January 25 at 7:00 AM
Photo by Steve Gibson
Seven o'clock. They pour in like Siafu; I can barely keep up with their numbers. Three fall, twenty more rise. Chop, chop, chop. And they don’t seem to take a hint. A human with a minimum of intellect would flee the carnage, especially with something gnawing at their entrails.
But they’re not entirely stupid.
Something does fumble around that little brain of theirs; I guess they’re just patient thinkers. Either that or just waiting for inspiration. They lull you to sleep with their rudimentary cognitive skills, and it doesn’t help when grandma shows up for dinner, and all she wants to do is make tuna casserole out of you. It’s the family reunion from hell, and it happens every night.
I ditch the cleaver, and decide to throw an indoor barbecue instead. And everyone’s invited. The undead aren’t entirely afraid of fire, but it does tend to slow them down. It also brings out, shall we say, peculiar behaviors in them.
But it’s the heat they cannot stand: the dry, pressing heat. Sucks the energy right out of them, making them a walking inferno. So they linger around all day long, praying for night, or that unlucky fool who stumbles upon their nest. Sometimes the hunger gets the better of them, and they pay me an early visit. Trick or treat.
Since we’re having such a grand ol’ time, I break out the guitar, and strum a few tunes. The singing seems to calm them down.
Unfortunately it doesn’t kill them.