Last night I was looking for the freezer bags I had bought to put the leftover turkey in them to freeze and found I had one quart bags which, it turned out, was the right size for us. I mentioned this to my husband who was washing dishes and he said that he had used the last of our one gallon bags (I had noted they were low a while ago and had bought a new package and, when he left the empty box on the counter, I replaced the boxe's absence in the drawer with the newly purchased one.) I showed him the new box and told him that they had magically regenerated like Doctor Who. And almost simultaneously he said, "Like Zombies" and I pointed out that I said regenerated specifically. And not, he finished, "Reanimated".
Once the news broke about the uprising, my work decided to let everyone go home early. Luckily, I parked in the garage without valet parking today. I can only imagine the look of horror on the faces of car owners as they went to pick up their keys only to be greeted by a cadre of undead valets! I was glad that I had stopped earlier for gas as I had to drive home with the windows up and the doors locked in the unseasonal spring heat. Red lights-- who needs them! I didn't want to stop long enough to let one of the undead bash in a window! Instead of cleaning in preparation for a visit from my mother-in-law, I barricaded the doors and windows on the ground floor and hoped that zombies would see the signs for our "Dead End" street and misinterpret the meaning! My daughter had gotten off of work on time in the early afternoon and the spread out suburbs made it harder for the zombies to gather in numbers enough to be dangerous so she was home safe and sound and asleep when I arrived. I have never been happier to know that my husband insisted on genuine weapons for his wall of swords and other weapons behind his desk and not shiny show pieces. I just hoped that the bike trail he followed from work to his car would also be free of the hungry undead. About the time I was finishing up the barricading touches, he came in through the basement. By now, he'd seen and heard enough to know what was going on and made further prepartions including loading shotgun shells full of salt. I reheated some leftovers and we listened to the torrential downpour and thunder and lightening figuring that would work to slow down the shambling progress of the city zombies out to our not so remote suburb. We wondered if my mother-in-law would actually venture out to visit and if she would arrive alive or undead. About the time she was due to arrive there was a sickening moaning and scraping at the front door. I looked out and nearly lost my dinner. I vaguely recognized the dress we had buried her in. When the realization of who it was or had been, hit me, I did, indeed, empty the contents of my stomach! No one should ever see their mother that way! How did what was left of her brain know where I lived? I moved here six years after she died. It's not genetic memory since I'm adopted. My mom would have been seventy-two today but she died thirteen years ago. Unlike other anniversaries of her birth which I've passed quietly remembering her, today she decided to pay me a visit! It must've taken her all day to shamble from Unity Cemetary, 35 miles away. She was looking a lot skinnier than she had when I last saw her. It was obvious that the bridge in her mouth was still in good condition, too bad I couldn't say so for the rest of her jaw. There was no way we were going to have any meaningful conversation and I can truly say that she would never understand my life now! I mean, my dad didn't even own a computer when she died. Just as all these thoughts had passed through my head the Klingon runs down the stairs with his shotgun, throws me aside, tosses aside the barricade, opens the door and gives her both barrels filled with salt! He never did like her.
Rewind courtesy of this blog entry.
Rewind courtesy of this blog entry.