Here I was, sound asleep when I heard this knock on the door. So I dragged myself downstairs to answer the door, moving a little like the undead myself. As I got closer, I began to hear moaning sounds, faintly at first then louder.
“Ok, you perverts” I said. “Get away from my door before I call the cops!” The moaning persisted. “Goddamn it!”
So I looked through the peep-hole in the door. There were these people, their skin looking like they took a bath a in cornstarch. Now what?
“Listen, it’s way too fucking early to be screwing outside the door and trick or treating. I don’t have to sex with you or give you candy. Either one. ” I knew that really didn’t sense, but like I gave a fuck at 4am.
They still didn’t go away. In fact, the knocking got louder and more demanding.
So I opened the door. This was a huge mistake.
They were all dressed as tourists. You know the type. Either wearing ridiculously tacky outfits with the world’s loudest colors, or dressed in a way that they think is stylish, or making a failed attempt to look sexy and hot (because everybody knows, everybody know that people in Vegas are all sexy and hot 100% of the time and never, ever dress normal…)
The people looked dead eyed. They say the eyes are the window to the soul, but there was nothing but blank soulless stares coming from their eyes.
“I see what happened. Too many slot machines. Come on in and rest your eyes for a minute I guess. How the hell did you guys make it all the way from the Strip to my house anyway?”
There was no answer only grunts and moans.
Then this girl came toward me. She lunged, dragging one foot behind her. She placed her hands on my hips and I thought she was going to kiss me. Ok, I’ll go along with it. Whatever. Instead she snapped at me and tried to bite my lips off!
I should have known. Zombies! I hate it when this happens.
So I ran into the kitchen, the zombies following. Zombie move real slowly, of course, so I was able to get some distance ahead of them.
I thought they might want accept something to eat besides my flesh; so I opened the the fridge and grabbed some hot wings and threw them to the zombies.
“Nooooo wiiiiiiings!” the zombies grunted.
I theorized that bad chicken wings had caused the zombifictaion of these tourists, although I still contend that too many slot machines can do it too.
The zombie that tried to “kiss” me gabbed me again, so I grabbed a frying pan and whacked her upside the head with it. One down. Then a guy zombie tried to “kiss” me too. Can somebody still be gay after being turned into a zombie? I didn’t have time to ponder questions like that, instead I said “Sorry, not interested!” and whacked him upside the head with the frying pan too. Two down.
There were four more. I tried to run to the the closet where the shotgun is. I picked up the gun and aimed at a zombie’s head and pulled the trigger. Shit! Out of ammo, of course. If this was the zombie appolypse, I wanted to get my 15 minutes of fame as “zombie killer of the week” so I came up with a plan. But first I dispatched that zombie in some cheap way that isn’t worth mentioning.
I led the remaining zombies to the garage and was able to start the car while they were still a good twenty feet away. Zombies move really slowly, remember?
I rolled under the car and the zombies followed. I rolled out the other side of the car and jumped back inside. “Die, you flesh eating freaks!” I called as ran over their heads. I ran over them once more the “double tap.” Hey, Zombieland can be good video manual of what do in a zombie situation.
My zombies were all dead. So I breathed a sigh of relief and opened the garage door. Hey, I deserved to go out and celebrate. But I saw the neighborhood in ruins. Houses were burning, cars were overturned. Flesh eating freaks were wandering the streets.
I was the last man in Vegas, as far as I could tell. I made it to roof of my house and waited. In due time, a National Guard helicopter airlifted me to a safe place.