A single shout,
Accompanied by the sound of running feet.
A small faction of people,
Dressed in varying forms
Of combat gear and Deadpool masks,
Carrying blue and orange guns,
With orange bandanas wrapped around their arms
Race across the parking lot,
Leaping over curbs and parked cars,
Pausing occasionally,
To fire a foam bullet
At their pursuers.
The attackers,
Are dressed in a similar fashion,
Their faces painted
In a gruesome manner
To indicate their undead state,
With bright orange bandanas
Wrapped either
Around their heads or necks.
One person,
With a bandana on his arm,
Falls behind the rest.
His fun jams,
As the hoard of undead
Converges on him.
He dies valiantly,
Fighting to the last,
With a small arsenal of rolled up socks,
Momentarily stunning,
A few of the zombies.
His comrades try to help,
Firing their foam bullets from a safe distance,
But it is too late.
A zombie reaches out with both hands,
And tags the poor soul.
He falls to the ground,
With overdramatic flourish,
As his killer lifts his ID card.
His former teammates,
Run for safety,
As he untied his bandana from his arm,
And wraps it around his neck.
His now fellow zombies help him to his feet,
And together,
They take off after the humans.
Rachelle Manning 