Nom nom. I’m a terrible father figure. I know this. The soda machine, shelving combo has worked out remarkably well as a barrier, holding out a herd of undead, who smash their decomposing faces against the glass and our makeshift wall as if even poopy-ass Ella is a rock star. “You’re the next Lady Gaga,” I say. Caesar walks up as I toss the diaper and grab a day-old donut from one of the food boxes. I can’t tell if he wants to kill us or is jealous I’ve just taught Ella how to do a high five. “About how far do you think we are from El Cortez?” he asks. “Not too sure. It’s pretty foggy out there still. If we’re lucky then we might get close enough to reach it today.” “We’ll depart as soon as the fog lifts. Make sure that baby is no longer a nuisance.” Like I can control her laughing or shitting.
