Seven o'clock. They pour in like Siafu. I can barely keep up with their numbers. Three fall, twenty more rise. Chop, chop, chop. They can't seem to take a hint. A human with a minimum of intellect would flee the carnage, especially with something gnawing at their entrails.
But they're not entirely stupid.
Something does fumble around that little cranium of theirs. I guess they're just patient thinkers. Either that or they’re waiting for inspiration. They lull you to sleep with their rudimentary cognitive skills. And it doesn't help when grandma shows up for dinner and all she wants to do is make a tuna casserole out of you. It’s the family reunion from hell and it happens every night.
I ditch the cleaver and decide to throw an indoor barbecue. And everyone's invited. The undead aren't entirely afraid of fire, but it does tend to slow them down. And it also brings out, shall we say, some odd behavior in them.
But it's the heat they can't tolerate. The dry pressing heat. Sucks the energy right out of them, making them a walking inferno. So they linger all day long, praying for night. Or for the unlucky fool who stumbles upon their nest. Sometimes the hunger gets the best of them and they pay me an early visit. Trick or treat.
Since we're having such a grand old time, I break out the guitar and strum a few tunes as they swarm the campfire. The singing seems to calm them down.
Unfortunately it doesn't kill them.