Daffodils and the Dead

The cliché, “If you can’t beat them, join them,” keeps running through my head.

I should just go outside and let one of the fuckers bite me; it’s bound to happen anyway.

I don’t have any skills. I’m not ruthless. How long will a skilless wimp last? I should just get it over with and let them make a dinner out of me. What’s a worse way of dying? Being eaten alive or starving to death? I can’t believe I’m even contemplating these questions.

How did this happen? This is the stuff of science fiction fantasy nerd novels. How can this be real? One little glimpse out of my living room window reminds me that the dead are walking all over my daffodils. They just bloomed two days ago…stupid mindless fuckers.

When the Emergency Broadcast System interrupted my regularly scheduled program announcing the “zombie apocalypse” had begun, I assumed it was an April Fools prank – in May. I didn’t bother listening to the explanation as to how this started, I just turned the cable off and turned on Netflix. Then I heard the screaming. I opened up my front door to witness Mrs. Connelly become an afternoon snack for a placid motherfucker whose large intestine was hanging down to his feet. If I hadn’t just gone to the bathroom I would have shit myself.

I shut the door. And closed the curtains. And picked up my memere’s dusty candelabra and wielded it like Excalibur, and thought, “ I’m going to die today.” I put the candelabra back down.

Since then, I’ve been sitting on the couch in my oversized sweatshirt with my slipper socks up on the coffee table. I realized I can make a nice hollow bowl out of my shirt and dump microwave popcorn into it (What’s the point of dirtying more dishes?). For almost two hours, I’ve been eating my Orville Redenbacher– one piece at a time - and staring at the ceiling.

I wonder if I should call someone. No one has called me. Wait, no one has called me. Not even my mother. Does that mean she’s dead? Or she just didn’t think to call me… Which is worse? I suppose, considering it took me two hours to think of calling her, I can’t be mad if she is alive and well. She’s probably popping corn too and downing every bottle in her liquor cabinet. If a zombie eats her liver it will be like eating one of those bourbon soaked oranges I love.

How can you tell the difference between a zombie and a drunk? You can’t! HA. Dammit! Everyone I would tell that joke to is probably dead.

It’s been a few hours, maybe I should check to see if the dead are done tromping through my garden.

Shit. Zombies multiply like rabbits in heat. The fuckers are everywhere. They are just standing in my begonias, mumbling and moaning. Oh, that one’s ear just fell off. I wonder how that would do in a compost pile. I wish they would go across the street and decompose in the Wilson’s yard. Artie flips his shit every time a dog poops on his property. This will make him go insane - if he’s not dead already.

Oh shit. What was that? Something is pounding on my back door. Should I check?

“Help. Let me in!”

Aw, crap. Who is that? If I stay quiet maybe whoever it is won’t know I’m in here.

“I know you’re in there. I saw you look out the window.” Dammit. “Let me in!”

“Wait. Who are you?”

“It’s me, Bob.” Oh, Jesus, Mary, Mother of Joseph - I can’t fucking stand Bob. “Let me in, please!”

“No, go find somewhere else to hide.”

“What!? Let me in. They’re going to kill me.”

“Survival of the fittest, Bob.”

“PLEASE! I’m begging.”

I’m going to regret this. “Ugh. Fine. Just stop pounding on my door, I already have a headache.”

“THANK YOU. Thank you.”

“Okay, listen. If you are going to hide in here we need some ground rules.”

“What? Why?”

“Hey, it’s my house, and you being here is forcing me to put pants on. Okay. First rule - No talking. Actually, that’s it. You are not allowed to speak.”

“Wait..”

“Eh. Nope. What did I just say?”

“But,”

“Shhh.” I just pulled out my teacher, Shhh. “No talking. Now, thanks to you, I have to put on some yoga pants. Don’t touch anything.”

Bob has not stopped speaking about how this catastrophe is really “going to shake up the tax code laws.” Over an hour of “survivors will fall into new tax brackets.” I am dying a slow painful death. Considering I have not uttered one single reply I think he finally ran out of things to say.

He’s picking his teeth.

He just wiped a piece of chud on my oak dining room table.

Bob and me. Me and Bob. Alone. Forever. I’m being punished. That’s it. I said one too many times that I don’t believe in God. And now God is laughing. Good one, God. Again, if you hadn’t unleashed the apocalypse I would tell some of my friends about your sense of humor, but they’re probably dead.

And I’m stuck with Bob.

He is now making the sticky slimy salivating noise when you slowly open and close your mouth. He is not eating or swallowing anything. Just opening and closing his gaping mouth. I can almost see spit bubbles forming. Opening and closing...opening and closing...opening and closing…

“That’s it. I’m done.”

“What?”

You want to destroy the daffodils? Where’s the candelabra? I might as well try to take some of you dead assholes down.

It’s clear there are worse things than death.