By Dick Gear
© 2012, All rights reserved.
It turns out these zombies aren’t very smart.
Right now there are about five or six of them wandering outside Shep’s house, occasionally walking up to the windows and staring inside at us, pushing their mouths and noses against the glass like little kids at the zoo.
Their eyes are vacant, seeming to stare at us and through us simultaneously. We try to ignore those faces pressing up against the windows. Eventually they float back into the darkness again, only to reappear sometime later, pressing against the window once more. Maybe they’re hoping we’ll just open the window and make it easier for them to climb inside the house and eat us.
Shep’s party has turned gloomy.
Most everyone stopped drinking beer and the music has been turned down in favor of having the news on at all times.
In my own world of breaking news, my genital rash has ratcheted up a few notches and I’m constantly running to the bathroom, pulling down my pants and scratching. People must be convinced I’m either a serial masturbator, or that I have a case of the shits that doesn’t let up.
I doubt any of them have imagined the kind of disaster that’s occurring beneath my boxers.
It almost seems as though the state of my genitals is a reflection of the world and around me. After all, my sack began itching and burning right around the time the first zombies started to appear, and as the crisis has worsened, so have my gonads. My balls might be some kind of oracle—Nostradamus’ has reincarnated himself in my bait and tackle.
Right now, sitting on Shep’s couch and itching my sack as inconspicuously as possible, I feel like the nuclear wasteland surrounding my penis is a harbinger of future events—and the future is grim, folks. If my balls are the new Groundhog, then we’re looking at a very long, cold winter indeed.
I’m startled out of my reverie.
“I said, fuck you!” A Japanese guy that everyone calls Nips pushes his own face up against the glass and looks like he’s kissing one of the zombies as it opens its mouth and tries to devour him through the closed window. “Fuck you, motherfucker,” Nips says. He backs away and gives it the finger. “Stupid fucks.”
The zombie in questions begins clawing excitedly at the glass and the windowpane shivers from the pressure.
“Easy man,” Shep tells Nips, looking exhausted. “Don’t get it excited, it might accidentally break through.”
Nips shakes his head. “Fuck them. Let them try and come in here and eat me.
I’ll fucking eat them first. I’ve eaten raw horse, dude. You think I won’t bite a motherfucking zombie’s dick off?”
“Why it’s dick?” Fergi asks, her face a mask of disgust.
“Why what?” Nips says.
“Why would your first thought be to eat the zombie’s dick?”
“Because,” Nips says, “That would let them know I mean business.”
Everyone starts talking at once. Shep is asking everyone to calm down, while Fergi is saying that we need to make a plan.
“I think we should make a run for it,” Verne says. Verne is the curly dark-haired guy who yelled at Teddy earlier in the evening. Teddy’s been sulking ever since—he’s nursing a beer on the couch with a big puss on his face.
“Run to where?” I say.
Verne kind of shrugs. “The police station is only a couple miles from here.”
“They’re not going to do shit,” Teddy mumbles. “The police don’t give a fuck about us.”
“It’s better than sitting in here waiting for those things to get in and try and make us Sunday dinner.”
“It’s a shit plan,” Teddy says and puts the beer to his lips.
“Hey, shut up—someone’s talking about it on CNN!” Fergi screams. She turns the volume louder on Shep’s TV.
The headline on screen reads: MAYHEM IN MASSACHUSETTS
Anderson Cooper is on screen with his typical calm, smarmy face, and his slick grayish/whitish hair. “Thanks Wolf,” Anderson says.