originally published by Corium, November 2012
resurrected by HAD, October 2021

The blonde had dyed her hair red, so the whole thing was a shambles. Nobody knew which order to die in. The Black guy went first, that was obvious, but after that–? The old woman? The pregnant chick? The ex-Marine with a chip on his shoulder and an ax to grind? It was dispiriting for everyone. The killer burst out of the wrong bushes sometimes, forgot his knife sometimes. Once, having forgotten his shoes.

There was a storm that was supposed to come in, but then the wind changed direction and it blew out east over Kansas. The power that was supposed to flicker off and plunge everyone into darkness flickered once and then back on. It stayed on. It wouldn't quit. It was 2 a.m. and every light in the house blazed warm yellow. Instead of being murdered, everyone made burritos. The killer came and sat outside the window and remembered how when he was a young killer, just an anthill stomper really, they would have slumber parties and tell ghost stories. He sat alone in the dark shrubbery and leaned his head against the siding of the house. Inside, everyone laughed at a joke he hadn't heard.

Upstairs, the younger sister made out with the Asian dude, and the blonde-turned-redhead took a shower unmolested. She lathered her bare and glistening skin. She thought, in the morning, I'll have to run to the store. They were all out of milk. They had planned on being dead by now.