Where do I start? I understand you’ve taken over the media. I understand you’ve taken the spotlight from the vampires. I understand that. I remember not too long ago when you dragged your feet, moaned as if you had ingested the most wonderful meal in the world and possessed the most demonic eyes on the planet. I know, I’ve written about you in my Monday Mayhem series.
But that’s not why I’m writing. You see, I’ve noticed something—and I’m sure you can correct me with your indelible tabletop intelligence—you’ve changed. I don’t know how to explain it. I can describe it as a shift in your behavior. A modification in your genetic makeup. An alteration in your biological configuration. Whatever it is, I’m scared.
You have to understand, it takes a lot to scare me. I mean, I’ve seen The Exorcist umpteen times, The Omen and The Shining several other umpteen times, so I’m no slouch when it comes to the Horror genre. It takes quite a lot of to scare me. Granted, certain scenes in The Sixth Sense make me want to crawl under the sheets and suck my thumb like a little baby. So, yeah, you can say I get scared. But like I said, it takes a lot.
Also, you have to remember, I grew up watching Saturday Morning Cartoons where animators drew you as funny little characters with barely enough intellect to figure out where you belonged in the grand scheme of things. You don’t have to tell me about your history, I know it. Yes, even the voodoo incantations chanted in Haitian tribes to raise their dead. Talk about messed up.
Again, that doesn’t faze me. Not in the least.
You know what really scares me? You know what keeps me awake staring at the bedroom window in the darkness of my room? What compels me to look over my shoulder in a lonely parking lot? What drives me to speed my pace walking from Main Street to my house on a cold winter night?
The virus. Your virus. It chills my bones to the marrow to think I can become one of you, one of the horde, one of the crowd, simply by a single bite from your infected mouth. It churns my gut to know this.
You know what else? I don’t like the fact that you are fast. I don’t have a chance. Since when did you become so fast to the point where you can crash cars from their spaces and dive on to your victims? You’ve become undefeatable. Should you flock as I’ve seen you do in many of the modern movies—we have no means to defend ourselves other than to hide as mice would from a cat hunting its prey.
And that’s not fair.
At least give us a hint of what we can do to create an antidote for your condition. At least give us a chance. We can’t outrun you. We can try. But you will win.
I liked you better when you were slow and punchy.
At least we had a chance.
Do you have anything you’d like to add as a P.S. to my open letter to the zombies?