Another day, another hunt.

Most families in our post-apocalyptic bliss spend their evenings snuggled together in the comfort of their own bunker. Telling stories of what once was, cracking jokes in attempt to lighten the devastating mood, or maybe even being so lucky as to read a book that they came across during evacuation.

But not my little band of psychopaths. We take the Zs head on.

“Last one to a dozen cooks dinner!” Yells Jess, my brother’s wife. She brandishes her sparkling machete, testing the edge for lethal sharpness. Despite being seven months pregnant, this woman is deadly.

“Deal.” My dad sniggers. A cleaver is his weapon of choice. Even at 72 the man is as lithe as a lion. It was probably all the multi-vitamins and fish oil. Or so he claims.

My mom, Carol, comes up behind him and kisses my dad on the cheek. “Well that’s not fair. Some of us go for quality over quantity.”

My mom would be right. Unlike the rest of us, the Zs she shoots down always stay down. There’s nothing more unsettling that one of those Walkers getting back up again once you thought you took its head off. I had one that was literally hanging on by a single tendon. Swinging from side to side like a pendulum. The heads gotta be clean off, otherwise the job ain’t done.

My younger sister, Clara, comes up behind me, shotgun at the ready. “Sun’s getting low.”

We all nod. Showtime.