The worst part of the zombie apocalypse was the fatigue.

It wasn’t hard to pot the hooting inhuman undead as they limped bloodshod up the farm lane.

But they came at irregular intervals, mandating constant vigilance. How could a man sleep?

Plus, the cow still needed milking.

He shouldered his rifle and climbed down from the barn cupola-come-sniper’s nest.

It was odd that Bonnie didn’t issue her welcoming moo.

Entering the stall, he saw why.

Dismembered bovine. Empty skull. Intestine-festooned manger.

It came from behind: Baaaaaas surging past bitter cuds and froth-corrupted lips.

Zombie sheep.

Shit.