The Little Drummer Zombie Boy

“O, Jesus, sweet Jesus, thank-you,” his mother’s trembling voice was what Jared heard and her distraught tear-streaked face was what he saw when he dared to open his eyes again.
A few feet away, his father stood, arms folded and expression wary. “How can he be alive? His brain’s almost all gone.”
His mother cradled Jared’s face to her bosom. “He still has some left,” she argued. The boy could feel her fingering the exposed strands of brain tissue and gently return them to the inside of his skull. “Get me the superglue, Henry,” she ordered her husband.
“What for?” the man demanded.
“To glue his skull back together,” she snapped. “And get me the hydrogen peroxide out of the medicine cabinet and the roll of paper towels and a bowl in the kitchen.” When her husband still hadn’t moved, she yelled, “Go!”