MicroHorror

The dead arose from their graves as Led Zeppelin’s “Kashmir” came blaring on the radio.

I slammed on the brakes and watched the dead with astonished, unblinking eyes. Some of them looked as though they’d been in the ground for many, many years, while others looked like they were new recruits for the dirt team.

I glanced down at the clock. 3:33. Then an old memory flooded my brain. I remembered the story that my father had told me when I was just a kid. He had told me about how the Apocalypse would happen at 3:33 on a June afternoon. When I asked him why at 3:33, he simply replied because if you multiply 3:33 by two you get the Devil’s number. As I grew up I always thought about how asinine my father’s story was. But now, at 3:33 on this sticky June afternoon, I am beginning to think that my father might have been right, and I might have been wrong. Dead wrong, in fact.

I drew in a deep breath. If this was the start of the Apocalypse, I figured that I had to do something. Anything. So I grasped the steering wheel tightly and pushed in on the clutch. I smiled like the Grinch as the dead made their way in front of my massive truck. I cranked up Zeppelin’s “Kashmir” as I popped the clutch and commenced to run down the dozen or so walking dead. The bastards tried to run, but my full-size Ford with the oversized tires caught up with them quickly and turned them into mincemeat pie. I even backed over them a couple of times, making sure that I had completed the job.

Now, I knew that this was the start of the Apocalypse and many of people were going to die. But what can I say, I was having one hell of a time. That was… until my eyes caught the sight of a hefty-sized man flailing his arms wildly. At first I thought he was just another dead person. But then I realized that the man was normal even though he was yelling at the top of his lungs.

I drove over to him and rolled my window down.

“What the fuck are you doing?” the man screamed. His eyes flared, his nose snarled and his teeth were grinding.

I thought to myself about how ungrateful this man was. I had just saved him from being ripped to shreds by the walking dead. So I replied smugly, “Saving your life.”

That was six years ago. And, as you can tell, it wasn’t the start of the Apocalypse. No, as it turned out I had drove up on the filming of a new zombie flick. And the dead were nothing more than actors. But in my defense they were pretty convincing. Award-winning. Maybe even Oscar-worthy. Hell, the movie itself might have been the best zombie flick of all time. But, then again, I could have been wrong. Dead wrong, in fact.