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A Can of Ginger Ale

While hiking in a forest, Bill heard a horrible scream.

"Whoís there?" No answer.

"I have a gun. Iíll use it if I have to." A rotting corpse came out of the bushes. One arm and the top of its head were missing. Bill fired eleven times. Still, it moved forward. "What the hell do you want?"

"Root beer."

"Whew. I thought you wanted to eat my brains."

"I hate brains. I want root beer."

"Would ginger ale do? I have two cans. You can have both if you leave me alone. Promise?"

"Yeah."

"Iíll throw them to you. Can you catch them, considering you only have one arm?"

"Yeah. Címon, burn it in. Give it all you got."

Bill threw a can as hard as he could. It sailed over the zombieís head and fell into the bushes. The zombie growled. "Iíll throw this one real slow," Bill said."

"No. Hand it to me."

Bill moved closer and extended the ginger ale. The zombie grabbed Billís arm, pulled it out of the socket and munched on it as if it were corn on the cob. When the zombie raised the fleshless arm bone to whack his head, semi-conscious Bill gasped, "Please donít...youíll...fracture...my skull."

"What better way to get at your brains?"

"You...said...you...hate...brains."

"Did you really expect a one-armed, rotting corpse with the top of its head missing, on a lonely path in the middle of nowhere, to tell the truth?"

Story by:

Michael A. Kechula

m.kechula@att.net

submitted at 12:16am

26 May 2009

Michael's stories have been published by 108 magazines and 30 anthologies.