Edward Krenshaw leaned against the pump handle and scanned the western horizon as the sun set. He looked at his wristwatch and sighed. The search party was overdue and so were the library’s audio books.
“Say there, Dad, help me pump water for supper?” Frederick walked from the back door toward the well. His crisp plaid shirt and creased khaki trousers gave the appearance of a city dweller trying to look country.
“No. I can’t because you’ve just gone beyond the pale.”
“Sorry. Didn’t mean to offend but I need help. Burned my hand yesterday and it’s all bandaged up.” Frederick lifted his arm to show his father.
“Huh?--Oh, I ain’t upset.” Edward spat in the dirt. “But you walked right past the pail. It’s on the back steps.”
“Okay, I’ll fetch it. Thought I'd insulted you or something.”
Frederick put the bucket under the facet. “Think they’ll find one?”
A soft cold breeze blew Edward’s white hair against the part. “If there’s a zombie out there, they’ll find it.”
“Zombie?” Frederick looked shocked. “Thought they wanted a Zamboni for the ice rink.”
“Yeah? That makes more sense. My hearing’s gone all to hell since the explosion.”
* * *
Deke Metzler wiped the sweat from his forehead and sighed. The light was almost gone. He was about to give up and signal the search party to return home when he saw it -- little more than a dot on the horizon. But he knew instantly. A Zamboni! Maybe the hockey game could go ahead after all.
Deke turned in the direction of the voice. "Huh?" he said to the short, stocky man in a suit.
"My name is Irwin W. Marshall. I represent Frank J. Zamboni & Co., Inc., who own the trademark Zamboni, registered with the U.S. Patent and Trademark Office. I must inform you that the frequent and inappropriate uses of the term Zamboni throughout this blog infringe upon my client's rights, and you must cease and desist forthwith."
And this is why you will never hear the story of the Zamboni Apocalypse.
Opening: Mister Furkles.....Continuation: anon.