DedicationThis book is dedicated to the unsettling quiet of small-town South Dakota, where the most terrifying things often happen just after midnight, under the flickering neon glow of a Kwik-Stop sign. To the forgotten corners of America, where the bizarre and the mundane collide in a symphony of the surreal. To my brother, Chet (may his questionable fertilizer choices forever haunt the nightmares of Bison Butte). To the countless bags of discounted Nestle Crunch bars consumed by the undead – may they rest in sugary, chocolate-coated peace. To those who have ever stared into the abyss of a leaky faucet at 3 AM and found something deeply unsettling in its rhythm; to those who've contemplated the existential dread of a malfunctioning lawnmower and wondered if this is it – this is the end; to all those who have ever encountered a llama in a state of bewilderment, this book is for you. Because sometimes, the greatest horror stories aren’t found in the shadowed corners of gothic castles or haunted forests, but in the surprisingly grim reality of a meth-fueled zombie apocalypse sparked by a misguided attempt at agricultural innovation. This tale is a testament to the unexpected heroism born from desperation, the dark humor found in the face of utter chaos, and the strangely comforting presence of a rusty tire iron when all else fails. To the unsettling aroma of burnt sugar and decay, a scent that will forever be etched in my memory, I dedicate this grim but strangely comforting testament to the absurdity of survival, the sweetness of discounted candy, and the enduring power of family, even when said family is responsible for unleashing hordes of junk-food-craving zombies on an unsuspecting small town. And to the enduring legacy of the overly enthusiastic town librarian, Old Man Fitzwilliam – may his soul find solace among the Dewey Decimal System in the afterlife (assuming there’s a library there). Because, let’s be honest, even the undead need some good reading material, preferably nothing about impending doom or agricultural disasters. Ultimately, this dedication is for the small-town oddballs, the quirky characters, the quiet observers, and the perpetually bewildered llamas – because without them, the world would be a far less interesting (and slightly less terrifying) place. For those who find themselves fighting off the undead hordes while simultaneously juggling the challenges of family dysfunction and the looming threat of overdue library books, this is your story, too. Embrace the chaos, my friends, because sometimes, the best stories are born in the most unexpected (and often most gruesome) places. So, let's raise a (non-radioactive) glass to the absurdity of it all. May your pumpkins always be normal-sized, and may your zombies possess a refined palate. And please, for the love of all that is holy, never ever trust Chet with any fertilizer.