Good morning, everyone!
It’s no secret that I’m a big fan of The Walking Dead. Yesterday I got a peek at Entertainment Weekly’s four covers for The Walking Dead’s third season. Wow! I can’t wait.
Since I’m in a walking dead frame of mind, here’s one of my own zombie apocalypse stories about one tough little girl. I hope you enjoy “Ella and Mo.”
ELLA AND MO
Copyright © 2011 Annie Reed
Published by Thunder Valley Press
Cover art Copyright Igor Shmatov | Dreamstime.com
Cover and layout Copyright © 2011 Thunder Valley Press
I met Ella when me and Jimbo come outta one of them flat-top houses a couple of miles off The Strip. Jimbo had his arms full of stupid shit he thought he could sell. Me? I had a couple of cans of tuna somebody left behind because they was dented. These days, tuna’s worth more in Vegas than blurays and TVs and jewelry, but there was no telling Jimbo that.
Ella got the drop on us ’cause we wasn’t paying close enough attention. See, those sick fuckers that want to eat everybody don’t come out much during the day. Too damn hot in Vegas for ’em. Too damn hot in Vegas for everybody now that the power don’t work right half the time and the AC ain’t on, but I’d rather be hot than hungry, and Jimbo, he’d rather be rich than anything. So we always did our business during the day when we didn’t have to worry so much about something that used to be alive wanting to eat us.
I don’t know what Ella was doing that day. She never said and I never asked. All I know is that one minute me and Jimbo was walking past some old lady’s garden gnome sitting as pretty as you please in the middle of a stand of cactus in her front yard, feeling pretty proud of ourselves even though the sweat was pouring off us, and the next minute I see this kid with a gun standing next to my car.
She never said a word before she pointed her gun at Jimbo and blew a hole clean through his left shoulder. Jimbo screamed, and her next shot hit him in that open maw of his mouth. He quit screaming then and fell to the sidewalk like a sack of raw meat, smack on top of all that worthless shit he’d been carrying. That was it for Jimbo.
Then that little kid pointed her gun at me.
“I want your car,” she said.
Anybody else might have yelled or run or laughed at her. ‘Cept for that gun, she wasn’t much to look at. Even before the creepers—that’s what Jimbo called those sick, dead fuckers—turned the world upside down, nobody took a little kid wearing a Red Riding hood cape and carrying a gun half as big as she was seriously. Me? I’m a survivor. My old Mustang and me might have logged a lot of miles together, but a car’s just a car, so I said, “Yes, ma’am,” and held out the keys.
(read the rest of the story here)