At Least the Zombie Hordes are Polite

*** continued from previous post ***

We could peer through the fence and speculate on what we weren't able to see. It looked fascinating and very Zombie-ish at the same time. I mean who hasn't seen countless movies wherein a nice couple on a huge, futuristic motorcycle accidentally wanders up the side of a mountain to an elaborate tomb only to be eaten in the next scene? Amiright? It was just so utterly cliche' it made my fillings hurt.

This is possibly the very definition of the phrase “ high-strangeness”. My Dr. Hunter S Thomps-o-meter pegged off the scale.

Then there is this; the icing on the cake. Or Tomb. Whatever. Outside of the gates, there is a flat granite wall that is at least 25 feet high. When I say flat I mean flat - it must have been shaped with chisels and hammers. A massive wall of solid stone speckled gray with flickers of quartz. Not unusual in and of itself, but here two columns of words had been painstakingly hand-painted the length of the slab.

On the right side is a passage in Greek. Or Russian. Or Slovakian. Or Martian. Or something. I am no linguist, although I occasionally claim that as my profession to people who don't know me, so you'll have to go with my best guess.

On the right side of the stone is a translation of the previously noted words. A translation that apparently had been transcribed into English by a gang of drunk monkeys on a dare. It's true. We have pictures. Not of the monkeys for they were long gone. Or perhaps hiding in the bushes to ambush us and take the bike. I can only imagine how many monkeys and how many typewriters, or possibly laptops, needed to be assembled for a proper translation. I'm also thinking hard liquor rather than beer. The text rambles something about God and powerful acorns and tree trunks and heaven and the value of Vodka, and I think, but I'm not certain, a garden of golden bananas. This must have been where alcohol really kicked in, hence the banana and Vodka reference. Now these curious simian ramblings are on the wall for eternity. Or until the paint fades. Or the monkeys sober up and come back for a re-write.

I can only imagine the consternation the simian’s translation must have caused the deceased's family. But, as my old Grandfather used to say - and possibly the best advice I could ever pass to you - "You don't fuck with a gang of drunk monkeys. Well, not twice anyway.

Balancing this strangeness are the views. The views were beautiful. We snapped a couple of pictures. Long river valley, spectacular hills, the town spread out before us, the air so clean and crisp that it burned our pollution laden lungs, yada yada yada. Suddenly, out of nowhere, the hair on the back of my neck began to rise.

Mom shifted about nervously. "You get the feeling we're being watched?"

Gah! She felt it too? "Yes. Strongly."

Mom looked about. "Animal?" she asked, scouring the tree-line opposite the entrance to the tomb.

And then it all became crystal clear. The hair raising could only mean one thing - a true "Zombie Vibe". It was evident to me now that this was nothing more than a trap. A place where they lured unsuspecting tourists to feed their irritatingly polite Canadian zombie hordes. No sense using up all the town folk when there is a steady supply of idiots from THE STATES to appease their undead hunger. How typical.

I explained the situation to your Mom in pantomime, fearing that to make a sound would be to seal our fate. I had no weapons with which to defend us against the nightmare. Nary a chainsaw or a shotgun or a Bruce Campbell to be found, so if we were attacked it was obvious we were pretty much screwed. No, pantomime was the way to communicate for sure.

"Why are you chewing on my head?"

"Brainssssss. . . ." I whispered.

"You're getting my hair all wet and stinky. Stop it."

"Brainssssss . . . "I hissed, and shuffled about a bit but I think the effect was lost due to my cane. You ever notice that you don't see a lot of handicapped Zombies? What's up with that? When I get home, I'm writing a strongly-worded letter to the management. Come to think of it you could probably count being dead a handicap. And the rotting flesh. And the defaulting on loans. Aw fudge. Just forget it.

"You're telling me we're being watched by Zombies."

Funny how so many of Mom's questions really aren't questions at all. You ever noticed that?

"Brainssss . . . ," I whispered, and nodded my head up and down in the affirmative.

It was interesting to watch your Mom at this point. I saw her rally herself for an argument, then right before she launched into some bit of logic a wave of doubt played over her face. She looked from the Tomb to the trees then back to me. She concentrated hard for a minute, and then concern stepped out of the way for a touch of fear to take its place on the canvas of her soul.

"You know, I'm not going to validate your Zombie theory, but it is creepy and I think it's time to go." Whereupon your brave mother, the woman that gave birth to you and your sister sans any kind of pain killer or anesthesia, ran like a scared-cat over to the bike.

For some reason watching her kind of spooked me. As if her willies were contagious. I ran in a modified-panic to our behemoth, my skin a patchwork of goose bumps. Before you could say "Screw you Zombie du Canada!” we beat a hasty retreat back down the hill.

Protip: Never ignore a Zombie Vibe. It very well my save your life someday.

Although, Canadian Zombies would make an excellent Cirque Du Soleil show, don't you think? I'm not positive that the high trapeze act would work, what with the limbs falling off and all, but I'm sure they could put a twist on the show that would knock our socks off.

In hindsight, it probably wasn't Zombies. I don't think they handle the cold very well. Most likely an animal of some type was watching us. I suppose it could have been a Zombie-Beaver, or a Zombie-chipmunk, neither of which would frighten me terribly. I mean think about it - it would take quite a bit of effort for a zombie-chipmunk to eat your brain. Unless there were like 3000 of them and . . . Lord . . . that's a scary thought! I may have tinkled just a bit as I typed that sentence.


*** the journey continues Monday and comments are always appreciated ***