The Wabbit rounded the shed-like structure on the street. It was never open and the Wabbit wondered why it was there. The lettering was beginning to fade, and it had seen better days. The Wabbit puffed out his cheeks. "Shaun of the Shed," he thought. He laughed at his own joke, even though it wasn't great. A delivery bike driver behind him giggled. "At least someone thinks I'm funny," murmured the Wabbit. But the cyclist was laughing at something further down the street. The Wabbit shrugged to conceal his disappointment. He was waiting on a message about a mission. No mission in the offing made the Wabbit sightly nervous. "I'm on more of an intermission," he quipped. He disliked waiting. The evening sun made long shadows on the road. "Time for an aperitivo," he mused. A new caffè had opened further along the road. He had yet to try it. He started to hop that way but glanced back at the shed. "I hope it's not full of zombies." He looked again. "When there's no more room in Hell, the dead will seek out sheds." He moved closer. "Dead in a shed!" Then he began to laugh. "Out of your head in a shed!" Passersby turned to look. Some joined in, calling for zombies to emerge. The Wabbit saw movement and shouted. "I like my zombies slow and stupid." The door swung open ...
