Sylvia Marcon, Only Survivor

Image by Moritz Bechert from Pixabay 

He walked into the Dairy Queen on July 28. Sweaty people stood in line with bratty kids. He sat at a small table. With a wave of his hand, he produced a six pack of PBR. Opened a can and guzzled. He waved toward a group of people waiting for their ice cream.  They collapsed, breathless and dead.

Panicked people rushed the
locked door. Another can, another group dead. They pounded at the glass, screaming.

Another can, another group dead.

He finished his last can, blew the blonde chick a kiss, walked over the bodies and vanished into the sunshine.