"All things come to those who wait," Zeke's father liked to say. It didn't work that way for Zeke. No Ivy League degree, corner office, pearl-wearing wife. He got community college, a Domino's delivery route, sitcom marathons.
Then suddenly, the world ended.
The cuevavirus moved so fast it never got a name. At the pandemic's 36-hour mark, Zeke saw a pale figure stopping at every door on his street, turning the never-locked knobs. The screaming started afterwards.
Zeke was the only one it passed by. As he watched it go, he could've sworn a small smile curled its thin lips.
Narrative, Genre and the Craft of Writing