Jim is on vacation in Michigan this week. Besides giant killer deer, he is surrounded by corn. Acres and acres of corn. Square miles of corn. There are things, strange children, in the corn. I can hear them chanting at night. Don't go into the corn. Just sayin'
I'm at my parent's house.
They're up early and gone to the farmer's market in Middleville to sell their produce this morning. They took their grandson with them.
I was sitting on the couch, reading the Internet, and drinking my coffee when I saw a car pull into the drive.
This is not unusual. Cars pull in here all of the time, my parents are well known throughout south western Michigan for the quality of their produce. Up until last year they ran a very popular and highly visited farm stand in front of their house. They're getting older though, and the stand was a lot of work every day, so this year they mostly just sell at the Friday Farmer's Market in Middleville. However, they have attracted hundreds of loyal customers over the years, and if you stop by the house, they'll cheerfully sell you beans or asparagus or new potatoes or pickles or raspberries or just shoot the shit for a while. People stop by all of the time, dozens a day sometimes, at all hours.
So, a car in the driveway, not that unusual.
Except that it's Friday, and everybody knows that my folks are at market on Friday.
However, they leave the garage open, and if you need a couple pounds of green onions or a quart of strawberries you call ahead and my folks will leave your order in the garage and you can get it out of the produce cooler and put your money in the can. So I figured that's who this was.
I heard a car door slam, then I saw a young woman approaching the front door.
Now that is unusual, regulars don't come to the front door and ring the bell, they shout through the screen door into the kitchen from the garage if they have a question, "Hey! Anybody home! I need yellow beans, got any? Hello?" That's just how it is around here.
So, young, well dressed woman at the front door.
Hmmm, so I answer the door unshaven, in my sweats, coffee in hand. I’m a sexy monkey in the morning, I am.
Woman: "Hi! I'm here to tell you how to survive the end of the world!"
Woman: "I'm Katie and we're doing volunteer work here in the neighborhood and I'd like to talk to you about how to survive the end of the world!"
I don't like these people.
I especially don't like brightly fervent cheerfully perky people who knock on my door and try to sell me the Jesus like some salesman hawking insurance or Rainbow vacuum cleaners before I've even finished my first cup of coffee.
Suddenly, I felt inspired.
Me: "End of the World? What are you selling, bomb shelter plans?"
Woman: "Ahh ha ha, bomb shelter pla... No what I'd like...
Me: "Cause I could use me some good underground bomb shelter plans."
Woman: "No, I..."
Me: "Does your shelter plan have a place to store food and guns? Lots and lots of guns? Because when the Zombie Apocalypse comes you're going to need lots of guns...big ones. Are you selling guns?"
Woman: "I, uh...zombies?"
Me: "Hell yes, zombies. They’ll come through the corn looking for brainz to feast on in an orgy of blood. You have to blow their heads off to stop them. Well, technically all you have to do is sever the spinal cord at the base of the neck. But most people can’t shoot that well. So you need a big gun. Or you could use a machete, but then you’d have to get in real close. And cutting the head off leaves you with a zombie head, you need to watch where you step, because zombie heads can still bite if something comes within range. And you don’t wanna get bit, do you? But, you know that already, right? That’s what you do, right?”
Me: “Why, what were you talking about?”
Woman: “Um, see, um, Jesus, and, um…” [At this point she’s got this sort of stunned look and she’s waving some kind of glossy tract around in sort of a vague manner, the title on top says “How to Survive the End of the World.” It doesn’t say anything about zombies though, as far as I can see.]
Me: “Oh yeah, Jesus, talk about zombies. Rising from the dead and all that. Some people in the zombie movement think he was the first zombie you know. Sort of like Dracula was the first vampire.”
Woman: [faintly] “Vampires?”
Me: “Vampires? I don’t believe in vampires. Or werewolves either. What are you, some kind of nut? That’s just silly. Sorry not interested.”
And I shut the door.
As I watched her pull out of the driveway I thought, serve the bitch right. Damn silly woman, she won’t last ten minute when the zombie farm hands come shambling through the corn…