Zombies in Our Basement

Through a series of timely events today, we had zombies in our house for a brief moment.

My oldest son, Brad, came home this weekend from college, so that the family could make merry tonight and celebrate his belated 21st birthday. He arrived at our house at about 2:00 p.m. this afternoon....

We were all getting ready for the big shindig later, so Daughter was in her room, cleaning...Hubby was doing yard work...and I was in the kitchen, making lots of chips and dips and cookies and cakes...And chocolate martinis. Ahem.

Once Brad arrived, I did the usual kissy-kissy, "how are you, how are your classes, how are your grades?" thing, and then he retreated to his bedroom for awhile. He had a kick-ass "zombie" video game he wanted to play.

About 20 minutes after he disappeared into his bedroom, Daughter came running up the stairs from HER room, with a most freaked-out expression on her face - pure horror, pure fear, pure terror....She says, breathless, "Mom! OMG! There are some REALLY WEIRD NOISES coming from Brad's room!" She added, in the most ominous voice I have ever heard, "THERE MUST BE SOMEONE IN THERE!!!! Someone SCARY!!!"

I replied, "Yeah. Your brother."

I guess she had missed his arrival and had no idea he was home. It would have been too funny if not for the pure fear on her face for that brief minute she thought a zombie had invaded our house.

Peace.

Dear God: Please Protect My Son From Zombies

I am a mother. It’s only natural that I fear/worry/fret/obsess over my children’s safety when they are not with me. And today begins that dreaded time each year when I worry the most…because today? Is the beginning of Zombie week at my son’s university.

Yes – today is the first day for the next week (or so) when my son has to do everything in his ability and power to remain a human and not get eaten by the zombies that are now – even as we speak – roaming the campus. Shudder.

No mother wants her son to be eaten by a zombie – so I don’t think I’m alone in this. There are other mothers who are probably saying the same prayer that I am every day this week. There are other mothers who are probably frantically checking their student’s Facebook page every few hours, hoping against hope that their beloved’s status doesn’t say, “Oh yeah – got tagged today by a Zombie who proceeded to suck my brains out. It was really cool – and strangely gross at the same time. I am now a Zombie Warrior.”

A few months ago, during the annual Spring Zombie Attack, my son managed to stay human until the final battle. However, realizing his fellow few remaining humans were trapped and horribly out-numbered, he nobly offered himself up as a sacrifice in order to save mankind. Although I was understandably proud of him, I was, of course, devastated at his demise.

He was home last weekend for mid-term break. I said good-bye to him as he headed to his car to begin the long drive back to school. Suddenly fearing that it may be the last time I saw him in human form, a song popped into my head and I began mournfully singing, “Bradley, don’t be a hero – don’t be a fool with your life…..”

He never even turned around.

So…bear with me if I seem a little distracted the next few days. You would be, too, if your oldest child was dodging zombies.

Peace.

For more “zombie” stories – check out the labels on the right. You can read my son’s first-hand account of his sacrifice last Spring to save the human race. It will move you to tears, I promise….

Zombie Drivers

Have you ever wondered what it would be like to be a Super Hero? I confess – I have. If I could have only one “super hero power”, I know what it would be. I would “zap” people who are clueless about driving. You heard me. Idiot drivers would instantly disappear - removing them from the road forever. Wouldn’t that be awesome? It would sure help with traffic problems.

I don’t claim to be the best driver on the road – but I certainly can hold my own. I drive at least the speed limit (okay, okay, true confession: hubby would tell you that I probably drive a little over the speed limit – but not by much, I swear!), and I don’t tailgate or show overt signs of road rage. (That’s because I have kiddies in the car and I don’t want to teach them new four-lettered words!) I don’t drive in the passing lane – unless I’m actually going to – gasp! – pass someone. And I use my turn signals. So, all-in-all, I try to be a polite and courteous driver.

While driving through town, I frequently have to drive through what is known as the “Grandview Triangle.” Now, for my dear readers who are not from around here – allow me to explain the “Triangle.” It would have been named the “Bermuda Triangle” – but that name was already taken, obviously. The Grandview Triangle is a very scary area because while driving through it, strange alien forces swoop in and render drivers’ brains to mush – absolutely wiping out any reasonable intelligence they may have had before entering the Triangle. (Except for me – I’m immune to these forces, of course). People driving through the Triangle turn into clueless, brainless zombies – which is scary, considering the fact they’re behind the wheel of a 2-ton missile going 90 mph. Drivers will suddenly drive 30 miles UNDER the speed limit – or 30 miles OVER the speed limit – or they’ll drive in the passing lane – or they’ll forget all about a turn signal – or they change lanes without looking to see who’s IN the lane! It’s freaky! And frustrating!

My biggest gripe are the people who tailgate – and do it so obnoxiously that I could carry on a conversation with them – I mean, after all, they’re practically in my back seat. Several years ago, while down in Mississippi doing some hurricane reconstruction work with a church group, I stopped at a red light. The guy behind me didn’t stop at the red light – so, consequently, he plowed into me. He hit me so hard it knocked my car into the car in front of me. An SUV sandwich. Ouch. I got a lovely souvenir on that trip – an uncomfortable neck brace I came home with. So pardon me for getting a little nervous when I see someone so close that I can count the freckles on their face in my rear view mirror.

One of these days, when I’m Queen of the World, I will ban inconsiderate and rude drivers. Until then – if you see a little silver, sporty Mazda Speed 6 zooming down the road – especially through the Grandview Triangle– keep your distance – and don’t drive like an idiot. I wouldn’t want to have to “zap” you with my super powers and make you disappear.

Peace.

Humans vs Zombies

Wow...two posts in one day...but such is the life of a proud mother. I had posted earlier tonight about my younger son and his amazing pitching prowess in his baseball game this afternoon. I was a very proud mother.

Well, I now have to brag on my older son....but first, a little background. Older son is attending Truman State University, where twice a year, he engages in the notorious "Humans vs Zombie" game played campus-wide. This semester, the game began last week, and my son was very proud of managing to stay Human for all this time. Today was to be the last and final mission - and my son's goal was to survive the mission today and be one of the last few surviving humans.

Being an anxious mother, I have waited all day to see how his mission turned out....and then tonight, he posted his story on his Facebook page. I am copying it below, word for word:

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Our last & final mission is today in Ophelia Parrish – we shall conquer or die. Given that at the moment we’re outnumbered nearly 4 to 1, that prospect seems pretty grim, but in the next two hours, half of the zombie horde shall starve, making the odds about 2-1. Since we can mount ranged attacks, I call that even odds.

No zombie horde sightings yet today, which is odd, considering I have been outside often. The day is bright and sunny, and many zombies will starve without brains – but they are not hunting. Perhaps the handful of surviving humans have been so quick and so clever that the zombies have given up hunting in between classes? I can only speculate.

I reached Ophelia, and regrouped with the last remnants of the human resistance. There were perhaps two dozen of us remaining. 24 humans against perhaps 80 zombies. Our task was to activate the failsafe on the ultimate weapon we had spent the last few days preparing, activate the weapon itself, then race to the bunker that had been prepared Sunday before it detonated in 15 minutes, eliminating the zombie scourge.

We raced across campus to West Campus, moving so quickly the horde never spotted us. Hurrying through, I pressed the button to activate the failsafe, and then it was south, across campus again, to Barnett.

We hurried, and a force of ten zombies appeared coming down Patterson Street. They attempted to cut us off, but without reinforcements (the horde was rushing to West Campus at this time) they retreated, and we safely made it into Barnett.

Ten minutes later, we finished activating the weapon. In fifteen minutes, it would detonate, wiping out the zombie scourge and saving the human race. Our own survival depended on reaching a bunker prepared – Violette Hall. But there was a problem: Somehow, the timer only read ten minutes!

We stepped outside, and the horde confronted us.

Arrayed all amongst the parking lot, the entire surviving zombie force stood between us and safety. Nine minutes.

I nervously waited for them to engage, but they refused, encouraging us to come to them. Eight minutes.

Glancing up and down our line, I realized we would have to charge them. Again, I waited for someone to make a move. Seven minutes.

Then I realized it. Humans are a cowardly lot. They were edging back, trying to stay hidden behind each other. No one wanted to be the first to charge the horde. No one wanted to embrace almost certain death so that the group could survive. Human priority is first and foremost to survive.

I sighed. I’m not a fighter. I have never pretended to be one – I can handle one or two zombies, perhaps even three at a time, but I am not like those who casually stun six on their way to class. No, I have always been a strategist, one who can lead.

And right now, these humans needed a leader. No one would advance, they would sit there and wait for the detonation, rather than be the first, doomed human at the zombie horde.

I remembered the first day, the ambush that almost killed me.

I remembered the battle at the bridges, when human leadership had proven decisive.

I remembered Centennial Hall, when the inability of humans to be led had caused the deaths of many good men.

I knew what I had to do.

And so I stepped down in front.

I cocked my weapon.

I began to walk forward, and I began to sing.

“This was a triumph…”

~
I was munched there, leading the way out of Barnett, but the humans in front of the building received the jolt they needed and they began to move, fighting their way across the street, and then breaking up into small groups and racing for safety. Nine were killed on the way there, but would not become zombies – the corpses would be destroyed before they could reanimate. They died as humans. Three were unable to reach the bunker in time and were consumed in the blast. But twelve humans survived, triumphant.
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So...my son gallantly and bravely laid down his own life to save the human race. As I sit here in my grief tonight, I cannot help but be so proud of him. He died, fighting the zombies, in order that the few remaining humans would survive. It doesn't get much better than this.

(And to think this is what we're paying for when we send our kids to college.)

Peace.