him the last slices of bread. What could she make? There were cans of soup in a cabinet. No, she wanted to prepare something herself. She opened cans for her cats. All it required was a can-opener. Sometimes less, merely popping a tab.

  A feline rubbed her leg, purring. “Hey, Tom,” she greeted. Not very original. She had run out of names and inspiration, resorting to cartoon cats. Garfield, Sylvester, Felix. Then the names of characters from the T.V. shows that she idly viewed to pass the time.

  In her younger days she had been fiercely independent, growing up without kin, without the love and close bond of family. Nelle had been alone in the world then as now. Only then she had hope, and a heart that still beat. Now she had cats.

  When she met Paul, the woman dared to trust . . . she dared to believe she could be happy. Then dared to take life for granted and feel secure. She became a wife, a mother. But that was asking too much of the universe. How could anyone be so blessed? It was a cruel joke!

  Her gaiety fizzled. Tears of self-pity shimmered. A glass shattered, cutting her palm as she poured prune juice, the sole beverage in the fridge. Blood and juice splashed the linoleum. She was shivering and set the bottle on the table to hug herself. You have company, she reminded. And filled another glass with tap-water from the faucet. Upset, she ripped a packet of toaster tarts and dumped them on the plate, sacrificing her breakfast. She had company, after all.

  Nelle bore the offering to the living-room with the solemnity and gait of a funeral procession. A newscaster with a dour expression droned about the latest calamity. His words cracked her preoccupied shell as she lowered the plate and glass in front of her guest. “Witnesses confirm that the zombie virus can be transmitted by a bite. The plague has infected an estimated thirty-five to forty percent of the population, within a dozen or so hours since the earliest reports of the outbreak. Residents are advised to remain indoors. Barricade every entry and access point. There is a state of emergency in effect. Stay tuned to this station for further instructions.”

  The woman listened rigidly, jaw slack. A zombie virus? That sounded like the movies her son watched. It didn’t sound like the Evening News! Was it a hoax? References to a Zombie Apocalypse were common lately. Had it come true, or was this some sort of Halloween prank? Yes, that must be it, like the stunts they pulled for April Fool’s.

  Nelle wheeled and shrieked. The motley trick-or-treating zombie had risen. It dawned on her that his uncanny make-up and hand gag were not theatrical; they were authentic.

  “Ohhh . . . hello.” She flashed a grim smile.

  He grinned back, or seemed to, a vicious guttural keening in his throat.

  Her wound dripped on the rug. The odor of blood incensed him.

  The survival instinct was strong, and Nelle found herself afraid. Yet she had given up on ever seeing her family again. If she believed they might return, she would struggle until her final breath to stay alive. They must have died, or why didn’t they come back for her?

  Like zombies, alien abductions had been a popular topic. During the apex of interest and speculation, her family was taken. Paul and Danny were driving home from the cinema. A zombie film, of course. To her eternal regret, she lied and said she had a headache. She wasn’t into Horror and wanted to see a show on T.V. They were labeled Missing Persons. There were sightings of strange lights in the sky the same night. She knew what happened. Everyone else thought she was nuts. The local kook. They didn’t believe in extra-terrestrials, yet they expected her to believe that zombies were real. Staring face to face with one, she simply didn’t care. It was too late.

  Her pets tried to protect her. The scaredy-cats who fled, who cowered in hiding as the perilous creature invaded their well-marked territory. Myriad felines now filtered out of every nook and shadow; from beneath furniture, behind walls. Their banshee cries united in a singular voice the town would heed with trepidation; thereafter, wonder at in whispers.

  The pusses consumed the zombie, scratching and nibbling him to shreds. They gobbled their mistress once she mutated, resurrecting, her familiar scent modified.

  You might be curious, did biting a zombie infect them the same as being bitten?

  A horde of cats slunk from the small door of the oak portal. They separated, rippling through darkness to hunch on prominent posts like sentinels, licking their paws, eyes luminous and alert. In folklore they were deemed both good or bad luck. If you heard them at night, it augured death.

  Beware the cat’s bloodcurdling howl. You could be next . . .