Not to alarm anyone, but I’m pretty sure the Zombie Apocalypse is upon us. I’m lucky Walking Dead has taught me so much, because my apartment is hosting its inception.
That night, I heard scratching in my hall closet. I especially resented the scratching, because I was trying to watch Drag Race, but it is impossible to disdain PhiPhi O’Hara with all of my energy while waiting to be attacked by a giant rodent. Gigi’s cat, who is staying with us, was equally mesmerized by the potential emergence of this creature.
My other roommate, the Wily Roadrunner, heard scratching from the exact same place the next day. And then we didn’t hear any more scratching.
On Friday, I went into the closet to fetch one of my inappropriate for New York’s very short spring coats and recoiled at the stench. The scratching stopped because whatever was in the closet or the wall (no one in Apt. 2W has the gravitas to check) had succumbed to the cool embrace of death.
That’s all the evidence so far that I have of Zombie Mousepocalypse, but I’ve seen Pet Cemetery, so I know that what goes in that closet doesn’t come back the same way. I feel certain that little bastard is just biding his time until he can bite and infect me.
Consequently, we are all too afraid to open up the closet door again, which is terrible, because it is rendering my fleetingly appropriate spring coats inaccessible. And, if I’m right, I guess it would also threaten the extinction of humanity.