I’m roaming through a darkened Deptford Mall. No electricity, the only illumination coming from the late-afternoon light peeking through the entrances. The zombies approach, some of them manage to open the heavy glass and metal doors and enter.
What were the two things they told me about the undead? Oh, yeah. The first was, they can’t touch flannel. I look around, Boscov’s in the distance. I hurry and find an escalator, not working in the power outage. I climb the steps of the Down escalator, ignoring the consequences of such a blatant act of civil disobedience. I pass Cinnabon, lean over the counter, and grab a big one. Abuse of moving stairs and now grand theft pastry. Oh, well. In for a penny, in for a pound.
I find the Men’s department and look for flannel shirts. None to be found. In the distance, a female mannequin wears a flannel nightgown. I hear the shuffling of feet. Three zombies, licking their fingers. They’d hit Cinnabon also.
I run to Ladies Sleepwear, find the largest nightgown, and slip it over my head. It’s pretty. Floral, with sprigs of baby’s breath throughout. Hey, not bad. Wait a minute, one weird fantasy at a time. The gown is short sleeve, so I’m not completely protected yet.
The creatures shuffle over. What was the second thing about zombies? Ah, saying something three times in a row stops them in their tracks. What was it?
“Flannel, flannel, flannel,” I yell. They stop, look at each other, and continue toward me. They seem repulsed, though more by my fashion sense than any threat to their existence.
“Betelgeuse, Betelgeuse, Betelgeuse,” I shout, while also making a cross with my fingers. None of this works. I take a step back and realize I’m trapped in a corner. My predators approach, teeth bared, some with pieces of cinnamon roll wedged in.
“Tom, wake up. You’re having a nightmare,” my wife says, poking my shoulder. “Besides, you’re missing The Big Bang Theory.”
I sit up. Of course! “Bazinga, Bazinga, Bazinga,” I mutter. I’ll be ready for next time.
What were the two things they told me about the undead? Oh, yeah. The first was, they can’t touch flannel. I look around, Boscov’s in the distance. I hurry and find an escalator, not working in the power outage. I climb the steps of the Down escalator, ignoring the consequences of such a blatant act of civil disobedience. I pass Cinnabon, lean over the counter, and grab a big one. Abuse of moving stairs and now grand theft pastry. Oh, well. In for a penny, in for a pound.
I find the Men’s department and look for flannel shirts. None to be found. In the distance, a female mannequin wears a flannel nightgown. I hear the shuffling of feet. Three zombies, licking their fingers. They’d hit Cinnabon also.
I run to Ladies Sleepwear, find the largest nightgown, and slip it over my head. It’s pretty. Floral, with sprigs of baby’s breath throughout. Hey, not bad. Wait a minute, one weird fantasy at a time. The gown is short sleeve, so I’m not completely protected yet.
The creatures shuffle over. What was the second thing about zombies? Ah, saying something three times in a row stops them in their tracks. What was it?
“Flannel, flannel, flannel,” I yell. They stop, look at each other, and continue toward me. They seem repulsed, though more by my fashion sense than any threat to their existence.
“Betelgeuse, Betelgeuse, Betelgeuse,” I shout, while also making a cross with my fingers. None of this works. I take a step back and realize I’m trapped in a corner. My predators approach, teeth bared, some with pieces of cinnamon roll wedged in.
“Tom, wake up. You’re having a nightmare,” my wife says, poking my shoulder. “Besides, you’re missing The Big Bang Theory.”
I sit up. Of course! “Bazinga, Bazinga, Bazinga,” I mutter. I’ll be ready for next time.