#FastFiction - Dec 17... Countdown to 100 stories

By my count, this is One Paragraph story #96. Four more after this and we reach a grand milestone. One Hundred. Yeah, crazy. Which would be exactly 96 more than the amount of people who read these. Once I reach those triple digits I plan to put them all together and release a Kindle book. Working Title, "Stories shorter than a poop". Stay tuned. JC


Lenon held a hand above his eyes to shade the sun as he looked towards the east. No sign of whatever his neighbour Jacques Jeunet claimed were coming his way. 

Jeunet says, “I saw them, Monsieur Lenon. Hundreds of them. Thousands. Coming this way. Nothing stopping them. They come to a fence then push and push till it is no more fence. They come to a river they walk right in until that damned thing is a bridge of dead bodies.” 

Lenon turns his gaze to Jeunet. “That may be so, Jacques, but the only way I’ll be leaving this plantation is feet first.” 

Jeunet says, “You can’t kill them, Monsieur Lenon. They are already dead.”

“Then God done most my job for me, Jacques.” Lenon drops his foot from the lower fence rail, and offers a hand to Jeunet. “If these things are close as you say, Jacques, best you get moving.”

Jeunet takes Lenon’s hand and nods. “May the Angels smile on you Monsieur Lenon.”

Lenon watches Jacques’ truck travel along the dirt road that circled Lenon’s plantation until he loses it behind the trees that hugs the entrance.

In the east a thick plume of black smoke rises, then another one appears further north. Coming down the road behind the main residence comes another truck, moving at a full clip. It stops a few lengths away, and the three Brazilian workers confer in a fury of discussion. The one in the passenger seat reaches to the driver and urges him on. The truck gives Lenon a wide berth as they drove around him. Not one of the men in the cab, nor in the bed, lifts their head to look at Lenon. He counts fifteen, that leaves eight who might help him fortify the place.

Jeunet had said the monsters he called Zombies would reach Lenon’s land by nightfall. That no one would be left alive. That after Fortaleza fell, Redenção was overrun a week later. Like Ants laying waste to a crop, these undead things were eradicating any living soul in Brazil.

Another jet of black joins the others on the horizon; Lenon rolls up his sleeves. Although dawn was barely begun, he’d be damned if some godless beings were going to deny him the joy of seeing another sunrise.

James C.