This is not my door. Image by digiyesica via Flickr"Panicking, we boarded up the doors. It was cold and the rain beated down on the path. The duckpond flowed over with water and ran into the drains and the gutters. The man looked at me, his name was Max. He was an idiot, fear spreading from his eyes. Lips aquiver.
There were noises outside. The thud of light claws. Hooting of beaks angered but impartial. Flapping..."
It was then Max slapped me around the head:
"Stop talking like that, I'm meant to be the stupid one. This isn't the time to be talking like your Cormac McCarthy or something.
I was silent - Max was stupid, Cormack McCarthy is a far worse writer than me. Everyone is. Ripped my style off, all of them. Stole my ideas. But that's besides the point. Another point that's beside the first one is that Max, for a foolish fool, was remarkably well-read. Anyway, back to the first point, which is surrounded by other points.
Outside, we could hear them clawing at the doors and windows, hooting through the letter box and doing other shit. Using the nails and wood I keep for such an emergency, Max and I quickly boarded up such orifices as my house possesses, retreating to the living room where my miniature train set might offer some protection. But to no avail! The door, yielding under the incessant clawing and repeated dive-bombings, flew open. The hoard entered.
The undead, a fearsome advisory, but one we'd fought and overcome before. But these, these were something different. Something new. Twit-twooing, flapping their wings and pecking their beaks and the air. Their heads rotating at odd angles. Hungry for flesh and brains.
My life is so fucking stupid...