I picked up the keys, located the right one, and tried to fit it in the slot. I jabbed at the ignition a few times, but the task seemed impossible, the level of coordination beyond me. I gave myself a pep talk: You can do it, professor!

Nothing happened. The keys fell out of my hands and slipped underneath the gas pedal. Guts and I just sat there in the garage like two kids playing Sunday Afternoon Drive.

The separation was complete: physical and spiritual; mind and body; thought and action. I was the living dead embodiment of Cartesian dualism: Though my soul was housed in my body, my body was divorced from my soul.

Ros pointed at me and squealed. The sound was otherworldly-a rabid pig with emphysema, a demon gloating over murders and wars, a cannibal with a baby at the end of his spear, Donald Sutherland in the final scene of Invasion of the Body Snatchers.

Saint Joan covered her mouth with her hand, hiding her rotten teeth, putrid tongue, and obvious glee at my incompetence.

Humans call it laughing, but zombies don’t have a name for it. We don’t have a name for anything.

I got out of the car and held the door open for Ros. Let him try it, if he’s so smart.

Ros climbed in. And sat there. And continued to sit there. Impotent, like me.

“Can’t,” he gurgled.

As a human, I would have said something cutting to demonstrate my superiority. But I’m a compassionate zombie. My anger drained away and I was flooded with pity. Our poor dumb species. We’d never make it.

“Joan?” Ros said.

I looked at Joan and she shook her head, waving her hands in a gesture of adamant protest. I walked over to her, intending to escort her to the vehicle, when my shoulder began tingling, and everyone, Annie, Guts, Ros, Joan, even Eve, perked up, alert and poised. Stiff as lawn statuary.

Green Cap Sniper was approaching.

Eve headed straight for the brains, as steadfast as a pimp targeting a runaway. Guts sprang forward and closed the garage door in her face. Eve walked right into it, clawing at the barrier and moaning.

Part of me admired Eve. Her behavior was classic Romero zombie and there’s something to be said for tradition. Like a woman who stays home to raise the kids, she was old-school.

“Muzzle her,” Ros repeated, and I nodded.

Saint Joan grabbed the garden hose and tied Eve up. She removed Eve’s helmet and gave it to Annie. Guts took Isaac out of his stroller and they stood facing the garage door, holding hands.

“Lock and load,” Ros said, looking at Annie.

Corn-fed and flaxen-haired Ros’s dialogue was straight out of Die Hard with a Vengeance. I imagined he was that star quarterback in high school who got drunk on weekends and popped the head cheerleader’s cherry, the kid who sailed through algebra and Beowulf on his beefy good looks. After graduation, he joined the military to keep America free.

“Don’t eat the human,” Ros reminded everyone. We were standing in formation, lined up for battle. “Everyone ready?” he said. “Let’s roll.”

The only thing I rolled was my eyes. If all language is fossil poetry, as Emerson claimed, then Ros was burning fossil fuel faster than a jet engine. Rehashing tired movie clichés, not an original thought in his head.

Annie’s gun was drawn and cocked, her finger on the trigger. I nodded at Guts and he opened the garage door.

Green Cap was in the driveway, feet planted a foot apart, rifle drawn in a defensive posture. Isaac crawled toward his legs, but Guts grabbed the devil child by the seat of his onesie. Eve was writhing on the floor, the garden hose coiled around her like a snake. Saint Joan clutched her doctor’s bag and moaned, a plaintive wail filled with such longing I almost gave in to desire myself.

“What the fuck,” Green Cap said.

Imagine you haven’t eaten in a week and your favorite dish-fried chicken or foie gras, beef Wellington or beef tacos-is in front of you. Or you’ve been crawling across the Sahara for three days, sun pouring down on your bald spot, sand in your teeth and eyes, and you can’t even sweat anymore, you’re that dry, and the lake in front of you is not a mirage but an oasis.

And you can’t eat or drink. Verboten.

“Brains,” Ros said. It was the truest thing anyone has ever said.

Green Cap sighted with his rifle but before he could squeeze the trigger, Annie shot it out of his hand.

“Jesus,” Green Cap said.

Here I am, I thought, resurrected and full of grace.

Green Cap took a step backward. It was fight-or-flight time, and it looked like he was going to fly.

Ros cleared his throat; it sounded like the glub of the Loch Ness Monster, a creature whose existence I’m currently rethinking. Because if zombies exist, why not Nessie?

“We come in peace,” Ros said.

Annie and Joan inched toward Green Cap, each step painfully slow, stroke victims learning to walk again. Annie brandished a rope, lasso-style. Guts tucked Isaac back into his pram.

“Holy Mother of God,” Green Cap said, and turned and ran. Guts followed suit, and the chase was on.

What a miracle Guts was. He dove for Green Cap’s feet and tackled him before they reached the cul-de-sac.

And poor Guts. Longing illuminated his urchin’s face, but he could only sit on top of the human until the rest of us reached them. No biting, no touching, like a lap dance.

Green Cap was thin; he probably hadn’t eaten a Hot Pocket in days. He looked like Paul Bunyan. His hair was long and matted underneath the John Deere cap and his beard was wild and woolly. He was wearing jeans, a flannel shirt, a down vest, and Timberland work boots. He was a survivor, all right. Who knew how many of us he’d fought off? Hundreds, at least.

He punched Guts in the face. He wrapped his hands around Guts’s neck and choked him, trying to poke his thumbs into our little guy’s eyes. Guts bared his teeth, snapping at Green Cap’s thumbs.

And one small bite is all it takes…

“Don’t do it,” Ros warned him.

“This can’t be happening,” Green Cap said. He let go of Guts’s neck and propped himself up on his elbows, ignoring the adorable zomboy perched on his chest. He watched us approach. By now, we were halfway down the driveway. “Are you all zombies?” he asked.

“We like brains,” Ros admitted.

“Is this really happening?” Green Cap asked.

“You better believe it,” Ros said.

“Why are you talking?” Green Cap asked.

“Why are you?”

Green Cap rested his head on the concrete. “Then it’s over,” he mumbled, “if they can think.”

Here’s my favorite recipe. Pretend you’re reading Like Water for Chocolate.

Ingredients: One human, warm and alive, preferably wriggling, maybe screaming.

Preparation: Using both hands, hold human firmly in place. Take a big bite. Chew. To enhance flavor, let pieces of flesh and viscera swing from mouth.

Repeat until human is a pile of bones.

But I couldn’t do it. It was triumph-of-the-will time. Mind over matter. Brain over brains.

I had a mantra and it was this: Do not eat the human…Do not eat the human…Do not eat the human…Do not eat…

Eve’s moans were at a fever pitch, loud enough to attract our brethren. She needed a sock in her maw. Pronto. I signaled as much to Joan, putting my hand over my mouth and nodding in Eve’s direction. The old gal did a 180, back to the garage, almost creaking as she turned. She was a dutiful zombie, a first-class minion.

We were almost to the end of the driveway. The Trail of a Thousand Zombie Tears.

“Brains,” Ros said. “Mmmmmmm.”

Ros’s arms were outstretched; he was slipping into character, losing cognition. I grabbed his elbow and shook him. Forcing him to face me, I made the peace sign, then pointed the two fingers to my eyes, then to his eyes, signaling: Look at me. Stay with me.

Do not eat the human…Do not eat the human…Do not eat the human…Do not eat…