by MARCELLA CARBORUNDUREM-McVORTVORT, Alternate Reality News Service Food and Drink Writer
The last remaining survivors of Bellwood, a tony gated suburb of Dayton, West Kentucky, huddled in the 19th Hole of the Dante Golf and Country Club as the low moaning of a thousand no longer quite human voices wafted in from outside.
"This is it," groaned (not moaned - that is a distinctly different kind of despairing tone) toenail polish heir Nigel Incubator-Jones, splashing himself with a vodka martini in the hope that some of it would actually get into his mouth. "This is the end of the world!"
The disparate group of still human beings had made their way to the cosy bar through a gauntlet of the undead. "I don't go to movies," Incubator-Jones stated. "I have servants who do that sort of thing. But, I am led to understand that this is just like that movie...oh, you know the one...with the creatures? Who do the terrible things? Yes - yes, that one!"
At first, the appearance of the creatures with their shambling gaits, ragged clothes and ghastly pallour was little commented upon. The good citizens of Bellwood thought they were gardeners, there to pick up the garbage, or, less likely but still plausible, tutors for many of the children who needed to get their heads out of each other's asses and their GPAs up if they wanted to get into a good school. The fact that the strangely inhuman creatures never actually did anything remotely resembling work didn't dawn on anybody.
"I remember happily going about planning the White Feather Cotillion and Avon Party," explained Nigella Pandorit-Encomium, the sprightly 87 year-old owner of the DJ Cups ("The DJ does not stand for Dumb Jock. Those were the initials of my late husband, Frank Earnest!") sports empire, "when Nigel told me about the filthy, gait-challenged, incoherent menace. And, a good thing he did, too. Who notices the help?"
It wasn't until the living dead stormed the gates of Bellwood en masse that residents took notice of them. "They knocked down the bloody gates!" roared Major Pfennig McWilliamsburg-Virginia of the 7th Incontinent Regular Cavalry regiment. "We had to drive over them to get to the office! It raised hell with my Mercedes' suspension, I can tell you!"
But, what would cause normal human beings to become the ugly parodies of humanity that threatened the Bellwood community?
"Sunspots!"
"A deadly virus created in a government laboratory!"
"Evolution taught in the public schools!"
As enticing as some of these theories were, I was unconvinced. So, I did the unthinkable: I left the 19th Hole to talk to one of the inhuman besiegers myself.
"I'd give you my shotgun," Incubator-Jones stated, "but, rankly, I need it."
"They're awful slow," Pandorit-Encomium advised between hits of oxygen from the tank by her side, "but they travel in large numbers. So, be sure to pack a toothbrush!"
"I hate long goodbyes," Major McWilliamsburg-Virginia roared, "So shove off!"
Outside, it took me no time at all to find several of the beasts staring quizzically at the flag in the hole on the 17th green. From a distance, I asked them who they were and what they were doing there. They pretended not to hear me. I had had enough of that with my parents when I was a child, so I boldly walked up to them and demanded that they give me an explanation.
They burbled to themselves. The shuffled uncomfortably. They drooled. Otherwise, they didn't acknowledge my presence.
Assessing the situation: I noticed two things: they all had dark skin and they were all clutching pieces of paper in their hands. At great personal peril, I tore the piece of paper out of the hand of the ghoul nearest to me, read it and realized that I hadn't actually been in any peril, great or otherwise, at all.
I stormed back into the 19th hole. "I started this article saying you were the last survivors of the human race," I angrily confronted the assemblage, "but has anybody any of you know actually died at the hands of the people invading your community?"
They hemmed. They hawed. They drooled. Finally, Incubator-Jones answered, "Not as such, no."
"No," I said. "Because those people are not the living dead. They are American prisoners whose minds have been destroyed by torture!"
The piece of paper I had snatched was written on CIA letterhead. It read, in part: "Yeah. Sorry about the physical and psychological pain. Only, you know, none of your organs failed, so we were told it was okay. Tell you what. To make it up to you, we'll send you to the city of our choice, all expenses paid, and...give you an iPod. Fair dos. That would just about make us even, alright?"
"Well, they were out to destroy our peace of mind," Major McWilliamsburg-Virginia, chagrined, roared. "We had every reason to be afraid and want to defend ourselves."
"Perhaps we should hold a fundraiser...for...err..." Pandorit-Encomium started, but the others had already lost interest.