It was official. Santa wasn’t coming.
The milk I left out was already starting to curdle, and I knew that the cookies had gone stale. I try not to cry, but tears spill freely from my eyes. I hear the zombies groaning outside and my crying becomes sobbing.
It took me weeks rummaging through convenience stores and abandoned shopping malls to find powdered milk and packaged cookies. Mom and Dad helped me pick out the cookies that Santa would like the best out of the piles of unopened boxes on the shelves. Dad almost got scratched by a zombie when he had to carry me out of the store. Now Santa isn’t coming.
One of the other survivors says that Santa isn’t real. I told him to shut up, but now I wish I hadn’t. He was right. I am too old to believe in Santa Claus.
I blow out the candle and start to load the gun at my side. I’ve waited for Santa long enough.
Off in the distance, I heard the sound of sleigh bells.
My sobbing becomes a smile. I finish loading the gun and run up to the roof. If Santa’s coming. I’m giving him a clear path.