"Who died and made you fucking king of the zombies?" - Shaun of the Dead

They told us the day would never come, but who are we to argue like we have some kind of control over such nightmares? Sure, the lock on your door may save you through a moment. The wooden planks we nailed to the windows - brittle and warped from years in the sun, waiting for the day they would be needed - may last the night, but it's long enough to know we are only stalling the inevitable.

The Bible foreshadows the dead will rise, and yet we laugh at the homeless man on Main Street, waving his doomsday sign, warning us of the fates of our immortal souls. I suspect he is gone now; whisked away by the demons he so sought to conquer, spared now of his endless nights of shivering beneath the soiled newspapers of his cardboard house, robbed now of his bright days hinting for a quarter or a scrap of food in return for his words of warning and shaded mercy.

Maybe that was his gift for his soothsaying; a quick demise, a silent banishment from this oncoming march of war, as those soulless vessels march along our streets to claim the rest of us in torment. It is odd to think, now that I can, that they very thing that will bring the end of our world was our splendid and unyielding reverence to those who came before. The dead have risen and they have come for the living.

I won't write the "Z"-word; too cliche, to simple of an ending for the world our ancestors struggled to create, and now march to destroy.

I hear them outside, scratching at the paint-peeled walls. Never did have time to repaint. Never had time for any important things, now things that echo so simple in an empty town.

Perhaps the wooden boards will hold, long enough to allow me to finish my thoughts and send them into empty space, destined to be lost in the ruins of the human race. Perhaps they will hold the night, only for me to be greeted in the morning light by the face of the homeless man whom I once laughed aside upon the street. I suspect his empty eyes will hold no understanding of our final irony; that he who foresaw the End of the World has simply become an accomplice in it's bloody downfall.

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