NO ONE KNOWS what’s going to happen. That’s the way that life works. We’re born, we live, we die, and in between a whole lot of stuff goes down that we can never guess. Not in a million years.
Take me, for example. I never knew my world was going to end. I never really thought about it.
For a while there, life flowed easy. Dad was a doctor. Mom went to Harvard. Me and my twin sister, Trina, lived in a good town—nice house, nice school. We had the prerequisite pedigreed dog, even though she was a poodle and sort of lame. I had friends. I had the Internet.
What else did I need?
Need—now that’s an interesting word. For example, just this morning what I really needed was a handgun—something light and easy to use—something that wouldn’t kick back and blow my head off because I didn’t know what the hell I was doing.
Chuck, my sister’s muscle-head of a boyfriend, was on one side of our granite kitchen island, and it was seriously clear that the football king wanted nothing more than to get around that slab so he could eat me.
That’s not normal behavior, but the world had very recently exited the normal ramp, and the new normal was like a bazillion light years away from the old normal.
Chuck was dead. That was clear. He had one eyeball hanging out of his head from a stringy-thingy, and he kept gnashing his teeth together and smacking his lips like I was some sort of deep fried yummy treat.
The good news was that death apparently made Chuck slow and stupid, or stupider. The bad news was that I needed his car keys, and I was fairly sure they were in his pocket.
I had to think. So I started walking around the island, keeping a good distance ahead of Chuck and the width of the slab between us. I didn’t have to walk too fast. His version of Dead Man Walking wasn’t exactly speedy.
I didn’t need speed. I needed a gun. In most zombie flicks it seems like they die if you blow them away. Too bad the only gun in the house was attached to my gaming station, so that plan was a bust.
In the comics, zombie deaths are caused by that old standby of chopping off their heads. I had knives, but, well, first—gross, and second—all my mom had were butter knives and some doohickey I think she used to core apples.
I couldn’t core Chuck to death, and buttering him up was out of the question, but clearly I had to do something.
After a couple minutes, Chuck burped and farted at the same time. This noxious invisible gas filled up the kitchen.
Still he kept on walking.
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