The late zombies

By Marc Calhoun

Don't you hate it when the undead are late?

I'd locked myself out of the house. My wife wasn't due home for a few hours, and try as I might, I could not break in. So having a few hours to kill until she came home I decided to go for a long walk. It was a sunny October afternoon, and as I walked the ridge to Hamilton Viewpoint, the sunshine melted away most my worries. (Earlier in the day I had checked the balance of my 401K.)

I cut down through Marshal Reserve to the beach, and wandered over to Seacrest Park. Being a bit lazy, I made use of the Shuttle to get a free ride back up to Admiral. Once there, I was wondering how to fill another two hours, when I noticed a poster stapled to a telephone pole. It said a parade of zombies would commence shortly, a cavalcade of corpses would be on the march from the Alaska Junction to the Admiral district. I thought to myself, "Wow! What better way to kill time than watching a procession of the undead."

The dearly departed were due to depart from the Junction at 4 p.m., and it was now exactly 4. So I started walking south towards the Junction, anticipating I'd encounter bloody, brain eating mayhem at any moment.

I walked, and I walked. A half hour later I was nearing the Junction, and still, no telltale Zombie sign was to be seen. No pools of blood, or walls spattered with bloody bits of brain. I hung around for a half hour, waiting for them to appear. But the only horrific thing I saw were cancerous growths of high rise buildings. So I went home, my zombie cravings unquenched.

I was still unable to get in the house, so I camped out in the backyard, waiting for my wife to return. When she did, the first thing out of her mouth was, "Did you see the zombies? They're marching up California!"

It seemed the dearly departed had finally departed. So we hot-footed it to California Avenue and there, in front of us, was a block long, straggling string of the undead, faces of grey pallor, with blood dripping from even greyer lips. Many plaintively begged for, "Brains, brains, we need more brains." Others seemed to be satisfied with less intellectual food, and were chomping on dismembered arms and legs. One lady zombie approached me and asked if I could spare some brains. "Sorry, mine's been picked clean."

It was over all too fast. And I watched as the last straggling zombie limped north towards Admiral, moaning for brains and blood. It had been a refreshing sight, this parade of the undead. It had taken my mind of my 401K, which had passed away in the last month. Seeing the undead gave me hope. Maybe my 401K will rise again. Maybe it will join the undead, and once again see the light of day. And maybe, just maybe, this country, and its financial institutions, will eat some brains and fix this mess.

Marc Cahoun may be reached via wseditor@robinsonnews.com