Zombie Activism

“Joe, get off that man!” cried a woman’s voice. From the cooler emerged another person, a worried-looking matron who at least had the sense to use a proper door. Limping with a makeshift PVC pipe cane, she hurried over as best she could and pried the beer from my attacker’s hands.

The man’s face changed from gruff to less gruff when he realized I wasn’t yet a zombie.

“Sorry,” he mumbled.

After we had pulled ourselves up from the floor, drenched in sweat and sticky soda, the woman made introductions. “My name’s Jenny,” she said, “and this is my husband Joe. You’ll have to forgive him, he’s been rather emotional lately.”

Joe scowled. “There are no emotions, only cold death. I am a zombie killer.” He had the steely look of a middle-aged mercenary.

“He’s a lumberyard manager,” corrected Jenny.

“Either way, those zombies sure as hell ain’t taking over my country. I’ll rip their damn heads off!”

I took a step back. “Well, I’m Chris, and my wife Nicole’s out in the car. Maybe you two should come with us?”

The End

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