Friday, November 9, 2007


Thank God! Thank God! Thank God! I made it to the Cat without problems. I am confident in my ability to outrun a zombie, but I have even more confidence in my new BFF killing machine I lovingly call “Skiddy”.

[And for a moment, I chuckle at a revised commercial starring me in jean bib overalls with a bowl haircut, on my tiptoes hugging a clean and smiling Thomas-The-Train-Like Caterpillar Skid Steer on a perfectly manicured lawn while a new song plays: “My Skiddy…my Skiddy…wherever I go, she goes…My Skiddy, my Skiddy….my Skiddy and me!”]

I’ve got to get to DuPont Road and I’m going to head straight to my parents’ house about 6 miles away. I haven’t even left my yard yet, but I am taking a moment to get the Cat’s controls down. It has been awhile since I drove it and, figuring it was a one-time deal, had put that knowledge in my mind's Recycle Bin. I test the lift and tilt of the bucket and the rotation of the tread. The tank-like movements are kind of startling and scary, but a cold comfort, nonetheless. It’s like a black toggle-stick and switch video game, but one that I somewhat take to. Funny that I loved Resident reality this truly sucks.

The neighbors in the house to the south (the ones with the stockpile of non-working cars) are zombies, too; a middle aged man and his daughter who I peg to be about 16. They are drawn to the start-up of the diesel engine and slowly lurch from behind their garage while I practice the hydraulic controls in place. Then, when I have the maneuverability down, I move the Cat forward with an awkward jerking motion, tearing deep tracks into the yard-earth. I cautiously move in a slow direct line toward the zombie dad. His dead waggling fingers can’t reach through the cage. His body doesn’t stand a chance under the immense weight of the angry machine and he is pulled under.

[For a moment, I am a red-haired Ripley fighting the Alien Queen...]

I see the bursting of his large overfed stomach and the spewing forth of rotting entrail ribbons pop into the air like a party favor. Then I hear his dead skull crunch into the ground under the metal tracks. This makes me nauseous. The daughter is next. Living Dead Girl. I lift the bucket and the teeth fortuitously grab the length of her once elegant ballerina neck as her body is pulled under. Her head detaches like a dandelion top, as I don’t see it fall to the ground. It is probably grotesquely rolling around in my heroine-bucket. A few more decrepit middle aged zombies suddenly punctuate the yard. They don’t last. Skiddy needs a washing by this point. “It must be Skiddy's time of the month”, I madly muse to no one.
Her pretty yellow coat is tarnished with brownish red filth.

And I think she loves it.

[I wish I had remembered to grab my cell phone – how stupid of me!]

My sister and Toby will no doubt be at Mom and Dad’s. I really feel drawn to protect that baby, as well as help out the rest of my family. Hopefully there is enough fuel in this thing, God please! I don’t know how much punch I can pack with a tire iron clutched by a body weakened with dehydration and hunger. I’m dying for a plate of dill pickles! When I get hungry, I get bitchy. I guess though, that there’s no better time to be bitchy. Bitchy, Skiddy and the Lord might keep me alive today – or a lovely combination of all three.

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