Fire Pit Tongs Keep Zombies on the Run
It was a night like any other night: crickets were singing, zombies were moaning just beyond the fire light, and I was feeling romantic. My girlfriend is deathly afraid of zombies, so her, not so much. Everyone knows that the foul creatures avoid fire, so we were perfectly safe as long as we stayed close to the flames, but Alicia can be kind of a downer about sex when there's already moaning going on, and she's not the one doing it. As it turned out, the blaze wasn't quite enough that night, and my fire pit tongs saved both our lives.
You have to think of it this way: zombies don't like open flames, but they do appreciate decent fire pit cooking, as long as it's brains that are being cooked. In retrospect, I can see that it kind of foolish serve calf brains roasted over an open flame out there in the back yard, unprotected, but hey, I love calf brains. It has occurred to me since the zombie outbreak that, should they ever catch me and turn me into one of their own kind, I would probably do pretty well. Assuming human brains taste similar to calf brains. You really should try them, the calf-kind, that is.
We had plenty of fire pit supplies, but Alicia was ready to put away the food and fire pit tools and fight her way back to the house alone, if it came to it. Maybe I would get luckier at the house, I thought, although love under the stars is a fantasy I like to live out as often as possible. So anyway, i finally agreed to pack it in and make our way to the back door before the fire got much lower. There is a stage of dimness in the light put off by an outside fire pit that becomes problematic when the undead are as close as they were at that moment.
Alicia carried the log holder, which was empty, and I grabbed up the heavy duty fireplace tongs we like to use at the patio fire pit.
As soon as we were five steps away from the backyard fire pit, the moaning around us got louder.
We picked up our pace, falling out of the fire light.
The moaning got louder yet.
We hopped into a run, side by side, our eyes widening with fear. "Don't be afraid," I told her, as I peed myself a little. I already needed to pee, but the ghastly apparitions around us jarred me into letting a little trickle out.
Faster, we went, moaning ourselves, now as the beasts rose from behind the hedges to both sides of us, and their moaning evolved into more of a growling sound, like when you're out camping, and you wake up with a bobcat on your chest. At least it wasn't a zombie bobcat. But that's another story.
We were within 10 feet of the back door of the house when the first attacker broke free of the hedge, leaving part of her arm on a sharp branch. That juniper can really catch on your clothes and skin. It didn't slow her down. In a heartbeat, she was reaching for Alicia's throat.
"Duck!" I hollered, and she did. I took the slavering apparition down with one might swing of my Apocalypse Tongs. On of the prongs went in her ear and sort of flattened the whole side of her face. She must have been a pretty ripe zombie because when she hit the ground, she settled into a human-shaped gelatinous heap. Which was nice because it made it easy to pry the tongs out.
I didn't even have time to wipe the soot and gore off them when next attack came, a large, black man, nearly seven feet tall with hands the size of hams. He reached for my head with those huge hands, but before he could make contact, I brought my fire pit log grabber tongs up in a sweeping arc that would have brought a living man to his knees. But this was a zombie, and even riper than the first one, so my weapon sort of split him up the middle into three pieces.
As I stepped free of the attack, I realized Alicia was in imminent danger, but there was no time to stop this denizen of Hell. He brought his hand up, as if to throw a roundhouse punch.
Time stood still for that moment, as watched, unbreathing, knowing my girl was about to die.
But instead of killing her, the zombie tapped her on the shoulder and joyfully proclaimed, "Tag! You're it!"
And all the zombies ran away.
You have to think of it this way: zombies don't like open flames, but they do appreciate decent fire pit cooking, as long as it's brains that are being cooked. In retrospect, I can see that it kind of foolish serve calf brains roasted over an open flame out there in the back yard, unprotected, but hey, I love calf brains. It has occurred to me since the zombie outbreak that, should they ever catch me and turn me into one of their own kind, I would probably do pretty well. Assuming human brains taste similar to calf brains. You really should try them, the calf-kind, that is.
We had plenty of fire pit supplies, but Alicia was ready to put away the food and fire pit tools and fight her way back to the house alone, if it came to it. Maybe I would get luckier at the house, I thought, although love under the stars is a fantasy I like to live out as often as possible. So anyway, i finally agreed to pack it in and make our way to the back door before the fire got much lower. There is a stage of dimness in the light put off by an outside fire pit that becomes problematic when the undead are as close as they were at that moment.
Alicia carried the log holder, which was empty, and I grabbed up the heavy duty fireplace tongs we like to use at the patio fire pit.
As soon as we were five steps away from the backyard fire pit, the moaning around us got louder.
We picked up our pace, falling out of the fire light.
The moaning got louder yet.
We hopped into a run, side by side, our eyes widening with fear. "Don't be afraid," I told her, as I peed myself a little. I already needed to pee, but the ghastly apparitions around us jarred me into letting a little trickle out.
Faster, we went, moaning ourselves, now as the beasts rose from behind the hedges to both sides of us, and their moaning evolved into more of a growling sound, like when you're out camping, and you wake up with a bobcat on your chest. At least it wasn't a zombie bobcat. But that's another story.
We were within 10 feet of the back door of the house when the first attacker broke free of the hedge, leaving part of her arm on a sharp branch. That juniper can really catch on your clothes and skin. It didn't slow her down. In a heartbeat, she was reaching for Alicia's throat.
"Duck!" I hollered, and she did. I took the slavering apparition down with one might swing of my Apocalypse Tongs. On of the prongs went in her ear and sort of flattened the whole side of her face. She must have been a pretty ripe zombie because when she hit the ground, she settled into a human-shaped gelatinous heap. Which was nice because it made it easy to pry the tongs out.
I didn't even have time to wipe the soot and gore off them when next attack came, a large, black man, nearly seven feet tall with hands the size of hams. He reached for my head with those huge hands, but before he could make contact, I brought my fire pit log grabber tongs up in a sweeping arc that would have brought a living man to his knees. But this was a zombie, and even riper than the first one, so my weapon sort of split him up the middle into three pieces.
As I stepped free of the attack, I realized Alicia was in imminent danger, but there was no time to stop this denizen of Hell. He brought his hand up, as if to throw a roundhouse punch.
Time stood still for that moment, as watched, unbreathing, knowing my girl was about to die.
But instead of killing her, the zombie tapped her on the shoulder and joyfully proclaimed, "Tag! You're it!"
And all the zombies ran away.
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