I just saw a werewolf with a Chinese menu in his hand, I thought we were doing zombies today.
No, I mean it as a serious question. We’re not supposed to kill the children, because they’re just children. Yes, four of them got together and took down that lawyer from Pontiac, but we mustn’t hurt the little darlings. I mean, they only stalked, tumbled and killed a two hundred and eighty pound man and they’re just ripping his still steaming guts from his carcass and eating them raw as we speak. I’m sure if we give them a stern talking to they’ll cut all this Lord of the Flies bullshit and behave.
I’m thinking, and I might be crazy here, that those kids are unreachable and that perhaps whatever is motivating them is beyond our ken. Just a thought, one I had when the nine year old yanked his eye out of the socket ad popped it in her mouth. I can out run them, which is why we got away far enough to discuss the issue while still being close enough to hear the slippery sound of intestines being yanked from a body and scoffed into a mouth and swallowed whole. A sound, by the way, which it’s going to take a lot of booze to ever even come close to forgetting for even a few moments.
Yes, I am advocating putting the little monsters down. I don’t like the idea of them coming for us during the night, their little fingers working through whatever barricade we make and slowly pulling at the cracks until the larger ones can get in and help.
We are talking about the end of the world here. This isn’t a situation where we can skip off into the sunset, if for no other reason than because we are heading east.
You know, I really resent the phrase “What the hell is wrong with you?” particularly coming form someone who’s life I saved twice in two minutes. First, I save them from that second walker who came along while they were watching the lunatic. Then, after the lunatic had smashed the skull open, and started talking about how awesome the brains looked on the ground and wondered aloud about how fresh meat might look before swinging his rifle butt. When you decide to go all Platoon and try and see if you can get brains to splatter “more pretty” than you already have achieved, and you decide to kill a person to do it, then you’ve crossed the line.
Yes, I cut his legs off at the knees. Yes, I then cut his arms off at the elbows when he started picking himself up. I didn’t want him changing and being able to chase anyone. And I let him bleed out because he needed to understand that there are rules and there are limits. Also, I’m not going to directly kill anyone today. At least, not anyone who still is a person. Even that lunatic was a person. If he bled out from his wounds, that’s his problem. I didn’t try to kill him, I was just trying to defend people.
And what thanks do I get?
“What the hell is wrong with you?”
What’s wrong with me? I’m alive and intend to remain so? That seems to put me in a distinct minority, and one that everyone seems to be dead set against.
I turned my head for two seconds, when I look back, BOOM! World is over. This is what insanity feels like, you don’t even feel anything when the world ends besides a sense that another damn thing has happened.
Next thing you know, some bath salt smoker is chewing on the face of their neighbor. Everyone laughs about that for a moment, then their grandmother is doing it, then some little kid is dragging a useless leg behind them and reaching out with a three fingered hand so they can gnaw with their remaining milk teeth. All the sudden, it’s not funny anymore. At the point that they’re having to choose between what they’ve always thought of as their humanity, and smashing a six-year-old’s skull on the pavement, most people choose wrong.
I can handle this, I know how to deal with them. You play some Michael Jackson, or some Billy Ray Cyrus. They’ll dance to Achy Breaky Heart, which should have been an early warning sign in my opinion. Anything with a danceable beat, it gets into their hind brain, past the hunger. Bad Romance will also do the trick too, but that’s just too sick for me. Even I have some standards. Bad Leroy Brown just makes them stand there and look at you quizzically as you slice them to pieces. It’s not that I find this fun, but I do find it interesting and in some cases necessary to save people not smart enough to run away.
The problem is, splattering blood of some face eater on another person’s face makes the second person loose their shit. You save someone, and they demand to know why you just did what you did. So I left the idiot to the people he seemed to prefer, and they ate him. I’m having a serious sympathy deficiency right now. People that stupid don’t deserve to live.
People think it’ll be fun. They think, “Hey, I’ve played Resident Evil and Left 4 Dead. I totally know how to deal with this.” They think they can handle it, they think they understand. People, as I have mentioned in the past, are fucking stupid.
I know how it started this time. I was warned, I knew ahead of a time. I saw it in the stars, that’s how. It doesn’t matter, you wouldn’t believe me and you refuse to understand that IT. IS. OUT. THERE!
When I tell you that The Pillar of Cheese in the shape of Jane Austen is out there, and that The Pillar of Cheese in the shape of Jane Austen is consolidating again, I don’t do it for my own health. I inform you of these things so maybe the idea of your dead grandmother climbing up your leg is as best a hallucination brought on by too much coffee. I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking I’m crazy, that I’ve gone round the bend for the fifth or sixth time.
Have you looked out the window?
Does that look sane?
I told you so.