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middle-aged woman had on a pink cotton nightgown with a matching terrycloth robe, and fuzzy slippers that had once been white. Her graying hair was done up in tiny bristled curlers, and her entire front side, from her chin down to her feet, was mottled with dirt and blood. The most disturbing things were her gray, peeling and welted skin, and her vacant, coal black eyes. She shuffled forward with slow, dragging steps, and Cheryl thought she looked like a corpse that had been plucked from a bin at the city morgue and reanimated with batteries and cables.
    The crowd in the store parted down the middle as Mark aimed and fired. The bullet hit her square in the chest, knocking her flat on her back.
    “Mark!” Cheryl screamed. “How could you? She was sick! She was—”
    “Already dead.”
    But was she? The woman’s upper body lifted straight up, then she came to her knees. One hand was outstretched, the fingers curled up like claws, as she began crawling towards them.
    Mark aimed again.
    “No!” Cheryl grabbed the barrel of the rifle just before he fired, knocking it a few inches off course.
    The woman’s right shoulder was blown away. She wobbled back and forth on her knees then fell face forward onto the floor.
    “Why did you do that?” Mark asked, shaking the rifle at her like it was a club.
    “She was an old woman. She looked like my grandmother…”
    “I don’t care if it had been your grandmother. Don’t ever do that again!” He walked over to the woman’s body. It was quivering and jerking, flopping around like a fish in a frying pan. He put his boot on her back and fired a second time, straight into her head.
    Cheryl screamed and buried her face in her hands as blood and other detritus splattered around the room. When she looked up, Mark was staring down at the still body as if he expected it to move again.
    A man with blood-soaked cowboy boots standing near him shouted and pointed towards the back door.
    Another figure stood there—this one a young man wearing a yellow polo shirt with a logo from the pizza store next door. He snarled, baring a mouthful of teeth as Mark rushed towards him and slammed the door in his face. He held his back to it, and yelled, “Where’s the manager? Somebody lock this door…now!”
    The man with the Mario Bros. mustache rushed to the back. Mark held the door against kicks and pounds from the other side while the man fumbled to get the key in the lock. When it was secured, they walked back towards the others.
    Cheryl watched them, not enjoying seeing Mark in soldier mode, but thankful all the same.
    The manager, Gary, according to his nametag, turned to Mark. “Why didn’t you shoot him too?”
    “I don’t want to waste any bullets. I don’t know how long they need to last us.”
    “I knew him. He was a good kid. I’m glad I didn’t have to see him die.”
    “How many employees do you have here?”
    “Two. Justin and Steve.”
    “Tell them their new job duties include body removal. You got a cooler to put that in?” he asked, pointing to the woman’s sprawled body.
    “Yeah…it’s—”
    The fluorescent light that had come on when the woman had walked past the motion sensor suddenly snapped off, throwing them back into darkness. The shop was instantly quieter without the hum of the computers, refrigerator, and ovens. Then, with a whoosh , they all came back on.
    “Generator?” Mark asked.
    Gary nodded. “Yes.”
    “How long can it run?”
    “I dunno. A few hours? We’ve never needed it longer than that.”
    “Does it keep the meat cold?”
    Cheryl couldn’t see it, but she knew the store’s assembly line included bins of sliced turkey, chicken, salami, bologna, and other cold cuts. It was hard to believe that she’d been starving for a Turkey Jack just a short time ago. Now, even though she hadn’t eaten since the marshmallows last night, the thought of food made her stomach turn.
    “Yeah, sure,” Gary snorted. “Why? You need to break for a