A. L. Kaplan is the Readers’ Choice in this week’s Indies Unlimited Flash Fiction Challenge. The winning entry is decided by the popular vote and rewarded with a special feature on Indies Unlimited.
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“How long are you going to keep us here?” asked Bridget, through chattering teeth.
Fear of hypothermia was overriding the threat of the stranger’s rifle. It was hard to enjoy nature’s beauty while freezing your naked bum off. She could barely feel her legs in the frigid water. Jason’s arms were tightly wrapped around his chest. Behind them crystal clear water cascaded over steep rocks. Their well-worn surface turned the waterfall into a musical lullaby. Both she and Jason had fallen sound asleep after their long hike. Then the stranger showed up. Now the sound knelled like a death sentence.
“Y’all just enjoy your little bath,” said the stranger. He lounged in the sun on their blanket eating fried chicken. Empty containers lay scattered about; all licked clean by their captor. “I haven’t eaten this well since I killed my ex.”
Bridget’s heart jumped. This was supposed to be paradise, not a nightmare. “You promised you wouldn’t hurt us.”
“Don’t you worry, darling.” He bit into a lemon tart and moaned with pleasure. “These are delicious. Sure you won’t consider staying?”
She glanced at Jason and saw the panic in his eyes. If he thought for a second that she’d consider the offer, he didn’t know her at all. Being one with nature didn’t include becoming part of it.
Bridget turned away. “No thanks.”
The stranger smiled and put a lighter on the blanket. “Too bad. Y’all get a fire going now.”
With one last wink, he vanished into the forest.
Leafy greens covered the trees around Mike. He shifted the gas filled backpack, hoping it would be sufficient. The blowtorch and chainsaw were standard equipment since the zombie apocalypse. Somewhere in here was a whole forest of mobile undead trees. Ravenous, leafless, oh, and of course brainless, the zombie trees struck without warning. Last night they grabbed the best damned dog Mike ever had. He was going to destroy them.
A strange sound drifted with the wind, rising and falling with the lilting sound of a song bird. Mike followed the sound, keeping alert for the telltale creaking and moaning that the undead trees made, and a sharp eye for leafless trees. If this led to his death, so be it. The song grew more distinct and he began to catch odd lyrics about a brook tripping and falling and praying larks. Beyond a stand of bamboo, in a wide clearing, Mike spied a nun perched on a large rock.
“Come closer, Mike. I assure you I am very much alive and unafflicted with zombieism.”
“How…”
“Do I know your name?” she said, with a big grin. “Rover, of course. My name is Sister Mary Margaret. No time to talk. I’ll lull the trees. The rest is up to you.”
She picked up her ukulele and began strumming the melody to “My Guy.” Those zombies never stood a chance. A sharp wind cleared the smoke from the smoldering deadwood. With a wave, Sister Mary Margaret flew away carrying her ukulele.