“Houston, we have a problem.”

Mighty Mouse in Ralph Bakshi's adaptation

Did I mention we didn’t come across a single animated corpse until we entered the casino? From the inanimate bodies dotting the landscape, we concluded the colossal spacecraft had played its anti-gravity tricks over an area that stretched at least as far as the casino. Just my luck Shelly had an itch to play the slots. We could have spent the entire day having a picnic and playing Frisbee at the park without anything but a few bugs trying to take a bite out of us. As it was, we were stuck atop the casino with the zombie blues again.

Actually, if it wasn’t for the fact there was no way down from the roof, which didn’t include our certain death, we might have enjoyed ourselves, as our prison was complete with a swimming pool, a bar, and a free weight workout station beneath a shady metal canopy. The pool was relatively free of debris, but my spirits were too low to go for a swim so we passed time pumping iron and spotting each other. (I’m not sure how five foot, five inch Shelly would have helped had the weights become too much for me to handle) That aside, the truth is that, as far as I’m concerned, a sweaty Shelly is a sexy Shelly. That fact and our limited prospects for the future led us to pass the rest of the day in other sweaty pursuits.

In the evening, we sat on the edge of the roof, a fifteen story drop to the pavement below. We playfully considered taking a lover’s leap, thinking it a better way to check out than the rotting teeth that waited to tear us to shreds on the floor below.

Pressed close together, we watched the sunset.

“Tomorrow’s another day,” Shelly said with first twilight.

“What goes around comes around,” I said, only because I have a knack for ruining special moments when they come my way.

Shelly squeezed my arm. (Thank God, she wasn’t pissed) “What goes up must come down.”

I know it makes no sense, but that’s love, isn’t it?

“Houston,” I said, “we have a problem.”

A chill ran down my back. We turned to each other and said, “Holy shit!”

It was obvious Shelly was thinking the same thing as I. Gravity! What if the alien spacecraft returned this night? A roof is no place to be when up becomes down. Even as I tried to think of what to do, a sparkling black diamond began to consume the stars overhead as the alien spacecraft ascended from the heavens.

I grabbed Shelly’s hand and dashed for the canopy, our only hope. I felt lighter and we bounded forward as though running across the surface of the moon. I knew we weren’t going to make it; our next step would launch us into space.

Evil Dead: A Fistful of Boomstick

As I’ve said before, I haven’t an ounce of heroism within me. When given a choice, I will cut and run at the first sign of danger. Bruce Campbell I’m not.

Whether it was because of the intimacy Shelly and I had shared, or for the fact there seemed no other choice, I broke with my nature and did something completely out of character. I took hold of Shelly’s waist and hurled her forward with my last step–she weighs about a hundred pounds, but felt more like ten.

I think my plan would have worked as well as a well-oiled thingamajig had Shelly not grabbed me by the hand and sent us cartwheeling through the air in a rising arc above the canopy.

~This post has gone on way too long. I’ll continue with the gory details next time. I for one can hardly wait to relive the horror that followed.

Spilt Milk Syndrome

English: Managing emotions - Identifying feelings

English: Managing emotions – Identifying feelings (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

I witnessed something yesterday that moved me like nothing else I’ve yet experienced. It literally brought me to my knees.

Perhaps you’ve noticed the lack of emotion on my part since the apocalypse began. I certainly have. Not that it bothered me. I thought I was merely facing hard times with hard logic. After all, why dwell on what you can’t change? What’s the point in crying over spilt milk? No need to be human. Sever your emotions. Live like one of the living dead––just don’t eat anyone. Let’s call it the spilt milk syndrome. I know I’m boring you with all this talk about emotions so let me tell you what happened before you turn the channel.

Yesterday morning, Shelly and I set out to forage for cigarettes and other basic essentials. Our destination was a small market/liquor store a mile and a half away. Shelly insisted she carry the 9mm which left me with the machete––I’d broken my shotgun and left it behind during my botched rescue attempt. And no, I didn’t let Shelly finagle the pistol from me. The truth is I’m just not a very good shot, and I can’t waste ammunition with a machete.

Our plan was to enter the store, clear out any rotters loitering about, then loot and vamoose. We made it there with only one incident. A dead teenager began to follow us down the road. Although she wore the pallor of death, she was in much better shape than most of her kind. She had a bite mark on her upper arm and her bloody hands told the tale of her suicide. Poor kid, she must have believed she’d truly die if she took her own life. Although we could easily outpace her, Shelly insisted I dispose of the girl. She was right, of course. Once a rotter catches the scent, they’re relentless. Nevertheless, there was enough left of the young girl that her decapitation shook me up a lot more than you’d think. Perhaps that’s what helped pry open the door to my emotions.

We came into sight of the store. Rotters were scattered about, sprawled over the street, twitching and crawling, broken, mangled, crushed. Further down the street, a throng of dead swarmed over and feasted on something large, which I at first took to be a horse or cow. Whatever it was had drawn every rotter in sight, leaving us free and clear to accomplish our mission. I’m sure I would have been fine if I hadn’t suddenly realized that the thing in the road was not common livestock, but an honest-to-God rhinoceros.

The rhino jerked and tossed off several rotters who picked themselves up and resumed with their repast. The creature was still alive, though beyond any hope. It seemed absurd to me that such an extraordinary and powerful animal should die in such a manner. Without warning, I envisioned mankind as that dying beast, and everything I’d bottled up inside me over the last few weeks poured out. If Shelly hadn’t pistol whipped some sense into me, I’d probably have drawn the entire pack of living dead down on us.

For the rest of the day and far into the night, I continued to mourn the people I’ve lost and the world that’s crumbling around us. Shelly, I should say, got her smokes and joined me in my grief when we returned home. I’ll also mention how much my jaw hurts from where she hit me with the gun. I’ll give her this. Whatever she does, it’s never half-assed.

Note: As much as I could really go for a genuine miracle about now, the rhinoceros most likely walked here from the San Diego Wild Animal Park, which is located about thirty miles away.

Don’t Touch the Zombie. You Don’t Know Where It’s Been.

Dangling Halloween Zombie mouth

(Photo credit: fortinbras)

It looks like Shelly and I will live. She’s getting some color in her cheeks, and the yellow has cleared from her eyes. This morning, I removed the handcuffs I’d used to bind her to the bed. No, it’s not what it sounds like. I just didn’t want her dying during the night and then taking a bite out of me. She’s currently sitting up in bed and eating soup.

I’m now convinced the living dead bug is contracted through  the zombie bite. I got rotter blood in my eyes and mouth. They lacerated Shelly’s upper back with their fingernails–I know this for a fact, having removed a nail from her wounds. That neither of us has developed a taste for human flesh seems, therefore, to single out the zombies’ choppers as the true zombification agent.

Not that you need worry solely about being bit. The living dead are walking breeding grounds of pestilence. Any contact with the dead might well spell your death through infection or disease. As your mother would have told you, “Don’t touch the zombie. You don’t know where it’s been.”

I wish to end this brief post on a bright note. Think of this. If not for the apocalypse, right now we(USA) would all be buried under tons of political campaign ads.

I, for one, feel like celebrating.