Manuel had propped a thick mop handle through the door handle from inside, had it wedged against the wall. Juan pulled on the door, felt it give just a little more, heard the crack of wood.

The footsteps thundered from the dining room. He knew the fat pigs were scavenging out there, hoping to find something, anything. But there was nothing out there.

And just then, the double doors swung in. A boy, no older than seventeen, followed by three others just like him, stumbled in. They clawed at their stomachs and whimpered when they saw Juan. The boys were shoved forward as more came. And more.

Ay Dios mío.

Wide faces, open mouths. Their eyes darted around the room, tongues slithering across their lips and teeth. Women and men and children and seniors. Their bodies jiggled as they bumped into each other, clogging the doorway like cholesterol blocking an artery. They all had blood staining their faces, all had bite marks and chunks of flesh missing here and there.

Two children, red-headed boys, their freckled skin bulging from under their clothing, ran across the room and attacked the bodies. One scooped the brains from the back of the dishwasher’s head, licked his fingers clean. The other went for Mr. Chan, slurping at the wound on his neck.

It was all the others needed.

“Hungry!”

“It’s…it’s mine!”

The eaters poured in and Juan backed away from the cooler door. He fell backward and cracked his tailbone on the floor, winced and clutched his chest, then scooted toward the knife that stuck out of the corpse’s chest. He wrapped his fingers around the metal handle and tugged. The man’s body jerked with it, but the blade stayed hidden in flesh.

A portly woman fell to her knees beside the body, bit into the man’s face like she was giving him CPR. She pulled his lips off with her teeth and chewed on them like bubble gum.

A man and woman jumped on the corpse next. Juan still had his hand on the knife handle, then grabbed it with his other hand. As he gave it another tug, the fat trio pulled in the opposite direction and the knife popped free.

Juan jumped to his feet and held the knife in front of him, watching as the kitchen continued to fill with hogs. They fought for the bodies like starved wolves, snapping at each other.

“Give me…food.” An old woman, her face stained black and bleeding, stepped toward Juan. A pruney breast swung from her chest through the torn front of her dress. Mounds of wrinkled flesh poured over each other from her midsection.

“Q-quedarse atrás.” Juan swiped the knife through the air, but she didn’t notice it.

Fat bulged from her shoes as she stepped toward him, her mouth oozing bloody drool. She cried out, nearly crumpled over as her stomach growled with fury. Then she came at him.

His knife went into her mouth and stuck into the back of her throat. She sprayed blood into his face along with a gust of hot, rank air. Her jaw moved up and down, driving the blade of the knife between her teeth and slicing into her gums. Then she fell.