They knew the zombie apocalypse was near.
But not crawling-out-of-the-confessional near.
Not barking-dog-and-screaming-cosplayers near.

Tomás, El Confesor, adjusted his felt priest collar.
Maya, La Dramática, clutched her wig.
Valentina, La Lógica, whispered, "This isn’t part of the script."
And Diego, El Perdido — groaning, and vaguely moldy — blinked at the dog, Pastor, "Mmmrrr…"

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