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A Can Of Pepsi
by Michael A. Kechula

When Roger crossed the 7,000 foot summit of the mountain pass, his car engine sputtered and stopped running. No matter what he tried, he couldn’t start his car.

His watch said ten after midnight. The moon was full. All was deathly quiet—until he heard a horrible scream. Frightened, he lowered the hood, jumped into his car, and pulled a pistol from under the seat.

Moonlight illuminated a man in the middle of the road. Walking slowly, he dragged one foot, as he moved toward Roger’s car.

Shuddering, Roger turned off the pistol’s safety and wrapped his finger around the trigger.

The figure stopped twenty feet away. Then it screamed again.

Roger turned on the headlights. Chills raced down his back when he saw a zombie with one arm and the top of its head missing.

“Get the hell out of here,” Roger yelled. “I have a gun. I’ll use it if I have to.”

The zombie kept moving toward him.

“Stop, or I’ll shoot!”

When the thing ignored his warning, Roger leaned out the window and fired eleven times. Unfazed, it kept moving.

“What the hell do you want?” Roger hollered, swapping the empty bullet clip for a fresh one.

“Coca Cola.”

“Phew. For a second, I thought you wanted to eat my brains.”

“I hate brains. I want Coca Cola.”

“Would Pepsi do? I have two cans. You can have both if you leave me alone. Promise?”


“I’ll throw them to you. Can you catch them—considering that one of your arms is missing?”

“Yeah,” the zombie said, couching like a catcher on a baseball team. “Show me how fast you can throw it. C’mon, burn it in. Give it all you got.”

Roger had a lousy throwing arm. But he didn’t want to antagonize the zombie. He opened the door, leaned out, and threw a can as hard as he could. Unfortunately, it sailed over the zombie’s head, hit the road, and exploded.

The monster sprang to its rotting feet and growled.

“Wait!” Roger yelled. I’ll throw this one real slow.”

“No. Hand it to me.”

Roger got out of the car and waited until the zombie was within spitting distance, then extended the Pepsi.

The zombie grabbed Roger’s arm and pulled it out of the socket. The shock threw Roger to the ground. While fading in and out of consciousness, he saw the zombie munching on his bloody arm as if it were corn on the cob. In minutes, only the bone was left.

When the zombie raised the bloody arm bone to whack his head, Roger gasped, “Please don’t…you’ll…fracture…my skull.”

“What better way to get at your brains?”

“You…said…you…hate brains.”

“Did you really expect a one-armed zombie with the top of its head missing, on a deserted road in the middle of nowhere, to tell the truth?”