found drama

They’re breaking in downstairs, little by little.  (No.  Wait.  Back-up.)  The funeral was short and grisly.  (No.  Wait.  Back-up.)  Didn’t this start with fishing?  A party at someone’s house.  A camp or cottage on the lake and a fishing pier.  I haven’t fished since I was a little kid.  Turn your back and people drop dead.  Gruesome decomposition before your very eyes.  Quick cut.  Latch key kids; three spoiled sisters.  They know what’s coming, don’t they?  Well, the oldest one does.  It’s too late to convince the others.  Those shambling, invisible, groaning hoards.  When they die, the elder sister is just pushing the bodies out of windows; it’s too risky to leave them inside.  When the mom gets home (How did you get in?  We better strengthen the barricades.) they flee for the upstairs and start making snap decisions.  Which bedroom is the best one in which to bunker.  Clearly the master bedroom (It has the bathroom.) but they gather the amenities from the other rooms, quick as they can…  A shotgun (???), a computer (Not that we’ll have power much longer…), books and food, furniture to shove up against that door…

About Rob Friesel