CHIPS WITH SANDWICH AFTER A DAY by Greg Lammers
Alan arrived home, finally.
It had been one for the books. Over half his staff out with no explanation, not bothering to call in – phones ringing off the hook, people raving on with crazy stories. He’d heard tales of rabid neighbors, murderous friends and family, and wild mutant animals running down the streets, through alleys and yards.
He’d begun to wonder if he was being filmed for one of those twisted reality shows where some poor bastard is screwed with until they crack.
The house was empty. Sometimes he got home before his wife and daughter. He went to the fridge and got out some thin, sliced ham, American cheese, mayonnaise. and pickles. He got two slices of bread out of the sack on the counter.
He stood there leaning on the counter chewing his first bite of sandwich. Chips! He needed potato chips with this. There should be some in the cabinet. He walked to the other side of the kitchen and opened the heavy wooden door above the toaster, next to the microwave.
His daughter was a fast five-year-old, down out of the cabinet she flew, clawing and biting at his face and neck. He fell backward onto the slate tile floor, screaming in shock and pain.
He reflexively swung and punched out at her with no effect. He threatened her with every punishment he dreamed might have some effect, and screamed his wife’s name in hope of some assistance.
He was bruised and bleeding and had almost given up hope when he caught a glimpse of his wife’s legs approaching. He swung his head back to see her standing above him, her eyes dead, her mouth rimmed with dried blood, holding his Grandfather’s ax.