Butterfly downs a bottle of robot and they all go storming into the food hall. (Cafeteria? she said. Cafeteria? Ooh, look who’s fancy. La dee da. Food Hall.) Bang go trays and sneer goes the dipstick working the register and it’s couscous and mashed potatoes tonight, all colorless goop that holds together well when you sculpt it into a Rushmore featuring Bonnie Tyler, Stevie Nicks, Meatloaf and Steve Perry. (Who’s Steve Perry? Fuck you, you illiterate hump. I don’t have time for your level of bullshit.)

She’s working on Nicks’ left nostril when the blood drains out of the world and she’s sitting at a table in a room filled with zombies. Dead-eyed, glass-toothed zombies. They’ve got fingers like the undersides of slugs and all of her friends if you can call them that have been replaced with exact duplicates who all have just a tiny little bit of a Kenosha accent.

Oh shit oh shit, she says.

Hey, you don’t look so good.

No shit, monster. You think that? You think that with your face falling off your head? You gonna mess with me, huh? I’ll fuck you up.

Hey, wait, hold on–

She screams so long. She screams until Blind and Island have to wrestle her back out into the snow, into the cold, into the winter’s night.