I’ve heard the theory that the world will end in the year 2012.
I’ve watched my fair share of zombie movies, with thanks to my brother.
I’m cautious about washing my fruits and vegetables, hand sanitizing, and ensuring I get my family checked out if I suspect one of us is ill.
I’m certain I would survive should a mutant virus sweep our planet turning everyone into zombies because I am prepared. I’ve done my research (watched a lot of zombie movies) and I’m confident I have acquired all of the necessary skills needed to fight the un-dead.
My swift ninja chop will easily slice the heads off of the approaching man-eating killers, my unwillingness to share will surely keep me well fed, and my lack of interest in small talk will allow me to stay well hidden.
But there’s a problem.
Brian will get me killed.
He has been sick for the past two weeks and throughout his illness I have noticed his not so subtle attempts at infecting me.
When he first became sick I brushed it off, he wasn’t really trying to get me ill, he just wanted a kiss. Then, in the throes of his flu he charged me, eyes bloodshot and puffy, nose running, voice hoarse, and asked me for a hug. Alarms went off and I backed up into the other room to breathe clean air.
He was turning.
I begged him to think about our daughter, to not let the zombie take over. To spare me.
He spared me, that time.
The final straw was a few days ago. Another wave of flu had hit our home and because I practice zombie virus avoidance I managed to remain healthy. Brian emerged from the bedroom looking weak, dehydrated, and pale. He smacked his lips together and asked for a drink. After reaching for a glass and turning around again he was right behind me, hands outstretched requesting a hug.
I asked him why he wanted to infect me.
I asked him if the world was ending and he and I were the last ones left would he still want a hug.
Yes he would.
I ran away.
Because I’m always in training.
And Brian, he’s the weak link people.