“Their flags are painted with skulls and bones,” Tenshi, my eldest son whispered through his mask. “Do they offer death as cargo, father?”

I grunted impassively. My twins were nonplussed.

“Maybe they’re pirates,” Owa suggested.

“Here to reclaim their treasure,” Tanda joined in excitedly.

For three nights, we spied the anchored ships. Their massive sails remained at full mast and no activity aboard deck was detected. I was plagued with the image of terrible ghosts steering that lifeless fleet.
“There’s nothing to worry about,” I assured them. “We’ll report back once intelligence is gathered beyond the dunes.”

They bowed their heads respectively and agreed in unison. “Yes, father.”

I squatted in the sand and fanned my gloved fingers behind me. My two identical sons flanked me on either side. “Forward.” I flicked my wrist.

Tanda and Owa were my best ninja scouts. In a flash of gunpowder smoke, they disappeared.

I should never have sent them to investigate. I should have been honest, shared my trepidations with them, and told them how I sensed death over that blind horizon. But in fifty years as a warrior, fear had always been something to impose upon my enemies and not a feeling I was comfortable expressing.

So I kept my fears to myself and my handsome boys never returned.

After several minutes, Tenshi had enough. He signaled with his eyes.

I nodded my head and we assaulted the windblown sandbank from the eastern crest. Our short, flat swords were drawn at the ready. As we ran, shadows broke free of our footfalls and exposed minute puddles of blood.

“Father, look,” he hissed and pointed ahead.

Two shovels became visible on the surface of the beach.

“Someone has buried my children!” I screamed.

The sands were deserted. Tenshi and I extracted the shovels and began to furiously dig. Sweat pooled through our clothes. It wasn’t long before we struck the top of a wooden box.

“Please, don’t let it be them inside,” Tenshi beseeched the gods.

It was Tanda who said those undetectable pirates were here to reclaim their treasure, but this container wasn’t filled with diamonds or gold.

It was a coffin.

I brought the cold steel down and cracked the casket open. A foul stench escaped the splintered hole.

“Much obliged,” a deep voice rumbled inside and tore through the planks. The man was the color of the moon and his two pointed fangs overlapped his bottom lip. He winked and exploded into a colony of bats.

Tenshi fell backwards into my arms. We followed their flight across the sea and into the hull of the lead ship. The night came alive with the laughter of the dead.

Those soulless bastards have never left our shores.

Angel Zapata was born in NYC, but currently resides just outside of Augusta, Georgia. Some of his flash fiction and poetry has appeared or is forthcoming on Microhorror.com, AlienSkin, Flash Me Magazine, Membra Disjecta and Flashes in the Dark. He is married to a beautiful princess who slew a myriad of dragons in order to save him from a world, and he quotes, “Populated by extremely manipulative stepsisters.” For links to other published works, please visit his blog.

Bats, scratchboard, by Katie.

by Kirsty Logan

The bombs had fallen on a Sunday—the teashop’s busiest day. It had previously been an antiques shop specialising in militia: the owner had bomb-proofed the basement, sure that an attack was imminent. He died of a heart attack two years before he was proven right. His widow sold the military badges and tarnished guns, then started selling tea and cake instead: she perished quickly, having stepped outside for a cigarette a moment before the attack. The chef, who had been standing next to a window, had gone straight up in smoke. Three of the waitresses were in the basement, struggling with a particularly large order of scones; luckily, the scones saw them through the week of fallout.

When they finally climbed the stairs they discovered the dishwasher and one other waitress, who had survived by sheltering under the bodies of the customers, nibbling on the odd finger. The five staff members joined forces to put the bodies in the kitchen with the ashes of the chef.

Dust clouded the windows of the teashop, but the silence outside told them that it wouldn’t be a pretty sight, so they stayed inside.

The rubble hadn’t even been cleared when the first old lady knocked on the door of the teashop. There was dust on her hat and she was only wearing one shoe, but her radiation burns weren’t weeping, which was a relief to the staff. She’d come every lunchtime before the bombs fell, so as soon as she dug her way out of her house, she resumed her routine. There was no menu to offer her, of course. No sandwiches, no coffee. There were some crumbling teabags, and water could be warmed in the sun when it broke through the smeared windows. This was the closest they could get to tea, but it was enough for the ladies of Bessie Anne’s.

And there were ladies—plural. The bell hanging over the door was soon ringing a dozen times a day. Every regular customer, once they’d escaped from their homes, came straight to the teashop. Some were missing extremities – even a limb or two—but they were sure they’d feel better after a wee bit of cake. So the waitresses mixed brick dust and the clumpy out-of-date milk with the ashes of the chef. They fashioned them into lumps and baked them in the sunlight. Afternoon tea was served. The chat continued much as before: who was courting whom, which children were university-bound, whose dogs made the biggest mess on the neighbours’ lawns. The gossip was largely invented, as most of these people were now dust; but that didn’t matter. When the ladies left, they were careful to leave a coin or two on the broken boards they used as a table. No-one wants to be thought stingy, and the service was exceptional, considering.

One day the rubble would be cleared, but for now they had tea and cake. Sort of.

Kirsty Logan works in a tea room (pre-apocalyptic, for now). She is inspired by misheard song lyrics, fairytales, and her girlfriend. She currently working on a comic book collaboration, a short film script, and a novel. To learn more about her, visit her website.

Tea, top right, by Bangkok artist and photographer Chariya. Feel free to visit her Deviant Art page, or follow her on Twitter.