1. The Ungrateful Guinea Pig

“The guinea pig and I are enemies,” I told Mina, my blue pit bull, as I gathered a small carrot and some lettuce from our backyard garden. “He besieges himself, but sees me as the besieger. And when he needs food or water — fuck me — those squeals and whistles echo through the house at a volume seemingly impossible for such a runt. The little bastard is ungrateful.”

“As are all living things,” Mina replied.

“You never seem so,” I said.

“Let me revise,” Mina said. “Gratitude is fleeting. We are grateful in the moment. Then the feeling leaves because we need or want again.”

“Your platitude doesn’t differentiate,” I argued. “Regardless, the rat is never grateful.”

“Because he is entitled,” Mina said, “and you must acknowledge the difference to understand him.”

“Come with me.”

“Okay,” she wagged her tail, “just don’t accuse me of banality again. I was attempting to engage you in a meaningful way despite my boredom with the topic.”

“You want a treat?”

Mina danced around me and licked her jowls as we walked through the house. I gave her a biscuit and her indignity disappeared. We made our way to the living room and the guinea pig’s cage. I looked inside. As always, his food bowl was flipped over and he was hiding in his chewed up pine hut. I opened the cage, righted the bowl, and placed the produce.

“Hey, rat!” I called.

“Fuck you!” he growled.

“Come out. We need to talk.”

“I will end you, motherfucker!”

“This is always pointless,” Mina said. “You will curse at him and pull him from his home and try to pet him. He will gnash his teeth, spit at you, and threaten to kill you again before he succumbs to one of his agoraphobic panic attacks.”

“I know,” I sighed, “but maybe if I can understand him — as you say — I won’t hate him so much.”

“Understanding does not equal acceptance,” she said.

“I don’t want to hate him.”

“What’s the difference?” Mina asked. “He will squeal and you will feed him. He will whistle and you will water him. Your hate is irrelevant.”

I laughed, “I feed him because I hate the squealing.”

“You feed him because he needs.”

“I could kill him,” I said.

“No,” the dog said, “you are cruel in certain ways, perhaps necessary ways. But not that way.”

Before I could reply, the cat entered the room and purred, “What’s up, cunts?”

“Pardon me,” Mina smiled, “I have my own futility in which to engage.” She whined and snapped to her play-with-me position.

The cat hissed and jetted away.

The dog pursued.

The guinea pig screamed, “Get off my lawn!”

I closed the cage and turned to see that my wife had entered the living room. Her favorite grenade launcher was strapped to her back, her cargo pants bulged with explosive rounds, and her tactical vest was stuffed with magazines for the rifle she slung. Matching Bowie knives hung from her hips and her blue curls cascaded from beneath an antique doughboy helmet. “Come on, Jack,” she said, “we have inbound.”

“Where’s our son?” I asked.

“Upstairs on the front balcony with the machine gun.”

“He’s only ten, Betty.”

“Well,” she shrugged, “he’s already prepped it. I promised he could use it the next time they show up.”

“Fine,” I conceded. “Support him and keep an eye on our right.”

Betty grunted, “I was happier when we were the middle of the block, not the right flank.”

“That was five houses ago,” I said.

“Six” she countered.

I nodded, “Yeah. That’s right. Let’s not be the seventh.”

I retrieved my lever action Winchester Model 1886 and my bandolier of .45-70 ammunition. I exited onto the front porch and looked to my right. I frowned at the heaps that had been my neighbors’ homes. “Six,” I muttered to myself and chambered a round.

“Still using that antique, huh?”

I turned to my left and waved across my driveway. Kyle was on his porch slinging two AKs over his Nickelback tank top.

“You’re still sporting that mullet,” I said.

“Want a beer?” Kyle asked.

“Is it cold?”

He laughed at me and brought me a can. I sipped my beer and surveyed the newly erected breastwork running along the opposite side of the street where the edge of the road met the killing field. It was a clear summer afternoon. I could see right across that pocked field — past the ruins of our many failed walls, past the piles of charred bones — all the way to the river about half a mile away.

“Crazy, right?” Kyle said. “Anyway, I was thinking last night. The field across the street. No houses rebuilt on that side of Valley Avenue after the ’72 flood. Now the enemy floods it. Still can’t figure that out. Zombies coming out of our very own Lackawanna River. Zombies coming out of every fucking river.” He pulled a bent cigarette and a lighter from his camouflage shorts. “So I figure we should start calling them,” he paused to light up, “we should start calling them The Flood.”

I smiled, “What? Like from Halo?”

“I miss getting new video games,” Kyle said.

I looked at the breastwork across the street, “I miss my awnings.”

“Contact!” Betty’s voice rang out. “Eleven o’clock!”

Kyle looked through his binoculars, “Yep, here they come. Right up out of that fucking river.” He ran back to his porch and released three long blasts from an air horn. The eastern sentry tower confirmed with three honks of its own.

“Hey,” I called to Kyle, “is Bob ready on the left this time? We don’t need to lose another garden.”

“What’s the matter?” Kyle laughed. “Sick of roasted river zombie?”

“Liam!” I leaned out past the eave of my porch and called up to my son on the balcony. “Don’t open up until they reach the old utility pole with the yellow stripes.”

“Five hundred yards!” Liam yelled.

“Five hundred yards,” I confirmed.

I watched the monsters approach. The bass line of their groans and snarls became audible as they marched closer. The dog joined me on the porch, wagging and panting.

“Tired of chasing the cat?” I asked.

“I’ll return to that,” Mina said. “I don’t want to miss you killing river zombies. Oh, can you get me a femur?”

Kyle interjected from across the driveway, “We’re calling them The Flood now.”

“Not very original,” Mina said. “Since they come from the river, why not call them The Crest?”

“No, no, no,” Kyle disapproved. “A river can crest below flood stage. Hell, Jack, your dog doesn’t know what the fuck she’s talking about.”

The monsters neared the painted pole. Their groans and snarls became violent roars.

“Come at me, bruh!” Liam shouted.

The machine gun erupted.

Between the bursts I heard the guinea pig squeal and whistle.