And oh! How thin the grandparents were! Emaciated as cancer patients. Shuffling on the asphalt in orthopedic shoes. The woman with long white hair coming out of her bun and an eggplant-colored polyester pantsuit; the man bald and bespectacled in a plaid shirt, cardigan, and jeans.

They were poster children for the old and fearful. A commercial for Celebrex.

They would be easy to overpower; the girl was another matter.

“I hope they let us in,” the woman said.

“Grandma, that’s like the fiftieth time you’ve said that in the last hour.”

“But what if they don’t hear us? What if there are zombies?”

“Grandma, there are zombies. That’s the way it is now. Like the Internet. Suddenly there it is and you’ve got to deal. Even if you are old.”

“Don’t talk to your grandmother that way, Annie.”

“The guy on the radio said this is the place and this is the way to get in. They’ll help us, you’ll see. It’s all good.”

Guts and I were restraining Ros and Guil, both of whom were ready to charge as soon as they caught a whiff of flesh. But without helmets, they risked getting shot in the head by pretty Annabelle. To communicate this idea, I made a gun with my hand and “shot” Guil with it, then shook my head no and knocked on my helmet. Ros nodded and gave me the thumbs-up. I put my arm around Guts and, through a complicated series of hand gestures and facial expressions, indicated that he and I would capture dinner while Ros and Guil stayed put. I thought they understood.

The best laid plans of zombies and men…

“Ohhh,” Ros said in his burbling rasp.

It was a loud trumpet. Annabelle snapped to attention.

“Did you hear that?”

“Hear what?” Grandpa said.

“Our hearing’s not what it used to be, dear. You know that.”

“You guys stay right here, okay? I’m gonna go check it out. Whatever you do, don’t move!”

Annabelle marched toward us. If Guts and I couldn’t control Ros and Guil, we were destined to be shot by a smart-mouthed teenager in combat boots and trendy clothes.

She could have been a student of mine, one of those postfeminists who eschew the label “feminist” although that’s exactly what they are. A lifetime ago, one such young lady had written a paper in my freshmen survey claiming that Spenser’s Faerie Queene was an allegory of cunnilingus. I’d given her an A, even though the course was contemporary American literature.

My shoulder felt like throbbing gristle-the meat by-product, not the industrial noise band.

It was Guts-our urchin, our orphan, our own li’l Webster-who came up with the plan.

His eyes met mine and he flicked them from Ros to Guil, then to Annabelle. His forehead crinkled significantly. He nodded his head at Grandma and Grandpa and smacked his lips-and I understood.

We let go of Ros and Guil at the same time, and the pair went straight for Annabelle.

“Watch out, dear!” cried Grandma and Grandpa.

Oh, poor zombies, trudging along at turtle speed. Annie had plenty of time to pull out her gun, take aim, and shoot Guil in the head. Kablam! Brains everywhere. I was glad it wasn’t Ros. We needed his voice.

Meanwhile, Guts darted out on all fours, quick as a ferret, and bit Annabelle on the ankle. She turned and fired as he scuttled, crab-like, to her grandparents, who were still clutching each other in the middle of the parking lot. The bullet glanced off his helmet. Annabelle grabbed her ankle; an egg-sized chunk of flesh was missing and she was bleeding a royal red. I emerged from the bushes, took out my pipe, and rubbed the bowl.

“You shot my friend,” Ros gurgled.

Annabelle looked up. “Dude, you can’t talk,” she said.

“Says who?” Ros said. Annabelle looked at me. I shrugged my shoulders and attempted a grin. A dollop of my cheek fell off at the dimple. Joan would have to repair that when we got back.

We must’ve been quite a sight for the girl. Me with my tweed jacket and pipe, Guts with his swift dexterity, and Ros with his exposed cranium and miraculous powers of speech. Her face went through a series of emotions: confusion, shock, disbelief, anger. It was like watching an actor practice her craft in workshop.

Finally, she hit determination, lifted her pistol, and aimed it, first at Ros, then at me. Cool as James Bond, I cocked my head, raised one eyebrow, and pointed behind her at Grandma and Grandpa.

“Brains,” Ros said. “Yum.” And strolled over to dinner.

The old lady was on the ground, Guts crawling on her like a fruit fly on a moldy peach. Grandpa had an arm around Guts’s waist, trying to pull him off. Guts sank his teeth into Grandma’s chest just as Grandpa pulled hard; the duct tape and embroidery thread gave way and Guts’s guts spilled onto Grandma’s stomach. Grandpa let go and gagged.

As for me, I was jonesing hard for some of that cannibal action.

“Hey, kid!” Annabelle yelled. “Get off her!”

She started to run to her grandparents, but her ankle gave out. Standing on one leg, she fired at Guts, hitting him in the back, but he was in la-la land, a feeding frenzy, the point of no return.

I wanted to bring Grandpa back to the Garden of Eden alive so that Joan, Eve, and Kapotas could have fresh meat, and I desperately hoped Annabelle would join the ranks of Zombie Army. That meant I had to be careful, play my cards right. Exercise restraint and NOT EAT EVERYONE IN SIGHT!

But a little snack first wouldn’t hurt anything.

I knelt down and took a bite out of Annabelle’s juicy teenage ass. Spitting out the acid-washed denim, I chewed on the fat. Bootylicious.

Annabelle swiveled her torso and butted me in the head with the handle of her pistol. It made a thudding sound on the army helmet. I took another bite and she hit me in the shoulder, the pistol connecting with my Jason-mask shoulder pad.

“Annabelle!” Grandpa yelled, and he turned and ran toward her. He only made it ten feet before he fell down hard, his face kissing the blacktop.

Great gobs of snot were bubbling out of Annabelle’s nose; her bottom was bleeding, but her ankle had already clotted and was turning a deep purplish brown. She turned her pistol around so that the business end was staring me in the face. I pointed at my eye, hugged my chest with my arms, and pointed at her-the universal sign for “I love you.”

“Well, I hate you, zombie scumbag,” she said, her finger on the trigger.

“Hey,” Ros yelled, looking up from Grandma, her blood smeared on his chin, “be nice, girlfriend!”

I inserted my finger in Annabelle’s gun, as if that could stop the bullet. If it didn’t work for the hippies at Kent State, it wouldn’t work for me.

Four dead in Ohio. Millions undead all over the place.

“What the fuck is happening?” Annabelle asked. She was crying, hiccupping and barking like a baby seal.

I took out pen and paper and wrote this: If you can’t lick ’em, join ’em.

“I’d rather die than be one of you,” she said.

Too late, I wrote. Already infected.

Annie bent down and touched her ankle-the meat pulsated, almost glowed. She turned, ignoring me, and hobbled over to save Grandma, firing away willy-nilly. I admired her grit. She would make a first-rate soldier, even without cognition.

“Uhhhhhhh!” I yelled.

Grandma was lying open, bare, letting it all hang out. Ros and Guts were chowing down, but Guts looked up at the sound of my voice and in a flash our little trouper sprang forward and attacked, flying through the air like Wonder Dog and coming close to biting Annie’s tit off. A strip of her Strawberry Shortcake baby tee caught between his teeth and the two fell backward in an awkward cuddle.

Annie hit her head hard on the asphalt and was down for the count.

“One of us?” Ros asked, pointing at the girl, and I nodded.

Guts scrambled off of Annie’s chest and ran back to Grandma. He scooped up a handful of the old lady’s brains and presented them to me with an exaggerated bow. I stuffed my face with them.