I am running from zombies on a gravel path separated from the suburbs by a band of trees and shrubs. Hilly, wooded, light splattered haphazardly. These zombies don’t look dead except for eyes that are grey-blue smog. They shuffle, always lagging but never stopping. I am in a bright white T-shirt, jeans, and sneakers, so I stand out. I know I can’t stay on this greenway.

As I near my house, I notice that the lawn between the tree line and the patio is clear of zombies. I sprint as fast as I can while keeping as low as possible. The door to the mudroom is unlocked, the shades pulled up all the way. I get inside, lock the door and take a nap on the floor in direct view of the window.

Cut: the door to the mudroom is hanging on a hinge, and I am waltzing with a zombie. This zombie’s lips are rotted away, his teeth a horse’s smile. He keeps trying to pull me near, my face brushing his each time, the barest “peck” of a kiss, until he finally does plant one on me. He tears off a chunk of my let cheek. As I pull back, my flesh still bloody and clumped in his mouth, I don’t really react except to place my palm on the new hole in my face. 


© Michael A. Kiggins
This was originally published in the June 2012 themed issue (dreams) of Skive Magazine.