The zombie apocalypse is coming

(A version of this post ran in 2015.)

The zombie chases me. He’s frothing at the mouth. His shirt and pants are ripped and he — more animal than human — walks with an uneven shuffle. I run up the stairs to get away. Even with his limp, he keeps coming.

He’s now about ten yards away. I run down the hall. He keeps coming. His grunting and growling sound like thunder in my ears.  I run faster, but he’s right behind me, maybe two or three yards away.

I can’t get away.

The fatigue from the chase is catching up to me. My lungs are burning and I can feel his breath on my neck. He’s reaching for me. His hand grabs the back of my shirt . . . and then . . . and then in the dead of night I wake up in a cold sweat.

Have you ever been here? Is this just me?

A nightmare so real I can feel it

I get up and go the bathroom to wash my face and get a glass of water. I stand over the sink, look into the mirror and shake my head. I spent another night watching The Walking Dead with my 16-year-old son and it’s coming back to haunt me.

I curse myself for being so silly.

Since I was a little kid, I’ve never been a fan of horror movies. I’ll watch a few minutes of Michael Myers from Halloween; Freddie Krueger from A Nightmare on Elm Street; or even the stupid little Chuckie doll. I’ll give myself a little pep talk. “I’m good, I’m good,” I’ll say to myself. It’s only a matter of time though. Within a few minutes, I’ll be running out of the room to make sure the front door is locked or to the kitchen to get out of the room.

“You guys keep watching. I’ll catch up later with the story.”

Oh I’m fine with the stories, the suspense, and even the blood and I hate seeing blood. My problem with stories about werewolves, vampires, wild psychopaths, and every other violent creature is my very own active imagination.

I look around me. Every closet represents a hiding place for a suicidal murderer. Every kitchen knife is a possible weapon for a crazed lunatic. Every door is one more obstacle to get in my way. I love my imagination most days because it’s a blessing. When it comes to horror movies or haunted attractions, though, my imagination becomes a curse.

Between a rock and hard place

I know what to expect, so I normally avoid anything horror related. However, my middle son loves them. I’m trying my best to watch with him. You know . . . manly-man, father–son bonding time. This Sunday night, instead of watching the NFL match-up between the New England Patriots and Denver Broncos, or Madam Secretary, I’ll be tuned into the Series 6 Mid-Season finale of The Walking Dead.

I’ll have one hand covering my eyes. My fingers will be spread just wide enough so I can continue to watch. My other hand will hold tightly to the arm of my chair. It will be so tight that you’ll be able to see the veins bulging in my hand.

Yes, I know I’m destroying any respect anyone might have had for me, but I can’t lie.

Keep your cool, Brian

I’ll remind myself that it’s all make-believe. I’ll remind myself too that I’ve faced bigger challenges than make-believe zombies. When I see a character facing impending doom, though, I’ll still urge them to run the other way. I’ll also shout for them to run faster. My son usually shushes me to be quiet when that happens. He gives me a dirty look. He shakes his head as if to day: “Can’t take my dad anywhere.”

In the end, when a character falls and gets killed by the horde of the zombies. I want to look away, but I can’t. I know that I look foolish, but I don’t care. Whatever it takes to get through the show. And whatever it takes to spend time with my kids.

I’m convinced that watching with my son is the right thing to do. At least it is until I wake up at 3 in the morning.

I wash my face one more time. I make a promise to myself. First thing in the morning, I’ll find another hobby for the two of us to share. Who’s up for some fantasy football? Target shooting? Bowling? Something tame like bird watching or stamp collecting?

The specific hobby will not matter, just as long there are no zombies or crazed killers.