“Zombies are real. Zombies are real,” Felix mumbled to himself as he stumbled through the chaos surrounding him in the neighbourhood.

There were dead bodies lying everywhere, scattered across the lawns and driveways of the homes along the street. There were also bodies walking around, though they were just as dead as the ones on the ground. They just happened to have their brains still stuck inside their craniums and were solely motivated to either A) infect others by gnawing on their flesh, or B) crack open some skulls and dine on juicy, juicy brains.

Through all this, Felix, brains intact, managed to navigate his way through, all the way from the carnival where he and his dad had been spending the evening playing games, enjoying the rides and eating junk food both sweet and salty.

His father would have taken him home if he hadn’t become a snack sampler for a group of teen zombies. “Delinquents all of ‘em,” the condemnation his father would have likely bellowed at the errant youth had he still had a jaw… his lungs… and his aforementioned brains.

“Zombies are real,” Felix continued to repeat his mantra through the wails and cries of the still living and the baleful moans and groans of the walking dead. He turned a corner onto his street and finally spotted his destination: home. Home, where he kept his comics. Home, where he played video games from his bed. Home, where he would find his mom.

He ambled past his next-door neighbour’s house. He liked the elderly Johnsons. They always snuck him treats over the picket fence. Too bad they were dead on their front stoop. He craved one of Mrs.Johnson’s freshly baked, ooey-gooey, sweet and salted raspberry tarts.

Felix approached his door and knocked. Then he knocked again. And again. And again. He peered through the frosted side window and saw a shadow move within.

Mom probably saw the world falling apart outside and locked herself in --which was reasonable-- not realizing he had made it home. She’d be relieved to see him.

Felix calmly walked around to the side of the house. Being a young boy, he, of course, knew of various ways of sneaking into the house. This evening, he went for the direct approach, climbing the garden trellis, reaching for, then scaling the downpipe, then clambering through the attic window which he always left open to feed the squirrels.

Once inside, he lowered and descended the stowaway steps. He was about to head downstairs when he heard a whimper from the bedroom and immediately turned in that direction.

“Zombies a real,” he continued to drone. So in shock that he couldn’t say what was really in his heart, what he really wanted to say: “Mom.”

He entered his parent’s bedroom. It was empty but he could still hear the whimpering and smell his mother’s familiar, comforting scent.

He moved quickly towards the closet and slid the door open. There she was, crouched and cowered amongst all her clothes, bags and shoes, terrified beyond her wits.

“Mom.” The word screamed in his head as he reached for her, but not from his mouth, so overcome was he by his desire and need to see her again, to hold her again…

… and to bite down on her skull, breaking the bone and ripping out her sweet, salty brains.