They appear out of nowhere -- three or four of them. Walking slowly and stiff-legged toward me, slack-jawed, eyes emotionless and round, almost buggy. The clothes they wear are tatty, often dirty with lord knows what. Sometimes their pale arms are extended, fingers grabbing thin air, as if to say: "You ... I want to eat your face, make my way to your gooey brains." They drool at the thought. I plot my exit -- grab the boys and make a run for the door, to the car, load everyone in, lock the doors and slam the car into drive. We all breathe a sigh of relief and start talking about afternoon snacks of sweeties, fishies, crackers. Maybe a little juice. Just some sugar to calm our jaggedy nerves.
After all, we've just escaped the soggy, clammy, death-grip grasp of the 10-month-plus zombie set.
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