He wanted an excuse for a long time, searched high and low for that reason to break things off with her. Then she did this: let the dog out in the midst of the zombie apocalypse.
Now he painted the walls with zombie mush–flesh, bone, and congealed blood. He blended appendages as far as the blender (an engagement gift from her mother) reached. He stabbed Cutco knives (their first large purchase together) as deep into eye sockets and skulls as he could. He used pens as pikes. He even wielded the signed Ryan Howard bat she’d given him, circa 2006, cracking and squishing the skulls and gray matter into the perfect zombie sandwich spread. Brains and peanut butter, PB&B: He thought this as he slammed their Bed Bath & Beyond frying pans together–looking like a wind-up monkey with cymbals–exploding heads into firework showers of brain fluid and blood.
The mess covered the kitchen’s wooden floors they installed themselves. The blood stained the furniture set they bought two years back. The brains splashed over the photos of their various adventures to Disneyland and Venice and Chicago that hung on the walls. The zombies ate the dog they adopted when they first moved in together.
“Get out of the way,” he screamed at her–for the hundredth time. He jabbed a broken broom handle through a zombie’s skull, pinned it to the wall. But it was too late: She’d been bitten.
He slaughtered the rest of the zombie pack–sixteen in all–smearing them across the walls, letting the mess soak into their champagne carpet, cover their bed and her favorite La-Z-Boy. Then he found her huddled in a corner, her breath slowing, shuddering.
He remembered the first time they met–playing House of the Dead at Dave & Buster’s. She sucked, died five times for every one of his.
When she finally changed, it was locked away in a closet.
He’d get to her later; he needed to clean.