Just Another Zombie Sunrise

I wouldn’t say I was a paranoid woman, a suspicious woman or even a woman with grave concerns.

But indication that the zombies are gathering was apparent on my ride to work this morning.

There are three steps, up and into the bus.

The bus driver has been the same person for several months now.

“Good morning,” I say. A crotchety, pinch-faced individual, he continues to stare straight ahead.

This particular driver has not once, since taking over this route, responded in any way to my greeting and I now say it while mentally calculating the number of people he acknowledges a day, a number I place, having seen him every morning for roughly four months, at zero. I wonder if he knows that I now say “good morning” without any real wishes that he actually have a good morning.

I refuse to let the crabby fart stand in the way of my being friendly, however, and I scan my Go card and proceed toward the back of the bus.

The light at this time of morning has changed recently, and in these early end-of-summer hours it is thin and apologetic. Our summer tans are fading quickly, leaving us mere shades from our original and in-the-box condition. The faces around me are slack, eyes unblinking,

I settle into my seat and touch my cheek, checking for similar slackness.

I turn to my seat mate. “Does anything seem different to you today?”

She smiles and holds up her hands, palms up. She doesn’t speak English.

“Zombies,” I say, smiling. “Think any of these people might be zombies?”

She continues to smile, shakes her head, and resumes staring out her window.

It occurs to me that, when the zombies come, they will take public transportation. I can see it now.

“’morning, Jim!”

“Aaaaaaaaaaaaah.”

“What’s that, Jim?”

“AAaaaaaaaaah.”

“Well that’s true, but they have just as much a chance as any other team. Don’t let anyone tell you differently!”

“Aaaaaaaaaaaah.”

“Well, here’s my stop. See you later!”

“Aaaaaaaaah.”

Who will notice?

I look around the bus. So many zombies already: on the bus, in the elevator, standing in line at the bank.

Ever vigilant. That’s me. Ever working, ever tax-paying, ever vigilant.

Do I look pale to you?

Aaaaaaaaaah.