It's Always as Winston Zeddemore Warned Us

UPDATE: I still do not have Ebola. My girlfriend and her kid both got struck with something fast-moving and projectile-inducing, but as neither of them bled from their eyes nor were they immediately surrounded by basic cable news vans, I think they're both clear as well. Media disinterest is the only way to prove non-infection without a microscope.

It's the day before Halloween, or I guess if we're respecting the etymology of it at all, Halloweeneen. The boys are getting a little older now, which means they still want to dress up, but don't want to be caught looking as though they put any effort or emotional investment into the choice, so all three are going as one of their other brothers. Basically it just involves swapping shirts and adjusting their level of disaffected teenage ennui.

I know that there will be some people, as we begin this holiday season, who will make a stand on religious grounds against the devil-ness inherent in Halloween and its imagery and refuse to let their kids participate because Jesus. The argument is (I think) that, yes, Halloween comes from "All Hallows Eve(ening)" celebrating the night before All Saints' Day, but that tradition is built on top of old timey pagan traditions of evil-spirit appeasing and besides, going around asking for free food from tax-paying strangers is a bit too Democrat to be countenanced probably. But if we're going to spin out traditions to their pagan roots and therefore disqualify them from public celebration, pretty much all of Christianity is going to have to go out with out. I'm just saying if we start digging too deep, we're all going to end up on the same side when it's time to rev up the War on Christmas again this year.

Because of the fluke of the proximity of the holiday to my regular posting day, I thought I'd do something I rarely do and dip into my vast and mostly untapped talent for fiction-writing and provide you with an appropriately terrifying tale to fit the season.

You are welcome.

Ahem:


BLOODMOONPOCALYPSE
Parte the Fyrst

by Me


Chapter 1
THE WAKENING OF THE RYZED

Tamara, Shawn and Jerry skidded to a stop, ducking below the roof-line of a 1996 Hyundai Elantra station wagon. It was silver, with some matting in spots on the finish, but overall the paint was in pretty good shape. It had the luggage rack on top, which isn't always a good investment as extras go, depending on what type of things you might have to move and usually you can get better deals with aftermarket parts, though they still usually get you on the labor.

Anyway, they were hiding. Because of ZOMBIES.

Shawn pressed his hands against the driver-side quarter-panel (a couple of minor nicks, but no visible dents or long scratches, nothing you'd have to report on a trade-in) and raised his head up just high enough to see over the roof. Tamara clawed at him and pulled him down,

"What are you doing?" she whisper-screamed. "They'll see us!"

"I just want to see where they are," Shawn said.

"Where who are?" Jerry asked. "I'm still not sure what's happening."

"What?" said Shawn. His high-school-lacross-captain muscled jaw flexed in the moonlight under an eighth of an inch of feathery man-stubble.

"What?" also said Tamara. Except she also did it in a way that pulled her T-shirt a little tighter.

"You guys said 'run' and grabbed me, so I followed," Jerry said, "but... I don't know, is there a flood or something? Plague of locusts? I don't get it. Plus it's real late, I should be home. Mom worries if she doesn't know I've brushed my teeth and voided my bowels by now."

"Fine," Shawn said, "look for yourself. Careful though, slow. Over there. In front of the American Eagle Outfitters. I said slowly."

Jerry stood up enough to peer through the window of the Hyundai Elantra. He could see that the original interior had been removed and replaced with third-party upholstery, thus voiding much of the warranty for the seats and related hardware. Beyond that, a shuffling, moaning horde of a hundred undead flowed toward them, like a rising tide if the rising tide was made of animated corpses.

"What, them?" Jerry said. He laughed. He fought off Shawn and Tamara's hands as he stood up all the way. "This ain't zombies, guys." He circled out from behind the Hyundai, walking a little farther than he would have normally had to because of the spacious cargo room afforded by the station-wagon configuration. "Dead rising from the grave. Come on. Don't you know your Scripture? Understand Good News when you see it." He kept talking, calling over his shoulder as he approached the limping horde. "It's the End Times. These are the Saved. They look a little worse for wear, sure, but this is as My Lord and Savior said it would be." He reached out a hand as he approached the walker closest to him. "Hello friend."

Shawn and Tamara paused their makeout session long enough to watch in awe as--slowly, tentatively--the zombie took Jerry's hand. And ate it. And then his brains.

THE END

Moral: It's OK to believe in God, so long as you understand: God is not an anti-zombie forcefield.

Please be safe. Overindulge, stay up too late, regret the sugar crash Saturday morning. That's what it's there for. Happy Samhain.